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HANNAH MORE. 



FIRST COMPLETE AMERICAN EDITION. 
I. 



N E W.Y O R K : 
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, 

NO. 82 CLIFF-STREET. 
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PUBLISHERS' ADDRESS. 



When the veil of mortality descends upon splendid genius, that has been long de- 
voted to the instruction and best interests of mankind, the noblest monument that 
can be erected to commemorate its worth and perpetuate its usefulness, is the col- 
lection of those productions which, when separately published, delighted and edified 
the world. 

No writer of the past or present age has equalled Hannah More in the appli- 
cation of great talents to the improvement of society, through all its distinctions, 
from the humblest to the most exalted station in life. Her works have, indeed, in 
a very striking manner, and to an extraordinary extent, given a new and most im- 
portant feature to the moral character of the nation she adorned. They have dif- 
fused vital religion, in faith and practice, over districts where its mere external 
form was before scarcely to be seen ; and, what is still more deserving of admiration, 
this accomplished lady, by the power of her reasoning, and the elegance of her 
compositions, has succeeded, if the phrase may be permitted, in rendering piety 
fashionable and popular, where even the name of religion was, and that at no very 
distant period, treated with indifference, if not with absolute contempt. 

After establishing her claim to the highest station in the temple of poetical fame, 
Hannah More resolved to consecrate her talents wholly to His service from 
whom she had received them. This determination she carried into effect ; and 
inconceivably great and extensive were the benefits it produced. When licentious 
principles began to be promulgated with industrious zeal, and to threaten the foun- 
dations of all moral and sor.ial order, then did this Christian heroine, armed in the 
panoply of truth, appear foremost to oppose the inroads of the enemies of righte- 
ousness. The success was unexampled. The tracts which, with uncommon 
celerity and admirable judgment, came from her fertile pen, operated like a charm, 
in confirming the wavering, and appalling the evil mind. 

The venerable Bishop Porte us, in a charge delivered to the clergy of his 
diocess in 1798, having noticed the exertions made by different pious writers to ex- 
cite the spirit of religion, says, " To these it would now be injustice not to add the 
name of another highly approved author, Mrs. Hannah More ; whose extraordi- 
nary and versatile talents can equally accommodate themselves to the cottage and 
the palace ; who, while she is diffusing among the lower orders of the people an 
infinity of little religious tracts, calculated to reform and comfort them in this world, 
and to save them in the next, is at the same time applying all the powers of a vigorous 
and highly cultivated mind to the instruction, improvement, and high delight of the 
most exalted of her own sex. I allude more particularly to her last work, on female 
education, which presents to the reader such a fund of good sense, of wholesome 
counsel, of sagacious observation, of knowledge of the world and of the female 
heart, of high-toned morality, and genuine Christian piety ; and all this enlivened 
with such brilliancy of wit, such richness of imagery, such variety and felicity of 



vi publishers' address. 

allusion, such neatness and elegance of diction, as are not, I conceive, easily to be 
found so combined and blended together in any other work in the English language. 
Of the above-mentioned little tracts, no less than two millions were sold in the first 
year ; and they contributed, I am persuaded, very essentially to counteract the 
poison of those impious and immoral pamphlets, which were dispersed over the 
kingdom in such numbers by societies of infidels and disaffected persons." 

The popularity. of Mrs. More's writings, never sensibly diminished, even by the 
vast increase of excellent and highly esteemed works in every department of liter- 
ature by which the last twenty years have been distinguished, has been revived to 
an extent, perhaps, even greater than they achieved in the early period of their ex- 
istence, by the recent publication of the admirabLe memoirs of her life and corre- 
spondence, prepared with so much skill and judgment by her chosen biographer and 
literary executor, Mr. Roberts ; a work upon which the strongest language of ap- 
proving criticism has been and still is bestowed by the highest authorities, both in 
this country and in England. The general acceptation with which those volumes 
were received, would have encouraged the publishers to follow them with an edition 
of Mrs. More's writings, even had they not been repeatedly advised and urged to 
the undertaking, not only by friends and in private, but by the almost united voice 
of the press throughout the Union. Had they not assumed it, with these induce- 
ments, they would have considered themselves as in some measure neglecting a duty, 
standing as they do in the light of caterers for the literary gratification of the public, 
whose wishes and opinions they are bound to respect, at least, if not implicitly 
to follow. 

It is hoped and believed that the present collection, which contains all the wri- 
tings of that eminent lady, in a convenient as well as handsome form, and is published 
at a very moderate price, will be received with a degree of favour not less cordial and 
extensive than that which was and still is accorded to the memoirs. To adopt the 
words of a religious periodical of high character, used in speaking of those vol- 
umes, it may be asserted that " it will please the superficial, improve the intelli- 
gent, and receive the hearty commendation of the serious reader. The young and 
the old, the lively and the sedate, will derive from it pleasure and profit." 

The publishers cannot refrain from quoting the following just and happy expres- 
sions, from another publication devoted to the interests of religion. " But the view 
of her influence upon mankind will be exceedingly imperfect, unless we take into the 
estimate the whole number of individuals who have derived already, and will here- 
after derive from her writings, the purest principles of religion, philosophy, and virtue. 
These can never be numbered, but they may safely be put down at millions. Now 
if all these readers gain but a single important suggestion, are incited to practise a 
single virtue, or to refrain from a single vice — if but one in ten is made wiser or 
better by her publications, how immeasurable is the good effected by her mind !" 

" A soul thus active, spread out upon so wide a range of objects, impressing its 
own beauties and breathing its own spirit upon such myriads of kindred beings, 
demonstrates its own immortality, and proclaims in the history of the world the ex- 
hilarating truth, that the united acquisitions of piety, intellect, and virtue, centring 
their operations on that which is immortal, possess a grandeur which renders the con- 
quests of pride and power insignificant as empty bubbles, and is more substantially 
glorious than the gorgeous enchantments of imperial magnificence." 



PREFACE. 

Whatever objections may be urged against the literary character of the present day, it must 
however be allowed to exhibit an evident improvement in some material points. It is for in- 
stance, no new observation, that vanity and flattery are now less generally ostensible even in the 
most indifferent authors than they were formerly in some of the best. The most self-sufficient 
writer is at length driven, by the prevailing sense of propriety, to be contented with thinking 
himself the prime genius of the age ; but he seldom ventures to tell you that he thinks so. Va- 
nity is compelled to acquire or to assume a better taste. 

That spirit of independence also, which has in many respects impressed so mischievous a 
Stamp on the public character, has perhaps helped to correct the style of prefaces and dedications. 
Literary patronage is so much shorn of its beams, that it can no longer enlighten bodies which 
are in themselves opake ; so much abridged of its power that it cannot force into notice a work 
which is not able to recommend itself. The favour of an individual no longer boasts that buoyant 
quality which enables that to swim which by its own nature is disposed to sink. The influence 
of an Augustus, or a Louis Quatorze, of a Maecenas, a Dorset, a Halifax, could not now pro- 
cure readers, much less could it compel admirers for the panegyrist, if the panegyrist himself, 
could command admiration on no better ground than the authority of the patron. The once di- 
lated preface is shrunk into plain apology or simple exposition. The long and lofty dedication 
(generally speaking) dwindled into a sober expression of respect for public virtue, a concise tri- 
bute of affection to private friendship, or an acknowledgment for personal obligation. It is no 
longer necessary for the dependant to be profane in order to be grateful. No more are all the 
divine attributes snatched from their rightful possessor, and impiously appropriated by the needy 
writer to the opulent patron. He still makes indeed the eulogium of his protector, but not his 
apotheosis. The vainest poet of our days dare not venture, like him who has however so glo- 
riously accomplished his own prediction, to say, in so many words, that his own work is more 
sublime thanjhe royal heights of pyramids. Nor whatever secret compact he may make for his 
duration, does he openly undertake to promise for his verse, that it shall flow coequal with the 
rivers and survive the established forms of the religion of his country. The most venal poetic pa- 
rasite no longer assures his protector, with ' unhappy Dryden,' that mankind can no more sub- 
sist without his poetry (the earl of Middlesex's poetry !) than the world can subsist without the 
daily course of Divine Providence. And it is but justice to the more sober spirit of living litera- 
ture to observe, that our modesty would revolt (putting our sense and our religion out of the 
question) were a modern poet to offer even an imperial patron to pick and choose his lodging 
among the constellations ; or, as some author has expressed it on a similar occasion, 4 to ask what 
apartment of the zodiack he would be pleased to occupy.' 

So far at least ouf taste is reformed. And may we not venture to hope, from the affinity which 
should subsist between correct judgment and unadulterated principle, that our ideas of truth and 
manly integrity are improved also? 

But it is time that I confine myself to the more immediate objects of the present address, in 
which, in avoiding the exploded evil I have been reprobating, I would not affectedly run into the 
Opposite, and perhaps prevailing extreme. 

It may not, it is presumed, be thought necessary to apologise for the publication of this collec- 
tion, by enumerating all the reasons which produced it. ' Desire of friends,' is now become a 
proverbial satire ; the poet is driven from that once creditable refuge, behind which an unfounded 
eagerness to appear in print used to shelter "itself ; and is obliged to abandon the untenable forts 
and fastnesses of this last citadel of affectation. Dr. Johnson's sarcasm upon one plea will apply 
to all, and put to flight the whole hackneyed train of false excuses — ' If the book were not writ- 
ten to be printed, I presume it was printed to be read.' 

These scattered pieces, besides that they had been suffered to pass through successive editions, 
with little or no correction, were in their original appearance, of all shapes and sizes, and utterly 
unreducable to any companionable form. Several new pieces are here added, and most of the old 
ones considerably altered and enlarged. 

I should blush to produce so many slight productions of my early youth, did I not find reason 
to be still more ashamed, that after a period of so many years the progress will be found to have 
been so inconsiderable, and the difference so little apparent- 
Vol.L 



PREFACE. 

If I should presume to suggest as an apology for having still persisted to publish, that of the 
latter productions, usefulness has been more invariably the object ; whereas in many of the 
earlier, amusement was more obviously proposed ; if I were inclined to palliate my presumption 
by pleading 

That not in Fancy's maze I wander'd long ; 

' it might be retorted that the implied plea, in favour of the latter publications, exhibits no sure 
proof of humility in this instance than in the other. That, if in the first it was no evidence of 
the modesty of the writer to fancy she could amuse, in the last it furnishes little proof of the 
modesty of the woman to fancy that she can instruct. Now to amuse, or to instruct, or both, is 
bo undeniably the intention of all who obtrude their works on the public, that no preliminary 
apology, no prefatory humiliation can quite do away the charge of a certain consciousnes of talents 
which is implied in the very undertaking. The author professes his inability but he produces 
his book ; and by the publication itself controverts his own avowal of alleged incapacity. It is 
to little purpose that the words are disparaging while the dee.d is assuming. Nor will that pro- 
fession of self-abasement be much regarded, which is contradicted by an act that supposes self- 
confidence. 

If however there is too seldom found in the writer of the book, all the humility which the pre- 
face announces, he may be allowed to piead on humility, which is at least comparative. On this 
ground may I be permitted to declare, that at no period of my life did I ever feel such unfeigned 
diffidence at the individual appearance of even the slightest pamphlet (the slenderness of whose 
dimensions might carry some excuse for the small proportion of profit or pleasure it conveyed) 
as I now feel at sending this, perhaps too voluminous, collection into the world. This self-distrust 
may naturally be accounted for, by.reflecting that this publication is deliberately made, not only 
at a time of life when I ought best to know my own faults, and the faults of my writings ; but 
is made also at such a distance from the moment in which the several pieces were first struck 
out, that the mind has had time to cool from the hurry and heat of composition; the judgment 
has had leisure to operate, and it is the effect of that operation to rectify false notions and to cor- 
rect rash conclusions. The critic, even of his own works, grows honest, if not acute at the end 
of twenty years. The image, which he had fancied glowed so brightly when it came fresh from 
the furnace, time has quuenched ; the spirits which he thought fixed and essential, have evapo- 
rated ; many of the ideas which he imposed not only on his reader, but on himself, for originals, 
more reading and more observation compel him to restore to their owners. And having detected, 
from the perusal of abler works, either plagiarisms in his own, of which he was not aware, or 
coincidences which will pass for plagiarisms ; and blending with the new judgment of the critic, 
the old indignation of the poet, who of us in this case is not angry with those who have said our 
good things before us? We not only discover that what we thought we had invented we have 
only remembered ; but we find also that what we had believed to be perfect is full of defects ; in 
that which we had conceived to be pure gold, we discover much tinsel. For the revision, as was 
observed above, is made at a period when the eye is brought by a due remoteness into that just 
position which gives a clear and distinct view of things; a remoteness which disperses ' the illu- 
sions of vision,' scatters the mists of vanity, reduces objects to their natural size, restores them 
to their exact shape, makes them appear to the sight, such as they are in themselves, and such 
as perhaps they have long appeared to all except the author. 

That I have added to the mass of general knowledge by one original idea, or to the stock of 
virtue by one original sentiment, I do not presume to hope. But that I have laboured assidu- 
ously to make that kind of knowledge which is most indispensable to common life, familiar to 
the unlearned, and acceptable to the young ; that I have laboured to inculcate into both, the love 
and practice of that virtue of which they had before derived the principles from higher sources, 
I will not deny to have attempted. 

To what is called learning I have never had any pretension. Life and manners have been the 
objects of my unwearied observation, and every kind of study and habit has more or less recom- 
mended itself to my mind, as it had more or less reference to these objeets. Considering this 
world as a scene of much action, and of little comparative knowledge ; not as a stage for exhibi- 
tion, or a retreat for speculation, but as a' field on which the business which is to determine the 
concerns of eternity is to be transacted; as a place of low regard as an end; but of unspeakable 
importance as a means ; a scene of short experiment, but lasting responsibility ; I have been con- 
tented to pursue myself, and to present to others (to my own sex chiefly) those truths, which, if 
obvious and familiar, are yet practical, and of general application : things which if of little show, 
are yet of some use ; and which, if their separate value be not great, yet their aggregate im- 
portance is not inconsiderable. I have pursued, not that which demands skill, and ensures re- 
nown, but 

That which before us lies in daily life. 

If I have been favoured with a measure of success, which has as much exceeded my expecta- 
tion as my desert, 1 ascribe it partly to a disposition in the public mind to encourage, in these 
days of alarm, attack, and agitation, any productions' of which the tendency is favourable to good 
order and Christian morals, even though the merit of the execution by no means keeps pace with 
that of the principle. In some instances I trust I have written seasonably when I have not been 
able to write well. Several pieces perhaps of small value in themselves have helped to supply ia 



PREFACE. 

some inferior degree the exigence of the moment ; and have had the advantage, not of supersed 
ing the necessity, or the appearance, of abler writings, but of exciting abler writers ; who, seeing 
how little I had been able to say on topics upon which much might be said, have more than sup- 
plied my deficiencies by filling up what I had only superficially sketched out. On that which had 
only a temporary use, I do not aspire to build a lasting reputation. 

In the progress of ages, and after the gradual accumulation of literary productions, the humat 
mind — I speak not of the scholar, or the philosopher, but of the multitude — the human mind. 
Athenian in this one propensity, the desire to hear and to tell some new thing, will reject, or over 
look, or grow weary even of the standard works of the most established authors ; while it will 
peruse with interest the current volume or popular pamphlet of the day. This hunger after no- 
velty, by the way, is an instrument of inconceivable importance placed by Providence in tho 
hands of every writer ; and should strike him forcibly with the duty of turning this sha'.p appe- 
tite to good account, by appeasing it with sound and wholesome aliment. It is not perhaps 
that the work in actual circulation is comparable to many works which are neglected; but it is 
new. And let the fortunate author militant, of moderate abilities, who is banquetting on his 
transient, and perhaps accidental popularity, use that popularity wisely; and, bearing in mind 
that he himself must expect to' be neglected in his turn, let him thankfully seize his little season of 
fugitive renown ; let him devote his ephemeral importance, conscientiously to throw into the com 
mon stock his quota of harmless pleasure or of moral profit. Let him unaffectedly rate his humble, 
but not unuseful labours, at their just price, nor despondingly conclude that he has written al- 
together in vain, though he do not see a publie revolution of manners succeed, as he had perhaps 
too fondly flattered himself, to the publication of his book. Let him not despair, if, though ho 
have had many readers, he has had but few converts. Nor let him on the other hand be elated 
by a celebrity which he may owe more to his novelty than to his genius, more to a happy combi- 
nation in the circumstances of the times, than to his own skill or care; — and most of all, to his 
having diligently observed, that 

There is a tide in the affairs of men ; 

s.nd to his having, accordingly, launched his bark at the favourable flow. 

The well intentioned and well principled author, who has uniformly thrown all his weight, 
though that weight be but small, into the right scale, may have contributed his fair proportion 
to that great work of reformation, which will, I trust, unless a total subversion of manners should 
take place, be always carrying on in the world ; but which the joint concurrence of the wisdom 
of ages will find it hard to accomplish. Such an author may have been in his season and degree, 
the accepted agent of that Providence who works by many and different instruments, by various 
and successive means ; in the same manner as in the manual labour of the mechanic,, it is not by 
a few ponderous strokes that great operations are effected, but by a patient and incessant follow- 
ing up of the blow — by reiterated and unwearied returns to the same object ; in the same manner 
as in the division of labour, many hands of moderate strength and ability may, by co-operation, 
do that which a very powerful individual might have failed to accomplish. It is the privilege of 
few authors to contribute largely to the general good, but almost every one may contribute some- 
thing. No book perhaps is perfectly neutral ; nor are the effects of any altogether indifferent. 
From all our reading there will be a bias on the actings of the mind, though with a greater or 
less degree of inclination, according to the degree of impression made, by the nature of the sub- 
ject, the ability of the writer, and the disposition of the reader. And though, as was above ob- 
served, the whole may produce no general effect, proportionate to the hopes of the author ; yet 
some truth may be picked out from among many that are neglected ; some single sentiment may be 
seized on for present use ; some detached principle may be treasured up for future practice. 

If in the records of classic story we are told, that ' the most superb and lasting monument that 
was ever consecrated to beauty, was that to which every lover carried a tribute ;' then among the 
accumulated production of successive volumes, those which though they convey no new informa- 
tion, yet illustrate on the whole some old truth ; those which though they add nothing to the stores 
of genius or of science, yet if they help to establish and enforce a single principle of virtue, they 
may be accepted as an additional mite cast by the willing hand of affectionate indigence into the 
treasury of Christian morals. 

The great father of Roman eloquence has asserted, that though every man should propose to 
himself the highest degrees in the scale of excellence ; yet he may stop with honour at the second 
or the third. Indeed the utility of some books to some persons would be defeated by their very 
superiority. The writer may be above the reach of his reader; he may be too lofty to be pursu- 
ed ; he may be too profound to be fathomed ; he may be too abstruse to be investigated ; for to 
produce delight there must be intelligence ; there must be something of concert and congruity. 
There must be not merely that intelligibility which arises from the perspicuousness of the au- 
thor : but that also which depends on the capacity and perception of the reader. Between him 
who writes and him who reads, there must be a kind of coalition of interests, something of & 
partnership (however unequal the capital) in mental property ; a sort of joint stock of tastes and 
ideas. The student must have keen initiated into the same intellectual commerce with him whom 
he studies ; for large bills are only negotiable among the mutually opulent. 

There are perhaps other reasons why popularity is no infallible test of excellence. Many readers 
even of good faculties if those faculties have beeo kept inert by a disuse of exertion, feel often most 



PREFACE. 

sympathy with writers of a middle class; and find more repose in a mediocrity which lulls and amuses 
the mind, than with a loftiness and extent which exalts and expands it. To enjoy works of su- 
perlative ability, as was before suggested, the reader must have been accustomed to drink at the 
same spring from which the writer draws ; he must be at the expense of furnishing part of his 
own entertainment, by bringing with him a share of the science or of the spirit with which the 
author writes. 

These are some of the considerations, which, while my gratitude has been excited by the fa- 
vourable reception of my various attempts, have helped to correct that vanity which is so easily 
kindled where merit and success are evidently disproportionate. 

For fair criticism I have ever been truly thankful. For candid correction, from whatever quar- 
ter it came, I have always exhibited the most unquestionable proof of my regard, by adopting it. 
Nor can I call to mind any instance of improvement which has been suggested to me by which 
I have neglected to profit.* I am not insensible to human estimation. To the approbation of 
the wise and good I have been perhaps but two sensible. But I check myself in the indul- 
gence of the dangerous pleasure, by recollecting that the hour is fast approaching to all, to me it 
is very fast approaching, when no human verdict, of whatever authority in itself, and however 
favourable to its object, will avail any thing, but inasmuch as it is 'crowned with the acquittal of 
that Judge whose favour is eternal life. Every emotion of vanity dies away, every swelling of 
ambition subsides before the consideration of this solemn responsibility. And though I have 
just avowed my deference for the opinion of private critics, and of public censors ; yet my anxiety 
with respect to the sentence of both is considerably diminished, by the reflection, that not the 
writings but the writsr will very soon be called to another tribunal, to be judged on far other 
grounds than those on which the decisions of literary statutes are framed : a tribunal, at which the 
sentence passed will depend on far other causes than the observation or neglect of the rules of 
composition ; than the violation of any precepts, or the adherence to any decrees of critic legisla- 
tion. 

With abundant cause to be humbled at the mixed motives of even my least exceptionable wri- 
tings, I am willing to hope that in those of later date, at least, vanity, has not been the govern- 
ing principle. And if in sending abroad the present collection, some sparks of this inextinguish- 
able fire should struggle to break out, let it be at once quenched by the reflection, that of those 
persons whose kindness stimulated, and whose partiality rewarded, my early efforts; of those 
who would have dwelt on these pages with most pleasure, the eyes of the greater part are closed, 
to open no more in this world. Even while the pen is in my hand framing this remark, more 
than one affecting corroboration of its truth occurs. May this reflection, at once painful and 
6alutary, be ever at hand to curb the insolence of success, or to countervail the mortification of 
defeat! May it serve to purify the motives of action, while it inspires resignation to its event! 
And may it affect both without diminishing the energies of duty — without abating the activity 
of labour. 

Bath, 1801. 

• If it be objected that this has not been the case with respect to one single passage which has excited some 
controversy, it has arisen not from any want of openness to conviction in me, but from my conceiving myself to 
have been misunderstood, and, for that reason only, misrepresented. 



CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 



Page 

The Puppet Show, 13 

The Bas Bleu, 14 

Bonner's Ghost, 18 

Florio 19 

The Slave Trade, 27 

Dan and Jane, or Faith and Works, . 30 

An Heroic Epistle to Miss Sally Home, . 31 
Sensibility : an Epistle to the Hon. Mrs. Bos- 

cavven, 32 

Sir Eldred of the Bower, a Legendary Tale, 36 

The Bleeding Rock, 40 

Ode to Dragon, 42 

EPITAPHS. 

On the Rev. Mr. Penrose — On Mrs. Blandford 
— On Mrs. Little — On General Lawrence 
— On Mrs. Elizabeth Ives— On the Rev. 
Mr. Hunter — On C. Dicey, Esq. — On a 
young Lady — Inscription on a Cenotaph — 
Epitaph on the Rev. Mr. Love — On the 
Rev. Sir James Stonhouse, Bart. — On Mrs. 
Stonhouse, 43, 44 

BALLADS AND TALES. 

The Foolish Traveller : or, a good Inn is a 

bad Home, 44 

The Impossibility Conquered: or, Love your 

neighbour as yourself, .... 45 

Inscription in Fairy Bower, ... 46 

The Bad Bargain : or, the World set up to 

Sale, " . . , 46 

Robert and Richard : or, the Ghost of Poor 

Molly, 47 

The Carpenter : or, the Danger of Evil Com- 
pany, 48 

The Riot : or, Half a Loaf is better than no 
Bread, . . . ... . .49 

Patient Joe : or, the Newcastle Collier, . 50 

The Gin Shop : or, a Peep into Prison, . 50 

The Two Gardeners, .... 51 

The Lady and the Pie, .... 52 

The Plum-Cakes 52 

Turn the Carpet, 53 

HYMNS. 

The True Heroes ; or, the Noble Army of 
Martyrs, 54 

A Christmas Hymn, 54 

Hymn of Praise for the abundant Harvest af- 
ter the scarcity of 1795, .... 55 

Here and There, ..... 56 

BALLADS 

The Honest Miller of Gloucestershire, . • 56 
King Dionysius, and Squire Damocles, . 57 
The Hackney Coachman : or, the Way to 

get a good Fare, ..... 57 
"Village Politics, ... .58 

BIBLE RHYMES. 
The Old Testament, .... 63 

The New Testament, . . . > . 60, 



Page 
SACRED DRAMAS. 

The Introduction, 76 

Moses, 77 

David and Goliath, 82 

Belshazzar, 92 

Daniel, 101 

Reflections of Hezekiah, .... 109 
Search after Happiness, .... 110 
Ode to Charity, 119 

STORIES FOR PERSONS OF THE 
MIDDLE RANK. 

Mr. Fantom : or, the History of the New Fash- 
ioned Philosopher and his man William, 120 
The History of Mr. Bragwell ; or, the Two 

Wealthy Farmers, .... 129 

'Tis All for the Best, . . . .162 

A Cure for Melancholy, .... 167 
The Sunday School, . . . .172 

ALLEGORIES. 

The Pilgrims 176 

The Valley of Tears, . . . .180 
The Strait Gate and the Broad Way, . 182 
Parley the Porter, 186 

TALES. 

The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain, in two parts, 190 

The Two Shoemakers, in six parts, . . 201 

The History of Tom White, the Postboy, in 
two parts, • 22-4 

The History of Hester Wilmot, in two parts, 
being the sequel to the Sunday School, 233 

The Grand Assizes, or General Jail Delivery ; 
an allegory, 24J 

The Servant Man turned Soldier ; an allegory, 243 

The History of Betty Brown, the St. Giles's 
Orange Girl , with some account of Mrs. 
Sponge, the Money-lender, . . . 247 

Black Giles the Poacher, in two parts ; con- 
taining some account of a Family who had 
rather live by their Wits than their Work, 251 

Tawney Rachel, or the Fortune teller ; with 
some account of Dreams, Omens, and Con- 
jurers, 25y 

Thoughts on the Manners of the Great, . 2C2 

An estimate of the Religion of the Fashiona- 
ble World 27» 

Chap. I — Decline of Christianity shown by a 
Comparative View of the Religion of the 
Great in preceding ages, . . . 278 

Chap. II— Benevolence allowed to be the 
reigning Virtue, but not exclusively the Vir- 
tue of the present age, .... 2S0 

Chap. Ill — The neglect of Religious Educa- 
tion both a cause and consequence of the 
decline of Christianity, &c. . . . 283 

Chap. IV— Other symptoms of the decline of 
Christianity. &c 288 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
Chap. V— The negligent conduct of Christians 

no real objection against Christianity, . 201 
Chap. VI— A stranger, from observing the 
fashionable mode of life, would not take 
this to be a Christian country, . . 296 
Chap. VII— View of those who acknowledge 
Christianity as a perfect system of morals, 
but deny its Divine authority — Morality not 
the whole of Religion, .... 300 

Remarks on the Speech of Mr. Dupont, made 
in the National Convention of France in 1793, 301 

STRICTURES ON THE MODERN SYS- 
TEM OF FEMALE EDUCATION. 

Introduction, 311 

Chap. I — Address to women of rank and for- 
tune, on the effects of their influence in 
Society — Suggestions for the exertion of it 
in various instances, .... 313 

Chap. II— On the Education of Women, . 322 

Chap. Ill — External Improvement — Chil- 
dren's Balls — French Governesses, . 326 

Chap. IV — Comparison of the mode of Fe- 
male Education in the last age with the 
present 329 

Chap. V — On the Religious Employment of 
Time 331 

Chap. VI— On the early forming of habits — 
On the necessity of forming the judgment 
to direct those habits, .... 335 

Chap. VII — Filial obedience not the character 
of the age, .' 338 

Chap. VIII — On Female Study, and initiation 
into Knowledge — Error of cultivating the 
imagination to the neglect of the judgment 
— Books of reasoning recommended, . 342 

Chap. IX — On the religious and Moral use of 
History and Geography, . . . 346 

Chap. X— On the use of Definitions, and the 
moral benefits of Accuracy in Language, . 349 

Chap. XI— On Religion— The Necessity and 
Duty of Early Instruction, shown by anal- 
ogy with human learning, . . . 351 

Chap. XII — On the manner of Instructing 
young persons in Religion— General Re- 
marks on the genius of Christianity, . 355 

Chap. XIII — Hints suggested for furnishing 
young persons with a scheme of Prayer, 360 

Chap. XIV — The practical use of female 
knowledge, with a sketch of the female 
character, and a comparative view of the 

' «exjss, ...... 363 



Page 

Chap. XV— Conversation, . . .369 

Chap. XVI — On the danger of ill-directed 
sensibility, 378 

Chap. XVII — On Dissipation, and the Modern 
Habits of Fashionable Life, . . . 385 

Chap. XVIII— On public Amusements, . 392 

Chap. XIX — A worldly spirit incompatible 
with the spirit of Christianity, . . 397 

Chap. XX — On the leading doctrines of Chris- 
tianity, &c. with a sketch of the Christian 
character, 403 

Chap. XXI — On theduty and efficacy of praj er, 410 

PRACTICAL PIETY. 

Chap. I — Christianity an Internal Principle, 417 
Chap. II — Christianity a Practical Principle, 421 
Chap. Ill — Mistakes in Religion, . . 425 

Chap. IV— Periodical Religion, . . 429 

Chap. V— Prayer, 432 

Chap. VI — Cultivation of a Devotional Spirit, 437 
Chap. VII— The Love of God, . . 440 
Chap. VIII — The hand of God to be acknowl- 
edged in the dai'y Circumstances of Life, 443 
Chap. IX — Christianity universal in its requi- 
sitions, 446 

Chap. X — Christian Holiness, . . . 448 
Chap. XI —On the comparatively small faults 

and virtues, 451 

Chap. XII — Self Examination, . . . 455 
Chap. XIII— Self-Love, . . . .460 
Chap. XIV — The Conduct of Christians in 

their Intercourse with the Irreligious, . 464 
Chap. XV — On the Propriety of Introducing 

Religion into general Conversation, . 469 

Chap. XVI— Christian Watchfulness, . 472 

Chap. XVII— True and false Zeal, . . 476 
Chap. XVIII — Insensibility to Eternal things, 480 
Chap. XIX— Happy Deaths, . . .485 
Chap. XX— The Sufferings of Good Men, 491 
Chap. XXI — The Temper and Conduct of 
Christians in Sickness and in Death, . 496 



TRAGEDIES. 



Preface to the Tragedies, 

The Inflexible Captive, 

Percy, 

The Fatal Falsehood, 



POEMS 



Morning Soliloquy, 
On Mr. Shapland, 



502 
511 
530 
545 



563 
563 



CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. 



2TOR 



HINTS FOR FORMING THE OHARAC 

OF A YOUNG PRINCESS. 

Page 

Chap. I — Introductory Chapter, ... 6 

Chap. II— On the Acquisition of Knowledge, 7 

Chap. Ill — On the Importance of forming the 
Mind, 10 

Chap. IV — The Education of a Sovereign a 
Specific Education, 12 

Chap. V — Importance of Studying Ancient 
History, 16 

Chap. VI — Laws — Egypt — Persia, . . 17 

Chap. VII— Greece, 19 

Chap. VIII— Rome, 22 

Chap. IX— Characters of Historians, who 
were themselves concerned in the transac- 
tions which they record, . . . ' . 25 

Chap. X — Reflections on History— Ancient 
Historians, 26 

Chap. XI— English History— Mr. Hume, . 29 

Chap. XII — Important Eras of English His- 
tory—Alfred—King John— Henry VII., . 31 

Chap. XIII— Queen Elizabeth, ... 33 

Chap. XIV — Moral Advantages to be drawn 
from the Study of History, independent of 
the examples it exhibits — It proves the Cor- 
ruption of Human Nature — It demonstrates 
the superintending power of Providence — 
illustrated by Instances, .... 35 

Chap. XV — On the Distinguishing Characters 
of Christianity, 38 

Chap. XVI — On the Scripture Evidences of 
Christianity. The Christian Religion pecu- 
liarly adapted to the Exigencies of Man ; 
and especially calculated to supply the De- 
fects of Heathen Philosophy, ... 41 

Chap. XVII — The use of History in teaching 
the Choice of Favourites— Flattery— Our 
Taste Improved in the Arts of Adulation — 
The Dangers of Flattery exemplified, . 46 

Chap. XVII I — Religion necessary to the well- 
being of States, . . . . .49 

Chap. XIX — Integrity the true political Wis- 
dom, 53 

Chap. XX— On the True Arts of Popularity, 56 

Chap. XXI — The importance of the Royal 
Example in promoting Loyalty — On False 
Patriotism — Public Spirit, ... 59 

Chap. XXII — On the Graces of Deportment 
— The Dispositions necessary for Business 
— Habits of Domestic Life, . . .60 

Chap. XXIII— On the Choice of Society- 
Sincerity the Bond of Familiar Intercourse 
— Liberality — Instances of Ingratitude in 
Princes — On raising the tone of Conversa- 
tion — And of Manners 61 

Chap. XXIV— On the Art of Moral Calcula- 
tion, and forming a Just Estimate of Things 
and Persons, 64 

Chap. XXV — On Erroneous Judgment — 
Character of Queen Christina ,of Sweden 
— Comparison of Christina with Alfred, . 67 

Chap. XXVI — Observations on the Age of 
Louis XIV. and on Voltaire, ... 69 



Page 

Chap. XXVII— An examination of the Claims 
of those Princes who aspired to the appel- 
lation of the GREAT, .... 72 

Chap. XXVIII— Books, .... 76 

Chap. XXIX— Of Periodical Essay Writers, 
particularly Addison and Johnson, . . 79 

Chap. XXX— Books of Amusement, . . 82 

Chap. XXXI — Books of Instruction, . . 85 

Chap. XXXII— The Holy Scriptures— The 
Old Testament, 87 

Chap. XXXIII— The Holy Scriptures— The 
New Testament, 89 

Chap. XXXIV— On the abuse of Terms- 
Enthusiasm — Superstition — Zeal for Reli- 
gious opinions no proof of Religion, . 92 

Chap. XXXV— The Reformation, . . 96 

Chap. XXXVI — On the importance of Reli- 
gious Institutions and Observances — They 
are suited to the nature of Christianity, and 
particularly adapted to the character of Man, 98 

Chap. XXXVII— Of the Established Church 
of England 100 

Chap. XXXVIII — Superintendence of Provi- 
dence manifested in the Local Circum- 
stances, and in the Religious History of Eng- 
land, 104 

Chap. XXXIX — The same subject continued 
— tolerant Spirit of the Church — Circum- 
stances which led to the Revolution, and to 
the Providential Succession of the House 
of Hanover, 109 

Chap. XL — On Christianity as a Principle of 
Action, especially as it respects Supreme 
Rulers, 113 

CHRISTIAN MORALS. 
Chap. I — On the writers of Pious Books, . 118 

Chap. II — On Providence 123 

Chap. Ill — Practical use of the Doctrine of 

Providence 127 

Chap. IV— Thy will be done, . . .131 

Chap. V— On Parable 134 

Chap. VI— On the Parable of the Talents, . 137 
Chap. VII — On Influence, considered as a 

Talent, . . ■ 140 

Chap. VIII — On Time, considered as a Talent, 144 
Chap. IX— On Charity, . . . .146 
Chap. X— On Prejudice, . . . .150 
Chap. XI — Particular Prejudices, . . 154 
Chap. XII— Farther Causes of Prejudico, . 158 
Chap. XIII— Humility, the only true Greatness, 160 
Chap. XIV— On Retirement, . . .165 
Chap. XV — Dangers and Advantages of Re- 
tirement, 169 

Chap. XVI— An Inquiry, why some Good 

Sort of People are not better, . . .172 
Chap. XVII— The Inquiry, why some Good 

Sort of People are not better, continued, 175 
Chap. XVIII— Thoughts respectfully suggest- 
ed to Good Sort of People, . . .179 

Chap. XIX— On Habits 183 

Chap. XX— On the Inconsistency of Chris- 
tians with Christianity, .... 188 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
Chap. XXI— Expostulation with the Incon- 
sistent Christian, ... . . . . 191 

Chap. XXII— Reflections of an Inconsistent 

Christian after a serious perusal of the Bible, 195 
Chap. XXIII— The Christian in the World, 196 
Chap. XXIV— Difficulties and Advantages of 

the Christian in the World, . . .200 
Chap. XXV— Candidus, . - . .205 
Chap. XXVI— The established Christian, . 210 

AN ESSAY ON THE CHARACTER AND 
PRACTICAL WRITINGS OF ST. PAUL. 

Chap. I— Introductory Remarks on the Mo- 
rality of Paganism, showing the necessity 
of Christian Revelation, .... 217 

Chap. II— On the Historical Writers of the 
New Testament, 221 

Chap. Ill— On the Epistolatory Writers of the 
New Testament, particularly Saint Paul, 221 

Chap. IV — Saint Paul's Faith, a Practical 
Principle 227 

Chap. V— The Morality of Saint Paul, . 230 

Chap. VI— The disinterestedness of St. Paul, 234 

Chap. VII — Saint Paul's Prudence in his 
Conduct towards the Jews, . ; . 238 

Chap. VIII — Saint Paul's Judgment in his in- 
tercourse with the Pagans, . . . 242 

Chap. IX— On the general Principle of Saint 
Paul's Writings, 246 

Chap. X— On the Style and Genius of Saint 
Paul, 252 

Chap. XI— Saint Paul's Tenderness of Heart, 257 

Chap. XII— St. Paul's Heavenly Mindedness, 261 

Chap. XIII — A General View of the Qualities 
of Saint Paul— His Knowledge of Human 
Nature — His Delicacy in giving Advice or 
Reproof— His Integrity, .... 265 

Chap. XIV— St. Paul on the Love of Money, 270 

Chap. XV — On the Genius of Christianity, as 
seen in Saint Paul, 273 

Chap. XVI — Saint Paul's respect for consti- 
tuted Authorities, 277 

Chap. XVII — Saint Paul's Attention to infe- 
rior Concerns, 281 

Chap. XVIII— Saint Paul on the Resurrection, 284 

Chap. XIX— Saint Paul on Prayer, Thanks- 
giving;, and Religious Joy, . . .' 287 

Chap. XX — Saint Paul an Example to Fa- 
miliar Life 291 

Chap. XXI — On the superior Advantages of 
the present Period, for the attainment of 
Knowledge, Religion, and Happiness, . 295 

Chap. XXII — Conclusion — Cursory Inquiry 
into some of the Causes which Impeded 
general Improvement, .... 298 

CCELEBS IN SEARCH OF A WIFE, . 304 



FOREIGN SKETCHES. 

Foreign Associations, ... 
French Opinions of English Society, 
English Opinion of French Society, 
England's Best Hope, ... 



437 
440 
443 
449 



DOMESTIC SKETCHES. 



On Soundness in Judgment and Consistency 

in Conduct, 454 

Novel Opinions in Religion 456 

HI effects of the late Secession, . . . 461 

Exertions o r Pious Ladies, .... 465 

High Profession, and Negligent Practice, . 468 

Auricular Confession, 471 



Page 

Unprofitable Reading, 471 

The Borderers, 473 

REFLECTIONS ON PRAYER. 
On the Corruption of Human Nature, . 477 

False Notions of the Dignity of Man, shown 

from his Helplessness and Dependance, . 479 
The Obligation of Prayer Universal — Regular 

Seasons to be observed — The Skeptic and 

t Sensualist reject Prayer, . . 481 

s in Prayer, which may hinder its being 
answered — The Proud Man's Prayer — The 
Patient Christian — False Excuses, under 
the Pretence of Inability, .... 483 

God our Father — Our Unwillingness to please 
Him — Form of Prayer — Great and Little 
Sins — All Sin an Offence against God — Ben- 
efit of Habitual Prayer, .... 487 

The Doctrine of Imputed Sanctification, 
newly adopted — The old one, of Progressive 
Sanctification, newly rejected — Both Doc- 
trines injurious to Prayer — St. Paul's Char- 
acter, 489 

Character of those who expect Salvation for 
their Good Works — Of those who depend 
on a careless Nominal Faith — Both these 
Characters unfavourable to Prayer — Chris- 
tianity a Religion of Love, which disposes 
to Prayer, exhibited in a third Character, 491 

Prayer — The condition of its attendant Bles- 
sings — Useless Contention about Terms, . 493 

Vain Excuses for the Neglect of Prayer — The 
Man of Business — Case of Nehemiah — 
Prayer against the Fear of Death— Charac- 
ters to whom Prayer is Recommended, . 495 

The Consolation of Prayer — Its Perpetual 
Obligation, "498 

On Intercessory Prayer 500 

The Praying Christian in the World— The 
Promise of Rest to the Christian, . . 502 

The Lord's Prayer, a Model both for our De- 
votion and our Practice — It teaches the 
Dutv of Promoting Schemes to advance 
the Glory of God 505 

Conclusion, 508 

SPIRIT OF PRAYER. 

Chap. I — The Necessity of Prayer, founded 

on the Corruption of Human Nature, . 512 
Chap. II— The Duty of Prayer, inferred from 

the Helplessness of Man, . . . 514 

Chap. Ill — Prayer : its Definition, . . 515- 
Chap. IV— The efficacy of Prayer, '. . 519 
Chap. V — Vain Excuses for the Neglect of 

Prayer, 522 

Chap. VI — Characters who reject Prayer, . 525 
Chap. VII— Errors in Praver, . . . 527 
Chap. VIII— The Lord's Prayer, . . .530 
Chap. IX — The Lord's Prayer continued, 

THY WILL BE DONE, . . .532 
Chap. X— Scheme of Prayer proposed for 
Young Persons, on the Model of the Lord's 

Prayer, 534 

Chap. XI — Perseverance in Prayer and Praise, 537 
Chap. XII— Intercessory Prayer, . . 540 

Chap. XIII — Practical Results of Prayer, ex- 
hibited in the Life of the Christian in the 

World, 542 

Chap. XIV — The Consolations of Prayer in 
Affliction, Sickness, and Death, . . 545 



Essays on Various Subjects, 
Moriana, . ■ 



550 

576 



THE PUPPET-SHOW: 



A TALE. 



A noble earl ! — the name I spare, 
From reverence to the living heir — 
Lov'd pleasure ; but to speak the truth, 
Not much refinement grac'd the youth. 
The path of pleasure which he trod 
Was somewhat new, and rather odd ; 
For, that he haunted park or play, 
His house's archives do not say ; 
Or that more modish joys he felt, 
And would in opera transports melt ; 
Or that he spent his morning's prime 
In Eond-street bliss till dinner-time: 
No treasur'd anecdotes record 
Such pastimes pleas'd the youthful lord. 

One single taste historians mention, 
A fact unmingled with invention ; 
It was a taste you'll think, I fear, 
Somewhat peculiar for a peer, 
Though the rude democratic pen 
Pretends that peers are only men. 
Whatever town or country fair 
Was advertised, my lord was there. 
'Twas not to purchase or to sell — 
Why went he then ? The Muse shall tell. 
At fairs he never fail'd to find 
The joy congenial to his mind. 
. This dear diversion would you know ? 
What was it ? 'twas a puppet-show ! 
Transported with the mimic art, 
The wit of Punch enthrall'd his heart, 
He went, each evening, just at six, 
When Punch exhibited his tricks; 
And, not contented every night 
To view this object of delight, 
He gravely made the matter known 
He must and would have Punch his own ; 
For if, exclaims the noble lord, 
Such joys these transient views afford 
If I receive such keen delight 
From a short visit every night, 
'Tis fair to calculate what pleasure 
Will spring from owning such a treasure. 
I need not for amusement roam, 
I shall have always Punch at home. 
He rav'd with this new fancy bit, 
Of Punch's sense and Punch's wit. 
Not more Narcissus long'd to embrace 
The watery mirror's shadowy face ; 
Not more Pygmalion long'd to claim 
Th' unconscious object of his flame ; 
Than long'd the enamour'd legislator 
To purchase this delightful creature. 
Each night he regularly sought him, 
Nor did he rest till he had bought him. 

Soon he accomplishes the measure, 
And pays profusely for the treasure : 
He bids them pack the precious thing 
So careful not to break a spring ; 
So anxious not to bruise a feature, 
His own new coach must fetch the creature ! 
He safely brought the idol home, 
And lodg'd beneath his splendid dome , 
All obstacles at length surmounted, 
My lord on perfect pleasure counted. 

Vol. I. 



If you have feelings, guess you may, 
How glad he passed the live long day. 
His eating room he makes the station 
Of his new favourite's habitation. 
• Convivial Punch !' he cried, ' to-day, 
Thy genius shall have full display ! 
How shall I laugh to hear thy wit 
At supper nightly as I sit ! 
And how delightful as I dine, 
To hear some sallies, Punch, of thine 1' 

Next day, at table, as he sat, 
Impatient to begin the chat, 
Punch was produe'd ; but Punch, I trow, 
Divested of his puppet-show, 
Was nothing, was a thing of wires, 
Whose sameness disappoints and tires. 
Depriv'd of all eccentric aid, 
The empty idol was betray 'd. 
No artful hand to pull the springs, 
And Punch no longer squeaks or sings. 
Ah me ! what horror seiz'd my lord, 
'Twas paint, 'twas show, 'twas pasted-board \ 
He marvell'd why the pleasant thing 
Which could such crowds together bring ; 
Which charm'd him when the show was full t 
At home should be so very dull. 
He ne'er suspected 'twas the scenery, 
He never dreamt 'twas the machinery ; 
The lights, the noise, the tricks, the distance, 
Gave the dumb idol this assistance. 
Preposterous peer ! far belter go 
To thy congenial puppet-show; 
Than buy, divested of its glare, 
The empty thing which charm' J thee there. 
Be still content abroad to roam, 
For Punch exhibits not at home. 

The moraf of the tale I sing 
To modern matches home I bring 
Ye youths, in quest of wives who go 
To every crowded puppet-show ; 
If, from these scenes, you choose for life 
A dancing, singing, dressing wife ; 
O marvel not at home to find 
An empty figure, void of mind ; 
Stript of her scenery and garnish, 
A thing of paint, and paste, and varnish. 

Ye candidates for earth's best prize, 
Domestic life's sweet charities ! 
If long you've stray'd from Reason's way f 
Enslav'd by fashion's wizard sway ; 
If by her witcheries still betray'd, 
You wed some vain fantastic maid ; 
Snatched, not selected, as you go, 
The heroine of the puppet-show; 
In every outward grace refin'd, 
And destitute of nought but mind; 
If skill'd in ev'ry polish'd art, 
She wants simplicity of heart ; 
On her for bliss if you depend, 
Without the means you seek the end . 
You seek, o'erturning nature's laws, 
A consequence without a cause ; 
A downward pyramid you place, 
The point inverted for the base. 



14 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Blame your own work, not fate ; nor rail 
If bliss so ill secur'd should fail. 
'Tis after fancied good to roam, 
'Tis bringing Punch to live at home. 

And you, bright nymphs ! who bless our eyes, 
With all that art, that taste supplies ; 
Learn that accomplishments, at best, 
Are but the garnish of life's feast ; 
And tho' your transient guests may praise 
Your showy board on gala days : 
Yet, while you treat each frippery sinner 
With mere deserts, and call 'em dinner, 
Your lord who lives at home, still feels 
The want of more substantial meals ; 
Of sense and worth, which every hour 
Enlarge Affection's growing power ; 
Of worth, not emulous to praise, 
Of sense, not kept for gala days. 

O ! in the highest, happiest lot, 
By woman be it ne'er forgot, 
That human life's no Isthmian game, 
Where sports and shows must purchase fame. 
Tho' at the puppet-show he shone, 
Punch was poor company alone. 
Life is no round of jocund hours, 
Of garlands gay, and festive bowers ; 
Even to the young, to whom I sing, 
Its serious business life will bring. 
Tho' bright the suns which now appear 
To gild your cloudless atmosphere, 
Oft, unawares, some direful storm, 
Serenest skies may soon deform ; 
In dim Affliction's dreary hour 
The flash of mirth must lose its power ; 
Whilst faith a constant light supplies, 
And virtue cheers the darkest skies. 

To bless the matrimonial hours 
Must three joint leaders club their powers, 
Good-nature, Piety, and Sense, 
Must their confederate aids dispense. 



As the soft powers of oil assuage 
Of ocean's waves the furious rage; 
Lull to repose the boiling tide, 
And the rough billows bid subside ; 
Till every angry motion sleep, 
And softest tremblings hush the deep : 
Good-nature ! thus thy charms controul 
The tumults of the troubled soul: 
By labour worn, by care opprest, 
On thee the wearied head shall rest ; 
From business and distraction free, 
Delighted, shall return to thee ; 
To thee the aching heart shall cling, 
And find that peace it does not bring. ' 

And while the light and empty fair, 
Form'd for the ball-room's dazzling glare 
Abroad, of speech, so prompt and rapid, 
At home, so vacant and so vapid ; 
Of every puppet-show the life, 
At home, a dull and tasteless wife ; — 
The mind with sense and knowledge stor'd 
Can counsel, or can soothe its S >rd ; 
His varied joys or sorrows feel, 
And share the pains it cannc t heal. 

But, Piety ! without thy aid, * 
Love's fairest prospects soon must fade. 
Blest architect ! rear'd by thy hands, 
Connubial Concord's temple stands. 
Tho' Wit, tho' Genius, raise the pile, 
Tho 4 Taste assist, tho' Talents smile, 
Tho' Fashion, while her wreaths sheMwine, 
Her light Corinthian columns join ; 
Still the frail structure Fancy rears, 
A tottering house of cards appears ; 
Some sudden gust, nor rare the case, 
May shake the building to its base, 
Unless, bless'd Piety ! thou join 
Thy keystone to ensure the shrine ; 
Unless, to guard against surprises, 
On thy broad arch the temple rises. 



THE BAS BLEU; OR, CONVERSATION. 

ADDRESSED TO MRS. VESEY 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The following trifle owes it birth and name to the mistake of a foreigner of distinction who 
gave the literal appellation of the Bas-bleu to a small party of friends, who had been often called, 
by way of pleasantry, the Blue Stockings. These little societies have been sometimes misrepre- 
sented. They were composed of persons distinguished, in general for their rank, talents, or re- 
spectable character, who met frequently at Mrs. Vesey's, and at a few other houses, for the sole 
purpose of conversation, and were different in no respect from other parties, but that the company 
did not play at cards. 

May the author be permitted to bear her grateful testimony (which will not be suspected of 
flattery, now that most of the persons named in this poem are gone down to the grave) to ths 
many pleasant and instructive hours she had the honour to pass in this company ; in which learn 
ing was as little disfigured by pedantry, good taste as little tinctured by affectation, and general 
conversation as little disgraced by calumny, levity, and the other censurable errors with which it 
is too commonly tainted, as has perhaps been known in any society. 



Vesey! of verse the judge and friend! 
Awhile my idle strain attend : 
Not with the days of early Greece, 
I mean to ope my slender piece ; 
The rare Symposium to proclaim 



Which orown'd th' Athenian's social name ; 
Or how Aspasia's parties shone, 
The first Bas-bleu at Athens known ; 
Where Socrates unbending sat, 
With Alcibiadeb in chat ; 



THE WORRS OF HANNAH MORE. 



15 



And Pericles vouchsafed to mix 

Taste, wit, and mirth, with politfcs. 

Nor need I stop my tale to show, 

At least to readers such as you, 

How all that Rome esteem'd polite, 

Supp'd with Lucullus every night; 

Lucui.lus, who, from Pontus come, 

Brought conquests, and brought cherries home. 

Name but the suppers in th' Apollo, 

What classics images will follow ! 

How wit flew round, while each might take 

Conchylia from the Lucrine lake ; 

And Attic salt ; and Garum sauce, 

And lettuce from the isle of Cos; 

The first and last from Greece transplanted, 

Us'd here — because the rhyme I wanted : 

How pheasant's heads, with cost collected, 

And phennicopters stood neglected. 

To laugh at Scipio's lucky hit, 

Po.urEY's bon-mot, or Gesar's wit! 

Intemperance, list'ning to the tale, 

Forgot the mullet growing* stale ; 

And Admiration balanc'd, hung 

'Twixt Peacocks' brains, and Tully's tongue. 

I shall not stop to dwell on these, » 

But be as epic as I please, 

And plunge at once in medias res 

To prove the privilege I plead, 

I'll quote from Greek I cannot read; 

Stunn'd by Authority, you yield, 

And I, not Reason, Seep the field. 

Long was Society o'er-run 
By Whist, that desolating Hun ; 
Long did Quadrille despotic sit, 
That vandal of colloquial Wit : 
And conversation's setting light 
Lay half-obscur'd in Gothic night ; 
At length the mental shades decline, 
Colloquial Wit begins to shine; 
Genius prevails, and Conversation 
Emerges into Reformation. 
The vanquish'd triple crown to you, 
Boscawen sage, bright Montagu, 
Divided, fell ; — your cares in haste 
Rescued the ravag'd realms of Taste ; 
And Lyttleton's accomplished name, 
And witty Pultney shar'd the fame ; 
The men, not bound by pedant rules, 
Nor ladiest Precieuses ridicules ; 
For pohsh'd Walpole show'd the way, 
How wits may be both learn'd and gay ; 
And Carter taught the female train, 
The deeply wise are never vain ; 
And she whom Shakspeare's wrongs redrest, 
Prov'd that the brightest are the best. 
This just deduction still they drew, 
And well they practis'd what they knew ; 
Nor taste, nor wit, deserves applause, 
Uuless still true to critic laws ; 
Good sense, of faculties the best, 
Inspire and regulate the rest, 

! how unlike the wit that fell, 
Rambouillet !t at thy quaint hotel ; 

• Seneca says, that in his time the Romans were ar- 
rived at such a pitch of luxury, that the mullet was rec- 
koned stale which did not die in the hands of the guest. 

t See Moliere's comedy. 

t The society at the hotel de Rambouillet, though 
composed of the most polite and ingenious persons in 
France, was much tainted with affectation and false 
taste. See Vditxire, Menage, &o, 



Where point, and turn, and equivoque 
Distorted every word they spoke ! 
All so intolerably bright, 
Plain Common Sense was put to flight ; 
Each speaker, so ingenious ever, 
'Twas tiresome to be quite so clever ; 
There twisted Wit forgot to please, 
And Mood and Figure banish'd ease ; 
No votive altar smok'd to thee, 
Chaste queen, divine Simplicity ! 
But fore'd Conceit, which ever fails, 
And stiff Antithesis prevails • 
Uneasy Rivalry destroys 
Society's unlaboured joys : 
Nature, of stilts and fetters tir'd, 
Impatient from the wits retir'd, 
Long time the exile, houseless stray'd 
'Till Sevigne receiv'd the maid. 

Though here she comes to bless our isle, 
Not universal is her smile. 
Muse ! snatch the lyre which Cambridge strung 
When he the empty ball-room sung ; 
'Tis tun'd above thy pitch, I doubt, 
And thou no music would'st draw out ; 
Yet, in a lower note, presume 
To sing the full dull drawing room.t 

Where the dire circle keeps its station, 
Each common phrase is an oration ; 
And cracking fans, and whisp'ring misses, 
Compose their conversation blisses. 
The matron marks the goodly show, 
While the tall daughter eyes the beau— ] 
The frigid beau ! ah ! luckless fair, 
'Tis not for you that studied air ; 
Ah ! not for you that sidelong glance. 
And all that charming nonchalance ; 
Ah ; not for you the three long hours 
He worship'd the ' cosmetic powers ;' 
That finish'd head which breathes perfume. 
And kills the nerves of half the room ; 
And all the murders meant to lie 
In that large, languishing, gray eye ; 
Desist ; — less wild th' attempt would be, 
To warm the snows of Rhodope : 
Too cold to feel, too proud to feign, 
For him you're wise and fair in vain ; 
In vain to charm him you intend, 
Self is his object, aim, and end. 

Chill shade of that affected peer, 
Who dreaded mirth, come safely here ' 
For here no vulgar joy effaces 
Thy rage for polish, ton, and graces. 
Cold Ceremony's leaden hand, 
Waves o'er the room her poppy wand , 
Arrives the stranger ; every guest 
Conspires to torture the distrest : 
At once they rise — so have I seen — 
You guess the similie I mean, 
Take what comparison you please, 
The crowded streets, the swarming bees, 
The pebbles on the shore that lie, 

The late earl of Mansfield told the author that when 
he was ambassador at Paris, he was assured that it had 
not been unusual for those persons of a purer taste who 
frequented these assemblies, to come out from their so- 
ciety so weary of wit and laboured ingenuity, that they 
used to express the comfort they felt in their ema-ncipu- 
tion, by saying, " A lions ! faisons des so lecismes I" 

* These grave and formal parties now scarcely exist, 
having been swallowed up in the reigning multitude 
nous assemblies. 



16 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



The stars which form the galaxy ; 
These serve t' embellish what is said, 
And show, besides, that one has read ;— 
At once they rise— th' astonish'd guest 
Back in a corner slinks, distrest; 
Scar'd at the many bowing round, 
And shock'd at her own voice's sound, 
Forgot the thing she meant to say, 
• Her words, halt-uttered die away ; 
' In sweet oblivion down she sinks, 
And of her next appointment thinks. 
While her loud neighbour on the right, 
Boasts what she has to do to-night, 
So very much, you'd swear her pride is 
To match the labours of Alcides ; 
'Tis true, in hyperbolic measure, 
She nobly calls iier labours Pleasure ; 
In this un«like Alcmena's son, 
She never means they should be dene ; 
Her fancy of no limits dreams, 
No ne plus ultra stops her schemes; 
Twelve ! she'd have scorn'd the paltry round, 
No pillars would have mark'd her bound ; 
Calpe and Abyla, in vain 
Had nodded cross th' opposing main ; 
A circumnavigator she 
On Ton's illimitable sea. 
We pass the pleasures vast and various, 
Of routs, not social, but gregarious ; 
Where high heroic self-denial 
Sustains her self-inflicted trial. 
\Day lab'rers ! what an easy life, 
To feed ten children and a wife ! 
No — I may justcr pity spare 
To the night lab'rer's keener care ; 
And, pleas'd, to gentler scenes retreat, 
Where Conversation holds her seat. 

Small were that art which would ensure 
The circle's boasted quadrature ! 
Sec Vesey's* plastic genius make 
A circle every figure take; 
Nay, shapes and forms, which would defy 
All science of Geometry ; 
Isosceles, and parallel, 
Names, hard to speak, and hard to spell ! 
The enchantress wav'd her hand, and spoke ! 
Her potent wand the circle broke ; 
The social spirits hover round, 
And bless the liberated ground. 
Here, rigid Cato, awful sage ! 
Bold censor of a thoughtless age, 
Once dealt his pointed moral round, 
And, not unheeded, fell the sound ; 
The Muse his honour'd memory weeps, 
For Cato now with Roscius sleeps ! 
Here once HoRTENSiust lov'd to sit, 
Apostate now from social wit : 
Ah ! why in wrangling senates waste 
The noblest parts, the happiest taste ? 
Why democratic thunders wield, 
And quit the Muses' calmer field ? 
Ask you what charms this gift dispense ? 
'Tis the strong spell of Common Sense. 
Away dull Ceremony flew, 
And with her bore Detraction too. 

* This amiable lady was remarkable for her talent in 
breaking the formality of a circle, by inviting her par- 
ties to form themselves into little separate groups. 

t This was written in the year 1787, when Mr. Ed- 
mund Burke had joined the then opposition. 



Nor only geometric art, 
Does this presiding power impart ; 
But chy mists too, who want the essence 
Which makes or mars all coalescence, 
Of her the secret rare might get, 
How different kinds amalgamate : 
And he, who wilder studies chose, 
Finds here a new metempsychose ; 
How forms can other forms assume, 
Within her Pythagoric room ; 
Or be, and stranger is th' event, 
The very things which Nature meant , 
Nor strive by art and affectation. 
To cross their genuine destination. 
Here sober duchesses are seen, 
Chaste wits, and critics void of spleen , 
Physicians, fraught with real science, 
And whigs and tories in alliance ; 
Poets, fulfilling Christian duties, 
Just lawyers, reasonable beauties ; 
Bishops who preach, and peers who pay : 
And countesses who seldom play ; 
Learn'd antiquaries, who from College, 
Reject the rust, and bring the knowledge • 
And, hear it, Age, believe it, Youth, — 
Polemics, really seeking truth ; 
And travellers of that rare tribe, 
Who've seen the countries they describe ; 
Who study'd there, so strange their plan, 
Not plants, nor herbs alone, but man ; 
While travellers, of other notions, 
Scale mountain tops, and traverse oceans , 
As if so much these themes engross. 
The study of mankind, was moss. 
Ladies who point, nor think me partial, 
An epigram as well as Marshall; 
Yet in all female worth succeed, 
As well as those who cannot read. 

Right pleasant were the task, I ween, 
To name the groups which fill the scene; 
But rhymes of such fastidious nature, 
She proudly scorns all nomenclature, 
Nor grace our northern names her lips, 
Like Homer's catalogue of ships. 

Once — faithful Memory ! heave a sigh, 
Here Roscius gladdened every eye. 
Why comes not Maro ? Far from towm, 
He rears the urn to Taste, and Brown, 
Plants cypress round the tomb of Gray, 
Or decks his English garden gay ; , 

Whose mingled sweets exhale perfume, 
And promise a perennial bloom. 
Taste thou the gentler joys they give, 
With Horace and with Lelius live. 

Hail, Conversation, soothing power, 
Sweet goddess of the social hour ! 
Not with more heartfelt warmth, at least, 
Does Lelius bend, thy true high priest ; 
Than I the lowest of thy train, 
These field-flowers bring to deck thy fane * 
Who to thy shrine like him can haste, 
With warmer zeal, or purer taste ? 
O may thy worship long prevail, 
And thy true votaries never fail ! 
Long may thy polish'd altars blaze] 
With wax-lights' undiminish'd rays ! 
Still be thy nightly offering paid, 
Libations large of lemonade ! 
I On silver vases, loaded, rise 
| The biscuits' ample sacrifice ! 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



17 



Nor be the milk white streams forgot 
Of thirst-assuaging, cool orgeat; 
Rise, incense pure from fragrant tea, 
Delicious incense, worthy thee ! 

Hail, Conversation, heav'nly fair, 
Thou bliss of life, and balm of care ! 
Still may thy gentle reign extend, 
And Taste with Wit and Science blend. 
Soft polisher of rugged man ! 
Refiner of the social plan ! 
For thee, best solace of his toil ! 
The sage consumes his midnight oil 1 
And keeps late vigils, to produce 
Materials for thy future use. 
(/alls forth the else neglected knowledge,' 
Of school, of travel, and of college. 
If none behold, ah! wherefore fair ? 
Ah wherefore wise, if none must hear? 
Our intellectual ore must shine, 
Not slumber, idly, in the mine. 
Let Education's moral mint 
The noblest images imprint; 
Let Taste her curious touchstone hold, 
To try if standard be the gold ; 
But 'tis thy commerce Conversation, 
Must give it use by circulation ; 
That noblest commerce of mankind, 
Whose precious merchandise is mind ! 

What stoic traveller would try 
A sterile soil, and parching sky, 
Or bear th' intemp'rate northern zone, 
If what he saw must ne'er be known ? 
For this he bids his home farewell ; 
The joy of seeing is to tell. 
Trust me, he never would have stirr'd, 
Were he forbid to speak a word ; 
And Curiosity would sleep, 
If her own secrets she must keep 
The bliss of telling what is past 
Becomes her rich reward at last. 
Who mock'd at death, and danger smile, 
To steal one peep at father Nile ; 
Who, at Palmyra risk his neck, 
Or search the ruins of Balbeck; 
If these must hide old Nilus' fount, 
Nor Lybian tales at home recount; 
If those must sink their learned labour, 
Nor with their ruins treat a neighbour? 
Range — study — think — do all we can, 
Colloquial pleasures are for man. 

Yet not from low desire to shine 
Does Genius toil in Learning's mine; 
Not to indulge in idle vision, 
But strike new light by strong collision. 
*\)f Conversatiox, Wisdom's friend, 
This is the object and the end, 
Of moral truth man's proper science, 
With sense and learning in alliance, 
To search the depths, and thence produce 
What tends to practice and to use. 
And next in value we shall find 
What mends the taste and forms the mind ; 
If high those truths in estimation, 
Whose search is crown'd with demonstration ; 
To these assign no scanty praise, 
Our taste which clears, our views which raise. 
For grant the mathematic truth 
Best balances the mind of youth ; 
Yet scarce the truth of Taste is found 
To grow from principles lees sound. 



O'er books the mind inactive lies, 
Books, the mind's food, not exercise ! 
Her vigorous wings she scarcely feels, 
'Till use the latent strength reveals ; 
Her slumbering energies call'd forth, 
She rises, conscious of her worth ; 
And, at her new-found powers elated, 
Thinks them not rous'd, but new created. 

Enlighten'd spirits ! you, who know 
What charms from polish'd converse flow, 
Speak, for you can, the pure delight 
When kindling sympathies unite ; 
When correspondent tastes impart 
Communion sweet from heart to heart ' 
You ne'er the cold gradations need 
Which vulgar souls to union lead ; 
No dry discussion to unfold 
The meaning caught ere well 'tis told : 
In taste, in learning, wit, or science, 
Still kindled souls demand alliance : 
Each in the other joys to find 
The image answering to his mind. 
But sparks electric only strike 
On souls electrical alike ; 
The flash of intellect expires, 
Unless it meet congenial fires : 
The language to th' elect alone 
Is, like the mason's mystery known 
In vain th' unerring sign is made 
To him who is not of the trade. 
What lively pleasure to divine, 
The thought implied, the hinted line, 
To feel Allusion's artful force, 
And trace the image to it's source ! 
Quick Memory blends her scatter'd rays, 
'Till Fancy kindles at the blaze ; 
The works of ages start to view, 
And ancient Wit elicits new. 

But wit and parts if thus we praise, 
What noble altars should we raise, 
Those sacrifices could we see 
Which Wit, O Virtue ! makes to thee : 
At once the rising thought to dash, 
To quench at once the bursting flash ! 
The shining Mischief to subdue, 
And lose the praise, and pleasure too ! 
Tho' Venus' self, could you detect her, 
Imbuing with her richest nectar, 
The thought unchaste — to check that thought, 
To spurn a fame so dearly bought ; 
This is high Principle's controul ! 
This is true continence of soul ! 
Blush, heroes, at your cheap renown, 
A vanquish'd realm, a plunder'd town ! 
Your conquests were to gain a name, 
This conquest triumphs over fame ; 
So pure its essence, 'twere destroy'd 
If known, and if commended, void. 
Amidst the brightest truths believ'd 
Amidst the fairest deeds achiev'd, 
Shall stand recorded and admir'd, 
That Virtue sunk what Wit inspir'd ! 

But let the letter'd and the fair, 
And, chiefly, let the wit beware ; 
You, whose warm spirits never fail, 
Forgive the hint which ends my tale. 
O shun the perils which attend 
On wit, on warmth, and heed your friends; 
Tho' Science nurs'd you in her bowers, 
Tho' Fancy crown your brow with flowers, 
B 






18 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Each thought, tho' bright Invention fill, 

Tho' Attic bees each word distil ; 

Yet, if one gracious power refuse 

Her gentle influence to infuse ; 

If she withhold her magic spell, 

Nor in the social circle dwell ; 

In vain shall listening crowds approve, 

They'll praise you, but they will not love. 

What is this power, you're loth to mention, 

This charm, this witchcraft? 'tis Attention : 

Mute angel, yes ; thy look dispense 

The silence of intelligence ; 

Thy graceful form I well discern, 

In act to listen and to learn, 

'Tis thou for talents shalt obtain 

That pardon Wit would hope in vain; 



Thy wond'rous power, thy secret charm, 
Shall Envy of her sting disarm; 
Thy silent flattery soothes our spirit, 
And we forgive eclipsing merit ; 
Our jealous souls no longer burn, 
Nor hate thee, tho' thou shine in turn ; 
The sweet atonement screens the fault, 
And love and praise are cheaply bought. 

With mild complacency to hear, 
Tho' somewhat long the tale appear, — 
The dull relation to attend, 
Which mars the story you could mend ; 
'Tis more than wit, 'tis moral beauty, 
'Tis pleasure rising out of duty. 
Nor vainly think, the time you waste, 
When temper triumphs over taste. 



BISHOP BONNER'S GHOST. 

This little poem was never before published. A few copies were printed by the late earl of 
Orford at his press at Strawberry -hill, and given to a few particular friends. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

In the gardens of the palace of Fulham is a dark recess ; at the end of this stands a chair, 
which once belonged to bishop Bonner. — A certain bishop of London, more than two hundred 
years after the death of the aforesaid Bonner, one morning just as the clock of the Gothic chapel 
had struck six, undertook to cut with his own hand a narrow walk through this thicket, which 
is since called the Monk's-walk. He had no sooner begun to clear the way, than lo! suddenly 
up-started from the chair the ghost of bishop Bonner, who, in a tone of just and bitter indigna- 
tion, uttered the following verses. 



Reformer, hold ! ah, spare my shade, 

Respect the hallow'd dead ! 
Vain pray'r ! I see the opining glade, 

See utter darkness fled. 
Just so your innovating hand 

Let in the moral light ; 
So, chas'd from this bewilder'd land, 

Fled intellectual night. 
Where now that holy gloom which hid 

Fair Truth from vulgar ken ? 
Where now that wisdom which forbid 

To think that monks were men ? 
The tangled mazes of the schools, 

Which spread so thick before ; 
Which knaves entwin'd to puzzle fools, 

Shall catch mankind no more. 
Those charming intricacies where ? 

Those venerable lies 1 
Those legends, once the church's care ? 

Those sweet perplexities ? 
Ah ! fatal age, whose sons combin'd 

Of credit to exhaust us : 
Ah ! fatal age, which gave mankind 

A Luther and a Faustus !* 
Had only Jack and Martin! liv'd, 

Our pow'r had slowly fled ; 
Our influence longer had surviv'd, 

Had layman never read. 

* The same age which brought heresy into the church, 
unhappily introduced printing among the arts, by which 
means the Scriptures were unluckily disseminated 
among the vulgar. 

t How bishop Bonner came to have read Swift's Tale 
of a Tub it may now be in vain to inquire; 



For knowledge flew, like magic spell, 

By typographic art ; 
Oh, shame ! a peasant now can tel! 

If priests the truth impart. 
Ye councils, pilgrimages, creeds 

Synods, decrees, and rules ! 
Ye warrants of unholy deeds, 

Indulgences and bulls ! 
Where are ye now ? and where, alas T 

The pardons we dispense ! 
And penances, the sponge of sins ; 
- And Peter's holy pence ? 
Where now the beads that used to swell 

Lean Virtue's spare amount ? 
Here only faith and goodness fill 

A heretic's account. 
But soft — what gracious form appears 

Is this a convent's life ! 
Atrocious sight ! by all my fears, 

A prelate with a wife ! 
Ah ! sainted Mary,* not for this 

Our pious labour's join'd ; 
The witcheries of domestic bliss 

Had shook ev'n Gardner's mind, 
Hence all the sinful, human ties, 

Which mar the cloister's plan ; 
Hence all the weak fond charities, 

Which makes man feel for man. 
But tortur'd Memory vainly speaks 

The projects we design' d ; 

* An orthodox queen of the sixteenth century, who 
laboured with might and main, conjointly with these 
two venerable bishops to extinguish a dangerous heresy 
ycleped the Reformation. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



19 



While this apostate bishop seeks 

The freedom of mankind. 
Oh, born in ev'ry thing to shake 

The systems plann'd by me ! 
So heterodox, that he would make 

Both soul and body free. 
Nor clime nor colour stay his hand ; 

With charity deprav'd, 
He would from Thames to Gambia's strand, 

Have all be free and sav'd. 
And who shall change his wayward heart 

His wilful spirit turn ? 



For those his labours can't convert, 
His weakness will not burn. 

A GOOD OLD PAPIST 
Ann. Dom. 1900. 

*** By the lapse of time the three last stanzas are be- 
come unintelligible. Old chronicles say, that towards 
the latter end of the 18th century, a bill was brought in- 
to the British parliament, by an active young reformer, 
for the abolition of a pretended traffic of the human spe- 
cies. But this only shows how little faith is to be given 
to the exaggerations of history ; for as no vestige of 
this incredible trade now remains, we look upon the 
whole story to have been one of those fictions, not un- 
common among authors, to blacken the memory of for- 
mer ages. 



FLORIO. 

A TALE FOR FINE GENTLEMEN AND FINE LADIES. 
IN TWO PARTS. 



TO THE HON. HORACE WALPOLE* 

My Dear Sir, It would be very flattering to me, if I might hope that the little tale, which 

I now take the liberty of presenting to you, could amuse a few moments of your tedious indispo- 
sition. It is, I confess, but a paltry return for the many hours of agreeable information and 
elegant amusement which I have received from your spirited and very entertaining writings : 
yet I am persuaded, that you will receive it with favour, as a small offering of esteem and grati- 
tude ; as an offering of which the intention alone makes all the little value. 

The slight verses, sir, which I place under your protection, will not, I fear, impress the world 
with a very favourable idea of my poetical powers ; But I shall, at least, be suspected of having 
some taste, and of keeping good company, when I confess that some of the pleasantest hours of 
my life have been passed in your conversation. I should be unjust to your very engaging and 
well-bred turn of wit, if I did not declare that, among all the lively and brilliant things I have 
heard from you, I do not remember ever to have heard an unkind or an ungenerous one. Let me 
be allowed to bear my feeble testimony to your temperate use of this charming faculty, so de- 
lightful in itself, but which can only be safely trusted in such hands as yours, where it is guard- 
ed by politeness, and directed by humanity. 

I have the honour to be, sir, your much obliged, 

and most obedient, humble servant, 

January, 27, 1786. THE AUTHOR. 

„ ftarwards Earl of Orford. 



PART I. 



Florio, a youth of gay renown, 
Who figur'd much about the town, 
Had pass'd, with general approbation, 
The modish forms of education; 
Knew what was proper to be known, 
Th' establish'd jargon of bon-ton ; 
Had learnt, with very moderate reading, 
The whole new system of good breeding : 
He studied to be bold and rude. 
Tho' native feeling would intrude : 
Unlucky 6snse and sympathy, 
Spoilt the vain thing he strove to be. 
For Florio was not meant by nature, 
A silly or a worthless creature : 
He had a heart dispos'd to feel, 
Had life and spirit taste and zeal ; 
Was handsome, generous ; but by fate, 
Predestin'd to a large estate ! 
Hence, all that grac'd his op'ning days, 
Was marr'd by pleasure, spoilt by praise. 



The Destiny, who wove the thread 
Of Florio's being, sigh'd, and said, 
' Poor youth ! this cumbrous twist of gold, 
More than my shuttle well can hold, 
For which thy anxious father toil'd, 
Thy white and even thread has spoil'd : 
'Tis this shall warp thy pliant youth 
From sense, simplicity and truth, 
Thy erring fire, by wealth mislead, 
Shall scatter pleasures round thy head, 
When wholesome discipline's controul, 
Should brace the sinews of thy soul ; 
Coldly thou'lt toil for Learning's prize, 
For why should he that's rich be wise ? 

The gracious Master of mankind, 
Who knew us vain, corrupt and blind, 
In mercy, tho' in anger said, 
That man should earn his daily bread 
His lot, inaction renders worse, 
While labour mitigates the curse. 



20 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



The idle, life's worst burthens bear, 
And meet, what toil escapes, despair ! 

Forgive, nor lay the fault on me, 
This mixture of mythology ; 
The muse of Paradise has deign'd 
With truth to mingle fables feign'd ; 
And tho' the bard, who would attain 
The glories, Mii.to.n, of thy strain, 
Will never reach thy stylo or thoughts, 
He may be like thee in thy faults ! 

Exhausted Florio, at the age, 
When youth should rush on glory's stage ; 
When life should open fresh and knew, 
And ardent Hope her schemes pursue ; 
Of youthful gaiety bereft, 
Had scarce an unbroach'd pleasure left ; 
He found already to his cost, 
The shining gloss of life was lost ; 
And Pleasure was so coy a prude, 
She fled the more, the more pursu'd ; 
Or if, o'ertaken and caress'd, 
He loath'd and left her when possess'd. 
But Florio knew the world that science 
Sets sense and learning at defiance ; 
He thought the world to him was known, 
Whereas he only knew the town ; 
In men this blunder still you find, 
All think their little set — mankind. 

Tho' high renown the youth had gain'd, 
No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd, 
No tool of falsehood, slave of passion, 
But spoilt by custom, and the fashion. 
Tho' known air.-ong a certain set, 
He did not like to be in debt ; 
He shudder'd at the dicer's box, 
Nor thought it very heterodox, 
That tradesmen should be sometimes paid, 
And bargains kept as well as made. 
His growing credit as a sinner, 
Was that he lik'd to spoil a dinner ; 
Made pleasure and made business wait, 
And still, by system, came too late ; 
Yet, 'twas a hopeful indication, 
On which to forund a reputation ; 
Small habits well pursu'd betimes, 
May reach the dignity of crimes. 
And who a juster claim preferr'd, 
Than one who always broke his word ! 

His mornings were not spent in vice, 
'Twas lounging, sauntering, eating ice : 
Walk up and down St. James's-street, 
Full fifty times the youth you'd meet : 
He hated cards, detested drinking, 
But stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking ; 
'Twas doing nothing was his curse, 
Is there a vice can plague us worse ? 
The wretch who digs the mine for bread, 
Or ploughs, that others may be fed, 
Feels less fatigued than that decreed 
To him who cannot think, or read. 
Not all the peril of temptations, 
Not all the conflict of the passions, 
Can quench the spark of glory's flame, 
Or quite extinguish virtue's name ; 
Like the true taste for genuine saunter, 
Like sloth, the soul's most dire enchanter. 
The active fires that stir the breast,. 
Her poppies charm to fatal rest, 
They rule in short and quick succession, 
Bui SLorH keeps one long, fast possession ; 



Ambition's reign is quickly clos'd, 
Th' usurper rage is soon depos'd ; 
Intemperance, where there's no temptation, 
Makes voluntary abdication ; 
Of other tyrants short the strife, 
But Indolence is king for life. 
The despot twists with soft control, 
Eternal fetters round the 6oul. 

Yet tho' so polish'd Florio's breeding, 
Think him not ignorant of reading ; 
For he to keep him from the vapours, 
Subscrib'd at Hookham's, saw the papers • 
Was deep in poet's corner wit ; 
Knew what was in italics writ; 
Explain'd fictitious names at will, 
Each gutted syllable could fill ; 
'There oft, in paragraphs, his name 
Gave symptom sweet of growing fame ; 
Tho' yet they only serv'd to hint 
That Florio lov'd to see in print, 
His ample buckles' alter'd shape, 
His buttons chang'd, his varying cape. 
And many a standard phrase was his 
Might rival bore, or banish quiz ; 
The man who grasps this young renown, 
And early starts for Fashion's crown ; 
In time that glorious prize may wield, 
Which clubs, and ev'n Newmarket yield. 
He studied while he dress'd, for true 'tis, 
He read compendiums, extracts, beauties, 
Abreges, dictionaries, recueils, 
Mercures, journauz, extracts, and femlles , 
No work in substance now is follow'd, 
The chemic extract only's swallow'd. 
He lik'd those literary cooks 
Who skim the cream of other's books , 
And ruin half an author's graces, 
By plucking bon-mots from their places 
He wonders any writing sells, 
But these spie'd mushrooms and morells 
His palate these alone can touch, 
Where every mouthful is bonne bouche. 
Some phrase, that with the public took, 
Was all he read of any book ; 
For plan, detail, arrangement, system, 
He let them go, and never miss'd 'em. 
Of each new play he saw a part, 
And all the anas had by heart ; 
He found whatever they produce 
Is fit for conversation-use ; 
Learning so ready for display, 
A page would prime him for a day ; 
They cram not with a mass of knowledge, 
With smacks of toil, and smells of college, 
Which in the memory useless lies, 
Or only makes men — good and wise. 
This might have merit once indeed, 
But now for other ends we read. 

A friend he had, Bellario hight, 
A reasoning, reading, learned wight ; 
At least, with men of Florio's breeding 
He was a prodigy of reading. 
He knew each stale and vapid lie 
In tomes of French philosophy; 
And then, we fairly may presume, 
From Pyrrho down to David Hume, 
'Twere difficult to single out 
A man more full of shallow doubt; 
He knew the little sceptic prattle, 
The sopnist's paltry arts of battle . 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



21 



Talk'd gravely of th' Atomic dance, 
Of moral fitness, fate, and chance ; 
Admir'd the system of Lucretius, 
Whose matchless verse makes nonsense spe- 
cious ! 
To this his doctrine owes its merits, 
Like pois'nous reptiles kept in spirits. 
Tho' sceptics dull his scheme rehearse, 
Who have not souls to taste his verse. 

Bellario founds his reputation 
On dry stale jokes, about creation ; 
Would prove, by argument circuitous, 
The combination was fortuitous. 
Swore priests' whole trade was to deceive, 
And prey on bigots who believe ; 
With bitter ridicule could jeer, 
And had the true free-thinking sneer. 
Grave arguments he had in store, 
Which have been answer'd o'er and o'er ; 
And us'd, with wond'rous penetration 
The trite, old trick of false citation ; 
From ancient authors fond to quote 
A phrase or thought they never wrote. 

Upon his highest shelf there stood 
The classics neatly cut in wood ; 
And in a more commodious station, 
You found them in a French translation : 
He swears, 'tis from the Greek he quotes, 
But keeps the French — just for the notes. 
He worshipp'd certain modern names 
Who history write in epigrams, 
In pointed periods, shining phrases, 
And all the small poetic daisies, 
Which crowd the pert and florid style, 
Where fact is dropt to raise a smile ; 
Where notes indecent or profane 
Serve to raise doubts, but not explain : 
Where all is spangle, glitter, show, 
And truth is overlaid below : 
Arts scorn'd by History's sober muse, 
Arts Clarendon disdain'd to use. 
Whate'er the subject of debate, 
'Twas larded still with sceptic prate ; 
Begin whatever theme you will, 
In unbelief he lands you still ; 
The good, with shame I speak it, feel 
Not half this proselyting zeal: 
While cold their master's cause to own 
Content to go to heaven alone ; 
The infidel in liberal trim, 
Would carry all the world with him : 
Would treat his wife, friend, kindred, nation, 
Mankind — with what ! Annihilation. 

Tho' Florio did not quite believe him, 
He thought, why should a friend deceive him ? 
Much as he priz'd Bellario's wit, 
He liked not all his notions yet ; 
He thought him charming, pleasant, odd, 
But hop'd one might believe in God ; 
Yet such the charms that grac'd his tongue, 
He knew not how to think him wrong." 
Tho' Florio tried a thousand ways, 
Truth's insuppressive torch would blaze ; 
Where once her flame has burnt, I doubt 
If ever it go fairly out. 

Yet, under great Bellario's care, 
He gain'd each day a better air ; 
With many a leader of renown, 
Deep in the learning of the town, 
Who never other science knew, 



But what from that prime source they drew ; 

Pleas'd, to the opera they repair, 

To get recruits of knowledge there ; 

Mythology gain at a glance, 

And learn the classics from a dance : 

In Ovi% they ne'er car'd a groat, 

How far'd the vent'rous Argonaut ; 

Yet charm'd they see Medea rise 

On fiery dragons to the skies. 

For Dido,* tho' they never knew her 

As Maro's magic pencil drew her, 

Faithful and fond, and broken-hearted, 

Her pious vagabond departed ; 

Yet, for Didone how they roar 

And Cam ! Cara ! loud encore. 

One taste, Bellario's soul possess'd 
The master passion of his breast ; 
It was not one of those frail joys, 
Which, by possession, quickly cloys 
This bliss was solid, constant, true, 
'Twas action, and 'twas passion too 
For tho' the business might be finish'd , 
The pleasure scarcely was diminish'd; 
Did he ride out, or sit, or walk, 
He liv'd it o'er again in talk ; 
Prolong'd the fugitive delight, 
In words by day, in dreams by night, 
'Twas eating did his soul allure, 
A deep, keen, modish epicure ; 
Tho' once this name, as I opine, 
Meant not such men as live to dine ; 
Yet all our modern wits assure us, 
That's all they know of Epicurus: 
They fondly fancy, that repletion 
Was the chief good of that fam'd Grecian. 
To live in gardens full of flowers, 
And ta'k Philosophy in Lowers, 
Or, in the covert of a wood, 
To descant on the sovereign good, 
Might be the notion of their founder, 
But they have notions vastly sounder ; 
Their bolder standards they erect, 
To form a more substantial sect ; 

Old Epicurus would not own 'em, 
A dinner is their summum bonum. 
More like you'll find such sparks as these, 
To Epicurus' deities ; 
Like them they mix not with affairs, 
But loll and laugh at human cares. 
To beaux this difference is allow'd, 
They choose a sofa for a cloud ; 
Bellario had embrae'd with glee, 
This practical philosophy. 

Young Florio's father had a friend, 
And ne'er did heaven a worthier send ; 
A cheerful knight of good estate, 
Whose heart was warm, whose bounty great 
Where'er his wide protection spread, 
The sick were cheer'd, the hungry fed ; 
Resentment vanish'd where he came ; 
And lawsuits fled before his name ; 
The old esteem'd, the young caress'd him, 
And all the smiling village bless'd him, 
Within his castle's Gothic gate, 
Sat Plenty, and old-fashioned state : 
Scarce Prudence could his bounties stint;— - 
Such characters are out of print ; 
O ! would kind heav'n, the age to mend, 

* Medea and Dido were the two reigning e«>eras i 
this time. 



22 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



A new edition of them send, 
Before our tottering castles fall, 
And swarming nabobs seize on all ! 

Some little whims he had, 'tis true, 
But they were harmless, and were few ; 
He dreaded nought like alteration, . 
Improvement still was innovation ; 
He said, when any change was brewing, 
Reform was a fine name for ruin ;'* 
This maxim firmly he would hold, 
' That always must be good that's old.' 
The acts which dignify the day 
He thought portended its decay : 
And fear'd twould show a falling state, 
If Sternhold should give way to Tate. 
The church's downfall he predicted, 
Were modern tunes not interdicted ; 
He scorn'd them all, but crown'd with palm 
The man who set the hundredth psalm. 

Of moderate parts, of moderate wit, 
But parts for life and business fit : 
Whate'er the theme ; he did not fail, 
At popery and the French to rail ; 
And started wide, with fond digression 
To praise the protestant succession. 
Of Blackstone he had read a part, 
And all Burn's Justice knew by heart. 
He thought man's life too short to waste 
On idle things call'd wit and taste. 
In books that he might lose no minute, 
His very verse had business in it. 
He ne'er had heard of bards of Greece, 
But had read half of Dver's Fleece. 
His sphere of knowledge still was wider, 
His Georgics, ' Philips upon cider :' 
He could produce in proper place, 
Three apt quotations from the ' Chase,'T 
And in the hall, from day to day, 
Old Isaac Walton's Angler lay. 

This good and venerable knight 
One daughter had, his soul's delight : 
For face no mortal could resist her, 
She smil'd like Hebe's youngest sister ; 
Her life, as lovely as her face, 
Each duty mark'd with every grace ; 
Her native sense improv'd by reading, 
Her native sweetness by good-breeding : 
She had perus'd each choicer sage 
Of ancient date, or later age; 
But her best knowledge still she found 
On sacred, not on classic ground ; 
'Twas thence her noblest stores she drew, 
And well she practis'd what she knew. 
Led by Simplicity divine, 
She pleas'd, and never tried to shine ; 
She gave to chance each unschool'd feature, 
And left her cause to sense and nature. 

The sire of Florio, ere he died, 
Decreed fair Celia Florio's bride 
Bade him his latest wish attend, 
And win the daughter of his friend : 
When the last rites to him were paid, 
He charg'd him to address the maid : 
Sir Gilbert's heart the wish approv'd 
For much his ancient friend he lov'd. 

Six rapid months like lightning fly, 

* These lines were written many years before the 
French revolution had in a manner realized Sir Gil- 
bert's idea of reform. 

J A poem by Mr. Somerville. 



And the last gray was now thrown by ; 
Florio reluctant, calls to mind 
The orders of a sire too kind : 
Yet go he must ; he must fulfil 
The hard conditions of the will : 
Go, at that precious hour of prime, 
Go, at that swarming, bustling time, 
When the full town to joy invites, 
Distracted with its own delights ; 
When Pleasure pours from her full urn, 
Each tiresome transport in its turn ; 
When Dissipation's altars blaze, 
And men run mad a thousand ways ; 
When, on his tablets, there were found 
Engagements for full six weeks round ; 
Must leave, with grief and desperation, 
Three packs of cards of invitation, 
And all the ravishing delights 
Of slavish days, and sleepless nights. 

Ye nymphs, whom tyrant Power drags down. 
With hand despotic from the town, 
When Almack's doors wide open stand, 
And the gay partner's offer'd hand 
Courts to the dance ; when steaming rooms, 
Fetid with ungents and perfumes, 
Invite you to the mobs polite 
Of three sure balls in one short night 
You ma}' conceive what Florio felt, 
And sympathetically melt; 
You may conceive the hardship dire 
To lawns and woodlands to retire, 
When, freed from Winter's icy chain, 
Glad Nature revels on the plain ; 
When blushing Spring leads on the Hours, 
And May is prodigal of flow'rs ; 
When Fashion warbles thro' the grove, 
And all is song, and all is love ; 
When new-born breezes sweep the vale, 
And Health adds fragrance to the gale. 



PART II. 

Six bays unconscious of their weight, 
Soon lodg'd him at Sir Gilbert's gate • 
His trusty Swiss, who flew still faster, 
Announc'd th' arrival of his master : 
So loud the rap which shook the door, 
The hall re-echo'd to the roar ; 
Since first the castle walls were rea-r'd 
So dread a sound had ne'er been heard ; 
The din alarm'd the frighten'd deer, 
Who in a corner slunk for fear , 
The butler thought 'twas beat of drum, 
The steward swore the French were come ; 
It ting'd with red poor Florio's face, 
He thought himself in Portland-place. 
Short joy ! he enter'd, and the gate 
Clos'd on him with its ponderous weight. 
Who, like Sir Gilbert, now was blest? 
With rapture he embrae'd his guest. 
Fair Celia blush'd, and Florio utter'd 
Half sentences, or rather mutter'd 
Disjointed words — as, ' honour ! pleasure ! 
' Kind ! — vastly good, ma'am ! — beyond mea. 

sure : 
Tame expletives, with which dull fashion 
Fills vacancies of sense and passion. 
Yet, tho' disciple of cold art, 
Florio soon found he had a heart ; 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



23 



He saw; and but that admiration 
Had been too active, too like passion ; 
Or had he been to Ton less true, 
Cupid had shot him thro' and thro' ; 
But, vainly speeds the surest dart, 
Where Fashion's mail defends the heart ; 
The shaft her cold repulsion found, 
And fell without the povv'r to wound : 
For Fashion, with a mother's joy, 
Dipp'd in her lake the darling boy ; 
That lake, whose chilling waves impart 
The gift to freeze the warmest heart : 
Yet guarded as he was with phlegm, 
With such delight he ey'd the dame, 
Found his cold heart to melt before her, 
And felt so ready to adore her ; 
That Fashion fear'd her son would yield, 
And flew to snatch him from the field ; 
O'er his touch'd heart her oegis threw, 
The goddess mother straight he knew ; 
Her power he own'd, she saw and smil'd, 
And claim'd the triumph of her child. 

Celia a table still supplied, 
Which modish luxury might deride : 
A modest feast the hope conveys, 
The master eats on other days ; 
While gorgeous banquets oft bespeak 
A hungry household all the week. 
A decent elegance was there, 
And Plenty with her liberal air. 
But vulgar Plenty gave offence, 
And shock'd poor Florio's nicer sense ; 
Patient he yielded to his fate, 
When good Sir Gilbert pil'd his plate ; 
He bow'd snbmissive, made no question, 
But that 'twas sovereign for digestion ; 
But, such was his unlucky whim, 
Plain meats would ne'er agree with him ; 
Yet feign'd to praise the Gothic treat, 
And, if he ate not, seem'd to eat. 

In sleep sad Florio hop'd to find, 
The pleasures he had left behind. 
He dreamt, and lo ! to ckarm his eyes, 
The form of Weltje* seem'd to rise ; 
The gracious vision wav'd his wand, 
And banquets sprung to Florio's hand ; 
Th' imaginary savours rose 
In tempting odours to his nose. 
A bell, not Fancy's false creation, 
Gives joyful ' note of preparation :' 
He starts, he wakes, the bell he hears ; 
Alas ! it rings for morning pray'rs. 

But how to spend next tedious morning, 
Was past his possible discerning; 
Uuable to amuse himself, 
He tumbled every well-ranged shelf; 
This book was dull, and that was wise, 
And this was monstrous as to size, 
With eager joy he gobbled down 
Whate'er related to the town ; 
Whatc'er look'd small, whate'er look'd new 
Half-bound, or stitch'd in pink or blue ; 
Old play-bills, Astley's last year's feats, 
And Opera disputes in sheets. 
As these dear records meet his eyes, 
Ghosts of departed pleasures rise; 
He lays the book upon the shelf, 
And leaves the day to spend itself. 

To cheat the tedious hours, whene'er 
* A celebrated cook and confectioner. 



He sallied forth to take the air, 
His sympathetic ponies knew 
Whicli way their lord's affections drew , 
And, every time he went abroad, 
Sought of themselves the London road ; 
He ask'd each mile of every clown, 
How far they reckon'd it to town ? 
And still his nimble spirits rise, 
Whilst thither he directs his eyes ; 
But when his coursers back he guides 
The sinking mercury quick subsides. 

A week he had resolv'd to stay 
But found a week in every day ; 
Yet if the gentle maid was by, 
Faint pleasure glisten'd in his eye ; 
Whene'er she spoke, attention hung 
On the mild accents of her tongue ; 
But when no more the room she grac'd, 
The slight impression was efFac'd. 
Whene'er Sir Gilbert's sporting guests 
Retail'd old news, or older jests, 
Florio, quite calm, and debonair, 
Still humm'd a new Italian air ; 
He did not even feign to hear 'em, 
But plainly show'd he could not bear 'em. 

Celia perceived his secret thoughts, 
But like the youth with all his faults ; 
Yet 'twas unlike, she softly said, 
The tales ot love which she had read, 
Where heroes vow'd, and sigh'd, and knelt; 
Nay, 'twas unlike the love she felt ; 
Tho' when her sire' the youth would blame, 
She clear'd his but suspected fame, 
Ventur'd to hope, with fault'ring tongue, 
' He would reform — he was but young ;' 
Confess'd his manners wrong in part, 
' But then — he had so good a heart !' 
She sunk each fault, each virtue rais'd, 
And still where truth permitted, prais'd; 
His interest farther to secure, 
She prais'd his bounty to the poor 
For, votary as he was of art, 
He had a kind and melting heart ; 
Tho', with a smile, he us'd to own 
He had no time to feel in town ; 
Not that he blush'd to show compassion,— • 
It chanc'd that year to be the fashion. 
And equally the modish tribe, 
To clubs or hospitals subscribe. 

At length, to wake ambition's flame, 
A letter from Bellario came ; 
Announcing the supreme delight, 1 
Preparing for a certain night, 
By Flavia fair, return'd from France, 
Who took him captive at a glance : 
The invitations all were given ! 
Five hundred cards ! — a little heaven ! 
A dinner first — he would present him, 
And nothing, nothing must prevent him, 
Whoever wish'd a noble air, 
Must gain it by an entree there ; 
Of all the glories of the town, 
'Twas the first passport to» renown, 
Then ridicul'd his rural schemes, 
His pastoral shades, and purling streams;! 
Sneer'd at his present brilliant life, 
His polish'd sire, and high-bred wife 
Thus, doubly to inflame, he tried, 
His curiosity and pride. 

The youth, with agitated heart, 



24 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Prepar'd directly to depart ; 
But, bound in honour to obey 
His father at no distant day; 
He promis'd soon to hasten down, 
Tho' business call'd him now to town; 
Then faintly hints a cold proposal — 
But leaves it to the knight's disposal — 
Stammer'd half words of love and duty, 
And mutter'd much of — ' worth and beauty ;' 
Something of passion then he dropt, 
' And hop'd his ardour' — Here he stopt ; 
For some remains of native truth 
Flush'd in his face, and check'd the youth; 
Yet still th' ambiguous suffusion, 
Might pass for artless love's confusion. 
The doating father thought 'twas strange, 
But fancied men like times might change ; 
Yet own'd, nor could he check his tongue, 
It was not so when he was young. 
That was the reign of love he swore, 
Whose halcyon days are now no more. 
In that blest age, for honour fam'd, 
Love paid the homage Virtue claim'd ; 
Not that insipid, daudling Cupid, 
With heart so hard, and air so stupid, ' 
Who coldly courts the charms which lie 
In Affectation's half-clos'd eye. 
Love then was honest, genuine passion, 
And manly gallantry the fashion ; 
Yet pure as ardent was the flame 
Excited by the beauteous dame ; 
Hope could subsist on slender bounties, 
And suitors gallop'd o'er two counties, 
The ball's fair partner to behold, 
Or humbly hope — she caught no cold. 

But mark how much Love's annals mend . 
Should beauty's goddess now descend ; 
On some adventure should she come, 
To grace a modish drawing-room ; 
Spite of her form and heavenly air, 
What beau would hand her to a chair ? 
Vain were that grace, which to her son, 
Disclos'd what Beauty had not done : 
Vain were that motion which betray'd, 
The goddess was no earth-born maid ; 
If noxious Faro's baleful spright, 
With rites infernal rul'd the night, 
The group absorb'd in play and pelf, 
Venus might call her doves herself. 
As Floeio pass'd the castle-gate, 
His spirits seem to lose their weight ; 
He feasts his lately vacant mind 
With all the joys he hopes to find ; 
Yet on whate'er his fancy broods, 
The form of Celia still intrudes ; 
Whatever other sound he hears, 
The voice of Celia fills his ears ; 
Howe'er his random thoughts might fly, 
Her graces dance before his eye ; 
Nor was the obtrusive vision o'er, 
E'en when he reach'd Bellario's door. 
The friends embrac'd witli warm delight, 
And Flavia's praises crown'd the night. 

Soon dawn'd the day which was to show, 
Glad Florio what was heaven below. 
Flavia, admir'd wherever known, 
Th' acknowledg'd empress of bon-ton ; 
O'er Fashion's wayward kingdom reigns. 
And holds Bellario in her chains ; 
various her powers ; a wit by day, 



By night unmatch'd for lucky play. 

The flattering, fashionable tribe, 

Each stray bon-mot to her ascribe ; 

And all her ' little senate' own 

She made the best charade in town ; 

Her midnight suppers always drew 

Whate'er was fine, whate'er was new ; 

There oft the brightest fame you'd see 

The victim of a repartee ; 

For Slander's priestess still supplies 

The spotless for the sacrifice. 

None at her polish'd table sit, 

But who aspire to modish wit , 

The persiflage, th' unfeeling jeer, 

The civil, grave, ironic sneer ; 

The laugh which more than censure wounds 

Which, more than argument, confounds. 

There the fair deed, which would engage 

The wonder of a nobler age, 

With unbelieving scorn is heard, 

Or still to selfish ends refer'd ; 

If in the deed no flaw they find, 

To some base motive 'tis assign'd 

When Malice longs to throw her dart, 

But finds no vulnerable part, 

Because the Virtues all defend, 

At every pass, their guarded friend ; 

Then by one slight insinuation, 

One scarce perceiv'd exaggeration ; 

Sly Ridicule, with half a word, 

Can fix her stigma of — absurd; 

Nor care, nor skill, extracts the dart, 

With which she stabs the feeling heart ; 

Her cruel caustics inly pain, 

And scars indelible remain. 

Supreme in wit, supreme in play, 
Despotic Ffavia all obey ; 
Small were her natural charms of face, 
Till heighten'd with each foreign grace ; 
But what subdued Bellario's soul 
Beyond Philosophy's control, 
Her constant table was as fine 
As if ten rajahs were to dine ; 
She every day produe'd such fish as 
Would gratify the nice Apicius, 
Or realize what we think fabulous 
I' th' bill of fare of Heliogabalus. 
Yet still the natural taste was cheated, 
'Twas delug'd in some sauce one hated. 
'Twas sauce ! 'twas sweetmeat ! 'twas confection! 
All poignancy ! and all perfection ! 
Rich entremets, whose name none knows, 
Ragouts, tourtes, tendrons, fricandeux, 
O' th' hogs of Epicurus' sty ; 
Yet all so foreign and so fine, 
'Twas easier to admire, than dine. 
O ! if the muse had power to tell 
Each dish, no muse has power to spell 
Great goddess of the French Cuisine! 
Not with unhallow'd hands I mean 
To violate thy secret shade, 
Which eyes profane shall ne'er invade ; 
No! of thy dignity supreme, 
I, with ' mysterious reverence,' deem ! 
Or, should I venture with rash hand, 
The vulgar would not understand ; 
None but th' initiated know 
The raptures keen thy rights bestow. 
Thus much to tell I lawful deem, 
Thy works are never what they seem ; 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



25 



Thy will this general law has past, 
That nothing of itself shall taste. 
Thy word this high decree enacted, 
' In all be nature counteracted !' 

Conceive, who can, the perfect bliss, 
For 'tis not given to all who guess, 
The rapturous joy Bellario found, 
When thus his ev'ry wish was crown'd. 
To Florio, as the best of friends, 
One dish he secretly commends 
Then hinted, as a special favour, 
What gave it that delicious flavour ; 
A mystery he so much reveres, 
He never to unhallow'd ears 
Would trust it, but to him would show 
How far true friendship's power would go. 

Florio, tlio' dazzled by the/e<e, 
With far inferior transport eat; 
A little warp his taste had gain'd, 
Which, unperceived, .till now remain'd ; 
For, from himself he would conceal 
The change he did not choose to feel; 
He almost, wish'd he could be picking 
An unsophisticated chicken ; 
And when he cast his eyes around, 
And not one simple morsel found, 
O give 'me, was his secret wish, 
My charming Celia's plainest dish ! 

Thus Nature, struggling for her rights, 
Lets in some little, casual lights : 
And Love combines to war with Fashion, 
Tho' yet 'twas but an infant passion ; 
The practis'd Flavia tried each art 
Of sly attack to steal his heart; 
Her forc'd civilities oppress, 
Fatiguing thro' mere graciousness : 
While many a gay intrepid dame, 
By bold assault essay'd the same. 
Fill'd with disgust, he strove to fly 
The artful glance and fearless eye ; 
Their jargon now no more he praises, 
Nor echoes back their flimsy phrases. 
He felt not Celia's powers of face, 
Till weigh'd against bon-ton grimace; 
Nor half her genuine beauties tasted, 
'Till with factitious charms contrasted ; 
Th' industrious carpies hover'd round, 
Nor peace nor liberty he found ! 
By force and flattery circumvented, 
To play, reluctant, he consented ; 
Each dame her power of pleasing tried, 
To fix the novice by her side , 
OP pigeons he the very best, 
Who wealth with ignorance possest. 
But Flavia's rhetoric best persuades, 
That sybil leads him to the shades ; 
The fatal leaves around the room, 
Prophetic tell the approaching doom ! 
Yet, different from the tale of old, 
It was the fair one pluck'd the gold ; 
Her arts the pond'rous purse exhaust; 
A thousand borrow'd, stak'd, and lost, 
Wakes him to sense and shame again, 
Nor force, nor fraud could more obtain. 

He rose, indignant, to attend 
The summons of a ruin'd friend, 
Whom keen Bellario's arts betray 
To all the depths of desperate play ; 
A thoughtless youth who near him sat, 
Was plunder'd of his whole estate ; 



Too late he call'd for Florio's aid, 
A beggar in a moment made. 

And now, with horror, Florio views 
The wild confusion which ensues ; 
Marks how the dames, of late so fair, 
Assume a fierce demoniac air ; 
Marks where the infernal furies hold 
Their orgies foul o'er heaps of gold ; 
And spirits dire appear to rise, 
Guarding the horrid mysteries ; 
Marks how deforming passions tear 
The bosoms of the losing fair ; 
How looks convuls'd, and haggard faces, 
Chase the scar'd Loves, and frighten'd Graces ! 
Touch'd with disdain, with horror fir'd, 
Celia ! he murmur'd, and retir'd. 

That night no sleep his eyelids prest, 
He thought ; and thought's a foe to rest: 
Or if, by chance, he clos'd his eyes, 
What hideous spectres round him rise ! 
Distemper'd Fancy wildly brings 
The broken images of things; 
His ruin'd friend, with eye-ball fixt, 
Swallowing the draught Despair had mixt; 
The frantic wife beside him stands, 
With bursting heart, and wringing hands ; 
And every horror dreams bestow, 
Of pining want or raving wo. 

Next morn, to check, or cherish thought, 
His library's retreat he sought ; 
He view'd each book, with cold regard, 
Of serious sage, or lighter bard; 
At length, among the motley band, 
The Idler fell into his hand ; 
Th' alluring title caught his eye, 
It promis'd cold inanity : 
He read with rapture and surprise, 
And found 'twas pleasant, tho' 'twas wise 
His tea grew cold, whilst he, unheeding, 
Pursu'd this reasonable reading. 
He wonderd at the change he found, 
Th' elastic spirits nimbly bound ; 
Time slipt, without disgust, away, 
While many a card unanswer'd lay : 
Three papers, reeking from the press, 
Three pamphlets thin, in azure dress, 
Ephemeral literature well known, 
The lie and scandal of the town ; 
Poison of letters, morals, time ! 
Assassin of our day's fresh prime ! 
These, on his table, half the day, 
Unthought of, and neglected lay. 

Florio had now full three hours read 
Hours which he us'd to waste in bed ; 
His pulse beat virtue's vigorous tone, 
The reason to himself unknown ; 
And if he stopped to seek the cause, 
Fair Celia's image filled the pause. 

And now, announe'd Bellario's name 
Had almost quench'd the new-born flame . 
' Admit him,' was the ready word 
Which first escap'd him, not unheard 
When sudden, to his mental sight, 
Uprose the horrors of last night ; 
His plunder'd friend before him stands, 
And — ■ not at home,' his firm commands, 
He felt the conquest as a joy 
The first temptation would destroy. 
He knew next day that Hymen's hand, 
Would tack the slight and slippery band, 



26 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Which, in loose bondage, would ensnare 

Bellario bright and Flavia fair. 

Oft had he promis'd to attend 

The nuptials of his happy friend : 

To go — to stay — alike he fears ; 

At length a bolder flight he dares : 

To Celia he resolves to fly, 

And catch fresh virtue from her eye, 

Though three full weeks did yet remain, 

Ere he engag'd to come again. 

Tiiis plan he tremblingly embrac'd, 

With doubtful zeal, and fluttering haste ; 

Nor ventur'd he one card to read, 

Which might his virtuous scheme impede ; 

Each note, he dreaded might betray him, 

And shudder'd lest each rap should stay him. 

Behold him seated in his chaise ; 

With face that self distrust betrays ; 

He hazards not a single glance, 

Nor through the glasses peeps by chance, 

Lest some old friend, or haunt well known, 

Should melt his resolution down. 

Fast as his foaming coursers fly, 

Hyde-park attracts his half-rais'd eye ; 

He steals one fearful, conscious look, 

Then drops his eye upon his book. 

Triumphant he persists to go ; 

But gives one sigh to Rotten-row. 

Long as he view'd Augusta's tow'rs, 

The sight relax'd his thinking pow'rs ; 

In vain he better plans revolves, 

While the soft scene his soul dissolves ; 

The tow'rs once lost, his view he bends, 

Where the receding smoke ascends ; 

But when nor smoke, nor tow'rs arise, 

To charm his heart or cheat his eyes ; 

When once he got entirely clear 

From this enfeebling atmosphere ; 

His mind was brac'd, his spirits light, 

His heart was gay, his humour bright. 

Thus feeling, at his inmost soul, 

The sweet reward of self-controul, 

Impatient now, and all alive, 

He thought he never should arrive ; 

At last he spies Sir Gilbert's trees ; 

Now the near battlements he sees ; 

The gates he enter'd with delight, 

And, self-announc'd, embrac'd the knight: 

The youth his joy unfeign'd exprest, 

The knight with joy receiv'd his guest, 

And own'd, with no unwilling tongue, 

'Twas done like men when he was young. 

Three weeks subducted, went to prove, 

A feeling like old-fashion'd love. 

For Celia, not a word she said, 

But blush'd, ' celestial, rosy red '.' 

Her modest charms transport the youth, 

Who promis'd everlasting truth. 

Celia, in honour of the day, 
Unusual splendour would display : 
Such was the charm her sweetness gave, 
He thought her wedgwood had been seve , 
Her taste diffused a gracious air, 
And chaste Simplicity was there, 
Whose secret power, though silent, great is, 
The loveliest of the sweet Penates. 
Florio, now present to the scene, 
With spirits light, and gracious mien, 
Sir Gilbert's port politely praises, 
And carefully avoids French phrases ; 



Endures the daily dissertation 

On land-tax, and a ruin'd nation; 

Listens to many a tedious tale 

Of poachers, who deserv'd a jail; 

Heard all the business of the quorum, 

Each cause and crime produc'd before 'em : 

Heard them abuse with complaisance 

The language, wines, and wits of France; 

Nor did he hum a single air, 

While good Sir Gilbert fill'd his chair. 

Abroad, with joy and grateful pride, 
He walks, with Celia by his side : 
A thousand cheerful thoughts arise, 
Each rural scene enchants his eyes ; 
With transports he begins to look 
On Nature's all instructive book ; 
No objects now seem mean, or low, 
Which point to Him from whom they flow 
A berry or a bud excites 
A chain of reasoning which delights, 
Which spite of sceptic ebulitions, 
Proves atheists" not the best logicians. 
A tree, a brook, a blade of grass, 
Suggests reflections as they pass, 
Till Florio, with a sigh, confest 
The simplest pleasures are the best 
Bellario's systems sink in air, 
He feels the perfect, good, and fair. 
As pious Celia rais'd the theme 
To holy faith and love supreme ; 
Enlighten'd Florio learn'd to trace 
In Nature's God the God of grace. 

In wisdom as the convert grew 
The hours on rapid pinions flew, 
When call'd to dress, that Titus wore 
A wig the alter'd Florio swore ; 
Or else, in estimating time, 
He ne'er had mark'd it as a crime, 
That he had lost but one day's blessing, 
When we so many lose, by dressing. 

The rest, suffice it now to say, 
Was finish'd in the usual way. 
Cupid, impatient for his hour, 
Revil'd slow Themis' tedious power, 
Whose parchment legends, singing, sealing, 
Are cruel forms for Love to deal in. 

At length to Florio's eager eyes, 
Behold the day of bliss arise ! 
The golden sun illumes the globe, 
The burning torch, the saffron robe. 
Just as of old, glad Hymen wears, 
And Cupid, as of old, appears 
In Hymen's train ; so strange the case 
They hardly knew each other's face ; 
Yet both confess'd with glowing heart 
They never were design'd to part ; 
Quoth Hymen, sure you're strangely slighted 
At weddings not to be invited ; 
The reason's clear enough, quoth Cupid, 
My company is thought but stupid, 
Where Plutus is the favourite guest, 
For he and I scarce speak at best. 

The self-same sun which joins the twain 
Sees Flavia sever'd from her swain ; 
Bellario sues for a divorce, 
And both pursue their sep'rate course. 

Oh wedded love ! thy bliss how rare I 
And yet the ill-assorted pair ; 
The pair who choose at Fashion's voice, 
Or drag the chain of venal choice ; 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



27 



Have little cause to curse the state, 
Who make, should never blame their fate , 
Such flimsy ties, say where's the wonder, 
If Doctors Commons snap asunder. 
In either case, 'tis still the wife, 
Gives cast and colour to the life. 
Florio escap'd from Fashion's school 



His heart and conduct learns to rule ; 
Conscience his useful life approves ; 
He serves his God, his country roves; 
Reveres her laws, protects her rights, 
And, for her interests, pleads or fights 
Reviews with scorn his former life, 
And, for his rescue, thanks his wife. 



THE SLAVE lit ADE : 



A POEM. 

O great design ! 

Ye sons sf mercy! O complete your work; 
Wrench from Oppression's hand the iron rod, 
And bid the cruel feel the pains they give. 

Thompson's " Liberty." 



If Heaven has into being deign'd to call 
Thy light, O liberty ! to shine on all ; 
Bright intellectual sun ! why does thy ray 
To earth distribute only partial day ? 
Since no resisting cause from spirit flows 
Thy universal presence to oppose ; 
No obstacles by nature's hand imprest, 
Thy subtle and ethereal beams arrest ; 
Not sway'd by Matter is thy course benign, 
Or more direct or more oblique to shine ; 
Nor Motion's laws can speed thy active course, 
Nor strong Repulsion's pow'rs obstruct thy 

force ; 
Since there is no convexity in mind, 
Why are thy genial beams to parts confin'd ? 
While the chill north with thy bright ray is 

blest, 
Why should fell darkness half the south invest ? 
Was it decreed, fair Freedom ! at thy birth, 
That thou should'd ne'er irradiate all the earth 1 
While Britain basks in thy full blaze of light, 
Why lies sad Afric quench'd in total night? 

Thee only, sober goddess ! I attest, 
In smiles chastis'd, and decent graces drest, 
To thee alone pure daughter of the skies, 
The hallow'd incense of the bard should rise? 
Not that mad liberty, in whose wild praise 
Too oft he trims his prostituted bays ; 
Not that unlicens'd monster of the crowd, 
Whose roar terrific bursts in peals so loud, 
Deafning the ear of Peace ; fierce Faction's tool, 
Of rash Sedition born, and mad Misrule; 
Whose stubborn mouth, rejecting Reason's 

reign, 
No strength can govern, and no skill restrain ; 
Whose magic cries the frantic vulgar draw 
To spurn at Order, and to outrage Law ; 
To tread on grave Authority and Pow'r, 
And shake the work of ages in an hour : 
Convuls'd her voice, and pestilent her breath, 
She raves of mercy, while she deals out death ; 
Each blast is fate ; she darts from either hand 
Red conflagration o'er the astonish'd land; 
Clamouring for peace, she rends the air with 

noise, 
And to reform a part, the whole destroys. 
Reviles oppression only to oppress, 
And in the act of murder, breathes redress. 
Such have we seen on Freedom's genuine coast, 



Bellowing for blessings which were never lost. 
'Tis past, and Reason rules the lucid hour, 
And beauteous Order reassumes his power : 
Lord of the bright ascendant may he reign, 
Till perfect Peace eternal sway maintain !* 
O, plaintive Southerne !t whose impassion'd 

page 
Can melt the soul to grief, or rouse to rage ! 
Now, when congenial themes engage the 

Muse, 
She burns to emulate thy generous views ; 
Her failing efforts mock her fond desires, 
She shares thy feelings, not partakes thy fires. 
Strange pow'r of song the strain that warms the 

heart 
Seems the same inspiration to impart; 
Touch'd by th' extrinsic energy alone, 
We think the flame which melts us is our own : 
Deceiv'd, for genius we mistake delight, 
Charm'd as we read, we fancy we can write. 
Though not to me, sweet bard, thy pow'rs 

belong, 
The cause I plead shall sanctify my song. 
The Muse awakes no artificial fire, 
For Truth rejects what Fancy would inspire : 
Here Art would weave her gayest flow'rs in vain, 
The bright invention Nature would disdain. 
For no fictitious ills these numbers flow, 
But living anguish, and substantial wo ; 
No individual griefs my bosom melt, 
For millions feel what Oronoko felt : 
Fir'd by no single wrongs, the countless host 
I mourn, by rapine dragg'd from Afric's coast. 
Perish th' illiberal thought which would de 

base 
The native genius of the sable race ! 
Perish the proud philosophy, which sought 
To rob them of the pow'rs of equal thought ! 
Does then th' immortal principle within 
Change with the casual colour of the skin? 
Does Matter govern Spirit? or is mind 
Degraded by the form to which 'tis join'd ? 
No : they have heads to think, and hearts to 

feel, 
And souls to act, with firm, though erring zeal : 
For they have keen affections, kind desires, 
Love strong as death, and active patriot fires ; 

* Alluding to the riots of London in the year 1780. 
t Author of the tragedy of Oronoko. 



28 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



All the rude energy, the fervid flame, 
Of high-soul'd passion, and ingenuous shame : 
Strong, but luxuriant virtues boldly shoot 
From the wild vigour of a savage root. 

Nor weak their sense of honour's proud con- 
trol, 
For Pride is virtue in a Pagan soul ; 
A sense of worth, a conscience of desert, 
A high, unbroken haughtiness of heart ; 
That self-same stuff which erst proud q^ipires 
sway'd, [made. 

Of which the conquerors of the world were 
Capricious fate of men ! that very pride 
• In Afric scourg'd, in Rome was deify'd. 

No muse, O Quashi !*. shall thy deeds relate, 
No statue snatch thee from oblivious fate ! 
For thou wast born where never gentle Muse 
On valour's grave the flow'rs of Genius strews; 
And thou wast born where no recording page 
Plucks the fair deed from Time's devouring rage: 
Had Fortune plac'd thee on some happier coast, 
Where polish Pagans souls heroic boast, 
To thee who sought'st a voluntary grave, 
Th' injur'd honours of thy name to save, 
Whose generous arm thy barbarous master 

spar'd, 
Altars had smok'd, and temples had been rear'd. 

Whene'er to Afric's shores I turn my eyes, 
Horrors of deepest, deadliest guilt arise; 
I see, by more than Fancy's mirror shown, 
The burning village and the blazing town : 
See the dire victim torn from social life, 
The shrieking babe, the agonizing wife ! 
She, wretch forlorn ! is dragg'd by hostile hands, 
To distant tyrants sold, in distant lands ! 
Transmitted miseries, and successive chains, 
The sole sad heritage her child obtains ! 
E'en this last wretched boon their foes deny, 
To weep together, or together die. 
By feion hands, by one relentless stroke, 
See the fond links of feeling Nature broke ! 
The fibres twisting round a parent's heart, 
Torn from their grasp, and bleeding as they part. 
Hold! murderer's, hold ! nor aggravate distress; 
Respect the passions you yourselves possess, 
Ev'n you of ruffian heart, and ruthless hand, 
Love your own offspring, love your native land : 
Ev'n you, with fond impatient feelings burn, . 
Thougli free as air, though certain of return, 
Then, if to you who voluntarily roam, 
So dear the memory of your distant home, 
O think how absence the lov'd scene endears 
To him whose food is groans, whose drink is 
tears ; 

* It is a point of honour among negroes of a high spi- 
rit to die rather than to sutler their glossy skin to bear 
the mark of the whip. Quashi had somehow offended 
his master, a young planter with whom he had been 
bred up in the endearing intimacy of a play-fellow. His 
services had been faithful ; his attachment affectionate. 
The master resolved to punish him. and pursued him for 
that purpose. In trying to escape Quashi stumbled and 
fell ; the master fell upon him : they wrestled long with 
doubtful victory ; at length Quashi got uppermost, and 
being firmly seated on his master's breast, lie secured his 
legs with one hand, and with the other drew a sharp 
knife, then said, 'master, I have been bred up with you 
from a child; I loved you as myself; in return, you have 
condemned me to a punishment of which I must ever 
have borne the marks — thus only can I avoid them;' so 
saying, he drew the knife with all his strength across 
his OWll throat, and fell down dead, without a groan, on 
his master's body — Ramsay's Essay on Ihe Treatment 
of African Slaves, 



Think on the wretch whose aggravated pains 
To exile misery adds, to misery chains. 
If warm your heart, to British feelings true, 
As dear his land to him as yours to you ; 
And Liberty, in you a hallow'd flame, 
Burns, unextinguish'd in his breast the same. 
Then leave him holy Freedom's cheering smile 
The heav'n-taught fondness for the parent soil ; 
Revere affections mingled with our frame, 
In every nature, every clime the same ; 
In all, these feelings equal sway maintain : 
In all the love of Home and Freedom reign ; 
And Tempe's vale, and parch'd Angola's sand, 
One equal fondness of their son's command. 
Th' unconquer'd savage laughs at pain and toil, 
Basking in Freedom's beams which gild his na- 
tive soil. 
Does thirst of empire, does desire of fame, 
(For these are specious crimes) our rage in- 
flame ? 
No : sordid lust of gold their fate controls, 
The basest appetite of basest souls ; 
Gold, better gain'd by what their ripening sky, 
Their fertile fields, their arts,* and mines supply. 
What wrongs, what injuries does Oppression 
plead, 
To smooth the crime and sanctify the deed ? 
What strange offence, what aggravated sin ? 
They stand convicted — of a darker skin ! 
Barbarians, hold ! th' opprobrious commerce 

spare, 
Respect his sacred image which they bear. 
Though dark and savage, ignorant and blind, 
They claim the common privilege of kind ; 
Let malice strip them of each other plea, 
They still are men, and men should still be free. 
Insulted Reason loaths the inverted trade — 
Loathes, as she views the human purchase made; 
The outrag'd goddess, with abhorrent eyes, 
Sees man the traffic, souls the merchandise ! 
Man, whom fair Commerce taught with judging 

eye, 
And liberal hand, to barter or to bu)', 
Indignant Nature blushes to behold, 
Degraded man himself, truck'd, barter'd, sold : 
Of ev'ry native privilege bereft, 
Yet curs'd with ev'ry wounded feeling left. 
Hard lot ! each brutal suff'ring to sustain, 
Yet keep the sense acute of human pain. 
Plead not, in reason's palpable abuse, 
Their sense of feelingt callous and obtuse: 
From heads to hearts lies Nature's plain appeal, 
Though few can reason, all mankind can feel. 
Though wit may boast a livelier dread of shame, 
A loftier sense of long refinement claim ; 
Though polish'd manners may fresh wants in- 
vent, 
And nice distinctions nicer souls torment; 
Though these on finer spirits heavier fall, 
Yet natural evils are the same to all. 
Tho' wounds there are which reason's force may 

heal, 
There needs no logic sure to make us feel. 
The nerve, howe'er untutor'd, can sustain 
A sharp unutterable sense of pain; 

• Besides many valuable productions of the soil, cloths 
and carpets of exquisite manufacture are brought from 
the coast of Guinea. 

t Nothing is more frequent than this cruel and stupid 
argument, that they do not feel the miseries inflicted on 
them as Europeans would do. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



29 



As exquisitely fashion'd in a slave, 
As where unequal fate a sceptre gave. 
Sense is as keen where Gambia's waters glide, 
As where proud Tiber rolls his classic tide. 
Though verse or rhetoric point the feeling line, 
They do not whet sensation, but define. 
Did ever wretcli less feel the galling chain, 
When Zcno prov'd there was no ill in pain? 
In vain the sage to smooth its horror tries ; 
Spartans and Helots see with different eyes ; 
Their miseries philosophic quirks deride, 
Slaves groan in pangs disown'd by stoic pride. 

When the fierce sun darts vertical his beams, 
And thirst and hunger mix their wild extremes; 
When the sharp iron* wounds his inmost soul, 
And his strain'd eyes in burning anguish roll ; 
Will the parch'd negro own, ere he expire, 
No pain in hunger, and no heat in fire ? 

For him, when agony his frame destroys, 
What hope of present fame or future joys ? 
For that have heroes shorten'd nature's date, 
For this have martyrs gladly met their fate ; 
But him forlorn, no heroes pride sustains, 
No martyr's blissful vision soothe his pains ; 
Sullen, he mingles with his kindred dust, 
For he has learn'd to dread the Christian's trust ; 
To him what mercy can that God display, 
Whose servants murder, and whose sons betray ? 
Savage ! thy venial error I deplore, 
They are not Christians who infest thy shore. 

O thou sad spirit, whose preposterous yoke 
The great deliverer Death, at length has broke, 
Releas'd from misery, and escap'd from care, 
Go, meet that mercy man deny'd thee here. 
In thy dark home, sure refuge of th' oppress'd, 
The wicked vex not, and the weary rest. 
And, if some notions, vague and undefin'd, 
Of future terrors have assail'd thy mind ; 
If such thy masters have presum'd to teach, 
As terrors only they are prone to preach ; 
(For should they paint eternal Mercy's reign, 
Where were the oppressor's rod, the captive's 

chain ?) 
If, then, thy troubled soul has learn'd to dread 
The dark unknown thy trembling footsteps tread; 
On Him, who made thee what thou art, depend ; 
He, who withholds the means, accepts the end. 
Thy metal night thy Saviour will not blame; 
He died for those who never heard his name. 
Not thine the reckoning dire of Light abus'd, 
Knowledge disgrae'd, and Liberty misus'd ; 
On thee no awful judge incens'd shall sit 
For parts perverted, and dishonour'd wit. 
Where ignorance may be found the safest plea, 
How many learn'd and wise shall envy thee ! 
And thou, white savage! whether lust of gold 
Or lust of conquest rule thee uncontroll'd ! 
Hero, or robber ! — by whatever name ! — 
Thou plead thy impious claim to wealth or fame ; 
Whether inferior mischief be thy boast, 
A tyrant trader rifling Congo's coast ; 
Or bolder carnage track thy crimson way, 
Kings dispossess'd, and provinces thy prey ; 
Whether thou pant to tame earth's distant 
bound ; 

* This is not said figuratively. The writer of these 
lines has seen a complete set of chains, fitted to every 
separate limb of these unhappy, innocent men ; together 
with instruments for wrenching open the jaws, contri- 
ved with such ingenious cruelty as would gratify the 
tender mercies of an inquisitor. 



All Cortez murder'd, all Columbus found ; 
O'er plunder'd realms to reign, detested lord, 
Make millions wretched, and thyself abhorr'd:— 
Whether Cartouche in forests break the law. 
Or bolder Cajsar keep the world in awe ; 
In Reason's eye, in Wisdom's fair account, 
Your sum of glory boasts a like amount; 
The means may differ, but the end's the same , 
Conquest is pillage with a nobler name, 
Who makes the sum of human blessings less, 
Or sinks the stock of general happiness, 
Tho' erring fame may grace, tho' false renown 
His life may blazon or his memory crown ; 
Yet the last audit shall reverse the cause ; 
And God shall vindicate his broken laws. 

Had those advent'rous spirits who explore 
Thro' ocean's trackless wastes, the far-sought 

shore ; 
Whether of wealth insatiate, or of pow'r, 
Conquerors who waste, or ruffian's who devour : 
Had these possess'd, O Cook ! thy gentle mind, 
Thy love of arts, thy love of human kind; 
Had these pursued thy mild and liberal plan, 
Discoveries had not been a curse to man ! 
Then, bless'd Philanthropy ! thy social hands, 
Had link'd dissever'd worlds in brothers' bands ; 
Careless, if colour, or if clime divide; 
Then lov'd and loving, man had liv'd and died. 
Then with pernicious skill we had not known 
To bring their vices back and leave our own. 

The purest wreaths which hang on Glory'a 
shrine, 
For empires founded, peaceful Penn ! are thine ; 
No blood-stain'd laurels crown'd thy virtuous 
toil, [soil , 

No slaughter'd natives drench'd thy fair-earn'd 
Still thy meek spirit in thy flock* survives, 
Consistent still, their doctrines rule their lives ; 
Thy followers only have effae'd the shame, 
Inscrib'd by Slavery on the Christian name. 

Shall Britain, where the soul of freedom 
reigns, 
Forge chains for others she herself disdains 1 
Forbid it, Heaven ! O let the nations know 
The liberty she loves, she will bestow ; 
Not to herself the glorious gift confin'd, 
She spreads the blessing wide as human kind ; 
And, scorning narrow views of time and place, 
Bids all be free in earth's extended space. 

What page of human annals can record 
A deed so bright as human rights restor'd? 
O may that god-like deed, that shining page,. 
Redeem our fame, and consecrate our age I 
And let this glory mark our favour'd shore, 
To curb False Freedom and the True restore.. 

And see the cherub Mercy from above, 
Descending softly, quits the sphere of love ! 
On Britain's isle she sheds her heavenly dew ; 
And breathes her spirit o'er th' enlighten'd few. 
From soul to soul the spreading influence steals, 
Till every breast the soft contagion feels. 
She speeds, exulting, to the burning shore, 
With the best message angel ever bore ; 
Hark ! 'tis the note which spoke a Saviour's 

birth ! 
Glory to God on high, and peace on earth ! 
She vindicates the pow'r in Heaven ador'd, 

* The Quakers have emancipated all their slaves 
throughout America. 



30 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



She stills the clank of chains, and sheathes the 

sword; 
She cheers the mourner, and with soothing hands 
From bursting- hearts unbinds th' oppressor's 

bands ; 
Restores the lustre of the Christian name, 
And clears the foulest blot that dimm'd its fame. 

As the mild spirit hovers o'er the coast, 
A fresher hue their wither'd landscapes boast ; 
Her healing smiles the ruin'd scenes repair, 
And blasted Nature wears a joyous air ; 
While she proclaims thro' all their spicy groves, 
'Henceforth your fruits, your labours, and your 

loves, 
' All that your sires possess'd, or you have sown, 
1 Sacred from plunder — all is now your own.' 
And now, her high commission from above, 
Stamp'd with the holy characters of love, 
The meek-ey'd spirit waving in her hand, 
Breathes manumission o'er the rescu'd land; 
She tears the banner stain'd with blood and 
tears, I 



And Liberty ! thy shining standard rears ! 
As the bright ensign's glory she displays, 
See pale Oppression faints beneath the blaze ! 
The giant dies ! no more his frown appals, 
The chain, untouch'd drops off; the fetter falls. 
Astonish'd Echo tells the vocal shore, 
Oppression's fall'n, and Slavery is no more ! 
The dusky myriads crowd the sultry plain, 
All hail that Mercy, long invok'd in vain. 
Victorious Pow r ! she bursts their two-fold 

bands, 
And Faith and Freedom spring from Britain's 

hands. 
And Thou ! great source of Nature and of 

Grace, 
Who of one blood didst form the human race 
Look down in mercy in thy chosen time, 
With equal eye on Afric's suff'ring clime : 
Disperse her shades of intellectual night, 
Repeat thy high behest — Let there be Light 
Bring each benighted soul, great God, to Thee, 
And with thy wide salvation make them free 1 



DAN AND JANE 



OR FAITH AND WORKS.— A TALE. 



Good, Dan and Jane were man and wife, 
And liv'd a loving kind of life ; 
One point, however, they disputed, 
And each by turns his mate confuted. 
'Twas Faith and Works — this knotty question 
They found not easy of digestion. 
While Dan alone for faith contended, 
Jane equally good works defended. 
' They are not Christians sure, but Turks 
Who build on faith and scoff at works, 1 
Quoth Jane — while eager Dan reply'd, 
• By none but heathens faith's deny'd.' 
" I'll tell you wife,' at length quoth Dan, 
' A story of a right good man. 
A patriarch sage, of ancient days, 
A man of faith, whom all must praise 
In his own country he possess'd, 
Whate'er can make a wise man blest; 
His was the flock, the field, the spring, 
In short, a little rural king. 
Yet, pleas'd, he quits his native land, 
By faith in the divine command. 
N God bade him go ; and he, content, 
Went forth, not knowing where he went. 
He trusted in the promise made, 
And, undisputing strait obey'd. > 

The heavenly word he did not doubt, 
But prov'd his faith by going out. 

Jane answer'd, with some little prido — 
' I've an example on my side ; 
And tho' my tale be somewhat longer, 
I trust you'll find it vastly stronger. 
I'll tell you, Daniel, of a man, 
The holiest since the world began : 
Who now God's favour is receiving 
For prompt obeying, not believing. 
One only son this man possest, 
In whom his righteous age was blest ; 
And more to mark the grace of heaven, 
This son by miracle was given. 
And from this child the word divine 



Had promis'd an illustrious line. 

When lo ! at once a voice he hears, 

Which sounds like thunder in his ears. 

God says — Go sacrifice thy son ! 

— This moment, Lord, it shall be done. 

He goes, and instantly prepares, 

To slay the child of many prayers. 

Now here you see the grand expedience, 

Of works, of actual sound obedience. 

This was not faith, but act and deed, 

The Lord commands — the child shalt bleed.' 

Thus Abraham acted? Jenny cried ; 

' Thus Abraham trusted? Dan replied 

' Abraham,' quoth Jane, ' why that's my man! 1 

' No, Abraham's him I mean,' says Dan. 

' He stands a monument of faith;' — 

' No, 'tis for works the Scripture saith. 

' 'Tis for his faith that I defend him ;' 

' 'Tis for obedience I commend him.' 

Thus he — thus she — both warmly feel, 
And lose their temper in their zeal ; 
Too quick each other's choice to blame, 
They did not see each meant the same. 
4 At length, good wife,' said honest Dan, 
' We're talking of the self-same man, 
The works you praise I own indeed, 
Grow from that faith for which I plead ; 
And Abraham, whom for faith I quote, 
For works deserves especial note : 
'Tis not enough of faith to talk, 
A man of God with God must walk 
Our doctrines are at last the same, 
They only differ in the name: 
The faith I fight for, is the root ; 
The works you value are the fruit 
How shall you know my creed 's sincere, 
Unless in works my faith appear ? 
How shall I know a tree's alive, 
Unless I see it bear and thrive ? 
Your works not growing on my root, 
Would prove they were not genuine fruit 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



31 



If faith produce no works, I see, 
That faith is not a living tree. 
Thus faith and works together grow, 



No separate life they e'er can know : 
They're soul and body, hand and heart, 
What God hath join'd let no man part' 



AN HEROIC EPISTLE. 

TO MISS SALLY HORNE,—AGED THREE YEARS, 

YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF DR. HORNE, LATE BISHOP OF NORWICH. 

Written on the blank leaves of " Mother Bunch's Tales ;" and showing their superiority of these 

histories to most others. 



To thee, fair creature, Sally Horne, 
And sure a fairer ne'er was born ; 
A grave biographer I send, 
By Newberry in the church-yard penn'd ; 
(Or if to truth my phrase I stinted, 
By Newberry in the church-yard printed ;) 
Might Mother Bunch — a worthier sage, 
Ne'er fill'd, I ween th' historic page ; 
For she, of kings and queens can prate, 
As fast as patriotic Kate ;* 
Nor vents like her, her idle spleen, 
Merely because His king or queen. 
Kate, who each subject makes a slave, 
Would make each potentate a knave ; 
Though Britons can the converse prove, 
A king who reigns and rules by love. 
While Mother Bunch's honest story, 
Unaw'd by whig, unwarp'd by tory; 
Paints sovereigns with impartial pen, 
Some good, some bad, like other men. 

Oh, there are few such books as these, 
Which only mean to teach or please ; 
Read Mother Bunch, then charming Sally, 
Her writings, with your taste will tally. 
No pride of learning she displays, 
Nor reads one word an hundred ways ; 
To please the young she lays before 'em 
A simple tale, sans variorum; 
With notes and margins unperp'ext, 
And comments which confuse the text. 
No double senses interfere 
To puzzle what before was clear. 
Here no mistaken dates deceive ye, 
Which oft occur from Hume to Livy. 
Her dates, more safe and more sublime, 
Seize the broad phrase — ' Once on a time.'' 

Then Mother Bunch is no misleader 
In citing authors who precede her ; 
Unlike our modern wits of note, 
Who purposely and oft misquote ; 
Who injure history, or intend it, 
As much as Kennicot to mend it ; 
And seek no less the truth to mangle, 
Than he to clear and disentangle. 

These short digressions we apply 
Our author's fame to magnify : 
She seeks not to bewilder youth, 
But all is true she gives for truth : 
And still, to analyze you're able, 
Fable is safe while given as fable ; 
As mere invention you receive it, 
You know 'tis false, and disbelieve it; 
While that bad chemistry which bring3 
And mixes up incongruous things, 

See Mrs. Macaulay's History of England. 



With genuine fact invention blending 
As if true history wanted mending ; 
Or flav'ring, to mislead our youth, 
Mere fable with a dash of truth ; 
In all these heterogeneous tales 
The injudicious project fails ; 
Of truth you do not get your measure, 
And of pure fiction lose the pleasure. 
But Mother Bunch rejects such arts, 
A sounder taste her work imparts. 

Then if for prosperous turns you look, 
There's no such other history book. 
Old authors show, nor do I wrong 'em, 
How tyrants shar'd the world among em 
And all we learn of ancient times, 
Are human woes and human crimes. 
They tell us naught but dismal tales, 
How virtue sinks, and vice prevails ; j 
And all theiqplabours but declare 
The miseries of the good and fair ; 
How one brave captive in a quarrel 
Was tumbled down hill in a barrel ! 
In fiery flames how some did fry, 
Only because they dar'd not lie ! 
How female victims meet their doom, 
At Aulis one, and more at Rome ! 
How ease the hero's laurels stain'd 
How Capua lost what Cannae gain'd ! 
How he, whom long success attends, 
Is kill'd at home among his friends ! 
How Athens, him who serv'd so well, 
Rewarded with an oyster-shell ! 
How Nero stabb'd a mother's breast 
Ah, barbarous Clio, spare the rest ; 
Conceal these horrors, if thou'rt able, 
If these be truth, oh give me fable ! 
Till real deed are fit to mention, 
Regale my feelings with invention. 

But Mother Bunch's morals tell 
How blest all were who a-cted well ! 
How the good little girl 's regarded, 
And boy who learns his book rewarded. 
How loss of favour follows rudeness, 
While sugar-plumbs repay all goodness ; 
How she who learns to read or write, 
Will get a coach or chariot by't ; 
And not a faggot-maker's daughter 
But has it at her christening taught her, 
By some invited fairy guest, 
That she shall wed a prince at least ; 
And thro' the whole this truth's pursu'd 
That to be happy 's to be good. 
If these to life be contradictions, 
Mark the morality of fictions ; 
Axioms more popular they teaoh, 



32 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



That to be good is to be rich ! 

For all the misses marry kings, 

And diamonds are but common things ; 

While dames in history hardly get 'em, 

Our heroines ope their mouths and spit 'em. 

Oh, this is profitable learning, 
Past cold historians' dull discerning, 
Who, while their annals they impart, 
Expose, but seldom mend the heart. 
I grant, they teach to know mankind, 
To learn we're wretched, weak, and blind : 
But till the heart from vice is clear, 
Who wants to know what passes there ? 
Till Hercules to cleanse was able, 
No doubt they shut th' Augean stable. 

Here too in high emphatic tone 
The power of female worth is shown ; 
Ev'n enterprising Joan of Arc 
Falls short of true heroic mark : 
Thalestris was a mere home-keeper, 
And swift Camilla but a creeper. 
Here deeds of valour are as common 
As song or dance to real woman ; 
And meekest damsels find it facile 
To storm a giant's moated castle ; 
Where drawbridges do open fly 
If virgin foot approaches nigh ; 
And brazen-gates with twenty locks, 
At which an army vainly knocks, 
Fly ope, nor on their hinges linger, 
At touch of virgin's little finger. 

Then «low attacks, and tiresome sieges, 
Which history makes the work of ages, 
Are here, by means of fairy power, 
Achiev'd with ease in half an hour. 
Tactics ! they prove, there 's nothing in it, 
Who conquer kingdoms in a minute : 
They never hear often years jars, 
(For Troy's the average length of wars.) 
And diplomatic form and rule 
Might learn from Mother Bunch's school, 
How rapidly are state intrigues 
Convey'd with boots of seven long leagues. 

Here farther too, our great commanders, 
Who conqner'd France, and rescued Flanders, 
From Mother Bunch's Tales might he 
Some secrets wortli a general's ear ; 
How armies need not stop to bait, 
And heroes never drink or eat ; 
Wrapt in sublimer occupation 
They scorn such vulgar renovation. 
Your British generals cannot keep 
Themselves and fellows half so cheap ; 
For men and horses, out of books, 
Call, one for corn, and one for cooks ; 
And dull historic nags must stay 
For provender of oats and hay ; 
While these bold heroes wing their flight 
Through twenty kingdoms in a night ; 
Of silvery dews they snatch a cup, 
Or on a slice of moonshine sup ; 



And while they fly to meet their queen, 
With half the convex world between, 
Their milk-white palfreys, scorning grass, 
Just crop a rose-leaf as they pass. 

Then Mother Bunch's morals strike, 
By praising friend and foe alike. 
What virtue to the world is lost, 
Because on thy ill-fated coast, 
O Carthage ! sung alone by foes, 
The sun of history never rose 1 
Fertile in heroes, didst thou own 
The muse that makes those heroes known ; 
Then had the bright reverse appear'd 
And Carthaginian truth been clear'd : 
On Punic faith, so long revil'd, 
The wily African had smil'd ; 
And, possibly, not much had err'd, 
If we of Roman fraud had heard. 

Then leave your Robertson's and Bryant* 
For John, the murderer of giants ; 
Since all mythology profane 
Is quite as doubtful, quite as vain. 
Though Bryant, learned friend of youth 
His fable consecrates to truth : 
And Robertson with just applause 
His finish'd portraits fairly draws. 
Yet history, great Raleigh knew, 
And knowing, griev'd, may not be true i 
For how the facts are we to know 
Which pass'd a thousand years ago 
When he no just account could g&t 
Of quarrel in the adjacent street; 
Though from his chair the noise he heard, 
The tale of each relater err'd. 

But if the fact's recorded right, 
The motive seldom comes in sight ; 
Hence, while the fairest deed we blame, 
We often crown the worst with fame. 
Then read, if genuine truth you'd glean, 
Those who were actors in the scene ; 
Hear, with delight, the modest Greek, 
Of his renovvn'd ten thousand speak ' " 
His commentaries'* read again 
Who led the troops and held the pen , 
The way to conquest best he show'd, 
Who, trod ere he prescrib'd the road. 
Read him, for lofty periods fam'd, 
Who Charles's age adorn'd and sham'd ; 
Read Clarendon ; unaw'd, unbrib'd, 
Who rul'd th' events his pen describ'd ; 
Who law and courts, and senates knew,- 
And saw the sources whence he drew. 

Yet, lovely Sally, be not frighten'd, 
Nor dread to have thy mind enlighten'd ; 
Admire with me the fair alliance 
Which mirth, at Maudlin,t makes with science : 
How humour may with learning dwell, j 
Go ask papa — for he can tell. 

MARGERY TWO-SHOES. 

* Cesar: 

f Dr. Home was at this time president of Magdalen 
College, Oxford, where this little poem was written. 



SENSIBILITY: 

AN EPISTLE TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. BOSCAWEN. 

Accept, Boscawen ! these unpolished lays, I For you, far other bards have wak'd the string, 

iNor blame too much the verse you cannot praise. | Far other bards for you were wont to sing ; 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



33 



Yet on the gale their parting music steals, 
Yet your charm'd ear the lov'd impression feels; 
You heard the lyres of Littleton and Young, 
And this a grace, and that a seraph strung. 
These are no more ! but not with these decline 
The attic chasteness or the vig'rous line. 
Still sad Elf Ada's poet* shall complain, 
Still, either Warton breathe his classic strain : 
While for the wonders of the Gothic page, 
Otranto's fame shall vindicate the age, 
Nor tremble lest the tuneful art expire, 
While Beattie strikes anew old Spencer's lyre ; 
He best to paint the genuine minstrel knew, 
Who from himself, the living portrait drew. 

Though Latian bards had gloried in his name, 
When in full brightness burnt the Latian flame ; 
Yet fir'd with loftier hopes than transient bays, 
See Lowtht despise the meed of mortal praise ; 
Spurn the cheap wreath by human science won, 
Borne on the wing Sublime of Amos' son ! 
He seiz'd the mantle as the prophet flew, 
And with his mantle caught his spirit too. 

To snatch brig-lit beauty from devouring fate, 
And lengthen nature's transitory date ; 
At once the critic's and the painter's art, 
With Fresnoy's skill and Guido's grace impart : 
To form with code correct the graphic school, 
And lawless fancy curb by sober rule ; 
To show how genius fires, how taste restrains, 
While, what both are, his pencil best explains ; 
Have we not Reynolds ?| lives not Jenyns yet, 
To prove his lowest title was a wit?§ 

Though purer flames thy ballow'd zeal in- 
spire 
Than e'er were kindled at the Muse's fire, 
Thee, mitred Chester !|| all the Nine shall boast ; 
And is not Johnson ours ? himself a host ! 

Yes, still for you your gentle stars dispense : 
The charm of friendship and the feast of sense : 
Yours is the bliss, and Heav'n no dearer sends, 
To call the wisest, brightest, best, your friends. 
And while to these I raise the votive line, 
O ! let me grateful own these friends are mine ; 
With Carter trace the wit to Athens known, 
Or view in Montague that wit our own : 
Or mark, well pleas'd, Chapone's instructive 

page, 
Intent to raise the morals of the age: 
Or boast, in Walsingham, the various power, 
To cheer the lonely, grace the letter'd hour ; 
Delany too is ours, serenely bright, 
Wisdom's strong ray, and virtue's milder light : 
And she who bless'd the friend, and grac'd the 

lays 
Of poignant Swift, still gilds our social days ; 
Long, long protract thy light, O star benign ! 
Whose setting beams with milder lustre shine. 
Nor, Barbauld, shall my glowing heart refuse 

* Milton calls Euripides sad Electrons poet. 

t Then bishop of London. 

j See Sir Joshua Reynold's very able notes to Du Fres- 
noy's poem on the art of painting, translated by Mr. 
Mason. — Also, his series of Discourses to the academy. 
which, though written professedly on the subject of 
painting, contain the principles of general art, and are 
delivered with so much perspicuous good sense, as to be 
admirably calculated to assist in forming the taste of 
the general rpader. 

§ Mr. Soame Jenyns had just published his work On 
the internal Evidence of the Christian Religion. 

|| Now bishop of London— See Jus admirable poem on 
death. 
Vol. I. C 



Its tribute to thy virtues, or thy muse ; 
This humble merit shall at least be mine, 
The poet's chaplet for thy brow to twine ; 
My verse thy talents to the world shall teach, 
And praise the genius it despairs to reach. 

Yet what is wit, and what the poet's art? 
Can genius shield the vulnerable heart ? 
Ah no ! where bright imagination reigns, 
The fine wrought spirit feels acuter pains ; 
Where glow exalted sense and taste refin'd, 
There keener anguish rankles in the mind ; 
There, feeling is diffus'd through ev'ry part, 
Thrills iu each nerve, and lives in all the heart ; 
And those whose gen'rous souls each tear would 

keep 
From other's eyes, are born themselves to weep. 
Can all the boasted pow'rs of wit and song, 
Of life one pang remove, one hour prolong ? 
Fallacious hope ! which daily truths deride ; 
For you, alas ! have wept, and Garrick dy'd ! 
O shades of Hampton ! witness, as I mourn, 
Could wit or song elude your fav'rite's urn ? 
Though living virtue still your haunt endears, 
Yet buried worth shall justify my tears. 
Who now with spirit keen, yet judgment cool, 
The errors of my orphan muse shall rule ? 
With keen acumen how his piercing eye, 
The fault conceal'd from vulgar view would spy ! 
While with a generous warmth he strove to 

hide, 
Nay vindicate the fault his taste had spy'd. 
So pleas'd could he detect a happy line 
That he would fancy merit ev'n in mine. 

His wit so pointed it ne'er miss'd its end, 
And so well temper'd it ne'er lost a friend ; 
How his keen eye, quick mind, and ardent heart, 
Impov'rish'd nature, and exhausted art, 
A muse of fire has sung,* if muse could trace, 
Or verse retrieve the evanescent grace ! 
How rival bards with rival statesmen strove, 
Who most should gain his praise or win his 

love ! 
Opposing parties to one point he drew, 
Thus Tully's Atticus was Caesar's too. 

Tho' time his mellowing hand across has 
stole, 
Soft'ning the tints of sorrow on the soul; 
The deep impression long my heart shall fill, 
And ev'ry fainter trace be perfect still. 

Forgive, my friend, if wounded memory melt, 
You best can pardon who have deepest felt, 
You, who for Britain's herot and your own, 
The deadliest pang which rend the soul have 

known ; 
You, who have found how much the feeling 

heart 
Shapes its own wound, and points itself the dart ; 
You, who are call'd the varied loss to mourn ; 
You, who have clasp'd a son's untimely urn ; 
You, who from frequent fond experience feel 
The wounds such minds receive can never heal ; 
That grief a thousand entrances can find, 
Where parts superior dignify the mind ; 
Yet would you change that sense acute to gain 
A dear bought absence from the poignant pain ; 
Commuting ev'ry grief whose feelings giv« 
In loveless, joyless apathy to live ? 

* See Mr. S/uridan't beautiful monody, 
f Admiral Bozcawo*. 



34 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



For though in souls where energies abound, 
Pain through its numerous avenues can wound ; 
Yet the same avenues are open still, 
To casual blessings as to casual ill. 
Nor is the trembling temper more awake 
To every wound calamity can make, 
Than is the finely fashion'd nerve alive 
To ev'ry transport pleasure has to give. 

Let not the vulgar read this pensive strain, 
Their jests the tender anguish would profane. 
Yet these some deem the happiest of their kind, 
Whose low enjoyments never reach the mind ; 
Who ne'er a pain but for themselves have 

known, 
Who ne'er have felt a sorrow but their own: 
Who deem romantic ev'ry finer thought 
Conceiv'd by pity, or by friendship wrought ; 
Whose insulated souls ne'er feel the pow'r 
Of gen'rous sympathy's extatic hour ; 
Whose disconnected hearts ne'er taste the bliss 
Extracted from another's happiness ; 
Who ne'er the high heroic duty know, 
For public good the private to forego. 

Then wherefore happy? where's the kindred 
mind? 
Where the large soul which takes in human kind? 
Yes — 'tis the untold sorrow to explain, 
To mitigate the unsuspected pain ; 
The rule of holy sympathy to keep, 
Joy for the Joyful, tears for them that weep : 
To these the virtuous half their pleasures owe, 
Pleasures, the selfish are not born to know ; 
They never know in all their coarser bliss, 
The sacred raptur9 of a pain like this. 
Then take ye happy vulgar take your part 
Of sordid joy which never touch'd the heart. 

Benevolence, which seldom stays to choose, 
Lest pausing Prudence tempt her to refuse ; 
Friendship, which once determin'd, never 

swerves, 
Weighs ere it trusts, but weighs not ere it 

serves. 
And soft-ey'd Pity, and Forgiveness bland, 
And melting Charity with open hand ; 
And artless love, believing and believ'd, 
And honest Confidence which ne'er deceiv'd ; 
And mercy, stretching out ere Want can speak, 
To wipe the tear which stains Affliction's 

cheek ; 
These ye have never known — then take your 

part 
Of sordid joy which never touch'd the heart. 

You who have melted in bright glory's flame, 
Or felt the grateful breath of well-earn'd fame ; 
Or you, the chosen agents from above, 
Whose bounty vindicates Almighty love ; 
You, who subdue the vain desire of show, 
Not to accumulate but to bestow ; 
You who the dreary haunts of sorrow seek, 
Raise the sunk heart, and flush the fading cheek; 
You, who divide the joys and share the pains, 
When merit triumphs, or oppress'd complains ; 
You, who with pensive Petrarch, love to mourn, 
Or weave the garland for Tibullus' urn ; 

You, whose touch'd hearts with real sorrows 
swell, 
Or feel, when genius paints those sorrows well, 
Would you renounce such energies as these 
For vulgar pleasures or for selfish ease ? 
Would you to 'scape the pain, the joy forego, 



And miss the transport to avoid the wo 1 
Would you the sense of actual pity lose, 
Or cease to share the mournings of the muse ? 
No, Greville,* no ! — thy song, tho' steep'd in 

tears, 
Though all thy soul in all thy strain appears ; 
Yet would'6t thou all thy well sung anguish 

choose, 
And all th' inglorious peace thou begg'st re 

fuse : 
And while discretion all our viows should 

guide, 
Beware, lest secret aims and ends she hide ; 
Though 'midst the crowd of virtues, 'tis her 

part, 
Like a firm sentinel — to guard the heart ; 
Beware, lest Prudence 'self become unjust, 
Who never was deceiv'd, I would not trust ; 
Prudence must never be suspicion's slave, 
The World's wise man is more than half a 

knave. 
And you, Boscawen, while you fondly melt, 
In raptures none but mothers ever felt ; 
And as you view, prophetic, in your race, 
All Levison's sweetness, and all Beaufort's 

grace ; 
Yet dread what dangers each lov'd child may 

share, 
The youth, if valiant, or the maid, if fair; 
You who have felt, so frail is mortal joy ! 
That, while we clasp the phantom, we destroy ; 
That perils multiply as blessings flow, 
That sorrows grafted on enjoyments grow ; 
That clouds impending dim our brightest views, 
That who have most to love have most to lose ; 
Yet from these fair possessions would you part, 
To shelter from contingent ills your heart ? 
Would you forego the objects of your prayer 
To save the dangers of a distant care ? 
Renounce the brightness op'ning to your view 
For all the safety dulness ever knew ? 
Would you consent, to shun the fears you prove 
That they should merit less, or you less love. 

Yet while we claim the sympathy divine, 
Which makes, O man, the woes of others thine ; 
While her fair triumphs swell the modish page, 
She drives the sterner virtues from the stage : 
While Feeling boasts her ever tearful eye, 
Fair Truth, firm Faith, and manly Justice fly : 
Justice, prime good ! from whose prolific law, 
All worth, all virtue, their strong essence draw ; 
Justice, a grace quite obsolete we hold, 
The feign'd Astrea of an age of gold : 
The sterling attribute we scarcely own, 
While spurious Candour fills the vacant throne. 

Sweet Sensibility ! Thou secret pow'r 
Who shed'st thy gifts upon the natal hour, 
Like fairy favours ; Art can never seize, 
Nor Affectation catch thy power to please ; 
Thy subtle essence still eludes the chains 
Of Definition, and defeats her pains. 
Sweet Sensibility ! thou keen delight ! 
Unprompted moral ! sudden sense of right ! 
Perception exquisite ! fair Virtue's seed ! 
Thou quick precursor of the lib'ral deed! 
Thou hasty conscience ! reason's blushing morn! 
Instinctive kindness e'er reflection 's born ! 
Prompt sense of equity ! to thee belongs 
The swift redress of unexamin'd wrongs ! 
* See her beautiful Ode to Indifference. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



35 



Eager to serve, the cause perhaps untried, 
But always apt to chuse the sufF'ring side ! 
To those who know thee not, no word can paint, 
And those who know thee, know all words are 

faint ! 
She does not feel thy pow'r who boasts thy 

flame, 
And rounds her every period with thy name ; 
Nor she who vents her disproportion'^ sighs 
With pining Lesbia when her sparrow dies : 
Nor she who melts when hapless Shore expires, 
While real mis'ry unreliev'd retires! 
Who thinks feign'd sorrow all her tears deserve, 
And weeps o'er Werter while her children 

starve, 
As words are but th' external marks to tell 
The fair ideas in the mind that dwell ; 
And only are of things the outward sign, 
And not the things themselves they but define ; 
So exclamations, tender tones, fond tears, 
And all the graceful drapery Feeling wears ; 
These are her garb, not her, they but express 
Her form, her semblance, her appropriate dress ; 
And these fair marks, reluctant I relate, 
These lovely symbols may be counterfeit. 
There are, who fill with brilliant plaints the 

page, 
If a poor linnet meet the gunner's rage ; 
There are, who for a dying fawn deplore, 
As if friend, parent, country, were no more ; 
Who boast quick rapture trembling in their eye, 
If from the spider's snare they snatch a fly; 
There are, whose well sung plaints each breast 

inflame, 
And break all hearts — but his from whom they 

came ! 
He, scorning life's low duties to attend, 
Writes odes on friendship, while he cheats his 

friend. 
Of jails and punishments he grieves to hear, 
And pensions 'prison'd virtue with a tear ; 
While unpaid bills his creditor presents, 
And ruin'd innocence his crime laments. 
N'ot so the tender moralist of Tweed, 
His gen'rous man of feeling feels indeed. 
O Love divine ! sole source of charity ! 
More dear one genuine deed perform'd for thee, 
Than all the periods Feeling e'er could turn, 
Than all thy touching page, perverted Sterne ! 
Not that by deeds alone this love's express'd, 
If so the affluent only were the bless'd ; 
One silent wish, one prayer, one soothing word, 
The page of mercy shall, well-pleas'd record ; 
One soul-felt sigh by pow'rless pity given, 
Accepted incense ! shall ascend to heav'n ! 

Since trifles make the sum of human things, 
And half our misery from our foibles springs, 
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease, 
And though but few can serve, yet all may 

please ; 
O let th' ungentle-spirit learn from hence, 
A small unkindness is a great offence. 
To spread large bounties, though we wish in 

vain, 
Yet all may shun the guilt of giving pain : 
To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth, 
With rank to grace them, or to crown with 

health, 
Our little lot denies ; yet lib'ral still, 
Heav'n gives its counterpoise to every ill, 



Nor let us murmur at our stinted pow'rs, 
When kindness, love, and concord, may be ours. 
The gift of minist'ring to other's ease, 
To all her sons impartial 6he decrees ; 
The gentle offices of patient love, 
Beyond all flattery, and all price above ; 
The mild forbearance at a brother's fault, 
The angry word suppress'd the taunting 

thought ; 
Subduing and subdu'd, the petty strife, 
Which clouds the colour of domestic life ; 
The sober comfort, all the peace which springs, 
From the large aggregate of little things ; 
On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend, 
The almost sacred joys of home depend : 
There Sensibility, thou best may'st reign, 
Home is thy true legitimate domain. 
A solitary bliss thou ne'er could'st find, 
Thy joys with those thou lov'st are intertwin'd 
And he whose helpless tenderness removes 
The rankling thorn which wounds the breast he 

loves, 
Smooths not another's rugged path alone, 
But clears th' obstruction which impedes his 

own. 
The hint malevolent, the look oblique, 
The obvious satire, or implied dislike ; 
The sneer equivocal, the harsh reply, 
And all the cruel language of the eye; 
The artful injury, whose venom'd dart, 
Scarce wounds the hearing, while it stabs the 

heart ; 
The guarded phrase, whose meaning kills, yet 

told 
The list'ner wonders, how you thought it cold ; 
Small slights, neglect, unmix'd perhaps with 

hate, 
Make up in number what they want in weight. 
These and a thousand griefs minute as these, 
Corrode our comfort and destroy our ease. 
As Feeling tends to good or leans to ill, 
It gives fresh force to vice or principle; 
'Tis not a gift peculiar to the good, 
'Tis often but the virtue of the blood : 
And what would seem compassion's moral flow, 
Is but a circulation swift or slow : 
But to divert it to its proper course, 
There wisdom's pow'r appears, there reason's 

force: 
If ill-directed it pursue the wrong, 
It adds new strength to what before was strong ; 
Brenks out in wild irregular desires, 
Disorder'd passions, and illicit fires; 
Without, deforms the man, depraves within, 
And makes the work of God the slave of sin. 
But if Religion's bias rule the soul, 
Then Sensibility exalts the whole ; 
Sheds its sweet sunshine on the moral part, 
Nor wastes on fancy what should warm the 

heart. 
Cold and inert the mental powers would lie, 
Without this quick'ning spark of Deity. 
To melt the rich materials from the mine. 
To bid the mass of intellect refine, 
To bend the firm, to animate the cold, 
And heav'ns own image stamp on Nature's gold; 
To give immortal mind its finest tone. 
Oh, Sensibility ! is all thy own. 
This is th' eternal flame which lights and warms, 
In song enchants us and in action charms. 



36 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



'Tis this that makes the pensive strains of Gray* 
Win to the open heart their easy way ; 
Makes the touch'd spirit glow with kindred fire, 
When sweet Serena's poet wakes the lyre : 
Makes Portland's face its brightest rapture wear, 
When her large bounty smooths the bed of care : 
'Tis this that breathes through Sevigne's fair 

page, 
That nameless grace which sooths a second age ; 
'Tis this, whose charm the soul resistless seize, 
And gives Boscawen half her power to please. 
Yet why those terrors ? Why that anxious care ? 
Since your last hopef the deathful war will dare? 



Why dread that energy of soul which leads 

To dang'rous glory by heroic deeds ? 

Why mourn to view his ardent soul aspire ? 

You fear the son because you knew the sire. 

Hereditary valour you deplore, 

And dread, yet wish to find one hero more. 



* This is meant of the Elegy in a Country Church 
yard, of which exquisite poem Sensibility is perhaps the 
characteristic beauty. 

f Viscount Falmouth, admiral Boscawen's only re- 
maining son was then in America, and at the battle of 
Lexington, 



SIR ELDRED OF THE BOWER. 

A LEGENDARY TALE. 



IN TWO PARTS. 

Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold, 

No more the smiling day shall view, 
Should many a tender tale be told, 

For many a tender thought is due. — Langhorne. 

PART I. 

O nostra Vita, ch'e si bella in vista ! 

Com' perde agevolmente in un momento, 

Quel, ch'en molt' anni a grand pena s'acquista. — Petrarca. 



There was a young and valiant knight, 

Sir Eldred was his name, 
And never did a worthier wight 

The rank of knighthood claim. 
Where gliding Tay, her stream sends forth, 

To feed the neighbouring wood, 
The ancient glory of the north, 

Sir Eldred's castle stood. 
The knight was rich as knight might be 

In patrimonial wealth ; 
And rich in nature's gift was he, 

In youth, and strength, and health. 
He did not think, as some have thought, 

Whom honour never crown'd. 
The fame a father dearly bought, 

Could make the son renown'd, 
He better thought, a noble sire, 

Who gallant deeds had done, 
To deeds of hardihood should fire 

A brave and gallant son. 
The fairest ancestry on earth 

Without desert is poor ; 
And ev'ry deed of former worth 

Is but a claim for more. 
Sir Eldred's heart was ever kind, 

Alive to pity's call ; 
A crowd of virtues grac'd his mind, 

He lov'd and felt for all. 
When merit rais'd the sufferer's name, 

He show'rd his bounty then ; 
And those who could not prove that claim, 

He succour'd still as men. 
But sacred truth the muse compels 

His errors to impart ; 
And yet the muse reluctant tells 

The faults of Eldred's heart. 
Though mild and soft as infant love 



His fond affections melt ; 
Though all that kindest spirits prove 

Sir Eldred keenly felt : 
Yet if the passions storm'd his soul, 

By jealousy led on ; 
The fierce resentment scorn'd controul, 

And bore his virtues down, 
Not Thule's waves so widely break 

To drown the northern shore ; 
Not Etna's entrails fiercer shake, 

Or Scythia's tempest roar. 
As when in summer's sweetest day 

To fan the fragrant morn, 
The sighing breezes softly stray 

O'er fields of ripen'd corn ; 
Sudden the lightning's blast descends, 

Deforms the ravag'd fields ; 
At once the various ruin blends, 

And ail resistless yields. 
But when, to clear his stormy breast, 

The sun of reason shone, 
And ebbing passions sunk to rest, 

And show'd what rage had done : 
O then what anguish he betray'd ! 

His shame how deep, how true ! 
He view'd the waste his rage had made, 

And shudder'd at the view. 
The meek-ey'd dawn, in saffron robe, 

Proclaim'd the op'ning day, 
Up rose the sun to gild the globe, 

And hail the new-born May ; 
The birds their vernal notes repeat 

And glad the thick'ning grove ; 
And feather'd partners fondly greet 

With many a song of love : 
When pious Eldred early rose 

The Lord of all to hail; 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



37 



Who life with all its gifts bestows, 

Whose mercies never fail ! 
That done — he left his woodland glade, 

And journey'd far away ; 
He lov'd to court the distant shade, 

And through the lone vale stray. 
Within the bosom of a wood, 

By circling hills embrac'd, 
A little, modest mansion stood, 

Built by the hand of taste ; 
While many a prouder castle fell, 

This safely did endure ; 
The house where guardian virtues dwell 

Is sacred and secure. 
Of eglantine an humble fence 

Around the mansion stood, 
Which serv'd at once to charm the sense, 

And screen an infant wood. 
The wood receiv'd an added grace, 

As pleas'd it bent to look, 
And view'd its ever verdant face 

Reflected in a brook : 
The smallness of the stream did well 

The master's fortunes show ; 
But little streams may serve to tell 

The source from whence they flow. 
This mansion own'd an aged knight, 

And such a man was he. 
As heaven just shows to human sight, 

To tell what man should be. 
His youth in many a well-fought field 

Was train'd betimes to war : 
His bosom, like a well-worn shield, 

Was grac'd with many a scar. 
The vigour of a green old age 

His reverend form did bear; 
And yet, alas ! the warrior-sage 

Had drain'd the dregs of care : 
And sorrow more than age can break, 

And wound its hapless prey, 
'Twas sorrow furrow'd his firm cheek, 

And turn'd his bright locks gray. 
One darling daughter sooth'd his cares, 

A young and beauteous dame, 
Sole comfort of his failing years, 

And Birtha was her name. 
Her heart a little sacred shrine, 

Where all the Virtues meet, 
And holy Hope and Faith divine 

Had claim'd it for their seat. 
She lov'd to raise her fragrant bower 

Of wild and rustic taste, 
And there she screen'd each fav'rite flower 

From ev'ry ruder blast ; 
And not a shrub or plant was thero 

But did some moral yield ; 
For wisdom, by a father's care, 

Was found in ev'ry field. 
The trees, whose foliage fell away, 

And with the summer died, 
He thought an image of decay 

Might lecture human pride : 
While fair perennial greens that stood, 

And brav'd the wintry blast, 
As types of the fair mind be view'd, 

Which shall for ever last. 
He taught her that the gaudiest flowers 

Were seldom fragrant found, 
But wasted soon their little powers, 
Dropt useless on the ground : 



While the sweet-scented rose shall last, 

And still retain its power, 
When life's imperfect day is past 

And beauty's shorter hour. 
And here the virgin lov'd to lead 

Her inoffensive day, 
And here she oft retir'd to read, 

And oft retir'd to pray. 
Embower'd, she grac'd the woodland shades, 

From courts and cities far, 
The pride of Caledonian maids, 

The peerless northern star. 
As shines that bright and lucid star, 

The glory of the night, 
When beaming through the cloud.ess air 

She sheds her silver light : 
So Birtha shone ! — But when she spoke 

The muse herself was heard, 
As on the ravish'd air she broke, 

And thus her prayer preferr'd : 
' O bless thy Birtha, Power Supreme 

In whom I live and move, 
And bless me most by blessing him, 

Whom more than life I love.' 
She starts to hear a stranger's voice, 

And with a modest grace, 
She lifts her meek eye in surprise, 

And see's a stranger's face: 
The stranger lost in transport stood, 

Bereft of voice and power, 
While she with equal wonder view'd 

Sir Eldred of the bower. 
The virgin blush which spreads her cheek 

With nature's purest dye, 
And all those dazzling beams which break 

Like morning from her eye — 
He view'd them all, and as he view'd 

Drank deeply of delight ; 
And still his raptur'd eye pursued 

And feasted on the sight. 
With silent wonder long they gaz'd, 

And neither silence broke ; 
At length the smother'd passion blaz'd, 

Enamour'd Eldred spoke : 
' O sacred virtue, heav'nly power ! 

Thy wond'rous force I feel : 
I gaze, I tremble, I adore, 

Yet die my love to tell. 
My scorn has oft the dart repell'd 

Which guileful beauty threw ; 
But goodness heard, and grace beheld, 

Must every heart subdue.' 
Quick on the ground her eyes were cast, 

And now as quickly rais'd : — 
Just then her father hap'ly past, 

On whom she trembling gaz'd. 
Good Ardolph's eye his Bertha meets 

With glances of delight; 
And thus with courteous speech he greets 

The young and graceful knight ; 
' O gallant youth, whoe'er thou art, 

Right welcome to this place ! 
There's something rises at my heart ' 

Which says I've seen that face.' 
' Thou gen'rous knight,' the youth rejoin'd, 

' Though little known to fame, 
I trust I bear a grateful mind — 

Sir Eldred is my name.' 
' Sir Eldred ?' — Ardolph loud exclaim'd 

• Renown'd for worth and power ? 



88 



THE V/ORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



For valour and for virtue fam'd, 

Sir Eldredofthe bower? 
Now make me grateful, righteous heaven, 

As thou art good to me, 
Since to my aged eyes 'tis given 

Sir Eldred's son to see !' 
Then Ardolph caught him by the hand, 

And gaz'd upon his face, 
And to his aged bosom strain'd, 

With many a kind embrace. 
Again he view'd him o'er and o'er, 

And doubted still the truth, 
And ask'd what he had ask'd before, 

Then thus addresst the youth : 
' Come now beneath my roof, I pray, 

Some needful rest to take, 
And with us many a cheerful day, 

Thy friendly sojourn make ! 
He enter'd at the gate straightway, 

Some needful rest to take ; 
And with them many a cheerful day 

Did friendly sojourn make. 



PART II. 

Once — in a social summer's walk, 

The gaudy day was fled ; 
They cheated time with cheerful talk, 

When thus Sir Ardolph said : 
Thy father was the firmest friend 

That e'er my being blest ; 
And every virtue heaven could send, 

Fast bound him to my breast. 
Together did we learn to bear 

The casque and ample shield ; 
Together learn in many a war 

The deathful spear to wield. 
To make our union still more dear. 

We both were doom'd to prove, 
What is most sweet and most severe 

In heart dissolving love. 
The daughter of a neighbouring knight 

Did my fond heart engage ; 
And ne'er did heaven the virtues write 

Upon a fairer page. 
His bosom felt an equal wound, 

Nor sigh'd we long in vain ; 
One summer's sun beheld us bound 

In Hymen's holy chain. 
Thou wast Sir Eldred's only child, 

Thy father's darling joy ; 
On me a lovely daughter smil'd, 

On me a blooming boy; 
But man has woes, has clouds of care 

That dim his star of life — 
My arms receiv'd the little pair, 

The earth's cold breast, my wife. 
Forgive, thou gentle knight, forgive, 

Fond foolish tears will flow ; 
One day like mine thy heart may heave, 

And mourn its lot of wo. 
But grant, kind heaven ! thou ne'er may'st know 

The pangs I now impart ; 
Nor even feel the parting blow 

That rives a husband's heart. 
Beside the blooming banks of Tay, 

My angel's ashes sleep ; 
And wherefore should her Ardolph stay, 

Except to watch and weep ? 
I bore my beauteous babes away 



With many a gushing tear ; 
I left the blooming banks of Tay, 

And brought my darlings here. 
I watch'd my little household cares, 

And formed their growing youth ; 
And fondly train'd their infant years 

To piety and truth.' 
' Thy blooming Birtha here I see,' 

Sir Eldred straight rejoin'd ; - 
1 But why thy son is not with thee, 

Resolve my doubting mind.' 
When Birtha did the question hear, 

She sigh'd, but could not speak ; 
And many a soft and silent tear 

Stray'd down her damask cheek. 
Then pass'd o'er good Sir Ardolph's face, 

A cast of deadly pale ; 
But soon compos'd, with manly grace, 

He thus renew'd his tale : 
' For him my heart too much has bled ; 

For him, my darling son, 
Has sorrow press'd my hoary head ; 

But heav'n's high will be done !' 
Scarce eighteen winter's had revolv'd, 

To crown the circling year, 
Before my valiant boy ressolv'd 

The warrior's lance to bear. 
Too high I priz'd my native land, 

Too dear his fame I held, 
T' oppose a parent's stern command, 

And keep him from the field. 
He left me — left his sister too, 

Yet tears bedevv'd his face — 
What could a feeble old man do 1 

He burst from my embrace. 
O" thirst of glory, fatal flame ! 

laurels dearly bought ! 

Yet sweet is death when earn'd with fame- 
So virtuous Edwy thought. 

Full manfully the brave boy strove, 
Though pressing ranks oppose ; 

But weak the strongest arm must prove 
Against an host of foes. 

A deadly wound my son receives, 
A spear assails his side : 

Grief does not kill — for Ardolph lives 
To tell that Edwy died. 

His long-lov'd mother died again 
In Edwy's parting groan ; 

I wept for her, yet wept in vain — 

1 wept for both in one. 

I would have died — I sought to die, 
But heaven restrain'd the thought, 

And to my passion-clouded eye 
My helpless Birtha brought. 

When lo ! array'd in robes of light, 
A nymph celestial came. 

She clear'd the mists that dimm'd my sight- 
Religion was her name. 

She prov'd the chastisement divine, 
And bade me kiss the rod ; 

She taught this rebel heart of mine 
Submission to its God. 

Religion taught me to sustain 
What nature bade me feel ; 

And piety reliev'd the pain 
Which time can never heal.' 

He ceas'd — with sorrow and delight 
The tale Sir Eldred hears : 

Then weeping cries — ' Thou noble knight, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



39 



for thanks accept my tears. 
O Ardolph, might I dare aspire 

To claim so bright a boon ! — 
Good old Sir Eldred was my sire — 

And thou hast lost a son. 
And though I want a worthier plea 

To urge so dear a cause ; 
Yet, let me to thy bosom be 

What once thy Edwy was. 
My trembling tongue its aid denies 

For thou may'st disapprove ; 
Then read it in my ardent eyes, 

Oh ! read the tale of love. 
Thy beauteous Birtha !' — ' Gracious power 

flow could I e'er repine,' 
Cries Ardolph, ' since I see this hour ? 

Yes — Birtha shall be thine.' 
A little transient gleam of red 

Shot faintly o'er her face, 
And ev'ry trembling feature spread 

With sweet disorder'd grace. 
The tender father kindly smil'd 

With fulness of content; 
And fondly ey'd his darling child, 

Who, bashful, blush'd consent. 
O then to paint the vast delight 

That fill'd Sir Eldred's heart, 
To tell the transports of the knight, 

Would mock the Muse's art. 
Bat ev'ry kind and gracious soul, 

Where gentle passions dwell, 
Will better far conceive the whole, 

Than any muse can tell. 
The more the knight his Birtha knew, 

The more he priz'd the maid ; 
Some worth each day produe'd to view 

Some grace each hour betray'd. 
The virgin too was fond to charm 

The dear accomplish'd youth ; 
His single breast she strove to warm, 

And crown'd with love, his truth. 
Unlike the dames of modern days, 

Who general homage claim ; 
Who court the universal gaze, 

And pant for public fame. 
Then beauty but on merit smil'd, 

Nor were her chaste smiles sold ; 
No venal father gave his child, 

For grandeur, or for gold. 
The ardour of young Eldred's flame 

But ill could brook delay, 
And oft he press'd the maid to name 

A speedy nuptial day. 
The fond impatience of his breast 

'Twas all in vain to hide, 
But she his eager suit represt 

With modest maiden pride. 
When oft Sir Eldred press'd the day 

Which was to crown his truth, 
The thoughtful sire would sigh and say, 

* O happy state of youth ! 
It little recks the woes which wait 

To scare it dreams of joy; 
Nor thinks to-morrow's alter'd fate 

May all those dreams destroy. 
And though the flatterer Hope deceives, 

And painted prospects shows ; 
Yet man, still cheated, still believes, 

Till death the bright scene close. 
So look'd my bride, so sweetly mild, 



On me her beauty's slave ; 
But whilst she look'd, and whilst she smil'd 

She sunk into the grave. 
Yet, O forgive an old man's care, 

Forgive a father's zeal ; 
Who fondly loves must greatly fear, 

Who fears must greatly feel. 
Once more in soft and sacred bands 

Shall Love and Hymen meet; 
To-morrow shall unite your hands, 

And — be your bliss complete !' 
The rising sun inflam'd the sky, 

The golden orient blush'd ; 
But Birtha's cheeks a sweeter dye, 

A brighter crimson flush'd. 
The priest in milk-white vestments clad, 

Perform'd the mystic rite ; 
Love lit the hallow'd torch that led 

To Hymen's chaste delight. 
How feeble language were to speak 

Th' immeasurable joy, 
That fir'd Sir Eldred's ardent cheek, 

And triumph'd in his eye ! 
Sir Ardolph's pleasure stood confest, 

A pleasure all his own ; 
The guarded pleasure of a breast 

Which many a grief had known. 
'Twas such a Eober sense of joy 

As angels well might keep 
A joy chastis'd by piety, 

A joy prepared to weep. 
To recollect her scatter'd thought, 

And shun the noon-tide hour, 
The lovely bride in secret sought 

The coolness of her bower. 
Long she remain'd — th' enamour'd knight, 

Impatient at her stay ; 
And all unfit to taste delight 

When Birtha was away ; 
Betakes him to the secret bower ; 

His footsteps softly move ; 
Impell'd by ev'ry tender power, 

He steals upon his love. 
O, horror ! horror ! blasting sight ! 

He sees his Birtha's charms, 
Reclin'd with melting, fond delight, 

Within a stranger's arms. 
Wild frenzy fires his frantic hand. 

Distracted at the sight, 
He flies to where the lovers stand ; 

And stabs the stranger knight. 
' Die, traitor, die ! thy guilty flames 

Demand th' avenging steel !' — 
f It is my brother,' she exclaims ! 

• 'Tis Edwy— Oh farewell !' 
An aged peasant, Edwy's guide, 

The good old Ardolph sought ; 
He told him that his bosom's pride, 

His Edwy, he had brought. 
O how the father's feelings melt ! 

How faint and how revive ! 
Just so the Hebrew patriarch felt, 

To find his son alive. 
' Let me behold my darling's face, 

And bless him ere I die !' 
Then with a swift and vigorous pace, 

He to the bower did hie ; 
O sad reverse ! — Sunk on the ground 

His slaughter'd son he view'd ; 
And dying Birtha, close he found 



40 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



In brother's blood imbru'd. 
Cold, speechless, senseless, Eldred near, 

Gaz'd on the deed he'd done ; 
Like the blank statue of Despair, 

Or Madness grav'd in stone. 
The father saw — so Jephthah stood, 

So turn'd his wo-fraught eye, 
When the dear, destin'd child he view'd 

His zeal had doom'd to die. 
He look'd the wo he could not speak, 

And on the pale corse prest 
His wan discolour'd, dying cheek, 

And silent sunk to rest. 
Then Birtha faintly rais'd her eye, 

Which long had ceas'd to stream. 
On Eldred fix'd, with many a sigh, 

Its dim departing beam. 
The cold, cold dews of hastening death, 

Upon her pale face stand ; 
And quick and short her failing breath, 

And tremulous her hand. 
The cold, cold dews of hastening death, 

The dim departing eye, 
The quiv'ring hand, the short quick breath, 

He view'd — and did not die. 
He saw her spirit mount in air, 

Its kindred skies to seek 1 



His heart its anguish could not bear, 

And yet it would not break. 
The mournful muse forbears to tell 

How wretched Eldred died ; 
She draws the Grecian* painter's veil, 

The vast distress to hide. 
Yet heaven's decrees are just and wise, 

And man is born to bear : 
Joy is the portion of the skies, 

Beneath them all is care. 
Yet blame not heav'n ; 'tis erring man, 

Who mars his own best joys ; 
Whose passions uncontroll'd, the plan 

Ofpromis'd bliss destroys. 
Had Eldred paused before the blow, 

His hand had never err'd ; 
What guilt, what complicated wo, 

His soul had then been spar'd ! 
The deadliest wound with which we bleed. 

Our crimes inflict alone ; 
Man's mercies from God's hand proceed, 

His miseries from his own. 



* In the celebrated picture of the sacrifice of Iphige- 
nia, Timamhes having exhausted every image of grief 
n the bystanders, threw a veil over the face of the fa- 
ther, whose sorrow he was utterly unable to express. 
Plin. book xxxv. 



THE BLEEDING ROCK 



THE METAMORPHOSIS OF A NYMPH INTO STONE 

The annual wound allur'd 



The Syrian damsels to lament his fate, 
In amorous ditties all a summer's day ; 
While smooth Adonis from his native rock 
Ran purple to the sea, suppos'd with blood 
Of Thammuz yearly wound-ed. — Milton. 



Where beauteous Belmont rears her modest 

brow 
To view Sabrina's silver wave below, 
Liv'd young Ianthe, fair as beauty's queen; 
She reign'd unrivall'd in the sylvan scene ; 
Hers every charm of symmetry and grace, 
Which aids the triumph of the fairest face ; 
With all that softer elegance of mind, 
By genius heighten'd, and by taste refin'd 
Yet early was she doom'd the child of care, 
For hapless love subdu'd th' ill-fated fair, 
Ah '. what avails each captivating grace, 
The form enchanting, or the fairest face ? 
Or what each beauty of the heav'n-born mind. 
The soul superior, or the taste refin'd ? 
Beauty but serves destruction to insure, 
And sense to feel the pang it cannot cure. 

Each neighb'ring youth aspir'd to gain her 
hand, 
And many a suitor came from many a land : 
But all in vain each neighb'ring youth aspir'd, 
And distant suitors all in vain admir'd. 
Averse to hear, yet fearful to offend, 
The lover she refus'd she made a friend : 
Her meek rejection wore so mild a face, 
More like acceptance seem'd it, than disgrace. 

Young Polydore, the pride of rural swains, 



Was wont to visit Belmont's blooming plains. 
Who has not heard how Polydore could throw 
Th' unerring dart to wound the flying doe ? 
How leave the swiftest at the race behind, 
How mount the courser, and outstrip the wind ? 
With melting sweetness, or with magic fire, 
Breathe the soft flute, or sweep the well-strung 

lyre ? 
From that fam'd lyre no vulgar music sprung, 
The Graces tun'd it, and Apollo strung. 
Apollo too was once a shepherd swain, 
And fed the flock, and grac'd the rustic plain : 
He taught what charms to rural life belong, 
The social sweetness, and the sylvan song ; 
He taught fair Wisdom in her grove to woo. 
Her joys how precious, and her wants how few ! 
The savage herds in mute attention stood, 
And ravish'd Echo fill'd the vocal wood ; 
The sacred sisters, stooping from their sphere, 
Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear ; 
Till Heaven the scene survey'd with jealous 

eyes, 
And Jove, in envy, call*d him to the skies. 

Young Polydore was rich in large domains, 
In smiling pastures, and in flow'ry plains; 
With these, he boasted each exterior charm, 
To win the prudent, and the cold to warm} 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



41 



The fairest semblance of desert he bore, 
And each fictitious mark of goodness wore; 
Could act the tenderness he never felt, 
In sorrow soften, and in anguish melt. 
The sigh elaborate, the fraudful tear, 
The joy dissembled, and the well feign'd fear, 
All these were his ; and his each treach'rous art, 
That steals the guileless and unpractis'd heart. 

Too soon he heard of fair Ianthe's fame, 
'Twas each enamour'd shepherd's fav'rite 

theme ; 
Return'd the rising, and the setting sun, 
The shepherd's fav'rite theme was never done. 
They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her 

air ! 
And even inferior beauties own'd her fair. 

Such sweet perfection all his wonder moved: 
He saw, admired, nay, fancied that he loved : 
But Polydore no gen'rous passion knew, 
Lost to all truth in feigning to be true. 
No lasting tenderness could warm a heart, 
Too vain to feel, too selfish to impart. 

Cold as the snows of Rhodope descend, 
And with the chilling wave "of Hebrus blend ; 
So cold the breast where Vanity presides, 
And the whole subject soul absorbs and guides. 
Too well he knew to make his conquest sure, 
Win her soft heart, yet keep his own secure. 
So oft he told the well imagin'd tale, 
So oft he swore — how should he not prevail? 
The well-imagin'd tale the nymph believ'd ; 
Too unsuspecting not to be deceiv'd : 
She lov'd the youth, she thought herself belov'd, 
Nor blush'd to praise whom every maid ap- 

prov'd. 
The conquest once achiev'd, the brightest fair, 
When conquer'd, was no longer worth his care : 
When to the world her passion he could prove, 
Vain of his pow'r, he jested at her love. 
The perjur'd youth, from sad Ianthe far 
To win fresh triumphs, wages cruel war. 
With other nymphs behold the wand'rer rove, 
And tell the story of Ianthe's love ; 
He mocks her easy faith, insults her wo, 
Nor pities tears himself had taught to flow. 
To sad Ianthe soon the tale was borne, 
How Polydore to treach'ry added scorn. 

And now her eyes' soft radiance 'gan to fail, 
And now the crimson of her cheek grew pale ; 
The lily there in faded beauty shows 
Its sickly empire o'er the vanquish'd rose. 
Devouring Sorrow marks her for his prey, 
And, slow and certain, mines his silent way. 
Yet, as apace her ebbing life declin'd, 
Increasing strength sustain'd her firmer mind. 
' O had my heart been hard as his,' she cried, 
•An hapless victim thus I had not died : 
If there be gods, and gods there surely are, 
Insulted virtue doubtless is their care. 
Then hasten, righteous Powers; my tedious 

fate, 
Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date : 
Quick let your power transform this failing 

frame, 
Let me be any thing but what I am ! 
And since the cruel woes I'm doom'd to feel, 
Proceed, alas ! from having lov'd too well : 
Grant me some form where love can have no part, 
No human weakness reach my guarded heart ; 
Where no soft touch of passion can be felt. 



No fond affection this weak bosom melt 
If Pity has not left your blest abodes, 
Change me to flinty adamant, ye gods ! 
To hardest rock, or monumental stone, 
So may I know no more the pangs I've known ; 
So shall I thus no farther torments prove, 
Nor taunting rivals say she died for love : 
For sure, if aught can aggravate our wo, 
'Tis the feign'd pity of a prosp'rous foe.' 
Thus pray'd the nymph, and straight the Pow'r» 

addrest, 
Accord the weeping suppliant's sad request. 

Then strange to tell ! if rural folks say true. 
To harden'd rock the stiff'ning damsel grew , 
No more her shapeless features can be known, 
Stone is her body, and her limbs are stone ; 
The growing rock invades her beauteous face, 
And quickly petrifies each living grace ; 
The stone, her stature nor her shape retains, 
The nymph is vanish'd, but the rock remains. 
No vestige now of human shape appears. 
No cheeks for blushes, and no eyes for tears : 
Yet — strange the marvels poets can impart ! 
Unchang'd, unchill'd, remain'd the glowing 

heart ; 
Its vital spirits destin'd still to keep, 
It scorn'd to mingle with the marble heap. 
When babbling Fame the wondrous tidings 
bore, 
Grief seiz'd the soul of peijur'd Polydore ; 
And now the falsehood of his soul appears, 
And now his broken vows assail his ears. 
Appall'd his smitten fancy seems to view 
The nymph so lovely, and the friend so true. 
For since her absence, all the virgin train, 
His admiration sought to win in vain. 

Though not to keep him ev'n Ianthe knew, 
From vanity alone his falsehood grew : 
O let the youthful heart, thus warn'd beware, 
Of vanity, how deep, how wide the snare; 
That half the mischiefs youth and beauty know, 
From Vanity's exhaustless fountain flow. 

Now deep remorse deprives his soul of rest : 
And deep compunction wounds his guilty breast: 
Then to the fatal spot in haste he flew, 
Eager some vestige of the maid to view , 
The shapeless rock he mark'd, but found no trace 
Of lost Ianthe's form, Ianthe's face. 
He fix'd his streaming eyes upon the stone, 
' And take sweet maid,' he cried, ' my parting 

groan ; 
Since we are doom'd thus terribly to part, 
No other nymph shall ever share my heart; 
Thus only I'm absolv'd' — he rashly cried, 
Then plung'd a deadly poinard in his side ! 
Fainting, the steel he grasp'd, and as he fell 
The weapon pierc'd the rock he lov'd so well ; 
The guiltless steel assail'd the living part, 
And stabb'd the vital, vulnerable heart 
And though the rocky mass was pale before, 
Behold it ting'd with ruddy streams of gore ! 
The life-blood issuing from the wounded stone, 
Blends with the crimson current of his own ; 
From Polydore's fresh wound it flow'd in part, 
But chief emitted from Ianthe's heart 
And though revolving ages since have past, 
The meeting torrents undiminish'd last ; 
Still gushes out the sanguine stream amain, 
The standing wonder of the stranger swain 
Now once a year, bo rustic records tell, 



42 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



When o'er the heath resounds the midnight bell; 
On eve of midsummer, that foe to sleep, 
What time young maids their annual vigils 

keep, 
The tell-tale shrub,* fresh gather'd to declare 
The swains who false, from those who constant 

are ; 
When ghosts in clanking chains the church- 
yard walk, 
And to the wond'ring ear of fancy talk : 
When the scar'd maid steals trembling thro' 

the grove, 
To kiss the grave of him who died for love ; 
When, with long watchings, Care at length op- 

prest, 
Steals broken pauses of uncertain rest ; 
Nay, Grief short snatches of repose can take, 
And nothing but Despair is quite awake ; 
Then, at that hour, so still, so full of fear, 
When all things horrible to thought appear, 
Js perjur'd Polydore observ'd to rove 
A ghastly spectre through the gloomy grove ; 
Then to the rock, the Bleeding-rock repair, 
Where, sadly sighing it dissolves to air. 

* Midsummer-men, consulted as oracular by village 
maids. 



Still when the hours of solemn rites return, 
The village train in sad procession mourn ; 
Pluck ev'ry weed which might the spot dis- 

grace, 
And plant the fairest field flowers in their place. 
Around no noxious plant, or flow'ret grows, 
But the first daffodil, and earliest rose ; 
The snow-drop spreads its whitest blossom here, 
And golden cowslips grace the vernal year : 
Here the pale primrose takes a fairer hue, 
And ev'ry violet boasts a brighter blue. 
Here builds the wood-lark, here the faithful 

dove 
Laments his lost, or woos his living love. 
Secure from harm is ev'ry hallow'd nest, 
The spot is sacred where true lovers rest. 
To guard the rock from each malignant sprite, 
A troop of guardian spirits watch by night; 
Aloft in air each takes his little stand, 
The neighb'ring hill is hence call'd Fairy 

Land.* 



* By contraction, Failand, a hill well known in So- 
mersetshire : not far from this is The Bleeding Rock, 
from which constantly issues a crimson current. A de- 
sire to account for this appearance, gave rise to a whim- 
sical conversation, which produced these slight verses. 



ODE. 



FROM H. M. AT BRISTOL, TO DRAGON, MR. GARRICK S HOUSE DOG, AT HAMPTON. 



I. Dragon ! since lyrics are the mode, 
To thee I dedicate my ode, 

And reason good I plead : 
Are those who cannot write, to blame 
To draw their hopes of future fame, 

From those who cannot read ? 

II. O could I like that nameless wight,* 
Find the choice minute when to write, 

Tho mollia tempora fandi ! 
Like his, my muse should learn to whistle 
A true heroical epistle, 

In strains which ne'er can die. 

III. Father of lyrics, tuneful Horace ! 
Can thy great shade do nothing for us 

To mend the British lyre ? 
Our luckless bards have broke the strings, 
Seiz'd the scar'd muses, pluck'd their wings, 

And put out all their fire.t 

IV. Dragon! thou tyrant of the yard, 
Great namesake of that furious guard 

That watch'd the fruits Hesperian! 
Thy choicer treasures safely keep, 
Nor snatch one moment's guilty sleep, 

Fidelity's criterion. 

V. O Dragon ! change with me thy fate, 
To give me up thy place and state, 

And I will give thee mine : 
I, left to think, and thou to feed ! 
My mind enlarg'd, thy body freed, 

How blest my lot and thine ! 

VI. Then shalt thou scent the rich regale 
Of turtle and diluting ale. 

Nay, share the sav'ry bit; 

* See the admirable epistle to sir William Chambers. 

t A profusion of odes had appeared about this time, 
which strikingly violated all the rules of lyrical compo- 
sition. 



And see, what thou hast never seen, 
For thou hast but at Hampton been, 
A feast devoid of wit. 

VII. Oft shalt thou snuff the smoking venison, 
Devour'd alone, by hungry denizen, 

So fresh, thoul't long to tear it ; 
Though Flaccus* tells a diff'rent tale 
Of social souls who chose it stale, 

Because their friends should share it. 

VIII. And then on me what joys would wait, 
Were I the guardian of thy gate, 

How useless bolt and latch ! 
How vain were locks, and bars how vain, 
To shield from harm the household train 

Whom I, from love, would watch ! 

IX. Not that 'twould crown with joy my life 
That Bowden,t or that Bowden's wife, 

Brought me my daily pickings: 
Though she, accelerating fate, 
Decrees the scanty moral date 

Of turkeys and of chickens ! 

X. Though fir'd with innocent ambition, 
Bowden, great Nature's rhetorician, 

More flow'rs than Burke produces ; 
And though he 's skill'd more roots to find, 
Than ever stock'd an Hebrew's mind, 

And knows their various uses. 

XI. I'd get my master's ways by rote, 
Ne'er would I bark at ragged coat, 

Nor tear the tatter'd sinner ; 
Like him I'd love the dog of merit 
Caress the cur of broken spirit, 

And give them all a dinner. 
XIF. Nor let me pair his blue-ey'd dame 
With Venus' or Minerva's name, 

*Hor. lib. ii. Stt. 2. 

t The gardener knd poultry woman at Hampton. 



THE WORKS OF HlNNAH MORE. 



43 



One wairior, one coquet ; i 

No , Pallas and the queen of Beauty 
Shunn'd, or hetray'd that nuptial duty, 

Which she so high has set. 

XIII. Whene'er I heat.} the rattling coach 
Proclaim their long-desirM approach, 

How would I haste to greet 'em ! 
Nor ever feel I wore a chain, 
Till, starting, I perceiv'd with pain 

I could not fly to meet 'em ! 

XIV. The master loves his sylvan shade:. 
Here, with the nine melodious maids, 

His choicest hours are spent: 
Yet shall I hear some wittling cry, 
(Such wittling from my presence fly !) 

4 Garrick will soon repent : 

XV. ' Again you'll see him, never fear ; 
Some half a dozen times a year 

He still will charm the age ; 
Accustom'd long to be admir'd, 
Of shades and streams he'll soon be tir'd, 

And languish for the stage.' 

XVI. Peace ! To his solitude he bears 



Tie full-blown fame of thirty years ; 

He bears a nation's praise ; 
H( bears his lib'ral, polish'd mind, 
Hii worth, his wit, his sense refin'd 

He bears his well-earn'd bays. 
XMI. When warm admirers drop a tear 
Be:ause this sun has left his sphere, 

And set before his time ; 
I vho have felt and lov'd his rays, 
What they condemn will loudly praise, 

And call the deed sublime. 
XVIII. How wise long-pamper'd with applause, 
To make a voluntary pause 

And la/ his laurels down ! 
Boldly repeling each strong claim, 
|To dare asse-t to Wealth and Fame, 

1 Enougi of both I've known.' 
X'X. How wse ! a short retreat to steal, . 
lfl» vaniw of life to feel, 

\nd t;om its cares to fly : 
To ae one^aln, domestic scene, 
Earth't busts, ™d the grave between, 

Retire, and'earn to die! 



EPITAPHS. 



ON THE REVEREND MR. PENROSE, 

Thirty-two years Vicar of St. Gluvias, Cornwall. 

If social manners, if the gentlest mind, 

If zeal for God, and love for human kind, 

If all the charities which life endear, 

May claim affection, or demand a tear, 

Then o'er Penrose's venerable urn 

Domestic love may weep, and friendship mourn. 

The path of duty still, untir'd, he trod, . 
He walk'd in safety, for he walk'd with God! 
When past the power of precept and of pray'r, 
Yet still his flock remain'd the shepherd's care ; 
Their wants still kindly watchful to supply, 
He taught his best, last lesson, how to die ! 



ON MRS. BLANFORD. 

Meek shade, farewell ! go seek that quiet shore 
Where sin shall vex, and sorrow wound no 

more ; 
Thy lowly worth obtains that final bliss, 
Which pride disdains to seek, and wit may miss. 
That path thou'st found which science cannot 

teach, 
But faith and goodness never fail to reach : 
Then share the joy the words of life impart, 
The Vision prornis'd to the pure in heart. 



ON MRS. LITTLE, 

, In Redcliff Church, England. 

O could this verse her fair example spread, 
And teach the living while it prais'd the dead! 
Then, reader ! should it speak her hope divine, 
Not to record her faith, but strengthen thine; 
Then should her ev'ry virtue stand confest, 
Till ev'ry virtue kindle in thy breast. 
But, if thou slight the monitory strain, 
And she has liv'd, to thee at least, in vain { 
Yet let her death, an awful lesson give, 



The dying Chnstian peaks to all that live.' 
Enough for her that r„ e her ashes rest) 
Till God s own plaudit hall her worth attest 

ON GENERAL .AWRENCE, 

Memorable for his conquests Indi and for hj , 
mency loth? vanished. 

On a Monument erecUd bgir Rohert Palk. 
Born to command, to conqu*, and to spare, 
As mercy mild, yet terible a war 
Here Lawrence rests n deah ; while living 

From Thames to Gangfe Wa£ls his honour - d 
To him this frail memoriJ Friendship rears, 
Whose noblest monumenlt a nation's tears ; 
Whose deeds on fairer colfo m stand en grav'd, 
In provinces preserv'd and 4 ties sav'd. 

TO THE MEMOrW 

MRS. ELIZABEtSvES, 

Aged Ninety-one, of Noibnmpton. 
Her pious and useful L& 
was extended to an honouranojd a „. e 
and closed by an exemplarypeath 
Her Charity had its souig 
In Religion: \ 
'Her love of her neighbou 
was the genuine effect 
of her love of God : 
Her Resignation 
was the Fruit of her Faith, 
and she died in Hope 
because she had lived 
A Christian. 



ON THE REVEREND MR. HUNTER, 

Who receiv'd a degree from the University of Oxford 
for his work against Lord Bolingbroke's Philosophy. 



44 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Go, happy spirit, seek that blissful land I 
Where zealous Michael leads the glorious bald 
Of those who fought for truth ; blest spirit, g 
And perfect all the good begun below : 
Go, hear applauding saints, delighted, tell I 
How vanquish'd Falsehood, at thy bidding $1 ! 
Blest in that heav'n whose paths thy virlue 

sought ; 
Blest in that God whose cause thou well hist 

fought ; 
O let thy honour'd shade his care approve, 
Who this memorial rears of filial love : 
A son, whose father, living, was his pride ; 
A son who mourns that such a father died. 

ON C. DICEY, Eso.. 

In Claybrook Church, Leicestershire. 
O thou, or friend or stranger, whj stall trs*d 
These solemn mansions of the si)entdead ' 
Think, when this record to inquifirg eye/, 
No more shall tell the spot wher> Z)iceyiies; 
When this frail marble, faithle<< to its rrust, 
Mould'ring itself, resigns its p»ulderM dust; 
When time shall fail, and Na-" 6 ' 8 *» deca y- 
And earth, and sun, and skif dissolve away ; 
Thy soul, this consummate shall survive, 
Defy the wreck, and but i/«* *© live. 
This truth, long slighted, * these ashes teach, 
Though cold, instruct y'» and thou S h Sllent 

preach : . .. 

O pause ! reflect, repenf esolve ' amend • 
Life has no length, et8* lt 7 no end • 

ON A V^NG LADY. 

Go, peaceful shade ^change for sin and care 
The glorious palm Aiich patient sufTrers wear ! 
Go, take the meed«ctorious meekness gains, 
Go, wear the cro«n triumphant faith obtains. 
Those silent gra<^s wafeh the good conceal, 
The day of dreat' disclosure shall reveal ; 
Then shall thy mild, ritiring virtues rise, 
And God, both judg' M witness, give the prize. 

INSCRIPTION Jj R A CENOTAPH IN A 

ERECTE* V A DECEASED FRIEND. 

Ye lib'ral so iS wno rev'rence Friendship's 

Who boast * r blessings, and who feel her 
flame ; t ' 

Oh ! if froir ;a ''y yo" tn one friend you ve lov'd, 
Whom war affection chose, and taste approv'd ; 
If you ha J known what anguish rends the 

hear' , , _ 

When si a » so known, so lov'd, for ever part ; 



Approach — For you the mourner rears this 

stone, 
To sooth your sorrows, and record his own. 

ON THE REVEE^ND MR. LOVE. 

In the Cathedral, at Bristol. 
When worthless grandeur fills th' embellish'd 
urn. 
No poip»)ant grief attends the sable bier : 
But wlv n distinguish'd excellence we mourn, 

Defp is the sorrow, genuine is the tear. 
Stra«ff er '• should'st thou approach this awful 
shrine, 
The merits of the honour'd dead to seek ; 
The friend, the son, the Christian, the divine, 
Let those who knew him, those who lov'd 
him speak. 
Oh let them in some pause of anguish say, 
What zeal inflam'd, what faith enlarg'd his 
breast ! 
How glad the unfetter'd spirit wing'd its way 
From earth to heav'n, from blessing to be 
blest ! 

ON THE REVEREND 

SIR JAMES STONHOUSE, BART. M. D. 

In the Chapel at the Hot- Wells, Bristol. 

Here rest awhile, in happier climes to shine, 

The orator, physician, and divine : 

'Twas his, like Luke, the double task to fill, 

To heal the nat'ral and the moral ill. 

You, whose awaken'd hearts his labours blest, ' 

Where ev'ry truth, by ev'ry grace was drest ; 

Oh ! let your lives evince that still you feel 

Th' effective influence of his fervent zeal. 

One spirit rescued from eternal wo 

Were nobler fame than marble can bestow ; 

That lasting monument will mock decay 

And stand, triumphant, at the final day. 

ON SARAH STONHOUSE, 

Second wife of the Rev. Sir James Stonhouse, 
Bart. 

Come resignation ! wipe the human tear, 
Domestic anguish drops o'er Virtue's bier ; 
Bid selfish sorrow hush the fond complaint, 
Nor, from the God she lov'd, detain the saint, 
Truth, meekness, patience, honour'd sha 

were thine ; 
And holy hope, and charity divine : 
Though these thy forfeit being could not save, 
Thy faith subdu'd the terrors of the grave. 
Oh ! if thy living excellence could teach. 
j Death has a loftier emphasis of speech : 
I Let death thy strongest lesson then impart 
[And write prepare to die, on ev'ry heart. 



THE FOOLISH TRAVELLER: 

OR, A GOOD INN IS A BAD HOME. 



"here was a prince of high degree, 
„3 great and good as prince could be ; 
..luch pow'r and wealth were in his hand, 
With lands and lordships at command, 



One son, a fav'rite son, he had, 
An idle thoughtless kind of lad; 
Whom, spite of all his follies past, 
He meant to make his heir at last 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



45 



The son escap'd to foreign lands, 

And broke his gracious sire's commands ; 

Far, as he fancied, from his sight, 

In each low joy he took delight. 

The youth, detesting peace and quiet, 

Indulg'd in vice, expense, and riot ; 

Of each wild pleasure rashly tasted, 

Till health declined, and substance wasted^ 

The tender sire, to pity prone, 

Promis'd to pardon what was done ; 

And, would he certain terms fulfil 

He should receive a kingdom still. 

The youth the pardon little minded, 

So much his sottish soul was blinded ; 

But though he mourn'd no past trinsgression, 

He lik'd the future rich possession. 

He lik'd the kingdom when obtah'd, 

But not the terms on which 'twas gain'd ; 

He hated pain and self-denial, 

Chose the reward, but shunn'd thj trial. 

He knew his father's power how great, 

How glorious too the promis'd stite ! 

At length resolves no more to roim 

But straight to seek his father's tome. 

His sire had sent a friend to say, 

He must be cautious on his way; 

Told him what road he must pursue, 

And always keep his home in vkw. 

The thoughtless youth set out indeed, 

But soon he slacken'd in his speed ; 

For ev'ry trifle by the way 

Seduc'd his idle heart astray. 

By ev'ry casual impulse sway'd, 

On ev'ry slight pretence he stay'd ; 

To each, to all, his passions bend, 

He quite forgets his journey's end. 

For ev'ry sport, for ev'ry song, 

He halted as he pass'd along ; 

Caught by each idle sight he saw, 

He'd loiter e'en to pick a straw. 

Whate'er was present seiz'd his soul, 

A feast, a show, a brimming bowl; 

Contented with this vulgar lot, 



His father's house he quite forgot. 
Those slight refreshments by the way, 
Which were but meant his strength to stay, 
So sunk his soul in sloth and sin, 
He look'd no farther than his inn. 
His father's friend would ofl appear 
And sound the promise in his ear ; 
Oft would he rouse him, 4 Sluggard come ! 
This is thy inn, and not thy home.' 
Displeas'd he answers, ' Come what will, 
Of present bliss I'll take my fill; 
In vain you plead, in vain I hear, 
Those joys are distant, these are near.' 
Thus perish'd, lost to worth and truth, 
In sight of home this hapless youth ; 
While beggars, foreigners, and poor, 
Enjoy'd the father's boundless store. 

APPLICATION. 

My fable, reader, speaks to thee, 

In God this bounteous father see ; 

And in his thoughtless offspring trace, 

The sinful, wayward, human race. 

The friend, the generous father sent 

To rouse, and to reclaim him, meant 

The faithful minister you'll find, 

Who calls the wand'ring, warns the blind. 

Reader, awake ! this youth you blame, 

Are not you doing just the same ? 

Mindless your comforts are but given 

To help you on your way to heav'n. 

The pleasures which beguile the road, 

The flow'rs with which your path is strew'd 

To these your whole desire3 you bend 

And quite forget your journey's end. 

The meanest toys your soul entice, 

A feast, a song, a game at dice ; 

Charm'd with your present paltry lot, 

Eternity is quite forgot. 

Then listen to a warning friend, 

Who bids you mind your journey's end ; 

A wand'ring pilgrim here you roam ; 

This world's your inn, the next your home. 



THE IMPOSSIBILITY CONQUERED: 

OR, LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOUR AS YOURSELF. 



IN THE MANNER OF SR WALTER RALEIGH. 



THE OBJECTOR, 

I. Each man who lives the Scriptures prove, 
Must as himself his neighbour love; 

But though the precept 's full of beauty, 
'Tis an impracticable duty : 

I'll prove how hard it is to find 

A lover of this wond'rous kind. 

II. Who loves himself to great excess, 
You'll grant must love his neighbour less; 
When self engrosses all the heart 

How can another have a part ? 

Then if self-love most men enthral, 
A neighbour's share is none at all. 

III. Say, can the man who hoards up pelf 
E'er love his neighbour as himself? 

For if he did, would he not labour 
To hoard a little for his neighbour ? 
Then tell me, friend, can hoarding elves 



E'er love their neigbour as themselves ? 

IV. The man whose heart is bent on pleasure 
Small love will to his neighbour measure : 
Who solely studies his own good, 

Can't love another if he would. 

Then how can pleasure-hunting elves 
E'er love their neighbour as themselves ! 

V. Can he whom sloth and loitering please 
E'er love his neighbour like his ease ? 

Or he who feels ambition's flame 
Loves he his neighbour like his fame? 
Such lazy, or such soaring elves 
Can't love their neighbour as themselves. 

VI. He, whose gross appetites enslave him, 
Who spends or feasts the wealth God gave him, 
Full, pamper'd, gorg'd at ev'ry meal, 

He cannot for the empty feel. 

How can such gormandizing elves 

E'er love their neighbour as themselves ? 



46 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



VII. Then since the man who lusts for gold, 
Since he who is to pleasure sold ; 

Who soars in pride, or sinks in ease, 
His neighbour will not serve or please ; 
Where shall we hope the man to find 
To fill this great command inclin'd ? 

VIII. I dare not blame God's holy word, 
Nor censure Scripture as absurd ; 

But sure the rule 's of no avail 
If plac'd so high that all must fail ; 
And 'tis impossible to prove 
That any can his neighbour love. 

THE ANSWERER. 

IX. Yes, such there are of heav'nly mould, 
Unwarp'd by pleasure, ease, or gold ; 



He who fulfils the nobler part 

By loving God with all his heart , 
He, only he, the Scriptures prove, 
Can, as himself, his neighbour love. 

X. Then join, to make a perfect plan, 
The lovt of God to love of man ; 
Your heirt in union both must bring, 
This is the stream, and that the spring ; 

This done, no more in vain you'll labour, 
A Christian can't but love his neighbour. 

XI. If then the rule 's too hard to please ye, 
Turn Christian, and you'll find it easy. 

' Still, 'tis impossible.' you'll cry, 

1 In vain sha'l feeble nature try.' 

'Tis true ; out know a Christian is a creature 
Who does .hings quite impossible to nature. 



INSCRIPTION 



IN A BEAUTIFUL RETREAT, CALLED TAIRY BOWER. 



Airy spirits, you who love 
Cooling bow'r, or shady grove : 
Streams that murmur as they flow, 
Zephyrs bland that softly blow ; 

Babbling echo, or the tale 
Of the love-lorn nightingale ; 
Hither airy spirits, come, 
This is your peculiar home, 

If you love a verdant glade, 
If you love a noon-tide shade, 
Hither, sylphs and fairies fly, 
Unohserv'd of earthly eye. 

Come, and wander ev'ry night, 
By the moon-beam's glimm'ring light 
And again at early day 
Brush the silver dews away. 

Mark where first the daisies blow, 
Where the bluest violets grow ; 
Where the sweetest linnet sings, 
Where the earliest cowslip springs ; 

Where the largest acorn lies. 
Precious in a fairy's eyes; 
Sylphs, though unconfin'd to place, 
Love to fill an acorn's space. 

Come, and mark within what bush 
Builds the blackbird or the thrush ; 
Great his joy who first espies, 
Greater his who spares the prize ! 

Come, and watch the hallow'd bow'r, 
Chase the insect from the flow'r ; 



Little offices Ike these, 
Gentle souls aid fairies please. 

Mortals ! foim'd of grosser clay, 
From our hauits keep far away ; 
Or, if you shoild dare appear, 
See that you from vice are clear. 

Folly's min : on, Fashion's fool, 
Mad Ambition's restless tool! 
Slave of passion, slave ofpow'r, 
Fly, ah fly ! this tranquil bow'r ! 

Son of Av'rice, soul of frost, 
Wretch ! of Heav'n abhorred the most, 
Learn to pity others' wants, 
Or avoid these hallow'd haunts. 

Eye unconscious of a tear, 
When Afflictions train appear ; 
Heart that never heav'd a sigh, 
For another, come not nigh. 

But, ye darling sons of Heav'n, 
Giving freely what was giv'n ; 
You, whose lib'ral hand dispense 
The blessings of benevolence : 

You, who wipe the tearful eye, 
You, who stop the rising sigh ; 
You, whose souls have understood 
The luxury of doing good — 

Come, ye happy virtuous few, 
Open is my bow'r to you ; 
You, these mossy banks may press , 
i You, each guardian fay shall bless. 



THE BAD BARGAIN: 

OR, THE WORLD SET UP TO SALE. 



The Devil, as the Scriptures show, 

Tempts sinful mortals high and low ; 

And acting well his various part, 

Suits every bribe to every heart: 

See where the prince of darkness stands 

With baits for souls in both his hands. 

To one he offers empires whole, 

And gives a sceptre for a soul ; 

To one, he freely gives in barter, 

A peerage, or a star and garter ; 

To one he pays polite attention, 



And begs him just to take a pension. 
Some are so fir'd with love of fame, 
He bribes them by an empty name ; 
For fame they toil, they preach, they write, 
Give alms, build hospitals or fight ; 
For human praise renounce salvation, 
And sell their souls for reputation. 
But the great gift, the mighty bribe, 
Which Satan pours amid the tribe, 
Which millions seize with eager haste, 
And all desire at least to taste, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



47 



Is — plodding reader! — what d'ye think? 
Alas ! — tis money — money — chink ! 
Round the wide world the tempter flies, 
Presents to view the glittering prize ; 
See how he hastes from shore to shore, 
And how the nations all adore : 
Souls flock by thousands to be sold, 
Smit with the fond desire of gold. 
See, at } T on needy tradesman's shop, 
The universal tempter stop; 
4 VVould'st thou,' he cries, ' increase thy trea- 
sures, 
Use lighter weights and scantier measures, 
Thus thou shalt thrive :' the trader's willing, 
And soils his soul to get a shilling. 
Next Satan to a farmer hies, 
' I acorn to cheat,' the farmer cries : 
Yet still his heart on wealth is bent, 
And so the Devil is content ; 
Now markets rise, and riches roll, 
And Satan quite secures his soul. 
Mark next yon cheerful youth so jolly. 
So fond of laughter and of folly ; 
He hates a stingy griping fellow, 
But gets each day a little mellow ; 
To Satan too he sells his soul 
In barter for a flowing howl. 
But mark again yon lass a spinning, 
See how the tempter is beginning : 



Some beau presents a top-knot nice, 
She grants her virtue as the price ; 
A slave to vanity's controul/ 
She, for a riband, sells her soul ! 
Thus Satan tries each different state: 
With mighty bribes he tempts the great ; 
The poor, with equal force he plies, 
But wins them with a humbler prize : 
Has gentler arts for young beginners, 
And fouler sins for older sinners. 
Oft too he cheats our mortal eyes, 
For Satan father is of lies; 
A thousand swindling tricks he plays us, 
And promises, but never pays us; 
Thus we poor fools are strangely caught, 
And find we've sold our souls for nought. 
Nay, oft, with quite a juggler's art, 
He bids the proffer'd gift depart; 
Sets some gay joy before our face, 
Then claps a trouble in its place ; 
Turns up some loss for promis'd gain, 
And conjures pleasure into pain. 
Be wise then, oh ! ye worldly tribe, 
Nor sell your conscience for a bribe ; 
When Satan tempts you to begin, 
R_esist him, and refuse to sin : 
Bad is the bargain on the whole, 
To gain the world and lose the soul '. 



BALLADS. 



ROBERT AND RICHARD. 

OR, THE GHOST OF POOR MOLLY, 

Who was drowned in Richard's Mill-pond. 

Tune—' Collin's Mulberry Tree.' 

Quoth Richard to Bob, ' Let things go as they 

will, 
Of pleasure and fun I will still have my fill ; 
In frolic and mirth I see nothing amiss, 
And though I get tipsy, what harm is in this ? 
For e'en Solomon says, and I vow he says truth, 
Rejoice, O young man, in the days of thy 

youth.' 
I'm glad,' answered Bob, ' you're of Solomon's 

creed, [proceed ; 

But I beg, if you quote him, you'll please to 
' For God (as the wise man continues to sing) 
Thy soul into judgment for all this will bring. 
Thus a man may get plung'd in a woful abyss, 
By choosing to say, Pray what harm is in this V 
'Come, come,' says gay Richard, ' don't grudge 

me a cup, 
I'm resolv'd, while I'm able, I'll still keep it up ; 
Let old gray-beard's deny that in frolic there's 

bliss, 
I'll game, love, and drink — and what harm is in 

this V 
Says Robert, ' I grant if you live for to-day, 
You may game, love, and drink, and may frolic 

away; 
But then, my dear Dick, I again must contend, 
That the Wise Man has bid us — Remember the 

end!' 
Says Richard, ' When sickness or peevish old 



Shall advance to dismiss me from life's merry 

stage ; 
Repentance just then, boy, may not be amiss, 
But while young I'll be jolly, what harm is m 

this V 
They parted ; and Richard his pastimes begun, 
'Twas Richard the jovial, the soul of all fun ; 
Each dancing bout, drinking bout, Dick would 

attend 
And he sung and he swore, nor once thought of 

the end. 
Young Molly he courted, the pride of the plain, 
He promis'd her marriage, but promis'd in vain ; 
She trusted his vows, but she soon was undone, 
And when she lamented, he thought it good fun. 
Thus scorn'd by her Richard, sad Molly run 

wild, 
And roam'd through the woods with her desti- 
tute child ; 
'Till Molly and Molly's poor baby were found, 
One evening, in Richard's own mill-pond both 

drown'd. 
Then his conscience grew troubled by night 

and by day, 
But its clamour he drown'd in more drink and 

more play ; 
Still Robert exhorted, and like a true friend 
He warn'd him and pray'd him to think on the 

end I 
Now disturb'd in his dreams, poor Molly each 

night 
With her babe stood before him, how sad was 

the sight ! 
O how ghastly she look'd as she bade him at- 
tend, 
And so awfully told him, ' Remember the end* 



48 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



She talk'd of the woes and unquenchable fire 
Which await the licentious, the drunkard, and 

liar : • [beware, 

How he ruin'd more maidens, she bade him 
Then she wept, and she groan'd, and she va- 

nish'd in air. 
Now beggar'd by gaming, distemper'd by drink, 
Death slar'd in his face, yet he dar'd not to 

think ; 
Desparing of mercy, despising all truth, 
He dy'd of old age in the prime of his youth. 
On his tomb-stone, good Robert, these verses 

engrav'd, [and be saved : 

Which he hop'd some gay fellow might read 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies a poor youth, who call'd drinking his 
bliss. [this ? 

And was ruin'd by saying, what harm is in 
Let each passer by to his error attend, 
And learn of poor Dick to remember the end .' 

THE CARPENTER : 
Or, the Danger of Evil Company. 

There was a young west countryman, 

A carpenter by trade, 
A skilful wheelright too was he, 

And few such wagons made. 
No man a tighter barn could build, 

Throughout his native town ; 
Through many a village round was he 

The best of workmen known, 
His father left him what he had, 

In sooth it was enough, 
His shining pewter, pots of brass, 

And all his household stuff. 
A little cottage too he had, 

For ease and comfort plann'd ; 
And that he might not lack for aught, 

An acre of good land. 
A pleasant orchard too there was 

Before his cottage door ; 
Of cider and of corn likewise, 

He had a little store. 
Active and healthy, stout and young 

No business wanted he ; 
Now tell me, reader, if you can ; 

What man more blest could be ? 
To make his comfort quite complete ; 

He had a faithful wife ; 
Frugal, and neat, and good was she, 

The blessing of his life. 
Where is the lord, or where the squire, 

Had greater cause to praise 
The goodness of that bounteous hand 

Which blest his prosp'rous days? 
Each night when he return'd from work, 

His wife so meek and mild, 
His little supper gladly dress'd, 

While he caress'd his child, 
One blooming babe was all he had, 

His only darling dear, 
The object of their equal love, 

The solace of their care. 
O what could ruin such a life, 

And spoil so fair a lot ? 
O what could change so kind a heart, 

And ev'ry virtue blot ? 
W : th grief the cause I must relate, 



The dismal cause reveal ; 
'Twas evil company and drink, 

The source of ev'ry ill. 
A cooper came to live hard by, 

Who did his fancy please ; 
An idle rambling man was he, 

Who oft had cross'd the seas, 
This man could tell a merry tale, 

And sing a merry song ; 
And those who heard him sing or talk, 

Ne'er thought the ev'ning long. 
But vain and vicious was the song, 

And wicked was the tale ; 
And ev'ry pause he always fill'd, 

With cider, gin, or ale. 
Our carpenter delighted much 

To hear the cooper talk ; 
And with him to the alehouse oft, 

Would take his evening walk. 
At first he did not care to drink, 

But only lik'd the fun ; 
But soon he from the cooper learnt, 

The same sad course to run, 
He said the cooper's company 

Was all for which he car'd ; 
But soon he drank as much as he, 

To swear like him soon dar'd. 
His hammer now neglected lay, 

For work he little car'd ; 
Half finish'd wheels and broken tools, 

Were strew'd about his yard. 
To get him to attend his work, 

No prayers could now prevail, ' 
His hatchet and his plane forgot, 

He never drove a nail. 
His cheerful ev'nings now no more 

With peace and plenty smil'd ; 
No more he sought his pleasing wife, 

Nor hugg'd his smiling child. 
For not his drunken nights alone, 

Were with the cooper past, ■ 
His days were at the Angel spent, 

And still he stay'd the last. 
No handsome Sunday suit was left, 

Nor decent Holland shirt : 
No nose-gay mark'd the sabbath-morn^; 

But all was rags and dirt. 
No more his church he did frequent, 

A symptom ever sad : 
Where once the Sunday is mispent, 

The week days must be bad. 
The cottage mortgag'd for its worth ; 

The fav'rite orchard sold ; 
He soon began to feel the effects 

Of hunger and of cold. 
The pewter dishes one by one 

Were pawn'd, till none were left ; 
A wife and babe at home remain'd 

Of ev'ry help bereft. 
By chance he call'd at home one night, 

And in a surley mood, 
He bade his weeping wife to get 

Immediately some food. 
His empty cupboard well he knew 

Must needs be bare of bread; 
No rasher on the rack he saw, 

Whence could he then be fed '. 
Hia wife* a piteous sigh did heave, 

* See Berquin's Gardener. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



49 



And then before him laid, 
A basket cover'd with a cloth, 

But not a word she said. 
Then to her husband gave a knife, 

With many a silent tear, 
In haste he tore the cover off, 

And saw his child lie there. 
* There lies thy babe,' the mother said, 

' Oppress'd with famine sore' 
O kill us both — 'twere kinder far 

We could not surfer more. 
The carpenter struck to the heart, 

Fell on his knees straightway, 
He wrung his hands — confess'd his sins, 

And did both weep and pray. 
From that same hour the cooper more 

He never would behold ; 
Nor would he to the ale house go ; 

Had it been pav'd with gold. 
His wife forgave him all the past ;' 

And sooth'd his sorrowing mind, 
And much he griev'd that e'er he wrong'd 

The worthiest of her kind. 
By lab'ring hard, and working late, 

By industry and pains, 
His cottage was at length redeem'd, 

And sav'd were all his gains. 
His Sundays now at church were spent, 

His home was his delight ; 
The following verse himself he made, 

And read it ev'ry night. 

The drunkard murders child and wife, 

Nor matters it a pin, 
Whether he stabs them with his knife, 

Or starves them with his gin. 

THE RIOT: 

OR, HALF A LOAF IS BETTER THAN NO BREAD. 

in a Dialogue between Jack Anvil and Tom Hod. 

To the tune of ' A cobler there was.' 

Writtttt in ninety-Jive, a year of scarcity and 
Alarm. 



Come neighbours, no longer be patient and quiet, 
Come let us go kick up a bit of a riot ; 
I'm hungry, my lads, but I 've little to eat, 
So Wt5 '11 pull down the mills, and we '11 seize all 

the meat : 
I '11 give you good sport, boys, as ever you saw, 
So a fig for the justice, a fig for the law. 

Berry Down. 
Then his pitchfork Tom seiz'd — hold a moment, 

says Jack, 
I '11 show thee thy blunder, brave boy, in a crack, 
And if I don't prove we had better be still, 
I '11 assist thee straightway to pull down ev'ry 

mill ; - 

I '11 show thee how passion thy reason doth cheat, 
Or I '11 join thee in plunder for bread and for 

meat. Derry Down. 

What a whimsey to think thus our bellies to fill, 
For we stop all the grinding by breaking the 

mill! 
What a whimsey to think we shall get more to 

eat, 
By abusing the butcher who gets ub the meat ! 



What a whimsey to think we shall mend our 

spare diet, 
By breeding disturbance, by murder and riot ? 

Derry Down. 
Because I am dry, 'twould be foolish, I think, 
To pull out my tap and to spill all my drink ; 
Because I am hungry, and want to be fed, 
That is sure no wise reason for wasting my 

bread ; 
And just such wise reasons for minding their 

diet, 
Are us'd by those blockheads who rush into riot. 

Derry Down. 
I would not take comfort from others' distresses, 
But still I would mark how God our land blesses; 
For though in old England the times are but sad, 
Abroad I am told they are ten times as bad ; 
In the land of the Pope there is scarce anv grain, 
And 'tis worse still, they say, both in Holland 
and Spain. Derry Down. 

Let us look to the harvest our wants to beguile, 
See the lands with rich crops how they ev'ry 

where smile ! 
Meantime to assist us, by each western breeze ! 
Some corn is brought daily across the salt seas ! 
Of tea we'll drink little, of gin none at all, 
And we '11 patiently wait, and the prices will 
fall. Derry Down. 

But if we 're not quiet, then let us not wonder, 
If things grow much worse by our riot and 

plunder ; 
And let us remember, whenever we meet, 
The more ale we drink, boys, the less we shall 

eat, 
On those days spent in riot no bread you brought 

home, 
Had you spent them in labour you must have 
had some. Derry Down. 

A dinner of herbs, says the wise man, with quiet, 
Is better than beef amid discord and riot. 
If the thing could be help'd I'm a foe to all strife, 
And I pray for a peace ev'ry night of my life ; 
But in matters of state not an inch will I budge, 
Because I conceive I'm no very good judge. 

Derry Down. 
But though poor, I can work, my brave boy with 

the best, 
Let the king and the parliament manage the 

rest; 
I lament both the war and the taxes together, 
Though I verily think they don't alter tie 

weather. 
The king, as I take it, with very good reason, 
May prevent a bad law, but can't help a bad 
season. Derry Down. 

The parliament men, although great is their 

power, 
Yet they cannot contrive us a bit of a shower 
And I never yet heard though our rulers are 

wise, 
That they know very well how to manage the 

skies ; 
For the best of them all, as they found to their 

cost, 
Were not able to hinder last winter's hard frost. 

Derry Down* 
Besides, I must share in the wants of the times, 
Because I have had my full share in its crimes ; 
And I 'm apt to believe the distress which is sent, 
Is to punish and cure us of "j discontent. 
D 



50 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



But harvest is coming — potatoes are come ! 
Our prospect clears up; ye complainers be 

dumb ! Deny Down. 

And though I 've no money, and though I 've no 

lands, 
I 've a head on my shoulders, and a pair of good 

hands. 
So I '11 work the whole day, and on Sundays I 'II 

seek 
At church how to bear all the wants of the week. 
The gentlefolks too will afford us supplies ; 
They '11 subscribe — and they '11 give up their 

puddings and pies. Derry Down. 

Then before I 'm induc'd to take part in a riot, 
I '11 ask this short question — what shall I get 

by it? 
So I '11 e'en wait a little till cheaper the bread, 
For a mittimus hangs o'er each rioter's head : 
And when of two evils I 'm ask'd which is best, 
I 'd rather be hungry than hang'd, I protest. 

Derry Down. 
Quoth Tom, thou art right, If I rise I 'm a Turk : 
So he threw down his pitchfork, and went to his 

work. 

PATIENT JOE : 

OR, THE NEW CASTLE COLLIER. 

Have you heard of a collier of honest renown, 
Who dwelt on the borders of Newcastle town ? 
His name it was Joseph — you better may know 
If I tell you he always was call'd patient Joe. 
Whatever betided he thought it was right, 
And Providence still he kept ever in sight; 
To those who love God, let things turn as they 

would, 
He was certain that all work'd together for good. 
He prais'd his Creator whatever befel ; 
How thankful was Joseph when matters went 

well! 
How sincere were his carols of praise for good 

health, 
And how grateful for any increase in his wealth ! 
In trouble he bow'd him to God's holy will ; 
How contented was Joseph when matters went 

ill! 
When rich and when poor he alike understood, 
That all things together were working for good. 
If the land was afflicted with war he declar'd, 
'Twas a needful correction for sins which he 

shar'd, 
And when merciful Heaven bade slaughter to 

cease, 
How thankful was Joe for the blessing of peace ! 
When taxes ran high, and provisions were dear, 
Still Joseph declar'd he had nothing to fear ; 
It was but a trial he well understood, 
From Him who made all work together for good. 
Though his wife was but sickly his gettings but 

small, 
Yet a mind so submissive prepar'd him for all ; 
He liv'd on his gains were they greater or less, 
And the giver he ceas'd not each moment to 

bless. [joy* 

When another child came he received him with 
And Providence bless'd who had sent him the 

boy; 
But when the child died — said poor Joe I 'm con- 
tent, 
For God had a right to recall what he lent. 



It was Joseph's ill fortune to work in a pit 
With some who believ'd that profaneness was 

wit; 
When disasters befel him much pleasure they 

show'd, 
And laugh'd and said — Joseph, will this work 

for good ? 
But ever when these would profanely advance 
That this happen'd by luck, and that happen'd 

by chance ; 
Still Joseph insisted no chance could be found, 
Not a sparrow by accident falls to the ground. 
Among his companions who work'd in the pit, 
And made him the butt of their profligate wit, 
Was idle Tim Jenkins, who drank and who 

gam'd, 
Who mock'd at his Bible, and was not asham'd. 
One day at the pit his old comrades he found, 
And they chatted, preparing to go under ground, 
Tim Jenkins, as usual, was turning to jest, 
Joe's notion — that all things which happen'd 

were best. 
As Joe on the ground had unthinkingly laid 
His provision for dinner, of bacon and bread, 
A dog on the watch, seiz'd the bread and the 

meat, 
And off with his prey ran with foot-steps so fleet. 
Now to see the delight that Tim Jenkins ex- 

press'd ! 
' Is the loss of thy dinner too, Joe for the best?' 
' No doubt on't,' said Joe ; 4 but as I must eat, 
'Tis my duty to try to recover my meat.' 
So saying, he follow'd the dog a long round, 
While Tim, laughing and swearing, went down 

under ground. [lost, 

Poor Joe soon return'd, though his bacon was 
For the dog a good dinner had made at his cost. 
When Joseph came back he expected a sneer, 
But the face of each collier spoke horror and 

fear ; [said, 

What a narrow escape hast thou had, they all 
The pit 's fall'n in, and Tim Jenkins is dead ! 
How sincere was the gratitude Joseph express'd ! 
How warm the compassion which glow'd in his 

breast ! 
Thus events great and small, if aright under- 

stood, 
Will be found to be working together for good. 
1 When my meat,' Joseph cry'd ' was just now 

stol'n away, 
And I had no prospect of eating to-day, 

How could it appear to a short-sighted sinner, 
That my life would be sav'd by the loss of my 

dinner.' 

THE GIN SHOP : 

OR A PEEP INTO PRISON. 

Look through the land from north to south, 

And look from east to west, 
And see what is to Englishmen 

Of life the deadliest pest. 
It is not want, though that is bad, 

Nor war, though that is worse 
But Britons brave endure, alas ! 

A self-inflicted curse. 
Go where you will, throughout the realm, 

You'll find the reigning sin, 
In cities, villages, and towns, 

— The monster's name is Gin. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



51 



The prince of darkness never sent 

To man a deadlier foe, 
* My name is Legion,' it may say, 

The source of many a wo. 
Nor does the fiend alone deprive 

The labourer of his wealth : 
That is not all, it murders too 

His honest name and health. 
We say the times are grievous hard, 

And hard they are, 'tis true ; 
But, drunkards, to your wives and babes, 

They're harder made by you. 
The drunkard's tax is self-impos'd, 

Like every other sin ; 
The taxes altogether lay 

No weight so great as Gin. 
The state compels no man to drink, 

Compels no man to game, 
'Tis Gin and Gambling sink him down 

To rags, and want, and shame. 
The kindest husband, chang'd by Gin, 

Is for a tyrant known ; 
The tenderest heart that nature made, 

Becomes a heart of stone. 
In many a house the harmless babes 

Are poorly cloth'd and fed, 
Because the craving Gin-shop takes 

The children's daily bread. 
Come, neighbour, take a walk with me, 

Through many a London street, 
And see the cause of penury 

In hundreds we shall meet. 
We shall not need to travel far — 

Behold that great man's door ; 
He well discerns yon idle crew 

From the deserving poor. 
He will relieve with liberal hand, 

The child of honest thrift; 
But where long scores of Gin-shops stand 

He will withhold his gift. 
Behold that shiv'ring female there, 

Who plies her woful trade ! 
'Tis ten to one you'll find that Gin 

That hopeless wretch has made. 
Look down those steps, and view below 

Yon cellar under ground, 
There ev'ry want and ev'ry wo 

And ev'ry sin is found. 
Those little wretches trembling there, 

With hunger and with cold, 
Were by their parents' love of Gin, 

To sin and misery sold. 
Blest be those friends* to human kind 

Who take these wretches up, 
E'er they have drunk the bitter dregs 

* The Philanthropic Society. 



Of their sad parents' cup. 
Look through that prison's iron bars, 

Look through that dismal grate, 
And learn what dire misfortune brought 

So terrible a fate. 
The debtor and the felon too, 

Though differing much in sin, 
Too oft you'll find were thither brought 

By all-destroying Gin. 
Yet Heav'n forbid I should confound 

Calamity with guilt ! 
Or name the debtor's lesser fault 

With blood of brother spilt. 
To prison dire misfortune oft 

The guiltless debtor brings ; 
Yet oft'ner far it will be found 

From Gin the misery springs. 
See the pale manufacturer there, 

How lank and lean he lies ! 
How haggard is his sickly cheek ! 

How dim his hollow eyes ! 
He plied the loom with good success, 

His wages still were high, 
Twice what the village lab'rer gains, 

His master did supply. 
No book-debts kept him from his cash, 

All paid as soon as due 
His wages on the Saturday 

To fail he never knew. 
How amply had his gains suffic'd 

On wife and children spent ! 
But all must for his pleasures go, 

All to the Gin-shop went. 
See that apprentice, young in years, 

But hackney'd long in sin, 
What made him" rob his master's till? 

Alas ! 'twas love of Gin. 
That serving man — I knew him onoe, 

So jaunty, spruce, and smart ! 
Why did he steal, then pawn the plate ? 

'Twas Gin ensnar'd his heart. 
But hark ! what dismal sound was that ? 

'Tis Saint Sepulchre's bell ! 
It tolls, alas, for human guilt, 

Some malefactor's knell. 
O ! woful sound ! O ! what could cause 

Such punishment and sin ? 
Hark ! hear his words, he owns the cause- 
Bad Company and Gin. 
And when the future lot is fix'd 

Of darkness, fire, and chains, 
How can the drunkard hope to 'scape 

Those everlasting pains ! 
For if the murd'rer 's doom'd to wo, 

As Holy-Writ declares, 
The drunkard with self-murderers, 

That dreadful portion shares. 



TALES. 



THE TWO GARDENERS. 

Two gardeners once beneath un oak, 
Lay down to rest, when Jack thus spoke : 
'You must confess dear Will that Nature 
Is but a blundering kind of creature ; 
And I — nay, why that look of terror ? 
Could teach her how to mend her error.' 



' Your talk,' quoth Will, is bold and odd, 
What you call Nature, I call God.' 
1 Well, call him by what name you will, 
Quoth Jack, ' he manages but ill ; 
Nay, from the very tree we 're under, 
I'll prove that Providenoe can blunder.' 
Quoth Will, ' Through thick and thin you dash, 
I shudder Jack, at words so rash - 



52 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



I trust to what the Scriptures tell, 
He hath done always all things well.' 
Quoth Jack, ' I'm lately grown a wit, 
And think all good a lucky hit. 
To Prove that Providence can err, 
Not words but facts the, truth aver. 
To this vast oak lift up thine eyes, 
Then view that acorn's paltry size ; 
How foolish on a tree so tall, 
To place that tiny cup and ball. 
Now look again, yon pompion* see, 
It weighs two pounds at least, nay three ; 
Yet this large fruit, where is it found ? 
Why, meanly trailing on the ground. 
Had Providence ask'd my advice, 
I would have chang'd it in a trice ; 
I would have said at Nature's birth, 
Let Acorns creep upon the earth ; 
But let the pompion, vast and round, 
On the oak's lofty boughs be found.' 
He said — and as he rashly spoke, 
Lo ! from the branches of the oak, 
A wind, which suddenly arose, 
Beat showers of acorns on his nose ; 
' Oh ! oh :' quoth Jack, ' I'm wrong I see, 
And God is wiser far than me. 
For did a show'r of pompions large, 
Thus on my naked face discharge, 
I had been brus'd and blinded quite, 
What heav'n appoints I find is right ; 
Whene'er I'm tempted to rebel, 
I'll think how light the acorns fell ; 
Wheieas on oaks had pompions hung, 
My broken skull had stopp'd my tongue. 

THE LADY AND THE PIE: 

OR KNOW THYSELF. 

A worthy squire of sober life 
Had a conceited boasting wife : 
Of him she daily made complaint, 
Herself she thought a very saint. 
She lov'd to load mankind with blame, 
And on their errors build her fame. 
Her fav'rite subject of dispute 
Was Eve and the forbidden fruit. 
1 Had I been Eve,' she often cried, 

* Man had not fall'n, nor woman died; 
I still had kept the orders giv'n, 

Nor for an apple lost my heav'n ; 
To gratify my curious mind 
I ne'er had ruin'd all mankind 
Nor from a vain desire to know, 
Entail'd on all my race such wo.' 

The squire reply'd ; ' I fear 'tis true, 
The same ill spirit lives in you ; 
Tempted alike, I dare believe, 
You would have disobey'd like Eve.' 
The lady storm'd, and still deny'd 
Sin, curiosity, and pride. 

The squire, some future day at dinner, 
Resolv'd to try this boastful sinner ; 
He griev'd such vanity possest her, 
And thus in serious terms address'd her : 

* Madam, the usual splendid feast, 
With which our wedding day is grac'd, 
With you I must not share to-day 

For business summons me away. 

• A Gowd. 



Of all the dainties I've prepar'd, 

1 beg not any may be spar'd ; 

Indulge in ev'ry costly dish, 

Enjoy, 'tis what I really wish ; 

Only observe one prohibition, 

Nor think it a severe condition ; 

On one small dish which cover'd standc. 

You must not dare to lay your hands 

Go — Disobey not on your life, 

Or henceforth you 're no more my wife.' 

The treat wasserv'd, the squire was gone 
The murm'ring lady din'd alone : 
She saw whate'er could grace a feast, 
Or charm the eye, or please the taste : 
But while she rang'd from this to that. 
From ven'son haunch to turtle fat ; 
On one small dish she chane'd to light, 
By a deep cover hid from sight: 
O ! here it is — yet not for me ! 
I must not taste, nay, dare not see ; 
Why place it there ? or why forbid 
That I so much as lift the lid ? 
Prohibited of this to eat, 
I care not for the sumptuous treat 
I wonder if 'tis fowl or fish, 
To know what 's there I merely wish. 
I '11 look — O no, I lose forever, 
If I 'm betray'd, my husband's favour. 
I own I think it vastly hard, 
Nay, tyranny, to be debarr'd. 
John, you may go — the wine's decanted, 
I '11 ring or call you when you 're wanted. 
Now left alone, she waits no longer ; 
Temptation presses more and stronger. 
' I '11 peep — the harm can ne'er be much, 
For though I peep, I will not touch ; 
Why I 'm forbid to lift this cover, 
One glance will tell, and then 'tis over 
My husband 's abeent ; so is John, 
My peeping never can be known,' 
Trembling, she yielded to her wish, 
And rais'd the cover from the dish: 
She starts — for lo ! an open pie 
From which six living sparrows fly. 
She calls, she screams, with wild surprise, 
' Haste, John, and catch these birds,' she criea 
John hears not ; but to crown her shame, 
In at her call her husband came. 
Sternly he frown'd as thus he spoke : 
' Thus is your vow'd allegiance broke ! 
Self-ign'rance led you to believe 
You did not share the sin of Eve 
Like hers, how blest was your condition ! 
Like heav'ns, how small my prohibition I 
Yet you, though fed with every dainty 
Sat pining in the midst of plenty ; 
This dish, thus singled from the rest, 
Of your obedience was the test; 
Your mind, unbroke by self-denial, 
Could not sustain this tender trial. 
Humility from this be taught, 
Learn candour to another's fault ; 
Go know, like Eve, from this sad dinner 
You 're both a vain a curious sinner.' 

THE PLUM-CAKES : 

Or, the Farmer and his Three Son*. 

A Farmer, who some wealth possest, 
With three fine boys was also blest ; 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



53 



The lads were healthy, stout and young, 
And neither wanted sense nor tongue. 
Tom, Will, and Jack, like other boys, 
Lov'd tops and marbles, sport and toys. 
The father scouted that false plan, 
That money only makes the man ; 
But, to the best of his discerning, 
Was bent on giving them good learning ; 
He was a man of observation, 
No scholar, yet had penetration ; 
So with due care, a school he sought, 
Where his young sons might well be taught. 
Quoth he, ' I know not which rehearses 
Most properly his themes or verses; 
Yet I can do a father's part, 
And school the temper, mind, and heart; 
The natural bent of each I '11 know, 
And trifles best that bent may show.' 
'Twas just before the closing year, 
When Christmas holidays were near, 
The farmer call'd to see his boys, 
And ask how each his time employs. 
Quoth Will, i There's father, boys, without, 
He 's brought us something good, no doubt.' 
The father sees their merry faces, 
With joy beholds them, and embraces. 
'Come, boys, of home you '11 have your fill.' 
1 Yes, Christmas now is near,' says Will ; 

• 'Tis just twelve days — these notches see, 
My notches with the days agree.' 

• Well,' said the sire, • again I'll come, 
And gladly fetch my brave boys home ! 
You two the dappled mare shall ride, 
Jack mount the pony by my side ; 
Meantime, my lads, I've brought you her© 
No small provision of good cheer.' 

Then from his pocket straight he takes, 

A vast profusion of plum-cakes ; 

He counts them out, a plenteous store, 

No boy shall have or less or more ; 

Twelve cakes he gives to each dear son, 

When each expected only one ; 

And then, with many a kind expression, 

He leaves them to their own discretion ; 

Resolv'd to mark the use each made 

Of what he to their hands convey'd. 

The twelve days past, he comes once more, 
And brings the horses to the door 
The boys with rapture see appear 
The poney and the dappled mare ; 
Each moment now an hour they count, 
And crack their whips and long to mount. 
As with the boys his ride he takes, 
He asks the history of the cakes. 

Says Will, ' Dear father, life is short, 
So I resolv'd to make quick sport ; 
The cakes were all so nice and sweet, 
I thought I'd have one jolly treat ; 
Why should I balk, said I, my taste ? 
I '11 make at once a hearty feast. 
So snugly by myself I fed, 
When every boy was gone to bed ; 
I gorg'd them all, both paste and plum, 
And did not spare a single crumb; 
Indeed they made me, to my sorrow, 
As sick as death upon the morrow ; 
This made me mourn my rich repast, 
And wish I had not fed so fast.' 
Quoth Jack, ' I was not such a dunce, 
To eat my quantum up at once ; 



And though the boys all long'd to clutch 'em 
I would not let a creature touch 'em ; 
Nor though the whole were in my pow'r. 
Would I one single cake devour ; 
Thanks to the use of keys and locks, 
They 're all now snug within my box ; 
The mischief is, by hoarding long, 
They 're grown so mouldy and so strong, 
I find they won't be fit to eat, 
And I have lost my father's treat.' 

* Well, Tom,' the anxious parent cries, 
' How did you manage ?' Tom replies, 
' I shun'd each wide extreme to take, 
To glut my maw, or hoard my cake ; 
I thought each day its wants would have, 
And appetite again might crave ; 
Twelve school-days still my notches counted 
To twelve my father's cakes amounted ; 
So ev'ry day I took out one, 
But never ate my cake alone ; 
With ev'ry needy boy I shar'd, 
And more than half I always spar'd. 
One ev'ry day, 'twixt self and friend, 
Has brought my dozen to an end : 
My last remaining cake to-day 
I would not touch, but gave away ; 
A boy was sick, and scarce could eat, 
To him it prov'd a welcome treat : 
Jack call'd me spendthrift not to save , 
Will dubb'd me fool because I gave ; 
But when our last day Came, I smil'd, 
For Wiil's were gone, and Jack's were spoil'd 
Not hoarding much, nor eating fast, 
I serv'd a needy friend at last.' 

These tales the father's thoughts employ ; 
' By these,' said he, ' I know each boy : 
Yet Jack, who hoarded what he had, 
The world will call a frugal lad ; 
And selfish gormandizing Will 
Will meet with friends and fav'rers still : 
While moderate Tom, so wise and cool, 
The mad and vain will deem a fool: 
But I, his sober plan approve, 
And Tom has gain'd his father's love." 

APPLICATION. 

So when our day of life is past, 

And all are fairly judg'd at last ; 

The miser and the sensual find 

How each misused the gifts assign'd : 

While he, who wisely spends and gives, 

To the true ends of living lives ; 

'Tis self-denying moderation 

Gains the Great Father's approbation. 



TURN THE CARPET : 
OR, THE TWO WEAVERS. 

IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN DICK AND JOHN 

As at their work two weavers sat, 
Beguiling time with friendly chat ; 
They touch'd upon the price of meat, 
So high, a weaver scarce could eat. 
'What with my brats and sickly wife,' 
Quoth Dick, ' I 'm almost tir'd of life ; 
So hard my work, so poor my fare, 
'Tis more than mortal man can bear 
• How glorious is the rich man's state ! 
His house so fine ! his wealth so great ! 



54 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Heav'n is unjust, you must agree ; 

Why all to him ? why none to rne ? 

' In spite of what the Scripture teaches, 

In spite of all the parson preaches, 

This world (indeed I 've thought so long) 

Is rul'd, methinks, extremely wrong. 

1 Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 

'Tis all confus'd,'and hard, and strange; 

The good are troubled and oppress'd 

And all the wicked are the bless'd.' 

Quoth John : ' Our ign'rance is the cause 

Why thus we blame our Maker's laws ; 

Paris of his ways alone we know, 

'Tis all that man can see below, 

' See'st thou that carpet, not half done, 

Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun ? 

Behold the wild confusion there, 

So rude the mass it makes one stare! 

4 A stranger, ign'rant of the trade, 

Would say, no meaning's there convey'd ; 

For where 's the middle, where 's the border ? 

Thy carpet now is all disorder.' 

Quoth Dick, ' My work is yet in bits, 

But still in ev'ry part it fits ; 

Besides, you reason like a lout, 

Why, man, that carpet 's inside out.' 



Says John, ' Thou say'st the thing I mean, 

And now I hope to cure thy spleen ; 

This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt, 

Is but a carpet inside out. 

' As when we view these shreds and ends, 

We know not what the whole intends ; 

So when on earth things look but odd, 

They 're working still some scheme of God. 

' No plan, no pattern, can we trace, 

All wants proportion, truth, and grace ; 

The motley mixture we deride, 

Nor see the beauteous upper side. 

' But when we reach that world of light, 

And view those works of God aright, 

Then shall we see the whole design, 

And own the workman is divine. 

' What now seems random strokes, will there 

AH order and design appear ; 

Then shall we praise what here we spurn'd, 

For then the carpet shall be turri'd' 

' Thou 'rt right,' quoth Dick, • no more I '11 

grumble 
That this sad world T s so strange a jumble ; 
My impious doubts are put to flight, 
For my own carpet sets me right.' 



HYMNS. 



THE TRUE HEROES : 

Or, the Noble Army of Martyrs 

You who love a tale of glory, 

Listen to the song I sing ; 
Heroes of the Christian story, 

Are the heroes I shall bring. 
Warriors of the world, avaunt ! 

Other heroes me engage : 
'Tis not such as you I want, 

Saints and martyrs grace my page. 
Warriors, who the world o'ercame 

Were in brother's blood imbru'd ; 
While the saints of purer fame, 

Greater far, themselves subdu'd. 
Fearful Christian ! hear with wonder, 

Of the saints of whom I tell ; 
Some were burnt, some sawn asunder, 

Some by fire or torture fell ; 
Some to savage beasts were hurl'd, 

One escap'd the lion's den ; 
Was a persecuting world 

Worthy of these wond'rous men? 
Some in fiery furnace thrown, 

Yet escap'd unsing'd their hair ; 
There Almighty pow'r was shown : 

For the Son of God was there. 
Let us crown with deathless fame 

Those who scorn'd and hated fell ; 
Martyrs met contempt and shame,* 

Fearing nought but sin and hell. 
How the show'r of stones descended, 

Holy Stephen, on thy head ! 
While his tongue the truth defended, 

How the glorious martyr bled ! 
See his fierce reviler Saul, 

How he rails with impious breath ! 
Then observe converted Paul, 

Oft in perils, oft in death. 



'Twas that God, whose sov'reign pow'r, 

Did the lion's fury 'swage, 
Could alone, in one short hour, 

Still the persecutor's rage. 
E'en a woman — women hear, 

Read in Maccabees the story ! 
Conquer'd nature, love, and fear, 

To obtain a crown of glory. 
Seven stout sons she saw expire, 

(How the mother's soul was pain'd.) 
Some by sword, and some by fire, 

(How the martyr was sustain'd!) 
E'en in death's acutest anguish, 

Each the tyrant still defy'd ; 
Each she saw in torture languish, 

Last of all the mother dy'd. 
Martyrs who were thus arrested, 

In their short but bright career , 
By their blood the truth attested, 

Prov'd their faith and love sincere. 
Though their lot was hard and lowly, 

Though they perish'd at the stake, 
Now they live with Christ in glory, 

Since they sufFer'd for his sake. 
Fierce and unbelieving foes 

But their bodies could destroy ; 
Short though bitter were their woes 

Everlasting is their joy. 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

O how wond'rous is the story 
Of our blest Redeemer's birth ! 

See the mighty Lord of Glory 
Leave his heav'n to visit earth ! 

Hear with transport, ev'ry creature, 
Hear the Gospel's joyful sound ; 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



55 



Christ appears in human nature, 

In our sinful world is found ; 
Comes to pardon our transgression, 

Like a cloud our sins to blot ; 
Comes to his own favour'd nation, 

But his own receive him not. 
If the angels who attended 

To declare the Saviour's birth, 
Who from heav'n with songs descended 

To proclaim g*>d will on earth : 
If, in pity to our blindness, 

They had brought the pardon needed, 
Still Jehovah's wond'rous kindness 

Had our warmest hopes exceeded : 
If some prophet had been sent 

With Salvation's joyful news, 
Who that heard the blest event 

Could their warmest love refuse ? 
But 'twas He to whom in Heav'n 

Hallelujahs never cease : 
He, the mighty God, was given, 

Given to us a Prince of Peace. 
None but He who did create us 

Could redeem from sin and hell ; 
None but He could reinstate us 

In the rank from which we fell. 
Had he come, the glorious stranger, 

Deck'd with all the world calls great ; 
Had he liv'd in pomp and grandeur, 

Crown'd with more than royal state ; 
Still our tongues with praise o'erflowing, 

On such boundless love would dwell ; 
Still our hearts, with rapture glowing, 

Feel what words could never tell. 
But what wonder should it raise 

Thus our lowest state to borrow ! 
O the high mysterious ways, 

God's own Son a child of sorrow ! 
'Twas to bring us endless pleasure, 

He our suff'ring nature bore ; 
'Twas to give us heav'nly treasure, 

He was willing to be poor. 
Come, ye rich, survey the stable 

Where your infant Saviour lies ; 
From your full o'erflowing table 

Send the hungry good supplies. 
Boast not your ennobled stations. 

Boast not that you 're highly fed; 
Jesus, hear it, all ye nations, 

Had not where to lay his head. 
Learn of me, thus cries the Saviour, 

If my kingdom you 'd inherit ; 
Sinner, quit your proud behaviour, 

Learn my meek and lowly spirit. 
Come, ye servants, see your station, 

Freed from all reproach and shame ; 
He who purchas'd your salvation, 

Bore a servant's humble name. 
Come, ye poor, some comfort gather 

Faint not in the race you run, 
Hard the lot your gracious Father 

Gave his dear, his only Son. 
Think, that if your humbler stations, 

Less of worldly good bestow, 
You escape those strong temptations 

Whicli from wealth and grandeur flow. 
See your Saviour is ascended ! 

See he looks with pity down ! 
Trust him all will soon be mended, 

Bear his cross, you 'U share bis crown. 



A HYMN OF PRAISE, 

FOR THE ABUNDANT HARVEST OF 1796, 

After a year of scarcity. 

Great God ! when famine threaten'd late 

To scourge our guilty land, 
O did we learn from that dark fate 

To dread thy mighty hand 1 
Did then our sins to mem'ry rise ? 

Or own'd we God was just? 
Or rais'd we penitential cries ? 

Or bow'd we in the dust ? 
Did we forsake one evil path ? 

Was any sin abhor'd ? 
Or did we deprecate thy wrath, 

And turn us to the Lord 1 
'Tis true we fail'd not to repine, 

But did we too repent ? 
Or own the chastisement divine, 

In awful judgment sent? 
Though the bright chain of Peace he broke 

And War with ruthless sword, 
Unpeoples nations at a stroke, 

Yet who regards the Lord ? 
But God, who in his strict decrees, 

Remembers mercy still, 
Can, in a moment, if he please, 

Our hearts with comfort fill. 
He mark'd our angry spirits rise, 

Domestic hate increase ; 
And for a time withheld supplies, 

To teach us love and peace. 
He, when he brings his children low, 

Has blessings still in store ; 
And when he strikes the heaviest blow, 

He loves us but the more. 
Now Frost, and Flood, and Blight* no more 

Our golden harvest spoil ! 
See what an unexampled store 

Rewards the reaper's toil ! 
As when the promis'd harvest fail'd 

In Canaan's fruitful land ; 
The envious Patriarchs were assail'd 

By Famine's pressing hand ! 
The angry brothers then forgot 

Each fierce and jarring feud ; 
United by their adverse lot, 

They lov'd as brothers should. 
So here, from Heav'n's correcting hand, 

Though Famine fail'd to move ; 
Let Plenty now throughout the land, 

Rekindle peace and love. 
Like the rich fool, let us not say, 

Soul ! thou hast goods in store ! 
But shake the overplus away, 

To feed the hungry poor. 
Let rich and poor, on whom are now 

Such bounteous crops bestow'd, 
Raise many a pure and holy vow 

Of gratitude to God! 
And while his gracious name we praise, 

For bread so kindly given ; 
Let us beseecli him all our days, 

To give the bread of heav'n. 
In that blest pray'r our Lord did frame, 

Of all our pray'rs the guide, 
We ask that ' Hallow'd be his name,' 

* These three visitations followed each oiber in quirk 
succession* 



56 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



And then our wants supplied. 
For grace he bids us first implore, 

Next, that we may be fed ; 
We say, ■ Thy will be done,' before 

Wd va^ ' our daily bread.' 



HERE AND THERE 

OR, THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT. 

Being Suitable Thoughts for a New Year. 

Here bliss is short, imperfect, insincere, 

But total, absolute, and perfect there. 

Here time 's a moment, short our happiest state, 

There infinite duration is our date. 

Here Satan tempts, and troubles e'en the best, 

There Satan's pow'r extends not to the blest. 

In a weak sinful body here I dwell, 

But there I drop this frail and sickly shell. 

Here my best thoughts are stain'd with guilt and 

fear, 
But love and pardon shall be perfect there. 
Here my best duties are defil'd with sin, 
There all is ease without and peace within. 
Here feeble faith supplies my only light, - 
There faith and hope are swallow'd up in sight. 
Here love of self my fairest works destroys, 
There love of God shall perfect all my joys. 
Here things, as in a glass, are darkly shown, 
There I shall know as clearly as I 'm known, 
Frail are the fairest flow'rs which bloom below, 



There freshest palms on roots immortal grow. 
Here wants or cares perplex my anxious mind, 
But spirits there a calm fruition find. 
Here disappointments my best schemes destroy 
There those thatsow'd in tears shall reap in joy. 
Here vanity is stamp'd on all below, 
Perfection there on ev'ry good shall grow. 
Here my fond heart is fasten'd on some friend, 
Whose kindness may, whose life must have an 

end; • 

But there no failure can I ever prove, 
God cannot disappoint, for God is love. 
Here Christ for sinners suffer'd, groan'd, and 

bled, 
But there he reigns the great triumphant head : 
Here, mock'd and scourg'd, he wore a crown of 

thorns, 
A crown of glory there his brow adorns. 
Here error clouds the will, and dims the sight, 
There all is knowledge, purity, and light. 
Here so imperfect is this mortal state, 
If blest myself I mourn some other's fate. 
At ev'ry human wo I here repine, 
The joy of ev'ry saint shall there be mine. 
Here if I lean, the world shall pierce my heart, 
But there that broken reed and I shall part. 
Here on no promis'd good can I depend, 
But there the rock of Ages is my friend. 
Here if some sudden joy delight, inspire, 
The dread to lose it damps the rising fire ; 
But there whatever good the soul employ, 
The thought that 'tis eternal crowns the joy. 



BALLADS. 



THE HONEST MILLER 

OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE. 
A True Ballad. 

Op all the callings and the trades 

Which in our land abound, 
The miller's is as useful sure 

As can on earth be found. 
The lord or squire of high degree 

Is needful to the state, 
Because he lets the land he owns 

In farms both small and great. 
The farmer he manures the land, 

Or else what corn could grow ? 
The ploughman cuts the furrow deep, 

Ere he begins to 6ow. 
And though no wealth he has, except 

The labour of his hands; 
Yet honest Industry 's as good 

As houses or as lands. 
The thrasher he is useful too 

To all who like to eat ; 
Unless he winnow'd well the corn, 

The chaff would spoil the wheat. 
But vain the squire's and farmer's care, 

And vain the thrasher's toil; 
And vain would be the ploughman's pains 

Who harrows up the soil ; 
And vain, without the miller's aid, 

The sowing and the dressing ; 
Then sure an honest miller he 

Must be a public blessing. ■ 
And such a miller now I make 



The subject of my song, 
Which, though it shall be very true, 

Shall not be very long. 
This miller lives in Glo'stershire, 

I shall not tell his name ; 
For those who seek the praise of God, 

Desire no other fame. 
In last hard winter — who forgets 

The frost of ninety -five ? 
Then was all dismal scarce, and dear, 

And no poor man could thrive. 
Then husbandry long time stood still, 

And work was at a stand ; 
To make the matter worse, the mills 

Were froze throughout the land. 
Our miller dwelt beside a stream, 

All underneath the hill ; 
Which flow'd amain when others froze, 

Nor ever stopp'd the mill. 
The clam'rous people came from far 

This favour'd mill to find, 
Both rich and poor our miller sought, 

For none but he could grind. 
His neighbours cry'd, ' Now miller seize 

The time to heap up store, 
Since thou of young and helpless babes 

Hast got full half a score.' 
For folks, when tompted to grow rich, 

By means not over nice, 
Oft make their numerous babes a plea 

To sanctify the vice. 
Our miller scorn'd such counsel base, 

And when he ground the grain, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



57 



With steadfast hand refus'd to touch 

Beyond his lawful gain. 
•When God afflicts the land,' said he, 

' Shall I afflict it more ? 
And watch for times of public wo 

To wrong both rich and poor? 
' Thankful to that Almighty Pow'r 

Who makes my river flow, 
I'll use the means he gives to sooth 

A hungry neighbour's wo. 
• My river flows when others freeze, 

But 'tis at his command ; 
For rich and poor I'll grind alike, 

No bribe shall stain my hand.' 
So all the country who had corn 

Here found their wants redrest; 
May ev'ry village in the land 

Be with such millers blest! 

KING DIONYSIUS AND SQUIRE DAMO- 
CLES; 

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD STORY. 

Proper to be sung at all feasts and merry meetings. 
There was a heathen man, sir, 

Belonging to a king ; 
And still it was his plan, sir, 

To covet ev'ry thing. 
And if you don't believe me, 

I'll name him if you please, 
For let me not deceive yo, 

'Twas one squire Damocles, 
He thought that jolly living 

Must ev'ry joy afford ; 
His heart knew no misgiving, 

While round the festive board. 
He wanted to be great, sir, 

And feed on fare delicious ; 
And have his feasts in state, sir, 

Just like king Dionysius. 
The king, to cure his longing, 

Prepar'd a feast so fine, 
That all the court were thronging 

To see the courtier dine. 
And there to tempt his eye, sir, 

Was fish, and flesh, and fowl ; 
And when he was a-dry, sir, 

There stood the brimming bowl. 
Nor did the king forbid him 

From drinking all he could, 
The monarch never chid him, 

But fill'd him with his food. 
O then, to see the pleasure 

Squire Damocles exprest 
'Twas joy beyond all measure, 

Was ever man so blest 1 
With greedy eyes the squire 

Devour'd each costly dainty ; 
You'd think he did aspire 

To eat as much as twenty. 
But just as he prepar'd, sir, 

Of bliss to take his swing ; 
O, how the man was scar'd, sir, 

By this so cruel king ! 
When he to eat intended, 

Lo ! just above his head, 
He spied a sword suspended 

All by a single thread. 
How did it change the feasting 

Vol. L 



To wormwood and to gall, 
To think, while he was tasting, 

Ttie pointed sword might fall 
Then in a moment's time, sir, 

He loath'd the luscious feast'; 
And dreaded as a crime, sir, 

The brimming bowl to taste 
Now, if you're for applying 

The story I have told, 
I think there's no denying 

'Tis worth its weight in gold. 
Ye gay, who view this stranger, 

And pity his sad case ; 
And think there was great danger 

In such a fearful place ; 
Come, let this awful truth, sir, 

In all your minds be stor'd; 
To each intemp'rate youth, 6ir, 

Death is that pointed sword, 
And though you see no reason 

To check your mirth at all, 
In some licentious season 

The sword on you may fall. 
So learn, while at your ease, sir 

You drink down draughts delicious , 
To think of Damocles, Sir, 

And old king Dionysius. 

THE HACKNEY COACHMAN: 

OR, THE WAV TO GET A GOOD FARE. 

To the tune of ' I wish I was a fisherman.' 
I am a bold coachman, and drive a good hack, 
With a coat of five capes that quite covers my 

back ; 
And my wife keeps a sausage-shop, not many 

miles 
From the narrowest alley in all broad St. Giles. 
Though poor, we are honest and very content; 
We pay as we go, for meat, drink, and for rent ■ 
To work all the week I am able and willing, 
I never get drunk, and I waste not a shilling, 
And while at a tavern my gentleman tarries, 
The coachman grows richer than he whom he 

carries, [ 8 in, 

And I'd rather (said I) since it saves me from 
Be the driver without, than the toper within. 
Yet though dram-shops I hate, and the dram- 

drinking friend, 
I'm not quite so good, but I wish I may mend; 
I repent of my sins, since we all are deprav'd, 
For a coachman, I hold, has a soul to be sav'd. 
When a riotous multitude fills up a street, 
And the greater part know not, boys, wherefore 

they meet ; 
If I see there is mischief, I never go there, 
Let others get tipsy so I get my fare. 
Now to church, if I take some good lady to pray, 
It grieves me full sore to be kept quite away ; 
So I step within side, though the sermon's 

begun, 
For a slice of the service is better than none. 
Then my glasses are whole, and my coach is so 

neat, 
I am always the first to be call'd in the street ; 
And I'm known by the name ('tis a name 

rather rare) 
Of the coachman that never asks more than his 

fare. 



58 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Though my beasts should be dull, yet I don't 

use them ill ; 
Though they stumble I swear not, nor cut them 

up hill, 
For I firmly believe there's no charm in an oath 
That can make a nag trot, when to walk he is 

loth. 
And though I'm a coachman, I'll freely confess, 
I beg of my Maker my labours to bless ; 



I praise Him each morning, and pray ev'ry 

night, 
And 'tis this makes my heart feel so cheerful 

and light. 
When I drive to a fun'ral I care not for drink, 
That is not the moment to guzzle, but think ; 
And I wish I could add, both of coachman and 

master, 
That both of us strove to amend a bit faster. 



VILLAGE POLITICS. 

ADDRESSED TO 

ALL THE MECHANICS, JOURNEYMEN, AND LABOURERS, IN GREAT BRITAIN. 

BY WILL CHIP, A COUNTRY CARPENTER. 

[Written early in the French Revolution.] 

w> Q9ii 

It is a privilege to be prescribed to in things about which our minds would otherwise be tost 
with various apprehensions. And for pleasure, I shall profess myself so far from doating on that 
popular idol, Liberty, that I hardly think it possible for any kind of obedience to be more painful 
than an unrestrained liberty. Were there not true bounds, of magistrates, of laws, of piety, of 
reason in the heart, every man would have a fool, nay, a mad tyrant to his master, that would 
multiply him more sorrows than the briars and thorns did to Adam, when he was freed from the 
bliss at once, and the restraint of Paradise, and became a greater slave in the wilderness than in 
the enclosure. — Dr. Hammond's Sermon. 



A DIALOGUE 



BETWEEN JACK ANVIL, THE BLACKSMITH, AND TOM HOD, THE MASON. 



Jack. What's the matter, Tom ? Why dost 
look so dismal ! 

Tom. Dismal, indeed ! Well enough I may. 

Jack. What ! is the old mare dead ? or work 
scarce ? 

Tom. No, no, work's plenty enough, if a man 
had but the heart to go to it. 

Jack. What book art reading? Why dost 
look so like a hang dog ? 

Tom. {Looking on his book.) Cause enough. 
Why I find here that I'm very unhappy, and 
very miserable ; which I should never have 
known if I had not had the good luck to meet 
with this book. Oh 'tis a precious book ! 

Jack. A good sign though ; that you can't 
find out you're unhappy without looking into a 
book for it ! What is the matter ? 

Tom. Matter? Why I want liberty. 

Jack. Liberty ! That's bad indeed ! What ! 
has any one fetched a warrant for thee ? Come, 
man, cheer up, I'll be bound for thee. Thou 
art an honest fellow in the main, though thou 
dost tipple and prate a little too much at the 
Rose and Crown. 

Tom. No, no, I want a new constitution. 

Jack. Indeed! Why I thought thou hadst 
been a desperate healthy fellow. Send for the 
doctor diroctly. 

Tom. I'm not sick; I want liberty and 
equality, and the rights of man. 



Jack. O, now I understand thee. What ! tnou 
art a leveller and a republican, I warrant! 

Tom. I'm a friend to the people. I want a 
reform. 

Jack. Then the shortest way is to mend thy 
self. 

Tom. But I want a. general reform. 

Jack. Then let every one mend one. 

Torn. Pooh ! I want freedom and happiness, 
the same as they have got in France. 

Jack. What, Tom, we imitate them ? We 
follow the French ! Why they only began all 
this mischief at first in order to be just what we 
are already ; and what a blessed land must this 
be, to be in actual possession of all they ever 
hoped to gain by all their hurly-burly. Imi- 
tate them indeed ! — why I'd sooner go to the 
negroes to get learning, or to the Turks to get 
religion, than to the French for freedom and 
happiness. 

Tom. What do you mean by that ? ar'n't the 
French free ? 

Jack. Free, Tom ! ay free with a witness. 
They are all so free that there's nobody safe. 
They make free to rob whom they will, and 
kill whom they will. If they don't like a man's 
looks, they make free to hang him without judge 
or jury, and the next lamp-post serves for the 
gailows ; so then they call themselves free, be 
cause you see they have no law left to condemn 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



them, and no king to take them up and hang 
them for it. 

Tom. Ah, but Jack, did'nt their king for- 
merly hang people for nothing too ? and besides, 
were they not all papists before the revolution ? 

Jack. Why, true enough, they had but a poor 
eort of religion ; but bad is better than none, 
Tom. And so was the government bad enough 
too ; for they could clap an innocent man into 
prison, and "keep him there too as long as they 
would, and never say, with your leave or by 
your leave, gentlemen of the jury. But what's 
all that to us ? 

Tom. To us ! Why don't many of our go- 
vernors put many of our poor folks in prison 
against their will? What are all the jails for? 
Down with the jails, I say ; all men should be 
free. 

Jack. Harkee, Tom, a few rogues in prison 
keep the rest in order, and then honest men go 
about their business in safety, afraid of nobody ; 
that's the way to be free. And let me tell thee, 
Tom, thou and I are tried by our peers as much 
as a lord is. Why the king can't send me to 
prison if I do no harm ; and if I do, there's rea- 
son good why I should go there. I may go to 
law with sir John at the great castle yonder ; 
and he no more dares lift his little finger against 
me than if I were his equal. A lord is hanged 
for hanging matter, as r thou or I should be ; 
and if it will be any comfort to thee, I myself 
remember a peer of the realm being hanged lor 
killing his man, just the same as the man would 
have been for killing him.* 

Tom. A lord ! Well, that is some comfort to 
be sure. But have you read the Rights of Man ? 

Jack. No, not I : I had rather by half read 
the Whole Duty of Man. I have but little time 
for reading, and such as I should therefore only 
read a bit of the best. 

Tom. Don't tell me of those old-fashioned no- 
tions. Why should not we have the same fine 
things they have got in France ? I'm for a 
constitution, and organization, and equalization, 
and fraternization. 

Jack. Do be quiet. Now, Tom, only suppose 
this nonsensical equality was to take place ; 
why it would not last while one could say Jack 
Robinson; or suppose it could — suppose in the 
general division, our new rulers were to give us 
half an acre of ground a-piece; we could to be 
sure raise potatoes on it for the use of our fami- 
lies; but as every other man would be equally 
busy in raising potatoes for his family, why then 
you see if thou wast to break thy spade, I, 
whose trade it is, should no longer be able to 
mend it. Neighbour Snip would have no time 
to make us a suit of clothes, nor the clothier to 
weave the cloth ; for all the world would be gone 
a digging. And as to boots and shoes, the want 
of some one to make them for us, would be a 
still greater grievance than the tax on leather. 
If we should be sick, there would be no doctor's 
stuff for us; for doctors would be digging too. 
And if necessity did not compel, and if inequa- 
lity subsisted, we could not get a chimney swept, 
or a load of coal from pit, for love or money. 

* Lord Ferrers was hang'd in 17GQ, for killing his 
steward. 



Tom. But still I should have no one over my 
head. 

Jack. That's a mistake : I'm stronger than 
thou ; and Standish, the exciseman, is a better 
scholar ; so that we should not remain equal a 
minute. I should oai-Jight thee, and he'd out- 
let thee. And if such a sturdy fellow as I am, 
was to come and break down thy hedge for a 
little firing, or take away the crop from thy 
ground, I'm not so sure that these new-fangled 
laws would see thee righted. I tell thee, Tom, 
we have a fine constitution already, and our 
forefathers thought so. 

Tom. They were a pack of fools, and had 
never read the Rights of Man. 

Jack. I'll tell thee a story. When sir John 
married, my lady, who is a little fantastical, and 
likes to do every thing like the French, begged 
him to pull down yonder fine old castle, and ( 
build it up in her frippery way. No, says sir 
John, what shall I pull down this noble build, 
ing, raised by the wisdom of my brave ances- 
tors ; which outstood the civil wars, and only un- 
derwent a little needful repair at the revolution ; 
a castle which all my neighbours come to take 
a pattern by — shall I pull it all down, I say, 
only because there may be a dark closet, or an 
awkward passage, or an inconvenient room or 
two in it ? Our ancestors took time for what 
they did. They understood foundation work ; 
no running up your little slight lath and plaster 
buildings, which are up in a day, and down in a 
night. My lady mumpt and grumbled ; but the 
castle was let stand, and a glorious building it 
is ; though there may be a trifling fault or two, 
and though a few decays want stopping ; so now 
and then they mend a little thing, and they'll 
go on mending, I dare say, as they have leisure, 
to the end of the chapter," if they are let alone. 
But no pull-me-down works. What is it you 
are crying out for, Tom ? 

Tom. Why for a perfect government. 

Jack. You might as well cry for the moon. 
There's nothing perfect in this world, take my 
word for it : though sir John says, we come 
nearer to it than any country in the world ever 
did. 

Tom. I don't see why we are to work like 
slaves, while others roll about in their coaches, 
feed on the fat of the land, and do nothing. 

Jack. My little maid brought home a story- 
book from the charity school t'other day, in 
which was a bit of a fable about the belly and 
the limbs. The hands said, I won't work any 
longer to feed this lazy belly, who sits in state 
like a lord and does nothing. Said the feet I 
won't walk and tire myself to carry him about; 
let him shift for himself; so said all the mem- 
bers ; jus^as your levellers and republicans do 
now. And what was the consequence ? Why 
the belly was pinched to be sure, and grew thin 
upon it ; but the hands and the feet, and the rest 
of the members, suffered so much for want of their 
old nourishment, which the belly had been all 
the time administering, while they accused him 
of sitting in idle state, that they all fell sick, 
pined away, and would have died, if they had 
not come to their senses just in time to save 
their lives, as I hope all you will do. 

Tom. But the times— but the taxes, Jack, 



60 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Jack. Things are dear *o be sure, but riot and 
murder is not the way to make them cheap. 
And taxes are high ; but I 'm told there 's a 
deal of old scores paying off, and paying off, 
by them who did not contract the debt nei- 
ther, Tom. Besides things are mending, I 
hope ; and what little is done is for us poor 
people; our candles are somewhat cheaper, and 
I dare say, if the honest gentleman who has the 
management of things, is not disturbed by you 
levellers, things will mend every day. But bear 
one thing in mind : the more we riot, the more 
we shall have to pay : the more mischief is done, 
the more will the repairs cost: the more time 
we waste in meeting to redress public wrongs, 
the more we shall increase our private wants. 
And mind too, that 'tis working, and not mur- 
muring, which puts bread in our children's 
mouths, and a new coat on our backs. Mind 
another thing too, we have not the same ground 
of complaint; in France the poor paid all the 
taxes, as I have heard 'em say, and the quality 
paid nothing. 

Tom. Well, I know what 's what, as well as 
another ; and I 'm as fit to govern — 

Jack. No, Tom, no. You are indeed as good 
as another man, seeing you have hands to work, 
and a soul to be saved. But are all men fit for 
all kind of things? Solomon says; ' How can 
he be wise whose talk is of oxen ?' Every one 
in his way. I am a better judge of a horse-shoe 
than Sir John ; but he has a deal better notion 
of state affairs than I ; and I can no more do 
without his employ than he can do without my 
farriery. Besides, few are so poor but they may 
get a vote for a parliament-man ; and so you 
Bee the poor have as much share in the govern- 
ment as they well know how to manage. 

Tom. But I say all men are equal. Why 
should one be above another ? 

Jack. If that 's thy talk, Tom, thou dost quar- 
rel with Providence, and not with government. 
For the woman is below her husband, and the 
children are below their mother, and the servant 
is below his master. 

Tom. But the subject is not below the king : 
all kings are 'crown'd ruffians:' and all govern- 
ments are wicked. For my part, I 'm resolv'd 
I *11 pay no more taxes to any of them. 

Jack. Tom, Tom, if thou didst go oft'ner to 
church, thou wouldst know where it is said, 
' Render untoCoesar the things that are Ceesar's;' 
and also, ' Fear God, honour the king.' Your 
book tells you that we need obey no government 
but that of the people ; and that we may fashion 
and alter the government according to our 
whimsies : but mine tells me, ' Let every one 
be subject to the higher powers, for all power is 
of God, the powers that be are ordained of God ; 
whosoever therefore resisteth the power, resist- 
eth the ordinance of God.' Thou say'st, thou 
wilt pay no taxes to any of them. — Dost thou 
know who it was that worked a miracle, that 
he might have money to pay tribute with, rather 
than set you and me an exam pie of disobedience to 
government ? an example, let me tell thee, worth 
an hundred precepts, and of which all the wit of 
man can never lessen the value. Then there 's 
another thing worth minding, when St. Paul 
was giving all those directions, in the epistle to 



the Romans, for obedience and submission; what 
sort of a king now dost think they had ? Dost 
think 'twas a saint which he ordered them to 
obey ? 

Tom. Why it was a kind, merciful, charita- 
ble king to be sure ; one who put nobody to 
death or to prison. 

Jack. You was never more out in your life. 
Our parson says he was a monster — that he 
robbed the rich, and murdered the poor — set fire 
to his own town, as fine a place as London — 
fiddled to the flames, and then hanged and burnt 
the Christians, who were all poor, as if they had 
burnt the town. Yet there 's not a word about 
rising. — Duties are fixed, Tom. — Laws are set- 
tled ; a Christian can't pick and choose, whether 
he will obey or let it alone. But we have no 
such trials. — We have a king the very reverse. 

Tom. I say we shall never be happy, till we 
do as the French have done. 

Jack. The French and we contending for 
liberty, Tom, is just as if thou and I were to 
pretend to run a race ; thou to set out from the 
starting-post when I am in already ; thou to 
have all the ground to travel when I have reach- 
ed the end. Why we 've got it man ! we 've no 
race to run ! we 're there already ! Our consti- 
tution is no more like what the French one was, 
than a mug of our Taunton beer is like a platter 
of their soup-maigre. 

Tom. I know we shall be undone, if we don't 
get a new constitution — that 's all. 

Jack. And I know we shall be undone if we 
do. I don't know much about politics, but I 
can see by a little, what a great deal means. 
Now only to show thee the state of public credit, 
as I think Tim Standish calls it. There 's farmer 
Furrow, a few years ago he had an odd fifty 
pounds by him ; so to keep it out of harm's way, 
he put it out to use, on government security, I 
think he calls it; well, t'other day he married 
one of his daughters, so he thought he'd give 
her that fifty pounds for a bit of a portion. Tom, 
as I 'm a living man, when he went to take it 
out, if his fifty pounds was not almost grown to 
an hundred ! and would have been a full hun- 
dred, they say, by this time, if the gentlemen 
had been let alone.* 

Tom. Well, still as the old saying is — I should 
like to do as the)' do in France. 

Jack. What, shouldest like to be murdered 
with as little ceremony as Hackabout, the 
butcher, knocks down a calf? or shouldest like 
to get rid of thy wife for every little bit of tiff? 
And as for liberty of conscience, which they 
brag so much about, why they have driven away 
their parsons (ay, and murdered many of 'em) 
because they would not swear as they would 
have them. And then they talk of liberty of 
the press ; why, Tom, only t'other day they 
hang'd a man for printing a book against this 
pretty government of theirs. 

Tom. But you said yourself it was sad times 
in France, before they pull'd down the old go- 
vernment. 

Jack. Well, and suppose the French were as 
much in the right as I know them to be in the 
wrong ; what does that argue for us ? — Because 

* Tbis was written before the war, when the fundi 
were at the highest. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



61 



my neighbour Furrow, t'other day pulled down a 
crazy old barn, is that a reason why I must set 
fire to my tight cottage ? 

Tom. I don't see for all that why one man is 
to ride in his coach and six, while another 
mends the highway for him. 

Jack. I don't see why the man in the coach 
is to drive over the man on foot, or hurt a hair 
of his head, any more than you. And as to our 
great folks, that you levellers have such a spite 
against, I don't pretend to say they are a bit 
better than they should be ; but that 's no affair 
of mine ; let them look to that they '11 answer 
for that in another place. To be sure, I wish 
they 'd set us a better example about going to 
church, and those things ; but still hoarding 's 
not the sin of the age ; they don't lock up their 
money — away it goes, and every body's the bet- 
ter for it. — They do spend too much, to be sure, 
in feastings and fandangoes ; and so far from 
commending them for it, if I was a parson I 'd 
go to work with 'em, but it should be in another 
kind of way ; but as I am only a poor tradesman, 
why 'tis but bringing more grist to my mill. It 
all comes among the people. Their very extra- 
vagance, for which, as I said before, their par- 
sons should be at them, is a fault by which, as 
poor men, we are benefitted ; so you cry out just 
in the wrong place. Their coaches and their 
furniture, and their buildings, and their plant- 
ing, employ a power of tradesmen and labourers. 
Now in this village, what should we do without 
the castle ? Though my lady is too rantipolish, 
and flies about all summer to hot water and cold 
water, and fresh water and salt water, when she 
ought to stay at home with sir John : yet when 
she does come down, she brings such a deal of 
gentry that I have more horses than I can shoe, 
and my wife more linen than she can wash. 
Then all our grown children are servants in the 
family, and rare wages they have got. Our little 
boys get something every day by weeding their 
gardens, and the girls learn to sew and knit at 
Sir John's expense, who sends them all to school 
of a Sunday besides. 

Tom. Ay, but there 's not Sir Johns in every 
village. 

Jack. The more 's the pity. But there 's other 
help. 'Twas but last year you broke your leg, 
and was nine weeks in the Bristol Infirmary, 
where you was taken as much care of as a lord, 
and your family was maintained all the while 
by the parish. No poor-rates in France, Tom ; 
and here there 's a matter of two million and a 
half paid for the poor every year, if 'twas but a 
little better managed. 

Tom. Two million and a half! 
Jack. Ay, indeed, Not translated into ten- 
pences, as your French millions are, but twenty 
good shillings to the pound. But when this 
levelling comes about, there will be no infirma- 
ries, no hospitals, no charity-schools, no Sunday- 
schools, where so many hundred thousand poor 
souls learn to read the word of God for nothing. 
— For who is to pay for them ? Equality can't 
afford it ; and those that may be willing won't 
be able. 

Tom. But we shall be one as good as another 
for all that. 
Jack. Ay, and bad will be the best. But we 



must work as we do now, and with this differ 
ence, that no one will be able to pay us. Tom ! 
I have got the use of my limbs, of my liberty, 
of the laws, and of my Bible. The two first I 
take to be my natural rights ; the two last my 
civil and religious rights : these, I take it, are 
the true Rights of Man, and all the rest is no 
thing but nonsense, and madness, and wicked 
ness. My cottage is my castle ; I sit down in 
it at night in peace and thankfulness, and ■ no 
man maketh me afraid.' Instead of indulging 
discontent, because another is richer than I in 
this world (for envy is at the bottom of your 
equality works) I read my Bible, go to church, 
and look forward to a treasure in Heaven. 

Tom. Ay, but the French have got it in this 
world. 

Jack. 'Tis all a lie, Tom. Sir John's butler 
says his master gets letters which say 'tis all a 
lie. 'Tis all murder, and nakedness, and hun- 
ger, many of the poor soldiers fight without 
victuals, and march without clothes. These are 
your democrats! Tom. 

Tom. What then, dost think all the men on 
our side wicked ? 

Jack. No — not so neither — If some of the 
leaders are knaves, more of the followers are 
fools. Sir John, who is wiser than I, says the 
whole system is the operation of fraud upon 
folly. They've made fools of most of you, as I 
believe. I judge no man Tom ; I hate no man. 
Even republicans and levellers, I hope, will al- 
ways enjoy the protection of our laws ; though 
I hope they will never be our law makers. There 
are many true dissenters, and there are some 
hollow churchmen ; and a good man is a good 
man, whether his church has got a steeple to it 
or not. — The new fashion 'd way of proving one's 
religion is to hate somebody. Now, though 
some folk pretend that a man's hating a papist, 
or a presbyterian, proves him to be a good 
churchman, it don't prove him to be a good 
Christian, Tom. As much as I hate republican 
works, I 'd scorn to live in a country where 
there was not liberty of conscience ; and where 
every man might not worship God in his own 
way. Now that liberty they had not in France: 
the Bible was shut up in an unknown and hea- 
thenish tongue. — While here, thou and I can 
make as free use of ours as a bishop : can no 
more be sent to prison unjustly than the judge 
who tries us ; and are as much taken care of by 
the laws as the parliament-man who makes 
them. — Then, as to your thinking that tho new 
scheme will make you happy, look among your 
own set and see if any thing can be so dismal 
and discontented as a leveller. — Look at France. 
These poor French fellows used to be the mer- 
riest dogs in the world ; but since equality 
came in, I don't believe a Frenchman has ever 
laughed. 

Tom. What then dost thou take French liberty 
to be? 

Jack. To murder more men in one night, 
than ever their poor king did in his whole life. 

Tom. And what dost thou take a democrat to 
be? 

Jack. One who lives to be governed by a thou- 
sand tyrants, and yet can't bear a king. 
Tom. What is equality ? 



62 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Jack. For every man to pall down every one 
that is above him : while, instead of raising 
those below him, to his own level, he only makes 
use of them as steps to raise himself to the place 
of those he has tumbled down. 

Turn. What is the new Rights of Man ? 
Jack. Battle, murder, and sudden death. 
Tom. What is it to be an enlightened people ? 
Jack. To put out the light of the Gospel, con- 
found right and wrong, and grope about in pitch 
darkness. 

Tom. What is philosophy, that Tim Standish 
talks so much about? 

Jack. To believe that there's neither God, nor 
devil, nor heaven, nor hell : to dig up a wicked 
old fellow's* rotten bones, whose books, Sir John 
says, have been the ruin of thousands ; and 
to set his figure up in a church and worship 
him. 

Tom. And what is a patriot according to the 
new school ? 

Jack. A man who loves every other country 
better then his own, and France best of all. 
Tom. And what is Benevolence ? 
Jack. Why, in the new fangled language, it 
means contempt of religion, aversion to justice, 
overturning of law, doating on all mankind in 
general, and hating every body in particular. 

Tom. And what mean the other hard words 
that Tim talks about — organization and func- 
tion, and civis?n, and incivism, and equalization, 
and inviolability, and imperscriptible, and frater- 
nization ? 

Jack. Nonsense, gibberish, downright hocus- 
pocus. I know 'tis not English ; sir John says 
'tis not Latin ; and his valet de sham says 'tis 
not French neither. 

Torn. And yet Tim says he never shall be 
happy till all these fine things are brought over 
to England. 

Jack. What ! in this christian country, Tom ? 
Why dost know they have no Sabbath in 
France? Their mob parliament meets on a 
Sunday to do their wicked work, as naturally 
as we do to go to church.t They have re- 
nounced God's word and God's day, and they 
don't even date in the year of our Lord. Why 
dost turn pale, man ? And the rogues are 
always making such a noise, Tom, in the midst 
of their parliament-house, that their speaker 
rings a bell, like our penny-post man, because 
he can't keep them in order. 

Tom. And dost thou believe they are as cruel 
as some folks pretend? 

Jack. I am sure they are, and I think I know 
the reason. We christians set a high value on 
life, because we know that every fellow-creature 
has an immortal soul : a soul to be saved or lost, 
Tom — Whoever believes that, is a little cautious 
how he sends a soul unprepared to his grand ac- 
count. But he who believes a man is no better 
than a dog, who make no more scruple of kill- 
ing one than the other. 

Tom. And dost thou think our Rights of Man 
will lead to all this wickedness ? 
Jack. As sure as eggs are eggs. 

* Voltaire. 

t Since this they have crammed ten days into the 
week, in order to throw Sunday out of it. 



Tom. I begin to think we're better off as w« 
are. 

Jack. I'm sure on't. This is only a scheme 
to make us go back in every thing. 'Tis mak- 
ing ourselves poor when we are getting rick, 
and discontented when we are comfortable. 

Tom. I begin to think I'm not so very un- 
happy as I had got to fancy. 

Jack. Tom, I don't care for drink myself, 
but thou dost, and I'll argue with thee, not in 
the way of principle, but in thy own way ; when 
there's all equality there will be no superfluity ; 
when there's no wages there '11 be no drink : 
and levelling will rob thee of thy ale more than 
the malt tax does, 

Tom. But Standish says, if we had a good 
government, there'd be no want of any thing. 

Jack. He is like many others, who take the 
king's money and betray him : let him give up the 
profits of his place before he kicks at the hand 
that feeds him. — Though I'm no scholar, I know 
that a good government is a good thing. But 
don't go to make me believe that any govern- 
ment can make a bad man good, or a discon- 
tented man happy. — What art musing upon, 
man ? 

Tom. Let me sum up the evidence, as they 
say at 'sizes — Hem ! To cut every man's throat 
who does not think as I do, or hang him up at 
a lamp-post ! — Pretend liberty of conscience, and 
then banish the parsons only for being conscien- 
tious ! — Cry out liberty of the press, and hang 
up the first man who writes his mind ! — Lose> 
our poor laws ! — Lose one's wife perhaps upon 
every little tiff! — March without clothes, and 
fight without victuals ! — No trade ! — No Bible '. 
No Sabbath nor day of rest ! — No safety, no 
comfort, no peace in this world — and no world 
to come ! — Jack, I never knew thee tell a lie in 
my life. 

Jack. Nor would I now, not even against the 
French. 

Tom. And thou art very sure we are not 
ruined ? 

Jack. I'll tell thee how we are ruined. We 
have a king, so loving, that he would not hurt 
the people if he could : and so kept in, that he 
could not hurt the people if he would. We have 
as much liberty as can make us happy, and 
more trade and riches than allows us to be good. 
We have the best laws in the world, if they 
were more strictly enforced ; and the best reli- 
gion in the world if it was but better followed. 
While old England is safe, I'll glory in her, and 
pray for her, and when she is in danger. I'll fight 
for her, and die for her. 

Tom. And so will I too, Jack, that's what I 
will, {Sings) 

1 O the roast beef of old Englond !' 
Jack. Thou art an honest fellow, Tom. 
Tom. This is Rose and Crown night, and Tim 
Standish is now at his mischief; but we'll go 
and put an end to that fellow's work, or he'll 
corrupt the whole club. 
Jack. Come along. 

Tom. No ; first I'll stay to burn my book, and 
then I'll go and make a bonfire and — 

Jack. Hold, Tom. There is but one thing 
worse than a bitter enemy — and that is an in> 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 63 

prudent friend. If thou would'st show thy love I ' Study to be quiet, work with your own hands, 
to thy king and country, let's have no drinking, and mind your own business.' 
no riot, no bonfires : put in practice this text, Tom. And so I will, Jack — Come on 
which our parson preach'd on last Sunday, | 



BIBLE RHYMES, 

ON THE NAMES OF ALL THE BOOKS OF THE 
OLD AND NEW TESTAMENT: 

WITH ALLUSION TO SOME OF THE PRINCIPAL INCIDENTS AND CHARACTERS. 

As a homely digger may show a man a rich mine, so whatever the Book may be which is pre. 
tented to you, that which I recommend to you is a matchless one. 

Hon. Robert Boyles's Preface to the Style of the Holy Scriptures. 

THESE RHYMES 

ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS, BY ONE, WHO HAVING LONG BEEN 

ANXIOUS FOR THEIR HIGHEST INTERESTS, CANNOT CONSULT THEM BETTER, THAN BY 

EARNESTLY RECOMMENDING TO THEIR SERIOUS AND DAILY PERUSAL, 

THAT SACRED VOLUME, EMPHATICALLY CALLED 

THE BOOK- 
PREFACE. 

This little piece requires some apology. It was written without the remotest intention of its 
ever being published. Some friends, for whose opinion the author entertains great deference, 
suggested that, at a time when such insidious attempts are making, by industry of impiety, to 
corrupt the principles, and to alienate the mind altogether from the study and belief of the Holy 
Scriptures, this slight publication might not be wholly useless or unseasonable. 

Had health and other circumstances been favourable, many important characters, many strik- 
ing facts, many engaging histories, might ha.ve been additionally introduced, and thus this slight 
work had been rendered less imperfect. But the writer having in an early attempt to treat on 
sacred subjects,* introduced many of the most interesting characters and incidents of the Old 
Testament, they are here frequently omitted or more slightly touched on. 

With a hope to excite an increasing interest in the Bible, by inducing the readers to search 
it for themselves, the writer has generally forborne to make any particular reference to the speci- 
fic chapter or verse to which the different passages allude. To increase their admiration of the 
Word of God by such research, is her fervent desire ; and this more especially at a period when, 
by so many recent attacks, its truth is impugned, its authority denied, its doctrines vilified, and 
the characters it exhibits viewed with abhorrence, or treated with ridicule. 

The familiar measure here adopted is very unfavourable to the subject. The author never re- 
members to have seen a serious poem written in it, except hymns ; and even hymns, besides be- 
ing short, are generally in the quatrain stanza ; which, by making the rhyme alternate, gives 
greater room for elevation in the diction, and expansion of the thought, both of which the mea- 
sure here used is calculated to cramp and contract. 

This trifle, which was intended for little more than a Catalogue Raisonne of the names of the 
books of the Bible, admits of little poetical embellishment, even were the Author better qualified 
to bestow it. Indeed, the dignity of the Sacred Volume is so commanding, its superiority to all 
other compositions so decided, that it never gains any thing by human infusions ; paraphrase di- 
lutes it, amplification weakens, imitation debases, parody profanes. 

Much more latitude is given in the Old than in the New Testament. The latter consists chiefly 
of fact and doctrine. It has less imagery ; it exhibits a more explicit rule of faith ; a more spi- 
ritualized code of morals ; it is more specifically didactic. On this holy ground, therefore, we 
must tread with peculiar caution ; because here every article of faith is definite ; every rule of 
practice is established ; the scheme of salvation is completed : so that all who enlarge on it must 
carefully avoid the awful sentence denounced on those who add to, or take from, what is written 

Barley Wood, April 2, 1821. 

* See Sacred Dramas, and Reflections of King Hezekiao. 



b4 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



THE OLD TESTAMENT. 

INTRODUCTION. 

Here the first history of mankind 

From its first origin we find ; 

God is its author, truth its name, 

Salvation all its end and aim : 

Here we are shown " the good old way," 

First to believe, and then obey. 

God's Spirit dictates; men proclaim 

The doctrines as from him they came. 

And not by miracles alone, 

By prophecy the truth is shown. 

Tho' 'tis no scheme for dry dispute, 
No scene to wrangle and confute; 
Not an arena for debate, 
A field for harsh polemic hate ; 
Yet strict enquiry may be mov'd, 
The more 'lis scarch'd the more 'tis prov'd, 
It is a boon by mercy given, 
That man may gain some taste of heaven ; 
Best medicine for the sin-sick soul, 
For guilty passions best controul ; 
To all, its precepts are applied, 
The rich man's guard, the poor man's guide ; 
To fill with gratitude the hearts 
Where God his larger gifts imparts ; 
To cheer with higher hopes the poor, 
To teach the suff'rer to endure ; 
The meek to raise, repress the bold, 
To warn the young, to wean the old ; 
The arms its lends are faith and prayer, 
Its fruits, oblivion sweet of care. 

Here are the only precepts given 
For peace on earth, or rest in heaven. 
Sole lesson since the world began, 
For fear of God and love to man : 
It came with blessings in its train, 
Which to recount, the attempt were vain. 
It came to hinder fell despair, 
The ravages of sin repair ; 
It came to cheer the contrite heart, 
Redemption's wonders to impart ; 
That he who sins should sin no more ; 
It came — a lost world to restore. 



PART THE FIRST. 

THE HISTORICAL BOOKS, PSALMS, PROVERBS, AND 
ECCLESIASTES. 

THE PENTATEUCH. 

The first five books for author claim 

Moses, and Pentateuch their name. 

In Genesis, which first we call, 

Is man's creation, and his fall. 

But soon to Adam came the word 

That rebel man should be restor'd. 

Yet, tho' the gracious promise came, 

The first-born bore a murderer's name. 

See the whole world by flood expire ; 

The cities of the plain by fire ! 

You ask, perhaps, " Who slew all these ?" 

'Twas sin, the original disease ! 

From Adam the infection ran ; 

In downward course from man to man. 

Tho' all who draw the vital breath 
Must pay the penalty of death, 



Yet one* immortal pair we se« : 
Pledge of our immortality ! 
Enoch, in a corrupted time, 
Bequeath'd to us this truth sublime; 
God's service is not merely talk, 
The man of God with God must walk. 
From general laws, immunity 
He found, for Enoch did not die, 
"God took him !" O emphatic word ! 
No more was needful to record. 

The world grew worse as old it grew, 
Sin gathering strength, grew bolder too, 
Long-suffering patience now was past, 
The appalling sentence comes at last; 
" My Spirit shall not always strive, 
No further respite will I give." 

God bids a refuge straight prepare 
For those his goodness meant to spare. 
Bless'd Noah, and his favoured race, 
Alone obtain the special grace. 

A picture of our world remark, 
In those who labour'd in the ark ; 
A stronger instance need we find 
Of the hard heart of base mankind 
Howe'er assiduously thev wrought, 
No builder his own safet sought ; 
A century was the task p> rsu'd, 
Not one his own destruction view'd : 
Oh, blind, God's menaced b.ow to slight. 
What! perish with the ark in sight? 

See God his awful threat'ning keep, 
Break up the fountains of the deep ; 
Remove the limits long assign'd 
Th' encroaching waters fast to bind ! 
Heaven's windows open ; lo, the sky 
Pours down its deluge from on high ! 
The floods that rise, the floods that fall, 
Meet at one point and cover all : 
All cry, none aid ; with anguish wild 
The frantic mother grasps her child. 
The weak their safety seek below, 
The rapid waves above them flow ; 
The strong attempt the mountain's steep, 
The mountains are become the deep. 
Half dead with famine, half with fear, 
Now few, and fewer now, appear ! 
All strive, all sink — sink beasts and men ; 
Perish'd each living substance then. 
Existence is extinct ! — The world 
Itself to dire destruction hurl'd. 
Good Noah's house alone remain'd ; 
The waves his floating ark sustain'd. 

There is an ark that's open still, 
Where all may shelter if they will. 
Awful, indeed, if Christians too 
Should perish with their ark in view ! 

But if the moral plague abound, 
Yet still some righteous men were found ; 
Righteous, not perfect, you may see * 
Throughout mankind's long history ; 
As stars in darkness seem more bright, 
So these illume the moral night 

See Abraham full of faith and grace, 
Sire of the patriarchal race : 
To Isaac turn your wond'ring eyes, 
Prefiguring the great Sacrifice ! 
What Abraham felt, fond parents, say, 
Himself his only son must slay ! 
Though much he mourn'd, for much he lov'd, 
* Elijah and Enoch. 






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C5 



His faith, his prompt obedience prov'd ; 
What dauntless faith those words implied, 
" God will himself a lamb provide I" 
Joseph, the virtuous, next behold, 
Like Christ by his own brethren sold : 
The pit, the prison, all unite, 
To make his character more bright : 
Whence came that strength which could sustain 

him, 
From tempting pleasure's snares restrain him? 
Could made the prison, pit, and court, 
To him alike a safe resort 1 
What made him thus unyielding stand ? 
His God was still at his right hand 1 
Religion was to him a law ; 
He knew the Omnipresent saw : 
No secrecy his soul can win, 
No fancied safety tempt to sin : 
Omniscience sees the skulking shame, 
Darkness and light to God the same J 

Now Exodus records the story 
Of Pharaoh's fall and Moses' glory. 
By learning form'd, and form'd by nature, 
For general, guide, and legislator ; 
At great Jehovah's high command, 
By faith he left th' oppressor's land ; 
Escap'd the snares by Pharaoh spread, 
The numerous phalanx forth he led. 
Mark on the margin how they stand ; 
Behold they cross the sea by land ! 
God's mighty power is seen once more, 
Oh, miracle ! they reach the shore ! 
Egypt pursues, the ocean braves, 
They rush between the parted waves ! 
Back to their course the waves retreat, 
Again the refluent waters meet ! 
If Egypt's shrieks are mix'd with prayer, 
They pray to gods who cannot hear ! 
See Egypt sink, ingulf 'd their host, 
The rider and his horse are lost ! 

Israel, unworthy of the boon, 
Forgets the wond'rous rescue soon : 
Sav'd, not converted ;— discontent 
Defeats the mighty blessing sent. 
By miracle they still were fed, 
From heaven receiv'd their daily bread ; 
Yet murmur'd at the bounteous hand 
Which fed them in that desert land : 
Yet we, these pilgrims while we blame, 
And cast reproach on Israel's name ; 
To murmur, too, we sometimes dare, 
Though we have bread to eat and spare ! 

Moses ! thy parting song sublime, 
Shall outlive worlds and bury time. 
No hallow'd bard, whate'er his worth, 
E'er pour'd more warm effusions forth ! 
O'er Israel's sin how does he sigh, 
His God, his Rock, how glorify 1 
4 Attend — the awful truth I sing, 
Is no indifferent, no vain thing ; 
It is your life, your hope, your all ; 
God is the Lord ; obey his call : 
In vain for molten Gods you strive, 
'Tis I that kill, that make alive ! 
Fountain of Jacob, just and true ! 
Thou wat'rest earth with heavenly dew ! 
From Thee descend the corn and wine, 
All health, all gifts, all grace is thine !' 

Then pouring the rich blessing round, 



He shows them where true rest is found. 
' Oh, people sav'd, adore the Lord, 
Shield of thy help, celestial sword ! 
Approach, abide, secure from harms, 
Safe in the everlasting arms ! 
Beneath that panoply divine, 
Oh I save us, Lord, for we are thine !' 

Leviticus the law proclaims, 
And brands two* sacrilegious names. 
The Gospel truth this book must own, 
Anticipating Christ unknown. 
Such types thro' the Old Scriptures run, 
And, like the shadow, prove the sun. 

Numbers the Hebrews' names declare, 
In due arrangement, just and fair : 
The nomenclature so exact, 
Not deists can disprove the fact. 

While Deuteronomy repeats 
That law of which the other treats ; 
Enlarges on th' important theme ; 
With Moses' death completes the scheme. 

See Joshua, type of Jesus, stand, 
Fighting for Canaan's promis'd land 1 

While Judges learn'd their wisdom bring,' 
Before the Jews demand a king. 

God's tender care of pious youth 

Is sweetly seen in past'ral Ruth : 

Here filial piety is found, 

And with its promis'd blessing crown'd. 

Good Samuel, as the Lord appoints, 
The king so loudly ask'd, anoints ; 
With sorrow deep th' historian brings 
Succession sad of Israel's Kings ; 

And Chronicles prolongs the story, 
So little to the royal glory : 
Though some were faithful, just, and true, 
We grieve to say they were but few 

No prophet on the rolls of fame 
Eclipses great Elijah's name : 
Impell'd by faith, disdaining fear, 
To kings and priests alike sincere ! 
The altar once on Carmel built 
To God, proclaims th' apostate's guilt. 
'Twas there th' illustrious Tishbite, born 
On Baal to pour indignant scorn, 
With keenest irony maintains 
His power divine, in heaven who reigns 
Contemns, as round the trench he trod, 
Their talking, sleeping, journeying god ! 
To heaven behold him still aspire, 
Then reach it in a car of fire ! 

Ezra deserves immortal praise, 
Who sought the temple's walls to raise. 

How shall I Nehemiah paint, 
At once the courtier and the saint ? 

In Esther, Providence displays, 
To us inscrutable, his ways ; 
Here the fair queen with modest grace 
Obtains protection for her race : 
The oppress'd from hence a lesson draws 
Of courage in a righteous cause ; 
And here, the snares for virtue spread, 
Return to plague the inventor's head. 

* Nadab and Abitau. 



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THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Job, on his dunghill, far more great 
Than when he dwelt in regal state ! 
He heard, before, Jehovah's grace, 
But now he sees him face to face. 
Meekly he bow'd before his God, 
He felt the smart, but kiss'd the rod. 
" In me, great God, complete thy will ! 
Slay me, and I will trust Thee still." 

Is it a seraph strikes the strings ? 
Or is it royal David sings ? 
Thy Psalms divinely bring to view 
Jesus, thy root and offspring too. 
Mark, how the author's hallowed lays 
Begin with prayer, and end with praise ! 
Commerce how sure ! which, while it gives 
Due payment, rich returns receives ; 
As tides, which from the shore recede, 
Return to fill the native bed, 
So praise which we to God impart, 
Comes back in blessings to the heart. 
Gainful return, to man when given 
Such interchange 'twixt earth and heaven ! 

As long as inborn sin is felt, 
Or penitence in tears shall melt; 
As long as Satan shall molest, 
Or anguish rend the human breast; 
As long as prayer its voice shall raise, 
Or gratitude ascend in praise, 
So long God's poet shall impart 
A balm to every broken heart; 
So long the fainting spirit cheer, 
And save the contrite from despair. 

To Sion's bard it shall be given 
To join the immortal choir in heaven; 
And when with their's his accents, float, 
He shall not need to change his note. 

Tho' due this tributary praise, 
One sin embittered all his days. 
The prudent prophet chose the veil 
Of fiction for the bloody tale ; 
The tale enrag'd the blinded king ; 
" The man shall die who did this thing !" 
Thou art the man ! — the appalling word i 
Cuts deeper than a two-edged sword ; 
All self-deceit is put to flight, 
Scar'd conscience re-assumes its right. 
Awak'd, the king, in wild surprise, 
Prostrate in dust and ashes lies. 
The monarch rous'd himself abhorr'd, 
And own'd his guilt before the Lord : 
Now agoniz'd in prayer he speaks, 
The multitude of mercies seeks. 
His prayer, his penitence, obtain 
A respite from the threaten'd pain. 
Tho' God decreed he should not die, 
Nor perish everlastingly, 
Yet justice sought not to prevent, 
Tho' he delay'd the punishment. 

The dire effect of sin we see 
In his degenerate family. 
To him no future peace was known, 
One son rebell'd against his throne ; 
Ungrateful friends, domestic jars, 
Intestine tumults, foreign wars : 
Contending brothers fiercely strive, 
Dark enmity is kept alive ; 
Now murmurs loud, now famine great, 
Now fierce convulsions shake the state ; 
Divided empire soon we sea 



Distract his near posterity. 

Thus, tho' his pardon mercy seals, 
Sin's temporal results he feels. 
God with offence will have no part, 
E'en in the man of his own heart. 
All sadly serves to prove our fall 
From purity original. 

Taught by the wisdom from above, 
See Proverbs full of truth and love. 

To thee, O Solomon ! belong 
The graces of the mystic Song. 

Ecclesiastes, or the Preacher, 
Displays the powerful moral teacher. 
How could'st thou, sapient king, combine 
Thy faulty life, and verse divine ? 
Why were thy Proverbs still at strife 
With thy dishonoured close of life ? 
Thou rear'st the Temple — oh, the sin 
To quit the God who dwelt within ! 

Of all, O king, thy books have taught, 
With holy wisdom richly fraught ; 
Still more thy large experience brings 
The emptiness of human things. 
In all thy keen and wide pursuit 
Of love, power, pleasure, what the fruit * 
Satiety in all we see, 
In each enjoyment vanity ! 
Youth might be spar'd a world of woe, 
The truth without the trial know, 
Would they with abler hands advise, 
And trust king Solomon the wise, 
That the vex'd heart and sated mind, 
In God alone repose can find. 



PART THE SECOND. 

THE PROPHETS. 

Thee, great Isaiah, dare I paint, 
Prophet, evangelist, and saint ? 
So just thy strong prospective view, 
'Tis prophecy and history too. 
Rapt in futurity, he saw, 
The Gospel supersede the law. 

Prophet ! in thy immortal lines, 
The fulness of perfection shines ; 
There, present things the Spirit seals, 
There, things that shall be he reveals, 
Doctrine and warning, prayer and praise 
Alike our admiration raise. 
Amaz'd, we see the hand divine 
Each thought direct, inspire each line. 
Still has the seraph's burning coal 
Left its deep impress on the soul ; 
Still shall the sacred fire survive, 
Warm all who read, touch all who live ! 

'Twere hopeless to attempt the song, 
So vast, so deep, so sweet, so strong ! 
Fain would I tell how Sharon's rose, 
In solitary deserts blows ; 
Fain would I speak of Carmel's hill, 
Whose trees the barren waste shall fill; 
Of Lebanon's transplanted shade, 
To sandy valleys how convey'd ; 
The noble metaphors we find 
To loftiest objects there assign'd. 
These splendid scenes before us bring 
Th' invisible redeeming King. 



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67 



In every image, every line, 
Messiah ! we behold Thee shine. 

But who shall dare these charms to tell, 
One British* bard has sung so well ? 
His Christian page shall never die, 
O si sic omnia ! all reply. 

Blest Prophet ! who a theme could'st find 
Congenial to restore thy mind ! 
Here we behold together brought 
Splendour of diction and of thought; 
In these bold images we see 
Grandeur without hyperbole. 
Here all God's attributes unite; 
The gracious and the infinite ; 
Beyond imagination's dream, 
Thy true, august, and holy theme. 
All that the loftiest mind conceives, 
All that the strongest faith believes, 
All were too feeble to express 
God's love, his pow'r, his holiness ! 
His length, and breadth, and depth, and height, 
In all their wide extremes unite ; 
No danger of excess is here ; 
To sink too low is all thy fear. 

To His broad eye, all nations see 
Are less than nought, are vanity. 
To him all Lebanon could bring 
Only a worthless offering ; 
The waters at his bidding, stand 
Within the hollow of his hand ; 
The mountains in his scales are weigh'd. 
The hills are in his balance laid ; 
Measur'd by his almighty hand, 
The globe 's a particle of sand ! 
Though with tremendous arm he come, 
With power which strikes the nations dumb ; 
Centro and source of light and love, 
In whom we are, and live, and move ; 
Though not confin'd to time or place, 
Not to the vast extent of space ; 
Objects of his paternal care, 
The meanest still his mercies share ; 
He who in highest heaven resides, 
Yet in the contrite heart abides. 
Now, shepherd-like, his flock he feeds, 
The tender bears, the feeble leads ; 
Power to the weak, but trusting saints 
He gives, and might to him that faints. 

The young may fail, the strong be weak, 
But all who bis salvation seek, 
Strong in the Lord, shall be renew'd ; 
With new-born vigour be endu'd ; 
On eagles' wings sublimely soar, 
To fear, and faint, and sin no more.f 

Hear Jeremiah's plaintive song 
Pour its full tide of grief along ! 
By predisposing grace ordain'd, 
The prophet's functions he sustain'd ; 
By his predicting voice reveal'd, 
Thy doom, O Babylon, is seal'd ! 
On Judah 'twas his fate to see 
Accomplish'd his own prophecy. 
In what pathetic strains he show'd 
Their miseries from their vices flow'd ! 
The form of goodness they defend, 
But hate its power and miss its end, 
For lying vanities abhorr'd, 

* See Pope's exquisite poem of " the Messiah." 
t Isdiah chap, xl. 



They plead ' the Temple of the Lord ;' 

' The Temple of the Lord are these !' 

Their varnish'd falsehoods more displease ,] 

As if the edifice alone 

Their practis'd evils could atone. 

The Temple is beyond dispute : 

A means, but not a substitute : 

A fair profession may be found, 

With lives unholy, hearts unsound. 

No reigning vice he left untold, 
Expostulation sad, yet bold, I 
Lays bare U\o sins they sought to hide / 
Vain boasting, arrogance, and pride : 
Reproves alike both age and youth ; 
Neither is valiant for the tenth. 
Wisdom, or wealth, or power, or might, j 
Alone, as rightly us'd, is right. 
All glorying is by Heaven abhorr'd, 
Save that which glories in the Lord. 

Sublimely sad his woes impart 
Their Lamentations to the heart. 
Pity and woe his bosom share, 
Anger and fondness, grief and prayer." 
Fountains of tears could scarce express 
His sorrows' and his love's excess. 

Ezekiel comes in awful state, 
His vision mystically great ! 
The Prophet, see, his watch-tower keep, 
The shepherd blame, console the sheep. 

When Babylon's imperial lord 

Crush'd Judah by his conqu'ring sword ,' 

Daniel, erect, of noble mind, 

With three believing brothers join'd, 

Captives among the Jews were brought, 

And in the royal palace taught; 

Chaldea's learning they acquir'd, 

The king the ingenious youths admir'd ; 

At dainty tables gave them meat, 

Himself ordain'd the plenteous treat. 

The tempting cates he bade provide, 
The daily bounties he supplied ; 
The wines, the royal vintage find, 
Seduce not Daniel's guarded mind, 
Tempt not the self-denying three 
All shun the snares of luxury." 
' No food, but pulse, before us bring, 
No drink but the translucent spring. 

The king an image vast display'd, 
Enormous was the statue made ; 
With impious zeal his laws ordain, 
All should repair to Dura's plain. 
Princes and counsellors appear 
Rulers of provinces be there ! 
At sound of sackbut, psalt'ry, flute, 
All must attend : who dares dispute 
The high behest, who will not own 
The idol's godhead, shall be thrown 
Deep in the fiery cauldron's blaze, 
And burn in that capacious vase. 

See Dura's plain how crowded now ! 
All make the prostituted vow ; 
All praise, all honour, all adore ; 
The zealous king can ask no more. 
What, all ? Is no exception found. 
In idol worship all abound ? 

The holy brotherhood behold 

In God's almighty strength how bold '. 



68 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Nor flute nor sackbut's sound controuls 
The firm, fix'd purpose of their souls. 
Their eyes, their hearts are rais'd n high, 
The burning cauldron they defy, 
Now hear the valiant brothers speak, 
See them magnanimously meek. 
No arts to soothe the haughty king, 
No charge against his idol bring, 
No doubts, no fears, no hesitation ; 
They wait no slow deliberation. 
Prepar'd they stand. They scorn to swerve 
' Thy gods, king, we will not serve ; 
We serve Jehovah ; his command ■ 
Can save his servants from thy hand, 
E'en from the flames his children save, 
Snatch from the fearful fiery grave. 
If not, obedience is his due, 
In life, in death, resolv'd and true, 
No image shall our worship see, 
No idol, though set up by thee.' 
The king with madd'ning fury turns; 
With sevenfold heat the cauldron burns ; 
To such intensity it grew, 
The men who cast them in, it slew. 
The ardent blaze unaw'd they dare, 
They burn not ! God's own Son is there ! 
Sav'd by an all controlling hand, 
Unhurt, amidst the flames they stand. 
Triumphant Lord ! sav'd by thy power. 
Nor floods shall drown, nor flames devour. 
The awe-struck king the scene surveys ; 
Hear him the cry of rapture raise : 
I They live ! come forth ! let my command 
Be straight proclaim'd throughout the land ; 
Let Babylon's wide empire know 
God reigns above, and rules below. 
If any dare my law deny, 
Or Azariah's God defy, 
On dunghill heaps they shall be trod ; 
No God delivers like this God.' 

Let youthful readers not despise 
The hints which from this tale arise ; 
If base intemperance had possess'd 
Its empire o'er the yielding breast : 
Or did excess in wine obtain 
A conquest o'er the youthful brain, 1 
By these joint enemies subdu'd, 
Where might have been their fortitude ? 
Who rules the appetite, shall find 
An easier task to rule the mind. 

Daniel, the statesman, saint, and sage, 
Brav'd, yet unhurt, the lion's rage. , 
How fervently the Prophet spoke ! 
Warm from his lips the rapture broke : 
Our right'ousness we dare not plead, 
For we have none in thought or deed : 
Thy oracles neglected lie ; 
Abus'd, thy dreadful majesty ! 
Our sins are great, yet greater still 
Thy power to pardon, and thy will ; 
Oh, Lord, forgive ! Oh, hear us, Lord ! 
For thy own sake thy help afford. 
So prompt to prayer to grant thine aid, 
'Tis heard almost before 'tis made. 

Soon may it come, the day all hail; 
When God's free Spirit shall prevail : t 
In full effusion, large and wide, 
In ev'ry heart be multiplied. 
What must arrive, if God be true, 



Why wait for in a distant view ? 
Why not at once besiege the throne, 
Till Heaven the supplication own 1 

Hosea, in each indignant line, 
Denounc'd on sin the wrath divine. 

Joel directs to fast and pray, 
And God's displeasure turn away ; 
The threat'nings of the Lord he brings, 
And then his goodness sweetly sings : 
Why will ye perish ! turn, O turn, 
Before his indignation burn ! 
Bow down your heart, his kindness prove, 
Not merely loving, — God is love ; 
Quick to forgive, slow to resent : 
Approach his footstool and repent. 
He will your contrite prayers receive, 
Perhaps he may a blessing leave : 
Corn, wine, and oil, again bestow, 
Remove the plague, and heal the woe. 

Amos exhorts, and warns, and strives 
That Judah should reform their lives. 
His powerful precepts never cease 
To warn the rich who live at ease. 
You that on downy couches lie, 
Or doze on beds of ivory ; 
You who voluptuously consume 
Your wealth, whose meal's a hecatomb ; 
Who at a single feast exhaust 
A vineyard of uncounted cost ; 
Whose perfumes, floating in the air, 
A Sybarite might be proud to share ; 
Whose festive luxuries must be crown'd 
With the soft lute and viol's sound ; 
Are you the men of grief who melt 
At tales of woe by brethren felt? 
Ask Amos : he this truth imparts, 
That pleasure hardens human hearts •, 
That selfish feelings most abound 
Where ease and luxury are found. 
How strange the paradox, yet true, 
That what dissolves should harden too 1 

Brief Obadiah, full of grace, 
Says much, though in a little space. 

Jonah ! How high thy honours stand, 
Who by one sermon rous'd a land ! 
At the last day how will thy fame, 
Oh Nineveh, my country shame ! 
Jonah ! thy honours sunk how low 
When wrath deform'd thy sullen brow . 
Better a mighty empire fall, 
Than Jonah's credit sink at all ! 
Oh human selfishness how great, 
To mourn a gourd and-not a state ! 
The prophet here the pastor teaches 
To practice what so well he preaches. 

Micah, admir'd through ev'ry age, 
The babe of Bethlehem crowns thy page ! 
With what precision dost thou trace 
The then obscure, now honour'd place ! 

Nahum, all hail thy muse of fire, 
The glories of thy dying lyre ! 
" The still small voice" no more is heard, 
As when of old the Lord appear'd. 
The whirlwind, and the driving storm, 
His fearful wonders now perform ; 



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How terrible his thunders sound ! 
The awe-struck sinner how confound ! 
No horrors can the guilty move, 
Like the fierce wrath of injur'd love. 

Blest Prophet ! had thy strains been heard 
From the proud lyre of Theban bard, 
How would the wrapt enthusiast turn, 
" To thoughts that breathe, and words that 
burn !" 

But tho' not nurs'd on Pindus' mount, 
Nor fed from Aganippe's fount ; 
Thou offerest at a loftier shrine 
Than Delphi own'd, thy ode divine. 
Thy muse with nobler claims shall rise: 
Her inspirations from the skies ; 
This the chief glory of thy lays, 
Thou hadst a living God to praise. 

Though, Habakkuk, thy name refuse 
To bend obedient to the muse, 
Yet thy sweet promises impart 
Warm comfort to the drooping heart. 
In thy fam'd prayer, sublimely sweet, 
The saint and muse in concert meet. 

God came from Teman ; what array 
Of confluent glories marks his way ! 
Brightness above, around was sent ; 
The pestilence before him went. 
The skies with unknown splendours blaze, 
Heaven shows his power, and earth his praise; 
The everlasting mountains fled, 
The rivers trembled in their bed ; 
Bow'd the perpetual hills ; the deep 
Through its dark caves was heard to sweep. 
His arrows fly ! Lord, at thy will 
Th' astonish'd sun and moon stand still ! 
The shining of thy glitt'ring spear, 
Transfix the heathen bands with fear. 
One glance of thy pervading eye 
Measures the earth ; the nations fly 
Dissolv'd and scatter'd ; Cushan's tents 
Burst forth in deep and loud laments. 
They tremble at the distant sound, 
Sudden thy troops their tents surround. 

Yet tho' Chaldea's hostile band 
Pour in their hordes, despoil the land ; 
Yet though the fig tree may be found 
With neither fruit nor blossom crown'd ; 
The olive and the vine decay, 
And flocks and herds be torn away ; 
My song of praise my God shall hear, 
More free, more fervent, more sincere. 
" Revive thy work ;" tho' all should fail, 
Let grace and godliness prevail. 

Lord of my strength ; my joy, my crown, 
Thy boundless mercies let me own ! 
Thy great salvation sets me free, 
I shall have all in having Thee. 
Thou Zephaniah, dost record 
Boldly the terrors of the Lord ! 

Haggai the slothful Jews exhorts 
To build the temple's hallow'd courts : 
They, while their splendid mansions shine, 
Neglect Jehovah's sacred shrine. 

Thy visions, Zechariah, stand 
As beacons to a guilty land ; 
Tho' awfully obscure, yet true, 
They teach the Briton as the Jew. 

Known to the Lord, the day will come 
Reversing Salem's awful doom! 



Where nought was seen but waste and woe, 
There shall the living waters flow ; 
Destructions direful work be past, 
And Christ the King be crown'd at last. 
Her courts, by those who long have fought 
Against her, eagerly he sought: 
One Lord, one God, shall reign alone, 
His name, long prophesied, be One. 
On every vessel, every breast, 
One grand inscription be imprest ; 
And Holiness to God be found 
Within, without, above around ! 

Thou, Malachi, though last not least, 
Prepar'st for us the Gospel feast. 

* * * * # 

Yet e'er the ancient books you leave, 
This truth in all yeur hearts receive,— 
That all the saints unite with care 
To prove the omnipotence of prayer. 
Search thro' the annals of mankind, 
One solitary instance find ; 
Prove that you know one prayer preferr'd 
In faith by man, by God not heard ; 
Then boldly venture, if you dare, 
No more to lift your heart in prayer. 
Till then, pray on ; 'twill clear your way : 
Chiefly for God's own Spirit pray : 
There we shall find, if there we seek, 
Wealth for the poor, strength for the weak ; 
Soundness for sickness, life for death, 
Deriv'd from this inspiring breath ; 
Till every nation, tongue and tribe, 
The healing influence shall imbibe 
Distil like genial drops of rain, 
Or dews upon the tender grain : 
This in the secret of the soul 
Each strong temptation shall controul, 
And 6ome faint image, lost before, 
Of its bright origin restore. 



THE NEW TESTAMENT. 
PART THE THIRD. 

THE GOSPELS. 

This dispensation, clear and bright, 
Brings immortality to light; 
Proclaims the rebel Man restor'd, 
Th'Apostate brought to know the Lord. 
Within this consecrated ground 
Discrepancies are never found ; 
The writers vary just to prove 
That not in concert do they move ; 
While Jesus' glory stands reveal'd, 
The author's faults are not conceal'd ; 
No selfish arts, no private ends, 
But all to one grand centre tends ; 
No fact disguis'd however wrong, 
No truth kept back, however strong. 
One sure criterion leaves no doubt, 
Consistency prevails throughout: 
The doctrine who shall dare disprove, 
Of genuine faith which works by love ? 

Matthew and Mark divinely treat 
Those truths which Luke and John repeat : 
Tho' all concur in one grand scheme, 
Each throws fresh light upon the theme 
Matthew by no vain hope entic'd, 



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L°.ft all he had to follow Christ ; 

behold him faithfully record 

The matchless Sermon of his Lord. 

Here, every want its refuge seeks, 

Here, every grace its nature speaks ; 

Each in its own appropriate place, 

The blessing suited to the case. 

Each gift to its own want confin'd ; 

Mercy the merciful shall find. 

How cheering to the poor in. spirit, 

Promis'd a kingdom to inherit ! 

Told e'en on earth the meek man knows 

The best enjoyments Heaven bestows ; 

Lovers of peace shall peace possess, 

Comfort the comfortless shall bless ; 

That he who feels the oppressor's rod 

Feels more the mercies of his God ; 

Proclaims, the pure in heart shall see, 

In God, Essential Purity. 

Mark, next among the historic saints, 
The Baptist of the desert paints. 
Herod the prophet gladly heard, 
In many things obey'd his word. 
But mark the rapid race of sin ! 

They fast advance who once begin. 

Long train'd in vice, the tempter now 

Ensnares him to a sinful vow : 

Her graceful movements with his heart, 

He will with half his kingdom part : 

Sudden he cries, by passion driven, 

" Make thy demand it shall be given." 

Fearless she ask'd the Baptist's head, 

The king was griev'd, the king obey'd : 

O fruitless sorrow, vainly spent, 

To mourn the crime he might prevent ; 

If sinful such a vow to make, 

More sin to keep it than to break, 

To death he doom'd the saint he lov'd ; 

Condemn'd the preacher he approv'd ; 

And she, whose softness charm'd before, 

Herself the bleeding victim bore. 

What wonder if the king, amaz'd, 

Should dread in Christ that John was rais'd. 

See Luke the glorious scene record, 

The scene of his transfigur'd Lord ! 

This sight of wonder and of love 

Confirms the glorious state above : 

How blest the three* to whom 'twas given 

To view threet witnesses from heaven ! 

The representatives they saw 

Of Gospel, Prophecy, and Law. 

Luke more Christ's miracles records, 
John more preserves his gracious words ; 
Records for Christian consolation, 
His Saviour's heavenly conversation, 
Though John for ever stands approv'd 
The blest disciple Jesus lov'd ; 
Yet all one path devoutly trod, 
And follow'd their redeeming God. 

In Him the wond'rous union view, 
Atonement and example too ! 
His death sole means lost man to save ; 
His life our lives a pattern gave. 
Explore the mystery as we can, 
The perfect God was perfect man : 
As man he felt affliction's rod, 
As man he suffer'd, rose as God. 
This union all his actions prove, 
* Peter, James, and John. 
t Ja*u6. Moses, and Elias. 



As God, as man, he show'd his love, 
As man to man in every state 
Something he left to imitate. 

Divine Philanthropist ! to Thee 
We lift the heart, and bow the knee 
As man, man's sympathies he felt; 
In tears of tenderness could melt; 
Weep o'er the fated city's doom ; 
Weep, Lazarus, o'er thy honour'd tomb ! 
The hidden heart of man he knew ; 
Felt for his wants and weakness too. 
The bruised reed he never broke, 
His burden easy, light his yoke ; 
From heaven to earth his mercies reach, 
Alike to save us, or "to teach. 
When call'd on, error to reprove, 
Reproof was kindness, censure love: 
A cure his ready hand applies 
For blindness, or of heart, or eyes. 
Tho' with a look, a touch, a word 
The long-lost vision he restor'd ; 
A casual hint may pastors seize 
For those who yet see men as trees : 
Jesus watch'd o'er th' imperfect sight, 
And blest the blind with gradual light. 

His saints no vain display relate, 
No miracles for pomp or state; 
No artful show for private ends, 
But all to use and mercy tends. 
His life a constant lecture reads 
For minor as for greater deeds ; 
Not that his hunger might be fed, 
He multiplies the scanty bread: 
The famish'd troops in order plac'd, 
He ne'er forgot to bless the feast : 
Though endless stores he could produce, 
He sav'd the fragments for their use. 

We pass each suffering, glorious scene, 
The manger and the Cross between ; 
All ' he began to do, and teach' 
We pass, till Calvary we reach. 
The attempt almost too bold we deem, 
And trembling touch the awful theme. 
All eloquence, all power of speech, 
Imagination's loftiest reach, 
Fall short, and could but faintly prove 
Th' incarnate God's last scene of love. 
Abandon'd, none his woes partake ; 
One friend denies him, all forsake. 

Yet tho' the sacred blood was shed, 
' Captivity was captive led.' 
The annals of mankind explore, 
Did ever conqueror before 
Make palpable to human eyes, 
Achieve, such glorious victories ? 
Besides the triumphs of his grace, 
Which only faith's purg'd eye can trace; 
Marvels applied to sight and sense, 
Exhibit his omnipotence. 
Shrouded Divinity confest, 
What prodigies the Lord attest ! 
Things ^contrary, opposing creatures 
Struck at the sight, forget their natures , 
The human voice is mute ; the dumb 
And senseless eloquent become. 
Things breathless, things inanimate 
Renounce, nay contradict their fate. 
Things never meant to sympathise 
Astonish unbelieving eyes. 
The firm earth trembled at the view; 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



71 



Th' indignant sun his light withdrew ; 
No natural cause eclips'd his face, 
He would not witness man's disgrace. 
Asunder torn, the rocks proclaim 
Their sympathies with loud acclaim. 
The yawning sepulchres unclose ; 
To life their sleeping tenants rose ; 
The Temple's vail is seen to rend, 
And with it all distinctions end ! 
All various nature takes a part, 
All, save the obdurate human heart. 
The soldier, and th' expiring thief 
Alone, proclaim their firm belief. 
Lord, * It is finished :' here we meet 
Promise and prophecy complete. 

Then come the Apostles' wond'rous facts, 
Their travels, miracles, and Acts. 
The Holy Spirit from above, 
Given as the Messenger of Love. 

The various languages once sent, 
To Babel as its punishment, 
•Here take a diff'rent nature quite, 
Not meant to scatter but unite ; 
That every nation here below, 
In its own tongue God's word might know. 

Ye, who to idols long confin'id, 
Are blind in heart, arid dark in mind ; 
Half quench'd the intellectual ray, 
While man withheld the moral day ; 
To the strong hold, ye prisoners, turn, 
Prisoners of hope ! no longer mourn. 
See Christ extended empire gains, 
See mountains sinking into plains ! 
The Builders on the Corner-stone, 
Cease not like 1 Babel's — they work on, 
Till Saba and Arabia bring 
Due tribute to th' Eternal King ; 
The living Word shall life impart 
Unseal the eye, and change the heart ; 
Till Jew and Gentile truth shall see, 
Greek and Barbarian, bond and free ; 
Not by man's might, nor deed, nor word, 
But by the Spirit of the Lord. 

Hear martyr'd Stephen, as he dies, 
Pray for his murd'rous enemies ! 
Then bring from Greek or Roman story 
So pure an instance of true glory ! 
And is the furious bigot Saul 
Become, indeed, the humble Paul ? 
Strange pow'r of all-transforming grace, 
The lamb assumes the lion's place ! 
So blind, when persecution's rod 
He held he thought 'twas serving God : 
But now so meek, himself he paints 
4 Less than the least of all the saints !' 
Stephen ! thy prayer in death preferr'd 
To save thy enemies, is heard ; 
And Paul perhaps the earliest fruit 
Of the first martyr's dying suit. 

Forgive the Muse if she recall 
So oft to mind the sainted Paul ; 
We pass the awful truths he tells, 
His labours, woes, and miracles; 
We pass the pow'rs his cause who heard ; 
How Felix trembled, Festus fear'd ; 
Pass, how the Jewish king receiv'd 
The truth, half doubted, half believ'd ; 
We pass the different works of grace 
In Lydia, and the jailor's case; 



We pass the perils Paul endur'd 
From stripes ; in prison how immur'd ; 
In nakedness and hunger groan'd; 
Betray'd, thrice beaten, shipwreck'd, stiii'd 
In every varying state we see 
Only a change in misery. 

How oft has admiration hung 
On the great lyric bard, who sung 
The warrior fam'd in Punic story, 
Who swell'd the tide of Roman glory . 
With magnanimity heroic, 
He dignifies the noble Stoic, 
See the illustrious captive stand, 
Resolv'd unshaken, on the strand. 
Imploring friends around him weep ; 
All mourn the hero all would keep. 
E'en the stern senators in vain 
The patriot would at last detain. 
No blessings of domestic life, 
No darling child, nor tender wife 
He heeds ; repels his wife's embrace, 
Th' endearments of his infant race. 
No sigh he heaves, he drops no tear, 
Naught but his oath and country dear. 
He knows the tortures which await, 
Knows all the horrors of his fate ; 
By death in direst shapes unmov'd, 
He coolly quitted all he Jov'd. 
Compos'd, as if hard law-suits past, 
He sought a calm retreat at last ; 
Such calm as crowns Venafrian fields, 
Such charms as cool Tarentum yields. 

The great Apostle now behold, 
A hero cast in Christian mould ; 
Though learn'd, he will not take his rule 
From Doctors of the Stoic school. 
Religion stops not nature's course, 
But turns to other streams its force. 
Forewarn'd, he knew where'er he went 
'Twas prison, death, or banishment. 
'Twas not a vague, uncertain fear ; 
God's Spirit show'd him what was near, 
Show'd him the woes which must befall, 
Not in one country, but in all. 
Behold him now encircled stand, 
Like the brave Roman on the strand : 
A lovelier scene* adorns no page 
Than that which now our thoughts engage. 
Weeping, his Christian friends surround, 
Their tender anguish knows no bound ; 
Their tears to him their grief impart, 
1 Mean you to weep and break my heart ?' 

Hear him with modest grace record 
His toils for his forgiving Lord : 
Pour out the tender love he feels, 
Then to their justice he appeals. 
Still to your highest interests true, 
Witness, I sought not yours, but you. 
This heart for you my daily care, 
Is lifted up in ceaseless prayer ; 
These hands have oft procur'd my bread, 
And labour'd that the poor be fed. 
O treasure close in every breast, 
Your Saviour's posthumous bequest, 
If 'tis a blessing to receive, 
Far more a blessing 'tis to give, 
Then warns to feed the church of God, 
Purchas'd by his redeeming blood. 

*Acts, Chap. xx. 



72 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Thrice bless'd the Pastor who, like Paul, 
The past with comfort can recall ; 
His life and doctrine both review 
To auditors who feel both true ; 
Fears not his conduct to declare 
Holy, unblameable, sincere. 
His preaching catholic ; he speaks 
Impartially to Jews and Greeks. 
No words of doubtful disputation 
Allure from his grand end — salvation ; 
Faith and repentance form his theme, 
Compendium of the Christian scheme! 
No searching truth he e'er concealed, 
But God's whole counsel still reveal'd. 

He speaks : — ' The woes which must befall 
My trusting soul shall ne'er appal. 
If I for God my span employ ; 
If He my course may crown with joy ; 
If I may spend my painful race, 
To testify redeeming grace ; 
No dread of death my soul shall move, 
Secure in him I serve and love.' 

His friends, lamenting, crowd the shore, 
They part, they see his face no more : 
Their sorrows and his own to cheer, 
He consecrates the scene with prayer. 

PART THE FOURTH. 

THE EPISTLES. 

Next come the Romans, here we trace 
The flagrant manners of their race. 
Tho' Nero then Rome's sceptre sway'd, 
Yet conscientious Paul obey'd ; 
Fearless he taught that all should bring 
Allegiance to their rightful king. 
In this epistle we may find 
The depths and heights of his great mind: 
Here rhetoric and logic meet 
The cause of faith to vindicate. 

Paul, when the rich Corinthians came, 
Found much to praise and much to blame : 
Luxurious, negligent, and proud ; 
No error was by him allow'd. 
As Christian truth should still be told, 
The righteous Paul is meekly bold ; 
And yet such tenderness appears, 
His very frowns are mix'd with tears ! 

One glorious truth he here defends, 
That truth on which all truth depends : 
Labours one doctrine to maintain, 
Which if not true, he preach'd in vain; 
Vain to their faith, which might not trust 
The resurrection of the just. 
Then mounting above space of time, 
He soars with energy sublime; 
Exhausts on this grand contemplation 
High argument, bold illustration I 
Created nature see he brings, 
Attested to the truth he sings : 
All grain, all flesh, their tribute lend ; 
The diff'ring stars the truth defend : 
If these proclaim God's glory true, 
When the material heavens we view, 
His glory sun and moon declare, 
When on this doctrine brought to bear. 

In vain shall death his prey devour, 
*Twas sown in weakness, rais'd in power 1 
Nor slow the process : Heaven is nigh : 
Quick, in the twinkling of an eye. 



Methinks I see the mould'ring clay 
Start into life, wake into day ! 
Dread sound ! 'tis the last trumpet's voice ! 
Reviv'd, transported, all rejoice. 
Hark ! heard I not that rapturous cry, 
Death's swallow'd up in victory? 
Jesus — the ransom'd join to sing, 
Jesus, oh, Death ! extracts thy sting. 

Can Paul, absorb'd in scenes so bright, 
Again on earth vouchsafe to light ? 
To drop from his exhaustless store, 
One parting, pointed moral more ? 
One added precept deign to press? 
He can — awake to righteousness : 
In God's great work still more abound, 
Nor shall your labours vain be found. 

The bold Galatians Paul reproves, 
And much he blames, tho' much he loves ; 
Condemns the teachers whom he saw 
Exchange the Gospel for the law. 
To clear his doctrine from suspicion, 
He vindicates his heavenly mission. 

Th' Ephesians stand in glory bright, 
On whom Paul shed the Gospel-light, 
Where great Diana was ador'd, 
They follow 'd on to know the Lord : 
This matchless letter you will find 
A perfect model of its kind. 

Where Anthony with Brutus fought, 
There Christian Paul a refuge sought. 
Yet e'en Philippians could be found 
The Saviour in his saint to wound : 
A prison the reward they gave 
The man who came their souls to sav* 

Did Paul the cruelty resent, 
Or in reproach his anger vent ? 
No ; — if the saint exceeds in love, 
Invokes more favours from above : 
If e'er his full o'erflowing heart 
Sought warmer blessings to impart ; 
If more for any friends he pray'd, 
For showers of mercies on their head, 
It was for this distinguish'd place, 
The scene of his most foul disgrace ! 
How does his fervent spirit burn 
Their recent kindness to return ! 
What terms, what arguments employ, 
To fill their hearts with holy joy ! 
What consolation from above ; 
What comfort from eternal love ; 
From God's blest Spirit drawing nigh ; 
Communion sweet, communion high ! 
Such strong persuasions must controul, 
Convince the reason, melt the soul ! 
He urges motives as a law, 
Which some would think deter not draw. 
1 Take as a gift reserv'd for you, 
Power to believe and suffer too !' 

The good Colossians now stand forth, 
Excell'd by none in grace and worth, 
Behold the saint his touchstone give, 
To try with Christ if Christians live. 
Oh, let your aspirations rise, 
Nor stop at aught beneath the skies. 
Your fruitless cares no more bestow 
On perishable things below. 
From sordid joys indignant fly ; 
Know, avarice is idolatry, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



73 



False worship 's not confin'd alone 
To images of wood and stone ; 
Whate'er you grasp with eager hold, 
Honours or pleasures, fame or gold ; 
These are your idols, these you'll find, 
Possess your soul, engross your mind. 
Heaven will with idols have no part : 
That robs your God which steals your heart. 

The Tiiessalonians next appear, 
The bountiful and the sincere. 
Here precept pure and doctrine sound, 
In sweet accordance may be found. 
Mark the triumphant Christian's voice, 
' Rejoice, again I say, rejoice !' 
As he would echo back to heaven, 
The holy transport grace had given. 

Young Timothy is on record, 
Who sought betimes to know the Lord. 
Here true maternal love we find, 
Which form'd the heart, and taught the mind. 
Here may the British mother learn, 
Her child's best interests to discern ; 
Her faithfulness to God best prove, 
And best evince her Christian love. 

Paui, while his pupil's good he seeks, 
Thro' him to unborn pastors speaks : 
1 Reprove, exhort, be earnest still 
Your high commission to fulfil ; 
Watch, labour, pray ; in these consist 
The works of an Evangelist.' 
As Bishop, he commands again, 
' Commit the trust to faithful men ;' 
Bids him observe, that those who preach 
Need to remind as well as teach 
To raise his soul to solemn thought, 
God's judgment is before him brought ; 
When seated in tremendous state, 
The blest and only Potentate, 
The members of the living head 
Shall meet the Judge of quick and dead, 
Then Christ his faithful sons shall own, 
Who bore his Cross, shall wear his Crown. 

Next Titus, youthful yet discreet, 
First Bishop of the Isle of Crete. 
Here prudent Paul, divines to show 
They ought their people's faults to know, 
Quotes their own poet, to declare 
The Cretans sensual, insincere. 
Such knowledge teaches to reprove 
The erring, and the just to love. 

Now in :he gentle tone of friend 
See him to private life descend ; 
The sober duties to impart, 
Which grace the life, and mend the heart. 
Shows on what consecrated ground 
Domestic happiness is found ; 
Warns the fair convert not to roam : 
The truest joys are found at home ; 
'Tis there the chaste obedient mind 
Will life's best charm confer, and find. 

Follows Ph.'lemon, who forgave, 
Yea, honour'd, his converted slave. 

Paul to the Hebrews writes : — O, then,- 
What inspiration guides his pen ! 
Let wits revile, let Atheists rail, 
Such evidence shall never fail. 

Vou L 



As the first pages here supply 
Of Christ's unclouded Deity. 

As he proceeds, to faith 'tis given 
To soar on loftier wing to heaven. 
See here the doctrine prov'd by facts, 
Belief exhibited in acta. 
See conquering Faith's heroic hand 
Church-militant in order stand ! 
The Red-Sea passengers we view, 
Jephtha and Gideon, Barak too. 
Had we all time, the time would fail 
Of heroes to record the tale, 
Whose deeds their attestation bring 
That faith is no ideal thing. 
Say, could ideal faith aspire 
To quench the violence of fire ? 
To stop the famish'd lion's rage ! 
With dread temptations to engage ; 
All deaths despise, all dangers dare, 
With no support, save God and prayer ? 

' 'Tis pride,' the sneering Sceptic cries, 
' Rank pride, the martyr's strength supplies : 
His fortitude by praise is fed, 
Praise is Religion's daily bread. 
The public show, the attendant crowd, 
The admiration fond and loud ; 
The gaze, the noise his soul sustains, 
Applause the opiate of his pains ; 
Withdraw the charm spectators bring', 
And torture is no joyous thing.' 

Thy triumphs, Faith, we need not take 
Alone from the blest martyr's stake ; 
In scenes obscure, no less we see 
That faith is a reality. 
An evidence of things not seen, 
A substance firm whereon to lean, 
Go search the cottager's lone room, 
The day scarce piercing thro 1 the gloom : 
The Christian on his dying bed 
Unknown, unletter'd, hardly fed ; 
No flatt'ring witnesses attend, 
To tell how glorious was his end, 
Save in the book of life, his name 
Unheard, he never dreamt of fame. 
No human consolation near, 
No voice to soothe, no friend to cheer. 
Of every earthly stay bereft, 
And nothing but his Saviour left. 
Fast sinking to his kindred dust, 
The Word of Life is still his trust 
The joy God's promises impart 
Lies like a cordial at his heart ; 
Unshaken faith its strength supplies, 
He loves, believes, adores, and dies. 

The great Apostle ceases ; — then 
To holy James resigns the pen ; 
James, full of faith and love, no doubt, 
The practical and the devout. 

Ye rich, the saint indignant cried, 
Curs'd are all riches misapplied I 
Abhorr'd the wealth which useless lies, 
When merit claims, or hunger cries ! 
The wise alike with scorn behold 
The hoarded as the squander'd gold. 

In man opposing passions meet 
The liberal feelings to defeat : 
Pleasure and Avarice both agree 
To stop the tide of charitv : 
Tho' each detests the other's deeds 



74 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



The same effect from both proceeds : 

Curs'd is the gold, or sav'd, or spent, 

Which God for mercy's portion meant: 

Chemists in transmutation hold 

Attempt to make base metals gold. 

Let Christians then transmute their pelf 

To something nobler than itself; 

On heaven their rescued wealth bestow, 

And send it home before they go : 

He will the blest deposit own : 

Who seals the pardon, gives the crown. 

Peter the bold, who perils hail'd 
Who promis'd much, and much he fail'd ; 
Peter, the generous rash, and warm, 
Who lov'd his Lord, but shrunk from harm ; 
Peter the coward and. the brave, 
Denying him he wish'd to save; 
O Peter, what reproachful word, 
What dagger keen, what two-edg'd sword, 
Could pierce thy bosom like the last, 
Last look thy Saviour on thee cast? 
That speechless eloquence divine, 
No pen, no pencil can define. 
Peter, how bitter were thy tears ! 
Remorse absorb'd thy guilty fears. 

Still, Peter, did thy risen Lord, 
Conqueror of death, his grace afford ; 
Not to the men of faith approv'd, 
Not to the saint whom Jesus loved. 
It was to heal thy broken heart, 
Comfort to anguish to impart: 
Yes — 'twas to Peter that by name 
Alone the glorious tidings came. 

Now mark the wond'rous power of grace ! 
His character has chang'd its face ; 
The noblest attitude assumes : 
Who now on his own strength presumes ? 
Where now his fears ? we only see 
True Christian magnanimity. 
Who now the foremost to declare 
Their grand commission ? who to dare 
The standard of the cross to raise, 
And his ador'd Redeemer praise ? 
Applause he scorn'd however true, 
But gave the glory where 'twas due, 
With what majestic grace he rose, 
Fearless of all surrounding foes ; 
Brought the old Scriptures to apply 
His argument from prophecy : 
From miracles which well accord, 
He prov'd that Jesus was the Lord. 

When requisite in some hard case 
To check deceit, unmask the base, 
'Twas Peter's office : see him dare 
Seize the prevaricating pair.* 
One question stops the fraudful breath, 
And blasts them both with instant death. 

Ask you the truth he lov'd to teach, 
The theme selected first to preach ? 
Repentance ! — What he felt he taught : 
A mighty change his preaching wrought 
The fruits were equal to the zeal, 
They best can teach who deepest feel. 
Crown'd were his labours : Peter died 
A martyr to the Crucified. 

With love his pure Epistles fraught, 
John teaches what his gospel taught; 
„• Ananias and Sapphira. 



He needs no argument to prove, 
Save his own heart, that God is love. 

Jude, what his letter wants in length, 
Redeems by energy and strength. 
Confirms the truth from revelation 
Of Enoch's marvellous translation. 
Hear him in awful terms declare, 
The mis'ries which the ungodly share! 
Clouds without water, dark yet dry, 
Spots in the feasts of charity ; 
Trees withering, destitute of fruit, 
Exterminated branch and root. 

Now in its pomp and dread array, 
He summons to the judgment-day. 
O, what conflicting trains of thought, 
Has this amazing image brought ! 
O, what a fire this spark has kindled, 
Of terror and of transport mingled ! 
Spirits who lost their first estate 
Retaining their immortal hate. 
The bold impenitent shall hear 
His doom ; his sentence black despair. 
The hypocrite detected lie, 
Naked, laid bare to every eye. 
To crown the horrors which await, 
All feel the justice of their fate. 
Their fears their punishment foretell, 
And conscience does the work of Hell. 
They as the achme of their pain, 
Acquit their Judge themselves arraign. 
No shelter now from rocks or caves, 
No refuge from the fiery waves ; 
What wonder, wildly if they call 
The mountains on their heads to fall. 

Then see the Man of Sorrows found, 
The Lord of life and glory crown'd. 
Jesus appears, as Enoch paints, 
Surrounded by ten thousand saints. 
Lo ! heaven and earth their tribute bring 
Of glory to the eternal king! 
Angels, archangels, each degree 
Of heaven's celestial hierarchy ! 
The noble martyr's valiant band 
Before their conq'ring Captain stand ! 
The goodly prophets here behold 
Fulfill'd the scenes they once foretold . 
Their Lord encircling, here we see 
The Apostles' glorious company : 
Heaven kindly vails from human sight 
All that dread day will bring to light. 

THE REVELATION. 

The saint of Patmos last we meet, 
And revelation stands complete. 

In this bright vision, tho' he brings 
Scenes of unutterable things; 
He tempers heaven'd effulgent light, 
Too powerful else for mortal sight. 
Partly by negatives are shown 
Joys which hereafter shall be known: 
Suffering, and sin, and death, are o'er, 
For former things are seen no more ; 
No sorrow felt, and heav'd no sigh, 
And tears are wip'd from every eye. 

Yet not by negative alone, 
Consummate glory shall be known; 
Not only shall be found no night, 
The La.\ib himself Bhall be the light 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 75 



Sun, moon, and stars, shall fade away, 
Lost in one cloudless, endless day ; 



'Tis God's own presence makes it heaven. 
Of future bliss, if such the sum, 



Redemption finish'd, sin forgiven, J Then come, Lord Jesus ! quickly come ! 

SACRED DRAMAS : 

CHIEFLY INTENDED FOR YOUNG PERSONS. 

THE SUBJECTS TAKEN FROM THE BIBLE. 

All the books of the Bible are either most admirable and exalted pieces of poetry, or the best 
materials in the world for it. — Cowley. 

«•»§»•- 

TO HER GRACE 

THE DUTCHESS OF BEAUFORT, 

THESE SACRED DRAMAS ARE, WITH THE MOST PERFECT RESrECT, INSCRIBED : 

v. 

As, among 1 the many amiable and distinguished qualities which adorn her mind, and add lustre 
to her rank, her excellence in the maternal character gives a peculiar propriety to her protection 
of this little work ; written with an humble wish to promote the love of piety and virtue in young 
oersons, 

By her grace's most obedient, most obliged, and most humble servant, 

HANNAH MORE. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

I am as ready as the most rigid critic to confess, that nothing can be more simple and inartifi- 
cial than the plans of the following dramas. In the construction of them I have seldom ventured 
to introduce any person* of my own creation: still less did I imagine myself at liberty to invent 
circumstances. I reflected, with awe, that the place whereon I stood was holy ground. All the 
latitude I permitted myself was, to make such persons as I selected act under such circumstances 
as I found, and express such sentiments as, in my humble judgment, appeared not unnatural to 
their characters and situations. Some of the speeches are so long as to retard the action ; for I 
rather aspired after moral instruction than the purity of dramatic composition. I am aware that 
it may be brought as an objection, that I have now and then made my Jewish characters speak 
too much like Christians, as it may be questioned whether I have not occasionally ascribed to 
them a degree of light and knowledge greater than they probably had the means of possessing : 
but I was more anxious in consulting the advantage or my youthful readers by leading them on 
to higher religious views, than in securing to myself the reputation of critical exactness. 

It will be thought that I have chosen, perhaps, the least important passage in the eventful life 
of David, for the foundation of the drama which bears his name. Yet even in this his first ex- 
ploit, the sacred historian represents him as exhibiting no mean lesson of modesty, humility, 
courage, and piety. Many will think that the introduction (('Saul's daughter would have added 
to the effect of the piece : and I have no doubt but that it would have made the intrigue more 
complicated and amusing had this drama been intended for the stage. There, all that is tender, 
and all that is terrible in the passions, find a proper place. But I write for the young, in whom 
it will be always time enough to have the passions awakened ; I write for a class of readers, to 
whom it is not easy to accommodate one's subject,t so as to be at once useful and interesting. 

The amiable poet,t from whom I have taken my motto, after showing the superiority of the 
sacred over the profane histories, some instances of which I have noticed in my introduction, 
concludes with the following remark, which I may apply to myself with far more propriety than 
it was used by the author : — ' I am far from assuming to myself to have fulfilled the duty of this 
weighty undertaking; and I shall be ambitious of no other fruit from this weak and imperfect 
attempt of mine, but the opening of a way to the courage and industry of some other persons, 
who may be better able to perform it thoroughly and successfully.' 

* Never indeed, except in Daniel, and that of necessity ; as the Bible furnishes no more than two persons, Da- 
niel and Darius, and these were not sufficient to carry on the business of the piece. 

t It would not be easy, nor perhaps proper, to introduce sacred tragedies on the English stage. The pious 
would think it profane, while the profane would think it dull. Yet the excellent Racine, in a profligate country 
and a voluptuous court, ventured to adapt the story of Jithalia to the Franch theatre ; and it remains to us a 
glorious monument of its author's courageous piety, while it exhibits the perfection of the dramatic art. 

t Cowley. 



76 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



INTRODUCTION. 

for the sacred energy which struck 
The harp of Jesse's son ! or for a spark 

Of that celestial flame which touch'd the lips 
Of bless'd Isaiah:* when the Seraphim 
With living fire descended, and his soul 
From sin's pollution purg'd ! or one faint ray, 
If human things to heavenly I may join, 
Of that pure spirit which inflam'd the breast 
Of Milton, God's own poet ! when retir'd 
In fair enthusiastic vision wrapt, 
The nightly visitant deign'd bless his couch 
With inspiration, such as never flow'd 
From Acidale or Aganippe's fount ! 
Then, when the sacred fire within him burnt, 
He spake as man or angels might have spoke, 
When man was pure, and angels were his 

guests. 
It will not be. — Nor prophet's burning zeal, 
Nor muse of fire, nor yet to sweep the strings 
With sacred energy, to me belongs ; 
Nor with Miltonic hand to touch the chords 
That wake to ecstacy. From me, alas ! 
The secret source of harmony is hid ; 
The magic pow'rs which catch the ravish'd soul 
In melody's sweet maze, and the clear streams 
Which to pure fancy's yet untasted springs 
Enchanted lead. Of these I little know ! 
Yet, all unknowing, dare thy aid invoke, 
Spirit of truth ! to bless these worthless lays : 
Nor impious is the hope ; for thou hast said, 
That none who ask in faith should ask in vain. 
You I invoke not now, ye fabled Nine ! 

1 not invoke you though you well were sought 
In Greece and Latium, sought by deathless 

bards. 
Whose syren song enchants ; and shall enchant 
Through time's wide circling round, tho' false 

their faith, 
And less than human were the gods they sung. 
Though false their faith they taught the best 

they knew ; 
And (blush, O Christians!) liv'd above their 

faith. 
They would have bless'd the beam and feil'd 

the day 
Which chas'd the moral darkness from their 

souls. 
O ! had their minds receiv'd the clearer ray 
Of Revelation, they had learn'd to scorn 
Their rites impure, their less than human gods, 
Their wild mythology's fantastic maze. 

Pure Plato ! how had thy chaste spirit hail'd 
A faith so fitted to thy moral sense ! 
What hadst thou felt to see the fair romance 
Of high imagination, the bright dream 
Of thy pure fancy, more than realiz'd ! 
Sublime enthusiast ! thou hadst blest a scheme 
Fair, good, and perfect. How had thy wrapt 

soul 
Caught fire, and burnt with a diviner flame ! 
For e'en thy fair idea ne'er conceiv'd 
Such plenitude of bliss, such boundless love, 
As Deity made visible to sense. 
Unhappy Brutus ! philosophic mind ! 
Great 'midst the errors of the Stoic school ! 
How had thy kindling spirit joy'd to find 
That thy lov'd virtue was no empty name : 
* Isaiah, chap. vi. 



Nor hadst thou met the vision at Philippi ; 
Nor hadst thou sheath'd thy bloody dagger's 

point 
Or in the breast of Caesar or thy own. 

The pagan page how far more wise than ours! 
They with the gods they worshipp'd grac'd their 

song : 
Our song we grace with gods we disbelieve : 
Retain the manners but reject the creed. 
Shall fiction only raise poetic flame, 
And shall no altar blaze, O Truth, to thee ? 
Shall falsehood only please and fable charm 1 
And shall eternal truth neglected lie ? 
Because immortal, slighted, or profan'd ? 
Truth has our rev'rence only, not our love ; 
Our praise, but not our hearts : a deity, 
Confess'd, but shunn'd ; acknowledged, not 

ador'd ; 
Alarm'd we dread her penetrating beams : 
She comes too near us, and too brightly shines. 

Why shun to make our duty our delight ? 
Let pleasure be the motive, disallow 
All high incentives drawn from God's command; 
Where shall we trace, through all the page pro 

fane, 
A livelier pleasure and a purer source 
Of innocent delight, than the fair book 
Of holy truth presents ? for ardent youth, 
The sprightly narrative ! for years mature, 
The moral document, in sober robe 
Of grave philosophy array'd : which all 
Had heard with admiration, had embrac'd 
With rapture, had the shades of Academe, 
Or the learn'd Porch produc'd it : — Tomes had 

then 
Been multiplied on tomes, to draw the veil 
Of graceful allegory, to unfold 
Some hidden source of beauty now not felt ! 

Do not the pow'rs of soul-enchanting song, 
Strong imagery, bold figure, every charm 
Of eastern flight sublime, apt metaphor, 
And all the graces in thy lovely train, 
Divine simplicity ! assemble all 
In Sion's songs, and bold Isaiah's strain ? 

Why should the classic eye delight to trace 
The tale corrupted from its prime pure source; 
How Pyrrha and the fam'd Thessalian king 
Restor'd the ruin'd race of lost mankind : 
Yet turn, incurious, from the patriarch sav'd 
The rescued remnant of a delug'd world ? 
Why are we taught, delighted to recount 
Alcides' labours, yet neglect to note 
Heroic Samson 'midst a life of toil 
Herculean ? Pain and peril marking both, 
A life eventful and disasterous death. 
Can all the tales which Grecian story yields ; 
Can all the names the Roman page records, 
Of wond'rous friendship and surpassing love 
Can gallant Theseus and his brave compeer* 
Orestes and the partner of his toils ; 
Achates and his friend : Euryalus 
And blooming Nisus, pleasant in their lives, 
And undivided by the stroke of death ; 
Can each, can all, a lovelier picture yield ' 
Of virtuous friendship : can they all present 
A tenderness more touching than the love 
Of Jonathan and David? — Speak, ye young ! 
Who, undebauched as yet by fashion's lore, 
And unsophisticate, unbiass'd judge : 
Say, is your quick attention more arous'd 



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77 



By the red plagues which wasted smitten 

Thebes, 
Than heav'n's avenging hand on Pharaoh's 

host? 
Or do the vagrant Trojans, driven by fate 
On adverse shores successive, yield a theme 
More grateful to the eager appetite 
Of young impatience, than the wand'ring tribes 
The Hebrew leader through the desert led ? 
The beauteous maid,* (though tender is the tale;) 
Whose guiltless blood on Aulis' altar stream'd, 
Smites not the bosom with a softer pang 
Than her in fate how sadly similar, 
The Gileaditish virgin — victims both 

Of vows unsanctify'd. 

Such are the lorely themes which court the bard, 
Scarce yet essay'd in verse — for verse how meet ! 
While heav'n-descended song, forgetting oft 
Her sacred dignity and high descent, 
Debases her fair origin ; oft spreads 
Corruption's deadly bane, pollutes the heart 
Of innocence, and with unhallow'd hand 
Presents the poison'd chalice, to the brim 
Fill'd with delicious ruin, minist'ring 
The unwholesome rapture to the fever'd taste, 
While its fell venom, with malignant pow'r, 
Strikes at the root of Virtue, with'ring all 
Her vital energy. Oh ! for some balm 
Of sov'reign power, to raise the drooping Muse 
To all the health of virtue ! to infuse 
* Iphigenia. 



A gen'rous warmth, to rouse an holy zeal 
And give her high conceptions of herself, 
Her dignity, her worth, her aim, her end ! 

For me, eternal Spirit, let thy word 
My path illume ! O thou compassionate God ! 
Thou know'st our frame, thou know'st we are 

but dust ; 
From dust a Seraph's zeal thou wilt not seek, 
Nor wilt thou ask an angel's purity. 
But hear, and hearing pardon ; as I strive, 
Though with a feeble voice and flagging wing 
A glowing heart, but pow'rless hand, to paint 
The faith of favoor'd man to heav'n; to sing 
The ways inscrutable of heav'n to man ; 
May I, by thy celestial guidance led, 
Fix deep in my own heart the truths I teach ! 
In my own life transcribe whate'er of good 
To others I propose ! and by thy rule 
Correct th' irregular,* reform the wrong, 
Exalt the low, and brighten the obscure ! 
Still may I note, how all th' agreeing parts 
Of this consummate system join to frame 
One fair, one finish'd, one harmonious whole ! 
Trace the close links which form the perfec 

chain 
In beautiful connexion ; mark the scale 
Whose nice gradations, with progression true, 
For ever rising, end in Deity ! 

* What in me is dark 

Illumine ! What is low, raise and support ! 

Paradise Lost. 



MOSES IN THE BULRUSHES. 

A SACRED DRAMA. 

Let me assert eternal Providence, 

And justify the ways of God to man. — Paradise Lost. 

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



HEBREW WOMEN. 

Jocheeed, mother of Moses. 
Miriam, his sister. 



The Princess, king Pharaoh's daughter. 
Melita ; and other attendants. 



Scene — On the banks of the Nile. 
This subject is taken from the second chapter of the book of Exodus. 



PART I. 

JOCIIEBED, MIRIAM. 

Joch. Why was my pray'r accepted ? why did 

heaven 
In anger hear me, when I ask'd a son ? 
Ye dames of Egypt ! ye triumphant mothers! 
You no imperial tyrant marks for ruin ; 
You are not doom'd to see the babes you bore, 
The babes you fondly nurture, bleed before you ! 
You taste the transport of a mother's love, 
Without a mother's anguish ! wretched Israel ! 
Can I forbear to mourn the different lot 
Of thy sad daughters ! — Why did God's own 

hand 
Rescue his chosen race by Joseph's care ? 
Joseph 1 th' elected instrument of heaven, 



Decreed to save illustrious Abraham's sons, 
What time the famine rag'd in Canaan's land. 
Israel, who then was spar'd, must perish now ! 
Thou great mysterious Pow'r, who hast in- 

volv'd 
Thy wise decrees in darkness, to perplex 
The pride of human wisdom, to confound 
The daring scrutiny, and prove, the faith 
Of thy presuming creatures ! hear me now: 
O vindicate thy honour, clear this doubt, 
Teach me to trace this maze of Providence : 
Why save the fathers, if the sons must perish ? 
Afir, Ah me, my mother ! whence these floods 

of grief? 
Joch. My son ! my son ! I cannot speak the 

rest; 
Ye who have sons can only know my fondness 



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THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Ye who have lost them, or who fear to lose, 
Can only know my pangs ! none else can guess 

them. 
A mother's sorrows cannot he conceiv'd 
But by a mother — would I were not one! 

Mir. With earnest pray'rs thou didst request 
this son, 
And heaven has granted him. 

Joch. O sad estate 

Of human wretchedness ; so weak is man, 
So ignorant and blind, that did not God 
Sometimes withhold in mercy what we ask, 
We should be ruin'd at our own request. 

Too well thou know'st, my child, the stern 
decree 
Of Egypt's cruel king, hard-hearted Pharaoh ; 
That every male, of Hebrew mother born, 
Must die! Oh ! do I live to tell it thee ! 
Must die a bloody death ! My child, my son, 
My youngest born my darling must be slain ! 

Mir. The helpless innocent ! and must he die ? 

Joch. No: if a mother's tears, a mother's 
prayers, 
A mother's fond precautions can prevail, 
He shall not die. I have a thought my Miriam, 
And sure the God of mercies who inspir'd, 
Will bless the secret purpose of my soul, 
To save his precious life. 

Mir. Hop'st thou that Pharaoh — 

Joch. I have no hope in Pharaoh, much in 
God; 
Much in the Rock of Ages. 

Mir. Think, O think, 

What perils thou already hast incurr'd, 
And shun the greater which may yet remain, 
Three months, three dangerous months thou 

hast preserv'd 
Thy infant's life, and in thy house conceal'd 

him ! 
Should Pharaoh know ! 

Joch. Oh ! let the tyrant know, 

And feel what he inflicts ! Yes, hear me, heaven! 
Send thy right aiming thunderbolts — but hush, 
My impious murmurs ! is it not thy will; 
Thou, infinite in mercy ? Thou permitt'st 
The seeming evil for some latent good. 
Yes, I will laud thy grace, and bless thy good- 

ness 
For what I have, and not arraign thy wisdom 
For what I fear to lose. O, I will bless thee 
That Aaron will be spar'd ; that my first born 
Lives safe and undisturbed ! that he was giv'n 

me 
Before this impious persecution rag'd ! 

Mir. And yet who knows, but the fell tyrant's 
rage 
May reach his precious life. 

Joch. I fear for him. 

For thee, for all. A doating parent lives 
In many lives ; through many a nerve she feels ; 
From child to child the quick affections spread, 
Forever wand'ring, yet forever fix'd. 
Nor does division weaken, nor the force 
Of constant operation e'er exhaust 
Parental love. All other passions change 
With changing circumstances ; rise or fall, 
Dependent on their object ; claim returns ; 
Live on reciprocation, and expire 
Unfed by hope. A mother's fondness reigns 
Without a rival, and without an end. 



Mir. But say what heav'n inspires to save thy 

son ? 
Joch. Since the dear fatal morn which gave 

him birth, 
I have revolv'd in my distracted mind 
Each means to save his life: and many a 

thought 
Which fondness prompted, prudence has op- 

pos'd 
As perilous and rash. With these poor hands 
I've fram'd a little ark of slender reeds; 
With pitch and slime I have secur'd the sides. 
In this frail cradle I intend to lay . 
My little helpless infant, and expose hiff 
Upon the banks of the Nile. 

Mir. 'Tis full of danger. 

Joch. 'Tis danger to expose, and death to keep 

him. 
Mir. Yet, oh ! reflect. Should the fierce cro- 
codile, 
The native and the tyrant of the Nile, 
Seize the defenceless infant ! 

Joch. Oh forbear ! 

Spare my fond heart. Yet not the crocodile, 
Nor all the deadly monsters of the deep, 
To me are half so terrible as Pharaoh, 
That heathen king, that royal murderer ! 
Mir. Should he escape, which yet I dare not 

hope, i 

Each sea-born monster, yet the winds and waves 
He cannot 'scape. 

Joch. Know, God is every where ; 

Not to one narrow, partial spot confin'd: 
No, not to chosen Israel : he extends 
Through all the vast infinitude of space: 
At his command the furious tempests rise — 
The blasting of the breath of his displeasure. 
He tells the world of waters when to roar ; 
And, at his bidding, winds and seas are calm : 
In him, not in an arm of flesh, I trust ; 
In him, whose promise never yet has fail'd, 
I place my confidence. 

Mir. What must I do ? 

Command thy daughter; for thy words have 

wak'd 
An holy boldness in my youthful breast. 

Joch. Go then, my Miriam, go, and take the 

infant. 
Buried in harmless slumbers there he lies : 1 
Let me not see him — spare my heart that pang. 
Yet sure, one little look may be indulg'd, 
And I may feast my fondness with his smiles, 
And snatch one last, last kiss. — No more my 

heart ; [him. 

That rapture would be fatal — I should keep 
I could not doom to death the babe I clasp'd 
Did ever mother kill her sleeping boy ? 
I dare not hazard it — The task be thine. 
Oh ! do not wake my child ; remove him softly ; 
And gently lay him on the river's brink. 
Mir. Did those magicians, whom the sons oi 

Egypt . , „ 

Consult and think all-potent, join their skill 
And was it great as Egypt's sons believe ; 
Yet all their secret wizard arts combin'd, 
To save this little ark of bulrushes, 
Thus fearfully expos'd, could not effect it. 
Their spells, their incantations, and dire charms 
Could not preserve it. 

Joch. Know this ark is charm'd 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



79 



With incantations Pharaoh ne'er employ'd ; 
With spells, which impious Egypt never knew : 
With invocations to the living God, 
I twisted every slender reed together, 
And with a pray'r did every ozier weave. 

Mir. I go. 

Joch. Yet e'er thou go'st, observe me well ; 
When thou hast laid him" in his wat'ry bed, 

leave him not : but at a distance wait, 

And mark what Heaven's high will determines 

for him. 
Lay him among the flags on yonder beach, 
Just where the royal gardens meet the Nile. 

1 dare not follow him, Suspicion's eye 
Would note my wild demeanor ! Miriam, yes, 
The mother's fondness would betray the child. 
Farewell ! God of my fathers. Oh, protect him ! 

PART II. 

Enter Miriam after having deposited the child. 

Mir. Yes, I have laid him in his. wat'ry bed, 
His wat'ry grave, I fear ! — I tremble still; 
It was a cruel task — still I must weep ! 
But ah, my mother ! who shall sooth thy griefs ! 
The flags and sea-weeds will awhile sustain 
Their precious joad ; but it must sink ere long ! 
Sweet babe, farewell ! Yet think not I will leave 

thee : 
No, I will watch thee till the greedy waves 
Devour thy little bark : I'll sit me down, 
And sing to thee, sweet babe ; thou can'st not 

hear 
But 'twill amuse me, while I watch thy fate. 

[She sits down on a bank, and sings. 
SONG. 

I. 

Thou, who canst make the feeble strong, 
O God of Israel, hear my song ! 
Not mine such notes as Egypt's daughter's 

raise ; 
'Tis thee, O God of Hosts, I strive to praise. 
II. 
Ye winds, the servants of the Lord, 
Ye waves, obedient to his word, 
Oh spare the babe committed to your trust ; 
And Israel shall confess the Lord is just ! 
III. 
Though doom'd to find an early grave, 
This infant, Lord, thy power can save, 
And he, whose death 's decreed by Pharaoh s 

hand, 
May rise a prophet to redeem the land. 

[She rises and looJcs out. 

What female form bends thitherward her 
steps ? 
Of royal port she seems ; perhaps some friend, 
Rais'd by the guardian care of bounteous Hea- 
ven, 
To prop the falling house of Levi. — Soft ! 
I'll listen unperceiv'd ; these trees will hide me. 
[She stands behind. 

Enter the princess of Egypt, attended by a train 
of ladies. 

Prin. No farther, virgins, here I mean to rest. 
To taste the pleasant coolness of the breeze ; 
Perhaps to bathe in this translucent stream. 



Did not our holy law* enjoin th' ablution 
Frequent and regular, it still were needful 
To mitigate the fervours of our clime. 
Melita, stay — the rest at distance wait. 

[ They all go out, except one 

The princess looks out. 

Sure, or I much mistake, or I perceive 
Upon the sedgy margin of the Nile 
A chest ; entangled in the reeds it seems : 
Discern'st thou aught ? 

Mel. Something, but what I know not. 

Prin. Go and examine what this sight may 
mean. [Exit maid. 

Miriam behind. 

O blest, beyond my hopes ! he is discover'd ; 
My brother will be sav'd ! — who is the stranger ? 
Ah ! 'tis the princess, cruel Pharaoh's daughter. 
If she resemble her inhuman sire, 
She must be cruel too ; yet fame reports her 
Most merciful and mild. — Great Lord of all, 
By whose good Spirit bounteous thoughts are 

given 
And deeds of love perform'd — be gracious now, 
And touch her soul with mercy ! 

He-enter Melita. 

Prin. Well, Melita ! 

Hast thou discover'd what the vessel is ? 

Mel. Oh, princess, I have seen the strangest 
sight ! 
Within the vessel lies a sleeping babe, 
A fairer infant have I never seen ! 

Prin. Who knows but some unhappy Hebrew 
woman 
Has thus expos'd her infant, to evade 
The stern decree of my too cruel sire. 
Unhappy mothers ! oft my heart has bled 
In secret anguish o'er your slaughter'd sons , 
Powerless to save, yet hating to destroy. 

Mel. Should this be so, my princess knows 

the danger. 
Prin. No danger should deter from acts of 
mercy. 

Miriam behind. 

A thousand blessings on her princely head ; 
Prin. Too much the sons of Jacob have en- 

dur'd 
From Royal Pharaoh's unrelenting hate; 
Too much our house has crush'd their alien 

race. 
Is 't not enough that cruel task-masters 
Grind them by bard oppression ? not enough 
That iron bondage bows their spirits down ? 
Is 't not enough my sire his greatness owes, 
His palaces, his fanes magnificent, 
Those structures which the world with wonder 

views, 
To much insulted Israel's patient race ? 
To them his growing cities owe their splendour • 
Their toils fair Barneses and Pythom built; 
And shall we fill the measure of our crimes, 
And crown our guilt with murder? and shall I 
Sanction the sin I hate ? forbid it, Mercy ! 

* The ancient Egyptians used to wash their bodiea 
four times every twenty-four hours 



80 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Mel. I know thy royal father fears the 
strength 
Of this still growing race, who flourish more 
The more they are oppress'd : he dreads their 

• numbers. 

Prin. Apis forbid ! Pharaoh afraid of Israel ! 
Yet should this outcast race, this hapless people 
Ere grow to such a formidable greatness, 
(Which all the gods avert whom Egypt worship) 
This infant's life can never serve their cause, 
Nor can his single death prevent their greatness. 

Mel. Trust not to that vain hope. By weakest 
means 
And most unlikely instrument, full oft 
Are great events produc'd. This rescued child 
Perhaps may live to serve his upstart race 
More than an host. 

Prin. How ill it does beseem 

Thy tender years and gentle womanhood, 
To steel thy breast to Pity's sacred touch ! 
So weak, so unprotected is our sex, 
So constantly expos'd, so very helpless, 
That did not Heaven itself enjoin compassion, 
Yet human policy should make us kind, 
Lest in the rapid turn of Fortune's wheel, 
We live to need the pity we refuse. 
Yes, I will save him — Mercy, thou hast con- 
quered ! 
Lead on — and from the rushes we'll remove 
The feeble ark which cradles this poor babe. 

[ The princess and her maid go out. 

Miriam comes forward. 

How poor were words to speak my boundless 
joy ! 

The princess will protect him; bless her, 
Heaven ! 

[She looks out after the princess, and de- 
scribes her action. 

With what impatient steps she seeks the shore ! 

Now she approaches where the ark is laid ! 

With what compassion, with what angel sweet- 
ness, 

She bends to look upon the infant's face ! 

She takes his little hand in hers — he wakes — 

She smiles upon him — hark, alas ! he cries ; 

Weep on, sweet babe ! weep on, till thou hast 
touch'd 

Each chord of pity, waken'd every sense 

Of melting sympathy, and stolen her soul ! 

She takes him in her arms — O lovely princess ! 

How goodness heightens beauty ! now she clasps 
him 

With fondness to her heart, she gives him now 

With tender caution to her damsel's arms : 

She points her to the palace, and again 

This way the princess bends her gracious steps ; 

The virgin train retire and bear the child. 

Re-enter the princess. 

Prin. Did ever innocence and infant beauty 
Plead with such dumb but powerful eloquence ? 
If I, a stranger, feel these soft emotions, 
What must the mother who expos'd him feel! 
Go, fetch a woman of the Hebrew race, 
That she may nurse the babe : and, by her garb, 
Lo, such a one is here ! 

Mir. Princess, all hail ! 

Forgive the bold intrusion of thy servant, 



Who stands a charm'd spectator of thy good- 
ness. 
Prin. I have redeem'd an infant from the 
waves, 
Whom I intend to nurture as mine own. 

Mir. My transports will betray me ! [aside. 
Gen'rous Princess ! 

Prin. Know'st thou a matron of the Hebrew 
race 
To whom I may confide him ? 

Mir. Well I know 

A prudent matron of the house of Levi ; 
Her name Jochebed, is the wife of Am ram ; 
Of gentle manners, fam'd throughout her tribe 
For soft humanity ; full well I know 
That she will rear him with a mother's love. 
[Aside.] Oh truly spoke ! a mother's love in- 
deed! 
To her despairing arms I mean to give 
This precious trust: the nurse shall be the mo- 
ther ! 
Prin. With speed conduct this matron to the 
palace. 
Yes, I will raise him up to princely greatness, 
And he shall be my son ; I '11 have him train'd 
By choicest sages, in the deepest lore 
Of Egypt's sapient son ; — his name be Moses, 
For I have drawn him from the perilous flood. 
[They go out. She kneels. 
Thou Great unseen! who causest gentle 
deeds, 
And smil'st on~what thou causest ; thus I bless 

thee. 
That thou did'st deign consult the tender make 
Of yielding human hearts, when thou ordain'dst 
Humanity a virtue ! did'st not make it 
A rigorous exercise to counteract 
Some strong desire within ; to war and fight 
Against the powers of Nature ; but did'st bend 
The nat'ral bias of the soul to mercy : 
Then mad'st that mercy duty ! Gracious Power ! 
Mad'st the keen rapture exquisite as right ; 
Beyond the joys of sense ; as pleasure sweet, 
As reason vigorous, and as instinct strong ! 



PART III. ' 

Enter Jochebed. ' 

I've almost reach'd the place — with cautious 

steps 
I must approach the spot where he is laid, 
Lest from the royal gardens any 'spy me : 
— Poor babe ! ere this the pressing calls of hun- 
ger 
Have broke thy short repose ; the chilling waves, 
Ere this have drench'd thy little shiv'ring limbs. 
What must my babe have suffer'd ! — No one 

sees me ! 
But soft, does no one listen ! — Ah ! how hard, 
How very hard for fondness to be prudent ! 
Now is the moment to embrace and feed him, 

[She looks out 
Where's Miriam ? she has left her little charge, 
Perhaps through fear; perhaps she was detected. 
How wild is thought! how terrible is conjecture! 
A mother's fondness frames a thousand fears, J 
With thrilling nerve feels every real ill, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



fcl 



And shapes imagin'd miseries into being. 

[She looks towards the river. 
Ah me ! where is he ? soul-distracting sight ! 
He is not there — he 's lost, he 's gone, he 's 

drown'd ! 
Toss'd by each beating surge my infant floats. 
Cold, cold, and wat'ry is thy grave, my child ! 

no — I see the ark — transporting sight ! 

[She goes towards it. 

1 have it here — Alas, the ark is empty ! 
The casket's left, the precious gem is gone ! 
You spar'd him, pitying spirits of the deep ! 
But vain your mercy ; some insatiate beast, 
Cruel as Pharaoh, took the life you spar'd — 
And I shall never, never see my boy ! 

Enter Miriam. 

Joch. Come and lament with me thy brother's 
loss ! 

Mir. Come and adore with me the God of 
Jacob ! 

Joch. Miriam — the child is dead ! 

Mir. He lives ! he lives ! 

Joch. Impossible — Oh, do not mock my grief! 
See'st thou that empty vessel ? 

Mir. From that vessel 

Th' Egyptian princess took him. 

Joch. Pharaoh's daughter ? 

Then still he will be slain : a bloodier death 
Will terminate his woes. 

Mir. His life is safe ; 

For know, she means to rear him as her own. 

Joch. [Falls on her knees in rapture. 

To God, the Lord, the glory be ascrib'd ! 
O magnify'd forever be thy might 
Who mock'st all human forethought ! who o'er- 

rulest 
The hearts of all sinners to perform thy work, 
Defeating their own purpose ! who canst plant 
Unlook'd-for mercy in a heathen's heart, 
And from the depth of evil bring forth good ? 

[She rises. 

Mir. O blest event, beyond our warmest hopes! 

Joch. What ! shall my son be nurtur'd in a 
court, 
In princely grandeur bred ? taught every art 
And ev'ry wond'rous science Egypt knows ? 
Yet ah ! I tremble Miriam ; should he learn, 
With Egypt's polish'd arts her baneful faith ! 
O worse exchange for death ! yes, should he 

learn 
,In yon proud palace to disown His hand 
Who thus has sav'd him : should he e'er em- 
brace 
(As sure he will, if bred in Pharaoh's court) 
The gross idolatries which Egypt owns, 
Her graven images, her brutish gods, 
Then shall I wish he had not been preserv'd 
To shame his fathers and deny his faith. 

Mir. Then to dispel thy fears and crown thy 

joy, 

Hear farther wonders — Know, the gen'rous 

princess 
To thine own care thy darling child commits. 
Joch. Speak, while my joy will give me leave 
to listen ! [here, 

Mir. By her commission'd, thou behold'st me 



To seek a matron of the Hebrew race 

To nurse him: thou, my mother, art that matron 

I said I knew thee well ; that thou would'st real 

him, 
E'en with a mother's fondness ; she who bare 

him 
(I told the princess) would not love him more. 
Joch. Fountain of Mercy ! whose pervading 

eye 
Can look within and read what passes there, 
Accept my thoughts for thanks! I have no 

words. 
My soul, o'erfraught with gratitude, rejects 
The aid of language — Lord ! behold my heart. 
Mir. Yes, thou shalt pour into his infant mind 
The purest precepts of the purest faith. 

Joch. O ! I will fill his tender soul with virtue, 
And warm his bosom with devotion's flame ! 
Aid me celestial Spirit ! with thy grace, 
And be my labours with thy influence crown'd ! 
Without it they were vain. Then, then, my 

Miriam, 
When he is furnish'd 'gainst the evil day, 
With God's whole armour,* girt with sacred 

truth, 
And as a breastplate wearing righteousness, 
Arm'd with the Spirit of God, the shield of faith, 
And with the helmet of salvation crown'd, 
Inur'd to watching and dispos'd to prayer ; 
Then may I send him to a dangerous court, 
And safely trust him in a perilous world, 
Too full of tempting snares and fond delusions ! 
Mir. May bounteous Heav'n thy pious cares 

reward ! 
Joch. O Amram ! O my husband ! when thou 

com'st, 
Wearied at night, to rest thee from the toils 
Impos'd by haughty Pharaoh, what a tale 
Have I to tell thee ! Yes : thy darling son 
Was lost, and is restor'd ; was dead, and lives ! 
Mir. How joyful shall we spend the live-long 

night 
In praises to Jehovah ; who thus mocks 
All human foresight, and converts the means 
Of seeming ruin into great deliverance ! 

Joch. Had not myfchiid been doom'd to such 

strange perils 
As a fond mother trembles to recal, 
He had not been preserv'd. 

Mir. And mark still farther ; 

Had he been sav'd by any other hand, 
He had been still expos'd to equal ruin. 

Joch. Then let us join to bless the hand of 

Heaven, 
That this poor outcast of the house of Israel, 
Condemn'd to die by Pharaoh, kept in secret 
By my advent'rous fondness ; then expos'd 
E'en by that very fondness which conceal'd 

him, 
Is now, to fill the wondrous round of mercy, 
Preserv'd from perishing by Pharaoh's daughter, 
Sav'd by the very hand which sought to crush 

him. 
Wise and unsearchable are all thy ways, 
Thou God of Mercies — Lead me to my child, 

* Thess. chap. 5. Ephes chap. vi. 



Vol. I 



82 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



DAVID AND GOLIATH; 

A SACRED DRAMA. 

O bienheureux mille fois, 

L'Enfant que le Seigneur aime, 

Qui de bonne heure entend sa voix, 

Et que ce Dieu diagne instruire lui-meme ! 

Loin du monde eleve ; de tous les dons des Cieur, 

II est orne des sa naissance ; 

Et du mechant l'abord contagieux 

N'altere point son innocence. — Athalie. 

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

Saul, king of Israel. Elub, i Goliath, the Philistian giant- 

Abner, his general. Abinadab, > sons of Jesse. Philistines, Israelites, &c. &.c. 

Jesse. David, j Chorus of Hebrew women. 

The scene lies in the camp in the valley of Elah, and the adjacent plain. 

The subject is taken from the seventh chapter of the First Book of Samuel. 



PART I. 

SCENE — A shepherd's tent on a plain. 

David, under a spreading tree, plays on his harp 
and sings. 

I. 

Great Lord of all things ! Pow'r divine i 
Breathe on this erring heart of mine 

Thy grace serene and pure ; 
Defend my frail, my erring youth, 
And teach me this important truth, 

The humble are secure ! 
II. 
Teach me to bless my lowly lot, 
Confin'd to this paternal cot, 

Remote from regal state ! 
Content to court the cooling glade, 
Inhale the breeze, enjoy the shade, 

And love my humble fate. 
IH« 
No anxious vigils here I keep, 
No dreams of gold distract my sleep, 

Nor lead my heart astray ; 
Nor blasting Envy's tainted gale 
Pollutes the pleasures of the vale, 

To vex my harmless day. 
IV. 
Yon tow'r which rears its head so high, 
And bids defiance to the sky, 

Invites the hostile winds : 
Yon branching oak extending wide, 
Provokes destruction by its pride, 

And courts the fall it finds. 
V. 
Then let me shun th' ambitious deed, 
And all the dang'rous paths which lead 

To honours falsely won ; 
Lord ! in thy sure protection blest, 
Submissive will I ever rest, 

And may thy will be done ! 
[He lays down his harp and rises. 
David. Methinks this shepherd's life were 
dull and tasteless 
Without the charm of soothing song or harp : 



With it, not undelightful is the haunt 

Of wood, or lonely grove, or russet plain, 

Made vocal by the Muse. With this lov'd harp 

This daily solace of my cares, I sooth'd 

The melancholy monarch, when he lay 

Smit by the chill and spirit-quenching hand 

Of black despair. God of my fathers, hear me ; 

Here I devote my harp, my verse, myself, 

To thy best service ! gladly to proclaim 

Glory to God on high, on earth good-will 

To man ; to pour my grateful soul before thee ; 

To sing thy pow'r, thy wisdom, and thy love, 

And ev'ry gracious attribute ; to paint 

The charms of heaven-born Virtue ! So shall I 

(Though with long interval of worth) aspire 

To imitate the work of saints above, 

Of Cherub and of Seraphim. My heart, 

My talents, all I am, and all I have, 

Is thine, O Father ! Gracious Lord, accept 

The humble dedication ! Offer'd gifts 

Of slaughter'd bulls and goats sacrificial 

Thou hast refus'd : but lo, I come, O Lord ! 

To do thy will ; the living sacrifice 

Of an obedient heart I lay before thee : 

This humble off'ring more shall please thee, 

Lord, 
Than horned bullocks, ceremonial rites, 
New moons, and Sabbaths, passovers, and fasts '. 
Yet those I too will keep ; but not in lieu 
Of holiness substantial, inward worth; 
As commutation cheap-for pious deeds 
And purity of life, but as the types 
Of better things; as fair external signs 
Of inward holiness and secret truth. 

But see, my father, good old Jesse comes ! 
To cheer the setting evening of whose life, 
Content, a simple shepherd here I dwell, 
Though Israel is in arms ; and royal Saul, 
Encamp'd in yonder field, defies Philistia. 

JESSE, DAVID. 

Jesse. Blest be the gracious pow'r who gave 
my age 
To boast a son like thee ! Thou art the staff 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



83 



Which props my bending years, and makes me 

bear 
The heavy burden of declining age 
With fond complacence. How unlike thy fate, 
O venerable Eli ! But two sons, 
But only two to gild the dim remains 
Of life's departing day, and bless thy age, 
And both were curses to thee ! Witness, Heaven, 
In all the cruel catalogue of pains 
Humanity turns o'er, if there be one 
So terrible to human tenderness 
As an unnatural child ! 

David. O ! my lov'd father ! 
Long may'st thou live, in years and honours 

rich; 
To taste and to communicate the joys, 
The thousand fond endearing charities, 
Of tenderness domestic ; Nature's best 
And loveliest gift, with which she well atones 
The niggard boon of fortune. 

Jesse. O ! my son ! 

Of all the graces which adorn thy youth, 
I, with a father's fondness, must commend 
Thy try'd humility. For though the seer 
Pour'd on thy chosen head, the sacred oil 
In sign of future greatness, in sure pledge 
Of highest dignity, yet here thou dwell'st 
Content with toil and careless of repose ; 
And (harder still for an ingenuous mind) 
Content to be obscure ; content to watch 
With careful eye, thy humble father's flock ! 

earthly emblem of celestial things ! 

So Israel's shepherd watches o'er his fold : 
The weak ones in his fost'ring bosom bears : 
And gently leads in his sustaining hand, 
The feeble ones with young. 

David. Know'st thou, my father, 

Aught from the field ? for though so near the 

camp, 
Though war's proud ensigns stream on yonder 

plain, 
And all PhUistia's swarming hosts encamp, 
Oppos'd to royal Saul, beneath whose banners 
My brothers lift the spear-^I have not left 
My fleecy charge, by thee committed to me, 
To learn the various fortunes of the war. 

Jesse. And wisely hast thou done. Thrice 
happy realm, 
Who shall submit one day to his command 
Who can so well obey ! Obedience leads 
To certain honours. Not the tow'ring wing 
Of eagle-plurn'd ambition mounts so surely 
To fortune's highest summit, as obedience. 

[A distant sound of trumpets. 
But why that sudden ardour, O my son ? 
That trumpet's sound (though so remote its 

voice, 
We hardly catch the echo as it dies) 
Has rous'd the mantling crimson in thy cheek, 
Kindled the martial spirit in thine eye ; 
And my young shepherd feels an hero's fire ! 

David. Thou hast not told the posture of the 
war, 
And much my beating bosom pants to hear. 

Jesse. Uncertain is the fortune of the field. 

1 tremble for thy brothers, thus expos'd 
To constant peril ; nor for them alone 
Does the quick feeling agonize my heart. 

I feel for all ! — I mourn, that ling'ring War 
Still hangs his banner o'er my native land. 



Belov'd Jerusalem ! O War ! what art thou? 
At once the proof and scourge of man's fall'n 

. state ! 
After the brightest conquest, what appears 
Of all thy glories? for the vanquish'd, chains ! 
For the proud victor, what ? Alas ! to reign 
O'er desolated nations ! a drear waste, 
By one man's crime, by one man's lust of pow'r, 
Unpeopled ! Ravag'd fields assume the place 
Of smiling harvests, and uncultur'd plains 
Succeed the fertile vineyard ; barren waste 
Deforms the spot once rich with luscious fig 
And the fat olive. — Devastation reigns. 
Here, rifled temples are the cavern'd dens 
Of savage beasts, or haunt of birds obscene ; 
There, pop'lous cities blacken in the sun, 
And in the general wreck, proud palaces 
Lie undistinguish'd save by the dun smoke 
Of recent conflagration. When the song 
Of dear-bought joy, with many a triumph 

swell'd, 
Salutes the victor's ear, and soothes his pride, 
How is the grateful harmony profan'd 
With the sad dissonance of virgin's cries, 
Who mourn their brothers slain ! of matrons 

hoar, 
Who clasp their wither'd hands, and fondly ask, 
With iteration shrill, their slaughter'd sons ! 
How is the laurel's verdure stain'd with blood, 
And soil'd with widows' tears ! 

David. Thrice mournful truth ! 

Yet when our country's sacred rights aro 

menae'd ; 
Her firm foundations shaken to their base ; 
When all we love, and all that we revere, 
Our hearths and altars, children, parents, wives, 
Our liberties and laws ; the throne they guard, 
Are scorn'd and trampl'd on — then, then, my 

father ! 
'Tis then Religion's voice ; then God himself 
Commands us to defend his injur'd name, 
And think the victory cheaply bought with life 
'Twere then inglorious weakness, mean self- 
love : 
To lie inactive, when the stirring voice 
Of the shrill trumpet wakes the patriot youth, 
And, with heroic valour, bids them dare 
The foul idolatrous bands, e'en to the death. 
Jesse. God and thy country claim the life 

they gave ; 
No other cause can sanctify resentment. 

David. Sure virtuous friendship is a noble 

cause ! 

were the princely Jonathan in danger, 
How would I die, well pleas'd, in his defence; 
When, 'twas long since, then but a stripling boy 

1 made short sojourn in his father's palace, 
(At first to soothe his troubled mind with song 
His armour-bearer next) I well remember 
The gracious bounties of the gallant prince. 
How would he sit, attentive to my strain, 
While to my harp I sung the harmless joys 
Which crown a shepherd's life ! How would he 

cry, 
Bless'd youth ! far happier in thy native worth, 
Far richer in the talent Heav'n has lent thee, 
Than if a crown hung o'er thy anxious brow. 
The jealous monarch mark'd our growing 

friendship ; 
And as my favour grew with those about him, 



84 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



His royal bounty lessen'd, till at length, 
For Bethl'hetn's safer shades I left the court. 
Nor would these alter'd features now be known, 
Grown into manly strength ; nor this chang'd 

form, 
Enlarg'd with age, and clad in russet weed. 
Jesse. I have employment for thee, my lov'd 
son ! 
Will please thy active spirit. Go, my boy ! 
Haste to the field of war, to yonder camp, 
Where in the vale of Elah mighty Saul 
Commands the hosts of Israel. Greet thy bro- 
thers ; 
Observe their deeds, note their demeanour well, 
And mark if on their actions Wisdom waits. 
Bear to them too (for well the waste of war 
Will make it needful) such plain healthful viands 
As furnish out our frugal shepherd's meal. 
And to the valiant captain of their host 
Present such rural gifts as suit our fortune : 
Heap'd on the board within my tent thou'lt find 
them. 
David. With joy I '11 bear thy presents to my 
brothers; 
And to the valiant captain of their host 
The rural gifts thy gratitude assigns him. 
Delightful task ! — for I shall view the camp ! 
"What transport to behold the tented field, 
The pointed spear, the blaze of shields and arms, 
And all the proud accoutrements of war ! 
But, oh ! far dearer transport would it yield me, 
Could this right arm alone avenge the cause 
Of injur'd Israel ! could my single death 
Preserve the guiltless thousands doom'd to bleed! 
Jesse. Let not thy youth be dazzled, O my 
son ! 
With deeds of bold emprize, as valour only 
Were virtue, and the gentle arts of peace, 
Of truth, and justice, were not worth thy care. 
When thou shalt view the splendours of the war, 
The gay caparison, the burnish'd shield, 
The plume-crown'd helmet, and the glitt'ring 

spear, 
Scorn not the humble virtues of the shade, 
Nor think that Heav'n views only with applause 
The active merit and the busy toil 
Of heroes, statesmen, and the bustling sons 
Of public care. These have their just reward, 
In wealth, in honours, and the well-earned fame 
Their high achievements bring. 'Tis in this 

view 
That virtue is her proper recompence : 
Wealth, as its natural consequence, will flow 
From industry : toil with success is crown'd : 
From splendid actions high renown will spring. 
Such is the usual course of human things; 
For Wisdom Infinite permits, that thus 
Effects to causes be proportionate, 
And nat'ral ends by nat'ral means achiev'd. 
But in the future estimate which Heaven 
Will make of things terrestrial, know, my son, 
That no inferior blessing is reserv'd 
For the mild passive virtues : meek content, 
Heroic self-denial, nobler far 
Than all th' achievements noisy Fame reports, 
When her shrill trump proclaims the proud suc- 
cess 
Which desolates the nations. But, on earth, 
These are not always prosperous — mark the 
cause : 



Eternal Justice keeps them for the bliss 
Of final recompence, for the dread day 
Of gen'ral retribution. O, my son ! 
The ostentatious virtues which still press 
For notice and for praise ; the brilliant deeds 
Which live but in the eye of observation, 
These have their meed at once. But there's } 

To the fond votaries of Fame unknown, 
To hear the still small voice of Conscience speak 
Its whispering plaudit to the silent soul. 
Heaven notes the sigh afflicted Goodness heaves 
Hears the low plaint by human ear unheard, 
And from the cheek of patient Sorrow wipes 
The tear, by mortal eye unseen or scorn'd. 
David. As Hermon's dews their grateful 
freshness shed, 
And cheer the herbage, and the flow'rs renew, 
So do thy words a quickening balm infuse, 
And grateful sink in my delighted soul. 

Jesse. Go then, my child ! and may the gra- 
cious God 
Who bless'd our fathers, bless my much lov'd 
son ! 
David. Farewell, my father ! — and of this be 
sure, 
That not one precept from thy honour'd lips 
Shall fall by me unnotie'd ; not one grace, 
One venerable virtue which adorns 
Thy daily life, but I, with watchful care 
And due observance, will in mine transplant it. 

[Exit David. 

Jesse. He 's gone ! and still my aching eyes 

pursue 

And strain their orbs still longer to behold him. 

Oh ! who can tell when next I may embrace 

him? 
Who can declare the counsels of the Lord ? 
Or when the moment preordain'd by Heav'n 
To fill his great designs, may come ? This son 
This blessing of my age, is set apart 
For high exploits ; the chosen instrument 
Of all-disposing Heav'n for mighty deeds. 
Still I recall the day, and to my mind 
The scene is ever present, when the seer, 
Illustrious Samuel, to the humble shades 
Of Bethlehem came, pretending sacrifice, 
To screen his errand from the jealous king 
He sanctify'd us first, me and my sons ; 
For sanctity increas'd should still precede 
Increase of dignity. When he declar'd 
He came commission'd from on high to find, 
Among the sons of Jesse, Israel's king, 
Astonishment entrane'd my wond'ring soul ! 
Yet was it not a wild, tumultuous bliss ; 
Such rash delight as promis'd honours yield 
To light vain minds : no, 'twas a doubtful joy, 
Chastis'd by tim'rous Virtue, lest a gift 
So splendid and so dang'rous might destroy 
Him it was meant to raise. My eldest born, 
Eliab, tall of stature, I presented ; 
But God, who judges not by outward form, 
But tries the heart, forbade the holy prophet 
To choose my eldest born. For Saul, he said, 
Gave proof, that fair proportion, and the graco 
Of limb and feature, ill repaid the want 
Of virtue. All my other sons alike 
By Samuel were rejected ; till, at last, 
On my young boy, on David's chosen head, 
The prophet pour'd the consecrated oil. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



85 



Yet ne'er did pride elate him, ne'er did scorn 

For his rejected elders swell his heart. 

Not in such gentle charity to him 

His haughtier brothers live : but all he pardons. 

To meditation, and to humble toil, 

To pray'r, and praise devoted, here he dwells. 

O may the Graces which adorn retreat 

One day delight a court ! record his name 

With saints and prophets, dignify his race, 

And may the sacred songs his leisure frames 

Instruct mankind, and sanctify a world ! 



PART II. 

Scene — The Camp. 

ELIAB, ABINADAB, ABNER, ISRAELITES. 

Eliab. Still is the event of this long war un- 
certain : 
Still do the adverse hosts, on either side, 
Protract, with ling'ring caution, an encounter, 
Which must to one be fatal. 

Abinidab. This descent, 

Thus to the very confines of our land, 
Proclaims the sanguine hope that fires the foe. 
In Ephes-dammim boldly they encamp ; 
Th' uncircumcis'd Philistines pitch their tents 
On Judah's hallow'd earth. 

Eliab. Full forty days 

Has the insulting giant, proud Goliath, 
The champion of Philistia, fiercely challeng'd 
Some Israelitish foe. But who so vain 
To dare such force unequal ? who so bent 
On sure destruction, to accept his terms, 
And rush on death, beneath the giant force 
Of his enormous bulk ? 

Abinadab. 'Tis near the time 

When in the adjacent valley which divides 
Th' opposing armies he is wont to make 
His daily challenge. 

Eliab. Much I marvel, brother, 

No greetings from our father reach our ears. 
With ease and plenty bless'd, he little recks 
The daily hardships which his sons endure. 
B*ut see ! behold his darling boy approaches ! 

Abin. How, David here ! whence this un- 
look'd-for guest ? 

Eliab. A spy upon our actions ; sent, no doubt, 
To scan our deeds, with beardless gravity 
Affecting wisdom ; to observe each word, 
To magnify the venial faults of youth, 
And construe harmless mirth to foul offence. 

Enter David. 

David. All hail, my dearest brothers ! 

Eliab. Means thy greeting 

True love, or arrogant scorn ? 

David. O, most true love ! 

Sweet as the precious ointment which bedew'd 
The sacred head of Aaron, and descended 
Upon his hallow'd vest, so sweet, my brothers, 
Is fond fraternal amity ; such love 
As my touch'd bosom feels at your approach. 

Eliab. Still that fine glozing speech, those 
holy saws, 
And all that trick of studied sanctity, 
Of smooth-turn'd periods and trim eloquence, 
Which charms thy doating father I But confess, 



What dost thou here ? Is it to sooth thy pride, 
And gratify thy vain desire to roam 
In quest of pleasures unallow'd ? or com'st thou, 
A willing spy, to note thy brothers' deeds ? 
Where hast thou left those few poor straggling 

sheep ? 
More suited to thy ignorance and years 
The care of those, than here to wander idly : 
Why cam'st thou hither 1 

David. Is there not a cause ? 

Why that displeasure kindling in thine eye, 
My angry brother ? why those taunts unkind ? 
Not idly bent on sport ; not to delight 
Mine eye with all this gay parade of war ; 
To gratify a roving appetite, 
Or fondly to indulge a curious ear 
With any tale of rumour, am I come ; 
But to approve myself a loving brother. 
I bring the blessing of your aged sire, 
With gifts of such plain cates and rural viands 
As suit his frugal fortune. Tell me now, 
Where the bold captain of your host encamps? 
Eliab. Wherefore inquire ? what boots it thea 
to know ? 
Behold him there : great Abner, fam'd in arms. 
- David. I bring thee, mighty Abner from my 

father, 
(A simple shepherd swain in yonder vale) 
Such humble gifts as shepherd swains bestow. 
Abner. Thanks, gentle youth ! with pleasure 
I receive 
The grateful ofPring. Why does thy quick eye 
Thus wander with unsatisfi'd delight ? 

David. New as I am to all the trade of war 
Each sound has novelty ; each thing I see 
Attracts attention ; every noise I hear 
Awakes confus'd emotions ; indistinct, 
Yet full of charming tumult, sweet distraction 
'Tis all delightful hurry ! Oh ! the joy 
Of young ideas painted on the mind, 
In the warm glowing colours fancy spread 
On objects not yet known, when all is new, 
And all is lovely ! Ah ! what warlike sound 
Salutes my ravish'd ear ? 

[Sound of trumpets. 
Abner. 'Tis the Philistine 

Proclaiming, by his herald, through the ranks, 
His near approach. Each morning he repeats 
His challenge to our bands. 

David. Ha ! what Philistine ? 

Who is he ? 

Eliab. Wherefore ask ? for thy raw youth. 
And rustic ignorance, 'twere fitter learn 
Some rural art ! some secret to prevent 
Contagion in thy flocks ; some better means 
To save their fleece immaculate. These mean 

arts 
Of soft inglorious peace far better suit 
Thy low obscurity, than thus to seek 
High things pertaining to exploits of arms. 

David. Urg'd as I am I will not answer thee 
Who conquers his own spirit, O my brother \ 
He is the only conqueror. — Again 
That shout mysterious ! Pray you (to Abner) tell 

me who 
This proud Philistine is, who sends defiance , 
To Israel's hardy chieftians ? 

Abner. Stranger youth • 

So lovely and so mild is thy demeanor, 
So gentle and so patient ; such the air 



86 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Of candour and of courage which adorns 

Thy blooming- features, thou hast won my love : 

And I will tell thee. 

David. Mighty Abner, thanks ! 

Abner. Thrice, and no more, he sounds, his 

daily rule ! 
This man of war, this champion of Philistia, 
Is of the sons of Anak's giant-race : 
Goliath is his name. His fearful stature, 
TJnparalell'd in Israel, measures more 
Than twice three cubits. On his tow'ring head 
A helm of burnish'd brass the giant wears, 
So pond'rous, it would crush the stoutest man 
In all our hosts. A coat of mailed armour 
Guards his capacious trunk 1 compar'd with 

which, 
The amplest oak that spreads his rugged arms 
In Bashan's groves, were small. About his 

neck 
A shining corslet hangs. On his vast thigh 
The plaited cuiras, firmly jointed, stands. 
But who shall tell the wonders of his spear, 
And hope to gain belief! Of massive iron 
Its temper'd frame, not less than the broad beam 
To which the busy weaver hangs his loom : 
Not to be wielded by a mortal hand, 
Save by his own. An armour bearer walks 
Before this mighty, champion, in his hand 
Bearing the giant's shield. Thrice ev'ry morn 
His herald sounds the trumpet of defiance ! 
OfTring at once to end the long-drawn war 
In single combat 'gainst that hardy foe 
Who dares encounter him. 

David. . Say, mighty Abner, 

What are the haughty terms of his defiance ? 
Abner. Proudly he stalks around th' extre- 

mest bounds 
Of Elah's vale. His herald sounds the note 
Of offer'd battle. Then the furious giant, 
With such a voice as from the troubled sky 
In vollied thunder breaks, thus sends his chal- 
lenge : 
' Why do you set your battle in array, 
Ye men of Israel ? Wherefore waste the lives 
Of needless thousands ? Why protract a war 
Which may at once be ended ? Are not you 
Servants to Saul your king ? and am not I 
With triumph let me speak it, a Philistine ? 
Choose out a man from all your armed hosts, 
Of courage most approv'd, and I will meet him ; 
His single arm to mine. Th' event of this 
Shall fix the fate of Israel and Philistia. 
If victory favour him, then will we live 
Your tributary slaves ; but if my arm 
Be crown'd with conquest, you shall then live 

ours. 
Give me a man, if your effeminate bands 
A man can boast. Your armies I defy !' 
David. What shall be done to him who shall 

subdue 
This vile idolater ? 

Abner. He shall receive 

Such ample bounties, such profuse rewards, 
As might inflame the old, or warm the coward, 
Were not the odds so desperate. 

David. Say, what are they? 

Abner. The royal Saul has promis'd that 

hold hero 
Who should encounter and subdue Goliath, 
All dignity and favour ; that his house 



Shall be set free from tribute, and ennobled 
With the first honours Israel has to give. 
As for the gallant conqueror himself, 
No less a recom pence than the fair princess, 
Our monarch's peerless daughter. 

David. Beauteous Michael ! 

It is indeed a boon which kings might strive 

for. 
And has none answer'd yet this bold defiance? 
What ! all this goodly host of Israelites ! 
God's own peculiar people ! all afraid, 
T' assert God's injur'd honour and their own ? 
Where is the king, who in his early youth 
Wrought deeds of fame ! Where princely Jona- 
than ? 
Not so the gallant youth Philistia fear'd 
At Bozez and at Seneh ;* when the earth 
Shook from her deep foundations to behold 
The wond'rous carnage of his single hand 
On the uncircumcis'd. When he exclaim'd, 
With glorious confidence — ' Shall numbers awe 

me? 
God will protect his own : with him to save 
It boots not, friends, by many or by few.' 
This was an hero ! Why does he delay 
To meet this boaster ? For thy courtesy, 
Thrice noble Abner, I am bound to thank thee' 
Wouldst thou complete thy gen'rous offices ? 
I dare not ask it. 

Abner. Speak thy wishes freely : 

My soul inclines to serve thee. 

David. Then, O Abner, 

Conduct me to the king I There is a cause 
Will justify this boldness ! 

Eliab. Braggard, hold ! 

Abner. I take thee at thy word ; and will, 
with speed, 
Conduct thee to my royal master's presence. 
In yonder tent the anxious monarch waits 
Th' event of this day's challenge. 

David. Noble Abner, 

Accept my thanks. Now to thy private ear, 
If so thy grace permit I will unfold 
My secret soul, and ease my lab'rirtg breast, 
Which pants with high designs, and beats for 
glory. 



PART in. 

Scene. — Saul's tent. 

Saul. Whv was I made a king ? what I havs 
gain'd 
In envy'd greatness and uneasy pow'r, 
I've lost in peace of mind, in virtue lost! 
Why did deceitful transports fire my soul 
When Samuel plac'd upon my youthful brow 
The crown of Israel ? I had known content, 
Nay happiness, if happiness unmix'd 
To mortal man were known, had I still liv'd 
Among the humble tents of Benjamin. 
A shepherd's occupation was my joy, 
And every guiltless day was crown'd with peace, 
But now, a sullen cloud forever hangs 
O'er the faint sunshine of my brightest hours, 
Dark'ning the golden promise of the morn, 
I ne'er shall taste the dear domestic joys 

* 1 Samuel, xiv. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



87 



My meanest subjects know. True, I have sons, 
Whose virtues would have charm'd a private 

man, 
And drawn down blessings on their humble sire. 
I love their virtues too ; but 'tis a love 
Which jealousy has poison'd. Jonathan 
Is all a father's fondness could conceive 
Of amiable and good — Of that no more ! 
He is too popular ; *he people doat 
Upon th' ingenuous graces of his youth. 
Curs'd popularity ! which makes a father 
Detest the merit of a son he loves, 
How did their fond idolatry, perforce, 
Rescue his sentenc'd life, when doom'd by lot 
t To perish at Beth-aven,* for the breach 
Of strict injunction, that of all my bands, 
Not one that day should taste of food and live ! 
My subjects clamour at this tedious war, 
Yet of my num'rous arm'd chiefs not one 
Has courage to engage this man of Gath. 
O for a champion bold enough to face 
This giant-boaster, whose repeated threats 
Strike through my inmost soul ! There was a 

time — 
Of that no more ! I am not what I was. 
Should valiant Jonathan accept the challenge, 
'T would but increase his influence, raise his 

fame, 
And make the crown sit lightly on my brow. 
Ill could my wounded spirit brook the voice 
Of harsh comparison 'twixt sire and son. a 

SAUL, ABNER. 

Abner. What meditation holds thee thus 
engag'd, 
O king ! and keeps thine active spirit bound ; 
When busy war for other cares demands 
Than ruminating thought and pale despair? 

Saul. Abner draw near. My weary soul sinks 
down 
Beneath the heavy pressure of misfortune. 
O for that spirit which inflam'd my breast 
With sudden fervour, when, among the seers 
And holy sages my prophetic voice 
Was heard attentive, and th' astonish'd throng, 
Wond'ring, exclaim'd, — ' Is Saul among the 

pTophets ?' 
Where's that bold arm which quell'd the Amale- 

kite, 
And nobly spar'd fierce Agag and his- flocks ? 
'Tis past ! the light of Israel now is quench'd : 
Shorn of his beams, my sun of glory sets ! 
Rise Moab, Edom, angry Ammnn rise ! 
Come Gaza, Ashdod come ! let Ekron boast, 
And Askelon rejoice, for Saul is — nothing. 

Abner. I bring thee news, O king ! 

Saul. . My valiant uncle ! 

What can avail thy news ? A soul oppress'd 
Refuses still to hear the charmer's voice, 
Howe'er enticingly he charm. What news 
Can soothe my sickly soul, while Gath's fell 

giant 
Repeats each morning to my frighten'd hosts 
His daring challenge, none accepting it ? 

Abner. It is accepted. 

Saul. Ha ! By whom 1 how ? when ? 

What prince, what gen'ral, what illustrious 
hero, 

* 1 Samuel, xiv. 



What vet'ran chief, what warrior of renown, 
Will dare to meet the haughty foes defiance? 
Speak, my brave gen'ral ! noble Abner speak ! 

Abner. No prince, no warrior, no illustrious 
chief, 
No vet'ran hero dares accept the challenge ; 
But what will move thy wonder, mighty king, 
One train'd to peaceful deeds, and new to arms, 
A simple shepherd swain ! 

Saul. O mockery ! 

No more of this light tale, it suits but ill 
Thy bearded gravity : or rather tell it 
To credulous age, or weak believing women; 
They love whate'er is marvellous, and doat 
On deeds prodigious and incredible, 
Which sober sense rejects. I laugh to think 
Of thy extravagance. A shepherd's boy 
Encounter him whom nations dread to meet ! 

Abner. Is valour then peculiar to high birth" 
If Heav'n had so decreed, know, scornful king, 
That Saul the Benjamite had never reign'd. 
No ! — Glory darts her soul-pervading ray 
On thrones and cottages, regardless still 
Of all the artificial, nice distinctions 
Vain human customs make. 

Saul. Where is this youth ? 

Abner. Without thy tent he waits. Such 
humble sweetness, 
Fir'd with the secret conscience of desert ; 
Such manly bearing, temper'd with such soft- 
ness, 
And so adorn'd with ev'ry outward charm 
Of graceful form and feature, saw I never. 

Saul. Bring me the youth. 

Abner. He waits thy royal pleasure. 

[Exit Abner. 

Saul. What must I think ? Abner himself is 
brave, 
And skill'd in human kind : nor does he judge 
So lightly, to be caught by specious words 
And Fraud's smooth artifice, were there not 

marks 
Of worth intrinsic. But behold he comes ! 
The youth too with him ! Justly did he praise 
The candour which adorns his open brow. 

Re-enter Abner and David, 

David. Hail mighty king ! 
Abner. Behold thy proffer'd champion ! 
Saul. Art thou the youth whose high heroic 
zeal 
Aspires to meet the giant son of Anak ? 
David. If so the king permit. 
Saul. Impossible! 

Why, what experience has thy youth of arms ? 
Where, stripling, didst thou learn the trade of 

war ? 
Beneath what hoary vet'ran hast thou serv'd ? 
What feats hast thou achiev'd, what daring 

deeds? 
What well-rang'd phalanx, say, what charging 

hosts, 
What hard campaigns, what sieges hast thou 

seen? 

Hast thou e'er scal'd the city's rampir'd wall 
Or hurl'd the missile dart, or learn'd to poise 
The warrior's deathful spear ? The use of targe, 
Of helm, and buckler, is to thee unknown. 
David. Arms I have seldom seen. I little 
know 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Of war's proud discipline. The trumpet's clang, 
The shock of charging hosts, the rampir'd wall, 
Th' embattled phalanx, and the warrior's spear, 
The use of targe and helm to me is new. 
My zeal for God, my patriot love of Israel, 
My reverence for my king, behold my claims ! 
Saul. But gentle youth ! thou hast no fame in 

arms, 
Renown, with her shrill clarion, never bore 
Thv honour'd name to many a land remote ; 
From the fair regions where Euphrates laves 
Assyria's borders to the distant Nile. 

David. True, mighty king ! I am indeed alike 
Unbless'd by Fortune and to Fame unknown ; 
A lowly shepherd-swain of Judah's tribe: 
But greatness ever springs from low beginnings. 
That very Nile thou mention'st, whose broad 

stream 
Bears fruitfulness and health through many a 

clime, 
From an unknown, penurious, scanty source 
Took its first rise. The forest oak, which shades 
The sultry troops in many a toilsome march 
Once an unheeded acorn lay. O king ! 
Who ne'er begins can never aught achieve 
Of glorious. Thou thyself wast once unknown, 
Till fair occasion brought thy worth to light. 
Far higher views inspire my youthful heart 
Than human praise : I seek to vindicate 
Th' insu-lted honour of the God I serve. 
Abner. 'Tis nobly said. 
Saul. I love thy spirit, youth! 

But dare not trust thy inexperiene'd arm 
Against a giant's might. The sight of blood, 
Though brave thou feel'st when peril is not nigh, 
Will pale thy ardent cheek. 

David. Not so, O king ! 

This youthful arm has been imbru'd in blood 
Though yet no blood of man has ever stain'd it. 
Thy servant's occupation is a shepherd. 
With jealous care I watch'd my father's flock : 
A brindled lion and a furious bear 
Forth from the thicket rush'd upon the fold, 
Seiz'd a young lamb, and tore their bleating 

spoil. 
Urg'd by compassion for my helpless charge, 
I felt a new-born vigour nerve my arm ; 
And, eager, on the foaming monsters rush'd. 
The famish'd lion by his grisly beard, 
Enrag'd, I caught, and smote him to the ground. 
The panting monster struggling in my gripe, 
Shook terribly his bristling mane, and lash'd 
His own gaunt, gory sides ; fiercely he ground 
His gnashing teeth, and rolled his starting eyes, 
Bloodshot with agony ; then with a groan, 
That wak'd the echoes of the mountain, died. 
Nor did his grim associate 'scape my arm ; 
Thy servant slew the lion and the bear ; 
I kill'd them both, and bore their shaggy spoils 
In triumph home : and shall I fear to meet 
Th' uncircumcis'd Philistine ? No: that God 
Who sav'd me from the bear's destructive fang 
And hungry lion's jaw, Vvill not he save me 
From this idolater 1 

Saul. He will, he will ! 

Go, noble youth ! be valiant and be bless'd ! 
The God thou serv'st will shield thee in the 

fight, 
And nerve thy arm with more than mortal 

strength. 



Abner. So the bold Nazarite* a lion slew : 
An earnest of his victories o'er Philistia ! 
Saul. Go, Abner ; see the youth be well 
equipp'd 
With shield and spear. Be it thy care to grace 

him 
With all the fit accoutrements of war. 
Thp choicest mail from my rich armory take, 
And gird upon his thigh my own try'd sword 
Of noblest temper'd steel. 

Abner. I shall obey. 

David. Pardon, O king ! the coat of plaited 
mail 
These limbs have never known ; it would not < 
shield, m 

'Twould but encumber one who never felt 
The weight of armour. 

Saul. Take thy wish, my son ! 

Thy sword then, and the God of Jacob guard 
thee! 



PART IV. 

Scene — Another part of the camp. 

David (kneeling.) 

Eternal Justice ! in whose awful scale 
Th' event of battle hangs ! Eternal Truth ! 
Whose beams illumines all ! Eternal Mercy ! 
If, by thy attributes I may, unblam'd, 
Address thee ; Lord of glory ! hear me now : 

teach these hands to war, these arms to fight. 
Thou ever present help in time of need ! 

Let thy broad mercy, as a shield, defend, 
And let thine everlasting arms support me ! 
Strong in thy strength, in thy protection safe 
Then, though the heathen rage, I shall not fear. 
Jehovah, be my buckler ! Mighty Lord ! 
Thou who hast deign'd by humble instruments 
To manifest the wonders of thy might, 
Be present with me now ! 'Tis thine own cause ! 
Thy wisdom sees events, thy goodness plans 
Schemes baffling our conception — and, 'tis still 
Omnipotence which executes the deed 
Of high design, though by a feeble arm ! 

1 feel a secret impulse drive me on ; 

And my soul springs impatient for the fight! 
'Tis not the heated spirits, or warm blood 
Of sanguine youth with which my bosom burns • 
And, though I thirst to meet th' insulting foe, 
And pant for glory, 'tis not, witness Heav'n ! 
'Tis not the sinful lust of fading fame, 
The perishable praise of mortal man ; 
His praise I covet, whose applause is Life. 

DAVID, ELIAB, ISRAELITES. 

EUab. What do I hear? thou truant! th&a 
hast dar'd 
E'en to the awful presence of the king 
Bear thy presumption ! 

David. He who fears the Lord 

Shall boldly stand before the face of kings. 
And shall not be asham'd. 

Eliab. But what wild dream 

Has urg'd thee to this deed of desp'rate rasfe. 

ness ? 
Thou mean'st, so I have learn'd, to meet Goliath, 
His single arm to thine. 

* Samson. See Judges, chap. xiv. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



David. 'Tis what I purpose, 

Ev'n on this spot Each moment I expect 
His wish'd approach. 

Eliab. Go home ; return, for shame ! 
Nor madly draw destruction on thy head. 
Tliy doating father, when thy shepherd's coat, 
Drench'd in thy blood, is brought him, will la- 
ment, 
And rend his furrow'd cheek and silver hair, 
As if some mighty loss had touch'd his age ; 
And mourn, ev'n as the partial patriarch 

mourn'd 
When Joseph's bloody garment he receiv'd 
From his less dear, nor less deserving, sons : 
But whence that glitt'ring ornament which 

hangs 
Useless upon thy thigh ? 

David. 'Tis the king's gift. 

But thou art right ; it suits not me, my brother ! 
Nor sword 1 mean to use, nor spear to poise, 
Lest men should say I put my trust in arms, 
Not in the Lord of Hosts. 

Eliab. Then thou indeed 

Art bent to seek thy death ? 

David. And what is death ? 

Is it so terrible to die, my brother ? 
Or grant it terrible, is it for that 
The less inevitable ? If, indeed 
We could by stratagem elude the blow, 
When some high duty calls us forth to die, 
And thus for ever shun it, and escape 
The universal lot, — then fond self-love, 
Then cautious Prudence, boldly might produce 
Their fine-spun arguments, their learn'd ha- 
rangues, 
Their cobweb arts, their phrase sophistical, 
Their subtle doubts, and all the specious trick 
Of selfish cunning lab'ring for its end. 
But since, howe'er protracted, death will come, 
Why fondly study, with ingenious pains, 
To put it off! To breathe a little longer 
Is to defer our fate, but not to shun it. 
Small gain ! which Wisdom with indiff'rent eye 
Beholds. Why wish to drink the bitter dregs 
Of life's exhausted chalice, whose last runnings, 
Ev'n at the best, are vapid ! Why not die 
(If Heav'n so will) in manhood's op'ning bloom, 
When all the flush of life is gay about us ! 
When sprightly youth with many a new-born 

Solicits every sense ! So may we then 
Present a sacrifice, unmeet indeed, 
(Ah, how unmeet!) but less unworthy far, 
Than the world's leavings ; than a worn out 

heart, 
By vice enfeebled, and by vain desires 
Sunk and exhausted ! 

Eliab. Hark ! I hear a sound 

Of multitudes approaching ! 

David. 'Tis the giant ! 

I sec him not, but hear his measur'd pace. 

Eliab. Look, where his pond'rous shield is 
borne before him ! 

David. Like a broad moon its ample disk 
portends. 
But soft ! — what unknown prodigy appears ? 
A moving mountain cas'd in polish'd brass! 

Eliab (gelling behind David) How's this ? 
Thou dost not tremble. Thy firm joints 
Betray no fear ; thy accents are not broken ; 



Thy cheek retains its red ; thine eye its lustre, 
He comes more near ! Dost thou not fear him 
now ? 
David. No, 

The vast colossal statue nor inspires 
Respect nor fear. Mere magnitude of form, 
Without proportion'd intellect and valour, 
Strikes not my soul with rev'renceor with awe. 
Eliab. Near, and more near he comes ! I hold 
it rash 
To stay so near him, and expose a life 
Which may, hereafter serve the state. 

Farewell. [Exit. 

[Goliath advances, clad in complete armour. 
One bearing his shield precedes him. The 
opposing armies are seen at a distance, drawn 
up on each side of the valley. Goliath begins 
to speak before he comes on. David stands in 
the same place, with an air of indifference.] 

Goliath. Where is this mighty man of war, 

who dares 
Accept the challenge of Philistia's chief? 
What victor king, what gen'ral drench'd in 

blood, 
Claims this high privilege ? What are his 

rights ? 
What proud credentials does the boaster bring 
To prove his claim? What cities laid in ashes ? 
What ruin'd provinces ? What slaughter'd 

realms ? 
What heads of heroes, and what hearts of kings, 
In battle kill'd, or at his altars slain, 
Has he to boast ? Is his bright armory 
Thick set with spears, and swords, and coats 

of mail 
Of vanquish'd nations, by his single arm 
Subdu'd ? Where is the mortal man so bold, 
So much a wretch, so out of love with life, 
To dare the weight of this uplifted spear, 
Which never fell innoxious ? Yet I swear, 
I grudge the glory to this parting soul 
To fall by this right hand. 'Twill sweeten 

death, 
To know he had the honour to contend 
With the dread son of Anak. Latest time 
From blank oblivion shall retrieve his name 
Who dar'd to perish in unequal fight 
With Gath's triumphant champion. Corne, ad- 
vance. 
Philistia's gods to Israel's. Sound, my herald — 
Sound for the battle straight. 

[Herald sounds the trumpet. 
David. Behold thy foe ! 

Goliath. I see him not. 
David. Behold him here ! 

Goliath. Say, where ! 

Direct my sight. I do not war with boys. 
David'. I stand prepar'd : thy single arm to 

mine. 
Goliath. Why this is mockery, minion! it 

may chance 
To cost thee dear. Sport not with things above 

thee ! 
But tell me who of all this num'rous host 
Expects his death from me 1 Which is the man 
Whom Israel sends to meet my bold defiance ? 
David. Th' election of my sov'reign falls on 

me. 



90 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Goliath. On thee ! on thee ! By Dagon, 'tis 
too much ! 
Thou curled minion ! thou a nation's champion! 
'T would move my mirth at any other time ; 
But trifling 's out of tune, begone, light boy ! 
And tempt me not too far. 

David. I do defy thee, 

Thou foul idolator ! Hast thou not scorn'd 
The armies of the living God I serve ? 
By me he will avenge upon thy head 
Thy nation's sins and thine. Arm'd with his 

name, 
Unshrinking, I dare meet the stoutest foe 
That ever bath'd his hostile spear in blood. 
Goliath, (ironically) Indeed ! 'tis wond'rous 
well, 

Now, by my gods, 
The stripling plays the orator ! Vain boy ! 
Keep close to that same bloodless war of words, 
And thou shalt still be safe. Tongue-valiant 

warrior ! 
Where is thy sylvan crook, with garlands hung, 
Of idle field flowers? where thy wanton harp, 
Thou dainty finger'd hero? better strike 
Its notes lascivious, or the lulling lute 
Touch softly, than provoke the trumpet's rage. 
I will not stain the honour of my spear 
With thy inglorious blood. Shall that fair cheek 
Be scar'd with wounds unseemly ? Rather go 
And hold fond dalliance with the Syrian maids ; 
To wanton measures dance, and let them braid 
The bright luxuriance of thy golden hair; 
They, for their lost Adonis, may mistake 
Thy dainty form. 

David. Peace, thou unhallow'd railer ! 

tell it not in Gath, nor let the sound 

Reach Askelon, how once your slaughter'd lords 
By mighty Samson* found one common grave : 
When his broad shoulder the firm-pillars heav'd, 
And to its base the tott'ring fabric shook. 

Goliath. Insulting boy ! perhaps thou hast not 

heard 
The infamy of that glorious day, 
When your weak host at Eben-ezerf pitch'd 
Their quick-abandon'd tent ? Then when your 

ark, 
Your talisman, your charm, your boasted pledge 
Of safety and success, was tamely lost ! 
And yet not tamely, since by me 'twas won. 
When with this good right arm I thinn'd your 

ranks, 
And bravely crush'd, beneath a single blow 
The chosen guardians of this vaunted shrine, 
Hophnit and Phineas. The fam'd ark itself 

1 bore to Ashdod. 

David. I remember too, 

Since thou provok'st th' unwelcome truth, how 

all 
Your blushing priests beheld their idol's shame ; 
When prostrate Dagon fell before the ark, 
And your frail god was shivcr'd. Then Philistia, 
Idolatrous Philistia, flew for succour 
To Israel's help, and all her smitten nobles 
Confess'd the Lord was God ; and the bless'd ark. 
Gladly, with reverential awe restor'd. 

Goliath. By Ashod's fane thou ly'st. 

* Judges, c. xvi. t Samuel, c. v. 

{ Commentators sav, that Chaldee paraphrase makes 
Goliath boast that he" hail killed Hophai and Phineas, 
and taken the ark prisoner. 



Now will I meet thee, 
Thou insect warrior, since thou dar'sl me thus \ 
Already I behold thy mangled limbs, 
Dissever'd each from each, ere long to feed 
The fierce blood-snufting vulture. Mark mo 

well. 
Around my spear I'll twist thy shining locks, 
And toss in air thy head all gash'd with wounds, 
Thy lip yet quiv'ring with the dire convulsion 
Of recent death ! — Art thou not terrify'd ? 

David. No : 

True courage is not mov'd by breath of words: 
While rash bravery of boiling blood, 
Impetuous, knows no settled principle. 
A fev'rish tide, it has its ebbs and flows, 
As spirits raise or fall, as wine inflames, 
Or circumstances change : but inborn Courage, 
The gen'rous child of Fortitude and Faith, 
Holds its firm empire in the constant soul ; 
And like the steadfast pole-star, never once 
From the same fix'd and faithful point declines. 
Goliath. The curses of Philistia's gods be on 
thee ! 
This fine-drawn speech is meant to lengthen out 
That little life thy words pretend to scorn. 
David. Ha ! say'st thou so ? Come on then. 
Mark us well. 
Thou com'st to me with sword, and spear, and 

shield ; 
In the dread name of Israel's God I come ; 
The living Lord of Hosts, whom thou defy'st! 
Yet though no shield I bring, no arms except 
These five smooth stones I gather'd from the 

brook, 
With such a simple sling as shepherd's use — 
Yet all expos'd defenceless as I am, 
The God I serve shall give thee up a prey 
To my victorious arm. This day I mean 
To make the uneircumcis'd tribes confess 
There is a God in Israel. I will give thee, 
Spite of thy vaunted strength and giant bulk, 
To glut the carrion kites. Nor thee alone ; 
The mangled carcases of your thick hosts 
Shall spread the plains of Elah, till Philistia, 
Through all her trembling tents and flying 

bands, 
Shall own that Judah's God is God indeed ! 
— I dare thee to the trial. 

Goliath. Follow me — 

In this good spear I trust. 

David* I trust in Heav'n ! 

The God of battle stimulates my arm, 
And fires my soul with ardour not its own. 



PART V 

Scene — The tent oj Saul. 

Said (rising from his couch.) Oh ! that I knew 
the black and midnight arts 
Of wizard sorcery ! that I could call 
The slumb'ring spirit from the shades of hell ! 
Or, like the Chaldean sages, could foreknow 
Th' event of things unacted ! I might then 
Anticipate my fortune. How I 'm fall'n ! 
The sport of vain chimeras, the weak slave 
Of fear and fancy ; coveting to know 
The arts obscene, which foul diviners use. 
Thick blood and moping Melancholy lead 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MOKE. 



To baleful Superstition — that fell fiend, 
Whose withering charms blast the fair bloom of 

Virtue. 
Why did my wounded pride with scorn reject 
The wholesome truths which holy Samuel told 

me 1 
Why drive him from my presence ? he. might 

now 
Raise my sunk soul, and my benighted mind 
Enlighten'd with religion's cheering ray. 
He dar'd to menace me with loss of empire ; 
And I, for that bold honesty, dismiss'd him. 
1 Another shall possess thy throne,' he cry'd : 
' A stranger !' This unwelcqme prophecy 
Has lined my crown and strew'd my couch with 

thorns. 
Each ray of op'ning merit I discern 
In friend or foe, distracts my troubled soul, 
Lest he should prove my rival. But this morn, 
Ev'n my young champion lovejy as he look'd 
In blooming valour, struck me to the soul 
With Jealousy's barb'd dart. O Jealousy ! 
Thou ugliest fiend of hell ! thy deadly venom 
Preys on my vitals, turns the healthful hue 
Of my fresh cheek to haggard sallowness, 
And drinks my spirit up. 

[A flourish of trumpets, shouting, Sfc. 
What sounds are those ? 
The combat is decided. Hark ! again 
Those shouts proclaim it ! Now, O God of Jacob, 
If yet thou hast not quite withdrawn from Saul 
Thy light and favour, prosper me this once ! 
But Abner comes ! I dread to hear his tale ! 
Fair hope, with smiling face but ling'ring foot, 
Has long deceiv'd me. 

Abner. King of Israel, hail ! 

Now thou art king indeed. The youth has con- 

quer'd : 
Goliath's dead. 

SauL Oh speak thy tale again, 

Lest my fond ears deceive me ! 

Abner. Thy young champion 

Has slain the giant. 

Saul. Then God is gracious still, 

In spite of my offences ! But good Abner ! 
How was it ? Tell me all. Where is my cham- 
pion ? 
Quick let me press him to my grateful heart, 
And pay him a king's thanks. And yet, who 

knows, 
This forward friend may prove an active foe ! 
No more of that. Tell me the whole, brave 

Abner ! 
£ind paint the glorious acts of my young hero ! 

Abner. Full in the centre of the camp he 
stood ! 
JT<V opposing armies rang'd on either side 
In proud array. The haughty giant stalk'd 
Stately across the valley. Next the youth 
With modest confidence advanc'd. Nor pomp, 
Nor gay parade, nor martial ornament, 
His graceful form adorn'd. Goliath strait, 
With solemn state began the busy work 
Of dreadful preparation. In one place 
His closely jointed mail an op'ning left 
For air, and only one : the watchful youth 
Mark'd that the beaver of his helm was up. 
Meanwhile the giant such a blow devis'd 
As would have crush'd him. This the youth 
perceiv'd, 



And from his well-directed sling quick hurl'd, 
With dex'trous aim a stone, which sunk, deep 

lodg'd, 
In the capacious forehead of the foe. 
Then with a cry, as loud and terrible 
As Lybian lions roaring for their young, 
Quite stunn'd, the furious giant stagger'd, reel'd, 
And fell : the mighty mass of man fell prone. 
With its own Weight his shatter'd bulk was 

bruis'd. 
His clattering arms rung dreadfully through the 

field, 
And the firm basis of the solid earth 
Shook. Chok'd with blood and dust, he curs'd 

his gods, 
And died blaspheming ! Straight the victor youth 
Drew from his sheath the giant's pond'rous 

sword, 
And from the enormous trunk the gory head, 
Furious in death, he sever'd. The grim visage 
Look'd threat'ning still, and still frown'd hor- 
ribly. 

Saul. O glorious deed ! O valiant conqueror ! 

Abner. The youth so calm appear'd, so nobly 
firm, 
So cool, yet so intrepid, that these eyes 
Ne'er saw such temp'rate valour so chastis'd 
By modesty. 

Saul. Thou dwell'st upon his praise 

With needless circumstance. 'Twas nobly done 
But others too have fought! 

Abner. None, none so bravely. 

Saul. What follow'd next ? 

Abner. The shouting Israelites 

On the Philistians rush'd, and still pursue 
Their routed remnants. In dismay, their bands, 
Disorder'd fly, while shouts of loud acclaim 
Pursue their brave deliverer. Lo, he comes ! 
Bearing the giant's head and shining sword, 
His well-earn'd trophies. 

SAUL, ABNER, DAVID. 

[David bearing Goliath's head and sword. He 
kneels and lays both at Saul's feet. 

Saul. Welcome to my heart, 

My glorious champion ! My deliverer welcome ! 

How shall I speak the swelling gratitude 

Of my full heart ! or give thee the high praise 

Thy gallant deeds deserve ! 

David. O mighty king ! 

Sweet is the breath of praise when given by 
those 

Whose own high merit claims the praise they 
give. 

But let not this one prosperous event, 

By heav'n directed, be ascrib'd to me ; 

I might have fought with equal skill and cou- 
rage, 

And not have gain'd this conquest ; then had 
shame 

Harsh obloquy, and foul disgrace, befallen me : 

But prosp'rous fortune gains the praise of valour 
Saul. I like not this. In every thing superior . 

He soars above me (aside.) — Modest youth, 
thou 'rt right 

And fortune, as thou say'st, deserves the praise 

We give to human valour. 

D^vid, Rather say 

The God of Hosts deserves it. 



92 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Saul. Tell me youth, 

What is thy name, and what thy father's house ? 
David. My name is David ; Jesse is my sire : 

An humble Bethle'mite of Judah's tribe. 

Saul. David, the son of Jesse ! Sure that name 

Has been familiar to me. Nay thy voice 

Thy form and features, I remember too, 

Though faint and indistinctly. 

Abner. In this hero 

Behold thy sweet musician ; he whose harp 

Expell'd the melancholy fiend, whose pow'r 

Enslav'd thy spirit. 

Saul. This the modest youth, 

Whom for his skill and virtues I preferr'd 

To bear my armour ? 

David. I am he, O king ! 

Saul. Why this concealment ? tell me valiant 
David, 

Why didst thou hide thy birth and name till 
now ? 
David. O king ! I would not aught from favour 
claim, 

Or on remember'd services presume; 

But on the strength of my own actions stand 

Ungrac'd and unsupported. 

Abner. Well he merits 

The honours which await him. Why, O king, 

Dost thou delay to bless his doubling heart 

With his well-earn'd rewards ! Thy lovely 
daughter, 

By right of conquest his ! 

Saul, (to David.) True : thou hast won her. 

She shall be thine. Yes, a king's word is past. 
David. O boundless blessing ! What shall she 
be mine, 

For whom contending monarchs might renounce 

Their slighted crowns! 

[Sounds of musical instruments heard at a dis- 
tance. Shouting and singing. A grand pro- 
cession. Chorus of Hebrew women.] 
Saul. How 's this ! what sounds of joy 



Salute my ears ! What means this needles* 

pomp ! 
This merry sound of tabret and of harp ! 
What means these idle instruments of triumph? 
These women, who in fair procession move, 
Making sweet melody ? 

Abner. To pay due honour 

To David are they come. 

Saul, (aside.) A rival's praise 

Is discord to my ear ! They might have spar'd 
This idle pageantry ; it wounds my soul ! 
iMartial symphony : after which, chorus of wo- 
men sing.] 
I. 

Prepare ! your festal rites prepare ! 
Let your triumphs rend the air ! 
Idol gods shall reign no more : 
We the living Lord adore ! 
Let heathen hosts on human helps repose, 
Since Israel's God has routed Israel's foes. 
II. 

Let remotest nations know 

Proud Goliath's overthrow. 

Fall'n Philistia, is thy trust, 

Dagon mingles with the dust ! 
Who fears the Lord of Glory, need not fear 
The brazen armour or the lifted spear. 
III. 

See, the routed squadron fly ! 

Hark the clamours rend the sky ! 

Blood and carnage stain the field ! 

See the vanquish'd nations yield ! 
Dismay and terror fill the frighten'd land, 
While conq'ring David routs the trembling band. 
IV. 

Lo ! upon the tented field 

Royal Saul has thousands kill'd ! 

Lo ! upon th' ensanguin'd plain 

David has ten thousand slain ! 
Let mighty Saul his vanquish'd thousands tell, 
While tenfold triumphs David's victories swell. 



BELSHAZZAR : 

A SACRED DRAMA. 

How art thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning ! How art thou cut down to 
the p % und, who didst weaken the nations ! — Isaiah. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



Balshazzar, king of Babylon. 
Nitocris, the queen mother. 
Courtiers, Astrologers, Parasites. 



Daniel, the Jewish Prophet. 
Captive Jews, &c. &c. 



Scene — Babylon. Time — Night. 
The subject is taken from the fifth chapter of the Prophet Daniel. 



PART I. 

Scene — Near the palace of Baby.av.. 

DANIEL AND CAPTIVE JEWS. 

Dan. Parent of Life and Light ! Sole Source 
of Good! 



Whose tender mercies through the tide of time, 
In long successive order, have sustain'd. 
And sav'd the sons of Israel ! Thou whose power 
Deliver'd righteous Noah from the flood, 
The whelming flood, the grave of human kind ! 
Oh Thou, whose guardian care and outstretch'd 
hand 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



93 



Rescued young Isaac from the lifted arm, 
Rais'd, at thy bidding, to devote a son, 
An only son, doom'd by his sire to die: 
(O saving faith, by such obedience prov'd ! 
O blest obedience, hallow'd thus by faith ! 
Thou, who in mercy sav'dst the chosen race 
In the wild desert, and didst there sustain them 
By wonder-working love, though they rebell'd 
And murmur'd at the miracles that sav'd them ! 
O hear thy servant Daniel ! hear and help ! 
Thou, whose almighty power did after raise 
Successive leaders to defend our race ; 
Who sentest valiant Joshua to the field, 
The people's champion, to the conqu'ring field, 
Where the revolving planet of the night, 
Suspended in her radiant round, was stay'd; 
And the bright sun arrested in his course, 
Stupendously stood still ! 

CHORUS OF JEWS.' 

I. 
What ail'd thee, that thou stood'st still, 
O sun ! nor did thy flaming orb decline ! 
And thou, O moon ! in Ajalon's low vale, 
Why didst thou long before thy period shine ? 

Was it at Joshua's dread command, 
The leader of the Israelitish band ? 
Yes — at a mortal bidding both stood still; 
'Twas Joshua's word, but 'twas Jehovah's will. 
III. 

What all-controlling hand had force 
To stop eternal Nature's constant course ? 
The wand'ring moon to one ftx'd spot confine, 
But His whose fiat gave them first to shine ? 

Dan. O Thou ! who, when thy discontented 
host, 
Tir'd of Jehovah's rule, desir'd a king, 
In anger gav'st them Saul ; and then again 
Did'st wrest the regal sceptre from his hand 
To give it David — David, best belov'd ! 
Illustrious David ! poet, prophet, king ; 
Thou who did'st suffer Solomon the wise 
To build a glorious Temple to thy name, — 
O hear thy servants, and forgive us too ! 
If by severe necessity compell'd, 
We worship here — we have no temple now: 
Altar or sanctuary none is left. 

CHORUS OF JEWS. 

O Judah ! let thy captive sons deplore 

Thy far-fam'd temple's now no more ! 
Fall'n is thy sacr. d fane, thy glory gone! 
Fall'n is thy temple, Solomon ! 

Ne'er did Barbaric kings behold, 
With all their shining gems, their burnish'd gold, 

A fane so perfect, bright, and fair : 
For God himself was wont t' inhabit there. 

Between the cherubim his glory stood, 
While the high-priest alone the dazzling splen- 
dour view'd. 
How fondly did the Tyrian artist strive, 

His name to latest time should live ! 
Such wealth the stranger wonder'd to behold : 
Gold were the tablets, and the vases gold. 

Of cedar such an ample store, 
Exhausted Lebanon could yield no more. 
Bending betore tne Ruler of the sky, 

Well might the royal founder cry, i 



Fill'd with an holy dread, a rev'rend fear, 
Will God in very deed inhabit here ? 

The heaven of heavens beneath his feet, 
Is for the bri£ inhabitant unmeet : 

Archangels prostrate wait his high com 
mands, 
And will he deign to dwell in temples made 
with hands ? 

[preme 
Dan. Yes, Thou art ever present, Pow'r Su- 
Not circumscrib'd by time, nor fix'd to space, 
Confin'd to altars, nor to temples bound. 
In wealth, in want, in freedom, or in chains, 
In dungeons or on thrones, the faithful find thee! 
E'en in the burning caldron thou wast near 
To Shadrach and the holy brotherhood : 
The unhurt martyrs bless'd Thee in the flames, 
They sought, and found Thee ; call'd, and Thou 

wast there. 
First Jew. How chang'd our state ! Judah, 

thy glory 's fallen ! 
Thy joys for hard captivity exchang'd : 
And thy sad sons breathe the polluted air 
Of Babylon, where deities obscene 
Insult the living God ; and to his servants, 
The priests of wretched idols made with hands, 
Show contumelious scorn. 

Dan. 'Tia heaven's high will. 

Second Jew. If I forget thee, O Jerusalem ! 
If I not fondly cherish thy lov'd image, 
E'en in the giddy hour of thoughtless mirth ; 
If I not rather view thy prostrate walls 
Than haughty Babylon's imperial tow'rs — 
Then may my tongue refuse to frame the strains 
Of sweetest harmony, my rude right hand 
Forget, with sounds symphonius, to accord 
The harp of Jesse's son to Sion's song. 

First Jew. Oft on Euphrates' ever verdant 

banks 
Where drooping willows form a mournful shade 
With all the pride which prosp'rous fortunes 

give, 
And all th' unfeeling mirth of happy men, 
Th' insulting Babylonians ask a song; 
Such songs as erst in better days were sung 
By Korah's sons, or heav'n-taught Asaph set 
To loftiest measures; then our bursting hearts 
Feel all their woes afresh ; the galling chain 
Of bondage crushes then the free-born soul 
With wringing anguish from the trembling lip 
Th' unfinish'd cadence falls ; and the big tear, 
While it relieves, betrays the wo-fraught soul. 
For who can view Euphrates' pleasant stream, 
Its drooping willows, and its verdant banks, 
And not to wounded memory recall 
The piny groves of fertile Palestine, 
The vales of Solyma, and Jordan's stream ! 
Dan. Firm faith and deep submission to high 

heaven 
Will teach us to endure without a murmur 
What seems so hard. Think what the holy host 
Of patriarchs, saints, and prophets have sua 

tain'd, 
In the blest cause of truth ! And shall not we, 
O men of Judah ! dare what these have dar'd 
And boldly pass through the refining fire 
Of fierce affliction ? Yes, be witness, Heaven^ 
Old as I am, I will not shrink at death, 
Come in what shape it may, if God so will. 
By peril to confirm and prove my faith. 



94 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Oh! I wouid dare yon den of hungry lions, 
Rather than pause to fill the task assign'd 
By wisdom Infinite. Nor think I boast, 
Not in myself, but in thy strength I trust, 
Spirit of God! 

First Jew. Prophet, thy words support, 
And raise our sinking souls. 

Dan. Behold yon palace; 

There proud Belshazzar keeps his wanton court ! 
I knew it once beneath another lord, 
His grandsire,* who subdu'd Jehoiachin, 
And hither brought sad Judah's captive tribes ; 
And with them brought the rich and precious 

relics 
Of our fam'd temple ; all the holy treasure, 
The golden vases, and the sacred cups, 
Which grac'd, in happier times, the sanctuary. 
Second Jeio. May He to whose blest use they 
were devoted, 
Preserve them from pollution ; and once more, 
In his own gracious time restore the temple ! 
Dan. I, with some favour'd youths of Jewish 
race 
Was lodg'd in the king's palace, and instructed 
In all the various learning of the East ; 
But He, on whose great name our fathers call'd, 
Preserv'd us from the perils of a court, 
Warn'd us to guard our youthful appetites, 
And still with holy fortitude reject 
The. pamp'ring viands Luxury presented ; 
Fell Luxury ; more perilous to youth 
Than storms or quicksands, poverty or chains : 
Second Jew. He who can guard 'gainst the 
low baits of sense, 
Will find Temptations arrows hurtless strike 
Against the brazen shield of Temperance. 
For 'tis th' inferior appetites enthral 
The man, and quench th' immortal light within 

him ; 
The senses take the soul an easy prey, 
And sink th' imprison'd spirit into brute. 
Dan. Twice,t by the Spirit of God, did I ex- 
pound 
Tf c visions of the king; his soul was touch'd, 
Aid twice did he repent, and prostrate fall 
Bt fore the God of Daniel : yet again, 
Pi w'r, flattery, and prosperity, undid him. 
When from the lofty ramparts of his palace 
He view'd the splendours of the royal city, 
That magazine of wealth, which proud Euphra- 
tes 
Wafts from each distant corner of the earth ; 
When he beheld the adamantine tow'rs, 
The brazen gates, the bulwarks of his strength, 
The pendant gardens, Art's stupendous work, 
The wonder of the world ! the proud Chaldean, 
Mad with th' intoxicating fumes which rise 
When uncontroll'd ambition grasps at once 
Dominion absolute, and boundless wealth, 
Forgot hi; was a man, forgot his god ! 
' This mighty Babylon is mine,' he cry'd ; 
4 My wond'rous pow'r, my godlike arm achiev'd 

it. 
I scorn submission ; own no Deity 
Above my own.' — While the blasphemer spoke, 
The wrath of Heav'n inflicted instant ven- 
geance ; 

* Nebuchadnezzar. 

t Daniel, chap. ii. and iv. 



Stripp'd him of that bright reason he abus'd ; 
And drove him from the cheerful haunts of men, 
A naked, wretched, helpless, senseless thing ; 
Companion of the brutes, his equals now. 
First Jew. Nor does his impious grandson, 
proud Belshazzar, 
Fall short of his offences ; nay, he wants 
The valiant spirit and the active soul 
Of his progenitor; for Pleasure's slave, 
Though bound in silken chains, and only tied 
In flowery fetters, seeming light and loose. 
Is more subdu'd than the rash casual victim 
Of anger or ambition ; these indeed 
Burn with a fiercer but a short-lived fire ; 
While pleasure with a constant flame consumes, 
War slays her thousands, but destructive Plea- 
sure, 
More fell, more fatal, her ten thousands slays: 
The young luxurious king she fondly woos 
In ev'ry shape of am'rous blandishment; 
With adulation smooth ensnares his soul ; 
With love betrays him, and with wine inflames. 
She strews her magic poppies o'er his couch, 
And with delicious opiates charms him down, 
In fatal slumbers bound. Though Babylon 
Is now, invested by the warlike troops 
Of royal Cyrus, Persia's valiant prince; 
Who, in conjunction with the Median king ; 
Darius, fam'd for conquest^now prepares 
To storm the city : not the impending horrors ' 
Which ever wait a siege have pow'r to wake 
To thought or sense th' intoxicated king. 

Dan. E'en in this night of universal dread, 
A mighty army threat'ning at the gates ; 
This very night, as if in scorn of danger, 
The dissolute Belshazzar holds a feast 
Magnificently impious, meant to honour 
Belus, the fav'rite Babylonish idol. 
Lew'd parasites compose his wanton court, « 
Whose impious flatt'ries sooth his monstrous 

crimes : 
They justify his vices and extol 
His boastful phrase, as if he were some god : 
Whate'er he says, they say ; what he commands, 
Implicitly they do ; they echo back 
His blasphemies with shouts of loud acclaim; 
And when he wounds the tortur'd ear of Virtue, 
They cry " All hail ! Belshazzar live for ever !" 
To-night a thousand nobles fill his hall, 
Princes, and all the dames who grace the court; 
All but his virtuous mother, sage Nitocris : 
Ah ! how unlike the impious king her son ! 
She never mingles in the midnight fray, 
Nor crowns the guilty banquet with her pre 

sence. 
The royal fair is rich in every virtue 
Which can adorn the queen or grace the wc*. 

man. 
But for the wisdom of her prudent counsels 
This wretched empire had been long undone. 
Not fam'd Semiramis, Assyria's pride, 
Could boast a brighter mind or firmer soul; 
Beneath the gentle reign of Merodach,* 
Her royal lord, our nation tasted peace. 
Our captive monarch, sad Jehoiachin, 
Grown gray in a close prison's horrid gloom, 
He freed from bondage ; brought the hoarj 
king 

* 2 Kings, chap. xxiv. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



95 



To taste once more the long -forgotten sweets 
Of liberty and light, sustain'd his age, 
Pour'd in his wounds the lenient balm of kind- 
ness, 
And blest his setting hour of life with peace. 

[Sound of trumpets is heard at a distance. 
First Jew. That sound proclaims the banquet 

is begun. 
Second Jew. Hark ! the licentious uproar 

grows more loud, 
The vaulted roof resounds with shouts of mirth, 
And the firm palace shakes I Retire my friends ; 
This madness is not meet for sober ears. 
If any of our race were found so near, 
'Twould but expose us to the rude attack 
Of ribaldry obscene and impious jests 
From these mad sons of Belial, more inflam'd 
To deeds of riot by the wanton feast. 
Dan. Here part we then ! but when again to 

meet 
Who knows, save heaven ? Yet, O my friends ! 

I feel 
An impulse more than human stir my breast. 
Wrapt in prophetic vision,* I behold 
Things hid as yet from mortal sight. I see 
The dart of vengeance tremble in the air, 
Ere long to pierce the impious king. E'en 

now 
The desolating angel stalks abroad, 
And brandishes aloft the two-edg'd sword 
Of retribution keen ; he soon will strike, 
And Babylon shall weep as Sion wept. 
Pass but a little while, and you shall see 
This queen of cities prostrate on the earth. 
This haughty mistress of the kneeling world, 
How shall she sit dishonour'd in the dust, 
In tarnish'd pomp and solitary wo ! 
How shall she shroud her glories in the dark, 
And in opprobrious silence hide her head ! 
Lament, O virgin daughter of Chaldea ! 
For thou shalt fall ! imperial queen, shalt fall ! 
No more Sidonian robes shall grace thy 

limbs. 
To purple garments sackcloth shall succeed, 
And sordid dust and ashes shall supply 
The od'rous nard and cassia. Thou, who said'st 
I am, and there is none beside me : thou, 
E'en thou, imperial Babylon, shalt fall! 
Thy glory quite eclips'd ! The pleasant sound 
Of viol and of harp shall charm no more ; 
Nor song of Syrian damsels shall be heard, 
Responsive to the lute's luxurious note : 
But the loud bittern's cry, the raven's croak, 
The bat's fell scream, the lonely owl's dull 

plaint, 
*md ev'ry hideous bird, with ominous shriek, 
Siall scare affrighted Silence from thy walls : 
While Desolation, snatching from the hand 
Of Time the scythe of ruin, sits aloft, 
Or stalks in dreadful majesty abroad. 
I see th' exterminating fiend advance, 
E'en now I see her glare with horrid joy, 
See tower's imperial mould'ring at her touch ; 
She glances on the broken battlement, 
She eyes the crumbling column, and enjoys 
The work of ages prostrate in the dust — 
Then, pointing to the mischiefs she has made, 
Exulting cries, This once was Babylon ! 

• See the Prophecies of Isaiah, chap, xlvii. and others. 



PART II. 

Scene — the court of Belskazzar. The ting seat- 
ed on a magnificent throne. Princes, nobles, 
and attendants, ladies of the court. Music 
— A superb banquet. 

1st cour. (rises and kneels.) Hail mighty 

king ! 
2d cour. Belshazzar, live for ever ! 
3d cour. Sun of the world, and light of kings, 

all hail! 6 

4th cour. With lowly rev'rence, such as best 
becomes 
The humblest creatures of imperial power, 
Behold a thousand nobles bend before thee ! 
Princes far fam'd, and dames of high descent: 
Yet all this pride of wealth, this boast of beauty, 
Shrinks into nought before thine awful eye ! 
And lives or dies as the king frowns or smiles ! 
Bel. This is such homage as becomes your 
loves. 
And suits the mighty monarch of mankind. 
5^ cour. The bending world should pros- 
trate thus before thee ; 
And pay not only praise but adoration ! 

Belshazzar (rises and comes forward.) 
Let dull Philosophy preach self-denial ; 
Let envious Poverty and snarling Age 
Proudly declaim against the joys they know 

KOt. 

Let the deluded Jews, who fondly hope 
Some fancied heaven hereafter, mortify, 
And lose the actual blessings of this world 
To purchase others which may never come. 
Our gods may promise less, but give us more 
III could my ardent spirit be content 
With meagre abstinence and hungry hope. 
Let those misjudging Israelites, who want 
The nimble spirits and the active soul, 
Call their blunt feelings virtue : let them drudge, 
In regular progression, through the round 
Of formal duty and of daily toil; 
And when they want the genius to be happy, 
Believe their harsh austerity is goodness. 
If there be gods, they meant we should enjoy .* 
Why give us else these tastes and appetites? 
And why the means to crown them with indul- 
gence ? 
To burst the feeble bonds which hold the vulgar, 
Is noble daring. 

1st cour. And is therefore worthy 

The high imperial spirit of Belshazzar. 

2d cour. Behold a banquet which the gods 
might share ! 

Bel. To-night, my friends, your monarch 
shall be blest 
With ev'ry various joy ; to-night is ours ; 
Nor shall the envious gods, who view our bliss, 
And sicken as they view, to-night disturb us. 
Bring all the richest spices of the East; 
The od'rous cassia and the dropping myrrh, 
The liquid amber and the fragant gums, 
Rob Gilead of its balms, Belshazzar bids, 
And leave the Arabian groves without an odour. 
Bring freshest flow'rs, exhaust the blooming 

spring, 
Twine the green myrtle with the short-liv'd 

rose ; 
And ever, as the blushing garland fades, 
We '11 learn to snatch the fugitive delight, 



96 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



And grasp the flying joy ere it escapes us. 
Come — fill the smiling goblet for the king ; 
Belshazzar will not let a moment pass 
Unmark'd by some enjoyment! The full bowl 
Let every guest partake ! 

[Courtiers kneel and drink. 
1st cour. Here's to the king ! 

Light of the world, and glory of the earth, 
Whose word is fate ! 

Bel. Yes ; we are likest gods 

When we have pow'r, and use it. What is 

wealth 
But the rich means to gratify desire? 
I will not have a wish, a hope, a thought, 
That shall not know fruition. What is empire? 
The privilege to punish and enjoy : 
To feel our pow'r in making others fear it ; 
To taste of Pleasure's cup till we grow giddy, 
And think ourselves immortal ! This is empire ! 
My ancestors scarce tasted of its joys : 
Shut from the sprightly world, and all its 

charms, 
In cumbrous majesty, in sullen state 
And dull unsocial dignity they liv'd ; 
Far from the sight of an admiring world, 
That world, whose gaze makes half the charms 

of greatness; 
They nothing knew of empire but the name, 
Or saw it in the looks of trembling slaves ; 
And all they felt of royalty was care. 
But I will see, and know it of myself; 
Youth, Wealth, and Greatness court me to be 

blest, 
And Pow'r and Pleasure draw with equal force 
And sweet attraction • both I will embrace 
In quick succession ; this is Pleasure's day ; 
Ambition will have time to reign hereafter; 
It is the proper appetite of age. 
The lust of pow'r shall lord it uncontroll'd, 
When all the gen'rous feelings grow obtuse, 
And stern Dominion holds, with rigid hand, 
His iron rein, and sits and sways alone. 
But youth is Pleasure's hour ! 

1st cour. ' Perish the slave 

Who, with official counsel would oppose 
The king's desire, whose slightest wish is law ! 
Bel. Now strike the loud-ton'd lyre and softer 
lute; 
Let me have music, with the nobler aid 
Of poesy. Where are those cunning men 
Who boast, by chosen sounds, and t measur'd 

sweetness, 
To set the busy spirits in a flame, 
And cool them at their will ? who know the art 
To call the hidden powers of numbers forth, 
And make that pliant instrument, the mind, 
Yield to the pow'rful sympathy of sound, 
Obedient to the master's artful hand, 
Such magic is song ! Then give me song ; 
Yet not at first such soul dissolving strains 
As melt the soften'd sense ; but such bold mea- 
sures 
As may inflame my spirit to despise 
Tli' ambitious Persian, that presumptuous boy, 
Who rashly dares e'en now invest our city, 
And menaces th' invincible Belshazzar. 
[A grand concert of music, after which an ode.] 

In vain shall Persian Cyrus dare 
With great Belshazzar wage unequal war : 
In vain Darius shall combine, 



Darius leader of the Median line ; 

While fair Euphrates' stream our walls protect*, 

And great Belshazzar's self our fate directs. 

War and famine threat in vain, 

While this demi-god shall reign ! 
Let Persia's prostrate king confess his pow'r, 
And Media's monarch dread his vengeful hour. 

On Dura's* ample plain behold 
Immortal Belusj whom the nations own ; 
Sublime he stands in burnish'd gold, 
And richest offerings his bright altars crown. 

To-night his deity we here adore, 
And due libations speak his mighty pow'r. 

Yet Belus' self not more we own 
Than great Belshazzar on Chaldea's throne. 

(>reat Belshazzar like a God, 

Rules the nations with a nod ! 
To great, Belshazzar be the goblet crown'd ! 
Belshazzar's name the echoing roofs rebound ! 

Belsh. Enough ! the kindling rapture fires my 
brain, 
And my heart dances to the flattering sounds, 
I feel myself a god ! Why not a god 1 
What were the deities our fathers worship'd ? 
What was great Nimrod our imperial founder ? 
What greater Belus, to whose pow'r divine 
We raise to-night the banquet and the song 
But youthful heroes, mortal, like myself, 
Who by their daring earn'd divinity ? 
They were but men : nay some were less than 

men, 
Though now rever'd as gods. What was Anubis, 
Whom Egypt's sapient sons adore ? A dog ! 
And shall not I, young, valiant, and a king, 
Dare more ? do more ? exceed the boldest flights 
Of my progenitors ? — Fill me more wine, 
To cherish and exalt the young idea, (he drinks) 
Ne'er did Olympian Jupiter himself 
Quaff such immortal draughts. 

1st cour. What could that Canaan, 

That heaven in hope, that nothing in possession, 
That air-built bliss of the deluded Jews, 
That promis'd land of milk and flowing honey, 
What could that fancy'd Paradise bestow 
To match these generous juices ? 

Belsh. Hold — enough ! 

Thou hast rous'd a thought. By Heav'n I will 

enjoy it : 
A glorious thought! which will exalt to rapture 
The pleasure of the banquet, and bestow 
A yet untasted relish of delight. 

1st cour. What means the king ? 

Belsh. The Jews ! said'st thou the Jews ! 

1st cour. I spoke of that undone, that outcast 
people, 
Those tributary creatures of thy pow'r, 
The captives of thy will, whose very breath 
Hangs on the sovereign pleasure of the king. 
Belsh. When that abandoned race was hither 
brought, 

* Daniel, chap iii. 

f See a very fine description of the temple of this idol. 

The tow'ring fane 

Of Bel, Chaldean Jove, surpassing far 

That Doric temple, which the Elean chiefs 

Rais'd to their thunderer from the spoils of war, 

Or that Ionic, where th' Ephesian bow'd 

To Dian, queen of heaven. Eight towers arise, 

Each above each, immeasurable height, 

A monument at once of eastern pride, 

And slavish superstition, &c 

Judah Restored, b. r. 



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97 



Were not the choicest treasures of their temple, 
(Devoted to their God, and held most precious) 
Among the spoils which grac'd Nebassar's* 

triumphs, 
And lodg'd in Babylon? 

1st cour. O king ! they were. 

2d cour. The Jews, with superstitious awe, 
behold 
These sacred symbols of their ancient faith : 
Nor has captivity abated aught 
The rev'rend love they bear these holy reliques. 
Though we deride their law, and scorn their 

persons, 
Yet never have we yet to human use 
Devoted these rich vessels set apart 
To sacred purposes. 

Belsh. I joy to hear it ! 

Go — fetch them hither. They shall grace our 

banquet. 
Does no one stir ? Belshazzar disobey'd ? 
And yet you live ? Whence comes this strange 

reluctance? 
This new-born rev'rence for the helpless Jews? 
This fear to injure those who can't revenge it ? 
Send to the sacred treasury in haste, 
Let all be hither brought ; — who answers dies. 

[ They go out. 
The mantling wine a higher joy will yield, 
Pour'd from the precious flaggons which adorn'd 
Their far-fam'd temple, now in ashes laid. 
Oh ! 'twill exalt the pleasure into transport, 
To gall those whining, praying Israelites ! 
I laugh to think what wild dismay will seize 

them 
When they shall learn the use that has been 

made 
Of all their holy trumpery ! 

[ The vessels arc brought in. 
2d cour. It comes ; 

A goodly show ! how bright with gold and gems! 
Far fitter for a youthful monarch's board 
Than the cold shrine of an unheeding God. 

Belsh. Fill me that massy goblet to the brim. 
Now, Abraham ! let thy wretched race expect 
The fable of their faith to be fulfill'd; 
Their second temple and their promis'd king ! 
Now will they see the god they vainly serve 
Is impotent to help ; for had he pow'r 
To hear and grant their pray'r, he would pre- 

vent 
This profanation. 

[As the king is going to drink, thunder is heard : 
he starts from the throne, spies a hand, which 
writes on the wall these words, mene, mene, 
tekel, upharsin. He lets fall the goblet, and 
stands in an attitude of speechless horror. All 
start and seem terrified.] 
1st cour. (after a long pause. Oh, transcend- 

ant horror ! 
2d cour. What may this mean ? The king is 

greatly mov'd ! 
3d cour. Nor is it strange — who unappall'd 
can view it ? 
Those sacred cups ! I doubt we *ve gone too far! 
1st cour. Observe the fear-struck king! his 
starting eyes 

* The name of Nebuchadnezzar not being reducible to 
verse, I have adopted that of Nebassar, on the authority 
of the ingenious and learned Author of ' Judah Re- 
•tor^d.' 

Vet. I G ' 



Roll horribly. Thrice he essay'd to speak, 
And thrice his tongue refus'd. 

Belsh. (in a low trembling voice.) Ye mysti, 

words ! 
Thou semblance of an hand ! illusive forms! 
Ye wild fantastic images, what are ye ? 
Dread shadows, speak ! Explain your dark in 

tent! 
Ye will not answer me — Alas ! I feel 
I am a mortal now — My failing limbs 
Refuse to bear me up. I am no god ! 
Gods do not tremble thus — Support me, hold me: 
These loosen'd joints, these knees which smite 

each other, 
Betray I'm but a man — a weak one too ! 

1st cour. In truth, 'tis passing strange, and 

full of horror ! 
Belsh. Send for the learn'd magicians, every 

sage 
Who deals in wizard spells and magic charms. 

[Some go out. 
1st couH. How fares my lord the king ? 
Besh. Am I a king ? 

What pow'r have 1 1 Ye lying slaves, I am not. 
Oh, soul distracting sight ! but is it real ? 
Perhaps 'tis fancy all, or the wild dream 
Of mad distemperature, the fumes of wine ! 
I'll look on it no more ! — So — now I'm well ! 
I am a king again, and know not fear. 
And yet my eyes will seek that fatal spot, 
And fondly dwell upon the sight that blast 

them ! 
Again, 'tis there ! it is not fancy's work, 
I see it still ! 'tis written on the wall ! 
I see the writing, but the viewless writer, 
Who ! what is he ! Oh, horror ! horror ! horror . 
It cannot be the God of these poor Jews ; 
For what is He, that he can thus afflict ? 
2d cour. Let not my Lord the king be thus 

dismay'd. 
3d cour. Let not a phantom, an illusive shade 
Dist'irb the peace of him who rules the world. 
Belsh. No more, ye wretched sycophants ! 

no more ! 
The sweetest note which flatt'ry now can strike, 
Harsh and discordant grates upon my soul. 
Talk not of pow'r to one so full of fear, 
So weak, so impotent ! Look on that wall ; 
If thou wouldst soothe my soul explain the 

writing, 
And thou shalt be my oracle, my God ! 
O tell me whence it came, and what it means, 
And I'll believe I am again a king ! 
Friends ! princes ! ease my troubled breast, and 

say 
What do the mystic characters portend ? 
1st court. 'Tis not in us, O king, to ease thy 

spirit ; 
We are not skill'd in those mysterious arts 
Which wait the midnight studies of the sage : 
But of the deep diviners thou shalt learn, 
The wise astrologers, the sage magicians, 
Who, of events unborn, take secret note, 
And hold deep commerce with the unseen world. 

Enter astologers, magicians, Sfc. Sfc. 
Belsh. Approach, ye sages, 'tis the king com- 
mands. [ They kneel. 
Astrologers. Hail, mighty kin? of Babylon ! 
Belsh, Nay, rise : 



98 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



I do not need your homage, but your help ; 
The world may worship, you must counsel me. 
He who declares the secret of the king, 
No common honours shall await his skill ; 
Our empire shall be tax'd for his reward, 
And he himself shall name the gift he wishes. 
A splendid scarlet robe shall grace his limbs, 
His neck a princely chain of gold adorn : 
Meet honours for 6uch wisdom : He shall rule 
The third in rank throughout our Babylon. 
2d Astr. Such recompence becomes Bel- 

shazzar's bounty; 
Let the king speak the secret of his soul ; 
Which heard, his humble creatures shall unfold. 
Belsh. {-points to the wall.) Be 't so — look there 

— behold those characters ! 
Nay, do not start, for I will know their meaning ! 
Ha ! answer ; speak, or instant death awaits you ! 
What, dumb ! all dumb ! where is your boasted 

skill ? [ They confer together. 

Keep them asunder — no confederacy 

No secret plots to make your tales agree, 
Speak, slaves, and dare to let me know the 

worst ! [ They kneel. 

1st Astr. O, let the king forgive his faithful 

servants ! 
2d Astr. O mitigate our threatened doom of 

death ; , 
If we declare, with mingled grief and shame, 
We cannot tell the secret of the king, 
Nor what these mystic characters portend ! 
Belsh. Off with their heads ! Ye shall not 

live an hour ! 
Curse on your shallow arts, your lying science ! 
'Tis thus you practice on the credulous world, 
Who think you wise because themselves are 

weak ! 
But miscreants, ye shall die ! the pow'r to 

punish 
Is all that I have left me of a king. 

1st cour. Great sire, suspend their punish- 
ment a while ; 
Behold Nitocris comes, thy royal mother ! 

Enter Queen. 

Queen. O my misguided son ! 

Well may'st thou wonder to behold me here : 
For I have ever shunn'd this scene of riot, 
Where wild intemperance and dishonour'd 

mirth 
Hold festival impure. Yet, O Belshazzar ! 
I could not hear the wonders which befel, 
And leave thee to the workings of despair : 
For, spite of all the anguish of my soul 
At thy offences, I'm thy mother still ! 
Against the solemn purpose I had form'd 
Never to mix in this unhallow'd crowd, 
The wondrous story of the mystic writing, 
Of strange and awful import, brings me here ; 
If hap'ly I may show some likely means 
To fathom this dark mystery. 

Bel. Speak, O queen ! 

My list'ning soul shall hang upon thy words, 
And prompt obedience follow them ! 

Queen. Then hear me. 

Among thy captive tribes which hither came 
To grace Nebassar's triumph, there was brought 
A youth nam'd Daniel, favour'd by high Heav'n 
With pow'r to look into the secret page 
Of dim Futurity's mysterious volume. 



The spirit of the holy gods is in him: 

No vision so obscure, so deeply hid, 

No sentence so perplex'd but he can solve it : 

He can unfold the dark decrees of fate, 

Can trace each crooked labyrinth of thought, 

Each winding maze of doubt, and make it clear 

And palpable to sense. He twice explain'd 

The monarch's mystic dreams. The holy seer 

Saw, with prophetic spirit, what befel 

The king long after. For his wond'rous skill 

He was rewarded, honour'd, and caress'd, 

And with the rulers of Chaldea rank'd : 

Though now, alas ! thrown by, his services 

Forgotten or neglected. 

Bel. Send with speed 

A message to command the holy man 
To meet us on the instant. 

Nitocris. I already 

Have sent to ask his presence at the palace , 
And lo ! in happy season see he comes. 

Enter Daniel. 

Bel. Welcome, thrice venerable sage ! ap- 
proach. 
Art thou that Daniel whom my great forefather 
Brought hither with the captive tribes of Judah ! 

Daniel. I am, O king ! 

Bel. Then, pardon, holy prophet ; 
Nor let a just resentment of thy wrongs, 
And long neglected merit, shut thy heart 
Against a king's request, a suppliant king ! 

Daniel. The God I worship teaches to for 
give. 

Bel. Then let thy words bring comfort to my 
soul. 
I've heard the spirit of the gods is in thee ; 
That thou can'st look into the fates of men, 
With prescience more than human ! 

Daniel. Hold, O king ! 

Wisdom is from above ; 'tis God's own gift , 
I of myself am nothing; but from Him 
The little knowledge I possess, I hold : 
To him be all the glory ! 

Bel. Then, O Daniel ! 

If thou indeed dost boast that wond'rous gift, 
That faculty divine ; look there, and tell me ! 
O say, what mean those mystic characters ? 
Remove this load of terror from my soul, 
And honours, such as kings can give, await 

thee. 
Thou shalt he great beyond thy soul's ambition, 
And rich above thy wildest dream of wealth : 
Clad in the scarlet robe our nobles wear, 
And grac'd with princely ensigns thou shalt 

stand 
Near our own throne, and third within our em 
pire. 

Daniel. O mighty king, thy gifts with thee 
remain 
And let thy high rewards on others fall. 
The princely ensign, nor the scarlet robe, 
Nor yet to be the third within thy realm, 
Can touch the soul of Daniel. Honour, fame, 
All that the world calls great, thy crown itself, 
Could never satisfy the vast ambition 
Of an immortal spirit ; I aspire 
Beyond thy pow'r of giving ; my high hopes 
Reach also to a crown — but 'tis a crown 
Unfading and eternal. 

1st cour. Wond'rous man ! 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



99 



Our priests teach no such notions. 

Daniel. Yet, O king ! 

Though all unmov'd by grandeur or by gift, 
I will unfold the high decree of Heaven, 
And straight declare the mystery. 

Bel. Speak, O prophet! 

Daniel. Prepare to hear what kings have sel- 
dom heard ; 
Prepare to hear what courtiers seldom tell, 
Prepare to hear the Truth. The mighty God, 
Who rules the sceptres and the hearts of kings, 
Gave thy renovvn'd forefather* here to reign, 
With such extent of empire, weight of pow'r, 
And greatness of dominion, the wide earth 
Trembled beneath the terror of his name, 
And kingdoms stood or fell as he decreed. 
Oh ! dangerous pinnacle of pow'r supreme ! 
Who can stand safe upon its treach'rous top, 
Behold the gazing prostrate world beiow, 
Whom depth and distance into pigmies shrink, 
And not grow giddy ! Babylon's great king 
Forgot he was a man, a helpless man, 
Subject to pain, and sin, and death, like others ! 
But who shall fight against Omnipotence? 
Or who hath harden'd his obdurate heart 
Against the Majesty of Heav'n, and prosper'd ? 
The God he hath insulted was aveng'd ; 
From empire, from the joys of social life, 
He drove him forth ; extinguish'd reason's lamp ; 
Quench'd that bright spark of deity within ; 
Compell'd him with the forest brutes to roam 
For scanty pasture ; and the mountain dews 
Fell, cold and wet, on his defenceless head, 
Till he confess'd, — Let men, let monarchs hear ! 
Till he confess'd, Pride was not made for man. 
Nicotris. O awful instance of divine displea- 
sure ! 
Bel. Proceed ! my soul is wrapt in fix'd at- 
tention ! 
Daniel. O king ! thy grandsire not in vain 
had sinn'd, 
If, from his error thou hadst learnt the truth. 
The story of his fall thou oft has heard, 
But has it taught thee wisdom ? Thou like him, 
Hast been elate with pow'r, and mad with pride, 
Like him, thou hast defy'd the living God. 
Nay, to bold thoughts hast added deeds more 

bold. 
Thou hast outwrought the pattern he bequeath'd 

thee, 
And quite outgone example ; hast profan'd 
With impious hand, the vessels of the temple : 
Those vessels sanctify'd to holiest use, 
Thou hast polluted with unhallow'd lips, 
And made the instruments of foul debauch, 
Thou hast ador'd the gods of wood and stone, 
Vile, senseless deities, the work of hands : 
But HE, the King of kings, and lord of lords, 
In whom exists thy life, thy soul, thy breath, 
On whom thy being hangs, thou hast deny'd. 
1st cour. (aside to the others.) With what an 

holy boldness he reproves him ! 
2d cour. Such is the fearless confidence of 
virtue ! 
And such the righteous courage those maintain 
Who plead the cause of truth. The smallest 

word 
He utters had been death to half the court 

• Nebuchadnezzar 



Bel. Now let the mystic writing be explain'd. 
Thrice venerable sage ! 

Daniel. O mighty king ! 

Hear then its awful import : Heav'n has num. 

ber'd 
Thy days of royalty, and soon will end them. 
Our God has weighed thee in the even balance 
Of his own holy laic, and finds thee wanting: 
And last thy kingdom shall be wrested from thee. 
And know, the Mede and Persian shall possess it 

Bel. (starts up.) Prophet, when shall this be ? 

Daniel. In God's own time ; 

Here my commission ends ; I may not utter 
More than thou'st heard; but oh! remember 

king ! 
Thy days are number'd : hear, repent and live 

Bel. Say, prophet, what can penitence avail 
If Heaven's decrees immutably are fix'd, 
Can pray'rs avert our fate ? 

Daniel. They change our hearts, 

And thus dispose Omnipotence to mercy. 
'Tis man that alters ; God is still the same. 
Conditional are all Heav'n's covenants : 
And when th' uplifted thunder is withheld, 
'Tis pray'r that deprecates th' impending bolt. 
Good Hezekiah's* days were number'd too ; 
But penitence and faith were mighty pleas : 
At Mercy's throne they never plead in vain. 

[He is going. 

Bel. Stay, prophet, and receive thy promis'd 

gift; 

The scarlet robe and princely chain are thine • 
And let my herald publish through the land 
That Daniel stands, in dignity and pow'r, 
The third in Babylon. These just rewards 
Thou well may'st claim, though sad thy pro. 
phecy ! 

Queen. Be not deceiv'd my son ! nor let thy 
soul 
Snatch an uncertain moment's treach'rous rest, 
On the dread brink of that tremendous gulf 
Which yawns beneath thee. 

Daniel. O unhappy king, 

Know what must happen once may happen soon. 
Remember that 'tis terrible to meet 
Great evils unprepar'd ! and, O Belshazzar ! 
In the wild moment of dismay and death, 
Remember thou wast warn'd ! and, O remember, 
Warnings despis'd are condemnations then. 

[Exeunt Daniel and Queen. 

Bel. 'Tis well — my soul shakes off its load 
of care : 
'Tis only the obscure is terrible. 
Imagination frames events unknown, 
In wild fantastic shapes of hideous ruin, 
And what it fears creates ! — I know the worst ; 
And awful is that worst as fear could feign : 
But distant are the ills I have to dread ! 
What is remote may be uncertain too ! — 
Ha ! princes ! hope breaks in ! — This may not 
be. 

1st cour. Perhaps this Daniel is in league 
with Persia ; 
And brib'd by Cyrus to report these horrors, 
To weaken and impede the mighty plans 
Of thy imperial mind. 

Bel. 'Tis very like. 

2d cour. Return we to the banquet 

Bel. Dare we venture ? 

• 2 Chjr6o. chap, xxxiii. Ieaiah, chap xxxviii. 



100 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



3d. cour. Let not this dreaming seer disturb 
the king. 
Against the pow'r of Cyrus and the Mede 
Is Babylon secure. Her brazen gates 
Mock all attempts to force them. Proud Eu- 
phrates, 
A wat'ry bulwark, guards our ample city 
From all assailants. And within the walls 
Of this stupendous capital are lodg'd 
Such vast provisions, such exhaustless stores, 
As a twice ten years siege could never waste. 
Bel. (embraces him.) My better genius ! Safe 
in such resources, 
I mock the prophet. — Turn me to the banquet ! 
[As they are going to resume their places at the 
banquet, a dreadful uproar is heard, tumultu- 
ous cries, and warlike sounds. All stand ter- 
rified. Enter soldiers with their swords drawn 
and wounded.} 

Soldier. Oh, helpless Babylon ! Oh, wretched 
king! 
Chaldea is no more, the Mede has conquer'd ! 
The victor Cyrus, like a mighty torrent 
Comes rushing on, and marks his way with ruin! 
Destruction is at hand ; escape or perish. 

Bel. Impossible ! Villain and slave thou ly'st ! 
Euphrates and the brazen gates secure us. 
While those remain, Belshazzar laughs at dan- 
ger. 
Soldier. Euphrates is diverted from its course; 
The brazen gates are burst, the city 's taken ; 
Thyself a pris'ner, and thy empire lost. 
Bel. Oh, prophet ! I remember thee indeed ! 

[He runs out. They follow in the utmost confu- 
sion.] 

Enter several Jews, Medes, and Babylonians' 

1st Jew. He comes, he comes ! the long pre- 
dicted prince, 
Cyrus, the destin'd instrument of Heaven, 
To free our captive nation, and restore 
Jehovah's temple. Carnage marks his way, 
And Conquest sits upon his plume crown'dhelm. 

2d Jew. What noise is that? 

1st Jew. Hark ! 'tis Belshazzar's voice ! 

Bel. (without.) O soldier, spare my life, and 
aid my flight ! 
Such treasures shall reward the gentle deed 
As Persia never saw. I '11 be thy slave ; 
I '11 yield my crown to Cyrus ; I'll adore 
His gods and thine — I '11 kneel and kiss thy feet, 
And worship thee. — It is not much I ask — 
T '11 live in bondage, beggary and pain, 
Vjo thou but let me live. 

Soldier. Die, tyrant, die ! 

Bel. O Daniel ! Daniel ! Daniel ! 

Enter Soldier. 

Soldier. Belshazzar 's dead ! 

The wretched king breath'd out his furious soul 
In that tremendous groan. 

1st Jew. Belshazzar's dead ! 

Then, Judah, art thou free ! The tyrant's fallen ! 
Jerusalem, Jerusalem is free ! 



PART III. 
Enter Daniel and Jews. 



Dan. Bel boweth down,* and haughty Nebo 
stoops ! 
The idols fall ; the god and worshipper 
Together fall ! together they bow down ! 
Each other, or themselves they cannot save. 
O, Babylon, where is thy refuge now ? 
Thy wisdom and thy knowledge, meant to save, 
Pervert thee ; and thy blessing is thy bane ! 
Where are thy brutish deities, Chaldea? 
Where are thy gods of gold ? — Oh, Lord of life ! 
Thou very God ! so fall thy foes before thee ! 

1st Jew. So fell beneath the terrors of Thy 
name 
The idol Chemosh, Moab's empty trust ; 
So Ammonitish Moloch sunk before Thee ; 
So fell Philistine Dagon : so shall fall, 
To time's remotest period, all thy foes, 
Triumphant Lord of Hosts ! 

Daniel. How chang'd our fate ' 

Not for myself, O Judah ! but for thee 
I shed these tears of joy. For I no more 
Must view the cedars which adorn the brow 
Of Syrian Lebanon ; no more shall see 
Thy pleasant stream, O Jordan ! nor the flocks 
Which whiten all the mountains of Judea; 
No more these eyes delighted shall review 
Or Carmel's heights, or Sharon's flow'ry vales. 
I must remain in Babylon ! So Heav'n, 
To whose awards I bow me, has decreed. 
I ne'er shall see thee, Salem ! I am old ; 
And few and toilsome are my days to come. 
But we shall meet in those celestial climes, 
Compar'd with which created glories sink ; 
Where sinners shall have pow'r to harm no 

more, 
And martyr'd Virtue rests her weary head. 
Though ere my day of promis'd grace shall 

come, 
I shall be, tried by perils strange and new ; 
Nor shall I taste of death, so have I learn'd, 
Till I have seen the captive tribes restored. 

1st Jew. And shall we view, once more, thy 
hallow'd towers, 
Imperial Salem ? 

Dan. Yes, my youthful friends ! 

You shall behold the second temple rise,+ 
With grateful ecstacy ; but we, your sires, 
Now bent with hoary age ; we, whose charm'd 

eyes 
Beheld the matchless glories of the first, 
Should weep, rememb'ring that we once had 

seen 
That model of perfection ! 

2d Jew. Never more 

Shall such a wond'rous structure grace the 
earth ! 

Dan. Well have you borne affliction, men of 
Judah ! 
Well have sustain'd your portion of distress : 
And, unrepining, drank the bitter dregs 
Of adverse fortune ! Happier days await you. 
O guard against the perils of success ! 
Prosperity dissolves the yielding soul, 
And the bright sun of shining fortune melts 
The firmest virtue down. Beware my friends, 
Be greatly cautious of prosperity ! 
Defend your sliding hearts ; and, trembling, 

think 
How those, who buffetted Affliction's waves 
• Iaaiah, chap. xlvi. f Ezra, chap. i. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



101 



With vig'rous virtue, sunk in Pleasure's calm. 
He,* who of special grace had been allow'd 
To rear the hallovv'd fane to Israel's God, 
By wealth corrupted, and by ease debauch'd, 
Forsook the God to whom he rais'd the fane ; 
And, sunk in sensual sloth, consum'd his days 
In vile idolatrous rites, — Nor think, my sons, 
That virtue in seques'ter'd solitude 
Is always found. Within the inmost soul 
The hidden tempter lurks; nor less betrays 
In the still seeming safety of retreat, 
Than where the world her snares entangling 

spreads, 
More visible to sense. Guard every thought : 
Who thinks himself secure is half undone; 
For Sin, unwatch'd, may reach the sanctuary : 
'Tis not the place preserves us. Righteous Lot 

* Solomon. 



Stem'd the strong current of Corruption's tide, 
E'en in polluted Sodom ; safe he liv'd, 
While circumspective Virtue's watchful eye 
Was anxiously awake : but in the shade, 
Far from the obvious perils which alarm 
With palpable temptation, secret sin 
Ensnar'd his soul ; he trusted in himself; 
Security betray'd him, and he fell. 

2d. Jew. Thy prudent counsels in our hearts 
shall live, 
As if a pen of adamant had grav'd them. 

1st Jew. The dawn approaches ; let us part, 
my friend, 
Secure of peace, since tyranny is fallen. 

Dan. So perish all thine enemies, O Lord ; 
So mighty God, shall perish all who seek 
Corrupted pleasures in the turbid waves 
Of life's polluted stream, and madly quit 
The living fountain of perennial grace ! 



DANIEL : 

A SACRED DRAMA. 

The righteous is delivered out of trouble, and the wicked cometh in his stead. 

Proverbs of Solomon. 

On peut des plus grands rois surprendre la justice. 

Incapable de tromper, 

lis out peine a s'echapper 

Des pieges de 1'artifice. 
Un cceur noble ne peut soupconner en autrui 

La bassesse et la malice 

Qu'il ne sent point en lui. 

Esther. Tragedie de Racine. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



Darius, king of Media and Babylon. 

Pharnaces, i .. . r* . , 

c > courtiers, enemies to Daniel. 



Araspes, a young Median lord, friend and 
, convert to Daniel. 

- Daniel. 



Scene — Tlie city of Babylon. 
The subject is taken from the sixth chapter of the prophet Daniel. 



PART I. 

Pharnaces, soranus. 

Phar. Yes ! — I have noted with a jealous eye, 
The pow'r of this new fav'rite ! Daniel reigns, 
And not Darius ! Daniel guides the springs 
Which move this mighty empire. High he sits, 
Supreme in favour with both prince and people. 
Where is the spirit of our Median lords, 
Tamely to crouch and bend the supple knee 
To this new god ! By Mithras, 'tis too much! 
Shall great Arbaces' race to Daniel bow ! 
A foreigner, a captive, and a Jew ? 
Something must be devis'd, and that right soon, 
To shake his credit. 

Sor. Rather hope to shake 

The mountain pine, whose twisting fibres clasp 
The earth, deep rooted ! Rather hope to shake 



The Scythian Taurus from his central base ! 
No — Daniel sits too absolute in pow'r, 
Too firm in favour, for the keenest shaft 
Of nicely-aiming jealousy to reach him. 

Phar. Rather he sits too high to sit securely, 
Yes! he has reach'd that pinnacle of pow'r 
Which closely touches on depression's verge. 
Hast thou then liv'd in courts 1 hast thou grown 

gray 
Beneath the mask a subtle statesman wears, 
To hide his secret soul, and dost not know 
That of all fickle Fortune's transient gifts, 
Favour is most deceitful ? 'Tis a beam, 
Which darts uncertain brightness for a moment! 
The faint precarious, fickly shine of pow'r ; 
Giv'n without merit, by caprice withdrawn. 
No trifle is so small as what obtains, 
Save that which loses favour , 'tis a breath, 
Which hangs upon a smile ! A look, a word, 



102 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



A frown, the air-built tower of fortune shakes, 

And down the unsubstantial fabric falls ! 

Darius, just and clement as he is, 

If I mistake not, may be wrought upon 

By prudent wiles, by Flatt'ry's pleasant cup, 

Administer'd with caution. 

Sor. But the means ? 

For Daniel's life (a foe must grant him that) 
Is so replete with goodness, so adorn'd 
With every virtue so exactly squar'd 
By wisdom's nicest rules, 'twill be most hard 
To charge him with the shadow of offence. 
Pare is his fame as Scythia's mountain snows, 
When not a breath pollutes them ! O Pharnaces, 
I've scann'd the actions of his daily life 
With all th' industrious malice of a foe ; 
And nothing meets mine eye but deeds of hon- 
our ! 
In office pure ; for equitable acts 
Renown'd : in justic and impartial truth, 
The Grecian Themis is not more severe. 

Phar. By yon bright sun, thou blazon'st forth 
his praise 
As if with rapture thou did'st read the page 
Where these fair deeds are written ! 

Sor. Thou mistak'st 

I only meant to show what cause we have 
To hate and fear him. I but meant to paint 
His popular virtues and eclipsing merit 
Then for devotion and religious zeal, 
Who so renown'd as Daniel ? Of his law 
Observant in th' extreme. Thrice ev'ry day 
With prostrate reverence, he adores his God : 
With superstitious awe his face he turns 
Tow'rds his belov'd Jerusalem, as if 
Some local, partial God, might there be found 
To hear his supplication. No affair 
Of state, no business so importunate, 
No pleasure so alluring, no employ 
Of such high import, to seduce his zeal 
From this observance due ! 

Pliar. There, there he falls ! 

Enough my friend ! His piety destroys him. 
There, at the very footstool of his God, • 
Where he implores protection, there I'll crush 
him. 

Sor. What means Pharnaces ? 

Phar. Ask not what I mean, 

The new idea floating in my brain 
Has yet receiv'd no form. 'Tis yet too soon 
To give it body, circumstance, or breath. 
The seeds of mighty deeds are lab'ring here, 
And struggling for a birth ! 'Tis near the hour 
The king is wont to summon us to council : 
Ere that, this big conception of my mind 
I'll shape to form and being. Thou, mean- 
while, 
Convene our chosen friends : for I shall need 
The aid of all your councils, and the weight 
of grave authority. 

Sor. Who shall be trusted ? 

Phar. With our immediate motive none, 
except 
A chosen band of friends, who most repine 
At Daniel's exaltation. — But the scheme 
I meditate must be disclos'd to all 
Who bear high office ; all our Median rulers, 
Princes and captains, presidents and lords ; 
All must assemble. 'Tis a common cause : 
AH but the young Araspes : he inclines 



To Daniel and his God. He sits attent, 
With ravish'd ears, to listen to his lore. 
With rev'rence names Jerusalem, and reads 
The volume of the law. No more he bows 
To hail the golden Ruler of the Day, 
But looks for some great Prophet, greater far, 
So they pretend, than Mithras ! From him 

therefore, 
Conceal whate'er of injury is devis'd 
'Gainst Daniel. Be it to thy care to-day 
To keep him from the council. 

Sor. 'Tis well thought. 

'Tis now about the hour of Daniel's prayer . 
Araspes too is with him ! and to day 
They will not sit in council. Haste we then 
Designs of high importance, once conceiv'd 
Should be accomplish'd ! Genius which dis- 
cerns, 
And courage which achieves, despise the aid 
Of ling'ring Circumspection ! The keen spirit 
Seizes the prompt occasion, makes the thought 
Start into instant action, and at once 
Plans and performs, resolves and executes ! 



PART II. 

Scene — Daniel's house. 

DANIEL, ARASPES. 

Araspes. Proceed, proceed, thrice venerable 
sage, 
Enlighten my dark mind with this new ray, 
This dawning of salva/ion ! Tell me more 
Of this expected King ! this Comforter ! 
This Promise of the nations ! this great Hope 
Of anxious Israel ! This unborn Prophet! 
This wonderful, this mighty Counsellor ! 
This everlasting Lord ! this Prince of Peace ! 
This balm of Gilead, which shall heal the 

wounds 
Of universal nature ! this Messiah ! 
Redeemer, Saviour, Sufferer, Victim, God ! 

Dan. Enough to animate our faith, we know, 
But not enough to soothe the curious pride 
Of vain philosophy ! Enough to cheer 
Our path we see, the rest is hid in clouds ; 
And heaven's own shadows rest upon the view ! 

Aras. Go on blest sage ! I could for ever hear, 
Untir'd, thy admonition ! tell me how 
I shall obtain the favour of that God 
I but begin to know, but fain would serve. 

Dan. By deep humility, by faith unfeign'd, 
By holy deeds, best proof of living faith ! 
O Faith,* thou wonder-working principle, 
Eternal substance of our present hope, 
Thou evidence of things invisible! 
What cannot man sustain, sustain'd by thee ' 
The time would fail, and the bright star of day 
Would quench his beams in ocean, and resign 
His empire to the silver queen of night; 
And she again descend the steep of heaven, 
If I should tell what wonders Faith achiev'd 
By Gideon, Barak, and the holy seer, 
Elkanah's son ; the pious Gileadite, 
Ill-fated Jephthah ! He of Zorah toot 
In strength unequall'd ; and the shepherd-king 
Who vanquish'd Gath's fell giant ! Need I tell 
Of holy prophets, who by conqu'ring Faith, 
* Hebrews, chap. li. t Samson. 



WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



103 



Wrought deeds incredible to mortal sense ; 
Vanquished contending kingdoms, quell'd the 

rage 
Of furious pestilence, extinguish'd fire ! 
Victorious Faith ! others by thee endur'd 
Exile, disgrace, captivity, and death ! 
Some uncomplaining, bore (nor be it deem'd 
The meanest exercise of well-try'd Faith) 
The cruel mocking, and the bitter taunt, 
Foul obloquy, and undeserv'd reproach : 
Despising shame, that death to human pride ! 
Aras. How shall this faith be sought ? 
Dan. By earnest prayer, 

Solicit first the wisdom from above : 
Wisdom, whose fruits are purity and peace ! 
Wisdom ! that bright intelligence, which sat 
Supreme, when with his golden compasses* 
Th' Eternal plann'd the fabric of the world, 
Produc'd his fair idea into light, 
And said, that all was good ! Wisdom, blest 

beam ! 
The brightness of the everlasting light ! 
The spotless mirror of the power of God ! 
The reflex image of th' all perfect Mind ! 
A stream translucent, flowing from the source 
Of glory infinite ! a cloudless light ! 
Defilement cannot touch nor sin pollute 
Her unstain'd purity ! Not Ophir's gold, 
Nor Ethiopia's gems can match her price ! 
The ruby of the mine is pale before her ! 
And, like the oil Elisha's bounty bless'd, 
She is a treasure which doth grow by use, 
And multiply by spending ! She contains, 
Within herself the sum of excellence. 
If riches are desir'd, wisdom is wealth ! { 

If prudence, where shall keen Invention find 
Artificer more cunning ? If renown, 
In her right hand it comes ! If piety, 
Are not her labours virtues ? If the lore 
Which sage Experience teaches, lo ! she scans 
Antiquity's dark truths ; the past she knows, 
Anticipates the future ; not by arts 
Forbidden, of Chaldean sorcerer, 
But from the piercing ken of deep Foreknow- 
ledge. 
From her sure science of the human heart 
She weighs effects with causes, ends with 

means ; 
Resolving all into the sovereign will. 
For earthly blessings moderate be thy pray'r 
And qualified ; for light, for strength, for grace, 
Unbounded thy petition. 

Aras. Now, O prophet ! 

Explain the secret doubts which rack my mind, 
And my weak sense confound. Give me some 

line 
To sound the depths of Providence ! O say, 
Why the ungodly prosper ? why their root 
Shoots deep, and their thick branches flourish 

fair, 
Like the green bay tree ? why the righteous 

man, 
Like tender plants to shiv'ring winds expos'd, 
Is strip'd and torn, in naked Virtue bare, 
And nipp'd by cruel Sorrow's biting blast ? 
Explain, O Daniel, these mysterious ways 
To my faint apprehension ! For as yet 
I 've much to learn. Fair Truth's immortal sun 



Is sometimes hid in clouds ; not that her light 
Is in itself defective ; but obscur'd 
By my weak prejudice, imperfect Faith, 
And all the thousand causes which obstruct 
The growth of goodness. 

Dan. Follow me, Araspes. 

Within theu shalt peruse the sacred page, 
The book of life eternal ! that, will show thoe 
The end of the ungodly ; thou wilt own 
How short their longest period ; wilt perceive 
How black a night succeeds their brightest day! 
Thy purged eye will see God is not slack, 
As men count slackness, to fulfil his word. 
Weigh well this book ; and may the Spirit of 

grace, 
Who stamp'd the seal of truth on the bless'd 

page, 
Descend into thy soul, remove thy doubts, 
Clear the perplex'd, and solve the intricate, 
Till faith be lost in sight, and hope in joy ! 



• Sie Paradise Lost, book vii. line 225. 
chap. viii. ver. 27. 



Proverbs, 



PART III. 

Darids on his throne — Pharnaces, Soranus 
princes, presidents, and courtiers. 
Pharn. Hail ! king Darius, live for ever ! 
Darius. Welcome ! 

Welcome my princes, presidents, and friends ! 
Now tell me, has your wisdom aught devis'd 
To aid the commonwealth ? In our new empire, 
Subdu'd Chaldea, is there aught remains 
Your prudence can suggest to serve the state, 
To benefit the subject, to redress 
And raise the injur'd, to assist the oppress'd, 
And humble the oppressor? If you know, 
Speak freely, princes ! Why am I a king, 
Except to poise the awful scale of justice 
With even hand ; to minister to want ; 
To bless the nations with a lib'ral rule, 
Vicegerant of th' eternal Oromasdes ? 

Phar. So absolute thy wisdom, mighty king. 
All counsel were superfluous. 

Darius. Hold, Pharnaces ! 

No adulation ; 'tis the death of virtue ; 
Who flatters is of all mankind the lowest, 
Save he who courts flattery. Kings are men, 
As feeble and as frail as those they rule, 
And born like them, to die. The Lydian mo- 
narch, 
Unhappy Croesus, lately sat aloft, 
Almost above mortality ; now see him ! 
Sunk to the vile condition of a slave, 
He swells the train of Cyrus ! I, like him, 
To misery am obnoxious. See this throne ; 
This royal throne the great Nebassar fill'd ; 
Yet hence his pride expell'd him ! Yonder wall, 
The dread terrific writing to the eyes 
Of proud Belshazzar show'd ; sad monuments 
Of Heav'n's tremendous vengeance ! and shall I, 
Unwarn'd by such examples, cherish pride ? 
Yet to their dire calamities I owe 
The brightest gem that glistens in my crown, 
Sage Daniel. If my speech have aught of worth, 
Or if my life with aught of good be* grac'd, 
To him alone I owe it. 

Soranus (aside to Pharnaces.) Now Phar. 
naces, 
Will he run o'er and dwell upon his praise. 



104 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



As if we ne'er had heard it ; nay, will swell 
The nauseous catalogue with many a virtue 
His own fond fancy coins. 

Phar. O, great Darius ! 

Let thine unworthy servant's words find grace, 
And meet acceptance in his royal ear, 
Who subjugates the east ! Let not the king 
With anger hear my pray'r. 

Darius. Pharnaces, speak ; 

I know thou lov'st me ; I but meant to chide 
Thy flatt'ry, not reprove thee for thy zeal. 
Speak boldly, friends, as man should speak to 

man. 
Perish the barb'rous maxims of the east, 
Which basely would enslave the free-born mind, 
And plunder man of the best gift of Heav'n, 
His liberty of soul. 

Phar. Darius ! hear me. 

Thy princes, and the captains of thy bands, 
Thy presidents, the nobles who bear rule 
O'er provinces, and I, thine humble creature. 
Less than the least in merit, but in love, 
In zeal, and duty, equal with the first, 
We have devis'd a measure to confirm 
Thy infant empire, to establish firmly 
Thy pow'r and new dominion, and secure 
Thy growing greatness past the pow'r of 
change. 

Darius. I am prepar'd to hear thee. Speak 
Pharnaces. 

Phar. The wretched Babylonians long have 
groan'd 
Beneath the rule of princes, weak or rash. 
The rod of pow'r was sway'd alike amiss, 
By feeble Merodach and fierce Belshazzar. 
One let the slacken'd reins too loosely float 
Upon the people's neck, and lost his pow'r 
By nerveless relaxation. He, who follow'd, 
Held with a tyrant's hand the cruel curb, 
And check'd the groaning nation till it bled ; 
On different rocks they met one common ruin. 
Their edicts were irresolute, their laws 
Were feebly plann'd, their counsels ill advis'd ; 
Now so relax'd, and now so overstrain'd, 
That the tir'd people, wearied with the weight 
They long have borne, will soon disdain con- 

troul, 
Tread on all rule, and spurn the hand that 
guides 'em. 

Darius. But say what remedy ? 

Phar. That too, O king ! 

Thy servants have provided. Hitherto 
They bare the yoke submissive. But to fix 
Thy pow'r and their obedience, to reduce 
All hearts to thy dominion, yet avoid 
Those deeds of cruelty thy nature starts at, 
Thou should'st begin by some imperial act 
Of absolute dominion, yet unstain'd 
By aught of barbarous. For know, O king ! 
Wholesome severity, if wisely fram'd 
With sober discipline, procures more reverence 
Than all the lenient counsels and weak mea- 
sures 
Of frail irresolution. 

Darius. Now proceed 

To thy request. 

Phar. tfot I, but all request it. 

Be thy imperial edict issued straight, 
And let a firm decree be this day pass'd, 
Irrevocable as our Median laws. 



Ordain, that for the space of thirty days 
No subject in thy realm shall aught request 
Of God or man, except of thee, O king ! 

Darius. Wherefore this strange decree ? 

Phar. 'Twill fix the crown 

With lasting safety on thy royal brow, 
And, by a bloodless means, preserve th' obe- 
dience 
Of this new empire. Think how much 'twill 

raise 
Thy high renown ! 'Twill make thy name re- 

ver'd, 
And popular beyond example. What ! 
To be as Heav'n, dispensing good and ill 
For thirty days ! With thine own ears to hear 
Thy people's wants, with thine own lib'ral hands 
To bless thy suppliant subjects ! O, Darius ! 
Thoul't seem as bounteous as a giving God ! 
And reign in ev'ry heart in Babylon 
As well as Media! What a glorious state, 
To be the sovereign arbiter of good ! 
The first efficient cause of happiness! 
To scatter mercies with a plenteous hand, 
And to be blest thyself in blessing others ! 

Darius. Is this the gen'ral wish ? 

[Princes and courtiers kneel. 

Chief president. Of one, of all. 

Behold thy princes, presidents and lords, 
Thy counsellors, and captains ! See, O king ! 

[Presents the edict- 
Behold the instrument our zeal has drawn ; 
The edict is prepar'd. We only wait 
The confirmation of thy gracious word, 
And thy imperial signet. 
♦ Darius. Say, Pharnaces, 

What penalty awaits the man who dares 
Transgress our mandate ? 

Phar. Instant death, O king ! 

This statute says; ' Should any subject dare 
Petition, for the space of thirty days, 
Of God or man, except of thee, O king ! 
He shall be thrown into yon dreadful den 
Of hungry lions !' 

Darius. Hold ! Methinks a deed 

Of such importance should be wisely weigh'd. 

Phar. We have resolv'd it, mighty king ! 
with care, 
With closest scrutiny. On us devolve 
Whatever blame occurs ! 

Darius. I'm satisfy'd. 

Then to your wisdom I commit me, princes. 
Behold the royal signet : see 'tis done. 

Phar. (aside) There Daniel fell ! That signet 
seal'd his doom. 

Darius (after a pause.) Let me reflect — Sura 
I have been too rash ! 
Why such intemp'rate haste ? But you are 

wise; 
And would not counsel this severe decree 
But for the wisest purpose. Yet, methinks, 
I might have weigh'd, and in my mind resolv'd 
This statute, ere, the royal signet stamp'd, 
It had been past repeal. Sage Daniel, too ! 
My counsellor, my guide, my well-try'd friend. 
He should have been consulted ; he, whose wis. 

dom 
I still have found oracular ! 

Phar. Mighty king ! 

'Tis as it should be. The decree is past 
Irrevocable, as the steadfast law 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



105 



Of Mede and Persian, which can never change, 
Those who observe, it live, as is most meet, 
High in thy grace ; — who violate it, die. 



PART IV. 

Scene — Daniel's house. 

DANIEL, ARASPES. 

Araspes. Oh, holy Daniel ! prophet, father> 
friend, 
I come the wretched messenger of ill ! 
Thy foes com plot thy death. For what can 

mean 
This new-made law, extorted from the king 
Almost by force ? What can it mean, O Daniel, 
But to involve thee in the toils they spread 
To snare thy precious life ? 

Daniel. How ! was the king 

Consenting to this edict ? 

Araspes. They surpris'd 

His easy nature ; took him when his heart 
Was soften'd by their blandishments. They 

wore 
The mask of public virtue to deceive him. 
Beneath the specious name of general good, 
They wrought him to their purposes : no time 
Allow'd him to deliberate. One short hour, 
Another moment, and his soul had gain'd 
Her natural tone of virtue. 

Daniel. That great Power 

Who suffers evil only to produce 
Some unseen good, permits that this should be : 
And He permitting, I, well pleas'd resign. 
Retire, my friend : this is my second hour 
Of daily pray'r. Anon we'll meet again. 
Here in the open face of that bright sun 
Thy fathers worshipp'd, will I offer up, 
As is my rule, petitions to my God, 
For thee, for me, for Solyma, for all ! 

Araspes. Oh, stay ! what mean'st thou ! sure 
thou hast not heard 
The edict of the king ? I thought but now, 
Thou knew'st its purport. It expressly says, 
That no petition henceforth shall be made, 
For thirty days save only to the king ; 
Nor pray'r nor intercession shall be heard 
Of any God or man, but of Darius. 

Dan. And think'st thou then my reverence 
for the king, 
Good as he is, shall tempt me to renounce 
My sworn allegiance to the King of kings ? 
Hast thou commanded legions ? strove in battle, 
Defy'd the face of danger, mock'd at death 
In all its frightful forms, and tremblest now ? 
Come learn of me ; I'll teach thee to be bold, 
Though sword I never drew ! Fear not, Araspes, 
The feeble vengeance of a mortal man, 
Whose breath is in his nostrils : for wherein 
Is he to be accounted of? but fear 
The awaken'd vengeance of the living Lord 
He who can plunge the everlasting soul 
In infinite perdition ! 

Aras. Then, O Daniel ! 

If thou persist to disobey the edict, 
Retire and hide thee from the prying eyes 
Of busy malice ! 

Dan. He who is asham'd 

Vol.1. 



To vindicate the honour of his God, 

Of him the living Lord shall be asham'd 

When he shall judge the tribes! 

Aras. Yet, O remember, 

Oft have I heard thee say, the secret heart 
Is fair devotion's temple; there the saint, 
E'en on that living altar, lights the flame 
Of purest sacrifice, which burns unseen, 
Not unaccepted. — I remember too, 
When Syrian Naaman* by Elisha^ hand, 
Was cleans'd from foul pollution, imd his mind 
Enlighten'd by the miracle, confess'd 
The Almighty God of Jacob : that he deem'd it 
No flagrant violation of his faith 
To bend at Rimmon's shrine ; nor did the seer 
Forbid the rite external. 

Dan. Know, Araspes, 

Heav'n designs to suit our trials to our strength , 
A recent convert, feeble in his faith : 
Naaman, perhaps, had sunk beneath the weight 
Of so severe a duty. Gracious Heav'n 
Forbears to bruise the reed, or quench the flax 
When feeble and expiring. But shall I, 
Shall Daniel, shall the servant of the Lord, 
A vet'ran in his cause — long train'd to know 
And do his will — long exercis'd in wo, 
Bred in captivity and born to suffer ; 
Shall I, from known, from certain duty shrink 
To shun a threaten'd danger ? O, Araspes ! 
Shall I, advane'd in age, in zeal decline ? 
Grow careless as I reach my journey's end 
And slacken in my pace, the goal in view ? 
Perish discretion, when it interferes 
With duty ! Perish the false policy 
Of human wit, which would commute our safety 
With God's eternal honour ! Shall His law 
Be set at nought, that I may live at ease ? 
How would the Heathen triumph, should I fall 
Through coward fear ! How would God's 

enemies 
Insultingly blaspheme ! 

Aras. Yet think a moment. 

Dan. No ! — 

Where evil may be done, 'tis right to ponder ; 
Where only siiffer^d know the shortest pause 
Is much too long. Had great Darius paus'd, 
This ill had been prevented. But for me, 
Araspes, to deliberate is to sin. 

Aras. Think of thy pow'r, thy favour with 
Darius : 
Think of thy life's importance to the tribes, 
Scarce yet return'd in safety. Live ! O, live ! 
To serve the cause of God ! 

Dan. God will himself 

Sustain his righteous cause. He knows to raise 
Fit instruments to serve him. Know, Araspes, 
He does not need our crimes to help his cause, 
Nor does his equitable law permit 
A sinful act, from the prepost'rous plea 
That good may follow it. For me, my friend, 
The spacious earth holds not a bait to tempt 
What would it profit me, if I should gain 
Imperial Ecbatan, th' extended land 
Of fruitful Media, nay, the world's wide empire, 
If mine eternal soul must be the price? 
Farewell, my friend ! time presses. I have 

stol'n 
Some moments from my duty to confirm 

* King*, chap v. 



1C6 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



And strengthen thy young faith ! Let us fulfil 
What Heav'n enjoins, and leave to Heav'n th' 



PART V. 

Scene — The Palace. 

^HARNACES, SORANUS. 

Phar. 'Tis done — success has crown'd our 
scheme, Soranus; 
And Daniel falls into the deep-laid toils 
Our prudence spread. 

Sor. That he should fall so soon, 

Astonishes e'en me ! what ! not a day ! 
What ! not a single moment to defer 
His rash devotions ? Madly thus to rush 
On certain peril quite transcends belief! 
When happen'd it, Pharnaces? 

Phar. On the instant : 

Scarce is the deed accomplish'd. As he made 
His ostentatious pray'r, e'en in the face 
Of the bright God of day, all Babylon 
Beheld the insult offer'd to Darius. 
For, as in bold defiance of the law, 
His windows were not clos'd. Our chosen bands, 
Whom we had plac'd to note him, straight 

rush'd in, 
And seiz'd him in the warmth of his blind zeal, 
Ere half his pray'r was finish'd. Young Araspes, 
With all the wild extravagance of grief, 
Prays, weeps, and threatens. Daniel silent 

stands, 
With patient resignation, and prepares 
To follow them. — But see, the king approaches ! 

Sor. How 's this ? deep sorrow sits upon his 
brow, 
And stern resentment fires his angry eye ! 

Enter darius. 

Dar. O, deep-laid stratagem ! O, artful wile ! 
To take me unprepar'd, to wound my heart, 
E'en where it feels most tenderly, in friendship ! 
To stab my fame ! to hold me up a mark 
To future ages, for the perjur'd prince 
Who slew the friend he lov'd ! O Daniel, Daniel, 
Who now shall trust Darius ? Not a slave 
In my wide empire, from the Indian main 
To the cold Caspian, but is more at ease 
Than I, his monarch ! Yes ! I 've done a deed 
Will blot my honour with eternal stain ! 
Pharnaces ! O, thou hoary sycophant ! 
Thou wily politician ! thou hast snar'd 
Thy unsuspecting master ! 

Phar. Great Darius, 

Let not resentment blind thy royal eyes. 
In what am I to blame ? who could suspect 
This obstinate resistance to the law ? 
Who could foresee that Daniel would perforce 
Oppose the king's decree ? 

Dar. Thou, thou foresaw'st it ! 

Thou know'st his righteous soul would ne'er 

endure 
So long an interval of pray'r. But I, 
Deluded king ! 'twas I should have foreseen 
His steadfast piety. I should have thought 
Your earnest warmth had some more secret 



Something that touch'd you nearer than your 

love, 
Your well-ifeign'd zeal for me. — I should have 

known 
When selfish politicians, hackney'd long 
In fraud and artifice, affect a glow 
Of patriot fervour, or fond loyalty, 
Which scorns all show of interest, that's the 

moment 
To watch their crooked projects. — Well thou 

know'st 
How dear I held him ; how I priz'd his truth 
Did I not choose him from a subject world, 
Unbless'd by fortune, and by birth ungrac'd, 
A captive and a Jew ? Did I not love him ? 
Was he not rich in independent worth ? 
And great in native goodness ? That undid him ! 
There, there he fell ! If he had been less great, 
He had been safe. Thou could'st not bear his 

brightness ; 
The lustre of his virtues quite obscur'd, 
And dimm'd thy fainter merit. Rash old man! 
Go, and devise some means to set me free 
From this dread load of guilt ! Go set at work 
Thy plotting genius to redeem the life 
Of venerable Daniel! 

Phar. 'Tis too late. 

He has offended 'gainst the new decree ; 
Has dar'd to make petition to his God, 
Although the dreadful sentence of the act 
Full well he knew. And by th' established law 
Of Media, by that irrevocable, 
Which he has dar'd to violate, he dies ! 

Dar. Impiety ! presumption ! monstrous law I 
Irrevocable ? Is there aught on earth 
Deserves that name ? Th' eternal laws alone 
Of Oromasdes are unchangeable ! 
All human projects are so faintly fram'd, 
So feebly plann'd, so liable to change, 
So mix'd with error in their very form, 
That mutable and mortal are the same. 
But where is Daniel ! Wherefore comes he not 
To load me with reproaches ? to upbraid me 
With all the wrongs my barbarous haste ha9 

done him ! 
Where is he ? 

Phar. He prepares to meet his fate. 

This hour he dies, for the act so decrees. 

Dar. Suspend the bloody sentence. Bring 
him hither. 
Or rather let me seek him and implore 
His dying pardon, and his parting pray'r. 



PART VI. 

Scene — Daniel's house. 

DANIEL, ARASPES. 

Ara. Still let me follow thee ; still let me 
hear 
The voice of Wisdom, ere the silver cord 
By death's cold hand be loosen'd. 

Dan. Now I'm ready ! 

No grief, no woman's weakness, good Araspes \ 
Thou should'st rejoice my pilgrimage is o'er, 
And the blest heaven of repose in view. 

Ara. And must I loose thee, DanieR mus; 
thou die ! 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



107 



Dan. And what is death, my friend, that I 
should fear it ? 
To die ! why 'tis to triumph ; 'tis to join 
The great assembly of the good and just; 
Immortal worthies, heroes, prophets, saints ! 
Oh ! 'tis to join the band of holy men, 
Made perfect by their sufferings ! 'Tis to meet 
My great progenitors ! 'Tis to behold 
Th' illustrious patriarchs; they with whom the 

Lord 
feeign'd hold familiar converse. 'Tis to see 
Bless'd Noah and his children, once a world ! 
'Tis to behold, oh, rapture to conceive ! 
Those we have known, and lov'd, and lost be- 
low ! 
Bold Azariah, and the band of brothers, 
Who sought, in bloom of youth, the scorching 

flames ! 
Nor shall we see heroic men alone, 
Champions who fought the fight of faith on 

earth ; 
But heavenly conquerors, angelic hosts, 
Michael and his bright legions, who suBdu'd 
The foes of truth ! To join their blest employ 
Of love and praise ! to the high melodies 
Of choirs celestial to attune my voice, 
Accordant to the golden harps of saints ! 
To join in blest hosannahs to their king ! 
Whose face to see, whose glory to behold, 
Alone were heaven, though saint or seraph none 
Should meet our sight, and only God were there! 
This is to die ! Who would not die for this ? 
Who would not die, that he might live for ever ? 

DARIUS, DANIEL, ARASPES. 

Dar. Where is he ? where is Daniel ? — Let 
me see him ! 
Let me embrace that venerable form, 
Which I have doom'd to glut the greedy maw 
Of furious lions ! 

Dan. King Darius, hail ! 

Dar. O, injur'd Daniel, can I see thee thus ! 
Thus uncomplaining ! can I bear to hear 
That when the ruffian ministers of death 
Stopp'd thy unfinish'd pray'r, thy pious lips 
Had just invok'd a blessing on Darius, 
On him who sought thy life ? Thy murd'rers 

drop 
Tears of strange pity. Look not on me thus 
With mild benignity ! Oh ! I could bear 
The voice of keen reproach, or the strong flash 
Of fierce resentment ; but I cannot stand 
That touching silence, nor that patient eye 
Of meek respect. 

Dan. Thou art my master still. 

Dar. I am thy murderer ! I have sign'd thy 
death ! 

Dan. I know thy bent of soul is honourable : 
Thou hast been gracious still ! Were it not so, 
I would have met the appointment of high 

Heaven 
With humble acquiescence ; but to know 
Thy will concurr'd not with thy servant's fate, 
Adds joy to resignation. 

Dar. Here I swear 

By him who sits enthron'd in yon bright sun, 
Thy blood shall be aton'd ! On these thy foes, 
Thou shalt have ample vengeance. 

Dan. Hold, O king ! 

Vengeance is mine, th' eternal Lord hath said ; 



Myself will recompense with even hand, 
The sinner for the sin. The wrath of man 
Works not the righteousness of God ! 

Dar. I had hop'd 

We should have trod this busy stage together 
A little longer, then have sunk to rest 
In honourable age ! Who now shall guide 
My shatter'd bark in safety ? who shall now 
Direct me ? O, unhappy state of kings ! 
'Tis well the robe of majesty is gay, 
Or who would put it on ? A crown ! what is it ? 
It is to bear the miseries of a people ! 
To hear their murmurs, feel their discontents, 
And sink beneath a load of splendid care! 
To have your best success ascrib'd to Fortune, 
And Fortune's failures all ascrib'd to you ! 
It is to sit upon a joyless height, 
To every blast of changing fateexpos'd ! 
Too high for hope ! too great for happiness ! 
For friendship too much fear'd ! To all the joys 
Of social freedom, and th' endearing charm 
Of lib'ral interchange of soul unknown ! 
Fate meant me an exception to the rest, 
And though a monarch, bless'd me with a friend; 
And I — have murder'd him ! 

Dan. ^My hour approaches 

Hate not my mem'ry, king : protect Araspes : 
Encourage Cyrus in the holy work 
Of building ruin'd Solyma. Farewell ! 

Dar. With most religious strictness I '11 fulfil 
Thy last request. Araspes shall be next 
My throne and heart. Farewell ! 

f They embrace. 
Hear, future kings ! 
Ye unborn rulers of the nation, hear ! 
Learn from my crime, from my misfortune 

learn, 
Never to trust to weak or wicked hands, 
That delegated pow'r which Oromasdes 
Invests in monarchs for the public good. 



PART VII. 

Scene — The court of the palace. — The sun rising 

DARIUS, ARASPES. 

Dar. Oh, good Araspes ! what a night of hor- 

ror ! 
To me the dawning day brings no return 
Of cheerfulness or peace ! No balmy sleep 
Has seal'd these eyes, no nourishment has past 
These loathing lips, since Daniel's fate was 

sign'd ! 
Hear what my fruitless penitence resolves — 
That thirty days my rashness had decreed 
The edict's force should last, I will devote 
To mourning and repentance, fasting, pray'r 
And all due rites of grief. For thirty days 
No pleasant sound of dulcimer or harp, 
Sackbut or flute, or psaltery, shall charm 
My ear, now dead to ev'ry note of joy .' 
' Aras. My grief can know no period .* 

Dar. See that den .' 

There Daniel met the furious lion's rage .' 
There were the patient martyr's mangled limbs 
Torn piece-meal ! Never hide thy tears, Araspesj 
'Tis virtuous sorrow, unalioy'd, like mine, 
By guilt and fell remorse ! Let us approach : 



108 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Who knows but that dread Pow'r to whom he 

pray'd 
So often and so fervently, has heard him ! 

[He goes to the mouth of the den. 

Daniel, servant of the living God ! 

He whom thou hast serv'd so long, and lov'd so 

well, 
From the devouring lions' famish'd jaws, 
Can he deliver thee ? 

Dan. (from the bottom of the den.) He can — 
he has ! 

Dar. Methought I heard him speak ! 

Aras. O, wond'rous force 

Of strong imagination ! were thy voice 
Loud as the trumpet's blast, it could not wake 

him 
From that eternal sleep ! 

Dan. (in the den.) Hail, king Darius ! 
The God I serve has shut the lions' mouths, 
To vindicate my innocence. 

Dar. He speaks ! 

He lives ! 

Aras. 'Tis no illusion : 'tis the sound 
Of his known voice. 

Dar. Where are my servants ? Haste, 
Fly, swift as lightning, free him from the den ; 
Release him, bring him hither ! break the seal 
Which keeps him from me ! See, Araspes ! look! 
See the charm'd lions ! — Mark their mild de- 
meanor : 
Araspes, mark ! — they have no pow'r to hurt 

him ! 
See how they hang their heads and smooth their 

fierceness 
At his mild aspect ! 

Aras. Who that sees this sight, 

Who that in after times shall hear this told, 
Can doubt if Daniel's God be God indeed ? 

Dar. None, none, Araspes ! 

Aras. Ah, he comes, he comes ! 

Enter Daniel, followed by multitudes. 

Dan. Hail, great Darius ! 

Dar. Dost thou live indeed ! 

And live unhurt ? 

Aras. O, miracle of joy ! 

Dar. I scarce can trust my eyes ! How didst 
thou 'scape ? 

Dan. That bright and glorious Being, who 
vouchsaf'd 
Presence divine, when the three martyr'd bro- 
thers 
Essay'd the caldron's flame, supported me ! 
E'en in the furious lions' dreadful den, 
The prisoner of hope, even there I turn'd 
To the strong hold, the bulwark of my strength, 
Ready to hear, and mighty to redeem ! 

Dar. (to Aras.) Where is Pharnaces? Take 
the hoary traitor ! 
Take too Soranus, and the chief abettors 
Of this dire edict: let not one escape. 
The punishment their deep-laid hate devis'd 
For holy Daniel, on their heads shall fall 
With tenfold vengeance. To the lion's den 

1 doom his vile accusers ! All their wives, 
Their children too, shall share one common fate! 
Take care that none escape — Go, good Araspes. 

[Araspes goes out. 
Dan. Not so, Darius ! 

O" spare the guiltless ; spare the guilty too ! 



Where sin is not, to punish were unjust ; 
And where sin is, O king, there fell remorse 
Supplies the place of punishment ! 

Dar. No more ! 

My word is past ! Not one request, save this, 
Shalt thou e'er make in vain. Approach, my 

friends ; 
Araspes has already spread the talc, 
And see what crowds advance ! 

Peo. Long live Darius ! 

Long; live great Daniel too, the people's friend ! 

Dar. Draw near, my subjects. See this holy 
man ! [band 

Death had no pow'r to harm him. Yon fell 
Of famish'd lions, soften'd at his sight, 
Forgot their nature, and grew tame before him. 
The mighty God protects his servants thus ! 
The righteous thus he rescues from the snare, 
While Fraud's artificer himself shall fall 
In the deep gulf his wily arts devise 
To snare the innocent ! 

A courtier. To the same den 

Araspes bears Pharnaces and his friends : 
Fallen is their insolence ! With prayers and 

tears 
And all the meanness of high-crested pride, 
When adverse fortune frowns, they beg for life. 
Araspes will not hear. ' You heard not me,' 
He cries, ' When I for Daniel's life implor'd; 
His God protected him ! see now if your's 
Will listen to your cries !' 

Dar. Now hear, 

People and nations, languages and realms, 
O'er whom I rule ! Peace be within your walls! 
That I may banish from the minds ofmen 
The rash decree gone out ; hear me resolve 
To counteract its force by one more just. 
In ev'ry kingdom of my wide-stretch'd realm 
From fair Chaldea to the extremest bound 
Of northern Media, be my edict sent, 
And this my statute known. My heralds haste, 
And spread my royal mandate through the land, 
That all my subjects bow the ready knee 
To Daniel's God— for he alone is Lord. 
Let all adore, and tremble at his name, 
Who sits in glory unapproachable 
Above the heavens — above the heaven of hea- 
vens ! 
His pow'r is everlasting ; and his throne, 
Founded in equity and truth, shall last 
Beyond the bounded reign of time and space 
Through wide eternity ! With his right arm 
He saves, and who opposes ? He defends, 
And who shall injure ? In the perilous den 
He rescu'd Daniel from the lions' mouths ; 
His common deeds are wonders ; all ins works 
One ever-during chain of miracles ! 
Enter Araspes. 

Aras. All hail, O king ! Darius, live for ever! 
May all thy foes be as Pharnaces is ! 

Dar. Araspes, speak ! 

Aras. O, let me spare the tale ! — 

'Tis full of horror ! Dreadful was the sight ! 
The hungry lions, greedy for their prey, 
Devour'd the wretched princes ere they reach'd 
The bottom of the den. 

Dar. Now, now confess 

'Twas some superior hand restrain'd their rage, 
And tam'd their furious appetites. 

People. 'Tis true. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



109 



The God of Daniel is a mighty God ! 
He saves and He destroys. 

Aras. O, friend ! O, Daniel ! 



No wav'ring doubts can ever more disturb 
My settled faith. 
[ Dan. To God be all the glory ! 



REFLECTIOxNS OF KING HEZEKIAH 

IN HIS SICKNESS. 

' Set thine house in order, for thou shalt die.' — Isaiah, xxxviii. 



What, and no more ? — Is this my soul, said I, 
My whole of being ! Must I surely die ? 
Be robb'd at once of health, of strength, of time, 
Of youth's fair promise, and of pleasure's prime? 
Shall I no more behold the face of morn, 
The cheerful daylight, and the spring's return? 
Must I the festive pow'r the banquet leave, 
For the dull chambers of the darksome grave ! 

Have I consider'd what it is to die 1 
In native dust with kindred worms to lie ; 
To sleep in cheerless, cold neglect ! to rot ! 
My body loath'd, my very name forgot ! 
Not one of all those parasites, who bend 
The supple knee, their monarch to attend ! 
What, not one friend ! No, not an hireling slave 
Shall hail great Hezekiah in the grave. 
Where 's he who falsely claim'd the name of 

great ? 
Whose eye was terror, and whose frown was 

fate? 
Who aw'd an hundred nations from the throne ? 
See where he lies, dumb, friendless, and alone ! 
Which grain of dust proclaims the noble birth? 
Which is the royal particle of earth 7 
Where are the marks, the princely ensigns 

where 1 
Which is the slave, and which great David's 

heir ? 
Alas ! the beggar's ashes are not known 
From his who lately sat on Israel's throne ! 
How stands my great account ? My soul sur- 
vey 
The debt Eternal Justice bids thee pay ! 
Should I frail Memory's records strive to blot, 
Will Heaven's tremendous reck'ning be forgot ? 
Can I, alas ! the awful volume tear ? 
Or raze one page of the dread register ? 
' Prepare thy house, thy heart in order set ; 
Prepare the Judge of Heaven and earth to meet.' 
So spake the warning prophet. — 'Awful words ! 
Which fearfully my troubled soul record. 
Am I prepar'd ? and can I meet my doom, 
Nor shudder at the dreaded wrath to come? 
Is all in order set, my house, my heart ? 
Does not besetting sin still claim a part ?] 
No cherish'd error, loth to quit its place, 
Obstruct within my soul the work of grace ? 
Did I each day for this great day prepare, 
By righteous deeds, by sin-subduing pray'r? 
Did I each night, each day's offence repent, 
And each unholy thought and word lament ? 
Still have these ready hands th' afflicted fed, 
And minister'd to Want her daily bread? 
The cause I knew not, did I well explore 7 
Friend, advocate, and parent of the poor ? 
Did I to gratify some sudden gust 
Of thoughtless appetite, some impious last 



Of pleasure or of pow'r, such sums employ 

As would have flush'd pale penury with joy ? 

Did I in groves forbidden altars raise, 

Or molten gods adore, or idols praise 

Did my firm faith to Heaven still point the way ? 

Did charity to man my actions sway ? 

Did meek-ey'd Patience all my steps attend ? 

Did gen'rous Candour mark me for her friend ? 

Did I unjustly seek to build my name 

On the pil'd ruins of another's fame ? 

Did I abhor, as hell, the insidious lie, 

The low deceit, the unmanly calumny ? 

Did my fix'd soul the impious wit detest ? 

Did my firm virtue scorn th' unhallow'd jest ? 

The sneer profane, and the good ridicule 

Of shallow Infidelity's dull school? 

Did I still live as born one day to die, 

And view th eternal world with constant eye ? 

If so I liv'd, if so I kept thy word, 
In mercy view, in mercy hear me, Lord ! 
For oh ! how strict soe'er I kept thy law, 
From mercy only all my hopes I draw ! 
My holiest deeds indulgence will require ; 
The best but to forgiveness will aspire ; 
If thou my purest service* regard, 
'Twill be with pardon only, not reward ! 

How imperfection's stamp'd on all below! 
How sin intrudes in all we say or do ! 
How late in all the insolence of health, 
I charm'd th' Assyrian* by my boast of wealth ! 
How fondly with elab'rate pomp display'd 
My glitt'ring treasures ! with what triumph laid 
My gold and gems before his dazzled eyes, 
And found a rich reward in his surprise ? 
O, mean of soul ! can wealth elate the heart, 
Which of the man himself is not a part! 
O, poverty of pride ! O, foul disgrace ! 
Disgusted Reason, blushing hides her face 
Mortal and proud ! strange contradicting terms ! 
Pride for death's victim, for the prey of worms T 
Of all the wonders which th' eventful life 
Of man presents ! of all the mental strife 
Of warring passions ; all the raging fires 
Of furious appetites and mad desires, 
Not »ne so strange appears as this alone, 
That man is proud of what is not his own ! 

How short is human life ! the very breath ! 
Which frames my words, accelerates my death. 
Of this short life how large a portion 's fled ! 
To what is gone 1 am already dead ; 
As dead to all my years and minutes past. 
As I, to what remains, shall be at last. 
Can I past miseries so far forget, 
To view my vanish'd years with fond regret? 

* This is an anachronism. Hezekiah did not show 
his treasures to the Assyrian till after Ms recovery from 
his sickness. 



110 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Can I again my worn-out fancy cheat ? 
Indulge fresh hope ? solicit new deceit ? 
Of all the vanities weak man admires, 
Which greatness gives, youth hopes, or pride 

desires, 
Of these, my soul, which hast thou not enjoy'd ? 
With each, with all, thy sated pow'rs are cloy'd. 
What can I then expect from length of days ? 
More wealth, more wisdom, pleasure, health, 

or praise ? 
More pleasure ! hope not that, deluded king ! 
For when did age increase of pleasure bring? 
Is health, of years prolcng'd the common boast ? 
And dear-earn'd Fame, is it not cheaply lost ? 
More wisdom ! that indeed were happiness ; 
That were a wish a king might well confess ; 
But when did Wisdom covet length of day si 
Or seek its bliss in pleasures, wealth, or praise ? 
No : — Wisdom views with an indifferent eye 
All finite joys, all blessings born to die. 
The soul on earth is an immortal guest, 
Compell'd to starve at an unreal feast ; 
A spark, which upward tends by nature's force ; 
A stream diverted from its parent source ; 
A drop, dissever'd from the boundless sea ; 
A moment parted from eternity : 
A pilgrim panting for the rest to come ; 
An exile, anxious for his native home. 

Why should I ask my forfeit life to save ? 
Is heaven unjust, which dooms me to the grave ? 
Was I with hope of endless days deceiv'd? 
Or of lov'd life am I alone bereav'd ? 
Let all the great, the rich, the learn'd, the wise, 
Let all the shades of Judah's monarchs rise, 
And say, if genius, learning, empire, wealth, 



Youth, beauty, virtue, strength, renown or health, 

Has once revers'd th' immutable decree 

On Adam pass'd of man's mortality ? 

What have these eyes ne'er seen the felon worm 

The damask cheek devour, the finish'd form ? 

On the pale rose of blasted beauty feed, 

And riot on the lip so lately red ? 

Where are our fathers? Where th' illustrious line 

Of holy prophets, and of seers divine ? 

Live they for ever ? Do they shun the grave ? 

Or when did Wisdom its professor save ? 

When did the brave escape ? When did tho 

breath 
Of Eloquence charm the dull ear of Death ? 
When did the cunning argument avail, 
The polish'd period, or the varnish'd tale ; 
The eye of lightning, or the soul of fire, 
Which thronging thousands crowded to admire ? 
E'en while we praise the verse the poet dies ; 
And silent as his lyre great David lies. 
Thou, blest Isaiah ! who at God's command, 
Now speak'st repentance to a guilty land, 
Must die ! as wise and good thou hadst not 

been, 
As Nebat's son, who taught the land to sin ! 
And shall I then be spar'd ? O monstrous 
pride ! 
Shall I escape when Solomon has died 1 
If all the worth of all the saints were vain — 
Peace, peace, my troubled soul, nor dare com- 
plain ! 
Lord, I submit. Complete thy gracious will ! 
For if thou slay me, I will trust Thee still. 
O be my will so swallow'd up in thine, 
That I may do thy will in doing mine. 



THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS: 

A PASTORAL DRAMA FOR YOUNG LADIES. 

To rear the tender thought, 

To teach the young idea how to shoot, 

To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, 

To breathe th' enliv'ning spirit, and to fix 

The gen'rous purpose of the female breast. — Thomson. 



TO MRS. GWATKIN. 

Dear Madam, — As the following poem turns chiefly on the danger of delay or error in the 
important article of education, I know not to whom I can, with more propriety, dedicate it than 
to you, as the subject it inculcates has been one of the principal objects of your attention in your 
own family. 

Let not the name of dedication alarm you : I am not going to offend you by making your eulo- 
gium. Panegyric is only necessary to suspicious characters : Virtue will not accept it ; Delicacy 
will not offer it. 

The friendship with which you have honoured me from my childhood, will, I flatter myself, 
induce you to pardon me for venturing to lay before you this public testimony of my esteem, and 
to assure you how much I am, dear madam, 

Your obedient, and obliged humble servant, 

The Author. 



PREFACE. 

The object of the following poem, which was written in very early youth, was an earnest wish 
to furnish a substitute for the improper custom, which then prevailed, of allowing plays, and 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Ill 



those not always of the purest kind, to be acted by young ladies in boarding schools. And it has 
afforded a serious satisfaction to the author to learn that this little poem, and the preceding sa- 
cred dramas, have very frequently been adopted to supply the place of those more dangerous 
amusements. If it may be still happily instrumental in promoting a regard to Religion and Vir. 
tue in the minds of young persons, and afford them an innocent, and perhaps not altogether urv 
useful, amusement, in the exercise of recitation, the end for which it was originally composed, 
and the author's utmost wish in its republication, will be fully answered. 



PROLOGUE. 



SrOKEN BY A YOUNG LADY. 



In these grave scenes, and unembellish'd 

strains, 
Where neither sly intrigue nor passion reigns ; 
How dare we hope an audience will approve 
A drama void of wit and free from love ? 
Where no soft Juliet sighs, and weeps, and 

starts, 
No fierce Roxana takes by storm your hearts ; 
No comic ridicule, no tragic swagger, 
Not one elopement, not one bowl or dagger ! 
No husband wrong'd, who trusted and believ'd, 
No father cheated, and no friend deceiv'd ; 
No libertine in glowing strains describ'd, 
No lying chambermaid that rake had brib'd : 
Nor give we, to reward the rover's life, 
The ample portion and the beauteous wife ; 
Behold, to raise the manners of the age, 
The frequent moral of the scenic page ! 
And shall we then transplant these noxious 

scenes 
To private life ? to misses in their teens ? 
The pompous tone, the masculine attire, 
The stilts, the buskin, the dramatic fire, 
Corrupt the softness of the gentler kind, 
And taint the sweetness of the youthful mind. 
Ungovern'd passions, jealousy and rage, 
But ill become our sex, still less our age ; 
Whether we learn too well what we describe, 



Or fail the poet's meaning to imbibe, 

In either case your blame we justly raise, 

In either lose, or ought to lose, your praise. 

How dull, if tamely flows th' impassion'd strain I 

If well — how bad to be the thing we feign ; 

To fix the mimic scene upon the heart, 

And keep the passion when we quit the part '. 

Such are the perils the dramatic muse, 
In youthful bosoms, threatens to infuse ! 
Our timid author labours to impart 
A less pernicious lesson to the heart ; 
What though no charm of melody divine, 
Smooth her round period, or adorn her line ; 
Though her unpolish'd page in vain aspires 
To emulate the graces she admires : 
Though destitute of skill, her sole pretence 
But aims at simple truth and common sense; 
Yet shall her honest unassuming page 
Tell that its author, in a modish age, 
Preferr'd plain virtue to the boast of art, 
Nor fix'd one dangerous maxim on the heart. 
O if, to crown the efforts, she could find 
They rooted but one error from one mind : 
If in the bosom of ingenuous youth 
They stamp'd one useful thought, one lasting 

truth ; 
'Twould be a fairer tribute to her name, 
Than loud applauses, or an empty fame. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



.] 



KUPHELIA, 

Cleora, ( four young ladies of distinction, 

Pastorella, I in search of Happiness. 

Laurinda, J 



Scene — A Grove. 

EUPHELIA, OLEORA, PASTORELLA, LAURTNDA. 

Cle. Welcome, ye humble vales, ye flow'ry 

shades, 
Ye crystal fountains, and ye silent glades ! 
From the gay misery of the thoughtless great, 
The walks of folly, the disease of state ; 
From scenes where daring Guilt triumphant 

reigns, 
Its dark suspicions and its hoard of pains ; 
Where Pleasure never comes without alloy, 
And Art bif thinly paints fallacious joy ; 
Where Laughter loads the day, Excess the 

night, 
And dull Satiety succeeds Delight ; 
Where midnight Vices their fell orgies keep, 



Urania, an ancient shepherdess. 

eIIz™' \ her dau ir hters - 

Florella, a young shepherdess. 



And guilty revels scare the phantom Sleep; 
Where Dissipation wears the name of Bliss ; 
From these we fly in search of Happiness. 
Euph. Not the tir'd pilgrim all his dangers 

past, 
When he descries the long sought shrine at last, 
E'er felt a joy so pure as this fair field, 
These peaceful shades, and smiling vallies yield! 
For, sure, these oaks, which old as Time appear, 
Proclaim Urania's lonely dwelling near. 

Past. How the description with the scene 

agrees ! 
Here lowly thickets, there aspiring trees ; 
The hazel copse excluding noon-day's beam, 
The tufted arbor, the pellucid stream ; 
The blooming sweet-briar, and the hawthorn 

shade, 



112 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



The springing cowslips, and the daisy'd mead, 
The wild luxuriance of the full blown fields, 
Which Spring prepares, and laughing Summer 

yields. 
Euph. Here simple Nature strikes th' enrap- 

tur'd eye 
With charms, which wealth and art but ill sup. 

The genuine graces, which without we find, 
Display the beauty of the owner's mind. 

Lau. These embow'ring shades conceal the 
cell, 
Where sage Urania and her daughters dwell : 
Florella too, if right we've heard the tale, 
With them resides — the lily of the vale. 

Cle. But soft ! what gentle female form ap- 
pears, 
Which smiles of more than mortal beauty 

wears '/ 
Is it the guardian Genius of the grove ? 
Or some fair angel of the choirs above? 

Enter Florella, who speaks. 

Whom do I see ? ye beauteous virgins say 
Wfiat chance conducts your steps this lonely 

way ? 
Do you pursue some favourite lambkin stray'd ? 
Or do yon alders court you to their shade ? 
Declare, fair strangers ! if aright I deem, 
No rustic nymphs of vulgar rank you seem. 

Cle. No cooling shades allure our eager sight, 
Nor lambkins lost, our searching steps invite. 

Flo. Or is it, hap'ly, yonder branching vine, 
Whose tendrils round our low roof cottage 

twine ; 
Whose spreading height, with purple clusters 

cro'wn'd, 
Attracts the gaze of ev'ry nymph around ? 
Have these lone regions aught that charms be- 
side ? 
Yours are my shades, my fiow'rs, my fleecy 
pride. 
Euph. Florella ! our united thanks receive, 
Sole proof of gratitude we have to give : 
And since you deign to ask, O courteous fair ! 
The motive of our unremitting care : 
Know then, kind maid, our joint researches tend 
To find that sovereign good of life, a friend ; 
From whom the wholesome counsel we may 

gain, 
How our young hearts may happiness obtain. 
By Fancy's mimic pencil oft portray'd, 
Still have we woo'd the visionary maid : 
The lovely phantom mocks our eager eyes ; 
And still we chase, and still we miss the prize ! 
Cle. Long have we search'd throughout this 
bounteous isle, 
With constant ardour and with ceaseless toil ; 
The various ways of various life we've try'd ; 
But still the bliss we seek has been deny'd. 
We've sought in vain through ev'ry diff'rent 

state ; 
The murm'ring poor, the discontented great 
If Peace and Joy in palaces reside, 
Or in obscurer haunts delight to hide ; 
If Happiness with worldly pleasures dwell, 
Or shrouds her graces in the hermit's cell : 
If Wit, if Science, teach the road to bliss, 
Or torpid Dulness find the joys they miss ; 
To learn this truth, wo 've bid a long adieu 



To all the shadows blinded men pursue. 
— We seek Urania ; whose sagacious mind 
May lead our steps this latent good to find : 
Her worth we emulate ; her virtues fire 
Our ardent hearts to be what we admire : 
For though with care she shuns the public eye 
Yet worth like hers, unknown can never lie. 
Lau. On such a fair and faultless mode 

form'd, 
By Prudence guided, and by Virtue warm'd, 
Perhaps Florella can direct our youth, 
And point our footsteps to the paths of Truth. 

Flor. Ill would it suit my unexperiene'd age, 
In such important questions to engage. 
Young as I am, unskilful to discern, 
Nor fit to teach, who yet have much to learn, 
But would you with maturer years advise, 
And reap the counsel of the truly wise, 
The dame in whom such worth and wisdom 

meet, 
Dwells in the covert of yon green retreat : 
All that the world calls great she once possess'd, 
With wealth, with rank, her prosp'rous youth 

was bless'd. 
In adverse fortune, now serene and gay, 
' Who gave,' she said, * had right to take away.' 
Two lovely daughters bless her growing years, 
And by their virtues, well repay her cares. 
With them, beneath her shelt'ring wing I live, 
And share the bounties she has still to give ; 
For Heav'n, who in its dispensations join'd 
A narrow fortune to a noble mind, 
Has bless'd the sage Urania with a heart 
Which Wisdom's noblest treasures can impart , 
In Duty's active round each day is past, 
As if she thought each day might prove her 

last: 
Her labours for devotion best prepare, 
And meek Devotion smooths the brow of care. 

Past. Then lead, Florella, to that humble shed, 
Where Peace resides from court and cities fled I 

SONG. 

I. 

O Happiness, celestial fair, 

Our earliest hope, our latest care, 

O hear our fond request ! 
Vouchsafe, reluctant Nymph to tell 
On what sweet spot thou lov'st to dwell, 

And make us truly blest. 

II. 

Amidst the walks of public life, 
The toils of wealth, ambition's strife, 

We long have sought in vain ; 
The crowded city's noisy din, 
And all the busy haunts of men, 

Afford but care and pain. 

III. 

Pleas'd with the soft, the soothing pow'r 
Of calm Reflection's silent hour, 

Sequester'd dost thou dwell ! 
Where Care and Tumult ne'er intrude, 
Dost thou reside with Solitude, 

Thy humble vot'ries tell ! 

IV. 

O Happiness, celestial fair, 
Our earliest hope, our latest care ! 
Let us not sue in vain ! 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



113 



O deign to hear our fond request, 
Come take possession of our breast, 
And there for ever reign. 

[They retire. 

Scene — The Grove. 

URANIA, SYLVIA, ELIZA. 

sylvia (singing.) 

I. 

Sweet Sotitude, thou placid queen 
Of modest air and brow serene ! 
'Tis thou inspir'st the sage's themes ; 
The poet's visionary dreams. 
II. 

Parent of Virtue, nurse of Thought ! 
By thee were saints and patriarchs taught ; 
Wisdom from thee her treasure drew, 
And in thy lap fair Science grew ! 
III. 

Whate'er exalts, refines, and charms, 
Invites to thought, to virtue warms ; 
Whate'er is perfect, fair, and good, 
We owe to thee, sweet Solitude I 
IV. 

In these blest shades, O still maintain 
Thy peaceful, unmolested reign ! 
Let no disorder'd thoughts intrude 
On thy repose, sweet Solitude ! 

With thee the charm of life shall last, 
Although its rosy bloom be past ; 
Shall still endure when Time shall spread 
His silver blossoms o'er my head. 
VI. 

No more with this vain world perplex'd, 
Thou shalt prepare me for the next ; 
The springs of life shall gently cease, 
And angels point the way to peace. 

Ura. Ye tender objects of maternal love 
Ye dearest joys my widow'd heart can prove ; 
Come taste the glories of the new-born day, 
Aud grateful homage to its Author pay ! 
O ! ever may this animating sight 
Convey instruction while it sheds delight ! 
Does not that sun, whose cheering beams impart 
Joy's glad emotions to the pure in heart ; 
Does not that vivid pow'r teach ev'ry mind 
To be as warm, benevolent, and kind ; 
To burn with unremitted ardour still, 
Like him to execute their Maker's will ? 
Then let us, Pow'r Supreme ! thy will adore, 
Invoke thy mercies, and proclaim thy pow'r. 
Shalt thou these benefits in vain bestow ? 
Shall we forget the fountain whence they flow 1 
Teach us through these to lift our hearts to 

Thee, 
And in the gift the bounteous giver see. 
To view Thee as thou art, all good and wise, 
Nor let thy blessings hide Thee from our eyes. 
From all obstructions clear our mental sight ; 
Pour on our souls thy beatific light ! 
Teach us thy wond'rous goodness to revere, 
With love to worship, and with rev'rence fear ! 
In the mild works of thy benignant hand, 
As in the thunder of thy dread command. 
In common objects we neglect thy pow'r, 
While wonders shine in every plant and flow'r. 
— Tell me, my first, my last, my darling care, 
H 



If you this morn have raia'd your hearts i 

pray'r ? 
Say did you rise from the sweet bed of rest, 
Your God unprais'd, his holy name unblest ? 

Syl. Our hearts with gratitude and reverenc 
fraught, 
By those pure precepts you have ever taught ; 
By your example more than precept strong 
Of pray'r and praise have tun'd their matin song. 

Eliz. With ever new delight, we now attend 
The counsels of our fond maternal friend. 

Enter Florella, with Euphelia, Cleora, Pas 

TORELLA, LaURINDA. 

Flo. (aside to the ladies) See how the goodly 

dame, with pious art, 
Makes each event a lesson to the heart I 
Observe the duteous list'ners how they stand : 
Improvement and delight go hand in hand. 
Ura. But where's Florella ? 
Flor. Here's the happy she, 
Whom Heav'n most favour'd when it gave her 

thee. 
Ura. But who are these, in whose attractive 

mien, 
So sweetly blended, ev'ry grace is seen 
Speak, my Florella ! say the cause why here 
These beauteous damsels on our plains appear ? 

Flor. Invited hither by Urania's fame, 
To seek her friendship, to these shades they 

came. 
Straying alone at morning's earliest dawn, 
I met them wand'ring on the distant lawn. 
Their courteous manners soon engag'd my love : 
I've brought them here your sage advice to 

prove. 
Ura. Tell me, ye gentle nymphs ! the reason 

tell, 
Which brings such guests to grace my lowly 

cell? 
My pow'r of serving, though indeed but small, 
Such as it is, you. may command it all. 

Cle. Your counsel, your advice, is all we ask , 
And for Urania that 's no irksome task. 
'Tis Happiness we seek : O deign to tell 
Where the coy fugitive delights to dwell ! 

Ura. Ah, rather say where you have sought 

this guest, 
This lovely inmate of the virtuous breast ? 
Declare the various methods you've essay'd 
To court and win the bright celestial maid. 
But first, though harsh the task, each beauteous 

fair 
Her ruling passion must with truth declare, 
From evil habits own'd, from faults confess'd, 
Alone we trace the secrets of the breast. 

Euph. Bred in the regal splendours of a court. 
Where pleasures, dress'd in every shape, resort, 
I try'd the pow'r of pomp and costly glare, 
Nor e'er found room for thought, or time for 

pray'r: 
In diffrent follies ev'ry hour I spent ; 
I shunn'd Reflection, yet I sought Content. 
My hours were shar'd betwixt the park and play. 
And music serv'd to waste the tedious day; 
Yet softest airs no more with joy I heard, 
If any sweeter warbler was preferr'd; 
The dance succeeded, and, succeeding, tir'd, 
If some more graceful dancer were admir'd. 
No sounds but flatt'ry ever sooth 'd my ear : 



114 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Ungentle truths I knew not how to bear. 
The anxious day induc'd the sleepless night, 
And my vex'd spirit never knew delight: 
Coy Pleasure mock'd me with delusive charms, 
Still the thin shadow fled my clasping arms : 
Or if some actual joy I seem'd to taste, 
Another's pleasure laid my blessings waste : 
One truth I prov'd, that lurking Envy hides 
In ev'ry heart where Vanity presides, 
A fairer face would rob my soul of rest, 
And fix a scorpion in my wounded breast. 
Or, if my elegance of form prevail'd 
And haply her inferior graces fail'd : 
Yet still some cause of wretchedness I found, 
Some barbed shaft my shatter'd peace to wound. 
Perhaps her gay attire exceeded mine — 
When she was finer, how could I be fine 1 

Syl. Pardon my interruption, beauteous maid ! 
Can truth have prompted what you just have 

said '! 
What ! can the poor pre-eminence of dress 
Ease the pain'd heart, or give it happiness ? 
Or can you think your robes, though rich and 

fine, 
Possess intrinsic value more than mine ? 

Ura. So close our nature is to vice allied, 
Our very comforts are the source of pride ; 
And dress, so much corruption reigns within, 
Is both the consequence and cause of sin. 

Cle. Of Happiness unfound I too complain, 
Sought in a diff'rent path, but sought in vain ! 
I sigh'd for fame, I languish'd for renown, 
I would be flatter'd, prais'd, admir'd and known, 
On daring wing my mountain spirit soar'd, 
And Science through her boundless fields ex- 

plor'd : 
I scorn'd the salique laws of pedant schools, 
Which chain our genius down by tasteless rules, 
I long'd to burst these female bonds, which 

held 
My sex in awe, by vanity impell'd : 
To boast each various faculty of mind, 
Thy graces, Pope '. with Johnson's learning 

join'd : 
Like Swift with strongly pointed ridicule, 
To brand the villain, and abash the fool : 
To judge with taste, with spirit to compose, 
Now mount in epic, now descend to prose; 
To join, like Burke, the beauteous and sublime, 
Or build, with Milton's art, ' the lofty rhyme :' 
Through Fancy's fields I rang'd ; I strove to 

hit 
Melmoth's chaste style, and Prior's easy wit : 
Thy classic graces. Mason, to display, 
And court the Muse of Elegy with Gray : 
I rav'd of Shakspeare's flame and Dryden's rage, 
And ev'ry charm of Otway's melting page. 
I talk'd by rote the jargon of the schools, 
Of critic laws, and Aristotle's rules ; 
Of passion, sentiment, and style, and grace, 
And unities of action, time, and place. 
The daily duties of my life forgot, 
To study fiction, incident, and plot : 
Howe'er the conduct of my life might err, 
Still my dramatic plans were regular. 

Ura. Who aims at ev'ry science, soon will 
find 
The field how vast, how limited the mind ! 

Cle. Abstruser studies soon my fancy caught, 
The poet in th' astronomer lbrgot : 



The schoolmen's systems now my mind era- 
ploy 'd, [Void 
Their crystal Spheres, their Atoms and their 
Newton and Halley all my soul inspir'd, 
And numbers less than calculations fir'd ; 
Descartes and Euclid, shar'd my varying breast, 
And plans and problems all my soul possess'd. 
Less pleas'd to sing inspiring Phoebus' ray 
Than mark the flaming comet's devious way. 
The pale moon dancing on the silver stream, 
And the mild lustre of her trembling beam, 
No more could charm my philosophic pride, 
Which sought her influence on the flowing tide. 
No more ideal beauties fir'd my thought, 
Which only facts and demonstrations sought. 
Let common eyes, I said, with transport view 
The earth's bright verdure, or the heav'n's soft 

blue, 
False is the pleasure, the delight is vain, 
Colours exist but in the vulgar brain. 
I now with Locke trod metaphysic soil, 
Now chas'd coy "Nature through the tracts of 

Boyle ; 
To win the wreath of Fame, by Science twin'd, 
More than the love of science fir'd my mind. 
I seized on Learning's superficial part, 
And title page and index got by heart; 
Some learn'd authority I still would bring 
To grace my talk and prove — the plainest thing 
This the chief transport I from science drew, 
That all might know how much Cleora knew. 
Not love, but wonder, I aspir'd to raise, 
And miss'd affection, while I grasp'd at praise. 
Past. To me, no joys could pomp or fame 
impart, 
Far softer thoughts possess'd my virgin heart. 
No prudent parent form'd my ductile youth, 
Nor led my footsteps in the paths of truth. 
Left to myself to cultivate my mind, 
Pernicious novels their soft entrance find ; 
Their pois'nous influence led my mind astray; 
I sigh'd for something, what, I could not say. 
I fancy'd virtues which were never seen, 
And dy'd for heroes who have never been ■ 
I sicken'd with disgust at sober sense, 
And loath'd the pleasures worth and truth dis- 
pense ; 
I scorn'd the manners of the world I saw ; 
My guide was fiction, and romance my law. 
Distemper'd thoughts my wand'ring fancy fill, 
Each wind a zephyr, and each brook a rill ; 
I found adventures in each common tale, 
And talk'd and sigh'd to ev'ry passing gale; 
Convers'd with echoes, woods, and shades, and 

bow'rs, 
Cascades and grottos, fields and streams and 

flow'rs. 
Retirement, more than crowds, had learn'd to 

please ; 
For treach'rous Leisure feeds the soft disease. 
There, plastic Fancy ever moulds at will 
Th' obedient image with a dang'rous skill ; 
The charming fiction with alluring art, 
Awakes the passions, and infects the heart 
A fancy'd heroine, an ideal wife; 
I loath'd the offices of real life. 
These all were dull and tame, I long'd to prove 
The gen'rous ardours of unequal love; 
j Some marvel still my wayward heart must 
strike, 



THE WORKS O* HANNAH MORE. 



115 



Or prince, or peasant, each had charms alike : 

Whate'er inverted nature, custom, law, 

With joy I courted, and with transport saw. 

In the dull walk of Virtue's quiet round, 

No aliment my fever'd fancy found ; 

Each duty to perform observant still 

But those which God and Nature bade me fill. 

Eliza (To Urania.) O save me from the er- 
rors of deceit, 
And all the dangers wealth and beauty meet. 

Past. Reason perverted, Fancy on her throne, 
My soul to all my sex's softness prone ; 
I neither spoke nor look'd as mortal ought; 
To sense abandon'd, and by Folly taught : 
A victim to Imagination's sway, 
Which stole my health, and rest, and peace 

away ; 
Professions, void of meaning, I receiv'd, 
And still I found them false — and still believ'd : 
Imagin'd all who courted me, approv'd ; 
Who prais'd, esteem'd me ; and who flatter'd, 

Iov'd. 
Fondly I hop'd (now vain those hopes appear) 
Each man was faithful, and each maid sincere. 
Still Disappointment mock'd the ling'ring day ; 
Still new-born wishes led my soul astray. 

When in the rolling year no joy I find, 
I trust the next, the next will sure be kind. 
The next fallacious as the last appears, 
And sends me on to still remoter years. 
They come, they promise — but forget to give : 
I live not, but I still intend to live. 

At length, deceiv'd in all my schemes of bliss. 
I join'd these three in search of Happiness. 

Eliza. Is this the world of which we want a 
sight ? 
Are these the beings who are call'd polite ? 

Sylvia. If so, oh gracious Heav'n, hear Syl- 
via's prayer : 
Preserve me still in humble virtue here ! 
Far from such baneful pleasures may I live, 
And keep, O keep me, from the taint they give ! 

Lau. No love of fame my torpid bosom warms, 
No Fancy soothes me, and no pleasure charms! 
Yet still remote from happiness I stray, 
No guiding star illumes my trackless way, 
My mind, nor wit misleads nor passion goads, 
But the dire rust of indolence corrodes ; 
This eating canker, with malignant stealth, 
Destroys the vital pow'rs of moral health. 

Till now, I've slept on Life's tumultuous tide, 
No principle of action for my g^uide. 
From ignorance my chief misfortunes flow; 
I never wish'd to learn, or car'd to know. 
With ev'ry folly slow-pac'd Time beguil'd: 
In size a woman, but in soul a child. 
In slothful ease my moments crept away, 
And busy trifles fill'd the tedious day ; 
J liv'd extempore, as Fancy fir'd, 
As chance directed, or caprice inspir'd : 
Too indolent to think, too weak to choose, 
Too soft to blame, too gentle to refuse; 
My character was stamp'd from those around : 
The figures they, my mind the simple ground. 
Fashion, with monstrous forms, the canvass 

stain'd, 
Till-nothing of my genuine self remain'd ; 
My pliant soul from chance receiv'd its bent, 
And neither good perform'd, nor evil meant. 
From right to wrong, from vice to virtue thrown, 



No character possessing of its own. 
To shun fatigue I made my only law ; 
Yet ev'ry night my wasted spirits saw. 
No plan e'er mark'd the duties of the day, 
Which stole in tasteless apathy away : 
No energy inform'd my languid mind 
"° j°y the idle e'er must hope to find. 
Weak indecision all my actions sway'd ; 
The day was lost before the choice was made. 
Though more to folly than to guilt inclin'd, 
A drear vacuity possess'd my mind ; 
Too old with infant sports to be amus'd, 
Unfit for converse, and to books unus'd, 
The wise avoided me, they could not hear 
My senseless prattle with a patient ear. 
I sought retreat, but found, with strange sur- 

prise, 
Retreat is pleasant only to the wise ; 
The crowded world by vacant minds is sought, 
Because it saves th' expense and pain of thought. 

Disgusted, restless, ev'ry plan amiss, 
I come with these in search of Happiness. 

Urania. O happy they for whom, in early age, 
Enlighl'ning Knowledge spreads her letter'd 

page! 
Teaches each headstrong passion to control. 
And pours her lib'ral lesson on the soul ! 
Ideas grow from books their nat'ral food, 
As aliment is chang'd to vital blood. 
Though faithless Fortune strip her vot'ry bare, 
Though Malice haunt him, and though Envy 

tear, 
Nor Time, nor Chance, nor Want, can e'er de- 
stroy 
This soul-felt solace, and this bosom joy ! 

Cleora. We thus united by one common fate, 
Each discontented with her present state, 
One common scheme pursue; resolv'd to know 
If Happiness can e'er be found below. 

Urania. Your candour, beauteous damsels, I 
approve, 
Your foibles pity, and your merits love. 
But ere I say the methods you must try 
To gain the glorious prize for which you sigh, 
Your fainting strength and spirits must be 

cheer'd 
With a plain meal, by Temperance prepar'd. 

Florella. No luxury our humble board attends, 
But Love and Concord are its smiling friends. 

SONG. - 
I. 

Hail artless Simplicity beautiful maid, 
In the genuine attractions of Nature array'd 
Let the rich and the proud, and the gay and the 

vain, 
Still laugh at the graces that move in thy train. 

No charm in thy modest allurements they 
find; 
The pleasures they follow a sting leave behind 
Can criminal passion enrapture the breast 
Like Virtue, with Peace and Serenity blest? 
III. 
O would you Simplicity's precepts attend, 
Like us, with delight at her altar you'd bend ; 
The pleasures she yields would with joy be cm 

brae'd, 
You'd practise from virtue and love them from 
taste. 



116 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



IV. 

The linnet enchants us the bushes among ; 
Though cheap the musician, yet sweet is the 

song; 
We catch the soft warbling in air as it floats, 
And with ecstacy hang on the ravishing notes. 

V. 
Our water is drawn from the clearest of springs, 
And our food, nor disease nor satiety brings ; 
Our mornings are cheerful, our labours are blest, 
Our ev'nings are pleasant, our nights crown'd 
with rest. 

VI. 
From our culture yon garden its ornamei.t 
finds, 
And we catch at the hint for improving our 

minds ; 
To live to some purpose we constantly try, 
And we mark by our actions the days as they 
fly. 

VII. 
Since such are the joys that Simplicity yields, 
We may well be content with our woods and 

our fields : 
How useless to us then, ye great, were your 

wealth, 
When without it we purchase both pleasure and 
health ! 

[ They retire into the cottage. 

Scene — A rural entertainment. 

FLORELLA, EUPHELIA, CLEORA, LAURINDA, PAS- 
TORELLA. 

Florella (sings.) 

I. 

While Beauty and Pleasure are now in their 

• prime, 
And Folly and Fashion expect our whole time, 
Ah ! let not those phantoms our wishes engage ; 
Let us live so in youth, that we blush not in age. 

Though the vain and the gay may allure us 
awhile, 

Yet let not their flatt'ry our prudence beguile ; 

Let us covet those charms that will never de- 
cay, 

Nor listen to all that deceivers can say. 
III. 

• How the tints of the rose and the jasmine's 
perfume ! 

The eglantine's fragrance, the lilac's gay bloom, 

Though fair and though fragrant, unheeded 
may lie, 

For that neither is sweet when Florella is by.' 
IV. 

I sigh not for beauty, nor languish for wealth. 

But grant me, kind Providence, virtue and 
health ; 

Then, richer than kings and as happy as they, 

My days shall pass sweetly and swiftly away. 

When age shall steal on me, and youth is no 

more, 
And the moralist Time shakes his glass at my 

door, 
What charm in lost beauty or wealth should I 

find ? [mind. 

My treasure, my wealth, is a sweet peace of 



VI. 

That peace I'll preserve then, as pure as was 

giv'n, 
And taste in my bosom an earnest of Heav'n ; 
Thus virtue and wisdom can warm the cold 

scene, 
And sixty may flourish as gay as sixteen. 

VII. 
And when long I the burden of life shall have 

borne, [corn. 

And Death with his sickle shall cut the ripe 
Resign'd to my fate, without murmur or sigh, 
I'll bless the kind summons, and lie down and 

die. 

Euphe. Thus sweetly pass the hours of rural 

ease ! 
Here life is bliss, and pleasures truly please ! 
Past. With joy we view the dangers we have 

past, 
Assur'd we've found felicity at last. 

Flor. Esteem none happy by their outward 

air; 
All have their portion of allotted care. 
Though wisdom wears the semblance of content, 
When the full heart with agony is rent, 
Secludes its anguish from the public view, 
And by secluding learns to conquer too : 
Denied the fond indulgence to complain, 
The aching heart its peace may best regain. 
By love directed, and in mercy meant, 
Are trials suffer'd and afflictions sent ; 
To stem impetuous Passion's furious tide, 
To curb the insolence of prosp'rous Pride, 
To wean from earth, and bid our wishes soar 
To that blest clime where pain shall be no more ; 
Where wearied Virtue shall for refuge fly, 
And ev'ry tear be wip'd from ev'ry eye. 

Cleora. List'ning to you, my heart can never 

cease 
To rev'rence Virtue, and to sigh for peace. 
Flor. Know, e'en Urania, that accomplish'd 

fair [care, 

Whose goodness makes her Heaven's peculiar 
Though born to all that affluence can bestow, 
Has felt the deep reverse of human wo : 
Yet meek in grief, and patient in distress, 
She knew the hand that wounds has pow'r to 

bless. 
Grateful she bows, for what is left her still, 
To him whose love dispenses good and ill ; 
To him who, while his bounty thousands fed, 
Had not himself a place to lay his head ; 
To him who that he might our wealth insure, 
Though rich himself consented to be poor. 
Taught by his precepts, by his practice taught, 
Her will submitted, and resigned her thought, 
Through faith, she looks beyond this dark abode, 
To scenes of glory near the throne of God 

Enter Urania, Sylvia, Eliza. 

lira. Since gentle nymphs ! my friendship to 
obtain, 

You've sought with eager step this peaceful 
plain, 

My honest counsel with attention hear, 

Though plain, well meant, imperfect, yet sin- 
cere; 

What from maturer years alone I've known, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



117 



What time has taught me, and experience 

shown, 
No polish'd phrase my artless speech will grace, 
But unaffected Candour fill its place : 
My lips shall flatt'ry's smooth deceit refuse, 
And truth be all the eloquence I'll use. 
Know then, that life's chief happiness and wo, 
Prom good or evil education flow ; 
And hence our future dispositions rise ; 
The vice we practice, or the good we prizo. 
When pliant Nature any form receives, 
That precept teaches or example gives, 
The yielding mind with virtue should be grac'd, 
For first impressions seldom are effac'd. 
Then holy habits, then chastis'd desires, 
Should regulate disorder'd Nature's fires. 
If Ignorance then, her iron sway maintain; 
If prejudice preside, or Passion reign, 
If Vanity preserve her native sway, 
If selfish tempers cloud the op'ning day, 
If no kind hand impetuous Pride restrain, 
But for the wholesome curb we give the rein ; 
The erring principle is rooted fast, 
And fix'd the habit that through life may last. 
Past. With heartfelt penitence we now de- 
plore 
Those squander'd hours, that time can ne'er re- 
store. 
lira. Euphelia sighs for flatt'ry, dress, and 
show: 
The common sources these of female wo! 
In Beauty's sphere pre-eminence to find, 
She slights the culture of th' immortal mind : 
I would not rail at Beauty's charming pow'r, 
I would but have her aim at something more ; 
The fairest symmetry of form or face, 
From intellect receives its highest grace; 
The brightest eyes ne'er dart such piercing 

fires, 
As when a soul irradiates and inspires : 
Beauty with reason needs not quite dispense, 
And coral lips may sure speak common sense : 
Beauty makes Virtue lovelier still appear ; 
Virtue makes Beauty more divinely fair ! 
Confirms its conquests o'er the willing mind, 
And those your beauties gain, your virtues bind. 
Yet would ambition's fire your bosom fill, 
Its flame repress not — be ambitious still ; 
Let nobler views your best attention claim, 
The object chang'd, the energy the same : 
Those very passions which our heart invade, 
If rightly pointed, blessings may be made. 
Indulge the true ambition to excel 
In that best art — the art of living well. 
But first extirpate from your youthful breast 
That rankling torment which destroys your 

rest : 
All other faults may take a higher aim, 
But hopeless Envy must be still the same. 
Some other passions may be turn'd to good, 
But Envy must subdue, or be subdu'd. 
This fatal gangrene to our moral life, 
Rejects all palliatives, and asks the knife ; 
Excision spar'd, it taints the vital part, 
And spreads its deadly venom to the heart. 
Uph. Unhappy those to bliss who seek the 
way, 
In pow'r superior, or in splendour gay ! 
Inform'd by thee, no more vain man shall find 
The charm of flatt'ry taint Euphelia's mind : 



By thee instructed still my views shall rise, 
Nor stop at any mark beneath the skies. 

Urania. In fair Laurinda's uninstructed mind, 
The want of culture, not of sense, we find ; 
Whene'er you sought the good, or shunn'd the 

ill, 
'Twas more from temper than from principle : 
Your random life to no just rules reduc'd, 
'Twas chance the virtue or the vice produc'd : 
The casual goodness Impulse has to boast, 
Like morning dews, or transient show'rs is lost; 
While Heav'n-taught Virtue pours her constant 

tide, 
Like streams by living fountains still supply'd. 

Be wisdom still, though late, your earnest care, 
Nor waste the precious hours in vain despair : 
Associate with the good, attend the sage, 
And meekly listen to experienc'd age. 
What, if acquirements you have fail'd to gain, 
Such as the wise may want the bad attain 
Yet still religion's sacred treasures lie 
Inviting, open, plain to ev'ry eye ; 
For ev'ry age, for ev'ry genius fit, 
Nor limited to science nor to wit ; 
Not bound by taste, to genius not confin'd, 
But all may learn the truth for all design'd. 
Though low the talents, and th' acquirements 

small, 
The gift of grace divine is free to all ; 
She calls, solicits, courts you to be blest, 
And points to mansions of eternal rest. 

And when, advanc'd in years, matur'd in 
sense, 
Think not with farther care you may dispense, 
'Tis fatal to the int'rests of the soul 
To stop the race before we've reach'd the goal ; 
For nought our higher progress can preclude 
So much as thinking we're already good. 
The human heart ne'er knows a state of rest: 
Bad leads to worse, and better tends to best. 
We either gain or lose, we sink or rise, 
Nor rests our struggling Nature till she dies : 
Then place the standard of perfection high ; 
Pursue and grasp it, e'en beyond the sky. 

Lau. O that important Time could back re- 
turn [mourn ! 
Those misspent hours whose loss 1 deeply 
Accept, just Heav'n, my penitence sincere, 
My heartfelt anguish, and my fervent pray'r ! 

Ura. I pity Pastorella's hapless fate, 
By nature gentle, gen'rous, mild, and great ; 
One false propension all her pow'rs confin'd, 
And chain'd her finer faculties of mind; 
Yet ev'ry virtue might have flourish'd there, 
With early culture and maternal care. 

If good we plant not, vice will fill the place, 
And rankest weeds the richest soils deface. 
Learn, how ungovern'd thoughts the mind per- 
vert, 
And to disease all nourishment convert. 
Ah ! happy she, whose wisdom learns to find 
A healthful fancy and a well train'd mind ! 
A sick man's wildest dreams less wild are found, 
Than the day-visions of a mind unsound. 
Disorder'd phantasies indulg'd too much, 
Lrke harpies, always taint whate'er they touch. 
Fly soothing Solitude ! fly vain Desire .' 
Fly such soft verse as fans the dang'rous fire !• 
Seek action ; 'tis the scene which Virtue loves ; 
The vig'rous sun not only shines, but moves. 



118 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



From sic\ly thoughts with quick abhorrence 

sir rt, 
And rule the fancy if you'd rule the heart : 
Dy active goodness, by laborious schemes, 
Subdue wild visions, and delusive dreams. 
No eartl.ly good a Christian's views should 

bound, 
For ever rising should his aims be found. 
Leave that fictitious good your fancy feigns 
For scenes where real bliss eternal reigns: 
Lock to that region of immortal joys, 
Where fear disturbs not, nor possession cloys; 
Beyond what Fancy forms of rosy bow'rs, 
Cr blooming chaplets of unfading flow'rs ; 
Fairer than e'er imagination drew, 
Or poet's warmest visions ever knew. 
Pr«>ss eager onward to those blissful plains 
Where life eternal, joy perpetual reigns. 

Past. I mourn the errors of my thoughtless 
youth, 
And long, with thee, to tread the paths of truth. 

Ura. Learning is all the bright Cleora's aim ; 
She seeks the loftiest pinnacle of fame ; 
On interdicted ground presumes to stand, 
And grasps at Science with a vent'rous hand : 
The privilege of man she dares invade, 
And tears the chaplet from his laurell'd head. 
Why found her merit on a foreign claim 1 
Why lose a substance to acquire a name ? 
Let the proud sex possess their vaunted pow'rs: 
Be other triumphs, other glories ours ! 
The gentler charms which wait on female life, 
Which grace the daughter and adorn the wife, 
Be these our boast ; yet these may well admit 
Of various knowledge, and of blameless wit : 
Of sense, resulting from a nurtur'd mind, 
Of polish'd converse, and of taste refin'd : 
Of that quick intuition of the best, 
Which feels the graceful, and rejects the rest : 
Which finds the right by shorter ways than 

rules 
An art which Nature teaches — not the schools. 
Thus conq'ring Sevigne the heart obtains, 
While Dacier only admiration gains. 

Know, fair aspirer, could you even hope, 
To speak like Stonehouse, or to write like Pope, 
To all the wonders of the poet's lyre, 
Join all that taste can add, or wit inspire. 
With every various pow'r of learning fraught ; 
The flow of style and the sublime of thought ; 
Yet, if the milder graces of the mind, 
Graces peculiar to the sex design'd, 
Good nature, patience, sweetness void of art; 
If these embellished not your virgin heart, 
You might be dazzling, but not truly bright ; 
Might glare, but not emit an useful light; 
A meteor, not a star, you would appear ; 
For woman shines but in her proper sphere. 

Accomplishments by Heav'n were sure de- 
sign'd 
Less to adorn than to amend the mind : 
Each should contribute to this gen'ral end, 
And all to virtue, as their centre, tend. 
Th' acquirements, which our best esteem invite, 
Should not project, but soften, mix, unite : 
Tn glaring light not strongly be display 'd, 
Put sweetly lost, and melted into shade. 

Cleora. Confus'd with shame, to thy reproofs 
i bend, 
Thou best adviser, and thou truest friend .' 



From thee I'll learn to judge and act arignt, 
Humility with Knowledge to unite : 
The finish'd character must both combine, 
The perlect woman must in either shine. 

Ura. Florella shines adorn'd with every grace, 
Her heart all virtue, as all charms her face : 
Above the wretched, and below the great, 
Kind Heav'n has fix'd her in a middle state; 
The daemon Fashion never warped her soul, 
Her passions move at Piety's control; 
Her eyes the movements of her heart declare, 
For what she dares to be, she dares appear; 
Unlectur'd in Dissimulation's school, 
To smile by precept, and to blush by rule : 
Her thoughts ingenuous, ever open lie, 
Nor shrink fromc lose Inspection's keenest eye, 
No dark disguise about her heart is thrown ; 
'Tis Virtue's int'rest fully to be known ; 
Her nat'ral sweetness ev'ry heart obtains ; 
What Art and Affectation miss, she gains. 
She smooths the path of my declining years, 
Augments my comforts, and divides my cares. 
Past. O sacred Friendship! O exalted state! 
The choicest bounty of indulgent fate ! 

Ura. Let woman then her real good discern, 
And her true int'rests of Urania learn : 
As some fair violet, loveliest of the glade, 
Sheds its mild fragrance on the lonely shade, 
Withdraws its modest head from public sight, 
Nor courts the sun, nor seeks the glare of light; 
Should some rude hand profanely dare intrude, 
And bear its beauties from its native wood, 
Expos'd abroad its languid colours fly, 
Its form flecays, and all its odours die 
So woman, bom to dignify retreat, 
Unknown to flourish, and unseen be great, 
To give domestic life its sweetest charm, 
With softness polish, and with virtue warm, 
Fearful of Fame, unwilling to be known, 
Should seek but Heaven's applauses and her 

own ; 
Hers be the task to seek the lonely cell 
Where modest Want and silent Anguish dwell; 
Raise the weak head, sustain the feeble knees, 
Cheer the cold heart, and chase the dire disease. 
The splendid deeds, which only seek a name, 
Are paid their just reward in present fame; 
But know, the awful all-disclosing day, 
The long arrear of secret worth shall pay ; 
Applauding saints shall hear with fond regard. 
And He, who witness'd here, shall there reward. 
Euph. With added grace she pleads Reli- 
gion's cause, 
Who from her life her virtuous lesson draws. 
Ura. In vain, ye fair ! from place to place you 
roam. 
For that true peace which must be found at 

home : 
No change of fortune, nor of scene can give 
The bliss you seek, which* in the soul must live. 
Then look no more abroad ; in your own breast 
Seek the true seat of happiness and rest. 
Nor small, my friends ! the vigilance I ask, 
Watch well yourselves, this is the Christian's 

task. 
The cherish'd sin by each must be assail'd, 
New efforts added, where the past have fail'd : 
The darling error check'd, the will subdu'd, 
The heart by penitence and pray'r renew'd 
Nor hope for perfect happiness below ; 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



119 



Celestial plants on earth reluctant grow. 
He who our frail mortality did bear, 
Though free from sin, was not exempt from 
care. 
Chora, Let 's join to bless that Pow'r who 
brought us here, 
Adore his goodness, and his will revere ; 
Assur'd, that Peace exists but in the mind, 
And Piety alone that Peace can find. 

Ura. In its true light this transient life re- 
gard : 
This is a state of trial, not reward. 
Though rough the passage, peaceful is the port, 
The bliss is perfect, the probation short. 
Of human wit beware the fatal pride ; 
An useful follower, but a dang'rous guide : 
On holy Faith's aspiring pi-iions rise ; 
Assert your birth-right, and assume the skies. 

Fountain of Being ! teach us to devote 
To Thee each purpose, action, word and thought! 
Thy grace our hope, thy love our only boast, 
Be all distinctions in the Christian lost ! 
Be this in ev'ry state our wish alone, 
Almighty, Wise and Good, Thy will be done ! 



ODE TO CHARITY. 

TO BE PERFORMED BY THE CHARACTERS OF THE 
PIECE. 

I. 

O Charity, divinely wise, 

Thou meek-ey'd daughter of the skies ! 
jfrom the pure fountain of eternal light, 
Where fair, immutable, and ever bright, 



The beatific vision shines, 
Where angel with archangel joins 
In choral songs to sing His praise, 
Parent of Life, Ancient of Days, 
Who was ere Time existed, and shall be 
Through the wide round of vast Eternity ; 
Oh come, thy warm celestial beams impart, 
Enlarge my feelings, and expand my heart! 

II. 

Descend from radiant realms above, 
Thou effluence of that boundless love 
Whence joy and peace in streams unsully'd 

flow, 
Oh deign to make thy lov'd abode below ! 

Though sweeter strains adorn'd my tongua 
Than saint conceiv'd or seraph sung, 
And though my glowing fancy caught 
Whatever Art or Nature taught, 
Yet if this hard unfeeling heart of mine 
Ne'er felt thy force, O Charity divine ! 
An empty shadow Science would be found 
My knowledge ignorance, my wit a sound ! 

III. 

Though my prophetic spirit knew 
To bring futurity to view, 
Without thy aid e'en this would not avail, 
For tongues shall cease and prophecies shall fe.il. 
Come then, thou sweet immortal guest, 
Shed thy soft influence o'er my breast. 
Bring with thee Faith, divinely brighc, 
And Hope, fair Harbinger of light, 
To clear each mist with their pervading ray, 
To fit my soul for Heav'n, and point tiie way 9 1 
There Perfect Happiness her sway maintains, 
For there the God of Peace for ever reigr.s. 



STORIES 

FOR PERSONS OF THE MIDDLE RANKS. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

These Stories, which were first published, among a great number of others, in the Cheap Re- 
pository, under the signature Z, are here presented to the reader, much enlarged and improved. 
Such of them as are comprised in this volume being adapted to persons in a superior station to 
those which are contained in a former edition, and it was thought better to separate and class 
them accordingly. A brief account of the institution here referred to, will be given in a sub- 
sequent place. 



THE HISTORY OF MR. ^ANTOM. 



THE NEW FASHIONED PHILOSOPHER, 

AND HIS MAN WILLIAM. 



Mr. Fantom was a retail trader in the city 
of London. As he had no turn to any expensive 
vices, he was reckoned a sober decent man, but 
he was covetous and proud, selfish and conceit- 
ed. As soon as he got forward in the world, his 
vanity began to display itself, though not in the 
ordinary method, that of making a figure and 
living away ; but still he was tormented with a 
longing desire to draw public notice, and to dis- 
tinguish himself. He felt a general sense of 
discontent at what he was, with a general am- 
bition to be something which he was not; but 
this desire had not yet turned itself to any par- 
ticular object. It was not by his money he 
could hope to be distinguished, for half his 
acquaintance had more, and a man must be rich 
indeed to be noted for his riches in London. 
Mr. Fantom's mind was a prey to his vain ima- 
ginations. He despised all those little acts of 
kindness and charity which every man is called 
to perform every day ; and while he was contriv- 
ing grand schemes, which lay quite out of his 
reach, he neglected the ordinary duties of life, 
which lay directly before him. Selfishness was 
his governing principle. He fancied he was lost 
in the mass of general society : and the usual 
means of attaching importance to insignificance 
occurred to him ; that of getting into clubs and 
societies. To be connected with a party would 
at least make him known to that party, be it 
ever so low and contemptible ; and this local 
importance it is which draws off vain minds 
from those scenes of general usefulness, in 
whcih, though they are of more value, they are 
of less distinction. 

About this time he got hold of a famous little 
book written by the New Philosopher, whose 
pestilent doctrines have gone about seeking 
tvhom they may destroy ; these doctrines found 
a ready entrance into Mr. Fantom's mind ; a 
mind at once shallow and inquisitive, speculative 



and vain, ambitious and dissatisfied. As almost 
every book was new to him, he fell into the com- 
mon error of those who begin to read late in life 
— that of thinking that what he did not know 
himself, was equally new to others ; and he 
was apt to fancy that he and the author he was 
reading were the only two people in the world 
who knew any thing. This book led to the 
grand discovery ; he had now found what his 
heart panted after — a way to distinguish himself. 
To start out a full grown philosopher at once, 
to be wise without education, to dispute without 
learning, and to make proselytes without argu- 
ment, was a short cut to fame, which well suit- 
ed his vanity and his ignorance. He rejoiced 
that he had been so clever as to examine for 
himself, pitied his friends who took things upon 
trust, and was resolved to assert the freedom of 
his own mind. To a man fond of bold novel- 
ties and daring paradoxes, solid argument would 
be flat, and truth would be dull, merely because 
it is not new. Mr. Fantom believed, not in pro- 
portion to the strength of the evidence, but to 
the impudence of the assertion. The tramp- 
pling on holy ground with dirty shoes, the 
smearing the sanctuary with filth and mire, 
the calling prophets and apostles by the most 
scurrilous names was new, and dashing, and 
dazzling. Mr. Fantom, now being set free 
from the chains of slavery and superstition, was 
resolved to show his zeal in the usual way, by 
trying to free others ; but it would have hurt his 
vanity had he known that he was the convert 
of a man who,had written only for the vulgar, 
who had invented nothing, no, not even one idea 
of original wickedness ; but who had stooped to 
rake up out of the kennel of infidelity, all the 
loathsome dregs and oftal dirt, which politer un- 
believers had thrown away as too gross and of- 
fensive for the better bred readers. 

Mr. Fantom, who considered that a philoso 
120 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



121 



pher must set up with a little sort of stock in 
trade, now picked up all the common-place no- 
tions against Christianity, which have been an- 
swered a hundred times over : these he kept by 
him ready cut and dried, and brought out in 
all companies with a zeal which would have 
done honour to a better cause, but which the 
friends to a better cause are not so apt to dis- 
cover. He soon got all the cant of the new 
school. He prated about narrowness, and igno- 
rance, and bigotry, and prejudice, and priest- 
craft on the one hand ; and on the other, of 
public good, the love of mankind, and liberality, 
and candour, and toleration, and above all, bene- 
volence. Benevolence, he said, made up the 
whole of religion, and all the other parts of it 
were nothing but cant, and jargon, and hypo- 
crisy. By benevolence he understood a gloomy 
and indefinite anxiety about the happiness of 
people with whom he was utterly disconnected, 
and whom Providence had put it out of his reach 
either to serve or injure. And by the happi- 
ness this benevolence was so anxious to pro- 
mote, he meant an exemption from the power 
of the laws, and an emancipation from the re- 
straints of religion, conscience, and moral ob- 
ligation. 

Finding, however, that he made little impres- 
sion on his old club at the Cat and Bagpipes, 
he grew tired of their company. This club 
consisted of a few sober citizens, who met of an 
evening for a little harmless recreation after 
business ; their object was, not to reform parlia- 
ment, but their own shops ; not to correct the 
abuses of government, but of parish officers ; not 
to cure the excesses of administration, but of 
their own porters and apprentices ; to talk over 
the news of the day without aspiring to direct 
the events of it. They read the papers with 
that anxiety which every honest man feels 
in the daily history of his country. But as 
trade, which they did understand, flourished, 
they were careful not to reprobate those public 
measures by which it was protected, and which 
they did not understand. In such turbulent 
times it was a comfort to each to feel he was 
a tradesman, and not a statesman ; that he was 
not called to responsibility for a trust for which 
he found he had no talents, while he was at full 
liberty to employ the talents he really possessed, 
in fairly amassing a fortune, of which the laws 
would be the best guardian, and government 
the best security. Thus a legitimate self-love", 
regulated by prudence, and restrained by prin- 
ciple, produced peaceable subjects and good 
citizens ; while in Fantom, a boundless selfish- 
ness and inordinate vanity converted a discon- 
tented trader into a turbulent politician. 

There was, however, one member of the Cat 
and Bagpipes whose society he could not re- 
solve to give up, though they seldom agreed, as 
indeed no two men in the same class and habits 
of life could less resemble each other. Mr. 
Trueman was an honest, plain, simple-hearted 
tradesman of the good old cut, who feared God 
and followed his business ; he went to church 
twice on Sundays, and minded his shop all the 
week, spent frugally, gave liberally, and saved 
moderately. He lost, however, some ground in 
Mr. Fantom's esteem, because he paid his taxes, 
Vol. I. 



without disputing, and read his Bible without 
doubting. 

Mr. Fantom now began to be tired of every 
thing in trade except the profits of it ! for the 
more the word benevolence was in his mouth, 
the more did selfishness gain dominion in his 
heart. He, however, resolved to retire for a 
while into the country, and devote his time to 
his new plans, schemes, theories, and projects 
for the public good. A life of talking, and read- 
ing and writing, and disputing, and teaching, 
and proselyting, now struck him as the only 
life ; so he soon set out for the country with his 
family ; for unhappily Mr. Fantom had been the 
husband of a very worthy woman many years 
before the new philosophy had discovered that 
marriage was a shameful infringement on hu- 
man liberty, and an abridgement of the rights 
of man. To this family was now added his new 
footman, William Wilson, whom he had taken 
with a good character out of a sober family. 
Mr. Fantom was no sooner settled than he wrote 
to invite Mr. Trueman to come and pay him a 
visit, for he would have burst if he could not 
have got some one to whom he might display 
his new knowledge ; he knew that if on the one 
hand Trueman was no scholar, yet on the other 
he was no fool ; and though he despised his pre- 
judices, yet he thought he might be made a 
good decoy duck ; for if he could once bring 
Trueman over, the whole club at the Cat and 
Bagpipes might be brought to follow his exam- 
ple ; and thus he might see himself at the head 
of a society of his own proselytes; the supreme 
object of a philosopher's ambition. Trueman 
came accordingly. He soon found that how- 
ever he might be shocked at the impious doc- 
trines his friend maintained, yet that an impor- 
tant lesson might be learned even from the 
worst enemies of truth ; namely, an ever wake- 
ful attention to their grand object. If they set 
out with talking of trade or politics, of private 
news or public affairs, still Mr. Fantom was 
ever on the watch to hitch in his darling doc- 
trines; whatever he began with, he was sure to 
end with a pert squib at the Bible, a vapid jest 
on the clergy, the miseries of superstition, and 
the blessings of philosophy. ' Oh !' said True- 
man to himself, ' when shall I see Christians 
half so much in earnest ? Why is it that almost 
all zeal is on the wrong side ?' 

' Well, Mr. Fantom,' said Trueman one day 
at breakfast, ' I am afraid you are leading but 
an idle sort of life here.' — ' Idle, sir !' said Fan- 
tom ; ' 1 now first begin to live to some purpose ; 
I have indeed lost too much time, and wasted 
my talents on a little retail trade, in which one 
is of no note; one can't distinguish one's self.' 
'So much the better,' said Trueman ;' ' I had 
rather not distinguish myself, unless it was by 
leading a better life than my neighbours. There 
is nothing I should dread more than being talk'd 
about. I dare say now heaven is in a good mea- 
sure filled with people whose names were never 
heard out of their own street and village. So I 
beg leave not to distinguish myself!' ■ Yes, but 
one may, if it is only by signing one's name to 
an essay or paragraph in a newspaper,' said 
Fantom. — ' Heaven keep John Trueman's name 
out of a newspaper,' interrupted he in a fright' 



i§2 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



• for if it be there, it must either be found in the 
Old Bailey or the bankrupt list, unless, indeed, 
I were to remove shop, or sell off my old stock. 
Well, but Mr. Fantum, you, I suppose, are now 
as happy as the day is long ?' ' O yes,' replied 
Fantom, with a gloomy sigh, which gave the 
lie to his words, ' perfectly happy ! I wonder you 
do not give up all your sordid employments, and 
turn philosopher !' ' Sordid indeed !' said True- 
man, ' do not call names, Mr. Fantom ; I shall 
never be ashamed of my trade. What is it has 
made this country so great ? a country whose 
merchants are princes ? It is trade, Mr. Fantom, 
trade. I cannot say indeed, as well as I love 
business, but now and then, when I am over- 
worked, I wish I had a little more time to look 
after my soul ; but the fear that I should not 
devote the time, if I had it, to the best purpose, 
makes me work on , though often, when I am 
balancing my accounts, I tremble, lest I should 
neglect to balance the grand account. But still, 
since, like you, I am a man of no education, I 
am more afraid of the temptations of leisure, 
than of those of business, I never was bred to 
read more than a chapter in the Bible, or some 
other good book, or the magazine and newspa- 
per ; and all that I can do now, after shop is 
shut, is to take a walk with my children in the 
field besides. But if I had nothing to do from 
morning to night, I might be in danger of turn- 
ing politician or philosopher. No, neighbour 
Fantom, depend upon it, that where there is no 
learning, next to God's grace, the best preserva- 
tive of human virtue is business. As to our po- 
litical societies, like the armies in the cave of 
Adullam, 'every man that is in distress, and 
every man that is in debt, and every man that 
is discontented, will always join themselves unto 
•them.' 

Fantom. You have narrow views, Trueman. 
What can be more delightful than to see a paper 
of one's own in print against tyranny and su- 
perstition, contrived with so much ingenuity, 
that, though the law is on the look-out for trea- 
son and blasphemy, a little change of name de- 
feats its scrutiny. For instance ; you may stig- 
matize England under the name of Rome, and 
Christianity under that of Popery. The true 
way is to attack whatever you have a mind to 
iniure, under another name, and the best means 
to destroy the use of a thing, is to produce a 
few incontrovertible facts against the abuses of 
it. Our late travellers have inconceivably helped 
on the cause of the new philosophy, in their lu- 
dicrous narratives of credulity, miracles, indul- 
gences, and processions, in popish countries, all 
which they ridicule under the broad and gene- 
ral name of Religion, Christianity, and the 
Church.'' ' And are not you ashamed to dofend 
such knavery V said Mr. Trueman. ■ Those 
who have a great object to accomplish,' re- 
plied Mr. Fantom, ' must not be nice about the 
means. But to return to yourself Trueman ; in 
your little confined situation you can be of no 
use.' ' That I deny,' interrupted Trueman ; ' I 
have filled all the parish offices with some credit. 
I never took a bribe at an election, no not so 
much as a treat ; I take care of my apprentices, 
and do not set them a bad example by running 
jto plays and Sadler's Wells, in the week or 



jaunting about in a gig all day on Sundays ; to* - 
I look upon it that the country jaunt of the mas- 
ter on Sundays exposes his servants to more 
danger than their whole week's temptation in 
trade put together.' 

Fantom. I once had the same vulgar preju- 
dices about the church and the Sabbath, and 
all that antiquated stuff. But even on your own 
narrow principles, how can a thinking being 
spend his Sunday better (if he must lose one day 
in seven by having any Sunday at all) than by 
going into the country to admire the works of 
nature. 

Trueman. I suppose you mean the works of 
God : for I never read in the Bible that Nature 
made any thing. I should rather think that she 
herself was made by Him, who, when he said, 
' thou shalt not murder,' said also, ' thou shalt 
keep holy the Sabbath day.' But now do you 
really think that all that multitude of coaches, 
chariots, chaises, vis-a-vis, booby-hutr.hes, sul. 
kies, sociables, phaetons, gigs, curricles, cabri- 
oles, chairs, stages, pleasure carts, and horses, 
which crowd our roads ; all those country houses 
within reach, to which the London friends pour 
in to the gorgeous Sunday feast, which the ser- 
vants are kept from church to dress ; al! those 
public houses under the signs of which you 
read these alluring words, an ordinary on Sun- 
days ; I say, do you really believe that all those 
houses and carriages are crammed with philoso- 
phers, who go on Sunday into the country to 
admire the works of nature, as you call it ! In- 
deed, from the reeling gate of some of them 
when they go back at night, one might take 
them for a certain sect called the tippling phi- 
losophers. Then in answer to your charge, 
that a little tradesman can do no good, it is not 
true ; I must tell you that I belong to the Sick 
Man's Friend, and to the Society for relieving 
prisoners for small debts. 

Fantom. I have no attention to spare to that 
business, though I would pledge myself to pro- 
duce a plan by which the national debt might 
be paid off in six months ; but all yours are 
pretty occupations. 

Trueman. Then they are better suited to petty 
men of petty fortune. I had rather have an 
ounce of real good done with my own hands, 
and seen with my own eyes, than speculate 
about doing a ton in a wild way, which I know 
can never be brought about. 

Fantom. I despise a narrow field. O for the 
reign of universal benevolence ! I want to mako 
all mankind good and happy. 

Trueman. Dear me ! sure that must be a 
wholesale sort of a job ; had you not better try 
your hand at a town or a parish first ! 

Fantom. Sir, I have a plan in my head for 
relieving the miseries of the whole world. Every 
thing is bad as it now stands. I would alter all 
the laws; and do away all the religions, and 
put an end to all the wars in the world. I would 
every where redress the injustice of fortune, or 
what the vulgar call Providence. I would put 
an end to all punishments ; I would not leave a 
single prisoner on the face of the globe. This 
is what I call doing things on a gaand scale. 
1 A scale with a vengeance,' said Trueman. 
' As to releasing the prisoners, however, I do 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



123 



not bo much like that, as it would be liberating 
a few rogues at the expense of all honest men ; 
but as to the rest of your plans, if all Christian 
countries would be so good as to turn Christians, 
it might be helped on a good deal. There would 
be still misery enough left indeed ; because God 
intended this world should be earth and not 
heaven. But, sir, among all your oblations, you 
must abolish human corruption before you can 
make the world quite as perfect as you pretend. 
You philosophers seem to me to be ignorant of 
the very first seed and principle of misery — sin, 
eir, sin : your system of reform is radically de- 
fective ; for it does not comprehend that sinful 
nature from which all misery proceeds. You 
accuse government of defects which belong to 
man, to individual man, and of course to man 
collectively. — Among all your reforms you must 
reform the human heart; you are only hacking 
at the branches, without striking at the root. 
Banishing impiety out of the world, would be 
like striking off all the pounds from an over- 
charged bill ; and all the troubles which would 
be left, would be reduced to mere shillings, 
pence, and farthings, as one may say.' 

Fantom. Your project would rivet the chains 
which n-.ine is design'd to break. 

Trueman. Sir, I have no projects. Projects 
are in general the offspring of restlessness, 
vanity, and idleness. I am too busy for pro- 
jects, too contented for theories, and, I hope, 
have too much honesty and humility for a phi- 
losopher. The utmost extent of my ambition at 
present is, to redress the wrongs of a parish ap- 
prentice who has been cruelly used by his mas- 
ter : Indeed I have another little scheme, which 
is to prosecute a fellow in our street who has 
suffered a poor wretch in a workhouse, of which 
he had the care, to perish through neglect, and 
you must assist me. 

Fantom. The parish must do that. You must 
not apply to me for the redress of such petty 
grievances. I own that the wrongs of the Poles 
and South Americans so fill my mind, as to 
leave me no time to attend to the petty sorrows 
of workhouses and parish apprentices. It is 
provinces, empires, continents, that the benevo- 
lence of the philosopher embraces ; every one 
can do a little paltry good to his next neighbour, 
Trueman. Every one can, but I do not see 
that every one does. If they would, indeed, 
your business would be ready done at your 
hands, and your grand ocean of benevolence 
would be filled with the drops which private 
charity would throw into it. I am glad, how- 
ever, you are such a friend to the prisoners, be, 
cause I am just now getting a little subscription 
from our club, to set free our poor old friend 
Tom Saunders, a very honest brother tradesman, 
who got first into debt, and then into jail, 
through no fault of his own, but merely through 
the pressure of the times. We have each of us 
allowed a trifle every week towards maintain, 
ing Tom's young family since he has been in 
prison ; but we think we shall do much more 
service to Saunders, and indeed in the end 
lighten our own expense, by paying down at 
once a little sum to restore him to the comforts 
of life, and put him in a way of maintaining his 
family again. We have made up the money all 



except five guineas I am already promised four, 
and you have nothing to do but give me the 
fifth. And so for a single guinea, without any 
of the trouble, the meetings, and the looking into 
his affairs, which we have had ; which, let me 
tell you, is the best, and to a man of business, 
the dearest part of charity, you will at once 
have the pleasure (and it is no small one) of 
helping to save a worthy family from starving 
of redeeming an old friend from gaol, and of 
putting a little of your boasted benevolence into 
action. Realize ! master Fantom : there is no- 
thing like realizing. ' Why, hark ye, Mr. True- 
man,' said Fantom, stammering, and looking 
very black, • do not think I value a guinea ; no 
sir, I despise money ; it is trash ; it is dirt, and 
beneath the regard of a wise man. It is one of 
the unfeeling inventions of artificial society, 
Sir, I could talk to you for half a day on the 
abuse of riches, and on my own contempt of 
money.' 

Trueman. O pray do not give yourself the 
trouble; it will be an easier way by half of vin- 
dicating yourself from one, and of proving the 
other, just to put your hand in your pocket and 
give me a guinea, without saying a word about 
it : and then to you who value time so much, 
and money so little, it will cut the matter short. 
But come now, (for I see you will give nothing) 
I should be mighty glad to know what is the 
sort of good you do yourselves, since you always 
object to what is done by others. ' Sir,' said 
Mr. Fantom, ' the object of" a true philosopher is 
to diffuse light and knowledge. I wish to see 
the whole world enlightened.' 

Trueman. Amen ! if you mean with the 
light of the Gospel, But if you mean that one 
religion is as good as another, and that no reli- 
gion is best of all ; and that we shall become 
wiser and better by setting aside the very means 
which Providence bestowed to make us wise 
and good : in short, if you want to make the 
whole world philosophers, why they had better 
stay as they are. But as to the true light, I 
wish it to reach the very lowest, and I therefore 
bless God for charity-schools, as instruments of 
diffusing it among the poor. 

Fantom, who had no reason to expect that 
his friend was going to call upon him for a sub- 
scription on this account, ventured to praise 
them : saying, ' I am no enemy to these insti- 
tutions. I would indeed change the object of 
instruction, but I would have the whole world 
instructed.' 

Here Mrs, Fantom, who, with her daughter, 
had quietly sat by at their work, ventured to 
put in a word, a liberty she seldom took with 
her husband ; who in his zeal to make the whole 
world free and happy, was too prudent to in- 
clude his wife among the objects on whom he 
wished to confer freedom and happiness. ' Then, 
my dear,' said she, ' I wonder you do not let 
your own servants be taught a little. The maids 
can scarcely tell a letter, or say the Lord's 
prayer, and you know you will not allow them 
time to learn. William, too, has never been at 
church since we came out of town. He was 
at first very orderly and obedient, but now he 
is seldom sober of an evening ; and in the morn- 
ing when he should be rubbing the tables io 



124 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the parlour, he is generally lolling upon them, 
and reading your little manuel of the new philo- 
sophy.' — ' Mrs. Fantom, said her husband an- 
grily, ' you know that my labours for the public 
good leave me little time to think of my own 
family. I must have a great field, I like to do 
good to hundreds at once.' 

' I am very glad of that papa,' said miss Polly ; 
1 for then I hope you will not refuse to subscribe 
to all those pretty children at the Sunday-school, 
as you did yesterday, when the gentleman came 
a begging, because that is the very thing you 
were wishing for ; there are two or three hun- 
dred to be done good at once.' ' 

Trueman. Well, Mr. Fantom, you are a won- 
derful man to keep up such a stock of benevo- 
lence at so small an expense. To love man- 
kind so dearly, and yet avoid all opportunities 
of doing them good : to have such a noble zeal 
for the millions, and to feel so little compassion 
for the units; to long to free empires and en- 
lighten kingdoms ; and yet deny instruction to 
your own village, and comfort to your own 
family. Surely none but a philosopher could 
indulge so much philanthropy, and so much fru- 
gality at the same time. But come, do assist me 
in a petition I am making in our poorhouse ; be- 
tween the old, whom I want to have better fed, 
and the young, whom I want to have more 
worked. 

Fantom. Sir my mind is so engrossed with 
the partition of Poland, that I cannot bring it 
down to an object of such insignificance. I 
despise the man whose benevolence is swallow- 
ed up in the narrow concerns of his own family, 
or parish, or country. 

Tmeman. Well, now I have a notion that it 
is as well to do one's own duty, as the duty of 
another man ; and that to do good at home, is 
as well as to do good abroad. For my part, I 
had as lieve help Tom Saunders to freedom as 
a Pole or a South American, though I should 
be very glad to help them too. But one must 
begin to love somewhere, and to do good some- 
where ; and I think it is as natural to love one's 
own family, and to do good in one's own neigh- 
bourhood, as to any body else. And if every 
man in every family, parish, and county, did the 
same, why then all the schemes would meet, 
and the end of one parish, where I was doing 
good, would be the beginning of another parish 
where somebody else was doing good ; so my 
schemes would jut into my neighbour's; his pro- 
jects would unite with those of some other local 
reformer ; and all would fit with a sort of dove- 
tail exactness. And what is better, all would 
join in furnishing a living oomment on that 
practical precept : ' Thou shalt love the Lord 
thy God with all thy heart, and thy neighbour 
as thyself.' 

Fantom. Sir, a man of large views will be 
on the watch for great occasions to prove his 
benevolence. 

Trueman. Yes, sir ; but if they are so distant 
that he cannot reach them, or so vast that he can- 
not grasp them, he may let a thousand little, 
snug, kind, good actions slip through his fingers 
in the meanwhile : and so between the great 
things that he cannot do, and the little ones that 
he will not do, life passes and nothing will be done. 



Just at this moment miss Polly Fanto*- 
(whose mother had gone out some time before; 
started up, let fall her work, and cried out, ' O 
papa, do but look what a monstrous great fire 
there is yonder on the common ! If it were the 
fifth of November I should think it were a bon- 
fire. Look how it blazes !' — ' I see plain enough 
what it is,' said Mr. Fantom, sitting down again 
without the least emotion. ' It is Jenkins's cot- 
tage on fire.' — ' What, poor John Jenking, who 
works in our garden, papa?' said the poor girl 
in great terror. ' Do not be frightened, child,' 
answered Fantom, we are safe enough ; the 
wind blows the other way. Why did you dis- 
turb us for such a trifle, as it was so distant ? 
Come, Mr. Trueman, sit down.' — ' Sit down,' 
said Mr. Trueman, ' I am not a stock, sir, nor a 
stone, but a man ; made of the same common 
nature with Jenkins, whose house is burning. 
Come along — let us fly and help him,' con- 
tinued he running to the door in such haste 
that he forgot to take his hat, though it hung 
just before him — ' Come Mr. Fantom — come, my 
little dear — I wish your mamma was here — I 
am sorry she went out just now — we may all 
do some good ; every body may be of some use 
at a fire. Even you, miss Polly, may save some 
of these poor people's things in your apron, 
while your papa and I hand the buckets.' All 
this he said as he run along with the young 
lady in his hand ; not doubting but Fantom and 
his whole family were following close behind 
him. But the present distress was neither 
grand enough nor far enough from home to 
satisfy the wide-stretched benevolence of the phi- 
losopher, who sat down within sight of the flames 
to work at a new pamphlet, which now swallow- 
ed up his whole soul, on universal benevolence. 

His daughter, indeed, who happily was not 
yet a philosopher, with Mr. Trueman, followed 
by the maids, reached the scene of distress. 
William Wilson, the footmari, refused to assist, 
glad of such an opportunity of being revenged 
on Jenkins, whom he called a surly fellow, for 
presuming to complain, because William always 
purloined the best fruit for himself before he set 
it on his master's table. Jenkins also, whose 
duty it was to be out of doors, had refused to 
leave his own work in the garden, to do Will's 
work in the house while he got drunk, or read 
the Rights of Man. 

The little dwelling of Jenkins burnt very 
furiously. Mr. Trueman's exertions were of 
the greatest service. He directed the willing, 
and gave an example to the slothful. By livinjr 
in London, he had been more used to the cala- 
mity of fire than the country people, and knew 
better what was to be done. In the midst of 
the bustle he saw one woman only who never 
attempted to be of the least use. She ran back- 
wards and forward, wringing her hands, » 
crying out in a tone of piercing agony, ' On, 
my child ! my little Tommy ! will no one save 
my Tommy V — Any woman might have uttered 
the same words, but the look which explained 
them could only come from a mother. True- 
man did not stay to ask if she were owner of 
the house, and mother of the child. It was his 
way to do all the good which could be done first, 
and then to ask questions. All he said was, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



125 



■ Tell me which is the room ?' The poor woman, 
now speechless through terror, could only point 
up to a little window in the thatch, and then 
sunk on the ground. 

Mr. Trueman made his way through a thick 
smoke, and ran up the narrow staircase which 
the fire had not reached. He got safely to the 
loft, snatched up the little creature, who was 
sweetly sleeping in its poor hammock, and 
brought him down naked in his arms : and as 
he gave him to the half-distracted mother, he 
felt that her joy and gratitude would have been 
no bad pay for the danger he had run, even if 
no higher motive had set him to work. Poor 
Jenkins, half stupified by his misfortune, had 
never thought of his child; and his wife, who 
expected every hour to make him father to a 
second, had not been able to do any thing to- 
wards saving little Tommy. 

Mr. Trueman now put the child into miss 
Fantom's apron, saying, ' Did not I tell you, 
my dear, that every body could be of use at a 
fire ?' He then desired her to carry the child 
home, and ordered the poor woman to follow 
her ; saying, he would return himself as soon 
as he had seen all safe in the cottage. 

When the fire was quite out, and Mr. True- 
man could be of no further use, he went back 
to Mr. Fantom's. The instant he opened the 
parlour door he eagerly cried eut, ' Where is 
the poor woman, Mr, Fantom ?' ' Not in my 
house, I assure you,' answered the philosopher. 
' Give me leave to tell you, it was a very ro- 
mantic thing to send her and her child to me : 
you should have provided for them at once, like 
a prudent man.' — ' I thought I had done so,' 
replied Trueman, ' by sending them to the 
nearest and best house in the parish, as the 
poor woman seemed to stand in need of imme- 
diate assistance.' ' So immediate,' said Fantom, 
' that I would not let her come into my house, 
for fear of what might happen. So I packed 
her off, with her child in her arms, to the work- 
house ; with orders to the overseers not to let 
her want for any thing.' 

' And what right have you, Mr. Fantom,' 
cried Trueman in a high tone, ' to expect that 
the overseers will be more humane than your- 
self! But is it possible you can have sent that 
helpless creature, not only to walk, but to carry 
a naked child at such a time of night, to a place 
so distant, so ill provided, and in such a con- 
dition 1 I hope at least you have furnished them 
with clothes ; for all their own little stores were 
burnt.' ' Not I, indeed ;' said Fantom. ' What 
is the use of parish officers, but to look after 
these petty things ?' 

It was Mr. Trueman's way, when he began 
to feel very angry, not to allow himself to speak ; 
because, he used to say, ' if I give vent to my 
feelings, I am sure, by some hasty word, to cut 
myself out work for repentance.' So without 
making any answer, or even changing his 
clothes, which were very wet and dirty from 
having worked so hard at the fire, he walked 
out again, having first inquired the road the 
woman had taken. At the door he met Mrs. 
Fantom returning from her visit- He told her 
his tale ; which she had no sooner heard, than 
she kindly resolved to »ccompany him in search 



of Jenkins's wife. She had a wide common to 
walk over before she could reach either the 
workhouse or the nearest cottage. She had 
crawled along with her baby as far as she was 
able ; but having met with no refreshment at 
Mr. Fantom's, and her strength quite failing 
her, she had sunk down on the middle of the 
common. Happily, Mr. Trueman and Mrs. 
Fantom came up at this very time. The for- 
mer had had the precaution to bring a cordial 
and the latter had gone back and stuffed her 
pockets with old baby linen. Mr. Trueman 
soon procured the assistance of a labourer, who 
happened to pass by, to help him to carry the 
mother, and Mrs. Fantom carried the little shiv- 
ering baby. 

As soon as they were safely lodged, Mr. 
Trueman set off in search of poor Jenkins, who 
was distressed to know what was become of his 
wife and child ; for having heard that they were 
seen going towards Mr. Fantom's, he despaired 
of any assistance from that quarter. Mr. True- 
man felt no small satisfaction in uniting this 
poor man to his little family. There was some- 
thing very moving in this meeting, and in the 
pious gratitude they expressed for their deliver- 
ance. They seemed to forget they had lost their 
all, in the joy they felt that they had not lost 
each other. And some disdainful great ones 
might have smiled to see so much rapture ex- 
pressed at the safety of a child born to no in- 
heritance but poverty. These are among the 
feelings with which Providence sometimes over- 
pays the want of wealth. The good people also 
poured out prayers and blessings on their de- 
liverer, who, not being a philosopher, was no 
more ashamed of praying with them than he 
had been of working for them. Mr. Trueman, 
while assisting at the fire, had heard that Jen- 
kins and his wife were both very honest, and 
very pious people ; so he told them he would 
not only pay for their new lodgings, but under- 
took to raise a little subscription among his 
friends at the Cat and Bagpipes towards re- 
building their cottage; and farther engaged, that 
if they would promise to bring up the child in 
the fear of God, he would stand godfather. 
i This exercise of Christian charity had given 
such a cheerful flow to Mr. Trueman's spirits, 
that long before he got home he had lost every 
trace of ill-humour. — ' Well, Mr. Fantom,' said 
he gayly, as he opened the door, ' now do tell 
me how you could possibly refuse going to help 
me to put out the fire at poor Jenkins's ?' — ' Be- 
cause, said Fantom, ' I was engaged, sir, in a 
far nobler project than putting out a fire in a 
little thatched cottage. Sir, I was contriving to 
put out a fire too ; a conflagration of a far more 
dreadful kind — a fire, sir, in the extinction of 
which universal man is concerned — I was con- 
triving a scheme to extinguish the fires of the 
inquisition.' — ' Why, man, they don't blaze that 
I know of,' retorted Trueman. ■ I own, that of 
all the abominable engines which the devil ever 
invented to disgrace religion and plague man- 
kind, that inquisition was the very worst. But 
I do not believe popery has ventured at these 
diabolical tricks since the earthquake at Lisbon, 
so that a bucket of real water, carried to the 
real fire at Jenkins's cottage, would have done 



126 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



more good than a wild plan to put out an ima- 
ginary flame which no longer burns. And let 
me tell you, sir, dreadful as that evil was, God 
can send his judgments on other sins besides su- 
perstition ; so it behoves us to take heed of the 
other extreme, or we may have our earthquakes 
too. ' The hand of God is not shortened,' sir, 
' that it cannot destroy, any more than it cannot 
save. In the meantime, I must repeat it; you 
and I are rather called upon to serve a neigh- 
bour from perishing in the flames of his house, 
just under our own window, than to write about 
the fires of the inquisition ; which, if fear, or 
shame, or the restoration of common sense had 
not already put out, would have hardly received 
a check from such poor hands as you and I.' 

' Sir,' said Fantom, ' Jenkins is an imperti- 
nent fellow ; and I owe him a grudge, because 
he says he had rather forfeit the favour of the 
best master in England than work in my gar- 
den on a Sunday. And when I ordered him to 
read the Age of Reason, instead of going to 
church, he refused to work for me at all, with 
some impertinent hint about God and Mammon.' 
' Oh, did he so ?' said Mr. Trueman. ' Now I 
will stand godfather to his child, and make him 
a handsome present into the bargain. Indeed, 
Mr. Fantom, a man must be a philosopher with 
a vengeance, if when he sees a house on fire, he 
stays to consider whether the owner has offend- 
ed him. Oh, Mr. Fantom, I will forgive you 
still, if you will produce me, out of all your phi- 
losophy, such a sentence as ' Love your enemy 
— do good to them that hate you — if thine ene- 
my hunger, feed him ; if he thirst, give him 
drink ;' I will give up the blessed Gospel for the 
Age of Reason, if you will only bring me one 
sentiment equivalent to this.' 

Next day Mr. Trueman was obliged to go to 
London on business ; but returned soon ; as the 
time he had allotted to spend with Mr. Fantom 
was not yet elapsed. He came down the sooner 
indeed, that he might bring a small sum of money 
which the gentlemen at the Cat and Bagpipes 
had cheerfully subscribed for Jenkins. True- 
man did not forget to desire his wife to make 
up also a quantity of clothing for this poor fami- 
ly, to which he did not neglect to add a parcel 
of good books, which indeed always made a 
part of his charities ; as he used to say, there 
was something cruel in the kindness which was 
anxious to relieve the bodies of men, but was 
negligent of their souls. He stood in person to 
the new born child, and observed with much 
pleasure, that Jenkins and his wife thought a 
christening, not a season for merry-making, but 
a solemn act of religion. And they dedicated 
their infant to his Maker with becoming seri- 
ousness. 

Trueman left the cottage and got back to Mr. 
Fantom's, just as the family were going to sit 
lown to dinner, as he had promised. 

When they sat down, Mr. Fantom was not a 
little out of humour to see his table in some dis- 
order. William was also rather more negligent 
than usual. If the company called for bread, he 
gave them beer, and he took away the clean 
plates, and gave them dirty ones. Mr. Fantom 
soon discovered that hi9 servant was very drunk; 
he flew into a violent passion, and ordered him 



out of the room, charging that ho should not ap. 
pear in his presence in that condition. William 
obeyed ; but having slept an hour o^ two, and 
got about half sober, he again made his appear- 
ance. His master gave him a most severe re- 
primand, and called him an idle, drunken, vi- 
cious fellow. ' Sir,' said William, very pertly, 
' If I do get drunk now and then, I only do it 
for the good of my country, and in obedience to 
your wishes.' Mr. Fantom, thoroughly pro- 
voked, now began to scold him in words not fit 
to be repeated ; and asked him what he meant, 
' Why, sir,' said William, ' you are a philoso- 
pher you know ; and I have often overheard you 
say to your company, that private vices are pub* 
lie benefits ; and so I thought that getting drunk 
was as pleasant a way of doing good to the pub- 
lic as any, especially when I could oblige my 
master at the same time.' 

' Get out of my house,' said Mr. Fantom, in a 
great rage. ' I do not desire to stay a moment 
longer,' said William, ' so pay me my wages.' — 
' Not I indeed,' replied the master; 'nor will I 
give you a character ; so never let me see your 
face again.' William took his master at his 
word, and not only got out of the house, but 
went out of the country too as fast as possible. 
When they found he was really gone, they made 
a hue-and-cry, in order to detain him till they 
examined if he had left every thing in the house 
as he had found it. But William had got out of 
reach, knowing he could not stand such a scru- 
tiny. On examination, Mr. Fantom found that 
all his old port was gone, and Mrs. Fantom 
missed three of her best new spoons. William 
was pursued, but without success ; and Mr. 
Fantom was so much discomposed that he could 
not for the rest of the day, talk on any subject 
but his wine and his spoons, nor harangue on 
any project but that of recovering both by bring- 
ing William to justice. 

Some days passed away, in which Mr. Fan- 
tom, haviug had time to cool, began to be 
ashamed that he had been betrayed into such 
ungoverned passion. He made the best excuse 
he could ; said no man was perfect, and though 
he owned he had been too violent, yet still he 
hoped William would be brought to the punish- 
ment he deserved. ' In the meantime,' said Mr. 
Trueman, ' seeing how ill philosophy has agreed 
with your man, suppose you were to set about 
teaching your maids a little religion ?' Mr. 
Fantom coolly replied, ' that the impertinent re- 
tort of a drunken footman could not spoil a sys- 
tem.' — ' Your system, however, and your own 
behaviour,' said Trueman, ' have made that foot- 
man a scoundrel : and you are answerable for 
his offences.' — ' Not I truly,' said Fantom ; ' he 
has seen me do no harm ; he has neither seen 
me cheat, gamble, nor get drunk ; and I defy 
you to say I corrupt my servants. I am a mo- 
ral man, sir.' 

1 Mr. Fantom,' said Trueman, ' if you wero 
to get drunk every day, and game every night, 
you would, indeed, endanger your own soul, and 
give a dreadful example to your family ; but 
great as those sins are, and God forbid that I 
should attempt to lessen them ! still they are 
not worse, nay, they are not so bad, as the pes- 
tilent doctrines with which you infect vour 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



127 



house and your neighbourhood. A bad action 
is like a single murder. The consequence may 
end with the crime, to all but the perpetrator ; 
but a wicked principle is throwing lighted gun- 
powder into a town ; it is poisoning a river ; 
there are no bounds, no certainty, no ends to its 
mischief. The ill effects of the worst action 
may cease in time, and the consequences of 
your bad example may end with your life ; but 
souls may be brought to perdition by a wicked 
principle after the author of it has been dead 
for ages.' 

Fantom. You talk like an ignoramus, who 
has never read the new philosophy. All this 
nonsense of future punishment is now done 
away It is our benevolence which makes us 
reject your creed ; we can no more believe in a 
deity who permits so much evil in the present 
world, than one who threatens eternal punish- 
ment in the next. 

Trueman. What ! shall mortal man be more 
merciful than God ? Do you pretend to be more 
compassionate than that gracious Father who 
Bent his own Son into the world to die for sin- 
ners ? 

Fantom. You take all your notions of the 
Deity from the vulgar views your Bible gives 
you of him. 'To be sure I do,' said Trueman: 
' can you tell me any way of getting a better 
notion of him ? I do not want any of your 
farthing-candle philosophy in the broad sun- 
shine of the Gospel, Mr. Fantom. My Bible 
tells me that ' God is love ;' not merely loving, 
but love. Now do you think a Being, whose 
Very essence is love, would permit any misery 
among his children here, if it was not to be, 
some way or other, or some where or other, for 
their good ? You forget, too, that in a world 
where there is sin, there must be misery. Then, 
too, I suppose, God permits this very misery 
partly to exercise the sufferers and partly to try 
the prosperous ; for by trouble God corrects 
some and tries others. Suppose now, Tom 
Saunders had not been put in prison, you and I 
no, I beg pardon, you saved your gui- 
nea ; well then, our club and I could not have 
shown our kindness in getting him out; nor 
would poor Saunders himself have had an op- 
portunity of exercising his own patience and 
submission under want and imprisonment. So 
you see one reason why God permits misery, is 
that good men may have an opportunity of les- 
sening it.' Mr. Fantom replied, ' There is no 
object which I have more at heart ; I have, as I 
told you, a plan in my head of such universal 
benevolence as to include the happiness of all 
mankind.' — ' Mr. Fantom, said Trueman, ' I 
feel that I have a general good will to all my 
brethren of mankind ; and if I had as much 
money in my purse as I have love in my heart, 
I trust I should prove it : all I say iR, that, in a 
station of life where I cannot do much, I am 
more called upon to procure the happiness of a 
poor neighbour, who has no one else to look to, 
than to form wild plans for the good of mankind, 
too extensive to be accomplished, and too chi- 
merical to be put in practice. It is the height 
of folly for a little ignorant tradesman to dis- 
tract himself with projecting schemes which re- 
quire the wisdom of scholars, the experience of 



statesmen, and the power of kings to accom. 
plish. I cannot free whole countries, nor reform 
the evils of society at large, but I can free an 
aggrieved wretch in a workhouse ; I can relieve 
the distresses of one of my journeymen ; and I 
can labour to reform myself and my own fa- 
mily.' 

Some weeks after this a letter was brought to 
Mr. Fantom from his late servant William, who 
had been turned away for drunkenness, as re- 
lated above, and who had also robbed his mas- 
ter of some wine and some spoons. Mr. Fantom, 
glancing his eye over the letter, said, 'It is 
dated from Chelmsford jail ; that rascal has got 
into prison. I am glad of it with all my heart, 
it is the fittest place for such scoundrels. I hope 
he will be sent to Botany Bay, if not hanged.' — 
' O, ho ! my good friend,' said Trueman, ' then 
I find that in abolishing all prisons you would 
just let one stand for the accommodation of those 
who would happen to rob you. General benevo- 
lence, I see, is compatible with particular re- 
sentments, though individual kindness is not 
consistent with universal philanthropy.' Mr. 
Fantom drily observed, that he was not fond of 
jokes, and proceeded to read the letter. It ex- 
pressed an earnest wish that his late master 
would condescend to pay him one visit in his 
dark and doleful abode ; as he wished to say a 
few words to him before the dreadful sentence 
of the law, which had already been pronounced, 
should be executed. 

' Let us go and see the poor fellow,' said True- 
man ; ' it is but a morning's ride. If he is really 
so near his end it would be cruel to refuse him.' 
' Not I, truly ;' said Fantom ; ' he deserves no- 
thing at my hands but the halter he is likely to 
meet with. Such port is not to be had for mo- 
ney ! and the spoons, part of my new dozen !' — 
' As to the wine, said Trueman, ' I am afraid 
you must give that up, but the only way to get 
any tidings of the spoons is to go and hear what 
he has to say ; I have no doubt but he will make 
such a confession as may be very useful to 
others, which, you know, is one grand advan- 
tage of punishments ; and, besides, we may af- 
ford him some little comfort.' 'As to comfort 
he deserves none from m.e,' said Fantom ; ' and 
as to his confessions, they can be of no use to 
me, but as they give me a chance of getting my 
spoons ; so I do not much care if I do take a 
ride with you.' 

When they came to the prison, Mr. True- 
man's tender heart sunk within him. He de- 
plored the corrupt nature of man, which makes 
such rigorous confinement indispensably need- 
ful, not merely for the punishment of the of- 
fender, but for the safety of society. Fintom, 
from mere trick and habit, was just preparing 
a speech on benevolence, and the cruelty of im- 
prisonment ; for he had a set of sentiments col- 
lected from the new philosophy which he always 
kept by him. The naming a man in power 
brought out the ready cut and dried phrase 
against oppression. The idea of rank included 
every vice, that of poverty every virtue ; and he 
was furnished with all the invectives against the 
cruelty of laws, punishments, and prisons, which 
the new lexicon has produced. But his mechani- 
cal benevolence was suddenly ahecked ; the ro» 



128 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



collection of his old port and his new spoons 
cooled his ardour, and he went on without say- 
ing a word. 

When they reached the cell where the un- 
happy William was confined, they stopped at the 
door. The poor wretch had thrown himself on 
the ground, as well as his chains would permit. 
He groaned piteously ; and was so swallowed up 
with a sense of his own miseries, that he neither 
heard the door open, nor saw the gentlemen. 
He was attempting to pray, but in an agony 
which made his words hardly intelligible. Thus 
much they could make out — ' God be merciful 
to me a sinner, the chief of sinners !' then, sud- 
denly attempting to start up, but prevented by 
his irons, he roared out, ' O God '. thou canst not 
be merciful to me, for I have denied thee ; I 
have ridiculed my Saviour who died for me ; I 
have broken his laws ; I have derided his word ; 
I have resisted his Spirit ; I have laughed at 
that heaven which is shut against me ; I have 
denied the truth of those torments which await 
me. To-morrow ! to-morrow ! O for a longer 
space for repentance ! O for a short reprieve 
from hell !' 

Mr. Trueman wept so loud that it drew the 
attention of the criminal, who now lifted up his 
eyes, and cast on his late master a look so dread- 
ful that Fantom wished for a moment that he 
had given up all hope of the spoons, rather than 
have exposed himself to such a scene. At length 
the poor wretch said, in a low voice that would 
have melted a heart of stone, • O, sir, are you 
there ? I did indeed wish to see you before my 
dreadful sentence is put in execution. Oh, sir ! 
to-morrow ! to-morrow ! But I have a confession 
to make to you. This revived Mr. Fantom, who 
again ventured to glance a hope at the spoons. 
1 Sir,' said William, ' I could not die without 
making my confession.' 4 Ay, and restitution 
too, I hope,' replied Fantom : ' where are my 
spoons V ' Sir, they are gone with the rest of 
my wretched booty. But oh, sir ! those spoons 
make so petty an article in my black account, 
that I hardly think of them. Murder ! sir, mur- 
der is the crime for which I am justly doomed 
to die. Oh, sir, who can abide the anger of an 
offended God ? Who can dwell with everlasting 
burnings ?' As this was a question which even 
a philosopher could not answer, Mr. Fantom was 
going to steal off, especially as he now gave up 
all hope of the spoons ; but William called him 
back : ' Stay, sir, stay, I conjure you, as you 
will answer it at the bar of God. You must 
hear the sins of which you have been the occa- 
sion. You are the cause of my being about to 
suffer a shameful death. — Yes, sir, you made 
me a drunkard, a thief, and a mnrdorer.' ' How 
dare you, William,' cried Mr. Fantom, with 
great emotion, ' accuse me with being the cause 
of such horrid crimes?' 'Sir,' answered the cri- 
minal, ' from you I learned the principles which 
lead to those crimes. By the grace of God I 
should never have fallen into sins deserving of 
the gallows, if I had not overheard you say 
there was no hereafter, no judgment, no future 
reckoning. O, sir ! there is a hell, dreadful, in- 
conceivable, eternal !' Here, through the excess 
of anguish, the poor fellow fainted away. Mr. 
Fantom, who did not at all relish this scene, 



said to his friend, ' well, sir, we will go, if you 
please, for you see there is nothing to be done.' 

' Sir,' replied Mr. Trueman, mournfully, ' you 
may go if you please, but I shall stay, for I see 
there is a great deal to be done.' — ' What !' re- 
joined the other, ' do you think it possible his 
life can be saved.' ' No, indeed,' said Trueman ; 
' but I hope it possible his soul may be saved.' 
' I do not understand these things,' said Fantom, 
making toward the door. 'Nor I neither,' said 
Trueman ; ' but as a fellow-sinner, I am bound 
to do what I can for this poor man. Do you go 
home, Mr. Fantom, and finish your treatise on 
universal benevolence, and the blessed effects of 
philosophy ; and hark ye, be sure you let the 
frontispiece of your book represent William, on 
the gibbet ; that will be what our minister calls 
a practical illustration. You know I hate 
theories : this is realizing ; this is philosophy 
made easy to the meanest capacity. This is the 
precious fruit which grows on that darling tree, 
so many slips of which have been transplanted 
from that land of liberty of which it is the na- 
tive, but which, with all your digging, planting, 
watering, dunging, and dressing, will, I trust, 
never thrive in this blessed land of ours.' 

Mr. Fantom sneaked off to finish his work at 
home ; and Mr. Trueman staid to finish his in 
the prison. He passed the night with the wretch- 
ed convict; he prayed with him and for him, 
and read to him the penitential psalms, and 
some portions of the Gospel. — But he was too 
humble and too prudent a man to venture out 
of his depth by arguments and consolations 
which he was not warranted to use : this he left 
for the clergyman — but he pressed on William 
the great duty of making the only amends now 
in his power to those whom he had led astray. — 
They then drew up the following paper, which 
Mr. Trueman got printed, and gave away at the 
place of execution. 

The last words, confession, and dying speech of 
William Wilson, who was executed at Chelms- 
ford for murder. 

' I was bred up in the fear of God, and lived 
with credit in many sober families, in which I 
was a faithful servant ; but being tempted by a 
little higher wages, I left a good place to go and 
live with Mr. Fantom, who, however made good 
none of his fine promises, but proved a hard 
master. Full of fine words and charitable 
speeches in favour of the poor; but apt to oppress, 
overwork, and underpay them. In his service 
I was not allowed time to go to church. This 
troubled me at first, till I overheard my master 
say, that going to church was a superstitious 
prejudice, and only meant for the vulgar. Upon 
this I resolved to go no more ; for I thought 
there could not be two religions, one for the 
master, and one for the servant. Finding my 
master never prayed, I too left off praying : this 
gave Satan great power over me, so that I from 
that time fell into almost every sin. I was very 
uneasy at first, and my conscience gave me no 
rest ; but I was soon reconciled by overhearing 
my master and another gentleman say, that 
death was only an eternal sleep, and hell and 
judgment were but an invention of priests to 
keep the poor in order. I mention this as a 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



i29 



warning to all masters and mistresses to take 
care what they converse about while servants 
are waiting at table. They cannot tell how 
many souls they have sent to perdition by such 
loose talk. The crime for which I die is the 
natural consequence of the principles I learnt 
of my master. A rich man, indeed, who throws 
off religion, may escape the gallows, because 
want does not drive him to commit those crimes 
which lead to it ; but what shall restrain a needy 
man, who has been taught that there is no dread- 
ful reckoning ? Honesty is but a dream without 
the awful sanctions of heaven and hell. Virtue 
is but a shadow, if it be stripped of the terrors 
and the promises of the Gospel. Morality is but 
an empty name, if it be destitute of the principle 
and power of Christianity. Oh, my dear fellow- 
servants ! take warning by my sad fate ; never 
be tempted away from a sober service for the 
sake of a little more wages: never venture your 
immortal souls in houses where God is not fear- 
ed. And now hear me, O, my God, though I 
have blasphemed thee ! forgive me, O my Sa- 
viour, though I have denied thee ! O Lord most 
holy, O God most mighty, deliver me from the 



bitter pains of eternal death, and receive my 
soul for His sake who died for sinners. 

' William Wilson.' 

Mr. Trueman would never leave this poor 
penitent till he was launched into eternity, but 
attended him with the minister in the cart. This 
pious clergyman never cared to say what he 
thought of Williams state. — When Mr. True- 
man ventured to mention his hope, that though 
his penitence was late, yet it was sincere, and 
spoke of the dying thief on the cross as a ground 
of encouragement, the minister with a very se- 
rious look, made this ar.swer : 'Sir, that in- 
stance is too often brought forward on occasions 
to which it does not apply : I do not choose to 
say any thing to your application of it in the 
present case, but I will answer you in the words 
of a good man speaking of the penitent thief: 
4 There is one such instance given that nobody 
might despair, and there is but one, that nobody 
might presume.' 

Poor William was turned off just a quarter 
before eleven ; and may the Lord have mercy on 
his soul ! 



THE TWO WEALTHY FARMERS; 

OR, THE HISTORY OF MR. BRAGWELL. 



IN SEVEN PARTS 



PART I.— THE VISIT. 



Mr. Bragwell and Mr. Worthy happened to 
meet last year at Weyhill fair. They were 
glad to see each other, as they had but seldom 
met oflate ; Mr. Bragwell having removed some 
years before from Mr. Worthy's neighbourhood, 
to a distant village, where he had bought an 
estate. 

Mr. Brasfwell was a substantial farmer and 
grazier. He had risen in the world by what 
worldly men call a run of good fortune. He had 
also been a man of great industry ; that is, he 
had paid a diligent and constant attention to hi3 
own interest. He understood business, and had 
a knack of turning almost every thing to his 
own advantage. Ho had that sort of sense 
which good men call cunning, and knaves call 
wisdom. He was too prudent ever to do any 
thing so wrong that the law could take hold of 
him ; yet he was not over scrupulous about the 
morality of an action, when the prospect of en- 
riching himself by it was very great, and the 
chance of hurting his character was small. The 
corn he sent home to his customers was not al- 
ways quite so good as the samples he had pro- 
duced at market; and he now and then forgot 
to name some capital blemish in the horses he 
sold at fair. He scorned to be guilty of the 
petty frauds of cheating in weights and mea- 
sures, for he thought that was a beggarly sin ; 
but he valued himself on his skill in making a 
bargain, and fancied it showed his superior 
knowledge of the world to take advantage of the 
ignorance of a dealer. 

It was bis constant rule to undervalue every 

Vol. L 



thing he was about to buy, and to overvaluo 
every thing he was about to sell ; but as he sel- 
dom lost sight of his discretion, he avoided every 
thing that was very shameful ; so that he was 
considered merely as a hard dealer, and a keen 
hand at a bargain. Now and then when he had 
been caught in pushing his own advantage too 
far, he contrived to get out of the scrape by 
turning the whole into a jest, saying it was a 
good take in, a rare joke, and he had only a 
mind to divert himself with the folly of his 
neighbour, who could be so easily imposed on. 

Mr. Bragwell, however, in his way, set a 
high value on character : not indeed that he 
had a right sense of its worth ; he did not con- 
sider reputation as desirable because it increases 
influence, and for that reason strengthens the 
hands of a good man, and enlarges his sphere 
of usefulness: but he made the advantage of 
reputation, as well as of every othergood, centre 
in himself. Had he observed a strict attention 
to principle, he feared he should not have got on 
so fast in the world as those do who consult ex- 
pediency rather than probity, while, without a 
certain degree of character, he knew also, that 
he should forfeit that confidence which put other 
men in his power, and would set them as much 
on their guard against him, as he, who thought 
all mankind pretty much alike, was on his 
guard against them. 

Mr. Bragwell had one favourite maxim ; 
namely, that a man's success in life was a sure 
proof of his wisdom : and that all failure and 
misfortune was the consequence of a man's own 
folly. As this opinion was first taken up by 
him from Vanity and ignorance, so it was more 



130 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



and more confirmed by his own prosperity. He 
saw that he himself had succeeded greatly with- 
out either money or education to begin with ; 
and he therefore now despised every man, how- 
ever excellent his character or talents might be, 
who had not the same success in life. His na- 
tural disposition was not particularly bad, but 
prosperity had hardened his heart. He made 
his own progress in life the rule by which the 
conduct of all other men was to be judged, with- 
out any allowance for their peculiar disadvan- 
tages, or the visitations of Providence. He 
thought, for his part, that every man of sense 
could command success on his undertakings, 
and control and dispose the events of his own 
life. 

But though he considered those who had had 
less success than himself as no better than fools, 
yet he did not extend this opinion to Mr. Wor- 
thy, whom he looked upon not only as a good 
but a wise man. They had been bred up when 
children in the same house ; but with this dif- 
ference, that Worthy was the nephew of the 
master, and Bragwell the son of the servant. 

Bragwell's father had been ploughman in the 
family of Mr. Worthy's uncle, a sensible man, 
who farmed a small estate of his own, and who 
having no children, bred up young Worthy as 
his son, instructed him in the business of hus- 
bandry, and at his death left him his estate. The 
father of Worthy was a pious clergyman, who 
lived with his brother the farmer, in order to 
help out a narrow income. He had bestowed 
much pains on the instruction of his son, and 
used frequently to repeat to him a saying, which 
he had picked up in a book written by one of 
the greatest men this country ever produced — 
That there were two things with which every 
man ought to be acquainted, Religion and his 
own business. — While he therefore took care 
that his son should be made an excellent farmer, 
he filled up his leisure hours in improving his 
mind: so that young Worthy had read more 
good books, and understood them better, than 
most men in his station. His reading however 
had been chiefly confined to husbandry and di- 
vinity, the two subjects which were of the most 
immediate importance to him. 

The reader will see by this time that Mr. 
Bragwell and Mr. Worthy were as likely to be 
as opposite to each other as two men could well 
be, who were nearly of the same age and condi- 
tion, and who were neither of them without cre- 
dit in the world. Bragwell indeed made far 
the greater figure ; for he liked to cut a dash, as 
he called it. It was his delight to make the 
ancient gentry of the neighbourhood stare, at 
seeing a grazier vie with them in show, and 
exceed them in expense. And while it was 
•the study of Worthy to conform to his station, 
and to set a good example to those about him, it 
was the delight of Bragwell to eclipse, in his 
way of life, men of larger fortune. He did not 
see how much his vanity raised the envy of his 
inferiors, the ill-will of his equals, and the con- 
tempt of his betters. 

His wife was a notable stirring woman, but 
vain, violent, and ambi ioijs ; very ignorant, and 
very high-minded. She had married Bragwell 
betore ne was vxra a shilling, and as she had 



brought him a good deal of money, she thought 
herself the grand cause of his rising in the 
world ; and thence took occasion to govern him 
most completely. Whenever he ventured to op- 
pose her, she took care to put him in mind that 
he owed every thing to her ; that had it not been 
for her, he might still have been stumping after 
a plough-tail, or serving hogs in old Worthy's 
farm-yard ; but that it was she who had made a 
gentleman of him. In order to set about making 
him a gentleman, she had begun by teazing him 
till he had turned away all his poor relations who 
worked in the farm : she next drew him off from 
keeping company with his old acquaintance 
and at last persuaded him to remove from the 
place where he had got his money. Poor wo- 
man ! she had not sense and virtue enough to 
see how honourable it is for a man to raise, 
himself in the world by fair means, and then to 
help forward his poor relations and friends ; en- 
gaging their services by his kindness, and en- 
deavouring to turn his own advancement in life 
to the best account, that of making it the in- 
strument of assisting those who had a natural 
claim to his protection. 

Mrs. Bragwell was an excellent mistress, 
according to her own notions of excellence; for 
no one could say she ever lost an opportunity of 
scolding a servant, or was ever guilty of the 
weakness of overlooking a fault. Towards her 
two daughters her behaviour was far otherwise. 
In them she could see nothing but perfections , 
but her extravagant fondness for these girls was 
full as much owing to pride as to affectation. 
She was bent on making a family, and having 
found out that she was too ignorant, and too 
much trained to the habits of getting money, 
ever to hope to make a figure herself, she looked 
to her daughters as the persons who were to 
raise the family of the Bragwells ; and to this 
hope she foolishly submitted to any drudgery 
for their sakes, and bore every kind of imper- 
tinence from them. 

The first wish of her heart was to set them 
above their neighbours ; for she used to say, 
what was the use of having substance, if her 
daughters might not carry themselves above 
girls who had nothing ? To do her justice, she 
herself would be about early and late to see that 
the business of the house was not neglected. 
She had been bred to great industry, and con 
tinued to work when it was no longer necessary, 
both from early habit, and the desire of heaping 
up money for her daughters. Yet her whole no- 
tion of gentility was, that it consisted in being 
rich and idle ; and, though she was willing to 
be a drudge herself, she resolved to make her 
daughters gentlewomen on this principle. To be 
well dressed, to eat elegantly, and to do no- 
thing, or nothing of which is of any use, was 
what she fancied distinguished people in gen- 
teel life. And this is too common a notion of a 
fine education among a certain class ; they do 
not esteem things by their use, but by their 
show. They estimate the value of their chil- 
| dren's education by the money it costs, and not 
by the knowledge and goodness it bestows. 
People of this stamp often take a pride in the 
expense of learning, instead of taking pleasure 
in the advantages of it. And the silly vanity 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



131 



of letting others see that they can afford any 
thing 1 , often sets parents en letting their daugh- 
ters learn not only tilings of no use, but things 
which may be really hurtful in their situation ; 
either by setting them above their proper duties, 
or by taking up their time in a way inconsis- 
tent with them. 

Mrs. Bragwell sent her daughters to a board- 
ing-school, where she instructed them to hold 
up their heads as high as any body ; to have 
more spirit than to be put upon by any one; 
never to be pitiful about money, but rather to 
show that they could afford to spend with the 
best; to keep company with the richest and 
most fashionable girls, in the school, and to make 
no acquaintance with farmers' daughters. 

They came home at the usual age of leaving 
school, with a large portion of vanity grafted on 
their native ignorance. The vanity was added, 
but the ignorance was not taken away. Of re- 
ligion they could not possibly learn any thing, 
since none was taught, for at that place Chris- 
tianity was considered as a part of education 
which belonged only to charity schools. They 
went to church indeed once a Sunday, yet ef- 
fectually to counteract any benefit such an at- 
tendance might produce, it was the rule of the 
school that they should use only French prayer- 
books ; of course, such superficial scholars as the 
Miss Bragwells would always be literally pray- 
ing in an unknown tongue ; while girls of bet- 
ter capacity and more industry would infallibly 
be picking out the nominative case, the verb, 
and participle of a foreign language, in the solemn 
act of kneeling before the Father of Spirits, 
4 who searcheth the heart and tryeth the reins.' 
During the remainder of the Sunday they learnt 
their worldly tasks, all except actual needle- 
work, which omssion alone mark'd the distinc- 
tion of Sunday from other days ; and the go- 
verness being a French Roman Catholic, it be- 
came a doubtful point with some people, whether 
her zeal or her negligence in the article of re- 
ligion would be most to the advantage of her 
pupils. Of knowledge the Miss Bragwells had 
got just enough to laugh at their fond pa- 
rents' rustic manners and vulgar language, and 
just enough taste to despise and ridicule every 
girl who was not as vainly dressed as themselves. 
The mother had been comforting herself for 
the heavy expense of their bringing up, by look- 
ing forward to the pleasure of seeing them be- 
come fine ladies, and the pride of marrying 
them above their station ; and to this hope she 
constantly referred in all her conversations with 
them ; assuring them that all her happiness de- 
pended on their future elevation. 

Their father hoped, with far more judgment, 
that they would be a comfort to him both in 
sickness and in health. He had had no learn- 
ing himself, and could write but poorly, and 
owed what skill he had in figures to his na- 
tural turn of business. He reasonably hoped 
that his daughters, after all the money he had 
spent on them, would now write his letters and 
keep his accounts. And as he was now and 
then laid up with a fit of the gout, he was en- 
joying the prospect of having two affectionate 
children to nurse him, as well as two skilful as- 
sistants to relieve him. 



When they came home, however, he had the 
mortification to find, that though he had two 
smart showy ladies to visit him, he had neither 
dutiful daughters to nurse him, nor faithful 
stewards to keep his books, nor prudent chil- 
dren to manage his house. They neither sooth- 
ed him by their kindness when he was sick, nor 
helped him by their industry when he was busy. 
They thought the maid might take care of him 
in the gout as she did before ; for they fancied 
that nursing was a coarse and servile employ 
ment : and as to their skill in cyphering he soon 
found, to his cost, that though they knew how 
to spend both pounds, shillings, and pence, yet 
they did not know how so well to cast them up. 
Indeed it is to be regretted that women in general, 
especially in the middle class, are so little ground- 
ed in so indispensable, solid, and valuable an ac- 
quirement as arithmetic. 

Mrs. Bragwell being one day very busy in 
preparing a great dinner for the neighbours, 
ventured to request her daughters to assist in 
making the pastry. They asked her with a 
scornful smile, whether she had sent them to a 
boarding school to learn to cook ; and added, that 
they supposed she would expect them next to 
make hasty-puddings for the hay-makers. So 
saying, they coolly marched off to their music. 
When the mother found her girls were too polite 
to be of any use, she would take comfort in ob- 
serving how her parlour was set out with their 
fillagrce and flowers, their embroidery and cut 
paper. They spent the morning in bed, the 
noon in dressing, the evening at the harpsi- 
chord, and the night in reading novels. 

With all these fine qualifications it is easy to 
suppose, that as they despised their sober duties, 
they no less despised their plain neighbours. 
When they could not get to a horse-race, a petty- 
ball, or a strolling play, with some company as 
idle and as smart as themselves, they were 
driven for amusement to the circulating library. 
Jack, the ploughboy, on whom they had now 
put a livery jacket, was employed half his time 
in trotting backwards and forwards with the 
most wretched trash the little neighbouring 
bookshop could furnish. The choice was often 
left to Jack, who could not read, but who had 
general orders to bring all the new things, and a 
great many of them. 

It was a misfortune, that at the school at 
which they had been bred, and at some others, 
there was no system of education which had 
any immediate reference to the station of life 
to which the girls chiefly belonged. As per- 
sons in the middle line, for want of that ac- 
quaintance with books, and with life and man- 
ners, which the great possess, do not always see 
the connexion between remote consequences 
and their causes, the evils of a corrupt and i^ 
appropriate system of education do not strike 
them so forcibly ; and provided they can pay for 
it, which is made the grand criterion between 
the fit and the unfit, they are too little disposed 
to consider the value, or rather the worthless- 
ness, of the thing which is paid for : but liter- 
ally go on to give their money for that which is 
not bread. 

Their subsequent course of reading serves to 
establish all the errors of their education. In- 



132 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



stead of such books as might help to confirm 
and strengthen them in all the virtues of their 
station, in humility, economy, meekness, con- 
tentment, self-denial, arid industry; the studies 
now adopted are, by a graft on the old stock, 
made to grow on the habits acquired at school. 
Ol* those novels and plays which are so eagerly 
devoured by persons of this discription, there 
is perhaps scarce one which is not founded upon 
principles which would lead young women of 
the middle ranks to be discontented with their 
Station. It is rank — it is elegance — it is beauly 
— it is sentimental feelings — it is sensibility — 
it is some needless, or some superficial, or some 
quality hurtful, even in that fashionable person 
to whom the author ascribes it, which is the 
ruling principle. This quality transferred into 
the heart and the conduct of an illiterate woman 
in an inferior station, becomes absurdity, be- 
comes sinfulness. 

Things were in this state in the family we 
are describing, or rather growing worse ; for 
idleness and vanity are never at a stand ; when 
these two wealthy farmers, Bragwell and Wor- 
thy, met at Weyhill fair, as was said before. 
After many hearty salutations had passed be- 
tween them, it was agreed lhat Mr. Bragwell 
should spend the next day with his old friend, 
whose house was not many miles distant. 
Bragwell invited himself in the following man- 
ner : ' We have not had a comfortable day's chat 
for years,' said he, ' and as I am to look at a 
drove of lean beasts in your neighbourhood, I 
will take a bed at your house, and we will pass 
the evening in debating as we used to do. You 
know I always loved a bit of an argument, and 
am not reckoned to make the worst figure 
at our club : I had not, to be sure, such good 
learning as you had, because your father was a 
parson, and you got it for nothing : but I can 
bear my part pretty well for all that. When any 
man talks to me about his learning, I ask if it 
has helped him to get a good estate ; if he says 
no, then I would not give him a rush for it ; for 
of what use is all the learning in the world, if 
it does not make a man rich ? But, as I was 
Baying, I will come and see you to-morrow ; but 
now don't let your wife put herself in a fuss for 
me : don't alter your own plain way : for I am 
not proud, I assure you, nor above my old 
friends ; though, I thank God, I am pretty well 
in the world.' 

To all this flourishing speech Mr. Worthy 
coolly answered, that certainly worldly pros- 
perity ought never to make any man proud, 
since it is God who giveth strength to get riches, 
and without his blessing, 'tis in vain to rise up 
early, and to eat the bread of carefulness. 

f (About the middle of the next day Mr. Brag- 
ell reached Mr. Worthy's neat and pleasant 
dwelling. He found every thing in it the re- 
verse of his own. It had not so many orna- 
ments, but it had more comforts. And when 
he saw his friend's good old-fashioned arm chair 
in a warm corner, he gave a sigh to think how 
his own had been banished to make room for 
his daughter's piano forte. Instead of made 
flowers in glass cases, and tea-chests and screens 
too fine to be used, which he saw at home, and 
about which he was cautioned, and scolded as 



often as he came near them : his daughtori 
watching his motions with the same anxiety as 
they would have watched the motions of a cat 
in a china shop. Instead of this, I say, he saw 
some neat shelves of good books for the service 
of the family, and a small medicine chest for the 
benefit of the poor. 

Mrs. Worthy and her daughters had prepar- 
ed a plain but neat and good dinner. — The tarts 
were so excellent, that Bragwell felt a secret 
kind of regret that his own daughters were too 
genteel to do any thing so very useful. Indeed 
he had been always unwilling to believe that 
any thing which was very proper and very ne- 
cessary, could be so extremely vulgar and un- 
becoming as his daughters were always declar- 
ing it to be. And his late experience of the 
little comfort he found at home, inclined him 
now still more strongly to suspect that things 
were not so right there as he had been made to 
suppose. But it was in vain to speak ; for his 
daughters constantly stopped his mouth by a 
favourite saying of theirs, which equally indica- 
ted affectation and vulgarity, that it was better 
to be out of the world than out of the fashion. 

Soon after dinner the women went out to 
their several employments; and Mr. Worthy 
being left alone with his guest, the following 
discourse took place : 

Bragwell. You have a couple of sober, pretty 
looking girls, Worthy ; but I wonder they don't 
tiff off a little more. Why, my girls have as 
much fat and flour on their heads as would half 
maintain my reapers in suet pudding. 

Worthy. Mr. Bragwell, in the management of 
my family, I don't consider what I might afford 
only, though that is one great point ; but I con. 
sider also what is needful and becoming in a 
man of my station ; for there are so many use- 
ful ways of laying out money, that I feel as if 
it were a sin to spend one unnecessary shilling. 
— Having had the blessing of a good education 
myself I have been able to give the like advan- 
tage to my daughters. One of the best lessons 
I have taught them is, to know themselves ; and 
one proof that they have learnt this lesson is, 
that they are not above any of the duties of 
their station. They read and write well, and 
when my eyes are bad, they keep my accounts 
in a very pretty manner. If I had put them to 
learn what you call genteel things, these might 
either have been of no use to them, and so both 
time and money thrown away ; or they might 
proved worse than nothing to them by leading 
them into wrong notions, and wrong company. 
Though we do not wish them to do the laborious 
parts of the dairy work, yet they always assist 
their mother in the management of it. As to 
their appearance, they are every day nearly as 
you see them now, and on Sunday they are 
very neatly dressed, but it is always in a decent 
and modest way. There are no lappets, fringes, 
furbelows, and tawdry ornaments ; no trains, 
turbans, and flounces, fluttering about my cheese 
and butter. And I should feel no vanity, but 
much mortification, if a stranger seeing farmer 
Worthy's daughters at church should ask who 
those fine ladies were. 

Bragwell. Now I own I should like to hav« 
such a question asked concerning my daugh 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



133 



ters. I like to make people stare and envy. It 
makes one feel oneself somebody. I never feel 
the pleasure of having handsome tilings so much 
as when I see they raise curiosity ; and enjoy 
the envy of others as a fresh evidence of my 
own prosperity. But as to yourself, to be sure, 
you best know what you can afford ; and indeed 
there is some difference between your daughters 
and the Miss Bragwells. 

Worthy. For my part, before I engage in any 
expense, I always ask myself these two short 
questions ; First, can I afford it? — Secondly, is 
it proper for me ? 

Bragwell. Do you so ? Now I own I ask my- 
self but one ; for if I find I can afford it, I take 
care to make it proper for me. If I can pay 
for a thing, no one has a right to hinder me 
from having it. 

Worthy. Certainly. But a man's own pru- 
dence, his love of propriety and sense of duty, 
ought to prevent him from doing an improper 
thing, as effectually as if there were somebody 
to hinder him. 

Bragwell. Now, I think a man is a fool who 
is hindered from having any thing he has a 
mind to; unless indeed, he is in want of money 
to pay for it. I am no friend to debt. A poor 
man must want on. 

Worthy. But I hope my children have not 
learnt to want any thing which is not proper 
for them. They are very industrious ; tiiey at- 
tend to business all day, and in the evening 
they sit down to their work and a good book. 
I take care that neither their reading nor con- 
versation shall excite any desires or tastes un- 
suitable to their condition. They have little 
vanity, because the kind of knowledge they have 
is of too sober a sort to raise admiration ; and 
from that vanity which attends a little smatter- 
ing of frivolous accomplishments, I have se- 
cured them, by keeping them in total ignorance 
of all such. I think they live in the fear of God. 
I trust they are humble and pious, and I am 
sure they seem cheerful and happy. If I am 
sick, it is pleasant to see them dispute which 
shall wait upon me; for they say the maid can- 
not do it so tenderly as themselves. 

This part of the discourse staggered Brag- 
well. An involuntary tear rushed into his eye. 
Vain as he was, he could not help feeling what 
a difference a religious and a worldly education 
made on the heart, and how much the former 
regulated even the natural temper. Another 
thing which surprised him was, that these girls 
living a life of domestic piety, without any pub- 
lic diversions, should be so very cheerful and 
happy ; while his own daughters, who were 
never contradicted, and were indulged with 
continual amusements, were always sullen and 
ill-tempered. That they who were more hu- 
moured should be less grateful, and they who 
were more amused less happy, disturbed him 
much. He envied Worthy the tenderness of his 
children, though he would not own it, but turn- 
ed it off thus: 

Bragwell. But my girls are too smart to make 
mops of, that is the truth. Though ours is a 
lonely village, it is wonderful to see how soon 
they get the fashions. What with the discrip- 
tions in the magazines, and the pictures in the 



pocket-books, they have them in a twinkling 
and outdo their patterns all to nothing. I used 
to take in the Country Journal, because it was 
useful enough to see how oats went, the time of 
high water, and the price of stocks. But when 
my ladies came home, forsooth, I was soon 
whedled out of that, and forced to take a Lon- 
don paper, that tells a deal about the caps and 
feathers, and all the trumpery of the quality, 
and the French dress, and the French undress. 
When I want to know what hops are a bag, 
they are snatching the paper to see what violet 
soap is a pound. And as to the dairy, they never 
care how cow's milk goes, as long as they can 
get some stuff which they call milk of roses. 
Seeing them disputing violently the other day 
about cream and butter, I thought it a sign they 
were beginning to care for the farm, till I found 
it was cold cream for the hands, and jessamine 
butter for the hair. 

Worthy. But do your daughters never read ? 

Bragwell. Read ! I believe they do too. Why 
our Jack, the plough-boy, spends half his time 
in going to a shop in our market town, where 
they let out books to read with marble covers. 
And they sell paper with all manner of colours 
on the edges, and gim-cracks, and powder-puffs, 
and wash-balls, and cards without any pips, and 
every thing in the world that's genteel and of 
no use. 'Twas but the other day I met Jack 
with a basket full of these books ; so having 
some time to spare, I sat down to see a little 
what they were about. 

Worthy. Well, I hope you there found what 
was likely to improve your daughters, and teach 
them the true use of time. 

Bragwell. O, as to that, you are pretty much 
out. I could make neither head nor tail of it; 
it was neither fish, flesh, nor good red-herring : 
it was all about my lord, and sir Harry, and the 
captain. But I never met with such nonsensi- 
cal fellows in my life. Their talk was no more 
like that of my old landlord, who was a lord you 
know, nor the captain of our fensibles, than 
chalk is like cheese. I was fairly taken in at 
first, and began to think I had got hold of a 
godly book ; for there was a deal about hope and 
despair, and death, and heaven, and angels, and 
torments, and everlasting happiness. But when 
I got a little on, I found there was no meaning 
in all these words, or if any, it was a bad mean- 
ing. Eternal misery, perhaps, only meant a 
moment's disappointment about a bit of a letter; 
and everlasting happiness meant two people 
talking nonsense together for five minutes. In 
short, I never met with such a pack of lies. The 
people talk such wild gibberish as no folks in 
their sober senses ever did talk ; and the things 
that happen to them are not like the things that 
ever happen to me or any of my acquaintance. 
They are at home one minute, and beyond sef 
the next : beggars to-day, and lords to-morrow ; 
waiting maids in the morning, and dutchesses 
at night. Nothing happens in a natural gradual 
way, as it does at home ; they grow rich by the 
stroke of a wand, and poor by the magic of a 
word; the disinherited orphan of this hour is 
the overgrown heir of the next: now a bride 
and bridegroom turn out to be brother and sis- 
ter, and the brother and sister prove to be no 



134 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



relations at all. You and I, master Worthy, 
have worked hard many years, and think it 
very well to have scraped a trifle of money to- 
gether ; you, a few hundreds I suppose, and I a 
few thousands. But one would think every man 
in these books had the bank of England in his 
'scrutoire. Then there is another thing which 
I never met with in true life. We think it pretty 
well, you know, if one has got one thing, and 
another has got another. I will tell you how I 
mean. You are reckoned sansible, our parson 
is learned, the squire is rich, I am rather gene- 
rous, one of your daughters is pretty, and both 
mine are genteel. But in these books (except 
here and there one, whom they make worse than 
Satan himself) every man and woman's child of 
them, are all wise, and witty, and generous, and 
rich, and handsome, and genteel ; and all to the 
last degree. Nobody is middling, or good in 
one thing, and bad in another, like my live ac- 
quaintance ; but it is all up to the skies, or down 
to the dirt. I had rather read Tom Hickathrift, 
or Jack the giant Killer, a thousand times. 

Worthy. You have found out, Mr. Bragwell, 
that many of these books are ridiculous ; I will 
go farther, and say, that to me they appear 
wicked also : and I should account the reading 
of them a great mischief, especially to people 
in middling and low life, if I only took into the 
account the great loss of time such reading 
causes, and the aversion it leaves behind for 
what is more serious and solid. But this, though 
a bad part, is not the worst. These books give 
false views of human life. They teach a con- 
tempt for humble and domestic duties ; for in- 
dustry, frugality, and retirement. Want of 
youth and beauty is considered in them as ri- 
diculous. Plain people, like you and me, are 
objects of contempt. Parental authority is set 
at naught. Nay, plots and contrivances against 
parents and guardians, fill half the volumes. 
They consider love as the great business of hu- 
man life, and even teach that it is impossible 
for this love to be regulated or restrained ; and 
to the indulgence of this passion every duty is 
therefore sacrificed. A country life, with a kind 
mother or a sober aunt, is described as a state 
of intolerable misery : and one would be apt to 
fancy from their painting, that a good country 
house is a prison, and a worthy father the jailor. 
Vice is set off" with every ornament which can 
make it pleasing and amiable ; while virtue and 
piety are made ridiculous, by tacking to them 
something that is silly or absurd. Crimes which 
would be considered as hanging matter at our 
county assizes — at least if I were a juryman, I 
should bring in the whole train of heroes, 
Guilty — Death — are here made to the appear- 
ance of virtue, by being mixed with some wild 
flight of unnatural generosity. Those crying 

sins, ADULTERY, GAMING, DUELS, and SELF-MUR- 
DER, are made so familiar, and the wickedness 
of them is so disguised by fine words and soft 
descriptions, that even innocent girls get loose 
to their abhorrence, and talk with complacency, 
of things which should not be so much as named 
by them. 

I should not have said so much on this mis- 
chief (continued Mr. Worthy) from which I 
dare say, great folks fancy people in our station 



are safe enough, if I do not know and lament 
that this corrupt reading is now got down even 
among some of the lowest class. And it is an 
evil which is spreading every day. Poor indus- 
triou3 girls, who get their bread by the needle 
or the loom, spend half the night in listening to 
these books. Thus the labour of one girl is lost, 
and the minds of the rest are corrupted ; for 
though their hands are employed in honest in. 
dustry, which might help to preserve them 
from a life of sin, yet their hearts are at the 
very time polluted by scenes and descriptions 
which are too likely to plunge them into it : and 
when their vain weak heads compare the soft 
and delicious lives of the heroines in the book, 
with their own mean garb and hard labour, tho 
effect is obvious ; and I think I do not go too 
far when I say, that the vain and showy man- 
ner in which young women, who have to svork 
for their bread, have taken to dress themselves, 
added to the poison they draw from these books, 
contribute together to bring them to destruction, 
more than almost any other cause. Now tell 
me, do not you think these wild books will hurt 
your daughters ? 

Bragwell. Why I do think they are grown 
full of schemes, and contrivances and whispers, 
that's the truth on't. Every thing is a secret. 
They always seem to be on the look-out for 
something, and when nothing comes on't, then 
they are sulky and disappointed. They will 
keep company with their equals: they despise 
trade and farming; and I own I'm for thz duff. 
I should not like them to marry any but a man 
of substance, if he was ever so smart. Now they 
will hardly sit down with a substantial country 
dealer. But if they hear of a recruiting party 
in our market-town, on goes the finery — off" they 
are. Some flimsy excuse is patched up. They 
want something at the book-shop or the milli- 
ner's; because I suppose there is a chance for 
some Jack-a-napes of an ensign may be there 
buying sticking-plaster. In short, I do grow a 
little uneasy; for I should not like to see all I 
have saved thrown away on a knapsack. 

So saying, they both rose and walked out to 
view the farm. Mr. Bragwell affected greatly 
to admire the good order of every thing he saw; 
but never forgot to compare it with something 
larger, and handsomer, or better of his own. It 
was easy to see that self was his standard of 
perfection in every thing. All he himself pos- 
sessed gained some increased value in his eyes 
from being his; and in surveying the property 
of his friend, he derived food for his vanity, from 
things which seemed least likely to raise it. 
Every appearance of comfort, of success of me- 
rit, in any thing which belonged to Mr. Worthy 
led him to speak of some superior advantage 
of his own of the same kind: and it was clear 
that the chief part of the satisfaction he felt in 
walking over the farm of his friend, was caused 
by thinking how much larger his own was. 

Mr. Worthy, who felt a kindness for him, 
which all his vanity could not cure, was always 
on the watch how to turn their talk on some 
useful point. And whenever people resolve to 
go into company with this view, it is commonly 
their own fault, if some opportunity of turning 
it to account does not offer. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



135 



Ho saw Bragwell was intoxicated with pride, 
and undone by success; and that his family was 
in the high road to ruin through mere prosperi- 
ty. He thought that if some means could be 
found to open his eyes on his own character, to 
which he was now totally blind, it might be of 
the utmost service lo him. The more Mr. Wor- 
thy reflected, the more he wished to undertake 
this kind office. He was not sure that Mr. Brag- 
well would bear it, but he was very sure it was 
his duty to attempt it. As Mr. Worthy was 
very humble himself, he had great patience and 
forbearance with the faults of others. He felt 
no pride at having escaped the errors into which 
they had fallen, tor he knew who it was had 
made him to differ. He remembered that God 
tad given him many advantages ; a pious father 
tnd a religious education : this made him hum- 
ile under a sense of his own sins, and charita- 
ble towards the sins of others, who had not the 
same privileges. 

Just as he was going to try to enter into a 
very serious conversation with his guest, he was 
stopped by the appearance of his daughter, who 
told them supper was ready. — This interruption 
obliges me to break off also, and I shall reserve 
what follows to the next month, when I pro- 
mise to give my readers the second part of this 
history. 



PART II. 

A CONVERSATION. 

Soon after supper Mrs. Worthy left the room 
with her daughters, at her husband's desire; for 
it was his intention to speak more plainly to 
Bragwell than was likely to be agreeable to him 
to hear before others. The two farmers being 
seated at their little table, each in a handsome 
old-fashioned great chair, Bragwell began. 

' It is a great comfort neighbour Worthy, at 
a certain time of life to be got above the world : 
my notion is, that a man should labour hard the 
first part of his days, that he may then sit down 
and enjoy himself the remainder. Now, though 
I hate boasting, yet as you are my oldest friend, 
I am about to open my heart to you. Let me 
tell you then I reckon I have worked as hard 
as any man in my time, and that I now begin 
to think I have a right to indulge a little. I 
have got my money with character, and I mean 
to spend it with credit. I pay every one his own, 
I set a good example, I keep to my church, I 
serve God, 1 honour the king, and I obey the 
laws of the land.' 

'This is doing a great deal indeed,' replied 
Mr. Worthy : ' but,' added he, ■ I doubt that 
more goes to the making up all these duties than 
men are commonly aware of. Suppose then that 
you and I talk the matter over coolly ; we have 
the evening before us. — What if we sit down 
together as two friends and examine one ano- 
ther.' 

Bragwell, who loved argument, and who was 
not a little vain both of his sense and his mo- 
rality, accepted the challenge, and gave his word 
that he would take in good part any thing that 
should be said to him. — Worthy was about to 



proceed, when Bragwell interrupted him for a 
moment, by saying — ' But stop, friend, before 
wc begin I wish you would remember that we 
have had a long walk, and I want a little re- 
freshment ; have you no liquor that is stronger 
than this cider ? I am afraid it will give me a 
fit of the gout.' 

Mr. Worthy immediately produced a bottle 
of wine, and another of spirits; saying, that 
though he drank neither spirits nor even wine 
himself, yet his wife always kept a little of each 
as a provision in case of sickness or accidents. 

Farmer Bragwell preferred the brandy, and 
began to taste it. ' Why,' said he, 'this is no 
better than English ; I always use foreign my- 
self.' — ' I bought this for foreign,' said Mr. 
Worthy. — ' No, no, it is English spirits I assure 
you ; but I can put you into a way to get foreign 
nearly as cheap as English.' Mr. Worthy repli- 
ed that he thought that was impossible. 

Bragwell. no ; there are ways and means — 
a word to the wise — there is an acquaintance 
of mine that lives upon the south coast — you are 
a particular friend and I will get you half-a-do- 
zen gallons for a trifle. 

Worthy. Not if it be smuggled, Mr. Brag, 
well, though I should get it for sixpence a bot. 
tie. — ' Ask no questions,' said the other, ' I 
never say any thing to any one, and who is the 
wiser ?' — ' And so this is your way of obeying 
the laws of the land,' said Mr, Worthy — ' here 
is a fine specimen of your morality.' 

Bragwell. Come, come, don't make a fus9 
about trifles. If every one did it indeed it would 
be another thing ; but as to my getting a little 
good brandy cheap, why that can't hurt the re- 
venue much. 

Worthy. Pray Mr. Bragwell what should you 
think of a man who would dip his hand into a 
bag and take out a few guineas ? 

Bragwell. Think ? why I think that he should 
be hanged to be sure. 

Worthy. But suppose that bag stood in the 
king's treasury ? 

Bragwell. In the king's treasury ! worse and 
worse ! What, rob the king's treasury ! Well, 
I hope if any one has done it, the robber will be 
taken up and executed ; for I suppose we shall 
all be taxed to pay the damage. 

Worthy. Very true. If one man takes money 
out of the treasury, others must be obliged te 
pay the more into it. But what think you if the 
fellow should be found to have stopped some 
money in its way to the treasury, instead of 
taking it out of the bag after it got there ? 

Bragwell. Guilty, Mr. Worthy ; it is all the 
same, in my opinion. If I were judge I would 
hang him without benefit of clergy. 

Worthy. Hark ye, Mr. Bragwell, he that deals 
in smuggled brandy is the man who takes to 
himself the king's money in its way to the trea- 
sury, and he as much robs the government as 
if he dipt his hands into a bag of guineas in the 
treasury chamber. It comes to the same thing 
exactly. Her* Bragwell seemed a little offend- 
ed, and exclaimed — l What, Mr. Worthy ! do 
you pretend to say I am not an honest man be- 
cause I like to get my brandy as cheap as I can? 
and because I like to save a shilling to my fa- 
mily ? Sin I repeat it ; I dp my duty to God 



136 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



and my neighbour. I say the Lord's prayer 
most days, I go to church on Sundays, I repeat 
my creed, and keep the ten commandments ; 
and though I now and then get a little brandy 
cheap, yet upon the whole, I will venture to say, 
I do as much as can be expected of any man, 
and more than the generality.' 

Worthy. Come then since you say you keep 
the commandments, you cannot be offended if 
I ask you whether you understand them. 

Bragwell. To be sure I do. I dare say I do: 
look'ye, Mr. Worthy, I don't pretend to much 
reading, I was not bred to it as you were. If 
my father had been a parson, I fancy I should 
have made as good a figure as some other folks, 
but I hope good sense and a good heart may 
teach a man his duty without much scholarship. 
Worthy. To come to the point ; let us now go 
through the ten commandments, and let us take 
along with us those explanations of them whicli 
our Saviour gave us in his sermon on the mount. 
Bragwell. Sermon on the mount ! why the 
ten commandments are in the 20th chapter of 
Exodus. Come, come, Mr. Worthy, I know 
where to find the oommandments as well as you 
do ; for it happens that I am church-warden, 
and I can see from the altar-piece where the 
ten commandments are, without your telling 
me, for my pew directly faces it. 

Worthy. But I advise you to read the sermon 
on the mount, that you may see the full mean- 
ing of them. 

Bragwell. What ! do you want to make me 
believe there are two ways of keeping the com- 
mandments ? 

Worthy. No ; but there may be two ways of 
understanding them. 

Bragwell. Well, I am not afraid to be put to 
the proof; I defy any man to say I do not keep 
at least all the four first that are on the left side 
of the altar-piece. 

Worthy. If you can prove that, I shall be 
more ready to believe you observe tkose of the 
other table ; for he who does his duty to God, 
will be likely to do his duty to his neighbour also. 
Bragwell. What ! do you think that I serve 
two Gods? Do you think then that I make 
graven images, and worship stocks or stones ? 
Do you take me for a papist or an idolater ? 

Worthy. Don't triumph quite so soon, master 
Bragwell. Pray is there nothing in the world 
you prefer to God, and thus make an idol of? 
Do you not love your money, or your lands, or 
your crops, or your cattle, or your own will, or 
your own way, rather better than you love God ? 
Do you never think of these with more pleasure 
thin you think of him, and follow them more 
eagerly than your religious duty 7 

Bragwell. O ! there's nothing about that in 
the 20th chapter of Exodus. 

Worthy. But Jesus Christ has said, ' He that 
loveth father or mother more than me is not 
worthy of me.' Now it is certainly a man's 
duty to love his father and his mother ; nay, it 
would be wicked not to love them, and yet we 
must not love even these more than our Creator 
and our Saviour. Well, I think on this princi- 
ple, your heart pleads guilty to the breach of 
the first and second commandments ; let us pro- 
ceed to the third. 



Bragwell. That is about swearing, is it 
not? 

Mr. Worthy, who had observed Bragwell 
guilty of much profaneness in using the name 
of his Maker, (though all such offensive words 
have been avoided in writing this history) now 
told him that he had been waiting the whole 
day for an opportunity to reprove him for his 
frequent breach of the third commandment. 

' Good L — d ! I break the third command, 
ment !' said Bragwell ; ' no indeed, hardly ever, 
I once used to swear a 'little to be sure, but I 
vow I never do it now, except now and then 
when I happen to be in a passion : aud in such 
a case, why, good G — d, you know the sin is 
with those who provoke me, and not with me ; 
but, upon my soul, I don't think I have sworn 
an oath these three months, no not I, faith, as I 
hope to be saved.' 

Worthy. And yet you have broken this holy 
law not less than five or six times in the last 
speech you have made. 

Bragwell. Lord bless me ! Sure you mistake. 
Good heavens, Mr. Worthy, I call G — d to wit- 
ness, I have neither cursed nor swore since I 
have been in the house. 

Worthy. Mr. Bragwell, this is the way in 
which many who call themselves very good sort 
of people deceive themselves. What! is it no 
profanation of the name of your Maker to use 
it lightly, irreverently and familiarly as you 
have done ? Our Saviour has not only told us 
not to swear by the immediate name of God, 
but he has said, ' swear not at all, neither by 
heaven nor by the earth,' and in order to hinder 
our inventing any other irreligious exclamations 
or expressions, he has even added, ' but let your 
communications be yea, yea, and nay, nay ; for 
whatsoever is more than this simple affirmation 
and denial cometh of evil.' Nay more, so great- 
ly do I reverence that high and holy name, that 
I think even some good people have it too fre- 
quently in their mouths ; and that they might 
convey the idea without the word. 

Bragwell. Well, well, I must take a little 
more care, I believe. I vow to heaven I did not 
know there had been so much harm in it; but 
my daughters seldom speak without using some 
of these words, and yet they wanted to make 
me believe the other day that it was monstrous 
vulvar to swear. 

Worthy. Women, even gentlewomen, who 
ought to correct this evil habit in their fathers, 
and husbands, and children, are too apt to en- 
courage it by their own practice. And indeed 
they betray the profaneness of their own minds 
also by it ; for none who venerate the holy name 
of God, can either profane it in this manner 
themselves, or hear others do so without being 
exceedingly pained at it. 

Bragwell. Well, since you are 60 hard upon 
me, I believe I must e'en give up this point — so 
let us pass on to the next, and here I tread upon 
sure ground ; for as sharp as you are upon mo, 
you can't accuse me of being a Sabbath breaker, 
since I go to church every Sunday of my life, 
unless on some very extraordinary occasion. 

Worthy. For those occasions the Gospel al- 
lows, by saying, • the Sabbath was made for 
man, and not man for the Sabbath.' Our own 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



137 



sickness, or attending on the sickness of others, 
ore lawful impediments. 

Bragwell. Yes, and I am now and then ob- 
liged to look at a drove of beasts, or to go a 
journey, or take some medicine, or perhaps 
some friend may call upon me, or it may be 
very cold, or very hot, or very rainy. 

Worthy. Poor excuses ! Mr. Bragwell. Do 
you call these lawful impediments ? I am afraid 
they will not pass for such on the day of judg- 
ment. But how is the rest of your Sunday 
spent ? 

Bragwell. O why, I assure you I often go to 
church in the afternoon also, and even if I am 
ever so sleepy. 

Worthy. And so you finish your nap at church, 
I suppose. 

Bragwell. Why as to that, to be sure we do 
contrive to have something a little nicer than 
common for dinner on a Sunday : in consequence 
of which one cats, you know a little more thaji 
ordinary ; and having nothing to do on that day, 
has more leisure to take a cheerful glass ; and 
all these things will make one a little heavy you 
know. 

Worthy. And don't you take a little ride in 
the morning, and look at your sheep when the 
weather is good ; and so fill your mind just be- 
fore you go to church with thoughts of them ; 
and when the weatiier is bad, don't you settle 
an account? or write a few letters of business 
after church? 

Bragwell. I can't say but I do ; but that is 
nothing to any body, as long as I set a good 
example by keeping to my church. 

Worthy. And how do you pass your Sunday 
evenings ? 

Bragwell. My wife and daughters go a visit- 
ing Sunday afternoons. My daughters are glad 
to get out at any rate ; and as to my wife, siie 
says that being ready dressed, it is a pity to 
lose the opportunity : besides, it saves her time 
on a weak day ; so then you see I have it all my 
own way, and when I have/ got rid of the ladies, 
who are ready to faint at the smell of tobacco, 
I can venture to smoke a pipe, and drink a 
sober glass of punch with half a dozen friends. 

Worthy. Which punch being made of smug- 
gled brandy, and drunk on the Lord's-day, and 
very vain, as well as profane and worldly com- 
pany, you are enabled to break both the law of 
God, and that of your country at a stroke : and 
I suppose when you are got together, you speak 
of your cattle, or of your crops, after which per- 
haps you talk over a few of your neighbours' 
faults, and then you brag a little of your own 
wealth or your own achievements. 

Bragwell. Why you seem to know us so well, 
that any one would think you had been sitting 
behind the curtain ; and yet you are a little mis- 
taken too; for I think we have hardly said a 
word for several of our last Sundays on any 
thing but politics. 

Worthy. And do you find that you much im- 
prove your Christian charity by that subject 7 

Bragwell. Why to be sure we do quarrel till 
We are very near fighting, that is the worst on't. 

Worthy. And then you call names, and swear 
& little I suppose. 

Bragwell. Why when one is contradicted and 



put in a passion you know, and when people, 
especially if they are one's inferiors, won't 
adopt all one's opinions, flesh and blood can't 
bear it. 

Worthy. And when all your friends are gone 
home, what becomes of the rest of the evening? 

Bragwell. That is just as it happens, some- 
times I read the newspaper ; and as one is gene- 
rally most tired on the days one does nothing, 
I go to bed earlier on Sundays than on other 
days, that I may be more fit to get up to my 
business the next morning. 

Worthy. So you shorten Sunday as much as 
you can, by cutting off a bit at both ends, I 
suppose ; for I take it for granted, you lie a little 
later in the morning. 

Bragioell. Come, come, we shan't get through 
the whole ten to-night, if you stand snubbing 
one at this rate. You may pass over the fifth ; 
for my father and mother nave baen dead ever 
since I was a boy, so I am clear of that scrape. 

Worthy. There are, however, many relative 
duties included in that commandment; unkiud- 
ness to all kindred is forbidden. 

Bragwell. O, if you mean my turning off my 
nephew Tom, the ploughboy, you must not 
blame me for that, it was all my wife's fault. 
He was as good a lad as ever lived to be sure, 
and my own brother's son ; but my wife could 
not bear that a boy in a carter's frock should be 
about the house, calling her aunt. We quarrel- 
led like dog and cat about it; and when he was 
turned away she and I did not speak for a week. 

Worthy. Which was a fresh breach of the 
commandment; a worthy nephew turned out of 
doors, and a wife not spoken to for a week, aro 
no very convincing proofs of your observance 
of the fifth commandment. 

Bragwell. Well, I long to come to the sixth , 
for you don't think I commit murder I hope. 

Worthy. I am not sure of that. 

Bragwell. Murder! what, I kill any body ? 

Worthy. Why, the laws of the land, indeed, 
and the disgrace attending it, are almost enough 
to keep any man from actual murder ; let me 
ask, however, do you never give way to unjust 
anger, and passion, and revenge '.' as for in- 
stance, do you never feel your resentment 
kindle against some of the politicians who con- 
tradict you on a Sunday night ? and do you 
never push your animosity against somebody 
that has affronted you, further than the occasion 
can justify ? 

Bragwell. Hark'ee, Mr. Worthy, I am a man 
of substance, and no man shall offend me with- 
out my being even with him. So as to injuring 
a man, if he affronts me first, there's nothing 
but good reason in that. 

Worthy. Very well ! only bear in mind that 
you wilfully break this commandment, whether 
you abuse your servant, are angry at your wife, 
watch for a moment to revenge an injury on 
your neighbour, or even wreak your passion on 
a harmless beast ; for you have then the seeds 
of murder working in your breast; and if there 
were no law, no gibbet, to check you, and no 
fear of disgrace neither, I am not sure where 
you would stop. 

Bragwell. Why, Mr. Worthy, you have a 
strange way of explaining the commandments ; 



138 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



bo you set me down for a murderer, merely be- 
cause I bear hatred to a man who has done me 
a hurt, and am glad to do him a like injury in 
my turn. — I am sure I should want spirit if I 
did not. 

Worthy. I go by the Scripture rule, which 
Bays, ' he that hateth his brother is a murderer ; 
and again, ' pray for them that despitefully use 
you and persecute you.' Besides, Mr. Bragwell, 
you made it a part of your boast that you said 
the Lord's prayer every day, wherein you pray 
to God to forgive you your trespasses as you 
forgive them that trespass against you. — If 
therefore you do not forgive them that trespass 
against you, in that case you daily pray that 
your own trespasses may never be forgiven. — 
Now own the truth ; did you last night lie down 
in a spirit of forgiveness and charity with the 
whole world ! 

Bragwell. Yes, I am in charity with the 
whole world in general ; because the greater 
part of it has never done me any harm. But I 
won't forgive old Giles, who broke down my 
new hedge yesterday for firing. — Giles who 
used to be so honest ! 

Worthy. And yet you expect that God will 
forgive you who have broken down his sacred 
laws, and have so often robbed him of his right 
— you have robbed him of the honour due unto 
his name — you have robbed him of his holy day 
by doing your own work, and finding your own 
pleasure in it — you have robbed his poor, par- 
ticularly in the instance of Giles, by withhold- 
ing from them, as overseer, such assistance as 
should prevent their being driven to the sin of 
stealing. 

Bragwell. Why, you are now charging me 
with other men's sins as well as my own. 

Worthy. Perhaps the sins which we cause 
other men to commit, through injustice, incon- 
sideration, and evil example, may dreadfully 
swell the sum of our responsibility in the great 
day of account. 

Bragwell. Well, come let us make haste and 
get through these commandments. The next is, 
' Thou shalt not commit adultery.' . Thank God, 
neither I nor my family can be said to break 
the seventh commandment. 

Worthy. Here again, remember how Christ 
himself hath said, ' whoso looketh on a woman 
to lust after her, hath already committed adul- 
tery with her in his heart.' These are no far- 
fetched expressions of mine, Mr. Bragwell, they 
are the words of Jesus Christ. I hope you will 
not charge him with having carried things too 
far; for if you do, you charge him with being 
mistaken in the religion he taught; and this can 
only be accounted for, by supposing him an im- 
postor. 

Bragwell. Why, upon my word, Mr. Worthy, 
I don't like these sayings of his which you quote 
upon me so often, and that is the truth of it, 
and I can't say I feel much disposed to believe 
them. 

Worthy. I hope you believe in Jesus Christ. 
I hope you believe that creed of your's, which 
you also boasted of repeating so regularly. 

Bragwell. Well, well, I'll believe any thing 
you say, rather than stand quarrelling with you. 

Worthy. I hope then, you will allow, that 



since it is adultery to look at a woman witn 
even an irregular thought, it follows from the 
same rule, that all immodest dress in your 
daughters, or indecent jests and double mean 
ings in yourself; all loose songs or novels; and 
all diversions also which have a like dangerous 
tendency, are forbidden by the seventh com- 
mandment ; for it is most plain from what Christ 
has said, that it takes in not only the act, but 
the inclination, the desire, the indulged imagi- 
nation ; the act is only the last and highest de. 
gree of any sin ; the topmost round, as it were, 
of a ladder, to which all the lower rounds are 
only as so many steps and stages. 

Bragwell. Strict indeed ! Mr. Worthy ; but 
let us go on to the next ; you won't pretend to 
say I steal', Mr. Bragwell, I trust, was never 
known to rob on the highway, to break open his 
neighbour's house, or to use false weights or 
measures. 

Worthy. No, nor have you ever been under 
any temptation to do it, and yet there are a 
thousand ways of breaking the eighth com- 
mandment besides actual stealing. For instance 
do you never hide the faults of the goods you 
sell, and heighten the faults of those you buy ? 
Do you never take advantage of an ignorant 
dealer, and ask more for a thing than it is 
worth ? Do you never turn the distressed cir- 
cumstances of a man who has something to sell, 
to your own unfair benefit ; and thus act as un- 
justly by him as if you had stolen ? Do you 
never cut off a shilling from a workman's wages, 
under the pretence which your conscience can't 
justify ? Do you never pass off an unsound 
horse for a sound one ? Do yo?; never conceal 
the real rent of your estate from the overseers, 
and thereby rob the poor-rates of their legal due? 

Bragwell. Pooh ! these things are done every 
day. I shan't go to set up for being better than 
my neighbours in these sort of things; these 
little matters will pass muster — I don't set up 
for a reformer — If I am as good as the rest of my 
neighbours, no man can call me to account, I 
am not worse, I trust, and don't pretend to be 
belter. 

Worthy. You must be tried hereafter at the 
bar of God, and not by a jury of your fellow 
creatures ; and the Scriptures are given us, in 
order to show by what rule we shall be judged. 
How many or how few do as you do, is quite 
aside from the question ; Jesus Christ has even 
told us to strive to enter in the strait gate ; 
so that we ought rather to take fright, from our 
being like the common run of people, than to 
take comfort from our being so. 

Bragwell. Come, I don't like all this close 
work — it makes a man feel I don't know how 
— I don't find myself so happy as I did — I don't 
like this fishing in troubled waters — I'm as 
merry as the day is long when I let these things 
alone. — I'm glad we are got to the ninth. But 
I suppose I shall be lugged in there too, head 
and shoulders. Any one now who did not know 
me, would really think I was a great sinner, by 
your way of putting things : I don't bear falso 
witness however. 

Worthy. You mean, I suppose, you would 
not swear away any man's life falsely before a 
magistrate, but do you take equal care not to 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



139 



slander or backbite him ? Do you never repre- 
sent a good action of a man you have quarrelled 
with, as if it were a bad one ? or do you never 
make a bad one worse than it is, by your man- 
ner of telling 1 it ? Even when you invent no 
false circumstances, do you never give such a 
colour to those you relate., as to leave a false 
impression on the mind of the hearers ? Do you 
never twist a story so as to make it tell a little 
better for yourself, and a little worse for your 
neighbour, than truth and justice warrant? 

Bragwell. Why, as to that matter, all this is 
only natural. 

Worthy. Ay, much too natural to be right, I 
doubt. Well, now we are got to the last of the 
commandments. 

Bragwell. Yes, I have run the gauntlet 
finely through them all ; you will bring me in 
guilty here, I suppose, for the pleasure of going 
through with it ; for you condemn without judge 
or jury, master Worthy. 

Worthy. The culprit, I think has hitherto 
pleaded guilty to the evidence brought against 
him. The tenth commandment, however, goes 
to the root and principle of evil, it dives to the 
bottom of things; this command checks the 
first rising of sin in the heart ; teaches us to 
strangle it in the birth, as it were, before it 
breaks out in those acts which are forbidden : 
as, for instance, every man covets before he pro- 
ceeds to steal ; nay, many covet, knowing they 
can do it with impunity, who dare not steadiest 
they should suffer for it. 

Bragwell. Why, look'ee, Mr. Worthy, I don't 
understand these new fashioned explanations ; 
one should not have a grain of sheer goodness 
left, if every thing one does is to be fritted away 
at this rate. I am not, I own, quite so good as 
I thought, but if what you say were true, I 
should be so miserable, I should not know what 
to do with myself. — Why, I tell you, all the 
world may be said to break the commandments 
at this rate. 

Worthy. Very true. All the world, and I 
myself also, are but too apt to break them, if 
not in the letter, at least in the spirit of them. 
Why then all the world are (as the Scripture 
expresses it) ' guilty before God.' And if guilty , 
they should own they are guilty, and not stand 
up and justify themselves, as you do, Mr. Brag- 
well. 

Bragwell. Well, according to my notion, I 
am a very honest man, and honesty is the sum 
and substance of all religion, say I. 

Worthy. All truth, honesty, justice, order, 
and obedience grow out of the Christian reli- 
gion. The true Christian acts, at all times, 
and on all occasions, from the pure and spiri- 
tual principle of love to God and Christ. — On 
this principle, he is upright in his dealings, 
true to his word, kind to the poor, helpful to 
the oppressed. In short, if he truly loves God, 
he must do justice, and can't help loving mercv. 
Christianity is a uniform consistent thing. It 
does not allow us to make up for the breach of 
one part of God's law, by our strictness in 
observing another. There is no sponge in 
one duty, that can wipe out the spot of another 
Sin. 

Bragwell. Well, but al this rate, I should be 



always puzzling and blundering, and should 
never know for certain whether I was right or 
not ; whereas I am now quite satisfied with my- 
self, and have no doubts to torment me. 

Worthy. One way of knowing whether we 
really desire to obey the whole law of God is 
this ; when we find we have as great a regard 
to that part of it, the breach of which does not 
touch our own interest, as to that part which 
does. For instance, a man robs me; I am in a 
violent passion with him, and when it is said to 
me, doest thou well to be angry ? I answer, I do 
well. Thou shall not steal is a law of God, and 
this fellow has broken that law. Ay, but says 
conscience, 'tis thy own properly which is in 
question. He has broken thy hedge, he has 
stolen thy sheep, he has taken thy purse. — Art 
thou therefore sure whether it is his violation 
of thy property, or of God's law which provokes 
thee '.' I will put a second case : I hear another 
swear most grievously — or I meet him coming 
drunk out of an ale-house; or I find him sing- 
ing a loose, profane song. If I am not as much 
grieved for this blasphemer, or this drunkard, 
as I was for this robber ; if I do not take the 
same pains to bring him to a sense of his sin, 
which I did to bring the robber to justice, ' how 
dwelleth the love of God in me ?' Is it not clear 
that I value my own sheep more than God's 
commandments ? That I prize my purse more 
than I love my Maker ? In short, whenever I 
find out that I am more jealous for my own pro- 
perty than for God's law ; more careful about 
my own reputation than his honour, I always 
suspect I am got upon wrong ground, and that 
even my right actions are not proceeding from 
a right principle. 

Bragwell. Why, what in the world would you 
have me do? It would distract me, if I must 
run up every little action to its spring, in this 
manner. 

Worthy. You must confess that your sins are 
sins. — You must not merely call them sins, 
while you see no guilt in them ; but you must 
confess them so as to hate and detest them ; so 
as to be habitually humbled under the sense of 
them ; so as to trust for salvation not in your 
freedom from them, but in the mercy of a Sa- 
viour ; and so as to make it the chief business 
of your life to contend against them, and in the 
main to forsake them. And remember, that if 
you seek for a deceitful gayety, rather than a 
well grounded cheerfulness ; if you prefer a 
false security to final safety, and now go away 
to your cattle and your farm, and dismiss the 
subject from your thoughts, lest it should make 
you uneasy, I am not sure that this simple dis- 
course may not appear against you at the day 
of account, as a fresh proof that you ' loved 
darkness rather than light,' and so increase your 
condemnation. 

Mr. Bragwell was more affected than he 
cared to own. He went to bed with less spirits 
and more humility than usual. He did not, 
however, care to let Mr. Worthy see the impres- 
sion which it had made upon him ; but at part- 
ing next morning, he shook him by the hand 
more cordially than usual, and made him pro- 
mise to return his visit in a short time. 

What befel Mr. Bragwell and his family oa 



140 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



his going home nay, perhaps, make the subject 
of a future pari of this history. 



PART III. 

THE VISIT RETURNED. 

Mr. Bragwell, when he returned home from 
his visit to Mr. Worthy, as recorded in the se- 
cond part of this history, found that he was not 
quite so happy as he had formerly been. The 
discourses of Mr. Worthy had broken in not a 
little on his comfort. And he began to suspect 
that he was not so completely in the right as 
his vanity had led him to believe. He seemed 
also to feel less satisfaction in the idle gentility 
of his own daughters, since he had been witness 
to the simplicity, modesty, and usefulness of 
those of Mr. Worthy. And he could not help 
seeing that the vulgar violence of his wife did 
not produce so much family happiness at home, 
as the humble piety and quiet diligence of Mrs. 
Worthy produced in the house of his friend. 

Happy would it have been for Mr. Bragwell, 
if he had followed up those new convictions of 
his own mind, which would have led him to 
struggle against the power of evil principles in 
himself, and to have controlled the force of evil 
habits in his family. But his convictions were 
just stiong enough to make him uneasy under 
his errors, without driving him to reform them. 
The slight impression soon wore off, and he fell 
back into his old practices. Still his esteem for 
Mr. Worthy was not at all abated by the plain 
dealing of that honest friend. It is true, he 
dreaded his piercing eye : he felt that his exam- 
ple held out a constant reproof to himself. Yet 
such is the force of early affection and rooted 
reverence, that he longed to see him at his house. 
This desire, indeed, as is commonly the case, 
was made up of mixed motives. He wished for 
the pleasure of his friend's company ; he longed 
for that favourite triumph of a vulgar mind, an 
opportunity of showing him his riches; and he 
thought it would raise his credit in the world to 
have a man of Mr. Worthy's character at his 
house. 

Mr. Bragwell, it is true, still went on with the 
same eagerness in gaining money, and the same 
ostentation in spending it. But though he was 
as covetous as ever, he was not quite so sure that 
it was right to be so. While he was actually 
engaged abroad indeed, in transactions with his 
dealers, he was not very scrupulous about the 
means by which he got his money; and while 
he was indulging in festivity with his friends at 
home, he was easy enough as to the manner in 
which he spent it. But a man can neither be 
making bargains, nor making feasts always ; 
there must be some intervals between these two 
great objects for which worldly men may be 
said to live ; and in some of these intervals the 
most worldly form, perhaps, some random plans 
of amendment. And though many a one may 
say in the fulness of enjoyment, ' soul take thine 
ease, eat, drink, and be merry ;' yet hardly any 
man, perhaps, allows himself to say, even in the 
most secret moments, I will never retire from 
business — I will never repent— I will never 



think of death — Eternity shall never come into 
my thoughts. The most that such a one pro- 
bably ventures to say is, I need not repent yet ; 
I will continue such a sin a little longer ; it will 
be time enough to think on the next world when 
I am no longer fit for the business or the plea- 
sures of this. 

Such was the case with Bragwell. He set 
up in his mind a general distant sort of resolu- 
tion, that some years hence, when he should be 
a/eio years older, a few thousands richer ; when 
a few more of his present schemes should he 
completed, he would then think of altering his 
course of life. He would then certainly set 
about spending a religious old age ; he would 
reform some practices in his dealings, or, per- 
haps, quit business entirely ; he would think 
about reading good books, and when he had 
completed such a purchase, he would even be- 
gin to give something to the poor ; but at pre- 
sent he really had little to spare for charity. 
The very reason why he should have given 
more was just the cause he assigned for not 
giving at all, namely the hardness of the times. 
The true grand source of charity, self-denial, 
never come into his head. Spend less that you 
may save more, he would have thought a shrewd 
maxim enough. But spend less that you may 
spare more, never entered into his book of Pro- 
verbs. 

At length the time came when Mr. Worthy 
had promised to return his visit. It was indeed 
a little hastened by notice that Mr. Bragwell 
would have in the course of the week, a piece 
of land to sell by auction ; and though Mr. Wor- 
thy believed the price was likely to be above his 
pocket, yet he knew it was an occasion which 
would be likely to bring the principal farmers 
of that neighbourhood together, some of whom 
he wanted to meet. And it was on this occasion 
that Mr. Bragwell prided himself, that he should 
show his neighbours so sensible a man as his 
dear friend Mr. Worthy. 

Worthy arrived at his friend's house on the 
Saturday, time enough to see the house, and 
garden, and grounds of Mr. Bragwell by day- 
light. He saw with pleasure (for he had a warm 
and generous heart) those evident signs of his 
friend's prosperity ; but as he was a man of so- 
ber mind, and was a most exact dealer in truth, 
he never allowed his tongue the license of im- 
modest commendation, which he used to say 
either savoured of flattery or envy. Indeed he 
never rated mere worldly things so highly as to 
bestow upon them undue praise. His calm ap- 
probation somewhat disappointed the vanity of 
Mr. Bragwell, who could not help secretly sus- 
pecting that his friend, as good a man as he 
was, was not quite free from envy. He felt, 
however, very much inclined to forgive this 
jealousy, which he feared the sight of his ample 
property, and handsome habitation must natu- 
rally awaken in the mind of a man whose own 
possessions were so inferior. He practised the 
usual trick of ordinary and vulgar minds, that 
of pretending himself to find some fault with 
those things which were particularly deserving 
praise, when he found Worthy disposed to pass 
them over in silencs. 

When they came in to supper, he affected to 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



.41 



talk of the comforts of Mr. Worthy's little par- 
lour, by way of calling his attention to his own 
large one. He repeated the word snug, as ap- 
plied to every thing at Mr. Worthy's, with the 
plain design to make comparisons favou&ible to 
his own more ample domains. He contrived, as 
he passed by his chair, by a seeming accident, 
to push open the door of a large beaufet in the 
parlour, in which all the finery was most osten- 
tatiously set out to view. He protested with a 
look of satisfaction which belied his words, that 
for his part he did not care a farthing for all 
this trumpery : and then smiling and rubbing 
his hands, added, with an air of no small im- 
portance, what a good thing it is though, for 
people of substance, that the tax on plate is 
taken off. You are a happy man, Mr. Worthy ; 
you do not feel these things ; tax or no tax, it is 
all the same to you. He took care during this 
speech, by a cast of his eye to direct Mr. Wor- 
thy's attention to a great profusion of the bright- 
est cups, salvers, and tankards, and other 
shining ornaments, which crowded the beaufet. 
Mr. Worthy gravely answered Mr. Bragwell, it 
was indeed a tax which could not atFect so plain 
a man as myself: but as it fell on a mere luxury, 
and therefore could not hurt the poor, I was al- 
ways sorry that it could not be made produc- 
tive enough to be continued. A man in my mid- 
dling situation, who is contented with a good 
glass of beer, poured from a handsome earthen 
mug, the glass, the mug, and the beer, all of 
English manufacture, will be but little disturb- 
ed at taxes on plate or on wine ; but he will re- 
gret, as I do, that many of these taxes are so 
much evaded, that new taxes are continually 
brought on to make up the deficiencies of the 
old. 

During supper the young ladies sat in dis- 
dainful silence, not deigning to bestow the 
smallest civility on so plain a man as Mr. Wor- 
thy. They left the room with their mamma as 
soon as possible, being impatient to get away to 
ridicule their father's old-fashioned friend at full 
liberty. 

The Dance ; or, the Christmas Merry-making ; 

exemplifying the effects of modern education 

in a farm house. 

As soon as they were gone^Mr. Worthy ask- 
ed Bragwell how his family comforts stood, and 
how his daughters, who, he said, were really 
fine young women, went on. O, as to that, re- 
plied Bragwell, pretty much like other men's 
handsome daughters, I suppose, that is, worse 
and worse. I really begin to apprehend that 
their fantastical notions have gained such a 
head, that after all the money I have scraped to- 
gether, I shall never get them well married. 

Betsey has just lost as gpood an offer as any 
girl could desire ; young Wilson, an honest sub- 
stantial grazier as any in the country. He not 
only knows every thing proper for his station, 
but is pleasing in his behaviour, and a pretty 
scholar into the bargain ; he reads history-books 
and voyages of a winter's evening, to his infirm 
father, instead of going to the card-assembly in 
our town ; he neither likes drinking nor sport- 
ing, and is a sort of a favourite with our parson; 
because he takes in the weekly numbers of a 



fine Bible with cuts, and subscribes to the Sun- 
day-school, and makes a fuss about helping the 
poor ; and sets up soup-shops, and sells bacon at 
an underprice, and gives odd bits of ground to 
his labourers to help them in these dear times, 
as they call them ; but I think they are good 
times for us, Mr. Worthy. 

Well, for all this, Betsey only despised him, 
and laughed at him ; but as he is both hand- 
some, and rich, I thought she might come round 
at last; and so I invited him to come and stay 
a day or two at Christmas, when we have al- 
ways a little sort of merry-making here. But 
it would not do. H» scorned to talk that pala- 
vering stuff which she has been used to in the 
marble-covered books I told you of. He told her, 
indeed, that it would be the happiness of his 
heart to live with her; which I own I thought 
was as much as could be expected oX any man 
But Miss had no notion of marrywg any one 
who was only desirous of living with her. No, 
no, forsooth, her lover must declare himself 
ready to die for her, which honest Wilson was 
not such a fool as to offer to do. In the after, 
noon, however, he got a little into her favour by 
making out a rebus or two in the Lady's Diary ; 
and she condescended to say, she did not think 
Mr. Wilson had been so good a scholar ; but he 
soon spoilt all again. We had a little dance in 
the evening. The young man, though he had 
not much taste for those sort of gambols, yet 
thought he could foot it a little in the old fashion- 
ed way. So he asked Betsey to be his partner. 
But when he asked what dance they should call, 
Miss drew up her head, and in a strange gib- 
berish, said she should dance nothing but a Me. 
nuet de la Cour, and ordered him to call it. 
Wilson stared, and honestly told her she must 
call it herself; for he could neither spell nor 
pronounce such outlandish words, nor assist in 
such an outlandish performance. I burst out a 
laughing, and told him, I supposed it something 
like questions and commands ; and if so, that 
was much merrier than dancing. Seeing her 
partner standing stock still, and not knowing 
how to get out of the scrape, the girl began by 
herself, and fell to swimming, and sinking, and 
capering, and flourishing, and posturing, for all 
the world just like the man on the slack rope at 
our fair. But seeing Wilson standing like a 
stuck pig, and we all laughing at her, she re- 
solved to wreak her malice upon him ; so, with 
a look of rage and disdain, she advised him to 
go down country bumpkin, with the dairy maid, 
who would make a much fitter partner, as well 
as wife, for him, than she could do. 

I am quite of your mind, Miss, said he, with 
more spirit than I thought was in him ; you 
may make a good partner for a dance, but you 
would make a sad one to go through life with. 
I will take my leave of you, Miss, with this 
short story. I had lately a pretty large concern 
in hay-jobbing, which took me to London. I 
waited a good while in the Hay-Market for my 
dealer, and, to pass away the time, I stepped 
into a sort of foreign singing play-house there, 
where I was grieved to the heart to see young 
women painted and dizened out, and capering 
away just as you have been doing. I thought 
it bad enough in them, and wondered the qua. 



142 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



lity could be entertained with such indecent 
mummery. But little did I think to meet with 
the same paint, finery, and posturing tricks in a 
farm house. I will never marry a woman who 
despises me, nor the station in which I should 
place her, and so I take my leave.— Poor girl, 
how she was provoked ! to be publicly refused, 
and turned off, as it were, by a grazier ! But it 
was of use to some of the other girls, who have 
not held up their heads quite so high since, nor 
painted quite so red, but have condescended to 
speak to their equals. 

But how I run on ! I forget it is Saturday 
night, and that I ought to be paying my work- 
men, who are all waiting for me without. 

Saturday Night ; or the Workmen's Wages. 

As sooius Mr. Bragwell had done paying 
nis men, m. Worthy, who was always ready 
to extract something useful from accidental cir- 
cumstances, said to him, I have made it a habit, 
and I hope not an unprofitable one, of trying to 
turn to some moral use, not only all the events 
of daily life, but all the employments of it -too. 
And though it occurs so often, I hardly know 
one that sets me thinking more seriously than 
the ordinary business you have been discharg- 
ing. — Ay, said Bragwell, it sets me thinking 
too, and seriously, as you say, when I observe 
how much the price of wages is increased. — 
Yes, yes, you are ready enough to think of that, 
said Worthy, but you say not a word of how 
much the value of your land is increased, and 
that the more you pay, the more you can afford 
to pay. But the thoughts I spoke of are quite 
of another cast. 

When I call in my labourers, on a Saturday 
night, to pay them, it often brings to my mind 
the great and general day of account, when I, 
and you, and all of us, shall be called to our 
grand and awful reckoning, when we shall go 
to receive our wages, master and servants, far- 
mer and labourer. When I see that one of my 
men has failed of the wages he should have re- 
ceived, because he has been idling at a fair ; an- 
other has lost a day by a drinking-bout, a third 
confesses that, though he had task-work, and 
might have earned still more, yet he has been 
careless, and has not his full pay to receive ; 
this, I say, sometimes sets me on thinking 
whether I also have made the most of my time. 
And when I come to pay even the more dili- 
gent, who have worked all the week, when I 
reflect that even these have done no more than 
it was their duty to do, I cannot help saying to 
myself, night is come, Saturday night is come. 
No repentance, or diligence on the part of these 
poor men can now make a bad week's work 
good. This week has gone into eternity. To- 
morrow is the season of rest ; working time is 
over. 'There is no knowledge nor device in 
the grave.' My life also will soon be swallow- 
ed up in eternity ; soon the space allotted me 
for diligence, for labour, will be over. Soon 
will the grand question be asked, ' What hast 
thou done ? — Give an account of thy steward- 
|hip. Didst thou use thy working days to the 
jnd for which they were given ?' With some 
such thoughts I commonly go to bed, and they 



help to quicken me to a keener diligence for the 
next week. 

Some account of a Sunday in Mr. BragwelVa 
family. 

Mr. Worthy had been for so many years used 
to the sober ways of his own well-ordered fa- 
mily, that he greatly disliked to pass a Sunday 
in any house of which Religion was not the 
governing principle. Indeed, he commonly or- 
dered his affairs, and regulated his journies with 
an eye to this object. To pass a Sunday in an 
irreligious family, said he, is always unpleasant, 
often unsafe. — I seldom find I can do them any 
good, and they may perhaps do me some harm. 
At least, I am giving a sanction to their manner 
of passing it, if I pass it in the same manner. If 
I reprove them, I subject myself to the charge of 
singularity, and of being righteous over-much ; 
if I do not reprove them, I confirm and strength- 
en them in evil. And whether I reprove them 
or not, I certainly partake of their guilt, if I 
spend it as they do. 

He had, however, so strong a desire to be 
useful to Mr. Bragwell, that he at length de- 
termined to break through his common practice, 
and pass the Sunday at his house. Mr. Worthy 
was surprised to find that though the church 
bell was going, the breakfast was not ready, and 
expressed his wonder how this could be the case 
in so industrious a family. Bragwell made 
some awkward excuses. He said his wife 
worked her servants so hard all the week, that 
even she, as notable as she was, a little relaxed 
from the strictness of her demands on Sunday 
mornings ; and he owned that in a general way, 
no one was up early enough for church. Ho 
confessed that his wife commonly spent the 
morning in making puddings, pies, syllabubs, 
and cakes, to last through the week ; as Sunday 
was the only leisure time she and her maids 
had. Mr. Worthy soon saw an uncommon 
bustle in the house. All hands were busy. It 
was nothing but baking, and boiling, and stew- 
ing, and frying, and roasting, and running, and 
scolding, and eating. The boy was kept from 
church to clean the plate/the man to gather the 
fruit, the mistress to make the cheesecakes, the 
maids to dress the dinner, and the young ladies 
to dress themselves. 

The truth was, Mrs. Bragwell, who had heard 
much of the order and good management of 
Mr. Worthy's family, but who looked down with, 
disdain upon them as far less rich than herself, 
was resolved to indulge her vanity on the pre- 
sent occasion. She was determined to be even 
with Mrs. Worthy, in whose praises Bragwell 
had been so loud, and felt no small pleasure in 
the hope of making her guest uneasy, in com- 
paring her with his own wife, when he should 
be struck dumb with the display both of her 
skill and her wealth. Mr. Worthy was indeed 
struck to behold as large a dinner as he had 
been used to see at a justice's meeting. He, 
whose frugal and pious wife had accustomed 
him only to such a plain Sunday's dinner as 
could be dressed without keeping any one from 
church, when he surveyed the loaded table of 
his friend, instead of feeling that envy which 
the grand preparations were meant to raise, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



143 



felt nothing but disgust at the vanity of his 
friend's wife, mixed with much thankfulness 
for the piety and simplicity of his own. 

After having made the dinner wait a long 
time, the miss Bragwclls marched in, dressed 
as if they were going to the assize-ball ; they 
looked very scornfully at having been so hur- 
ried ; though they had been dressing ever since 
they got up, and their fond father, when he saw 
them so fine, forgave all their impertinence, and 
cast an eye of triumph on Mr. Worthy, who felt 
he had never loved his own humble daughters 
ao well as at that moment. 

In the afternoon, the whole party went to 
church. To do them justice, it was indeed 
their common practice once a day, when the 
weather was good, and the road was neither 
dusty nor dirty, when the minister did not be- 
gin too early, when the young ladies had not 
been disappointed of their bonnets on the Sa- 
turday night, and when they had no smart 
company in the house, who rather wished to 
stay at home. When this last was the case, 
which, to say the truth, happened pretty often, 
it was thought a piece of good manners to 
conform to the humour of the guests. Mr. 
Bragwell had this day forborne to ask any of his 
usual company ; well knowing that their vain and 
worldly conversation would only serve to draw 
on him some new reprimand from his friend. 

Mrs. Bragwell and her daughters picked up, 
as usual, a good deal of acquaintance at church. 
Many compliments passed, and much of the 
news of the week was retailed before the service 
began. They waited with impatience for the 
reading tho lessons as a licensed season for 
whispering, and the subject begun during the 
lessons, was finished while they were singing 
the psalms. The young ladies made an appoint- 
ment for the afternoon with a friend in the next 
pew, while their mamma took the opportunity 
of inquiring aloud, the character of a dairy maid, 
which she observed with a compliment to her 
own good management, would save time on a 
woek-day. 

Mr. Worthy, who found himself quite in a 
new world, returned home with his friend alone. 
In the evening he ventured to ask Bragwell, if 
he did not, on a Sunday night, at least, make 
it a custom to read and pray with his family. 
Bragwell told him, he was sorry to say he had 
no family at home, else he should like to do it 
for the sake of example. But as his servants 
worked hard all the week, his wife was of opin- 
ion that they should then have a little holiday. 
Mr. Worthy pressed it home upon him, whether 
the utter negleot of his servants' principles was 
not likely to make a heavy article in his final 
account : and asked him if he did not believe 
that the too general liberty of meeting together, 
jaunting, and diverting themselves, on Sunday 
evenings, was not often found to produce the 
worst effects on the morals of servants and the 
good order of families ? I put it to your con- 
science, said he, Mr. Bragwell, whether Sunday, 
which was meant as a blessing and a benefit, is 
not, as it is commonly kept, turned into the 
most mischievjus part of the week, by the sel- 
fish kindness of masters, who, not daring to set 
their servants about any public work, allot them 



that day to follow their own devices, that they 
themselves may with more rigour refuse them 
a little indulgence, and a reasonable holiday, it 
the working part of the week, which a gooj 
servant has now and then a fair right to expect 
Those masters who will give them half, or all 
the Lord's day, will not spare them a single 
hour of a working day. Their work must be 
done ; God's work may be let alone. 

Mr. Bragwell owned that Sunday had pro. 
duced many mischiefs in his own family. That 
the young men and maids, having no eye upon 
them, frequently went to improper places with 
other servants, turned adrift like themselves. 
That in these parties the poor girls were too 
frequently led astray, and the men got to public 
houses and fives-playi->g. But it was none of 
his business to watch them. His family only 
did as others do; indeed it was his wife's con- 
cern ; and she was so good a manager on other 
days, that she would not spare them an hour to 
visit a sick father or mother, it would be hard, 
she said, if they might not have Sunday after- 
noon to themselves, and she could not blamo 
them for making the most of it. Indeed, she 
was so indulgent in this particular, that she 
often excused the men from going to church, 
that they might serve the beasts, and the maids, 
that they might get the milking done before tho 
holiday part of the evening came on. She 
would not indeed hear of any competition be- 
tween doing her work and taking their pleasure ; 
but when the difference lay between their going 
to church and taking their pleasure, he must 
say that for his wife, she always inclined to the 
good-natured side of the question. She is strict 
enough in keeping them sober, because drunk- 
enness is a costly sin ; and to do her justice she 
dees not care how little they sin at her expense. 

Well, said Mr. Worthy, I always like to ex- 
amine both sides fairly, and to see the differ- 
ent effects of opposite practices ; now, which 
plan produces the greatest share of comfort 
to the master, and of profit to the servants 
in the long run ? Your servants, 'tis likely, are 
very much attached to you ; and very fond of 
living where they get their own way in so great 
a point. 

O, as to that, replied Bragwell, you are 
quite out. My house is a scene of discord, mu- 
tiny, and discontent. And though there is not 
a better manager in England than my wife, yet 
she is always changing her servants ; so that 
every quarter-day is a sort of jail delivery at my 
house ; and when they go off, as they often do, 
at a moment's warning, to own the truth, I 
often give them money privately, that they may 
not carry my wife before the justice to get 
their wages. 

I see, said Mr. Worthy, that all your worldly 
compliances do not procure you even worldly 
happiness. As to my own family, I take care 
to let them see that their pleasure is bound up 
with their duty, and that what they may call 
my strictness, has nothing in view but their 
safety and happiness. By this means I com- 
monly gain their love, as well as secure their 
obedience. I know, that with all my care, I am 
liable to be disappointed, ' from the corruption 
that is in the world through sin.' But whea 



144 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ever this happens, so far from encouraging me 
in remissness, it only serves to quicken my zeal. 
If by God's blessing, my servant turns out a 
good Christian, I have been a humble instru- 
ment in his hand of saving a soul committed to 
my charge. 

Mrs. Bragwell came home, but brought only 
one of her daughters with her, the other, she 
said, had given them the slip, and was gone 
with a young friend, and would not return for 
a day or two. Mr. Bragwell was greatly dis- 
pleased ; as he knew that young friend had but 
a slight character, and kept bad acquaintances. 
Mrs. Bragwell came in, all hurry and bustle, 
saying, if her family did not go to bed with the 
lamb on Sundays, when they had nothing to do, 
how could they rise with the lark on Mondays, 
when so much was to be done. 

Mr. Wo/thy had this night much matter for 
reflection. We need not, said he, go into the 
great world to look for dissipation and vanity. 
We can find both in a farm house. ' As for me 
and my house,' continued he, ' we will serve the 
Lord' every day, but especially on Sunday. ' It 
is the day which the Lord hath made ; hath 
made for himself; we will rejoice in it,' and 
consider the religious use of it, not only as a 
duty, but as a privilege. 

The next morning Mr. Bragwell and his 
friend set out early for the Golden Lion. What 
passed on this little journey, my readers shall 
hear soon. 



PART IV. 

The subject of prayer discussed in a morning' 1 s 
ride. 

It was mentioned in the last part of this his- 
tory, that the chief reason which had drawn Mr. 
Worthy to visit his friend just at the present 
time was, that Mr. Bragwell had a small estate 
to sell by auction. Mr. Worthy, though he did not 
think he should be a bidder, wished to be present, 
as he had business to settle with one or two 
persons who were expected at the Golden Lion, 
on that day, and he had put off his visit till he 
had seen the sale advertised in the county paper. 

Mr. Bragwell and Mr. Worthy set out early 
on the Monday morning, on their way to the 
Golden Lion, a small inn in a neighbouring 
market town. As they had time before them, 
they had agreed to ride slowly that they might 
converse on some useful subject, but here, as 
usual, they had two opinions about the same 
thing. Mr. Bragwell's notion of an useful sub- 
ject was, something by which money was to be 
got, and a good bargain struck. Mr. Worthy 
was no less a man of business than his friend. 
His schemes were wise, and his calculations 
just ; his reputation for integrity and good sense 
made him the common judge and umpire in his 
neighbour's affairs, while no one paid a more 
exact attention to every transaction of his own. 
But the business of getting money was not with 
him the first, much less was it the whole con- 
cern of the day. He sought in the Jirst place, 
* tho kingdom of God and his righteousness.' 
Every morning when he rose, be remembered 



that he had a Maker to worship as well as a 
family to maintain. Religion, however, never 
made him neglect business, though it sometime* 
led him to postpone it. He used to say, no man 
had any reason to expect God's blessing through 
the day, who did not ask it in the morning ; nor 
was he likely to spend the day in the fear of 
God, who did not begin it with his worship. 
But he had not the less sense, spirit, and ac- 
tivity, when he was among men abroad, be- 
cause he had first served God at home. 

As these two farmers rode along, Mr. Wor- 
thy took occasion, from the fineness of the day, 
and the beauty of the country through which 
they passed, to turn the discourse to the good- 
ness of God, and our infinite obligations to him. 
He knew that the transition from thanksgiving 
to prayer would be natural and easy ; and he 
therefore, sliding by degrees into that import- 
ant subject, observed, that secret prayer was a 
duty of universal obligation, which every man 
had it in his power to fulfil, and which he seri- 
ously believed was the ground-work of all re- 
ligious practice, and of all devout affections. 

Mr. Bragwell felt conscious that he was very 
negligent and irregular in the performance of 
this duty ; indeed, he considered it as a mere 
ceremony, or at least, as a duty which might 
give way to the slightest temptation of drow- 
siness at night, or business in the morning. 
As he knew he did not live in the conscientious 
performance of this practice, he tried to ward 
off the subject, knowing what a home way his 
friend had of putting things. After some eva- 
sion, he at last said, he certainly thought pri- 
vate prayer a good custom, especially for peo- 
ple who have time; and that those who were 
sick, or old, or out of business, could not do bet- 
ter ; but that for his part, he believed much of 
these sort of things was not expected from men 
in active life. 

Worthy. I should think, Mr. Bragwell, that 
those who are most exposed to temptations stand 
most in need of prayer ; now there are few, me- 
thinks, who are more, exposed to temptation 
than men in business ; for those must be in 
most danger, at least from the world, who have 
most to do with it. And if this be true, ought 
we not to prepare ourselves in the closet for the 
trials of the market, the field, and the shop? It 
is but putting on our armour before we go out 
to battle. 

Bragwell. For my part, I think example is 
the whole of religion, and if the master of a 
family is orderly, and regular, and goes to 
church, he does every thing -which can be re- 
quired of him, and no one has a right to call 
him to an account for any thing more. 

Worthy. Give me leave to say, Mr. Bragwell, 
that highly as I rate a good example, still I 
must set a good principle above it. I know I 
must keep good order indeed, for the sake of 
others ; but I must keep a good conscience for 
my own sake. To God I owe secret piety, I 
must therefore pray to him in private. — To my 
family I owe a Christian example, and for that, 
among other reasons, I must not fail to go to 
church. 

Bragwell. You are talking, Mr. Worthy, as 
if I were an enemy to religion. Sir, I am no 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



143 



heathen. Sir, I am a Christian ; I belong to the 
church; I go to church ; I always drink pros- 
perity to the church. You yourself, as strict 
as you are, in never missing it twice a day, are 
not a warmer friend to the church than I am. 

Worthy. That is to say, you know its inesti- 
mable value as a political institution ; but you 
do not seem to know that a man may be very 
irreligious under the best religious institutions; 
and that even the most excellent only furnishes 
the means of being religious, and is no more re- 
ligion itself than brick and mortar are prayers 
and thanksgivings. I shall never think, how- 
ever high their profession, and even however re- 
gular their attendance, that those men truly re- 
spect the church, who bring home little of that 
religion which is taught in it into their own fa- 
milies or their own hearts ; or, who make the 
whole of Christianity to consist in a mere for- 
mal attendance there. Excuse me Mr. Brag- 
well. 

Bragwell. Mr. Worthy, I am persuaded that 
religion is quite a proper thing for the poor ; 
and I don't think that the multitude can ever 
be kept in order without it ; and I am a sort of 
a politician you know. We must have bits, and 
bridles, and restraints for the vulgar. 

Worthy. Your opinion is very just, as far as 
it goes ; but it does not go far enough, since, it 
does not go to the root of the evil ; for while you 
value yourself on the soundness of this principle 
as a politician, I wish you also to see the reason 
of it as a Christian ; depend upon it, if religion 
be good for the community at large, it is equally 
good for every family ; and what is right for a 
family is equally right for each individual in it. 
You have therefore yourself brought the most 
unanswerable argument why you ought to be 
religious yourself, by asking how we shall keep 
others in order without religion. For, believe 
me, Mr. Bragwell, there is no particular clause 
to except you in the Gospel. There are no ex- 
ceptions there in favour of any one class of men. 
The same restraints which are necessary for 
the people at large, are equally necessary for 
men of every order, high and low, rich and poor, 
bond and free, learned and ignorant. If Jesus 
Christ died for no one particular rank, class, or 
community, then there is no one rank, class, or 
community, exempt from the obedience to his 
laws enjoined by the Gospel. May I ask you, 
Mr. Bragwell, what is your reason for going to 
church ? 

Bragwell. Sir, I am shocked at your question. 
How can I avoid doing a thing so customary 
and so creditable 7 Not go to church, indeed ! 
What do you take me for, Mr. Worthy ? I am 
afraid you suspect me to be a papist, or a hea- 
then, or of some religion or other that is not 
Christian. 

Worthy. If a foreigner were to hear how vio- 
lently one set of Christians in this country often 
speak against another, how earnest would he 
suppose us all to be in religious matters : and 
how astonished to discover that many a man 
has perhaps little other proof to give of the sin- 
cerity of his own religion, except the violence 
with which he hates the religion of another 
party. It is not irreligion which such men hate; 
but the religion of the man, or the party, whom 

Vol. I. K 



we are set against : now hatred is certainly no 
part of the religion of the Gospel. Well, you 
have told me why you go to church ; now pray 
tell me, why do you confess there on your bend- 
ed knees, every Sunday, that ' you have erred 
and strayed from God's ways ?' — ' that there is 
no health in you ? — l that you have done what 
you ought not to do ? — and that you are a mise- 
rable sinner ?' 

Bragwell. Because it is in the Common 
Prayer Book, to be sure ; a book which I have 
heard you yourself say was written by wise and 
good men ; the glory of Christianity, the pillars 
of the protestant church. 

Worthy. But have you no other reason ? 

Bragwell. No, I can't say I have. 

Worthy. When you repeat that excellent form 
of confession, do you really feel that you are a 
miserable sinner 1 

Bragwell. No, I can't say I do. But that is 
no objection to my repeating it : because it may 
suit the cause of many who are so. I suppose 
the good doctors who drew it up, intended that 
part for wicked people only, such as drunkards, 
and thieves, and murderers ; for I imagine they 
could not well contrive to make the same prayer 
quite suit an honest man and a rogue ; and so I 
suppose they thought it better to make a good 
man repeat a prayer which suited a rogue, than 
to make a rogue repeat a prayer which suited a 
good man ; and you know it is so customary for 
every body to repeat the general confession, that 
it can't hurt the credit of the most respectable 
persons, though every respectable person must 
know they have no particular concern in it ; as 
they are not sinners. 

Worthy. Depend upon it, Mr. Bragwell, those 
good doctors you speak of, were not quite of 
your opinion ; they really thought that what you 
call honest men were grievous sinners in a cer- 
tain sense, and that the best of us stand in need 
of making that humble confession. Mr. Brag- 
well do you believe in the fall of Adam ? 

Bragwell. To be sure I do, and a sad thing 
for Adam it was ; why, it is in the Bible, is it 
not ? It is one of the prettiest chapters in Gene- 
sis. Don't you believe Mr. Worthy ? 

Worthy. Yes, truly I do. But I don't believe 
it merely because I read it in Genesis ; though 
I know, indeed, that I am bound to believe 
every part of the word of God. But I have still 
an additional reason for believing in the fall of 
the first man. 

Bragwell. Have you, indeed ? Now, I can't 
guess what that can be. 

Worthy. Why, my own observation of what 
is within myself teaches me to believe it. It is 
not only the third chapter of Genesis which con- 
vinces me of the truth of the fall, but also the 
sinful inclinations which I find in my own heart 
corresponding with it. This is one of those 
leading truths of Christianity of which I can 
never doubt a moment : first because it is abun- 
dantly expressed or implied in Scripture ; and 
next, because the consciousness of the evil na- 
ture, I carry about with me confirms the doc- 
trine beyond all doubt. Besides, is it not said 
in Scripture, that by one man sin entered into 
the world, and that ' all we, like lost sheep, have 
gone astray ;' — ' that by one man's disobedience 



146 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



many were made sinners;' — and so again in 
twenty more places that I could tell you of. 

Bragwell. Well ; I never thought of this. But 
is not this a very melancholy sort of doctrine, 
Mr. Worthy ? 

Worthy. It is melancholy, indeed, if we stop 
here. But while we are deploring this sad 
truth, let us take comfort from another, that ' as 
in Adam all die, bo in Christ shall all be made 
alive.' 

Bragwell. Yes ; I remember I thought those 
very fine words, when I heard them said over 
my poor father's grave. But as it was in the 
burial of the dead, I did not think of taking it 
to myself; for I was then young and hearty, and 
in little danger of dying, and I have been so busy 
ever since, that I have hardly had time to think 
of it. 

Worthy. And yet the service pronounced at 
the burial of all who die, is a solemn admonition 
to all who live. It is there said, as indeed the 
Scripture says also, ' I am the resurrection and 
the life ; whosoever believeth in me shall never 
die, but I will raise him up at the last day.' 
Now do you think you believe in Christ, Mr. 
Bragwell ? 

Bragwell. To be sure I do ; why you are al- 
ways fancying me an atheist. 

Worthy. In order to believe in Christ, we 
must believe first in our own guilt and our own 
unworthiness ; and when we do this we shall see 
the use of a Saviour, and not till then. 

Bragwell. Why, all this is a new way of talk- 
ing. I can't say I ever meddled with such sub- 
jects before in my life. But now, what do you 
advise a man to do upon your plan of religion ? 

Worthy. Why all this leads me back to the 
ground from which we set out, I mean the duty 
of prayer ; for if we believe that we have an 
evil nature within us, and that we stand in need 
of God's grace to help us, and a Saviour to re- 
deem us, we shall be led of course to pray for 
what we so much need ; and without this con- 
viction we shall not be led to pray. 

Bragwell. Well, but don't you think, Mr. 
Worthy, that you good folks who make so much 
of prayer, have lower notions than we have of 
the wisdom of the Almighty ? You think he 
wants to be informed of the thing you tell him ; 
whereas, I take it for granted that he knows 
them already, and that, being so good as he is, 
he will give me every thing he sees fit to give 
me, without my asking it. 

Worthy. God, indeed, who knows all things, 
knows what we want before we ask him ; but 
still has he not said that, ' with prayer and sup- 
plication we must make known our requests un- 
to him ?' Prayer is the way in which God hath 
said that his favour must be sought. It is the 
channel through which he has declared it his 
sovereign will and pleasure that his blessings 
should be conveyed to us. What ascends up in 
prayer descends to us again in blessings. It is 
like the rain which just now fell, and which 
had been drawn up from the ground in vapours 
to the clouds before it descended from them to 
the earth in that refreshing shower. Besides 
prayer has a good effect on our minds ; it tends 
to excite a right disposition towards God in us, 
and to keep up a constant sense of our depend- , 



ence. But above all, it is the yay to get the 
good things we want. ' Ask,' says the Scrip- 
ture, ' and ye shall receive.' 

Bragwell. Now, that is the very thing which 
I was going to deny : for the truth is, men do 
not always get what they ask ; I believe if I 
could get a good crop for asking it, I would pray 
oftener than I do. 

Worthy. Sometimes, Mr. Bragwell, men ' ask 
and receive not, because they ask amiss ;' — 
' they ask that they may consume it on their 
lusts.' — They ask worldly blessings, perhaps, 
when they should ask spiritual ones. Now, the 
latter, which are the good things I spoke of, are 
always granted to those who pray to God for 
them, though the former are not. I have ob- 
served in the case of some worldly things I 
have sought for, that the grant of my prayer 
would have caused the misery of my life ; so 
that God equally consults our good in what he 
withholds, and in what he bestows. 

Bragwell. And yot you continue to pray on 
I suppose ? 

Worthy. Certainly ; but then I try to mend 
as to the object of my prayers. I pray for 
God's blessing and favour, which is better than 
riches. 

Bragwell. You seem very earnest on this sub- 
ject. 

Worthy. To cut the matter short ; I ask then, 
whether prayer is not positively commanded in 
the Gospel. When this is the case, we can never 
dispute about the necessity or the duty of a 
thing, as we may when there is no such com- 
mand. Here, however, let me just add also, that 
a man's prayers may be turned into no small 
use in the way of discovering to him whatever 
is amiss in his life. 

Bragwell. How so, Mr. Worthy ? 

Worthy. Why, suppose now, you were to try 
yourself by turning into the shape of a prayer 
every practice in which you allow yourself. For 
instance, let the prayer in the morning be a 
sort of preparation for the deeds of the day, and 
the prayer at night a sort of retrospection of 
those deeds. You, Mr. Bragwell, I suspect, are 
a little inclined to covetousness ; excuse me, sir. 
Now, suppose after you have been during a 
whole day a little too eager to get rich ; suppose, 
I say, you were to try how it would sound to 
beg of God at night on your knees, ito give you 
still more money, though you have already so 
much that you know not what to do with it. 
Suppose you were to pray in the morning, ' O 
Lord, give me more riches, though those I have 
are a snare and a temptation to me ;' and ask 
him in the same solemn manner to bless all the 
grasping means you intend to make use of in 
the day, to add to your substance ? * 

Bragwell, Mr. Worth}', I have no patience 
with you for thinking I could be so wicked. 

Worthy. Yet to make such a covetous prayer 
as this is hardly more wicked, or more absurd, 
than to lead the life of the covetous, by sinning 
up to the spirit of that very prayer which you 
would not have the courage to put into words. 
Still further observe how it would sound to con- 
fess your sins, und pray against them all, ex- 
cept one favourite sin. ' Lord, do thou enable 
me to forsake all my sins, except the love of 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



147 



money ;' — ' in this one thing pardon thy ser- 
vant.' — Or, v Do thou enable me to forgive all 
who have injured me, except old Giles.' This 
you will object against, as a wicked prayer ; but 
if wicked in prayer, it must be wicked in prac- 
tice. It is even more shocking to make it the 
language of the heart, or of the life, than of the 
lips. And yet, because you have been used to 
see people act thus, and have not been used to 
hear them pray thus, you are shocked at the 
one, and not shocked at the other. 

Bragwell. Shocked, indeed ! Why, at this 
Tate, you would teach one to hate one's self. 

Worthy. Hear me out, Mr. Bragwell ; you 
turned your good nephew, Tom Broad, out of 
doors, you know ; you owned to me it was an 
act of injustice. Now, suppose on the morning 
of your doing so you had begged of God, in a 
solemn act of prayer, to prosper the deed of cru- 
elty and oppression, which you intended to com- 
mit that day. I see you are shocked at the 
thought of such a prayer. Well, then, would 
not hearty prayer have kept you from commit- 
ting that wicked action ? In short, what a life 
must that be, no act of which you dare beg God 
to prosper and bless ? If once you can bring 
yourself to believe that it is your bounden duty 
to pray for God's blessing on your day's work, 
you will certainly grow careful about passing 
Buch a day as you may safely ask his blessing 
upon. The remark may be carried to sports, 
diversions, company. A man, who once takes 
up the serious use of prayer, will soon find him- 
self obliged to abstain from such diversions, oc- 
cupations, and societies, as he cannot reasona- 
bly desire that God will bless to him ; and thus 
he will see himself compelled to leave off either 
the practice or the prayer. Now, Mr. Bragwell, 
I need not ask you which of the two he that is a 
real Christian will give up, sinning or praying. 

Mr. Bragwell began to feel that he had not 
the best of the argument, and was afraid he was 
making no great figure in the eyes of his friend. 
Luckily, however, he was relieved from the dif- 
ficulty into which the necessity of making some 
answer must have brought him, by finding they 
were come to the end of their little journey : and 
he never beheld the Bunch of Grapes, which 
decorated the sign of the Golden Lion, with 
more real satisfaction. 

I refer my readers for the transactions at the 
Golden Lion, and for the sad adventures which 
afterwards befel Mr. Bragwell's family, to the 
fifth part of the History of the Two Wealthy 
Farmers. 



PART V. 

THE GOLDEN LION. 

Mr. Bragwell and Mr. Worthy alighted at 
the Golden Lion. It was market-day : the inn, 
the yard, the town was all alive. — Bragwell was 
quite in his element. Money, company, and 
good cheer always set his spirits afloat. He felt 
himself the principal man in the scene. He had 
three great objects in view ; the sale of his land; 
the letting Mr. Worthy see how much he was 
looked up to by eo many substantial people, and 



the showing these people what a wise man his 
most intimate friend, Mr. Worthy was. It was 
his way to try to borrow a little credit from every 
person, and every thing he was connected with, 
and by that credit to advance his interest and 
increase his wealth. 

The farmers met in a large room ; and while 
they were transacting their various concerns, 
those whose pursuits were the same, naturally 
herded together. The tanners were drawn to 
one corner, by the common interest which they 
took in bark and hides. A useful debate was 
carrying on at another little table, whether the 
practice of sowing wheat or of planting it were 
most profitable. Another set were disputing 
whether horses or oxen were best for ploughs. 
Those who were concerned in canals, sought 
the company of other canallers ; while 6ome, 
who were interested in the new bill for inclo- 
sures, wisely looked out for such as knew most 
about waste lands. 

Mr. Worthy was pleased with all these sub- 
jects, and picked up something useful on each. 
It was a saying of his, that most men under- 
stood some one thing, and that he who was 
wise would try to learn from every man some- 
thing on the subject he best knew ; but Mr. 
Worthy made a further use of the whole. What 
a pity is it, said he, that Christians are not so 
desirous to turn their time to good account as 
men of business are ! When shall we see reli- 
gious persons as anxious to derive profit from 
the experience of others as these farmers? When 
shall we see them as eager to turn their time to 
good account ? While I approve these men for 
not being slothful in business, let me improve 
the hint, by being also fervent in spirit. 

Showing how much wiser the children of this 
generation are than the children of Light. 
When the hurry was a little over, Mr. Brag 
well took a turn on the bowling-green. Mr. 
Worthy followed him, to ask why the sale of the 
estate was not brought forward. Let the auc- 
tioneer proceed to business, said he ; the com- 
pany will be glad to get home by daylight. I 
speak mostly with a view to others ; for I do not 
think of being a purchaser myself. I know it, 
said Bragwell, or I would not be such a fool as 
to let the cat out of the bag. But is it really- 
possible (proceeded he, with a smile of contempt) 
that you should think I will sell my estate 
before dinner ? Mr. Worthy, you are a clever 
man at books, and such things ; and perhaps 
can make out an account on paper in a hand- 
somer manner than I can. But I never found 
much was to be got by fine writing. As to 
figures, I can carry enough of them in my head 
to add, divide, and multiply more money than 
your learning will ever give you the fingering 
of. You may beat me at a book, but you are a 
very child at a bargain. Sell my land before 
dinner indeed ! 

Mr. Worthy was puzzled to guess how a man 
was to show more wisdom by selling a piece of 
ground at one hour than another, and desired 
an explanation. Bragwell felt rather more con. 
tempt for his understanding than he had ever 
done before. Look'ee, Mr. Worthy, said he, I 
do not think that knowledge is of any use to % 



148 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



man, unless he has sense enough to turn it to 
account. Men are my books, Mr. Worthy ; and 
it is by reading, spelling, and putting them to- 
gether to good purpose, that I have got up in 
the world. I shall give you a proof of this to- 
day. These farmers are most of them come to 
the Lion with a view of purchasing this bit of 
land of mine, if they should like the bargain. 
Now, as you know a thing can't be any great 
bargain both to the buyer and the seller too, to 
them and to me, it becomes me as a man of 
sense, who has the good of his family at heart, 
to secure the bargain to myself. I would not 
cheat any man, sir, but I think it fair enough to 
turn his weakness to my own advantage ; there 
is no law against that, you know ; and this is 
the use of one man's having more sense than 
another. So, whenever I have a piece of land to 
sell, I always give a handsome dinner, with 
plenty of punch and strong beer. We fill up 
the morning with other business ; and I care- 
fully keep back my talk about the purchase till 
we have dined. At dinner we have, of course, 
a slice of politics. This puts most of us into a 
passion, and you know anger is thirsty. Besides, 
' Church and King' naturally brings on a good 
many other tofsts. Now, as I am master of the 
feast, you know it would be shabby in me to 
save my liquor ; so I push about the glass one 
way, and the tankard the other, till all my com- 
pany are as merry as kings. Every man is de- 
lighted to see what a fine hearty fellow he has 
to deal with, and Mr. Bragwell receives a thou- 
sand compliments. By this time they have 
gained as much in good humour as they have 
lost in sober judgment, and this is the proper 
moment for setting the auctioneer to work, and 
this I commonly do to such good purpose, that 
I go home with my purse a score or two pounds 
heavier than if they had not been warmed by 
their dinner. In the morning men are cool and 
suspicious, and have all their wits about them ; 
but a cheerful glass cures all distrust. And, 
what is lucky, I add to my credit as well as my 
pocket, and get more praise for my dinner than 
blame for my bargain. 

Mr. Worthy was struck with the absurd va- 
nity which could tempt a man to own himself 
guilty of an unfair action for the sake of show- 
ing his wisdom. He was beginning to express 
his disapprobation, when they were told dinner 
was on table. They went in, and were soon 
seated. All was mirth and good cheer. Every 
body agreed that no one gave such hearty din- 
ners as Mr. BragweH. Nothing was pitiful 
where he was master of the feast. Bragwell, 
who looked with pleasure on the excellent din- 
ner before him, and enjoyed the good account 
to which he should turn it, heard their praises 
with delight, and cast an eye on Worthy, as 
much as to say who is the wise man now. 
Having a mind, for his own credit, to make his 
friend talk, he turned to him, saying, Mr. Wor- 
thy, I believe no people in the world enjoy life 
more than men of our class. We have money 
and power, we live on the fat of the land, and 
have as good a right to gentility as the best. 

As to gentility, Mr. Bragwell, replied Wor- 
thy, I am not sure that this is among the wisest 
of our pretensions. But I will say, that our's is 



a creditable and respectable business. In an. 
cient times, farming was the employment of 
princes and patriarchs ; and, now-a-days, an 
honest, humane, sensible, English yeoman, I 
will be bold to say, is not only a very useful, 
but an honourable character. But then, he must 
not merely think of enjoying life as you call it, 
but he must think of living up to the great ends 
for which he was sent into the world. A wealthy 
farmer not only has it in his power to live well, 
but to do much good. He is not only the father 
of his own family, but his workmen, his depen- 
dants, and the poor at large, especially in these 
hard times. He has it in his power to raise into 
credit all the parish offices which have fallen 
into disrepute by getting into bad hands ; and 
he can convert, what have been falsely thought 
mean offices, into very important ones, by his 
just and Christian like manner of filling them. 
An upright juryman, a conscientious constable, 
a humane overseer, an independent elector, an 
active superintendent of a work-house, a just 
arbitrator in public disputes, a kind counsellor 
in private troubles ; such an one, I say, fills up 
a station in society no less necessary, and, as 
far as it reaches, scarcely less important than 
that of a magistrate, a sheriff of a county, or 
even a member of parliament. That can never 
be a slight or degrading office, on which the 
happiness of a whole parish may depend. 

Bragwell, who thought the good sense of his 
friend reflected credit on himself, encouraged 
Worthy to go on, but he did it in his own vain 
way. Ay, very true, Mr. Worthy, said he, you 
are right; a leading man in our class ought to 
be looked up to as an example, as you say ; in 
order to which, he should do things handsomely 
and liberally, and not grudge himself, or his 
friends, any thing ; casting an eye of compla- 
cency on the good dinner he had provided. 
True, replied Mr. Worthy, he should be an ex- 
ample of simplicity, sobriety, and plainness of 
manners. But he will do well, added he, not to 
affect a frothy gentility, which will sit but 
clumsily upon him. If he has money, let him 
spend prudently, lay up moderately for his 
children, and give liberally to the poor. But 
let him rather seek to dignify his own station 
by his virtues, than to get above it by his vanity. 
If he acts thus, then, as long as his country 
lasts, a farmer of England will be looked upon 
as one of its most valuable members ; nay more, 
by this conduct, he may contribute to make 
England last the longer. The riches of the 
farmer, corn and cattle, are the true riches of a 
nation ; but let him remember, that though corn 
and cattle enrich a country, nothing but justice, 
integrity, and religion, can preserve it. 

Here one of the company, who was known to 
be a man of loose principles, and who seldom 
went to public worship, said he had no objec- 
tion to religion, and was always ready to testify 
his regard to it by drinking church and king. 
On this Mr. Worthy remarked, that he was 
afraid that too many contented themselves with 
making this toast include the whole of their re- 
ligion, if not of their loyalty. It is with real 
sorrow, continued he, that I am compelled to 
observe, that though there are numberless 
honourable instances to the contrary, yet I have 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



149 



Been more contempt and neglect of Christianity 
in men of our calling, than in almost any other. 
They too frequently hate the rector on account 
of his tithes, to which he has as good a right as 
they have to their farms, and the curate on ac- 
count of his poverty ; but the truth is, religion 
itself is often the concealed object of their dis- 
like. I know too many, who, while they affect 
a violent outward zeal for the church, merely 
because they conceive its security to be somehow 
connected with their own political advantages, 
yet prove the hollowness of their attachment, by 
showing little regard to its ministers, and less 
to its ordinances. 

Young Wilson, the worthy grazier, whom 
Miss Bragwell turned off because he did not un- 
derstand French dances, thanked Mr. Worthy 
for what he had said, and hoped he should be 
the better for it as long as he lived, and desired 
his leave to be better acquainted. Most of the 
others declared they had never heard a finer 
speech, and then, as is usual, proceeded to show 
the good effect it had on them, by loose conver- 
sation, hard drinking, and whatever could coun- 
teract all that Worthy had been saying. 

Mr. WoTthy was much concerned to hear 
Mr. Bragwell, after dinner, whisper to the 
waiter, to put less and less water into every 
fresh bowl of punch. This was his old way ; 
if the time they had to sit was long, then the 
punch was to be weaker, as he saw no good 
in wasting money to make it stronger than the 
time required. But if time pressed, then the 
strength was to be increased in due proportion, 
as a small quantity must then intoxicate them 
as much in a short time as would be required 
of a greater quantity had the time been longer. 
This was one of Mr. BragwelPs nice calcula- 
tions; and this was the sort of skill on which he 
ao much valued himself. 

At length the guests were properly primed 
for business ; just in that convenient stage of 
intoxication which makes men warm and rash, 
yet keeps short of that absolute drunkenness, 
which disqualifies for business, the auctioneer 
set to work. All were bidders, and, if possible, 
all would have been purchasers ; so happily had 
the feast and the punch operated. They bid on 
with a still increasing spirit, till they got so 
much above the value of the land, that Brag- 
well with a wink and a whisper, said : Who 
would sell his land fasting ? Eh ! Worthy ? At 
length the estate was knocked down, at a price 
very far above its worth. 

As soon as it was sold, Bragwell again said 
softly to Worthy, Five from fifty and there re- 
main forty-five. The dinner and drink won't 
cost me five pounds, and I have got fifty more 
than the land was worth. Spend a shilling to 
gain a pound ! This is what I call practical 
arithmetic, Mr. Worthy. 

Mr. Worthy was glad to get out of this scene ; 
and seeing that his friend was quite sober, he 
resolved as they rode home, to deal plainly with 
him. Bragwell had found out, among his cal- 
culations, that there were some sins which could 
only be committed, by a prudent man, one at a 
time. For instance, he knew that a man could 
not well get rich and get drunk at the same mo- 
ment ; so that he used to practice one first, and 



the other after ; but he had found out that some 
vices made very good company together ; thus, 
while he had watched himself in drinking, lest 
he should become as unfit to sell as his guests 
were to buy, he had indulged, without mea- 
sure, in the good dinner he had provided. Mr. 
Worthy, I say, seeing him able to bear reason, 
rubuked him for this day's proceedings with 
some severity. Bragwell bore his reproofs with 
that sort of patience which arises from an 
opinion of one's own wisdom, accompanied by a 
recent flush of prosperity. He behaved with 
that gay good humour, which grows out of 
united vanity and good fortune. You are too 
squeamish, Mr. Worthy, said he, I have done 
nothing discreditable. These men came with 
their eyes open. There is no compulsion used. 
They are free to bid or to let it alone. I make 
them welcome, and I shall not be thought a 
bit the worse of by them to-morrow, when they 
are sober. Others do it besides me, and I shall 
never be ashamed of any thing as long as I have 
custom on my side. 

Worthy. I am sorry, Mr. Bragwell, to hear 
you support such practices by such arguments. 
There is not, perhaps, a more dangerous snare 
to the souls of men than is to be found in that 
word custom. It is a word invented to reconcile 
corruption with credit, and sin with safety. 
But no custom, no fashion, no combination of 
men, to set up a false standard can ever make 
a wrong action right. That a thing is often 
done, is so far from a proof of its being right, that 
it is the very reason which will set a thinking 
man to inquire if it be not really wrong, lest he 
should be following, ' a multitude to do evil.' 
Right is right, though only one man in a thou- 
sand pursues it ; and wrong will be forever 
wrong, though it be the allowed practice of the 
other nine hundred and ninety-nine. If this 
shameful custom be really common, which I can 
hardly believe, that is a fresh reason why a con- 
scientions man should set his face against it. 
And I must go so far as to say (you will excuse 
me Mr. Bragwell) that I see no great difference, 
in the eye of conscience, whatever there may be 
in the eye of the law, between your making a 
man first lose his reason, and then getting fifty 
guineas out of his pocket, because he has lost it , 
and your picking the fifty guineas' out of his 
pocket, if you had met him dead drunk in his 
way home to-night. Nay, he who meets a man 
already drunk and robs him, commits but one 
sin ; while he who makes him drunk first that 
he may rob him afterwards, commits two. 

Bragwell gravely replied : Mr. Worthy, whilo 
I have the practice of people of credit to sup- 
port me, and the law of the land to protect me, 
I see no reason to be ashamed of any thing I do. 
Mr. Bragwell, answered Worthy, a truly honest 
man is not always looking sharp about him, to 
see how far custom and the law will bear him 
out; if he be honest on principle, he will consult 
the law of his conscience, and if he be a Chris- 
tian, he will consult the written law of God. 
We never deceive ourselves more than when 
we overreach others. You would not allow that 
you had robbed your neighbour for tha world, 
yet you are not ashamed to own you have out- 
witted him. I have read this great truth in the 



150 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



works of a heathen, Mr. Brag well, that the chief 
misery of man arises from his not knowing how 
to make right calculations. 

Bragwell. Sir, the remark does not belong to 
me. 1 have not made an error of a farthing. 
Look at the account, 6ir — right to the smallest 
fraction. 

Worth*). Sir, I am talking of final accounts ; 
spiritual calculations; arithmetic in the long 
run. Now, in this, your real Christian is the 
only true calculator : he has found out that we 
shall be richer in the end, by denying, than by 
indulging ourselves. He knows that when 
the balance comes to be struck, when profit and 
loss shall be summed up, and the final account 
adjusted, that what3ver ease, prosperity, and de- 
light we had in this world, yet if we have lost 
our souls in the end, we cannot reckon that we 
have made a good bargain. We cannot pretend 
that a few items of present pleasure make any 
great figure, set over against the sum total of 
eternal misery. So you see it is only for want 
of a good head at calculation that men prefer 
time to eternity, pleasure to holiness, earth to 
heaven. You see if we get our neighbour's 
money at the price of our own integrity ; hurt 
his good name, but destroy our own souls ; raise 
our outward character, but wound our inward 
conscience ; when we come to the last reckon- 
ing, we shall find that we were only knaves in 
the second instance, but fools in the first. In 
short, we shall find that whatever other wisdom 
we possessed, we were utterly ignorant of the 
skill of true calculation. 

Notwithstanding this rebuff, Mr. Bragwell 
got home in high spirits, for no arguments 
could hinder him from feeling that he had the 
fifty guineas in his purse. 

There is to a worldly man something so irre- 
sistible in the actual possession of present, and 
visible, and palpable pleasure, that he considers 
it as a proof of his wisdom to set them in de- 
cided opposition to the invisible realities of 
eternity. 

As soon as Bragwell came in, he gayly threw 
the money he had received on the table, and 
desired his wife to lock it up. Instead of re- 
ceiving it with her usual satisfaction, she burst 
into a violent fit of passion, and threw it back 
to him. You may keep your cash yourself, 
said she. It is all over — we want no more 
money. You are a ruined man ! A wicked 
creature, scraping and working as we have 
done for her ! — Bragwell trembled, but durst 
not ask what he dreaded to hear. His wife 
spared him the trouble, by crying out as soon 
as her rage permitted : The girl is ruined ; 
Polly is gone off! Poor Brag well's heart sunk 
within him ; he grew sick and giddy, and as his 
wife's rage swallowed up her grief, so, in his 
grief, he almost forgot his anger. The purse 
fell from his hand, and he cast a look of anguish 
upon it, finding, for the first time that money 
could not relieve his misery. 

Mr. Worthy, who, though much concerned, 
was less discomposed, now called to mind, that 
the young lady had not returned with her mo- 
ther and sister the night before : he begged 
Mrs. Bragwell to explain this sad story. She, 
instead of soothing her husband, fell to reproach- 



ing him. It is all your fault, said she ; you 
were a fool for your pains. — If I had had my 
way the girls would never have kept company 
with any but men of substance, and then they 
could not have been ruined. Mrs. Bragwell, 
said Worthy, if she has chosen a bad man, it 
would be still a misfortune, even though he had 
been rich. O, that would alter the case, said 
she, a. fat sorrow is better than a lean one. But 
to marry a beggar ! there is no sin like that. 
Here Miss Betsey, who stood sullenly by, put 
in a word, and said, her sister, however, had 
not disgraced herself by having married a far- 
mer or a tradesman ; she had, at least, made 
choice of a gentleman. What marriage ! what 
gentleman ! cried the afflicted father. Tell mo 
the worst ! He was now informed that his dar- 
ling daughter was gone oft* with a strolling 
player, who had been acting in the neighbouring 
villages lately. — Miss Betsey again put in, say- 
ing, he was no stroller, but a gentleman in dis- 
guise, who only acted for his own diversion. 
Does he so, said the now furious Bragwell, 
then he shall be transported for mine. 

At this moment a letter was brought him 
from his new son-in-law, who desired his leave 
to wait upon him, and implore his forgive- 
ness. He owned he had been shopman to a 
haberdasher ; but thinking his person and ta- 
lents ought not to be thrown away upon trade, 
and being also a little behind hand, he had taken 
to the stage with a view of making his fortune : 
that he had married Miss Bragwell entirely for 
love, and was sorry to mention so paltry a 
thing as money, which he despised, but that his 
wants were pressing : his landlord, to whom he 
was in debt, having been so vulgar as to threaten 
to send him to prison. He ended with saying : 
' I have been obliged to shock your daughter's 
delicacy, by confessing my unlucky real name • 
I believe I owe part of my success with her, to 
my having assumed that of Augustus Frederick 
Theodosius. She is inconsolable at this con- 
fession, which, as you are now my father, I 
must also make to you, and subscribe myself, 
with many blushes, by the vulgar name of your 
dutiful son, 

Timothy Incle.' 

' O !' cried the afflicted father, as he tore the 
letter in a rage, ' Miss Bragwell married to a 
strolling actor ! How shall I bear it ?' — ' Why, 
I would not bear it at all,' cried the enraged mo- 
ther ; ' I would never see her ; I would never 
forgive her ; I would let her starve at the cor- 
ner of the barn, while that rascal, with all those 
pagan, popish names, was ranting away at the 
other.' — ' Nay, 1 said Miss Betsey, ' if he is only 
a shopman, and if his name be really Timothy 
Incle, I would never forgive her neither. But 
who would have thought it by his looks, and by 
his monstrous genteel behaviour ? no, he never 
can have so vulgar a name.' 

'Come, come,' said Mr. Worthy, 'were he 
really an honest haberdasher, I should think 
there was no other harm done, except the dis- 
obedience of the thing. Mr. Bragwell, this is 
no time to blame you, or hardly to reason with 
you. I feel for you sincerely. I ought not, 
perhaps, just at present, to reproach you for the 
mistaken manner in which you have bred up 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



151 



your daughters, as your error has brought its 
punishment along with it. You now see, be- 
cause you now feel, the evil of a false educa- 
tion. It has ruined your daughter ; your whole 
plan unavoidably led to some such end. The 
large sums you spent to qualify them, as you 
thought, for a high station, only served to make 
them despise their own, and could do them no- 
thing but harm, while your habits of life pro- 
perly confined them to company of a lower class. 
While they were better drest than the daughters 
of the first gentry, they were worse taught as to 
real knowledge, than the daughters of your 
ploughmen. Their vanity has been raised by 
excessive finery, and kept alive by excessive 
flattery. Every evil temper has been fostered 
by indulgence. Their pride has never been 
controlled; their self-will has never been sub- 
dued ; their idleness has laid them open to 
every temptation, and their abundance has en- 
abled them to gratify every desire ; their time, 
that precious talent, has been entirely wasted. 
Every thing they have been taught to do is of 
no use, while they are utterly unacquainted 
with all which they ought to have known. I 
deplore Miss Polly's false step. That she should 
have married a runaway shopman, turned 
stroller, I truly lament. But for what better 
husband was she qualified ? For the wife of a 
farmer she was too idle : for the wife of a trades- 
man she was too expensive : for the wife of a 
gentleman she was too ignorant. You, your- 
self, was most to blame. You expected her to 
act wisely, though you never taught her that 
fear of God which is the beginning of wisdom. 
1 owe it to you, as a friend, and to myself as 
a Christian, to declare, that your practices in 
the common transactions of life, as well as your 
present misfortune, are almost the natural con- 
sequences of those false principles which I pro- 
tested against when you were at my house.* 

Mrs. Bragwell attempted several times to in- 
terrupt Mr. Worthy, but her husband would not 
permit it. He felt the force of all his friend said, 
and encouraged him to proceed. Mr. Worthy thus 
went on : ' It grieves me to say how much your 
own indiscretion has contributed even to bring 
on your present misfortune. You gave your 
countenance to this very company of strollers, 
though you knew they were acting in defiance to 
the laws of the land, to say no worse. They go 
from town to town, and from barn to barn, strip- 
ping the poor of their money, the young of 
their innocence, and all of their time. Do you 
remember with how much pride you told me 
that you had bespoke The Bold Stroke for a 
Wife, for the benefit of this very Mr. Frederic 
Theodosius ? To this pernicious ribaldry you 
not only carried your own family, but wasted I 
know not how much money in treating your 
workmen's wives and children, in these hard 
times too when they have scarcely bread to eat, 
or a shoe on their feet : and all this only that 
you might have the absurd pleasure of seeing 
those flattering words, By desire of Mr. Brag- 
well, stuck up in print at the public house, on 
the blacksmith's shed, at the turnpike-gate, and 
on the barn-door.' 

• See Part II. 



Mr. Bragwell acknowledged that his friend's 
rebuke was too just, and he looked so very con- 
trite as to raise the pity of Mr. Worthy, who, in 
a mild voice, thus went on : ' What I have said 
is not so much to reproach you with the ruin of 
one daughter, as from a desire to save the other. 
Let Miss Betsey go home with me. I do not 
undertake to be her jailer, but I will be her 
friend. She will find in my daughters kind 
companions, and in my wife a prudent guide. 
I know she will dislike us at first, but I do not 
despair in time of convincing her that a sober, 
humble, useful, pious life, is as necessary to 
make us happy on earth, as it is to fit us for 
heaven.' 

Poor Miss Betsey, though she declared it 
would be frightful dull and monstrous vulgar 
and dismal melancholy , yet was she so terrified 
at the discontent and grumbling which she 
would have to endure at home, that she sullenly 
consented. She had none of that filial tender- 
ness which led her to wish to stay and sooth 
and comfort her afflicted father. All she 
thought about was to get out of the way of her 
mother's ill humour, and to carry so much 
finery with her as to fill the Miss Worthys with 
envy and respect. Poor girl ! she did not know 
that envy was a feeling they never indulged ; 
and that fine clothes were the last thing to draw 
their respect. 

Mr. Worthy took her home next day. When 
they reached his house they found there young 
Wilson, Miss Betsey's old admirer. She was 
much pleased at this, and resolved to treat him 
well. But her good or ill treatment now signi- 
fied but little. This young grazier reverenced 
Mr. Worthy's character, and ever since he had 
met him at the Lion, had been thinking what a 
happiness it would be to marry a young woman 
bred up by such a father. He had heard much 
of the modesty and discretion of both the daugh- 
ters, but his inclination now determined him in 
favour of the elder. 

Mr. Worthy, who knew him to be a young 
man of good sense and sound principles, allow- 
ed him to become a visitor at his house, but de- 
ferred his consent to the marriage till he knew 
him more thoroughly. Mr. Wilson, from what 
he saw of the domestic piety of this family, im- 
proved daily, both in the knowledge and practice 
of religion ; and Mr. Worthy soon formed him 
into a most valuable character. During this time 
Miss Bragwell's hopes had revived ; but though 
she appeared in a new dress almost every day 
she had the mortification of being beheld with 
great indifference by one whom she had always 
secretly liked. Mr. Wilson married before her 
face a girl who was greatly her inferior in for- 
tune, person, and appearance ; but who was 
humble, frugal, meek and pious. Miss Brag- 
well now strongly felt the truth of what Mr. 
Wilson had once told her, that a woman may 
make an excellent partner for a dance who 
would make a very bad companion for life. 

Hitherto Mr. Bragwell and his daughters had 
only learnt to regret their folly and vanity, as 
it had produced them mortification in this life 
whether they were ever brought to a more se- 
rious sense of their errors may be seen in a fu 
ture part of this history. 



152 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



PART VI. 



GOOD RESOLUTIONS. 



Mr. Bragwell was so much afflicted at the 
disgraceful marriage of his daughter, who ran 
off with Timothy Incle, the strolling player, that 
he never fully recovered his spirits. His cheer- 
fulness, which had arisen from an high opinion 
of himself, had been confirmed by a constant 
flow of uninterrupted success •, and that is a sort 
of cheerfulness which is very liable to be im- 
paired, because it lies at the mercy of every ac- 
cident and cross event in life. But though his 
pride was now disappointed, his misfortunes had 
not taught him any humility, because he had 
not discovered that they were caused by his own 
fault; nor had he acquired any patience or sub- 
mission because he had not learnt that all afflic- 
tions come from the hand of God, to awaken us 
to a deep sense of our sins, and to draw off our 
hearts from the perishing vanities of this life. 
Besides, Mr. Bragwell was one of those people, 
who, even if they would be thought to bear with 
tolerable submission such trials as appear to be 
sent more immediately from Providence, yet 
think they have a sort of right to rebel at every 
misfortune which befals them through the fault 
of a fellow-creature ; as if our fellow-creatures 
were not the agents and instruments by which 
Providence often sees fit to try or to punish 
us. 

In answer to his heavy complaints, Mr. Wor- 
thy wrote him a letter, in which he expatiated 
on the injustice of our impatience, and on the 
folly of our vindicating ourselves from guilt in 
the distinctions we make between those trials 
which seem to come more immediately from 
God, and those which proceed directly from the 
faults of our fellow-creatures. 'Sickness, losses, 
and death, we think,' continued he, • we dare 
not openly rebel against; while we fancy we 
are quite justified in giving a loose to our vio- 
lence when we suffer by the hand of the oppres- 
sor, the unkindness of the friend, or the disobe- 
dience of the child. But this is one of the delu- 
sions of our blinded hearts. Ingratitude, un- 
kindness, calumny, are permitted to assail us by 
the same power who cuts off ' the desire of our 
eyes at a stroke.' The friend who betrays us, 
and the daughter who deceives us, are instru- 
ments for our chastisement, sent by the same 
purifying hand who orders a fit of sickness to 
weaken our bodies, or a storm to destroy our 
crop, or a fire to burn down our house. And 
we must look for the same r-emedy in the one 
case as in the other ; I mean prayer and a deep 
submission to the will of God. We must leave 
off looking at second causes, and look more at 
Him who sets them in action. We must try to 
find out the meaning of the Providence ; and 
hardly dare pray to be delivered from it till it 
has accomplished in us the end for which it was 
sent.' 

His imprudent daughter, Bragwell would not 
be brought to see or forgive, nor was the de- 
grading name of Mrs. Incle ever allowed to be 
pronounced in his hearing. He had loved her 
with an excessive and undue affection ; and 
while she gratified his vanity by her beauty and 
.finery, he deemed her faults of little conse- 



quence ; but when she disappointed his ambi- 
tion by a disgraceful marriage, all his natural 
affection only served to increase his resentment. 
Yet, though he regretted her crime less than 
his own mortification, he never ceased in secret 
to lament her loss. She soon found out she was 
undone ; and wrote in a strain of bitter repent- 
anee to ask him for forgiveness. She owned 
that her husband, whom she had supposed to be 
a man of fashion in disguise, was a low person 
in distressed circumstances. She implored that 
her father, though he refused to give her hus- 
band that fortune for which alone it was now 
too plain he had married her, would at least al- 
low her some subsistence ; for that Mr. Incle 
was much in debt, and she feared in danger of 
a jail. 

The father's heart was half melted at this ac- 
count, and his affection was for a time awaken- 
ed. But Mrs. Bragwell opposed his sending her 
any assistance. She always made it a point of 
duty never to forgive ; for she said it only en- 
couraged those who had done wrong once to do 
worse next time. For her part she had never 
yet been guilty of so mean and pitiful a weak- 
ness as to forgive any one ; for to pardon an in- 
jury always showed either want of spirit to feel 
it, or want of power to resent it. . She was re- 
solved she would never squander the money for 
which she had worked early and late, on a bag- 
gage who had thrown herself away on a beggar, 
while she had a daughter single, who might yet 
raise her family by a great match. I am sorry 
to say that Mrs. Bragwell's anger was not owing 
to the undutifulness of the daughter, or the 
worthlessness of the husband ; poverty was in 
her eyes the grand crime. The doctrine of for- 
giveness, as a religious principle, made no more 
a part of Mr. Bragwell's system than of his 
wife's ; but in natural feeling, particularly for 
this offending daughter, he much exceeded 
her. 

In a few months the youngest Miss Bragwell 
desired leave to return home from Mr. Worthy's. 
She bad, indeed, only consented to go thither 
as a less evil of the two, than staying in her 
father's house after her sister's elopement. But 
the sobriety and simplicity of Mr. Worthy's 
family were irksome to her. Habits of vanity 
and idleness were become so rooted in her mind, 
that any degree of restraint was a burthen ; and 
though she was outwardly civil, it was easy to 
see that she longed to get away. She resolved, 
however, to profit by her sister's faults ; and 
made her parents easy by assuring them she 
never would throw herself away on a man who 
was worth nothing. Encouraged by these pro- 
mises, which her parents thought included the 
whole sum and substance of human wisdom, 
and which was all they said they could in rea 
son expect, her father allowed her to come 
home. 

Mr. Worthy, who accompanied her, found 
Mr. Bragwell gloomy and dejected. As his 
house was no longer a scene of vanity and fes- 
tivity, Mr. Bragwell tried to make himself and 
his friend believe that he was grown religious ; 
whereas he was only become discontented. As 
he had always fancied that piety was a melan. 
choly, gloomy thing, and as he felt his own 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



153 



mind really gloomy, he was willing to think 
that he was growing pious. He had, indeed, 
gone more constantly to church, and had taken 
less pleasure in feasting and cards, and now 
and then read a chapter in the Bible ; but all 
this was because his spirits were low, and not 
because his heart was changed. The outward 
actions were more regular, but the inward man 
was the same. The forms of religion were re- 
sorted to as a painful duty : but this only added 
to his misery, while he was utterly ignorant of 
its spirit and its power. He still, however, re- 
served religion as a loathsome medicine, to 
which he feared he must have recourse at last, 
and of which he even now considered every ab- 
stinence from pleasure, or every exercise of 
piety, as a bitter dose. His health also was 
impaired, so that his friend found him in a pi- 
tiable state, neither able to receive pleasure 
from the world, which he so dearly loved, nor 
from religion which he so greatly feared. He 
expected to have been much commended by 
Worthy for the change in his way of life ; but 
Worthy, who saw that the alteration was only 
owing to the loss of animal spirits, and to the 
casual absence of temptation, was cautious of 
flattering him too much. ' I thought Mr. Wor- 
thy,' said he, ' to have received more comfort 
from you. I was told too, that religion was full 
of comfort, but I do not much find it.' — ' You 
were told the truth,' replied Worthy ; ' religion 
is full of comfort, but you must first be brought 
into a state fit to receive it before it can become 
so ; you must be brought to a deep and hum- 
bling sense of sin. To give you comfort while 
you are puffed up with high thoughts of your- 
self, would be to give you a strong cordial in a 
high fever. Religion keeps back her cordials 
till the patient is lowered and emptied : emptied 
of self, Mr. Bragwell. If you had a wound, it 
must be examined and cleansed, ay, and probed 
too, before it would be safe to put on a healing 
plaster. Curing it to the outward eye, while it 
was corrupt at bottom, would only bring on a 
mortification, and you would be a dead man, 
while you trusted that the plaster was curing 
you. You must be, indeed, a Christian before 
you can be entitled to the comforts of Chris- 
tianity.' 

' I am a Christian,' said Mr. Bragwell ; ' many 
of my friends are Christians, but I do not see 
it has done us much good.' — ' Christianity it- 
self,' answered Worthy, ' cannot make us good, 
unless it be applied to our hearts. Christian 
privileges will not make us Christians, unless 
we make use of them. On that shelf I see stands 
your medicine. The doctor orders you take it. 
Have you taken it ?' — ' Yes,' replied Bragwell. 
• Are you the better for it ?' said Worthy. ■ I 
think I am,' he replied. ' But,' added Mr. Wor- 
thy, ' are you the better because the doctor has 
ordered it merely, or because you have also 
taken it ?' — ' What a foolish question,' cried 
Bragwell ; ' Why to be sure the doctor might 
be the best doctor, and his physic the best phy- 
sic in the world ; but if it stood for ever on the 
shelf, I could not expect to be cured by it. My 
doctor is not a mountebank. He does not pretend 
to cure by 1 charm. The physic is good, and as 
it suits my case, though it is bitter, I take iV 
Vol. I 



' You have now,' said Mr. Worthy, ' explain- 
ed undesignedly the reason why religion does 
so little good in the world. It is not a mounte- 
bank ; it does not work by a charm ; but it offers 
to cure your worst corruptions by wholesome, 
though sometimes bitter prescriptions. But you 
will not take them ; you will not apply to God 
with the same earnest desire to be healed with 
which you apply to your doctor ; you will not 
confess your sins to one as honestly as you tell 
your symptoms to the other, nor read your Bible 
with the same faith and submission with which 
you take your medicine. In reading it, however, 
you must take care not to apply to yourself the 
comforts which are not suited to your case. You 
must, by the grace of God, be brought into a 
condition to be entitled to the promises, before 
you can expect the comfort of them. Conviction 
is not conversion ; that worldly discontent, which 
is the effect of worldly disappointment, is not 
that godly sorrow which worketh repentance. Be- 
sides, while you have been pursuing all the gra- 
tifications of the world, do not complain that you 
have not all the comforts of religion too. Could 
you live in the full enjoyment of both, the Bible 
would not be true.'' 

Bragwell. Well, sir, but I do a good action 
sometimes; and God, who knows he did not 
make us perfect, will accept it, and for the sake 
of my good actions will forgive my faults. 

Worthy. Depend upon it God will never for 
give your sins for the sake of your virtues 
There is no commutation tax there. But he 
will forgive them on your sincere repentance, 
for the sake of Jesus Christ. Goodness is not 
a single act to be done ; so that a man can say, I 
have achieved it, and the thing is over ; but it 
is a habit that is to be constantly maintained ; 
it is a continual struggle with the opposite vice. 
No man must reckon himself good for any thing 
he has already done ; though he may consider 
it as an evidence that he is in the right way, if 
he feels a constant disposition to resist every 
evil temper. But every Christian grace will 
always find work enough ; and he must not 
fancy that because he has conquered once, his 
virtue may now sit down and take a holyday. 

Bragwell. But I thought we Christians, need 
not be watchful against sin ; because Christ, as 
you so often tell me, died for sinners. 

Worthy. Do not deceive yourself: the evan- 
gelical doctrines, while they so highly exalt a 
Saviour do not diminish the heinousness of sin, 
they rather magnify it. Do not comfort your- 
self by extenuation or mitigation of sin ; but by 
repentance towards God, and faith in our Lord 
Jesus Christ. It is not by diminishing or deny- 
ing your debt; but by confessing it, by owning 
you have nothing to pay, that forgiveness is to 
be hoped. 

Bragwell. I don't understand you. You want 
to have me as good as a saint, and as penitent 
as a sinner at the same time. 

Worthy. I expect of every real Christian, that 
is, every real penitent, that he should labour to 
get his heart and life impressed with the stamp 
of the Gospel. I expect to see him aiming at a 
conformity in spirit and in practice to the will 
of God in Jesus Christ. I expect to see him 
gradually attaining towards an entire change 



154 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



from his natural self When I see a man at 
constant war with those several pursuits and 
tempers which are with peculiar propriety term- 
ed worldly, it is a plain proof to me that the 
change must have passed on him which the 
gospel emphatically terms becoming ' a new 
man.' 

Bragwell. I hope then I am altered enough 
to please you. I am sure affliction haB made 
such a change in me, that my best friends hard- 
ly know me to be the same man. 

Worthy. That is not the change I mean. 'Tis 
true, from a merry man you are become a 
gloomy man ; but that is because you have been 
disappointed in your schemes : the principle re- 
mains unaltered. A great match for your single 
daughter would at once restore all the spirits 
you have lost by the imprudence of your mar- 
ried one. The change the Gospel requires is of 
quite another cast : it is having ' a new heart 
and a right spirit;' — it is being 'God's work- 
manship ;' — it is being ' created anew in Christ 
Jesus unto good works ;' — it is becoming ' new 
creatures ;' — it is ' old things being done away, 
and all things made new ;' — it is by so ' learn- 
ing the truth as it is in Jesus — to the putting 
off the old man, and putting on the new, which 
after God is created in righteousness and true 
holiness ;' — it is by ' partaking of the divine na- 
ture.' Pray observe, Mr. Bragwell, these are 
not my words, nor words picked out of any fa- 
natical book ; they are the words of that Gospel 
you profess to believe ; it is not a new doctrine, 
it is as old as our religion itself. Though I can- 
not but observe, that men are more reluctant in 
believing, more averse to adopting this doctrine 
than almost any other : and indeed I do not 
wonder at it ; for there is perhaps no one which 
so attacks corruption in its strong holds ; no one 
which so thoroughly prohibits a lazy Christian 
from uniting a life of sinful indulgence with an 
outward profession of piety. 

Bragwell now seemed resolved to set about 
the matter in earnest ; but he resolved in his own 
strength : he never thought of applying for as- 
sistance to the Fountain of Wisdom ; to Him 
who giveth might to them who have no strength. 
Unluckily, the very day Mr. Worthy took leave, 
there happened to be a grand ball at the next 
town, on account of the assizes. An assize-ball, 
courteous reader ! is a scene to which gentle- 
men and ladies periodically resort to celebrate 
the crimes and calamities of their fellow-crea- 
tures, by dancing and music, and to divert them- 
selves with feasting and drinking, while un- 
happy wretches are receiving sentence of death. 
To this ball Miss Bragwell went, dressed out 
with a double portion of finery, pouring out on 
her head, in addition to her own ornaments, the 
whole band-box of feathers, beads, and flowers, 
her sister had left behind her. While she was 
at the ball her father formed many plans of re- 
ligious reformation ; he talked of lessening his 
business, that he might have more leisure for 
devotion; though not just now, while the mar- 
kets were so high ; and then he began to think 
of sending a handsome subscription to the In- 
firmary ; though, on second thoughts he con- 
cluded he need not be in a hurry, but might as 
well leave it in his will ; though to give, and re- 



pent, and reform, were three things he was bent 
upon. But when his daughter came home at 
night so happy and so fine ! and telling how she 
had danced with squire Squeeze, the great com 
contractor, and how many fine things he had 
said to her, Mr. Bragwell felt the old spirit of 
the world return in its full force. A marriage 
with Mr. Dashall Squeeze, the contractor, was 
beyond his hopes ; for Mr. Squeeze was sup- 
posed from a very low beginning to have got 
rich during the war. 

As for Mr. Squeeze, he had picked up as much 
of the history of his partner between the dances 
as he desired ; he was convinced there would 
be no money wanting ; for Miss Bragwell, who 
was now looked on as an only child, must needs 
be a great fortune, and Mr. Squeeze was too 
much used to advantageous contracts to let this 
slip. As he was gaudily dressed, and possessed 
all the arts of vulgar flattery, Miss Bragwell 
eagerly caught at his proposal to wait on her 
father next day. Squeeze was quite a man after 
BragwelPs own heart, a genius at getting mo- 
ney, a fine dashing fellow at spending it. He 
told his wife that this was the very sort of man 
for his daughter ; for he got money like a Jew 
and spent it like a prince ; but whether it was 
fairly got, or wisely spent, he was too much a 
man of the world to inquire. Mrs. Bragwell 
was not so run away with by appearances, but 
that she desired her husband to be careful, and 
make himself quite sure it was the right Mr. 
Squeeze, and no impostor. But being assured 
by her husband that Betsey would certainly 
keep her carriage, she never gave herself one 
thought with what sort of a man she was to ride 
in it. To have one of her daughters drive in 
her own coach, filled up all her ideas of human 
happiness, and drove the other daughter quite 
out of her head. The marriage was celebrated 
with great splendour, and Mr. and Mrs. Squeeze 
set off for London, where they had taken a 
house. 

Mr. Bragwell now tried to forget that he had 
any other daughter ; and if some thoughts of 
the resolutions he had made of entering on a 
more religious course would sometimes force 
themselves upon him, they were put off, like the 
repentance of Felix, to a more convenient season; 
and finding he was likely to have a grandchild, 
he became more worldly and more ambitious 
than ever ; thinking this a just pretence for add- 
ing house to house, and field to field. And there 
is no stratagem by which men more fatally de- 
ceive themselves, than when they make even 
unborn children a pretence for that rapine, or 
that hoarding, of which their own covetousness 
is the true motive. Whenever he ventured to 
write to Mr. Worthy about the wealth, the gay- 
ety, and the grandeur of Mr. and Mrs. Squeeze, 
that faithful friend honestly reminded him of 
the vanity and uncertainty of worldly greatness, 
and the error he had been guilty of in marrying 
his daughter before he had taken time to in- 
quire into the real character of the man, saying, 
that he could not help foreboding that the hap- 
piness of a match made at a ball might have an 
untimely end. 

Notwithstanding Mr. Bragwell had paid down 
a larger fortune than was prudent, for fear Mr. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



155 



Squeeze should fly off, yet he was surprised to 
receive very soon a pressing 1 letter from him, de- 
siring him to advance a considerable sum, as he 
had the offer of an advantageous purchase, 
which he must lose for want of money. Brag- 
well was staggered, and refused to comply ; but 
his wife told him he must not be shabby to such 
a gentleman as squire Squeeze ; for that she 
heard on all sides such accounts of their grandeur, 
their feasts, their carriages, and their liveries, 
that she and her husband ought even to deny 
themselves comforts to oblige such a generous 
son, who did all this in honour of their daugh- 
ter ; besides, if he did not send the money soon, 
they might be obliged to lay down their coach, 
and then she should never be able to show her 
face again. At length Mr. Bragwell lent him 
the money on his bond ; he knew Squeeze's in- 
come was large ; for he had carefully inquired 
Into this particular, and for the rest he took his 
word. Mrs. Squeeze also got great presents 
from her mother, by representing to her how 
expensively they were forced to live to keep up 
their credit, and what honour she was confer- 
ring on the family of the Bragwells, by spend- 
ing their money in such grand company. 
Among many other letters she wrote her the 
following : 

' TO MRS. BRAGWELL. 

' You can't imagine, dear mother, how charm- 
ingly we live. — I lie a-bed almost all day, and 
am up all night ; but it is never dark for all 
that, for we burn such numbers of candles all at 
once, that the sun would be of no use at all in 
London. Then I am so happy ! for we are never 
quiet a moment, Sundays or working-days ; nay, 
I should not know which was which, only that 
we have most pleasure on a Sunday ; because 
it is the only day on which people have nothing 
to do but to divert themselves. Then the great 
folks are all so kind, and so good ; they have not 
a bit of pride, for they will come and eat and 
drink, and win my money, just, as if I was their 
equal ; and if I have got but a cold, they are so 
very unhappy thai they send to know how I do ; 
and though I suppose they cant rest till the foot- 
man has told them, yet they are so polite, that 
if I have been dying they seem to have forgot- 
ten it the next time we meet, ana not to know 
but they have seen me the day before. Oh ! they 
are true friends ; and for ever smiling, and so 
fond of one another, that they like to meet and 
enjoy one another's company by hundreds, and 
always think the more the merrier. I shall ne- 
ver be tired of such a delightful life. 
'Your dutiful daughter, 

' Betsey Squeeze.' 

The style of her letters, however, altered in a 
few months. She owned that though things 
went on gayer and grander than ever, yet she 
hardly ever saw her husband, except her house 
was full of company and cards, or dancing was 
going on ; that he was often so busy abroad he 
could not come home all night ; that he always 
borrowed the money her mother sent her when 
he was going out on this nightly business ; and 
that the last time she had asked him for money 
be cursed and swore, and bid her apply to the 



old farmer and his rib, who were made of mo- 
ney. This letter Mrs. Bragwell concealed from 
her husband. 

At length, on some change in public affairs, 
Mr. Squeeze, who had made an overcharge of 
some thousand pounds in one article, lost his 
contract ; he was found to owe a large debt to 
government, and his accounts must be made up 
immediately. This was impossible ; he had no* 
only spent his large income, without making 
any provision for his family, but had contracted 
heavy debts by gaming and other vices. His 
creditors poured in upon him. He wrote to 
Bragwell to borrow another sum ; but without 
hinting at the loss of his contract. These re- 
peated demands made Bragwell so uneasy, that 
instead of sending him the money, he resolved 
to go himself secretly to London, and judge by 
his own eyes how things were going on, as his 
mind strangely misgave him. He got to Mr. 
Squeeze's house about eleven at night, and 
knocked gently, concluding that they must 
needs be gone to bed. But what was his asto- 
nishment to find the hall was full of men ; he 
pushed through in spite of them, though to his 
great surprise they insisted on knowing his 
name, saying they must carry it to their lady. 
This affronted him : he refused, saying, • It is 
not because I am ashamed of my name, it will 
pass for thousands in any market in the west of 
England. Is this your London manners, not to 
let a man of my credit in without knowing his 
name indeed !' What was his amazement to 
see every room as full of card-tables and of fine 
gentlemen and ladies as it would hold. All was 
so light, and so gay, and so festive and so grand, 
that he reproached himself for his suspicions, 
thought nothing too good for them, and resolved 
secretly to give Squeeze another five hundred 
pounds to help to keep up so much grandeur 
and happiness. At length seeing a footman he 
knew, he asked him where were his master and 
mistress, for he could not pick them out among 
the company ; or rather his ideas were so con- 
fused with the splendour of the scene, that he 
did not know whether they were there or not. 
The man said, that his master had just sent for 
his lady up stairs, and he believed that he was 
not well. Mr. Bragwell said he would go up 
himself and look for his daughter, as he could 
not speak so freely to her before all that com. 
pany. 

He went up, knocked at the chamber door, 
and its not being opened, made him push it with 
some violence. He heard a bustling noise with- 
in, and again made a fruitless attempt to open 
the door. At this the noise increased, and Mr. 
Bragwell was struck to the heart at the sound 
of a pistol from within. He now kicked oo vio- 
lently against the door that it burst open, when 
the first sight he saw was his daughter falling to 
the ground in a fit, and Mr. Squeeze dying by a 
shot from a pistol which was dropping out of 
his hand. Mr. Bragwell was not the only per- 
son whom the sound of the pistol had alarmed. 
The servants, the company, all heard it, and all 
ran up to this scene of horror. Those who had 
the best of the game took care to bring up their 
tricks in their hands, having had the prudence 
to leave the very few who could be trusted, to 



15G 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



watch the stakes, while those who had a pros- 
pect of losing profited by the confusion, and 
threw up their cards. All was dismay and ter- 
ror. Some ran for a surgeon, others examined 
the dying man ; some removed Mrs. Squeeze to 
her bed, while poor Bragwell could neither see 
nor hear, nor do any thing, One of the com- 
pany took up a letter which lay open upon the 
table, and was addressed to him ; they read it, 
hoping it might explain the horrid mystery. It 
was as follows: 

' TO MR. BRAGWELL. 

1 Sir — Fetch home your daughter ; I have 
ruined her, myself, and the child to which she 
every hour expects to be a mother. I have lost 
my contract. My debts are immense. You refuse 
me money ; I must die then ; but I will die like a 
man of spirit. They wait to take me to prison ; I 
have two executions in my house ; but I have ten 
card-tables in it. I would die as I have lived. 
I invited all this company, and have drunk hard 
since dinner to get primed for the dreadful 
deed. My wife refuses to write to you for an- 
other thousand, and she must take the conse- 
quences. Vanity has been my ruin; it has 
caused all my crimes. Whoever is resolved to 
live beyond his income is liable to every sin. He 
can never say to himself, Thus far shalt thou 
go and no farther. Vanity led me to commit 
acts of rapine, that I might live in splendour ; 
vanity makes me commit self-murder, because 
I will not live in poverty. The new philosophy 
says, that death is an eternal sleep ; but the 
new philosophy lies. Do you take heed ; it is 
too late for me : the dreadful gulf yawns to 
swallow me ; I plunge into perdition : there is 
no repentance in the grave, no hope in hell. 
Your's, &c. 

1 Dashall Squeeze. 1 

The dead body was removed, and Mr. Brag- 
well remaining almost without speech or motion, 
the company began to think of retiring, much 
cut of humour at having their party so dis- 
agreeably broken up : they comforted them- 
selves, however, that it was so early (for it was 
now scarcely twelve) they could finish their 
evening at another party or two ; so completely 
do habits of pleasure, as it is called, harden the 
heart, and steel it not only against virtuous im- 
pressions, but against natural feelings ! Now 
it was, that those who had nightly rioted at the 
expense of these wretched people, were the first 
to abuse them. Not an offer of assistance was 
made to this poor forlorn woman ; not a word 
of kindness or of pity ; nothing but censure was 
now heard. 'Why must these upstarts ape 
people of quality V though as long as these up- 
starts could feast them, their vulgarity and their 
bad character had never been produced against 
them. ' As long as thou dost well unto thy- 
self, men shall speak good of thee.' One guest 
who, unluckily, had no other house to go to, 
coolly said, as he walked off, ' Squeeze might as 
well have put off shooting himself till the morn- 
ing. It was monstrously provoking that he 
could not wait an hour or two.' 

As every thing in the house was seized, Mr. 
Bragwell prevailed on his miserable daughter, 



weak as she was, next morning to set out with 
him to the country. His acquaintance with 
polite life was short, but he had seen a great 
deal in a little time. They had a slow and sad 
journey. In about a week, Mrs. Squeeze lay-in 
of a dead child ; she herself languished a few 
days, and then died ; and the afflicted parents 
saw the two darling objects of their ambition, 
for whose sakes they had made too much haste 
to be rich, carried to the land where all things 
are forgotten. Mrs. Bragwell's grief, like her 
other passions, was extravagant ; and poor 
Bragwell's sorrow was rendered so bitter by 
self-reproach, that he would quite have sunk un- 
der it, had he not thought of his old expedient 
in distress, that of sending for Mr. Worthy to 
comfort him. 

It was Mr. Worthy's way, to warn people of 
those misfortunes which he saw their faults 
must needs bring on them ; but not to reproach 
or desert them when the misfortunes came. 
He had never been near Bragwell, during the 
short but flourishing reign of the Squeezes : for 
he knew that prosperity made the ears deaf and 
the heart hard to counsel ; but as soon as he 
heard his friend was in trouble, he set out to 
go to him. Bragwell burst into a violent fit of 
tears when he saw him, and when he could 
speak, said, ' This trial is more than I can bear.' 
Mr. Worthy kindly took him by the hand, and 
when he was a little composed, said, ' I will tell 
you a short story — There was in ancient times 
a famous man who was a slave. His master, 
who was very good to him, one day gave him a 
bitter melon, and bade him eat it : he ate it up 
without one word of complaint. — " How was it 
possible," said the master, " for you to eat so 
very nauseous and disagreeable a fruit '/" — The 
slave replied, " My good master, I have received 
so many favours from your bounty, that it is no 
wonder if I should once in my life eat one bit- 
ter melon from your hands." — This generous 
answer so struck the master, that the history 
says he gave him his liberty. With such sub- 
missive sentiments, my friend, should man re- 
ceive his portion of sufferings from God, from 
whom he receives so many blessings. You in 
particular have received " much good at the 
hand of God, shall you not receive evil also?" ' 

1 O ! Mr. Worthy !' said Bragwell, this blow 
is too heavy for me, I cannot survive this shock : 
I do not desire it, I only wish to die.' — ' We 
are very apt to talk most of dying when we are 
least fit for it,' said Worthy. ' This is not the 
language of that submission which makes us 
prepare for death ; but of that despair which 
makes us out of humour with life. O ! Mr. Brag- 
well ! you are indeed disappointed of the grand 
ends which made life so delightful to you ; but 
till your heart is humbled, till you are brought 
to a serious conviction of sin, till you are brought 
to see what is the true end of life, you can have 
no hope in death. You think you have no busi- 
ness on earth, because those for whose sake you 
too eagerly heaped up riches are no more. But 
is there not under the canopy of heaven some 
afflicted being whom you may yet relieve, some 
modest merit which you may bring forward 
some helpless creature you may save by your 
advice, some perishing Christian you may sua- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



157 



tain by your wealth ? When you have no sins 
of your own to repent of, no mercies of God to 
be thankful for, no miseries of others to relieve, 
then, and not till then, I consent you should 
sink down in despair, and call on death to re- 
lieve you.' 

Mr. Worthy attended his afflicted friend to 
the funeral of his unhappy daughter and her 
babe. The solemn service, the committing his 
late gay and beautiful daughter to darkness, to 
worms, and to corruption; — the sight of the 
dead infant, for whose sake he had resumed all 
his schemes of vanity and covetousness, when 
he thought he had got the better of thern ; — the 
melancholy conviction that all human prosperity 
ends in ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, has 
brought down Mr. Bragwell's self-sufficient and 
haughty soul into something of that humble 
frame in which Mr. Worthy had wished to see 
it. As soon as they returned home, he was be- 
ginning to seize the favourable moment for fix- 
ing these serious impressions, when they were 
unseasonably interrupted by the parish officer, 
who came to ask Mr. Bragwell what he was to 
do with a poor dying woman who was travelling 
the country with her child, and was taken in a 
fit under the church-yard wall? 'At first they 
thought she was dead,' said the man, ' but find- 
ing she still breathed, they have carried her into 
the workhouse till she could give some account 
of herself.' 

Mr. Bragwell was impatient at the interrup- 
tion, which was indeed unseasonable, and told 
the man that he was at that time too much 
overcome by sorrow to attend to business, but 
he would give him an answer to-morrow. 'But, 
my friend,' said Mr. Worthy, ' the poor woman 
may die to-night ; your mind is indeed not in a 
frame for worldly business ; but there is no sor- 
row too great to forbid our attending the calls 
of duty. An act of Christian charity will not 
disturb, but improve the seriousness of your 
spirit ; and though you cannot dry your own 
tears, God may in great mercy permit you to 
dry those of another. This may be one of those 
occasions for which I told you life was worth 
keeping. Do let us see this woman.' — Brag- 
well was not in a state either to consent or re- 
fuse, and his friend drew hirn to the workhouse, 
about the door of which stood a crowd of people. 
' She is not dead,' said one, ' she moves her 
head.' — ' But she wants air,' said all of them, 
while they all, according to custom, pushed so 
close upon her that it was impossible she could 
get any. A fine boy of two or three years old 
stood by her, crying, ' Mammy is dead, mammy 
is starved.' Mr. Worthy made up to the poor 
woman, holding his friend by the arm : in or- 
der to give her air he untied a large black bon- 
net which hid her face, when Mr. Bragwell, at 
that moment casting his eyes on her saw in this 
poor stranger the face of his own runaway 
daughter, Mrs. Incle. He groaned, but could 
not speak ; and as he was turning away to con- 
ceal his anguish, the little boy fondly caught 
hold of his hand, lisping out, — ' O stay and give 
mammy some bread !' His heart yearned to- 
wards the child ; he grasped his little hand in 
his, while he sorrowfully said to Mr. Worthy, 
' It is too much, send away the people. It is 



my dear naughty child ; ' my punishment is 
greater than I can bear.'' ' Mr. Worthy desired 
the people to go and leave the stranger to them ; 
but by this time she was no stranger to any 
of them. Pale and meagre as was her face, 
and poor and shabby as was her dress, the proud 
and flaunting Miss Polly Bragwell was easily 
known by every one present. They went away, 
but with the mean revenge of little minds, they 
paid themselves by abuse, for all the airs and 
insolence they had once endured from her. — 
' Pride must have a fall,' said one. ' I remem- 
ber when she was too good to speak to a poor 
body,' said another. ' Where are her flounces 
and furbelows now ? It is come home to her at 
last : her child looks as if he would be glad of 
the worst bit she formerly denied us.' 

In the mean time Mr. Bragwell had sunk 
into an old wicker chair which stood behind, 
and groaned out, ' Lord, forgive my hard heart ! 
Lord, subdue my proud heart, create a clean 
heart, O God ! and renew a right sjririt within 
me.' This was perhaps the first words of genu- 
ine prayer he had ever offered up in his whole 
life. Worthy overheard it, and in his heart re- 
joiced ; but this was not a time for talking, but 
doing. He asked Bragwell what was to be 
done with the unfortunate woman, who now 
seemed to recover fast, but she did not see them, 
for they were behind. She embraced her boy, 
and faintly said, ' My child what shall we do ? 
J will arise and go to my father, and say unto 
him, father, I have sinned against heaven and 
before thee. 1 This was a joyful sound to Mr. 
Worthy, who was inclined to hope that her 
heart might be as much changed for the bet- 
ter as her circumstances were altered for the 
worse ; and he valued the goods of fortune so 
little, and contrition of soul so much, that he 
began to think the change on the whole might 
be a happy one. The boy then sprung from his 
mother, and ran to Bragwell, saying, ' Do be 
good to mammy.' Mrs. Incle looking round, 
now perceived her father ; she fell at* his feet, 
saying, ' O forgive your guilty child, and save 
your innocent one from starving !' — Bragwell 
sunk down by her, and prayed God to forgive 
both her and himself in terms of genuine sor- 
row. To hear words of real penitence and 
heart-felt prayer from this once high-minded 
father and vain daughter, was music to Wor- 
thy's ears, who thought this moment of out- 
ward misery was the only joyful one he had 
ever spent in the Bragwell family. 

He was resolved not to interfere, but to let 
the father's own feelings workout the way into 
which he was to act. 

Bragwell said nothing, but slowly led to his- 
own house, holding the little boy by the hand, 
and pointing to Worthy to assist the feeble 
steps of his daughter, who once more entered 
her father's doors ; but the dread of seeing her 
mother quite overpowered her. — Mrs. Bragwell's 
heart was not changed, but sorrow had weak- 
ened her powers of resistance ; and she rather 
suffered her daughter to come in, than gave her 
a kind reception. She was more astonished 
than pleased ; and even in this trying moment, 
was more disgusted with the little boy's mean 
clothes, than delighted with his rosy face. As 



158 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



soon as she was a little recovered, Mr. Brag- 
well desired his daughter to tell him how she 
happened to be at that place at that time. 

In a weak voice she began ; ' My tale, sir, is 
short, but mournful.' — Now, I am very sorry 
that my readers must wait for this short, but 
mournful tale, a little longer. 



PART VII. 

MRS. INCLE'S STORY. 

1 left your house dear father,' said Mrs. 
Incle, 'with a heart full of vain triumph. I had 
no doubt but my husband was a great man, who 
put on that disguise to obtain my hand. Judge 
then what I felt to find that he was a needy im- 
postor, who wanted my money, but did not care 
for me. This discovery, though it mortified, 
did not humble me. I had neither affection to 
bear with the man who had deceived me, nor 
religion to improve by the disappointment. I 
have found that change of circumstances does 
not change the heart, till God is pleased to do 
it. My misfortune only taught me to rebel 
more against him. I thought God unjust ; I 
accused my father, I was envious of my sister, 
I hated my husband ; but never once did I blame 
myself. 

' My husband picked up a wretched subsis- 
tence by joining himself to any low scheme of 
idle pleasure that was going on. He would 
follow a mountebank, carry a dice-box, or fid- 
dle at a fair. He was always taunting me for 
that gentility on which I so much valued my- 
self- — ' If I had married a poor working girl,' 
said he, she could now have got her bread ; 
but a fine lady without money is a disgrace to 
herself, a burthen to her husband, and a plague 
to society.' Every trial which affection might 
have made lighter, we doubled by animosity : 
at length my husband was detected in using 
false dice-; lie fought with his accuser, both were 
seized by a press-gang, and sent to sea. I was 
now left to the wide world ; and miserable as I 
had thought myself before, I soon found there 
were higher degrees of misery. I was near 
my time, without bread for myself, or hope for 
my child. I set out on foot in search of the 
village where I had heard my husband say his 
friends lived. It was a severe trial to my proud 
heart to stoop to those low people ; but hunger is 
not delicate, and I was near perishing. My 
husband's parents received me kindly, saying, 
that though they had nothing but what they 
earned by their labour, yet I was welcome to 
share their hard fare ; for they trusted that God 
who sent mouths would send meat also. — They 
gave me a small room in their cottage, and fur- 
nished me with many necessaries, which they 
denied themselves.' 

• O ! my child !' interrupted Bragwell, ' every 
word cuts me to the heart. These poor people 
gladly gave thee of their little, while thy rich 
parents left thee to starve.' 

' How shall I own,' continued Mrs. Incle, 
• that all this goodness could not soften my 
heart; for God had not yet touched it. I re- 
ceived all their kindness as a favour done to 



them ; and thought them sufficiently rewarded 
for their attentions by the rank and merit of 
their daughter-in-law. When my father brought 
me home any little dainty which he could pick 
up, and my mother kindly dressed it for mo, I 
would not condescend to eat it with them, but 
devoured it sullenly in my little garret alone ■ 
suffering them to fetch and carry every thing 
I wanted. As my haughty behaviour was not 
likely to gain their affection, it was plain they 
did not love me : and as I had no notion that 
there were any motives to good actions but 
fondness, or self-interest, I was puzzled to know 
what could make them so kind to me ; for of 
the powerful and constraining law of Christian 
charity I was quite ignorant. To cheat the 
weary hours, I looked about for some books, and 
found, among a few others of the same cast, 
' Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in 
the Soul.' But all those sort of books were ad- 
dressed to sinners ; now as I knew I was not a 
sinner, I threw them away in disgust. Indeed 
they were ill suited to a taste formed by plays 
and novels, to which reading I chiefly trace my 
ruin; for, vain as I was, I should never have 
been guilty of so wild a step as to run away, 
had not my heart been tainted and my imagina- 
tion inflamed by those pernicious books. 

• At length my little George was born. This 
added to the burthen I had brought on this poor 
family, but it did not diminish their kindness ; 
and we continued to share their scanty fare 
without any upbraiding on their part, or any 
gratitude on mine. Even this poor baby did 
not soften my heart; I wept over him, indeed, 
day and night, but they were tears of despair ; 
I was always idle, and wasted those hours in 
sinful murmurs at his fate, which I should 
have employed in trying to maintain him. 
Hardship, grief, and impatience, at length 
brought on a fever. Death seemed now at 
hand, and I felt a gloomy satisfaction in the 
thought of being rid of my miseries, to which 
I fear was added a sullen joy, to think that 
you, sir, and my mother, would be plagued 
to hear of my death when it would be too 
late ; and in this your grief I anticipated a 
gloomy sort of revenge. But it pleased my 
merciful God not to let me thus perish in my 
sins. My poor mother-in-law sent for a good 
clergyman, who pointed out the danger of dying 
in that hard and unconverted state so forcibly, 
that I shuddered to find on what a dreadful 
precipice I stood. He prayed with me, and 
for me so earnestly, that at length God, who is 
sometimes pleased to magnify his own glory 
in awakening those who are dead in trespasses 
and sins, was pleased of his free grace, to open 
my blind eyes, and soften my stony heart. I 
saw myself a sinner, and prayed to be delivered 
from the wrath of God, in comparison of which 
the poverty and disgrace I now suffered appear- 
ed as nothing. To a soul convinced of sin, the 
news of a Redeemer was a joyful sound. In- 
stead of reproaching Providence, or blaming 
my parents, or abusing my husband, I now 
learnt to condemn myself, to adore that God who 
had not cut me off in my ignorance, to pray for 
pardon for the past, and grace for the time to 
come. I now desired to submit to penury and 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



159 



hunger, so that I might but live in the fear of 
God in this world, and enjoy his favour in the 
next. I now learnt to compare my present 
light sufferings, the consequence of my own sin, 
with those bitter sufferings of my Saviour, which 
he endured for my sake, and I was ashamed of 
murmuring. But self-ignorance, conceit, and 
vanity were so rooted in me, that my progress 
was very gradual, and I had the sorrow to feel 
how much the power of long bad habits keeps 
down the growth of religion in the heart, even 
after the principle itself has begun to take root. 
I was so ignorant of divine things, that I hardly 
knew words to frame a prayer ; but when I got 
acquainted with the Psalms, I there learnt how 
to pour out the fulness of my heart, while in 
the Gospel I rejoiced to see what great things 
God had done for my soul. 

■ I now took down once more from the shelf 
* Doddridge's Rise and Progress ;' and oh ! with 
what new eyes did I read it ! I now saw clearly, 
that not only the thief and the drunkard, the 
murderer and the adulterer are sinners, for that 
I knew before ; but I found that the unbeliever, 
the selfish, the proud, the worldly-minded, all, 
in short, who live without God in the world, are 
sinners. I did not now apply the reproofs I 
met with to my husband, or .ny father ; or other 
people, as I used to do ; but brought them home 
to myself. In this book I traced, with strong 
emotions and close self-application, the sinner 
through all his course ; his first awakening, his 
convictions, repentance, joys, sorrow's, back- 
sliding, and recovery, despondency, and delight, 
to a triumphant death-bed ; and God was pleased 
to make it a chief instrument in bringing me to 
himself. ' Here it is,' continued Mrs. Incle, 
untying her little bundle, and taking out a book ; 
' accept it, my dear father, and I will pray that 
God may bless it to you, as He has done to me. 

4 When I was able to come down, I passed 
my time with these good old people, and soon 
won their affection. I was surprised to find 
they had very good sense, which I never had 
thought poor people could have ; but, indeed, 
worldly persons do not know how much religion, 
while it mends the heart, enlightens the un- 
derstanding also. I now regretted the even- 
ings I had wasted in my solitary garret, when 

I might have passed them in reading the Bible 
with these good folks. This was their refresh- 
ing cordial after a weary day, which sweetened 
the pains of want and age. I one day express- 
ed my surprise that my unfortunate husband, 
the son of such pious parents, should have turn- 
ed out so ill : the poor old man said with tears, 

I I fear we have been guilty of the sin of Eli ; 
our love was of the wrong sort. Alas ! like 
him, we honoured our son more than God, and 
God has smitten us for it. We showed him by 
our example, what was right ; but through a 
false indulgence, we did not correct him for 
what was wrong. We were blind to his faults. 
He was a handsome boy, with sprightly parts : 
we took too much delight in these outward 
things. He soon got above our management, 
and became vain, idle, and extravagant ; and 
when we sought to restrain him, it was then 
too late. We bumbled ourselves before God ; 
but he was pleased to make our sin become its 



own punishment. Timothy grew worse and 
worse, till he was forced to abscond for a mis- 
demeanour ; after which we never saw him, but 
have often heard of him changing from one 
idle way of life to another ; unstable as water, 
he has been a footman , a soldier, a shopman, a 
gambler, and a strolling actor. With deep sor- 
row we trace back his vices to our ungoverned 
fondness ; that lively and sharp wit, by which 
he has been able to carry on such a variety of 
wild schemes, might, if we had used him to bear 
reproof in his youth, have enabled him to have 
done great service for God and his country. 
But our flattery made him wise in his own con- 
ceit ; and there is more hope of a fool than of 
him. We indulged our own vanity, and have 
destroyed his soul.' 

Here Mr. Worthy stopped Mrs. Incle, saying, 
that whenever he heard it lamented that the 
children of pious parents often turned out so ill, 
lie could not help thinking that there must be fre- 
quently something of this sort of error in the 
bringing them up : he knew, indeed, some in- 
stances to the contrary, in which the best means 
had failed ; but he believed, that from Eli the 
priest, to Incle the labourer, much more than 
half the failures of this sort might be traced to 
some mistake, or vanity, or bad judgment, or 
sinful indulgence in the parents. 

' I now looked about,' continued Mrs. Incle, 
' in order to see in what I could assist my poor 
mother ; regretting more heartily than she did, 
that I knew no one thing that was of any use. 
I wrs so desirous of humbling myself before God 
and her, that I offered even to try to wash.' — 
' You wash !' exclaimed Bragwell, starting up 
with great emotion, ' Heaven forbid, that with 
such a fortune and education, Miss Bragwell 
should be seen at a washing-tub.' This vain 
father, who could bear to hear of her distresses 
and her sins, could not bear to hear of her 
washing. Mr. Worthy stopped him, saying, 
' As to her fortune, you know you refused to 
give her any ; and as to her education, you see 
it had not taught her how to do any thing better. 
I am sorry you do not see in this instance, the 
beauty of Christian humility. For my own 
part, I set a greater value on such an active 
proof of it, than on a whole volume of profes- 
sions-' — Mr. Bragwell did not quite understand 
this, and Mrs. Incle went on. ' What to do to 
get a penny I knew not. Making of filagree, 
or fringe, or card-purses, or cutting out paper, 
or dancing and singing was of no use in our 
village. The shopkeeper, indeed, would have 
taken me, if I had known any thing of accounts ; 
and the clergyman could have got me a nursery- 
maid's place, if I could have done good plain- 
work. I made some awkward attempts to learn 
to spin and knit, when my mother's wheel or 
knitting lay by, but I spoiled both through my 
ignorance. At last I luckily thought upon the 
fine netting I used to make for my trimmings, 
and it struck me that I might turn this to some 
little account. I procured some twine, and 
worked early and late to make nets for fisher- 
men, and cabbage-nets. I was so plessed that 
I had at last found an opportunity to show my 
good will by this mean work, that I regretted my 
little George was not big enough to contribute 



160 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



his share to our support, by travelling about to 
sell my nets.' 

1 Cabbage-nets !' exclaimed Bragwell ; ' there 
is no bearing this. — Cabbage-nets ! My grand- 
son hawk cabbage-nets ! How could you think 
of such a scandalous thing ?' ' Sir,' said Mrs. 
Incle mildly, ' I am now convinced that nothing 
is scandalous which is not wicked. Besides, we 
were in want ; and necessity, as well as piety, 
would have reconciled me to this mean trade.' 
Mr. Bragwell groaned, and bade her go on. 

' In the mean time my little George grew a 
fine boy ; and I adored the goodness of God, 
who in the sweetness of maternal love, had given 
me a reward for many sufferings. Instead of 
indulging a gloomy distrust about the fate of this 
child, I now resigned him to the will of God. 
Instead of lamenting because he was not likely 
to be rich, I was resolved to bring him up with 
such notions as might make him contented to be 
poor. I thought if I could subdue all vanity and 
selfishness in him, I should make him a happier 
man than if I had thousands to bestow on him ; 
and I trusted that. I should be rewarded for 
every painful act of self-denial, by the future 
virtue and happiness of my child. Can you be- 
lieve it, my dear father, my days now passed 
not unhappily ; I worked hard all day, and that 
alone is a source of happiness beyond what the 
idle can guess. After my child was asleep at 
night, I read a chapter in the Bible to my pa- 
rents, whose eyes now began to fail them. We 
then thanked God over our frugal supper of po- 
tatoes, and talked over the holy men of old, the 
saints, and the martyrs, who would have thought. 
our homely fare a luxury. We compared our 
peace, and liberty, and safety, with their bonds, 
and imprisonment, and tortures; and should 
have been ashamed of a murmur. We then 
joined in prayer, in which my absent parents 
and my husband were never forgotten, and went 
to rest in charity with the whole world, and at 
peace in our own souls.' 

'Oh! my forgiving child!' interrupted Mr. 
Bragwell, sobbing ; ' and didst thou really pray 
for thy unnatural father? and didst thou lay 
thee down in rest and peace ? Then, let me tell 
thee, thou wast better off than thy mother and 
I were. — But no more of this ; go on.' 

1 Whether my father-in-law had worked be- 
yond his strength, in order to support me and 
my child, I know not, but he was taken dan- 
gerously ill. While he lay in this state, he re- 
ceived an account that my husband was dead 
in the West-Indies of the yellow fever, which 
has carried off such numbers of our countrymen: 
we all wept together, and prayed that his awful 
death might quicken us in preparing for our 
own. This shock, joined to the fatigue of nursing 
her sick husband, soon brought my poor mother 
to death's door. I nursed them both, and felt a 
satisfaction in giving them all I had to bestow, 
my attendance, my tears, and my prayers. I, 
who was once so nice and so proud, so disdain- 
ful in the midst of plenty, and so impatient un- 
der the smallest inconvenience, was now enabled 
to glorify God by my activity and by my sub- 
mission. Though the sorrows of my heart were 
enlarged, I cast my burthen on Him who cares 
for the weary and heavy laden. After having 



watched by these poor people the whole night, 
I sat down to breakfast on my dry crust and 
coarse dish of tea, without a murmur : my great- 
est grief was, lest I should bring away the in- 
fection to my dear boy ; for the fever was now 
become putrid. I prayed to know what it was 
my duty to do between my dying parents and 
my helpless child. To take care of the sick and 
aged, seemed to be my first duty ; so I offered 
up my child to Him who is the father of the 
fatherless, and he in mercy spared him to 
me. 

'The cheerful piety with which these good 
people breathed their last, proved to me, that the 
temper of mind with which the pious poor com- 
monly meet death, is the grand compensation 
made them by Providence for all the hardships 
of their inferior condition. If they have had few 
joys and comforts in life already, and have still 
fewer hopes in store, is not all fully made up to 
them by their being enabled to leave this world 
with stronger desires of heaven, and without 
those bitter regrets after the good things of this 
life, which add to the dying tortures of the 
worldly rich ? To the forlorn and destitute, 
death is not so terrible as it is to him who sits 
at ease in his possessions, and who fears that 
this night his soul shall be required of him.' 

Mr. Bragwell felt this remark more deeply 
than his daughter meant he should. He wept, 
and bade her proceed. 

' I followed my departed parents to the same 
grave, and wept over them, but not as one who 
had no hope. They had neither houses nor lands 
to leave me, but they left me their Bible, their 
blessing, and their example, of which I humbly 
trust I shall feel the benefits when all the riches 
of this world shall have an end. Their few 
effects, consisting of some poor household goods, 
and some working-tools, hardly sufficed to pay 
their funeral expenses. I was soon attacked 
with the same fever, and saw myself, as I 
thought, dying the second time ; my danger 
was the same, but my views were changed. I 
now saw eternity in a more awful light than I 
had done before, when I wickedly thought death 
might be gloomily called upon as a refuge from 
every common trouble. Though I had still rea- 
son to be humble on account of my sin, yet, by 
the grace of God, I saw death stripped of his 
sting and robbed of his terrors, through him who 
loved me, and gave himself for me ; and in the 
extremity of pain, my soul rejoiced in God my 
Saviour. 

' I recovered, however, and was chiefly sup- 
ported by the kind clergyman's charity. When 
I felt myself nourished and cheered by a little 
tea or broth, which he daily sent me from his 
own slender provision, my heart smote me, to 
think how I had daily sat down at home to a 
plentiful dinner, without any sense of thankful- 
ness for my own abundance, or without inquir- 
ing whether my poor sick neighbours were 
starving : and I sorrowfully remembered, that 
what my poor sister and I used to waste through 
daintiness, would now have comfortably fed my- 
self and child. Believe me, my dear mother, a 
labouring man who has been brought low by a 
fever, might often be restored to his work some 
weeks sooner, if on his recovery he was nou. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



161 



rished and strengthened by a good bit from a 
farmer's table. Less than is often thrown to a 
favourite spaniel would suffice ; so that the ex- 
pense would be almost nothing to the giver, 
while to the receiver it would bring health, and 
strength, and comfort, and recruited life. And 
it is with regret I must observe, that young 
women in our station are less attentive to the 
comforts of the poor, less active in visiting the 
cottages of the sick, less desirous of instructing 
the young, and working for the aged, than many 
ladies of higher rank. The multitude of oppor- 
tunities of this sort which we neglect, among 
the families of our father's distressed tenants 
and workmen, will I fear, one day appear 
against us. 

' By the time I was tolerably recovered, I was 
forced to leave the house. I had no human 
prospect of subsistence. I humbly asked of God 
to direct my steps, and to give me entire obe- 
dience to his will. I then cast my eye mourn- 
fully on my child ; and though prayer had re- 
lieved rny heart of a load which without it would 
have been intolerable, my tears flowed fast, 
while I cried out in the bitterness of my soul, 
How many hired servants of my father have 
bread enough, and to spare, and I perish with 
hunger. This text r.ppeared a kind of answer 
to my prayer, and gave me courage to make one 
more attempt to soften you in my favour. I re- 
solved to set out directly to find you, to confess 
my disobedience, and to beg a scanty pittance, 
with which I and my child might be meanly 
supported in some distant country, where we 
should not, by our presence, disgrace our more 
happy relations. We set out and travelled as 
fast as my weak health and poor George's little 
feet and ragged shoes would permit. I brought 
a little bundle of such work and necessaries as 
I had left, by selling which we subsisted on the 
road.' — ' I hope,' interrupted Bragwell, ' there 
were no cabbage-nets in it ?' — ' At least,' said 
her mother, ' I hope you did not sell them near 
home ?' — ' No ; I had none left, said Mrs. Incle, 
• or I should have done it. I got many a lift in 
a wagon for my child and my bundle, which 
was a great relief to me, as I should have^ had 
both to carry. And here I cannot help saying, 
I wish drivers would not be too hard in their 
demands, if they help a poor sick traveller on a 
mile or two, it proves a great relief to weary 
bodies and naked feet ; and such little cheap 
charities may be considered as the cup of cold 
water, which, if given on right grounds, shall 
not lose its reward.' Here Bragwell sighed to 
think that when mounted on his fine bay mare, 
or driving his neat chaise, it had never once 
crossed his mind that the poor way-worn foot 
traveller was not equally at his ease, nor had it 
ever occurred to him that shoes were a neces- 
sary accommodation. Those who want nothing 
are apt to forget how many there are who want 
every thing. Mrs. Incle went on : ' I got to this 
village about seven this evening ; and while I 
sat on the church yard wall to rest and meditate 
how I should make myself known at home, I 
saw a funeral ; I inquired whose it was, and 
learnt it was my sister's. This was too much 
for me, and I sank down in a fit, and knew no- 
thing that happened to me from that moment, 

Vol. I. L 



till I found myself in the workhouse with my 
father and Mr. Worthy.' 

Here Mrs. Incle stopped. Grief, shame, pride, 
and remorse, had quite overcome Mr. Bragwell. 
He wept like a child, and said he hoped his 
daughter would pray for him ; for that he was 
not in a condition to pray for himself, though he 
found nothing else could give him any comfort. 
His deep dejection brought on a fit of sickness. 
' O ! said he, I now begin to feel an expression 
in the sacrament which I used to repeat without 
thinking it had any meaning, the remembrance 
of my sins is grievous, the. burthen of them is in- 
tolerable. O ! it is awful to think what a sinner 
a man may be, and yet retain a decent charac 
ter ! How many thousands are in my condition, 
taking to themselves all the credit of their pros- 
perity, instead of giving God the glory ! heaping 
up riches to their hurt, instead of dealing their 
bread to the hungry ! O ! let those who hear of 
the Bragwell family, never say that vanity is a 
little sin. In me it has been the fruitful parent 
of a thousand sins — selfishness, hardness of 
heart, forgetfulness of God. In one of my sons, 
vanity was the cause of rapine, injustice extra- 
vagance, ruin, self-murder. Both my daughters 
were undone by vanity, though it only wore the 
more harmless shape of dress, idleness, and dis- 
sipation. The husband of my daughter Incle it 
destroyed, by leading him to live above his sta- 
tion, and to despise labour. Vanity ensnared 
the souls even of his pious parents, for while it 
led them to wish their son in a better condition, 
it led them to allow such indulgences as were 
unfit for his own. O ! you who hear of us, hum- 
ble yourselves under the mighty hand of God ; 
resist high thoughts ; let every imagination be 
brought into obedience to the Son of God. If 
you set a value on finery look into that grave ; 
behold the mouldering body of my Betsey, who 
now says to Corruption, thou art my father, and 
to the worm, thou art my mother and my sister. 
Look to the bloody and brainless head of her 
husband. O, Mr. Worthy, how does Providence 
mock at human foresight ! I have been greedy 
of gain, that the son of Mr. Squeeze might be a 
great man ; he is dead ; while the child of Ti- 
mothy Incle, whom I had doomed to beggary, 
will be my heir. Mr. Worthy, to you I commit 
this boy's education ; teach him to value his im- 
mortal soul more, and the good things of this 
life less than I have done. Bring him up in the 
fear of God, and in the government of his pas- 
sions. Teach him that unbelief and pride are 
at the root of all sin. I have found this to my ' 
cost. I trusted in my riches ; I said, " to-mor- 
row shall be as this day and more abundant." I 
did not remember that for all these things God 
would bring me to judgment. I am not sure that 
I believed in a judgment: I am not sure that I 
believed in a God.' 

Bragwell at length grew better, but he never 
recovered his spirits. The conduct of Mrs. Incle 
through life was that of an humble Christian. 
She sold all her sister's finery which her father 
had given her, and gave the money to the poor ; 
saying, ' It did not become one who professed 
penitence to return to the gayeties of life.' Mr. 
Bragwell did not oppose this ; not that he had 
fully acquired a ju6t notion of the self-denying 



162 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



spirit of religion, but having a head not very 
clear at making distinctions, he was never able, 
after the sight of Squeeze's mangled body, to 
think of gayety and grandeur, without think- 
ing at the same time of a pistol and bloody brains; 
for, at his first introduction into gay life had 
presented him with all these objects at one view, 
he never afterwards could separate them in his 
mind. He even kept his fine beaufet of plate 
always shut ; because it brought to his mind the 
grand unpaid-for sideboard that he had seen laid 
out for Mr. Squeeze's supper, to the remem- 
brance of which he could not help tacking the 
idea of debts, prisons, executions, and self- 
murder. 



Mr. Bragwell's heart had been so buried in 
the love of the world, and evil habits had be- 
come so rooted in him, that the progress he 
made in religion was very slow ; yet he earn- 
estly prayed and struggled against sin and 
vanity; and when his unfeeling wife declared 
she could not love the boy unless he was called 
by their name instead of Incle, Mr. Bragwell 
would never consent, saying he stood in need 
of every help against pride. He also got the 
letter which Squeeze wrote just before he shot 
himself, framed and glazed ; this he hung up 
in his chamber, and made it a rule to go and 
read it as often as he found his heart disposed to 

VANITY. 



'TIS ALL FOR THE BEST.* 



' It is all for the best,' said Mrs. Simpson, 
whenever any misfortune befel her. She had 
got such a habit of vindicating Providence, that 
instead of weeping and wailing under the most 
trying dispensations, her chief care was to con- 
vince herself and others, that however great 
might be her sufferings, and however little they 
couid be accounted for at present, yet that the 
Judge of all the earth could not but do right. 
Instead of trying to clear herself from any pos- 
sible blame that might attach to her under those 
misfortunes which, to speak after the manner 
of men, she might seem not to have deserved, 
she was always the first to justify Him who had 
inflicted it. It was not that she superstitiously 
converted every visitation into a punishment; 
she entertained more correct ideas of that God 
who overrules all events. She knew that some 
calamities were sent to exercise her faith, others 
to purify her heart ; some to chastise her rebel- 
lious will, and all to remind her that this ' was 
not her rest ;' that this world was not the scene, 
for the full and final display of retributive jus- 
tice. The honour of God was dearer to her than 
her own credit, and her chief desire was to turn 
all events to his glory. 

Though Mrs. Simpson was the daughter of a 
clergyman, and the widow of a genteel trades- 
man, she had been reduced by a succession of 
misfortunes, to accept of a room in an alms- 
house. Instead of repining at the change ; in- 
stead of dwelling on her former gentility and 
saying, ' how handsomely she had lived once ; 
and how hard it was to be reduced ; and she 
little thought ever to end her days in an alms- 
house ;' which is the common language of those 
who were never so well off before; she was 
thankful that such an asylum was provided for 
want and age ; and blessed God that it was to 
the Christian dispensation alone that such pious 
institutions owed their birth. 

One fine evening, as she was sitting reading 
her Bible on the little bench shaded with honey- 
suckles, just before her door, who should come 
and sit down by her but Mrs. Betty, who had 



formerly been lady's maid at the nobleman's 
house in the village of which Mrs. Simpson's 
father had been minister. — Betty, after a life of 
vanity, was, by a train of misfortunes, brought 
to this very alms-house; and though she had 
taken no care by frugality and prudence to avoid 
it, she thought it a hardship and disgrace, inv 
stead of being thankful, as she ought to have 
been, for such a retreat. At first she did not 
know Mrs. Simpson ; her large bonnet, cloak, 
and brown stuff gown (for she always made her 
appearance conform to her circumstances) being 
very different from the dress she had been used 
to wear when Mrs. Betty has seen her dining at 
the great house ; and time and sorrow had much 
altered her countenance. But when Mrs. Simp- 
son kindly addressed her as an old acquaintance, 
she screamed with surprise — ' What ! you, ma- 
dam ?' cried she : ' you in an alms-house, living 
on charity : 'you, who used to be so charitable 
yourself, that you never suffered any distress in 
the parish which you could prevent V ' That 
may be one reason, Betty,' replied Mrs. Simp- 
son, ' why Providence has provided this refuge 
for my old age. — And my heart overflows with 
gratitude when I look back on his goodness. 
' No such great goodness, methinks,' said Betty; 
' why you were born and bred a lady, and are 
now reduced to live in an alms-house. ' Betty, 
I was born and bred a sinner, undeserving of 
the mercies I have received.' 'No such great 
mercies,' said Betty. ' Why, I heard you had 
been turned out of doors ; that your husband 
had broke ; and that you had been in danger of 
starving, though I did not know what was be- 
come of you. ' It is all true, Betty, glory be to 
God ! it is all true.' 

' Well,' said Betty, ' you are an odd sort of a 
gentlewoman. If from a prosperous condition 
I had been made a bankrupt, a widow, and a 
beggar, I should have thought it no such mighty 
matter to be thankful for : but there is no ac- 
counting for taste. The neighbours used to say 
that all your troubles must needs be a judgment 
upon you ; but I who knew how good you were, 



* A pofligate wit of a neighbouring country having attempted to turn this doctrine into ridicule, under tha 
aaine title here assumed, it occurred to the author that it might not be altogether useless to illustrate the same 
doctrine on Christian principles. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



163 



thought it very hard you should suffer so much ; 
but now I see you reduced to an alms-house, I 
beg your pardon, madam, but I am afraid the 
neighbours were in the right, and that so many 
misfortunes could never have happened to you 
without you had committed a great many sins 
to deserve them ; for I always thought that God 
is so just that he punishes us for all our bad ac- 
tions, and rewards us for all our good ones.' 
1 So he does, Betty ; but he does it in his own 
wey, and at his own time, and not according 
to our notions of good and evil ; for his ways 
are not as our ways. — God, indeed, punishes 
the bad, and rewards the good ; but he does not 
do it fully and finally in this world. Indeed he 
does not set such a value on outward things as 
to make riches, and rank, and beauty, and 
health, the reward of piety ; that would be act- 
ing like weak and erring men, and not like a 
just and holy God. Our belief in a future state 
of rewards and punishments is not always so 
strong as it ought to be, even now ; but how to- 
tally would our faith fail, if we regularly saw 
every thing made even in this world. We shall 
lose nothing by having pay-day put off. The 
longest voyages make the best returns. So far 
am I from thinking that God is less just, and 
future happiness less certain, because I see the 
wicked sometimes prosper, and the righteous 
suffer in this world, that I am rather led to be- 
lieve that God is more just and heaven more 
certain : for, in the first place, God will not put 
off his favourite children with so poor a lot as 
the good things of this world ; and next, seeing 
that the best men here below do not often attain 
to the best things ; why it only serves to strength- 
en my belief that they are not the best things 
in His eye ; and He has*nost assuredly reserved 
for those that love Hijp such ' good things as 
eye has not seen nor ear heard.' God, by keep- 
ing man in Paradise while he was innocent, and 
turning him into this world as soon as he had 
sinned, gave a plain proof that he never intend- 
ed the world, even in its happiest state, as a 
place of reward. My father gave me good prin- 
ciples and useful knowledge ; and while he 
taught me by a habit of constant employment, 
to be, if I may so say, independent of the 
world ; yet he led me to a constant sense of 
dependence on God.' ' I do not see, however,' 
interrupted Mrs. Betty, ' that your religion has 
been of any use to you. It has been so far 
from preserving you from trouble, that I think 
you have had more than the usual share.' 

'No,' said Mrs. Simpson; 'nor did Christi- 
anity ever pretend to exempt its followers from 
trouble ; this is no part of the promise. Nay, 
the contrary is rather stipulated ; ' in the world 
ye shall have tribulation.' — But if it has not 
taught me to escape sorrow, I humbly hope it 
has taught me how to bear it. If it has taught 
me not to feel, it has taught me not to murmur. 
I will tell you a little of my story. As my fa- 
ther could save little or nothing for me, he was 
very, desirous of seeing me married to a young 
gentleman in the neighbourhood, who expressed 
a regard for me. But while he was anxiously 
engaged in bringing this about, my good father 
died.' 

' How very unlucky !' interrupted Betty. 



1 No, Betty,' replied Mrs. Simpson, ' it was 
very providential ; this man, though he main- 
tained a decent character, had a good fortune, 
and lived soberly, yet he would not have made 
me happy.' ' Why what could you want more 
of a man ?' said Betty. ' Religion,' returned 
Mrs. Simpson. ' As my father made a credit- 
able appearance, and was very charitable ; and 
as I was an only child, this gentleman conclud- 
ed that he could give me a considerable fortune ; 
for he did not know that all the poor in his pa- 
rish are the children of every pious clergyman. 
Finding I had little or nothing left me, he with- 
drew his attentions.' 'What a sad thing!' 
cried Betty. ' No, it was all for the best ; Pro- 
vidence overruled his covetousness for my good. 
I could not have been happy with a man whose 
soul was set on the perishable things of this 
world ; nor did I esteem him, though! labouicd 
to submit my own inclinations to those of my 
kind father. The very circumstance of being 
left pennyless produced the direct contrary ef- 
fect on Mr. Simpson: he was a sensible young 
man, engaged in a prosperous business : we had 
long highly valued each other ; but while my 
father lived, he thought me above his hopes 
We were married ; I found him an amiable, in- 
dustrious, good-tempered man ; he respected re- 
ligion and religious people ; but with excellent 
dispositions, I had the grief to find him less 
pious than I had hoped. He was ambitious, and 
a little too much immersed in worldly schemes ; 
and though I knew it was all done for my sake, 
yet that did not blind me so far as to make me 
think it right. He attached himself so eagerly 
to business, that he thought every hour lost in 
which he was not doing something that would 
tend to raise me to what he called my proper 
rank. The more prosperous he grew the less 
religious he became ; and I began to find that 
one might be unhappy with a husband one ten- 
derly loved. One day as he was standing on 
some steps to reach down a parcel of goods he 
fell from the top and broke his leg in two places.' 

' What a dreadful misfortune !' said Mrs. 
Betty. — ' What a signal blessing !' said Mrs. 
Simpson. ' Here I am sure I had reason to say 
all was for the best; from that very hour in 
which my outward troubles began, I date the 
beginning of my happiness. Severe suffering, 
a near prospect of death, absence from the world, 
silence, reflection, and above all, the divine 
blessings on the prayers and scriptures I read 
to him, were the means used by our merciful 
Father to turn my husband's heart. — During 
this confinement he was awakened to a deep 
sense of his own sinfulness, of the vanity of all 
this world has to bestow, and of his great need 
of a Saviour. It was many months before he 
could leave his bed ; during this time his busi- 
ness was neglected. His principal clerk took 
advantage of his absence to receive large sums 
of money in his name, and absconded. On hear- 
ing of this great loss, our creditors came faster 
upon us than we could answer their demands ; 
they grew more impatient as we were less able 
to satisfy them ; one misfortune followed an- 
other; till at length Mr. Simpson became a 
bankrupt.' 

' What an evil !' exclaimed Mrs. Betty. ' Yet 



164 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



it led in the end to much good,' resumed Mrs. 
Simpson. ' We were forced to leave the town 
in which we had lived with so much credit 
and comfort, and to betake ourselves to a mean 
lodging in a neighbouring village, till my hus- 
band's strength should be recruited, and till we 
could have time to look about us and see what 
was to be done. The first night we got to this 
poor dwelling, my husband felt very sorrowful, 
not for his own sake, but that he had brought 
so much poverty on me, whom he had so dearly 
loved : I on the contrary, was unusually cheer- 
ful : for the blessed change in his mind had more 
than reconciled me to the sad change in his 
circumstances. I was contented to live with 
him in a poor cottage for a few years on earth, 
if it might contribute to our spending a blessed 
eternity together in heaven. I said to him, 
' Instead of lamenting that we are now reduced 
to want all the comforts of life, I have some- 
times been almost ashamed to live in the full 
enjoyments of them, when I have reflected that 
my Saviour not only chose to deny himself all 
these enjoyments, but even to live a life of hard- 
ship for my sake ; not one of his numerous mi- 
racles tended to his own comfort ; and though 
we read at different times that he both hunger- 
ed and thirsted, yet it was not for his own gra- 
tification that he once changed water into wine ; 
and I have often been struck with the near posi- 
tion of that chapter in which this miracle is 
recorded, to that in which he thirsted for a 
draught of water at the well in Samaria.* It 
was for others, not himself, that even the hum- 
ble sustenance of barley bread was multiplied. 
See here, we have a bed left us ; I had, indeed, 
nothing but straw to stuff it with, but the Sa- 
viour of the world, ' had not where to lay his 
head.' My husband smiled through his tears, 
and we sat down to supper ; It consisted of a roll 
and a bit of cheese which I had brought with 
me, and we ate it thankfully. Seeing Mr. Simp- 
son beginning to relapse into distrust, the fol- 
lowing conversation as nearly as I can remem- 
ber, took place between us. He began by re- 
marking, that it was a mysterious Providence 
that he had been less prosperous since he had 
been less attached to the world, and that his 
endeavours had not been followed by that suc- 
cess which usually attends industry. I took 
the liberty to reply : ' Your heavenly Father 
sees on which side your danger lies, and is 
mercifully bringing you, by these disappoint- 
ments, to trust less in the worJd and more 
in himself. My dear Mr. Simpson,' added I, 
' we trust every body but God. As children we 
obey our parents implicitly, because we are 
taught to believe all is for our good which they 
command or forbid. If we undertake a voyage, 
we trust entirely to the skill and conduct of the 
pilot ; we never torment ourselves in thinking 
he will carry us east, when he has promised to 
carry us west. If a dear and tried friend makes 
us a promise, we depend on him for the perform- 
ance, and do not wound his feelings by our sus- 
picions. When you used to go your annual 
journey to London, in the mail coach, you con- 
fided yourself to the care of the coachman, that 
he would carry you where he had engaged t 
• See John, chap. ii. — and John, chap, iv. 



do so ; you were not anxiously watching him, 
and distrusting and inquiring at every turning. 
When the doctor sends home your medicine, 
don't you so fully trust in his ability and good 
will, that you swallow it down in full confidence ? 
You never think of inquiring what are the 
ingredients, why they are mixed in that par- 
ticular way, why there is more of one and less 
of another, and why they are bitter instead of 
sweet ! If one dose does not cure you, he orders 
another, and changes the medicine when he sees 
the first does you no good, or that by long use 
the same medicine has lost its effect ; if the 
weaker fails he prescribes a stronger : you swal- 
low all, you submit to all, never questioning the 
skill or the kindness of the physician. God is 
the only being whom we do not trust, though 
He is the only one who is fully competent, both 
in will and power, to fulfil all his promises ; and 
who has solemnly and repeatedly pledged him- 
self to fulfil them in those Scriptures which we 
receive as his revealed will.' 

' Mr. Simpson thanked me for my little ser- 
mon, as he called it ; but said at the same time, 
that what made my exhortations produce a 
powerful effect on his mind was, the patient 
cheerfulness with which he was pleased to say I 
bore my share in our misfortunes. A submis- 
sive behaviour, he said, was the best practical 
illustration of a real faith. When he had thank- 
ed God for our supper, we prayed together ; 
after which we read tbe eleventh chapter of the 
epistle to the Hebrews. When my husband had 
finished it, he said, ' Surely if God's chief fa- 
vourites have been martyrs, is not that a suffi- 
cient proof that this world is not a place of hap- 
piness, no earthly prosperity the reward of vir- 
tue. Shall we after reading this chapter, com- 
plain of our petty trials ? Shall we not rather be 
thankfnl that our affliction is so light ?' 

' Next day Mr. Simpson walked out in search 
of some employment, by which we might be 
supported. He got a recommendation to Mr. 
Thomas, an opulent farmer and factor, who had 
large concerns, and wanted a skilful person to 
assist him in keeping his accounts. Thb we 
thought a fortunate circumstance ; for we found 
that the salary would serve to procure us at 
least all the necessaries of life. The farmer was 
so pleased with Mr. Simpson's quickness, re- 
gularity, and good sense, that he offered us, of 
his own accord, a little neat cottage of his own, 
which then happened to be vacant, and told us 
we should live rent free, and promised to be a 
friend to us.' — ' All does seem for the best now, 
indeed ;' interrupted Mrs. Betty. — 4 We shall 
see,' said Mrs. Simpson, and thus went on. 

' I now became very easy and very happy ; 
and was cheerfully employed in putting our few 
things in order, and making every thing look 
to the best advantage. My husband, who wrote 
all the day for his employer, in the evening as- 
sisted me in doing up our little garden. This 
was a source of much pleasure to us ; we both 
loved a garden, and we were not only contented 
but cheerful. Our employer had been absent 
some weeks on his annual journey. He came 
home on a Saturday night, and the next morn- 
ing sent for Mr. Simpson to come and settle his 
accounts, which were got behind-hand by hia 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



165 



long absence. We were just going to church, 
and Mr. Simpson sent back word, that he would 
call and speak to him on his way home. A se- 
cond message followed, ordering him to come 
to the farmer's directly : he agreed that he 
would walk round that way, and that my hus- 
band should call and excuse his attendance. 

'The farmer more ignorant and worse edu- 
cated than his ploughman, with all that pride 
and haughtiness which the possession of wealth, 
without knowledge or religion is apt to give, 
rudely asked my husband what he meant by 
Bending him word that he would not come to 
him till the next day ; and insisted that he 
should stay and settle the accounts then. — ' Sir,' 
eaid my husband, in a very respectful manner, 

* I am on my road to church, and I am afraid 
shall be too late.' — • Are you so,' said the far- 
mer ! ' Do you know who sent for you? You 
may, however, go to church, if you will, so you 
make haste back ; and, d'ye hear, you may leave 
your accounts with me, as I conclude you have 
brought them with you ; I will look them over 
by the time you return, and then you and I 
can do all I want to have done to-day in about 
a couple of hours, and I will give you home 
some letters to copy for me in the evening.' 
— ' Sir,' answered my husband, ' I dare not 
obey you ; it is Sunday.' — ' And so you refuse 
to settle my accounts only because it is Sun- 
day.' ' Sir,' replied Mr. Simpson, ' if you would 
give me a handful of silver and gold I dare not 
break the commandment of my God.' — ' Well,' 
said the farmer, ' but this is not breaking the 
commandment; I don't order you to drive my 
cattle, or to work in my garden, or to do any 
thing which you might fancy would be a bad 
example,' — "Sir,' replied my husband, 'the ex- 
ample indeed goes a great way, but it is not the 
first object. The deed is wrong in itself.' — 

* Well, but I shall not keep you from church ; 
and when you have been there, there is no harm 
in doing a little business, or taking a little 
pleasure the rest of the day.' — 'Sir,' answered 
my husband, ' the commandment does not say, 
thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath ?norning, but 
the Sabbath day.'' 'Get out of my house, you 
puritanical rascal, asd out of my cottage too,' 
said the farmer ; ' for if you refuse to do my 
work, I am not bound to keep my engagement 
with you ; as you will not obey me as a master, 

I shall not pay you as a servant.' — ' Sir,' said 
Mr. Simpson, ' I would gladly obey you, but I 
have a master in heaven whom I dare not dis- 
obey.' — ' Then let him find employment for you,' 
said the enraged farmer ; ' for I fancy you will 
get but poor employment on earth with these 
scrupulous notions, and so send home my pa- 
pers, directly, and pack off out the parish.' 
— ' Out of your cottage,' said my husband, 

I I certainly will ; but as to the parish, I hope I 
may remain in that, if I can find employment.' 
— ' I will make it too hot to hold you,' replied 
the farmer, ' so you had better troop off bag and 
baggage : for I am overseer, and as you are 
sickly, it is my duty not to let any vagabonds 
stay in the parish who are likely to become 
chargeable.' 

1 By the time my husband returned home, 
fo: he found it too late to go to church, I had 



got our little dinner ready ; it was a better one 
than we had for a long while been accustomed 
to see, and 1 was unusually cheerful at this im- 
provement in our circumstances. I saw his 
eyes full of tears, and oh ! with what pain did 
he bring himself to tell me that it was the last 
dinner we must ever cat in this house. I took 
his hand with a smile, and only said, ' The Lord 
gave and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the 
name of the Lord.' — ' Notwithstanding this sud- 
den stroke of injustice,' said my husband, ' this 
is still a happy country. Our employer, it is 
true, may turn us out at a moment's notice, be 
cause it is his own, but he has no further power 
over us ; he cannot confine or punish us. His 
riches, it is true, give him power to insult, but 
not to oppress us. The same laws to which the 
affluent resort, protect us also. And as to our 
being driven out from a cottage, how many per- 
sons of the highest rank have lately been driven 
out from their palaces and castles ; persons too, 
born in a station which he never enjoyed, and 
used to all the indulgences of that rank and 
wealth we never knew, arc at this moment 
wandering over the face of the earth, without a 
house or without bread; exiles and beggars; 
while we, blessed be God, are in our own native 
land ; we have still our liberty, our limbs, the 
protection of just and equal laws, our churches^ 
our Bibles, and our Sabbaths.' 

' This happy state of my husband's mind 
hushed my sorrows, and I never once murmur- 
ed ; nay, I sat down to dinner with a degree of 
cheerfulness, endeavouring to cast all our care 
on 'Him that careth for us.' We had begged 
to stay till the next morning, as Sunday was 
not the day on which we liked to remove ; but 
we were ordered not to sleep another night in 
that house ; so as we had little to carry, we 
marched off in the evening to the poor lodging 
we had before occupied. The thought that my 
husband had cheerfully renounced his little all 
for conscience sake, gave an unspeakable sere- 
nity to my mind ; and I felt thankful that though 
cast down we were net forsaken : nay, I felt a 
live y gratitude to God, that while I doubted 
not he would accept this little sacrifice, as it 
was heartily made for his sake, he had gracious 
ly forborne to call us to greater trials.' 

' And so you were turned adrift once more ? 
Well, ma'am, saving your presence, I hope 
you won't be such a fool as to say all was for 
the best now.' — ' Yes, Betty : He who does all 
things well, now made his kind Providence 
more manifest than ever. That very night, 
while we were sweetly sleeping in our poor 
lodging, the pretty cottage, out of which we 
were so unkindly driven, was burned to the 
ground by a flash of lightning which caught 
the thatch, and so completely consumed the 
whole little building that had it not been for the 
merciful Providence who thus overruled the 
cruelty of the farmer for the preservation of our 
lives, we must have been burned to ashes with 
the house. * It was the Lord's doing, and it 
was marvellous in our eyes.' — ' O that men 
would therefore praise the Lord for his good- 
ness, and for all the wonders that he doeth for 
the children of men !' 

'I will not tell you all the trials and afflic 



166 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



tions which befel us afterwards. I would also 
epare my heart the sad story of my husband's 
death.' — ' Well, that was another blessing too, I 
suppose,' said Betty. — ' Oh, it was the severest 
trial ever sent me !' replied Mrs. Simpson, a few 
tears quietly stealing down her face. ' I almost 
sunk under it. Nothing but the abundant grace 
of God could have carried me through such a 
visitation ; and yet I now feel it to be the great- 
est mercy I ever experienced ; he was my idol ; 
no trouble ever came near my heart while he 
was with me. I got more credit than I deserved 
for my patience under trials, which were easily 
borne while he who shared and lightened them 
was spared to me. I had indeed prayed and 
struggled to be weaned from this world, but still 
my affection for him tied me down to the earth 
with a strong cord : and though I did earnestly 
try to keep my /eyes fixed on the eternal world, 
yet I viewed it with too feeble a faith ; I viewed 
it at too great a distance. I found it difficult to 
realize it — I had deceived myself. I had fancied 
that I bore my troubles so well from the pure 
love of God, but I have since found that my 
love for my husband had too great a share in re- 
conciling me to every difficulty which I under- 
went for him. I lost him, the charm was broken, 
the cord which tied me down to earth was cut, 
this world had nothing left to engage me. Hea- 
ven had now no rival in my heart. Though my 
love of God had always been sincere, yet I found 
there wanted this blow to make it perfect. But 
though all that had made life pleasant to me 
was gone, I did not sink as those who have no 
hope. I prayed that I might still, in this trying 
conflict, be enabled to adorn the doctrine of God 
my Saviour. 

' After many more hardships, I was at length 
so happy as to get an asylum in this alms-house. 
Here my cares are at an end, but not my du- 
ties.' — ' Now you are wrong again, interrupted 
Mrs. Betty, ' your duty is now to take care of 
yourself: for I am sure you have nothing to 
spare.' — ' There you are mistaken again/ said 
Mrs. Simpson. ' People are so apt to fancy that 
money is all in all, that all the other gifts of 
providence are overlooked as things of no value. 
I have here a great deal of leisure ; a good part 
of this I devote to the wants of those who are 
more distressed than myself. I work a little for 
the old, and I instruct the young. My eyes are 
good ; this enables me to read the Bible either 
to those whose sight is decayed, or who were 
never taught to read. I have tolerable health ; 
so that I am able occasionally to sit up with the 
sick ; in the intervals of nursing, I can pray 
with them. In my younger days I thought it 
not much to sit up late for my pleasure ; shall I 
now think much of sitting up now and then to 
watch by a dying bed ? My Saviour waked and 
watched for me in the garden and on the mount; 
and shall I do nothing for his suffering mem- 
bers ? It is only by keeping his sufferings in 
view that we can truly practise charity to others, 
or exercise self-denial to ourselves.' 

' Well,' said Mrs. Betty, ' I think if I had 
lived in such genteel lire as you have done, I 
could never be reconciled to an alms-house ; and 
I am afraid I should never forgive any of those 
ssrho were the cause of sendiug me there, par- 



ticularly that farmer Thomas who turned you 
out of doors.' 

' Betty,' said Mrs. Simpson, ' I not only for- 
give him heartily, but I remember him in my 
prayers, as one of those instruments with which 
it has pleased God to work for my good. Oh ! 
never put off forgiveness to a dying bed ! When 
people come to die, we often see how the con- 
science is troubled with sins, of which before 
they hardly felt the existence. How ready are 
they to make restitution of ill-gotten gain ; and 
this perhaps for two reasons ; from a feeling con- 
viction that it can be of no use to them where 
they are going, as well as from a near view of 
their own responsibility. We also hear from the 
most hardened, of death-bed forgiveness of ene- 
mies. Even malefactors at Tyburn forgive. But 
why must we wait for a dying bed to do what 
ought to be done now ? Believe me, that scene 
will be so full of terror and amazement to the 
soul, that we had not need load it with unneces- 
sary business.' 

Just as Mrs. Simpson was saying these words, 
a letter was brought her from the minister of 
the parish where the farmer lived, by whom 
Mr. Simpson had been turned out of his cottage. 
The letter was as follows : — 

' Madam— rl write to tell you that your old op. 
pressor, Mr. Thomas, is dead. I attended him 
in his last moments. O, may my latter end 
never be like his ! I shall not soon forget his de- 
spair at the approach of death. His riches, which 
had been his sole joy, now doubled his sorrows ; 
for he was going where they could be of no use 
to him ; and he found too late that he had laid 
up no treasure in heaven. He felt great concern 
at his past life, but for nothing more than his 
unkindness to Mr. Simpson. He charged me 
to find you out, -and let you know that by his 
will he bequeathed you five hundred pounds as 
some compensation. He died in great agonies ; 
declaring with his last breath, that if he could 
live his life over again, he would serve God, and 
strictly observe the Sabbath. 



1 Yours, &c. 



' J. Johnson.' 



Mrs. Betty, who had listened attentively to 
the letter, jumped up, clapped her hands, and 
cried out, ' Now all is for the best, and J shall 
see you a lady once more.' — ' I am, indeed, 
thankful for this money,' said Mrs. Simpson, 
' and am glad that riches were not sent me till 
I had learned, as I humbly hope, to make a 
right use of them. But come, let us go in, for I 
am very cold, and find I have sat too long in 
the night air.' 

Betty was now ready enough to acknowledge 
the hand of Providence in this prosperous event, 
though she was blind to it when the dispensa- 
tion was more dark. Next morning she went 
early to visit Mrs. Simpson, but not seeing her 
below, she went up stairs, where, to her great 
sorrow, she found her confined to her bed by a 
fever, caught the night before by sitting so late 
on the bench reading the letter and talking it 
over. Betty was now more ready to cry out 
against Providence than ever. ' What ! to catch 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



167 



a fever while you were reading that very letter 
which told you about your good fortune ; which 
would have enabled you to live like a lady as 
you are. I never will believe this is for the best ; 
to be deprived of life just as you were beginning 
to enjoy it !' 

• Betty,' said Mrs. Simpson, ' we must learn 
not to rate health nor life itself too highly. 
There is little in life, for its own sake, to be so 
fond of. As a good archbishop used to say, 'tis 
but the same thing over again, or probably 
worse : so many more nights and days, summers 
and winters ; a repetition of the same pleasures, 
but with less relish for them ; a return of the 
same or greater pains, but with less strength, 
and perhaps less patience to bear them.' — 'Well,' 
replied Betty, ' I did think that Providence was 
at last giving you your reward.' — 'Reward!' 
cried Mrs. Simpson. ' O, no ! my merciful Fa- 
ther will not put me off with so poor a portion 
as wealth ; I feel I shall die.' — ' It is very hard, 
indeed,' said Betty, ' so good as you are, to be 
taken off just as your prosperity was begin- 
ning. — 'You think I am good just now,' said 
Mrs. Simpson, ' because I am prosperous. Suc- 
cess is no sure mark of God's favour ; at this 
rate, you, who judge by outward tilings, would 
have thought Herod a better man than John the 
Baptist ; and if I may be allowed to say so, you, 
on your principles, that the sufferer is the sin- 
ner, would have believed Pontius Pilate higher 
in God's favour, than the Saviour whom he con- 
demned to die, for your sins and mine.' 

In a few days Mrs. Betty found that her new 
friend was dying, and though she was struck at 
her resignation, she could not forbear murmur- 
ing that so good a woman should be taken away 



at the very instant which she came into posses, 
sion of so much money. ' Betty,' said Mrs. 
Simpson in a feeble voice, ' I believe you love 
me dearly, you would do any thing to cure me ; 
yet you do not love me so well as God loves me, 
though you would raise me up, and He is put- 
ting a period to my life. He has never sent me a 
single stroke which was not absolutely necessary 
for me. You, if you could restore me, might be 
laying me open to some temptation from which 
God, by removing, will deliver me. Your kind- 
ness in making this world so smooth for me, I 
might for ever have deplored in a world of mise- 
ry. God's grace in afflicting me, will hereafter 
be the subject of my praises in a world of bless- 
edness. Betty,' added the dying woman, ' do 
you really think that I am going to a place of 
rest and joy eternal ?' — ' To be sure I do,' said 
Betty. — ' Do you firmly believe that I am going 
to the assembly of the first-born ; to the spirits 
of just men made perfect, to God the judge of 
all ; and to Jesus the Mediator of the new Cove- 
nant V — ' I am sure you are,' said Betty. — ' And 
yet,' resumed she, 'you would detain me from 
all this happiness ; and you think my merciful 
Father is using me unkindly by removing me 
from a world of sin, and sorrow, and temptation, 
to such joys as have not entered into the heart 
of man to conceive ; while it would have better 
suited your notions of reward to defer my en- 
trance into the blessedness of heaven, that I 
might have enjoyed a legacy of a few hundred 
pounds ! Believe my dying words — all is for 

THE BEST.' 

Mrs. Simpson expired soon after, in a frame 
of mind which convinced her new friend, that 
' God's ways are not as our ways.' 



A CURE FOR MELANCHOLY.* 

SHOWING THE WAY TO DO MUCH GOOD WITH LITTLE MONEY. 



Mrs. Joxes was the widow of a great mer- 
chant. She was liberal to the poor, as far as 
giving them money went ; but as she was too 
much taken up with the world, she did not spare 
so much of her time and thoughts about doing 
good as she ought ; so that her money was often 
ill bestowed. In the late troubles, Mr. Jones, 
who had lived in an expensive manner, failed ; 
and he took his misfortunes so much to heart, 
that he fell sick and died. Mrs. Jones retired, 
on a very narrow income, to the small village 
of Weston, where she seldom went out, except 
to church. Though a pious woman, she was 
too apt to indulge her sorrow ; and though she 
did not neglect to read and pray, yet she gave 
up a great part of her time to melancholy 
thoughts, and grew quite inactive. She well 
knew how sinful it would be for her to seek a 
remedy for her grief in worldly pleasures, which 
is a way many people take to cure afflictions ; 
but she was not aware how wrong it was to 
weep away that time which might have been 
better spent in drying the tears of others. 

It was happy for her, that Mr. Simpson, the 



vicar of Weston, was a pious man. One Sunday 
he happened to preach on the good Samaritan. 
It was a charity sermon, and there was a col- 
lection at the door. He called on Mrs. Jones 
after church, and found her in tears. She told 
him she had been much moved by his discourse, 
and she wept because she had so little to give 
to the plate, for though she felt very keenly for 
the poor in these dear times, yet she could not 
assist them. ' Indeed, sir,' added she, ' I never 
so much regretted the loss of my fortune as this 
afternoon, when you bade us go and do likewise? 
— 'You do not,' replied Mr. Simpson, Renter 
into the spirit of our Saviour's parable, if you 
think you cannot go and do likewise without be- 
ing rich. In the case of the Samaritan, you 
may observe, that charity was bestowed more 
by kindness, and care, and medicine, than by 
money. You, madam, were as much concerned 
in the duties inculcated in my sermon as sir 
John with his great estate ; and, to speak plain- 
ly, I have been sometimes surprised that you 
should not put yourself in the way of being 
more useful.' 



* This was first printed under the title of The C0TT408 Coos. 



163 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



' Sir,' said Mrs. Jones, ' I am grown shy of 
the poor since I have nothing to give them.' 
' Nothing ! madam V replied the clergyman : 
' Do you call your time, your talents, your kind 
offices, nothing ? Doing good does not so much 
depend on the riches as on the heart and the 
will. The servant who improved his two talents 
was equally commended by his Lord with him 
who had ten : and it was not poverty, but selfish 
indolence, which drew down so severe a con- 
demnation on him who had only one. It is by 
our conformity to Christ, that we must prove 
ourselves Christians. You, madam, are not 
called upon to work miracles, nor to preach the 
Gospel, yet you may in your measure and de- 
gree, resemble your Saviour by going about and 
doing good. A plain Christian, who has sense 
and leisure, by his pious exertions and prudent 
zeal, may, in a subordinate way, be helping on 
the cause of religion, as well as of charity, and 
greatly promote, by his exertions and example, 
the labours of the parish minister. The gen- 
erality, it is true, have but an under part to act ; 
but to all God assigns some part, and he will 
require of all whose lot is not very laborious, 
that they not only work out their own salvation, 
but that they promote the cause of religion, and 
the comfort and salvation of others. 

To those who would undervalue works of 
mercy as evidences of piety, I would suggest a 
serious attention to the solemn appeal which the 
Saviour of the world makes, in that awful repre- 
sentation of the day of judgment, contained in 
the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, both to 
those who have neglected, and to those who have 
performed such works ; performed them, I mean, 
on right principles. With what a gracious con- 
descension does he promise to accept the smallest 
kindness done to his suffering members for his 
sake. You, madam, I will venture to say, might 
do more good than the richest man in the parish 
could do by merely giving his money. Instead 
of sitting here, brooding over your misfortunes, 
which are past remedy, bestir yourself to find 
out ways of doing much good with little money ; 
or even without any money at all. You have 
lately studied economy for yourself; instruct 
your poor neighbours in that important art. 
They want it almost as much as they want 
money. You have influence with the few rich 
persons in the parish ; exert that influence. 
Betty, my house-keeper, shall assist you in any 
thing in whieh she can be useful. Try this for 
one year, and if you then tell me that you should 
have better shown your love to God and man, 
and been a happier woman, had you continued 
gloomy and inactive, I shall be much surprised, 
and shall consent to your resuming your present 
way of life.' 

The sermon and this discourse together made 
so deep an impression on Mrs. Jones, that she 
formed a new plan of life, and set about it at 
once, as every body does who is in earnest. Her 
chief aim was the happiness of her poor neigh- 
bours in the next world ; but she was also very 
desirous to promote their present comfort : and 
indeed the kindness she showed to their bodily 
wants gave her such an access to their houses 
and hearts, as made them better disposed to 
receive religious counsel and instruction. — Mrs. 



Jones was much respected by all the rich per- 
sons in Weston, who had known her in her 
prosperity. Sir John was thoughtless, lavish, 
and indolent. The Squire was over frugal, but 
active, sober, and not ill-natured. Sir John 
loved pleasure, the squire loved money. Sir 
John was one of those popular sort of people who 
get much praise, and yet do little good ; who 
subscribe with equal readiness to a cricket match 
or a charity school ; who take it for granted 
that the poor are to be indulged with bell-ringjng 
and bonfires, and to be made drunk at Christmas ; 
this Sir John called being kind to them ; but he 
thought it was folly to teach them, and madness 
to think of reforming them. He was, however, 
always ready to give his guinea ; but I question 
whether he would have given up his hunting and 
his gaming to have cured every grievance in the 
land. He had that sort of constitutional good 
nature which, if he had lived much within sight 
of misery, would have led him to be liberal : but 
he had that selfish love of ease, which prompted 
him to give to undeserving objects, rather than 
be at the pains to search out the deserving. He 
neither discriminated between the degrees of 
distress, nor the characters of the distressed. — 
His idea of charity was, that a rich man should 
occasionally give a little of his superfluous wealth 
to the first object that occurred ; but he had no 
conception that it was his duty so to husband 
his wealth, and limit his expenses, as to supply 
a regular fund for established charity. And the 
utmost stretch of his benevolence never led him 
to suspect that he was called to abridge himself 
in the most idle article of indulgence, for a pur- 
pose foreign to his own personal enjoyment. On 
the other hand, the squire would assist Mrs. 
Jones in any of her plans if it cost him nothing ; 
so she showed her good sense by never asking 
sir John for advice, or the squire for subscrip- 
tions, and by this prudence gained the full sup- 
port of both. 

Mrs. Jones resolved to spend two or three 
days in a week in getting acquainted with the 
state of the parish, and she took care never to 
walk out without a few little good books in her 
pocket to give away. This, though a cheap, is 
a most important act of charity : it has its vari- 
ous uses ; it furnishes the poor with religious 
knowledge, which they have so few ways of ob- 
taining ; it counteracts the wicked designs of 
those who have taught us at least one lesson, by 
their zeal in the dispersion of wicked books — I 
mean the lesson of vigilance and activity ; and 
it is the best introduction for any useful conver- 
sation which the giver of the book may wish to 
introduce. 

She found that among the numerous wants 
she met with, no small share was owing to bad 
management, or to imposition : she was struck 
with the small size of the loaves. — Wheat was 
now not very dear, and she was sure a good deal 
of blame rested with the baker. She sent for a 
shilling loaf to the next great town, where the 
mayor often sent to the bakers' shops to see that 
the bread was proper weight. She weighed her 
town loaf against her country loaf, and found 
the latter two pounds lighter than it ought to be. 
This was not the sort of grievance to carry to 
sir John ; but luckily the squire was also a ma- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



169 



gistrate, and it was quite in his way : for though 
he would not give, yet he would counsel, calcu- 
late, contrive, reprimand, and punish. He told 
her he could remedy the evil if some one would 
lodge an information against the baker ; but 
that there was no act of justice which he found 
it so difficult to accomplish. 

The Informer. 

She dropped in on the blacksmith. He was 
at dinner. She inquired if his bread was good. 
'Ay, good enough, mistress ; for you see it is as 
white as your cap, if we had but more of it. 
Here's a sixpenny loaf; you might take it for a 
penny roll !' He then heartily cursed Crib the 
Laker, and said he ought to be hanged. Mrs. 
Jones now told him what she had done ; how 
she had detected the fraud, and assured him the 
evil should be redressed on the morrow, provi- 
ded he would appear and inform. ' I inform,' 
said he,with a shocking; oath, ' hang an informer ! 
I scorn the office.' — 'You are nice in the wrong 
place,' replied Mrs. Jones ; ' for you don't scorn 
to abuse the baker, nor to be in a passion, nor 
to swear, though you scorn to redress a public 
injury, and to increase your children's bread. 
Let me tell you, there is nothing in which you 
ignorant people mistake more than in your no- 
tions about informers. Informing is a lawful 
way of obtaining redress ; and though it is a 
mischievous and a hateful thing to go to a justice 
about every trifling matter, yet laying an infor- 
mation on important occasions, without malice, 
or bitterness of any kind, is what no honest man 
ought to be ashamed of. The shame is to com- 
mit the offence, not to inform against it. I, for 
my part, should perhaps do right, if I not only 
informed against Crib, for making light bread, 
but against you, for swearing at him.' 

• Well, but madam,' said the smith, a little 
softened, ' don't you think it a sin and a shame 
to turn informer?' ' So far from it, that when a 
man's motives are good,' said Mrs. Jones, ' and 
in clear cases as the present, I think it a duty 
and a. virtue. If it is right that there should be 
laws, it must be right that they should be put in 
execution ; but how can this be, if people will 
not inform the magistrates when they see the 
laws broken ! I hope I shall always be afraid 
to be an offender against the laws, but not to be 
an informer in support of them. — An informer 
by trade is commonly a knave. A rash, mali- 
cious, or passionate informer is a firebrand ; but 
honest and prudent informers are almost as use- 
ful members of society as the judges of the land. 
If you continue in your present mind on this 
subject, do not you think that you will be 
answerable for the crimes you might have pre- 
vented by informing, and thus become a sort of 
accomplice of the villains who commit them. 

' Well, madam,' said the smith, ' I now see 
plainly enough that there is no shame in turning 
informer when my cause is good.' — ' And your 
motive right ; always mind that, said Mrs. Jones. 
Next day the smith attended, Crib was fined in 
the usual penalty, his light bread was taken 
from him and given to the poor. The justices 
resolved henceforward to inspect the bakers in 
their district ; and all of them, except Crib, and 
such as Crib, were glad of it ; for honesty never 
dreads a trial. Thus had Mrs. Jones the cora- 

Voi . L 



fort of seeing how useful people may be without 
expense; for if she could have given the poor 
fifty pounds, she would not have done them so 
great, or so lasting a benefit, as she did them 
in seeing their loaves restored to their lawful 
weight : and the true light in which she had 
put the business of informing was of no small 
use, in giving the neighbourhood right views on 
that subject. 

There were two 6hops in the parish ; but Mrs. 
Sparks, at the Cross, had not half so much cus- 
tom as Wills, at the Sugarloaf, though she sold 
her goods a penny in a shilling cheaper, and all 
agreed that they were much better. Mrs. Jones 
asked Mrs. Sparks the reason. 'Madam,' said 
the shopkeeper, 'Mr. Wills will give longer trust. 
Besides this, his wife keeps shop on a Sunday 
morning while I am at church. Mrs. Jones 
now reminded Mr. Simpson to read the king's 
proclamation against vice and immorality next 
Sunday at church ; and prevailed on the squire 
to fine any one who should keep open shop on a 
Sunday. This he readily undertook : for while 
sir John thought it good-natured to connive at 
breaking the laws, the squire fell into the other 
extreme, of thinking that the zealous enforcing 
of penal statutes would stand in the stead of all 
religious restraints. Mrs. Jones proceeded to 
put the people in mind that a shopkeeper who 
would sell on a Sunday, would be more likely 
to cheat them all the week, than one who went 
to church. 

She also laboured hard to convince them how 
much they would lessen their distress, if they 
would contrive to deal with Mrs. Sparks for 
ready money, rather than with Wills on long 
credit ; those who listened to her found their 
circumstances far more comfortable at the year's 
end, while the rest tempted, like some of their 
betters, by the pleasure of putting oft* the evil 
day of payment, like them ; at last found them- 
selves plunged in debt and distress. She took 
care to make a good use of such instances in her 
conversation with the poor, and, by perseverance, 
she at length brought them so much to her way 
of thinking, that Wills found it to be his interest 
to alter his plan, and sell his goods on as good 
terms, and as short credit, as Mrs. Sparks sold 
hers. This completed Mrs. Jones's success ; 
and she had the satisfaction of having put a stop 
to three or four great evils in the parish of WeB- 
ton, without spending a shilling in doing it. 

Patty Smart and Jenny Rose were thought to 
be the two best managers in the parish. They 
both told Mrs. Jones, that the poor would get 
the coarse pieces of meat cheaper, if the gentle 
folks did not buy them for soups and gravy. 
Mrs. Jones thought there was reason in this : so 
away she went to sir John, the squire, the sur- 
geon, the attorney, and the steward, the only 
persons in the parish who could afford to buy 
these costly things. She told them, that if they 
would all be so good as to buy only prime pieces, 
which they could very well afford, the coarse 
and cheap joints would come more within the 
reach of the poor. Most of the gentry readily 
consented. Sir John cared not what his meat 
cost him, but told Mrs. Jones, in his gay way, 
that he would eat any thing, or give any thing, 
so that she would not tease him with long; stories 



170 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



about the poor. The squire said he should pre- 
fer vegetable soups, because they were cheaper, 
and the doctor preferred them because they 
were wholesomer. The steward chose to imi- 
tate the squire ; and the attorney found it would 
be quite ungenteel to stand out. So gravy soups 
became very unfashionable in the parish of 
Weston ; and I am sure if rich people did but 
think a little on this subject, they would be- 
come as unfashionable in many other places. 

When wheat grew cheaper, Mrs. Jones was 
earnest with the poor woman to bake large 
brown loaves at home, instead of buying small 
white ones at the shop. Mrs. Betty had told 
her, that baking at home would be one step to- 
wards restoring the good old management. Only 
Betty Smart and Jenny Rose baked at home in 
the whole parish ; and who lived so well as they 
did ? Yet the general objection seemed reason- 
able. They could not bake without yeast, which 
often could not be had, as no one brewed except 
the great folks and the public houses. Mrs. 
Jones found, however, that Patty and Jenny 
contrived to brew as well as to bake. She 
sent for these women ; knowing that from them 
she could get truth and reason. ' How comes 
it,' said she to them, ' that you two are the 
only poor women in the parish who can afford 
to brew a small cask of beer ? Your husbands 
have no better wages than other men.' — ' True, 
madam,' said Patty, ' but they never set foot in 
a public house. I will tell you the truth. 
When I first married, our John went to the 
Checquers every night, and I had my tea and 
fresh butter twice a-day at home. This slop, 
which consumed a deal of sugar, began to rake 
my stomach sadly, as I had neither meat nor 
milk : at last (I am ashamed to own it) I began 
to take a drop of gin to quiet the pain, till in 
time I looked for my gin as regularly as for my 
tea. At last the gin, the ale-house, and the tea 
began to make us both sick and poor, and I had 
like to have died with my first child. Parson 
Simpson then talked so finely to us on the sub- 
ject of improper indulgences, that we resolved, 
by the grace of God, to turn ovei\a new leaf, and 
I promised John, if he would give up the Chec- 
quers, I would break the gin bottle, and never 
drink tea in the afternoon, except on Sundays, 
when he was at home to drink it with me. We 
have kept our word, and both our eating and 
drinking, our health and our consciences are 
better for it. Though meat is sadly dear, we 
can buy two pounds of fresh meat for less than 
one pound of fresh butter, and it gives five times 
the nourishment. And dear as malt is, I con- 
trive to keep a drop of drink in the house for 
John, and John will make me drink half a pint 
with him every evening, and a pint a-day when 
I am a nurse. 

Public Houses. 

As one good deed, as well as one bad one, 
brings on another, this conversation set Mrs. 
Jones on inquiring why so many ale-houses 
were allowed. Sho did not choose to talk to sir 
John on this subject, who would only have said, 
• let them enjoy themselves, poor fellows : if 
they get drunk now and then, they work hard.' 
But those who have this false good-nature for- 



get, that while the man is enjoying himtelf, as 
it is called, his wife and children are ragged 
and starving. True Christian good-nature 
never indulges one at the cost of many, but is 
kind to all. The squire, who was a friend to 
order, took up the matter. He consulted Mr. 
Simpson. 4 The Lion,' said he, ' is necessary. 
It stands by the road-side; travellers must have 
a resting place. As to the Checquers and the 
Bell, they do no good but much harm.' Mr. 
Simpson had before made many attempts to get 
the Checquers put down ; but, unluckily, it was 
sir John's own house, and kept by his late but- 
ler. Not that sir John valued the rent ; but he 
had a false kindness, which made him support 
the cause of an old servant, though he knew he 
was a bad man, and kept a disorderly house. 
The squire, however, now took away the license 
from the Bell. And a fray happening soon 
after at the Chequers (which was near the 
church) in time of Divine service, sir John wa3 
obliged to suffer the house to be put down as a 
nuisance. You would not believe how many 
poor families were able to brew a little cask, 
when the temptation of those ale-houses was 
taken out of their way. Mrs. Jones, in her 
evening walks, had the pleasure to see many 
an honest man drinking his wholesome cup of 
beer by his own fire-side, his rosy children play- 
ing about his knees, his clean cheerful wife 
singing her youngest baby to sleep, rocking the 
cradle with her foot, while with her hands she 
was making a dumpling for her kind husband's 
supper. Some few, I am sorry to say, though 
I don't chuse to name names, still preferred 
getting drunk once a week at the Lion, and 
drinking water at other times. — Thus Mrs. 
Jones, by a little exertion and perseverance, 
added to the temporal comforts of a whole 
parish, and diminished its immorality and ex- 
travagance in the same proportion. 

The good women being now supplied with 
yeast from each other's brewings, would have 
baked ; but two difficulties still remained. Many 
of them had no ovens ; for. since the new bad 
management had crept in, many cottages have 
been built without this convenience. Fuel also 
was scarce at Weston. Mrs. Jones advised the 
building a large parish oven. Sir John sub- 
scribed to be rid of her importunity, and the 
squire, because he thought every improvement 
in economy would reduce the poor's rate. It 
was soon accomplished : and to this oven, at 
a certain hour, three times a week, the elder 
children carried their loaves which their mo- 
thers had made at home, and paid a half-penny, 
or a penny according to their size, for the baking. 

Mrs. Jones found that no poor women in Wes- 
ton could buy a little milk, as the farmers' wives 
did not care to rob their dairies. This was a 
great distress, especially when the children 
were sick. So Mrs. Jones advised Mrs. Sparks, 
at the Cross, to keep a couple of cows, and sell 
out the milk by halfpennyworths. She did so, 
and found, that though this plan gave her some 
additional trouble, she got full as much by it as 
if she had made cheese and butter. She also 
sold rice at a cheap rate ; so that, with the help 
of the milk and the public oven, a fine rice pud 
ding was to be had for a trifle. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



171 



Charity Schools for Servants. 

The girls' school, in the parish, was fallen 
into neglect; for though many would be sub- 
scribers, yet no one would look alter it. I wish 
this was the case at Weston only : many schools 
have come to nothing, and many parishes are 
quite destitute of schools, because too many 
gentry neglect to make it a part of the duty of 
their grown up daughters to inspect the instruc- 
tion of the poor. It was not in Mr. Simpson's 
way to see if girls were taught to work. The 
best clergyman cannot do every thing. This 
is ladies business. Mrs. Jones consulted her 
counsellors, Mrs. Betty, and they went every 
Friday to the school, where they invited mo- 
thers, as well as daughters, to come, and learn 
to cut out to the best advantage. Mrs. Jones 
had not been bred to these things ; but by means 
of Mrs. Cowuer's excellent cuttingout-book ; 
she soon became mistress of the whole art. 
She not only had the girls taught to make and 
mend, but to wash and iron too. She also al- 
lowed the mother or eldest daughter of every 
family to come once a week, and learn how to 
dress one cheap dish. One Friday, which was 
cooking day, who should pass by but the squire, 
with his gun and dogs. He looked into the 
school for the first time. ' Well, madam,' said 
he, ' what good are you doing here ? What are 
your girls learning and earning ? Where are 
your manufactures ? Where is your spinning 
and your carding ?' — ' Sir,' said she, ' this is a 
small parish, and you know ours is not a manu- 
facturing country ; so that when these girls are 
women, they will not be much employed in 
spinning. We must, in the kind of good we 
attempt to do, consult the local genius of the 
place: I do not think it will answer to intro- 
duce spinning, for instance, in a country where 
it is quite new. However, we teach them a 
little of it, and still more of knitting, that they 
may be able to get up a small piece of house- 
hold linen once a year, and provide the family 
with the stockings, by employing the odds and 
ends of their time in these ways. But there is 
another manufacture, which I am carrying on, 
and I know of none within my own reach 
which is so valuable.' — ' What can that be ?' 
said the squire. — ' To make good wives for work- 
ing men,' 1 said she. ' Is not mine an excellent 
staple commodity ? I am teaching these girls 
the arts of industry and good management. It 
is little encouragement to an honest man to 
work hard all the week, if his wages are wast- 
ed by a slattern at home. Most of these girls 
will probably become wives to the poor, or ser- 
vants to the rich ; to such the common arts of 
life are of great value : now, as there is little op- 
portunity for learning these at the school house, 
I intend to propose that such gentry as have 
sober servants, shall allow one of these girls to 
come and work in their families one day in a 
week, when the house-keeper, the cook, the 
house-maid, or the laundry-maid, shall be re- 
quired to instruct them in their several depart- 
ments. This I conceive to be the best way of 
training good servants. They should serve 
this kind of regular apprenticeship to various 
sorts of labour. Girla who come out of charity- 



schools, where they have been employed in 
knitting, sewing, and reading, are not suffi- 
ciently prepared for hard and laborious employ- 
ments. I do not in general approve of teaching 
charity children to write for the same reason. 
I confine within very strict limits my plan of 
educating the poor. A thorough knowledge of 
religion, and of some of those coarser arts of 
life by which the community may be best be- 
nefitted, includes the whole stock of instruction, 
which, unless in very extraordinary cases, I 
would wish to bestow.' 

4 What have you got on the fire, madam ?' 
said the squire ; ' for your pot really smells as 
savoury as if Sir John's French cook had filled 
it.' ' Sir,' replied Mrs. Jones, ' I have lately 
got acquainted with Mrs. White, who has given 
us an account of her cheap dishes, and nice 
cookery, in one of the cheap Repository little 
books.* Mrs. Betty and I have made all her 
dishes, and very good they are ; and we have 
got several others of our own. Every Friday we 
come here and dress one. These good women 
see how it is done, and learn to dress it at their 
own houses. I" take home part for my own 
dinner, and what is left I give to each in turn. 
I hope I have opened their eyes on a sad mis- 
take they had got into, that we think any thing 
is good enough for the poor. Now, I do not 
think any thing good enough for the poor which 
is not clean, wholesome, and palatable, and what 
I myself would not cheerfully eat, if my cir- 
cumstances required it.' 

' Pray, Mrs. Betty,' said the squire, ' oblige 
me with a basin of your soup.' The squire 
found it so good after his walk, that he was al- 
most sorry he had promised to buy no more legs 
of beef, and declared, that not one sheep's head 
should ever go to his kennel again. He begged 
his cook might have the receipt, and Mrs. Jones 
wrote it out for her. She has also been so ob- 
liging as to favour me with a copy of all her 
receipts. And as I hate all monopoly, and see 
no reason why such cheap, nourishing, and sa- 
voury dishes should be confined to the parish 
of Weston, I print them, that all other parishes 
may have the same advantage. Not only the 
poor, but all persons with small incomes may be 
glad of them. 

' Well, madam,' said Mr. Simpson, who came 
in soon after, ' which is best, to sit down and 
cry over our misfortunes, or to bestir ourselves 
to do our duty to the world ?' ' Sir,' replied Mrs. 
Jones, ' I thank you for the useful lesson you 
have given me. You have taught me that an 
excessive indulgence of sorrow, is not piety, but 
selfishness; that the best remedy for our own 
afflictions is to lessen the afflictions of others, 
and thus evidence our submission to the will 
of God, who, perhaps, sent these very trials 
to abate our own self-love, and to stimulate 
our exertions for the good of others. You 
have taught me that our time and talents are 
to be employed with zeal in God's service, 
if we wish for his favour here or hereafter ; and 
that one great employment of those talents 
which he requires, is the promotion of the pre- 
sent, and much more the future happiness of 

* Sec the Way to Plenty, for a number of cheap re. 
ceipta. 



172 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



all around us. — You have taught me that much 
good may be done with little money ; and that 
the heart, the head, and the hands are of some 
use, as well as the purse. I have also learned 
another lesson, which I hope not to forget, that 
Providence, in sending these extraordinary sea- 
sons of scarcity and distress, which we have 
lately twice experienced, has been pleased to 
overrule these trying events to the general good ; 
for it has not only excited the rich to an in- 
creased liberality, as to actual contribution, but 
it has led them to get more acquainted with the 
local wants of their poorer brethren, and to in- 
terest themselves in their comfort ; it has led 
to improved modes of economy, and to a more 



feeling kind of beneficence. Above all, without 
abating any thing of a just subordination, it has 
brought the affluent to a nearer knowledge of 
the persons and characters of their indigent 
neighbours ; it has literally brought ' the rich 
and poor to meet together ;' and this I look upon 
to be one of the essential advantages attending 
Sunday schools also, where they are carried on 
upon true principles, and are sanctioned by the 
visits as well as supported by the contributions 
of the wealthy.' 

May all who read this account of Mrs. Jones, 
and who are under the same circumstances, go 
and do likewise ! 



THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. 



I promised, in the Cure for Melancholy, to 
give some account of the manner in which Mrs. 
Jones set up her school. She did not much fear 
being able to raise the money ; but money is 
of little use, unless some persons of sense and 
piety can be found to direct these institutions. 
Not that I would discourage those who set them 
up, even in the most ordinary manner, and from 
mere views of worldly policy. It is something 
gained to rescue children from idling away their 
Sabbath in the fields or the streets. It is no 
small thing to keep them from those to which a 
day of leisure tempts the idle and the # ignorant. 
It is something for them to be taught to read; 
it is much to be taught to read the Bible, and 
much, indeed, to be carried regularly to church. 
But all this is not enough. To bring these in- 
stitutions to answer their highest end, can only 
be effected by God's blessing on the best direct- 
ed means, the choice of able teachers, and a di- 
ligent attention in some pious gentry to visit 
and inspect the schools. 

On Recommendations. 
Mrs. Jones had one talent that eminently 
qualified her to do good, namely, judgment ; 
this, even in the gay part of her life, had kept 
her from many mistakes ; but though she had 
sometimes been deceived herself, she was very 
careful not to deceive others, by recommending 
people to fill any office for which they were un- 
fit, either through selfishness or false kindness. 
She used to say there is always some one ap- 
propriate quality which every person must pos- 
sess, in order to fit them for any particular em- 
ployment — ' Even in this quality,' said she to 
Mr. Simpson the clergyman, ' I do not expect 
perfection ; but if they are destitute of this, what- 
ever good qualities they may possess besides, 
though they may do for some other employment, 
they will not do for this. If I want a pair of 
shoes, I go to a shoemaker ; I do not go to a 
man of another trade, however ingenious he 
may be, to ask him if he cannot contrive to 
make me a pair of shoes. When I lived in Lon- 
don, I learned to be much on my guard as to 
recommendations. I found people often wanted 
to impose on me some one who was a burthen 
to themselves. — Once, I remember, when I un- 
dertook to get a matron for an hospital, half my 



acquaintance had some one to offer me. Mrs. 
Gibson sent me an old cook, whom she herself 
had discharged for wasting her own provisions, 
yet she had the conscience to recommend this 
woman to take care of the provisions of a large 
community. Mrs. Grey sent me a discarded 
housekeeper, whose constitution had been ruined 
by sitting up with Mrs. Grey's gouty husband ; 
but who she yet thought might do well enough 
to undergo the fatigue of taking care of an hun- 
dred poor sick people. A third friend sent me 
a woman who had no merit but that of being 
very poor, and it would be charity to provide for 
her. The truth is, the lady was obliged to allow 
her a small pension till she could get her off 
her own hands, by turning her on those of 
others.' 

' It is very true, madam,' said Mr. Simpson, 
' the right way is always to prefer the good of 
the many to the good of one ; if, indeed, it can 
be called doing good to any one to place them 
in a station in which they must feel unhappy, 
by not knowing how to discharge the duties of 
it. I will tell you how I manage. If the per- 
sons recommended are objects of charity, I pri- 
vately subscribe to their wants ; I pity and help 
them, but I never promote them to a station for 
which they are unfit, as I should by so doing 
hurt a whole community to help a distressed in- 
dividual.' 

Thus Mrs. Jones resolved that the first step 
towards setting up her school should be to pro- 
vide a suitable mistress. The vestry were so 
earnest in recommending one woman, that she 
thought it worth looking into. On inquiry, she 
found it was a scheme to take a large family off 
the parish ; they never considered that a ve^y 
ignorant woman, with a family of young chil- 
dreu, was, of all others, the most unfit for a 
school ; all they considered was, that the profits 
of the school might enable her to live without 
parish pay. Mrs. Jones refused another, though 
she could read well, and was decent in her con- 
duct, because she used to send her children to 
the shop on Sundays. And she objected to a 
third, a very sensible woman, because she was 
suspected of making an outward profession of 
religion a cloak for immoral conduct. Mrs. 
Jones knew she must not be too nice neither ; 
she knew she must put up with many faults at 



-THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



173 



last • I knew,' said she to Mr. Simpson, ' the 
imperfection of every thing that is human. As 
the mistress will have much to bear with from 
the children, so I expect to have something to 
bear with in the mistress ; and she and I must 
submit to our respective trials, by thinking how 
much God has to bear with in us all. But there 
are certain qualities which are indispensable in 
certain situations. There are, in particular, 
three things which a school-mistress must not 
be without, good sense, activity, and piety. 
Without the first she will mislead others ; with- 
out the second she will neglect them ; and with- 
out the third, though she may civilize, yet she 
will never christianize them.' 

Mr. Simpson said, ' he really knew but of one 
person in the parish who was fully likely to an- 
swer her purpose : this,' continued he, ' is no 
other than my housekeeper, Mrs. Betty Crew. 
It will indeed be a great loss to me to part from 
her ; and to her it will be a far more fatiguing 
life than that which she at present leads. But 
ought I to put my own personal comfort, or 
ought Betty to put her own ease and quiet, in 
competition with the good of above an hundred 
children ? This will appear still more important, 
if we consider the good done by these institu- 
tions, not us fruit, but seed; if we take into the 
account how many yet unborn may become 
Christians, in consequence of our making these 
children Christians : for how can we calculate 
the number which may be hereafter trained for 
Heaven, by those very children we are going to 
teach, when they themselves shall become pa- 
rents, and you and I are dead and forgotten ? 
To be sure, by parting from Betty, my peas- 
soup will not be quite so well flavoured, nor my 
linen so neatly got up ; but the day is fast ap- 
proaching, when all this will signify but little ; 
but it will not signify little whether one hundred 
immortal souls were the better for my making 
this petty sacrifice. Mrs. Crew is a real Chris- 
tian, has excellent sense, and had a good educa- 
tion from my mother. She has also had a little 
sort of preparatory training for the business ; 
for when the poor children come to the parson- 
age for broth on a Saturday evening, she is used 
to appoint them all to come at the same time ; 
and after she has filled their pitchers, she ranges 
them round her in the garden, and examines 
them in their catechism. She is just and fair 
in dealing out the broth and beef, not making 
my favour to the parents depend on the skill of 
their children : but her own old caps and 
ribands, and cast-ofF clothes, are bestowed as 
little rewards on the best scholars. So that taking 
the time she spends in working for them, and 
the things she gives them, there is many a lady 
who does not exceed Mrs. Crew in acts of cha- 
rity. This I mention to confirm your notion, 
that it is not necessary to be rich in order to 
do good ; a religious upper servant has great op- 
portunities of this sort, if the master is disposed 
to encourage her.' 

My readers, I trust, need not be informed, 
that this rs that very Mrs. Betty Crew who as- 
sisted Mrs. Jones in teaching poor women to 
cut out linen and dress cheap dishes, as related 
in the Cure for Melancholy. Mrs. Jones, in 
the following week, got together as many of 



the mothers as she could, and spoke to them aa 
follows : 

Mrs. Jones's Exhortation. 
' My good women, on Sunday next I propose 
to open a school for the instruction of your chil- 
dren. Those among you, who know what it is 
to be able to read your Bible, will, I doubt not, 
rejoice that the same blessing is held out to your 
children. You who are not able yourselves to 
read what your Saviour has done and suffered 
for you, ought to be doubly anxious that your 
children should reap a blessing which you have 
lost. Would not that mother be thought an un- 
natural monster who should stand by and snatch 
out of her child's mouth the bread which a kind 
friend has just put into it ? But such a mother 
would be merciful, compared with her who 
should rob her children of the opportunity of 
learning to read the word of God when it is 
held out to them. Remember, that if you slight 
the present offer, or if, after having sent your 
children a few times you should afterwards keep 
them at home under vain pretences, you will 
have to answer for it at the day of judgment. 
Let not your poor children, then, have cause to 
say, ' My fond mother was my worst enemy. I 
might have been bred up in the fear of the Lord, 
and she opposed it for the sake of giving me a 
little paltry pleasure. — For an idle holiday, I am 
now brought to the gates of hell !' My dear 
women, which of you could bear to see your 
darling child condemned to everlasting destruc- 
tion ? — Which of you could bear to hear him ac- 
cuse you as the cause of it ? Is there any mo- 
ther here present, who will venture to say — ' I 
will doom the child I bore to sin and hell, rather 
than put them or myself to a little present pain, 
by curtailing their evil inclinations ! I will let 
them spend the Sabbath in ignorance and idle- 
ness, instead of rescuing them from vanity and 
sin, by sending them to school !' If there are 
any such here present, let that mother who va- 
lues her child's pleasure more than his soul, 
now walk away, while I set down in my list the 
names of all those who wish to bring their young 
ones up in the way that leads to eternal life, in- 
stead of indulging them in the pleasures of sin, 
which are but for a moment.' 

When Mrs. Jones had done speaking, most 
of the women thanked her for her good advice, 
and hoped that God would give them grace to 
follow it ; promising to send their children con- 
stantly. Others, who were not so well-disposed, 
were yet afraid to refuse, after the sin of so do- 
ing had been so plainly set before them. The 
worst of the women had kept away from this 
meeting, resolving to set their faces against the 
school. Most of those also who were present, 
as soon as they got home, set about providing 
their children with what little decent apparel 
they could raise. Many a willing mother lent 
her tall daughter her hat, best cap, and white 
handkerchief; and many a grateful father spared 
his linen waistcoat and bettermost hat, to in- 
duce his grown up son to attend ; for it is a rule 
with which Mrs. Jones began, that she would 
not receive the younger children out of any fa- 
mily who did not send their elder ones. Too 
many made excuses that their shoes were old, 



74 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



or their hat worn out. But Mrs. Jones told 
them not to bring any excuse to her which they 
could not bring' to the day of judgment ; and 
among those excuses she would hardly admit 
any except accidents, sickness or attendance on 
sick parents or young children. 

Subscriptions. 

Mrs. Jones, who had secured large subscrip- 
tions from the gentry, was desirous of getting 
the help and countenance of the farmers and 
trades-people, whose duty and interest she 
thought it was to support a plan calculated to 
improve the virtue and happiness of the parish. 
Most of them subscribed, and promised to see 
that their workmen sent their children. She 
met with little opposition till she called on far- 
mer Hoskins. She told him, as he was the 
richest farmer in the parish, she came to him 
for a handsome subscription. 'Subscription!' 
said he, ' it is nothing but subscriptions, I think;' 
a man, had need be made of money,' — ' Farmer,' 
said Mrs. Jones, ' God has blessed you with 
abundant prosperity, and he expects you should 
be liberal in proportion to your great ability.' — 
' I do not know what you mean by blessing,' 
said he : ' I have been up early and late, lived 
hard while I had little, and now when I thought 
I had got forward in the world, what with 
tithes taxes, and subscriptions, it all goes, I 
think.' — 'Mr. Hoskins,' said Mrs. Jones, ' as to 
tithes and taxes, you well know that the richer 
you are the more you pay; so that your mur- 
murs are a proof of your wealth. This is but 
an ungrateful return for all your blessings.' 
— ' You are again at your blessings,' said the 
farmer ; ' but let every one work as hard as I 
have done, and I dare say he will do as well. 
It is to my own industry I own what I have. 
My crops have been good, because I minded 
my ploughing and sowing.' * O, farmer !' cried 
Mrs. Jones, ' you forget whose suns and showers 
make your crops to grow, and who it is that 
giveth strength to get riches. But I do not 
come to preach, but to beg.' 

• Well, madam, what is the subscription now ? 
Flannel or French ? or weavers, or Swiss, or a 
new church, or large bread, or cheap rice ? or 
what other new whim-wham for getting the 
money out of one's pocket ?' — ' I am going to 
establish a Sunday-school, farmer ; and I come 
to you as one of the principal inhabitants of the 
parish, hoping your example will spur on the 
rest to give.' — ' Why, then, said the farmer, ' as 
one of the principal inhabitants of the parish, I 
will give nothing ; hoping it will spur on the 
rest to refuse. Of all the foolish inventions, and 
new fangled devices to ruin the country, that 
of teaching the poor to read is the very worst. 1 
— ' And I, farmer, think that to teach good prin- 
ciples to the lower classes, is the most likely 
way to save the country. Now, in order to this, 
we must teach them to read.' — 'Not with my 
consent, nor my money,' said the farmer ; ' for 
I know it always does more harm than good.' 
— 'So it may,' said Mrs. Jones, 'if you only 
teach them to read, and then turn them adrift 
to find out books for themselves.* There is a 

* It was this consideration chiefly, which stimulated 
the conductors of the Cheap Repository to send forth 



proneness in the heart to evil, which it is our 
duty to oppose, and which I see you are pro- 
moting. Only look round your own kitchen ; 1 
am ashamed to see it hung round with loose 
songs and ballads. I grant, indeed, it would be 
better for young men and maids, and even your 
daughters, not to be able to read at all, than to 
read such stuff as this. But if, when they ask 
for bread, you will give them a stone, nay worse, 
a serpent, your's is the blame.' Then taking 
up a penny book which had a very loose title, 
she went on. — ' I do not wonder, if you, who 
read such books as these, think it safer that 
people should not read at all.' The farmer 
grinned, and said, ' it is hard if a man of my 
substance may not divert himself; when a bit 
of fun costs only a penny, and a man can spare 
that penny, there is no harm done. When it is 
very hot, or very wet, and I come in to rest, and 
have drunk my mug of cider, I like to take up 
a bit of a jest-book, or a comical story, to mako 
me laugh.' 

1 0, Mr. Hoskins !' replied Mrs. Jones, ' when 
you come in to rest from a burning sun or 
shower, do you never think of Him whose sun 
it is that is ripening your corn! or whose 
shower is filling the ear, or causing the grass 
to grow ? I could tell you of some books which 
would strengthen such thoughts, whereas such 
as you read only serve to put them out of your 
head.' 

Mrs. Jones having taken pains to let Mr. 
Hoskins know, that all the genteel and wealthy 
people had subscribed, he at last said, ' why as 
to the matter of that, I do not value a crown ; only 
I think it might be better bestowed ; and I am 
afraid my own workmen will fly in my face if 
once they are made scholars ; and that they 
will think themselves too good to work.' — ' Now 
you talk soberly, and give your reasons,' said 
Mrs. Jones ; ' weak as they are, they deserve an 
answer. Do you think that either man, woman, . 
or child, ever did his duty the worse, only be- 
cause he knew it the better ?' ' No, perhaps not.' 
— ' Now, the whole extent of learning which 
we intend to give the poor, is only to enable 
them to read the Bible; a book which brings to 
us the glad tidings of salvation, in which every 
duty is explained, every doctrine brought into 
practice, and the highest truths made level to 
the meanest understanding. The knowledge 
of that book, and its practical influence on the 
heart, is the best security you can have, both 
for the industry and obedience of your servants. 
Now, can you think any man will be the worse 
servant for being a good Christian ?' — ' Perhaps 
not.' — ' Are not the duties of children, of ser- 
vants, and the poor, individually and expressly 
set forth in the Bible ?' — ' Yes.' — ' Do you think 
any duties are likely to be well performed from 
any human motives, such as fear or prudence, 
as from those religious motives which are back- 
ed with the sanction of rewards and punish- 
that variety of little books so peculiarly suited to the 
young. They considered that by means of Sunday 
schools, multitudes were now taught to read, who would 
be exposed to be corrupted by all the ribaldry and pro- 
faneness of loose songs, vicious stories, and especially 
by the new influx of corruption arising from Jacobini- 
cal and atheistical pamphlets , and that it was a bounden 
duty to counteract such temptations. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



175 



ments, of lieaven or hell ? Even upon ) r our own 
principles of worldly policy, do you think a poor 
man is not less likely to steal a sheep or a horse, 
who was taught when a boy that it was a sin, 
that it was breaking a commandment, to rob a 
hen-roost, or an orchard, than one who has been 
bred in ignorance of God's law ? Will your pro- 
perty be secured so effectually by the stocks on 
the green, as by teaching the boys in the school, 
that for all these things God will bring them 
into judgment ? Is a poor fellow who can read 
his Bible, so likely to sleep or to drink away his 
few hours of leisure, as one who cannot read ? 
He may, and he often does, make a bad use of 
his reading ; but I doubt he would have been as 
bad without it : and the hours spent in learning 
to read will always have been among the most 
harmless ones of his life.' 

• Well, madam,' said the farmer, ' if you do 
not think that religion will spoil my young ser- 
vants, I do not care if you do put me down for 
half a guinea. What has farmer Dobson given ?' 
— ' Half a guinea,' said Mrs. Jones. — ' Well,' 
cried the farmer, 'it shall never be said I do 
not give more than he, who is only a renter. 
Dobson half a guinea ! Why he wears his coat 
as threadbare as a labourer.' — ' Perhaps,' re 
plied Mrs. Jones, ' that is one reason why he 
gives so much.' — ' Well, put me down a guinea,' 
cried the farmer ; ' as scarce as guineas are just 
now, I'll never be put upon the same footing 
with Dobson neither.' — ' Yes, and you must ex- 
ert yourself besides, in insisting that your work- 
men send their children, and often look into 
the school yourself, to see if they are there, and 
reward or discourage them accordingly,' added 
Mrs. Jones. • The most zealous teachers will 
flag in their exertions, if they are not animated 
and supported by the wealthy; and your poor 
youth will soon despise religious instruction as 
a thing forced upon them, as a hardship added 
to their other hardships, if it be not made plea- 
sant by the encouraging presence, kind words, 
and little gratuities, from their betters.' 

Hero Mrs. Jones took her leave ; the farmer 
insisted on waiting on her to the door. When 
they got into the yard, they spied Mr. Simpson, 
who was standing near a group of females, con- 
sisting of the farmer's two young daughters, 
and a couple of rosy dairy maids, an old blind 
fiddler, and a woman who led him. The wo- 
man had laid a basket on the ground, out of 
which she was dealing some songs to the girls, 
who were kneeling round it, and eagerly pick- 
ing out such whose title suited their tastes. On 
seeing the clergyman come up, the fiddler's 
companion, (for I am sorry to say she was not 
his wife) pushed some of the songs to the bot- 
tom of the basket, turned round to the company, 
and, in a whining tone, asked if they would 
please to buy a godly book. Mr. Simpson saw 
through the hypocrisy at once, and instead of 
making any answer, took out of one of the girl's 
hands a song which the woman had not been 
able to snatch away. He was shocked and 
grieved to see that these young girls were about 
to read, to sing, and to learn by heart such ri- 
baldry as he was ashamed even to cast his 
eyes on. He turned about to the girl, and 
gravely, but mildly said, ' Young woman, what 



do you think should be done to a person who 
should be found carrying a box of poison round 
the country, and leaving a little to every house ? 
The girls agreed that such a person ought to 
be hanged. ' That he should,' said the farmer, 
1 if I was upon the jury, and quartered too.' 
The fiddler and his woman were of the same 
opinion, declaring, they would do no such a 
wicked thing for the world, for if they were 
poor they were honest. Mr. Simpson, turning 
to the other girl, said, ' Which is of most value, 
the soul or the body V — ' The soul, sir,' said the 
girl. — ' Why so ?' said he. — ' Because, sir, I 
have heard you say in the pulpit, the soul is to 
last for ever.' — ' Then,' cried Mr. Simpson, in a 
stern voice, turning to the fiddler's woman, 
' are you not ashamed to sell poison for that part 
which is to last forever ? poison for the soul ?' 
' Poison V said the terrified girl, throwing down 
the book, and shuddering as people do who are 
afraid they have touched something infectious. 
1 Poison !' echoed the farmer's daughters, recol- 
lecting with horror the ratsbane which Lion, 
the old house-dog, had got at the day before, 
and after eating which she had seen him drop 
down dead in convulsions. ' Yes,' said Mr. 
Simpson to the woman, ' I do again repeat, the 
souls of these innocent girls will be poisoned, 
and may be eternally ruined by this vile trash 
which you carry about.' 

1 1 now see,' said Mrs. Jones to the farmer, 
' the reason why you think learning to read does 
more harm than good. It is indeed far better 
that they should never know how to tell a let- 
ter, unless you keep such trash as this out of 
their way, and provide them with what is good, 
or at least what is harmless. Still this is not 
the fault of reading, but the abuse of it. Wine 
is still a good cordial, though it is too often 
abused to the purpose of drunkenness.' 

The farmer said that neither of his maids 
could read their horn-book, though he owned he 
often heard them singing that song which the 
parson thought so bad, but for his part it made 
them as merry as a nightingale. 

' Yes,' said Mrs. Jones, ' as a proof that it is 
not merely being able to read which does the 
mischief, I have often heard, as I have been 
crossing a hay-field, young girls singing such 
indecent ribaldry as has driven me out of the 
field, though I well knew they could not read a 
line of what they were singing, but had caught 
it from others. So you see you may as well say 
the memory is a wicked talent because some 
people misapply it, as to say that reading is 
dangerous because some folks abuse it. 

While they were talking, the fiddler and his 
woman were trying to steal away unobserved, 
but Mr. Simpson stopped them, and sternly 
said, ■ Woman, I shall have some farther talk 
with you. I am a magistrate, as well as a 
minister, and if I know it, I will no more allow 
a wicked book to be sold in my parish than a 
dose of poison.' The girls threw away all their 
songs, thanked Mr. Simpson, begged Mrs. Jones 
would take them into her school after they had 
done milking in the evenings, that they might 
learn to read only what was proper. They pro- 
mised they would never more deal with any but 
sober, honest hawkers, such as sell good little 



176 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



books, Christmas carols, and harmless songs, 
and desired the fiddler's woman never to call 
there again. 

This little incident afterwards confirmed Mrs. 
Jones In a plan she had before some thoughts of 
putting in practice. This was, after her school 
had been established a few months, to invite all 
the well-disposed grown-up youth of the parish 
to meet her at the school an hour or two on a 
Sunday evening, after the necessary business of 
the dairy, and of serving the cattle was over. 
Both Mrs. Jones and her agent had the talent of 
making this time pass so agreeably, by their 
manner of explaining Scripture, and of impress- 
ing the heart by serious and affectionate dis- 
course, that in a short time the evening school 
was nearly filled with a second company, after 
the younger ones were dismissed. In time, not 
only the servants, but the sons and daughters of 
the most substantial people in the parish attend- 
ed. At length many of the parents, pleased 
with the improvement so visible in the young 



people, got a habit of dropping in, that they 
might learn how to instruct their own families. 
And it was observed that as the school filled, 
not only the fives-court and public house were 
thinned, but even Sunday gossipping and tea- 
visiting declined. Even farmer Hoskins, whe 
was at first very angry with his maids for leaving 
off those merry songs (as he called them) was so 
pleased by the manner in which the psalms were 
sung at the school, that he promised Mrs. Jones 
to make her a present of half a sheep towards 
her first May-day feast. Of this feast some ac- 
count shall be given hereafter ; and the reader 
may expect some further account of the Sunday 
school in the history of Hester Wilmot.* 



*For a continuation of the Sunday School, see the 
story of Hester Wilmot, in two parts, in this edition. 
It was thought proper to separate them in this collec- 
tion: as the two preceding numbers rather tend to en- 
force the duties of the higher and middle class, and the 
two subsequent ones those of the poor. 



THE PILGRIMS. 



AN ALLEGORY. 



Methought I was once upon a time travelling 
through a certain land which was very full of 
people ; but, what was rather odd, not one of all 
this multitude was at home ; they were all bound 
to a far distant country. Though it was per- 
mitted by the lord of the land that these pilgrims 
might associate together for their present mu- 
tual comfort and convenience ; and each was 
not only allowed, but commanded, to do the 
others all the services he could upon their jour- 
ney, yet it was decreed, that every individual 
traveller must enter the far country singly. 
There was a great gulf at the end of the journey, 
which every one must pass alone, and at his own 
risk, and the friendship of the whole united 
world could be of no use in shooting that gulf. 
The exact time when each was to pass was not 
known to any ; this the lord always kept a close 
secret out of kindness, yet still they were as sure 
that the time must come, and that at no very 
great distance, as if they had been informed of 
the very moment. Now, as they knew they 
were always liable to be called away at an hour's 
notice, one would have thought they would have 
been chiefly employed in packing up, and pre- 
paring, and getting every thing in order. But 
this was so far from being the case, that it was 
almost the only thing which they did not think 
about 

Now, I only appeal to you, my readers, if any 
of you are setting out upon a little common 
journey, if it is only to London or York, is not 
all your leisure time employed in settling your 
business at home, and packing up every little 
necessary for your expedition? And does not 
the fear of neglecting any thing you ought to 
remember, or may have occasion for, haunt your 
mind, and sometimes even intrude upon you un- 
seasonably? And when you are actually on 



your journey, especially if you have never been 
to that place before, or are likely to remain there, 
don't you begin to think a little about the plea- 
sures and the employments of the place, and to 
wish to know a little what sort of a city London 
or York is? Don't you wonder what is doing 
there, and are you not anxious to know whether 
you are properly qualified for the business, or 
the company you expect to be engaged in? Do 
you never look at the map, or consult Brooke's 
Gazetteer? And don't you try to pick up from 
your fellow-passengers in the stage coach any 
little information you can get? And though 
you may be obliged, out of civility, to converse 
with them on common subjects, yet do not your 
secret thoughts still run upon London or York, 
its business, or its pleasures? And above all, if 
you are likely to set out early, are you not afraid 
of over-sleeping, and does not that fear keep you 
upon the watch, so that you are commonly up 
and ready before the porter comes to summon 
you 7 Reader! if this be your case, how sur- 
prised will you be to hear that the travellers to 
the far country have not half your prudence, 
though embarked on a journey of infinitely more 
importance, bound to a land where nothing can 
be sent after them, in which, when they are once 
settled, all errors are irretrievable. 

I observed that these pilgrims, instead of being 
upon the watch, lest they should be ordered off 
unprepared ; instead of laying up any provision, 
or even making memorandums of what they 
would be likely to want at the end of their jour- 
ney, spent most of their time in crowds, either 
in the way of traffic or diversion. At first, when 
I saw them so much engaged in conversing with 
each other, I thought it a good sign, and listened 
attentively to their talk, not doubting but the 
chief turn of it would be about the climate, or 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



177 



treasures, or society, they should probably meet 
■with in the far country. I supposed they might 
De also discussing about the best and safest road 
to it, and that each was availing himself of the 
knowledge of his neighbour, on a subject of 
equal importance to all. I listened to every 
party, but in scarcely any did I hear one word 
about the land to which they were bound, though 
it was their home, the place where their whole 
interest, expectation, and inheritance lay ; to 
which also great part of their friends were gone 
before, and whither they were sure all the rest 
would follow. — Instead of this, their whole talk 
was about the business, or the pleasures, or the 
fashions of the strange but bewitching country 
which they were merely passing through, and 
in which they had not one foot of land which 
they were sure of calling their own for the next 
quarter of an hour. What little estate they had 
was personal, and not real, and that was a mort- 
gaged, life-hold tenement of clay, not properly 
their own, but only lent to them on a short un- 
certain lease, of which three-score years and 
ten was considered as the longest period, and 
very few indeed lived in it to the end of the 
term ; for this was always at the will of the lord, 
part of whose prerogative it was, that he could 
take away the lease at pleasure, knock down 
the stoutest tenement at a single blow, and turn 
out the poor shivering, helpless inhabitant naked, 
to that far country for which he had made no 
provision. Sometimes, in order to quicken the 
pilgrim in his preparation, the lord would break 
down the tenement by slow degrees; sometimes 
he would let it tumble by its own natural decay ; 
for it was only built to last a certain term, it 
would often grow so uncomfortable by increasing 
dilapidations even before the ordinary lease was 
out, that the lodging was hardly worth keeping, 
though the tenant could seldom be persuaded to 
think so, but fondly clung to it to the last. — 
First the thatch on the top of the tenement 
changed colour, then it fell off and left the roof 
bare ; then the grinders ceased because they 
were few ; then the windows became so dark- 
ened that the owner could scarcely see through 
them; then one prop fell away, then another, 
then the uprights became bent, and the whole 
fabric trembled and tottered, with every other 
symptom of a falling house. But what was re- 
markable, the more uncomfortable the house 
became, and the less prospect there was of stay- 
ing in it, the more preposterously fond did the 
tenant grow of his precarious habitation. 

On some occasions the lord ordered his mes- 
sengers, of which he has a great variety, to batter, 
injure, deface, and almost demolish the frail 
building, even while it seemed new and strong; 
this was what the landlord called giving warn- 
ing ; but many a tenant would not take warning, 
and so fond of staying where he was, even under 
all these inconveniences, that at last he was ca3t 
out by ejectment, not being prevailed on to leave 
his dwelling in a proper manner, though one 
would have thought the fear of being turned out 
would have whetted his diligence in preparing 
for a better and more enduring inheritance. For 
though the people were only tenants at will in 
these crazy tenements, yet, through the goodness 
of the same lord, they were assured that he never 

Vol. I. M 



turned them out of these habitations before he 
had on his part provided for them a better, so 
that there was not such a landlord in the world ; 
and though their present dwelling was but frail, 
being only slightly run up to serve the occasion, 
yet they might hold their future possession by a 
most certain tenure, the word of the lord himself. 
This word was entered in a covenant, or title- 
deed, consisting of many sheets, and because a 
great many good things were given away in 
this deed, a book was made of which every soul 
might get a copy. 

This indeed had not always been the case ; 
because, till a few ages back, there had been a 
sort of monopoly in the case, and 'tho wise and 
prudent ;' that is, the cunning and fraudful, had 
hid these things from ' the babes and sucklings ;* 
that is, from the low and ignorant, and many 
frauds had been practised, and the poor had been 
cheated of their right ; so that not being allowed 
to read and judge for themselves, they had been 
sadly imposed upon ; but all these tricks had 
been put an end to more than two hundred years 
when I passed through the country, and the 
meanest man who could read might then have a 
copy ; so that he might see himself what he had 
to trust to ; and even those who could not read, 
might hear it read once or twice every week, at 
least, without pay, by learned and holy men, 
whose business it was. But it surprised me to 
see how few comparatively made use of these 
vast advantages. Of those who had a copy, 
many laid it carelessly by, expressed a general 
belief in the truth of the title deed, a general 
satisfaction that they should come in for a share 
of the inheritance, a general good opinion of the 
lord whose word it was, and a general disposi- 
tion to take his promise upon trust ; always, 
however, intending, at a convenient season, to 
inquire farther into the matter ; but this conve- 
nient season seldom came ; and this neglect of 
theirs was construed by their lord into a for- 
feiture of the inheritance. 

At the end of this country lay the vast gulf 
mentioned before ; it was shadowed over by a 
broad and thick cloud, which prevented the pil- 
grims from seeing in a distinct manner what 
was doing behind it, yet such beams of bright- 
ness now and then darted through the cloud, as 
enabled those who used a telescope, provided for 
that purpose, to see the substance of things hoped 
for ; but it was not every one who could make 
use of this telescope ; no eye indeed was natu- 
rally disposed to it ; but an earnest desire of 
getting a glimpse of the invisible realities, gave 
such a strength and steadiness to the eye which 
used the telescope, as enabled it to discern many 
things which could not be seen by the natural 
sight. — Above the cloud was this inscription : 
The things which are seen are temporal, but the 
things which are not seen arQeternal. Of these 
last things many glorious descriptions had been 
given ; but as those splendors were at a distance, 
and as the pilgrims in general did not care to 
use the telescope, these distant glories made 
little impression. 

The glorious inheritance which lay beyond 
the cloud, was called, The things above, while a 
multitude of trifling objects, which appeared 
contemptibly small when looked at through tfcj 



178 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



telescope, were called the things below. Now, 
as we know it is nearness which gives size and 
bulk to any object, it was not wonderful that 
these ill-judging pilgrims were more struck with 
these baubles and trifles, which, by laying close 
at hand, were visible and tempting to the naked 
eye, and which made up the sum of the things 
below, than with the remote glories of the things 
above ; but this was chiefly owing to their not 
making use of the telescope, through which, if 
you examined thoroughly the things below, they 
seemed toshrink almost down to nothing, which 
was indeed their real size ; while the things above 
appeared the more beautiful and vast, the more 
the telescope was used. But the surprising part 
of the story was this ; not that the pilgrims were 
captivated at first sight with the things below, 
for that was natural enough ; but that when they 
had tried them all over and over, and found 
themselves deceived and disappointed in almost 
every one of them, it did not at all lessen their 
fondness, and they grasped at them again with 
the same eagerness as before. There were some 
gay fruits which looked alluring, but on being 
opened, instead of a kernel, they were found to 
contain rottenness ; and those which seemed the 
fullest, often proved on trial to be quite hollow 
and empty. Those which were most tempting 
to the eye, were often found to be wormwood to 
the taste, or poison to the stomach, and many 
flowers that seemed most bright and gay had a 
worm gnawing at the root ; and it was observa- 
ble that on the finest and brightest of them was 
seen, when looked at through the telescope, the 
word vanity inscribed in large characters. 

Among the chief attractions of the things be- 
low were certain little lumps of yellow clay, on 
which almost every eye and every heart was 
fixed. When I saw the variety of uses to which 
this clay could be converted, and the respect 
which was shown to those who could scrape 
together the greatest number of pieces, I did not 
much wonder at the general desire to pick up 
some of them ; but when I beheld the anxiety, 
the wakefulness, the competitions, the contri- 
vances, the tricks, the frauds, the scuffling, the 
pushing, the turmoiling, the kicking, the shov- 
ing, the cheating, the circumvention, the envy, 
the malignity, which was excited by a desire to 
possess this article ; when I saw the general 
scramble among those who had little to get 
much, and of those who had much to get more, 
then I could not help applying to these people a 
proverb in use among us, that gold may be bought 
too dear. 

Though I saw that there were various sorts 
of baubles which engaged the hearts of different 
travellers, such as an ell of red or blue ribbon, 
for which some were content to forfeit their 
future inheritance, committing the sin of Esau, 
without his temptation of hunger ; yet the yellow 
alay I found was the grand object for which 
.nost hands were scrambling, and most souls 
were risked. One thing was extraordinary, that 
the nearer these people were to being turned out 
of their tenement, the fonder they grew of these 
pieces of clay ; so that I naturally concluded 
they meant to take the clay with them to the 
far country, to assist them in their establishment 
in it ; but I soon learnt this clav was not current 



there, the lord having farther declared to these 
pilgrims that as they had brought nothing into 
this world, they could carry nothing away. 

I inquired of the different people who were 
raising the various heaps of clay, some of a 
larger, some of a smaller size, why they dis- 
covered such unremitting anxiety, and for whom? 
Some, whose piles were immense, told me they 
were heaping up for their children ; this I 
thought very right, till, on casting my eyes 
around, I observed many of the children of these 
very people had large heaps of their own. Others 
told me it was for their grand-children ; but on 
inquiry I found these were not yet born, and in 
many cases there was little chance that they 
ever would. The truth, on a close examination, 
proved to be, that the true genuine heapers really 
heaped for themselves ; that it was in fact nei- 
ther for friend nor child, but to gratify an inor- 
dinate appetite of their own. Nor was I much 
surprised after this to see these yellow hoards 
at length canker, and the rust of them become a 
witness against the hoarders, and eat their flesh 
as it were fire. 

Many, however, who had set out with a high 
heap of their father's raising, before they had 
got one third of their journey, had scarcely a 
single piece left. As I was wondering what 
had caused these enormous piles to vanish in so 
short a time, I spied scattered up and down the 
country all sorts of odd inventions, for some or 
other of which the vain possessors of the great 
heaps of clay had truckled and bartered them 
away in fewer hours than their ancestors had 
spent years in getting them together. O what 
a strange unaccountable medley it was ! and 
what was ridiculous enough, I observed that the 
greatest quantity of the clay was always ex 
changed for things that were of no use that I 
could discover, owing I suppose to my ignorance 
of the manners of tile country. 

In one place I saw large heaps exhausted, in 
order'to set two idle pampered horses a running ; 
but the worst part of the joke was, the horses 
did not run to fetch or carry any thing, of course 
were of no kind of use, but merely to let the 
gazers see which could run fastest. Now, this 
gift of swiftness, exercised to no useful purpose, 
was only one out of many instances, I observed, 
of talents employed to no end. In another place 
I saw whole piles of the clay spent to maintain 
long ranges of buildings full of dogs, on provi- 
sions which would have nicely fattened some 
thousands of pilgrims, who sadly wanted fatten- 
ing, and whose ragged tenements were out at 
elbows, for want of a little help to repair them. 
Some of the piles were regularly pulled down 
once in seven years, in order to corrupt certain 
needy pilgrims to belie their consciences, by 
doing that for a bribe which they were bound to 
do from principle. Others were spent in play- 
ing with white stiff bits of paper, painted over 
with red and black spots, in which I thought 
there must be some conjuring, because the very 
touch of these painted pasteboards made the 
heaps fly from one to another, and back again 
to the same, in a way that natural causes could 
not account for. There was another proof that 
there must be some magic in this business 
which was that if a pasteboard with red spots 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



179 



fell into a hand which wanted a black one, the 
person changed colour, his eyes flashed fire, and 
he discovered other symptoms of madness, 
which showed there was some witchcraft in the 
case. These clean little pasteboards as harm- 
less as they looked, had the wonderful power of 
pulling down the highest piles in less time than 
all the other causes put together. I observed 
that many small piles were given in exchange 
for an enchanted liquor which when the pur- 
chaser had drunk to a little excess, he lost power 
of managing the rest of his heap without losing 
the love of it ; and thus the excess of indulgence, 
by making him a beggar, deprived him of that 
very gratification on which his heart was set 

Now I find it was the opinion of sober pil- 
grims, that either hoarding the clay, or trucking 
it for any such purposes as the above, was 
thought exactly the same offence in the eyes of 
the lord ; and it was expected that when they 
should come under his more immediate juris- 
diction in the far country, the penalty annexed 
to hoarding and squandering would be nearly 
the Bame. — While I examined the couptenances 
of the owners of the heaps, I observed that those 
who I well knew never intended to make any 
use at all of their heap, were far more terrified 
at the thought of losing it, or of being torn from 
it, than those were who were employing it in 
the most useful manner. Those who best knew 
what to do with it, set their hearts least upon 
it, and were always most willing to leave it. 
But such riddles were common in this odd 
country. It was indeed a very land of para- 
doxes. 

Now I wondered why these pilgrims, who 
were naturally made erect with an eye formed 
to look up to the things above, yet had their eyes 
almost constantly bent in the other direction, 
riveted to the earth, and fastened on things be- 
low, just like those animals who walk on all 
four. I was told they had not always been sub- 
ject to this weakness of sight, and proneness to 
earth : that they had originally been upright 
and beautiful, having been created after the 
image of the lord, who was himself the perfec- 
tion of beauty ; that he had, at first, placed them 
in a far superior situation, which he had given 
them in perpetuity ; but that their first ances- 
tors fell from it through pride and carelessness ; 
that upon this the freehold was taken away, 
they lost their original strength, brightness, and 
beauty, and were driven out into this strange 
country, where, however, they had every oppor- 
tunity given them of recovering their original 
health, and the lord's favour and likeness ; for 
they were become so disfigured, and were grown 
bo unlike him, that you would hardly believe 
they were his own children, though, in some, 
the resemblance was become again visible. 

The lord, however, was so merciful, that, in- 
stead of giving them up to the dreadful conse- 
quences of their own folly, as he might have 
done without any impeachment of his justice, 
he gave them immediate comfort, and promised 
them that, in due time, his own son should come 
down and restore them to the future inheritance 
which he should purchase for them. And now 
it was, that in order to keep up their spirits, 
after they had lost their estate through the folly 



of their ancestors, that he began to give them a 
part of their former title deed. He continued 
to send them portions of it from time to time 
by different faithful servants, whom, however, 
these ungrateful people generally used ill, and 
some of whom they murdered. But for all this, 
the lord was so very forgiving, that he at length 
sent these mutineers a proclamation of full and 
free pardon by his son. This son, though they 
used him in a more cruel manner than they had 
done any of his servants, yet after hwingjinish- 
ed the work his father gave him to do, went back 
into the far country to prepare a place for all 
them who believe in him ; and there he still 
lives ; begging and pleading for those unkind 
people, whom he still loves and forgives, and will 
restore to the purchased inheritance on the easy 
terms of their being heartily sorry for what they 
have done, thoroughly desirous of pardon, and 
convinced that he is able and willing to save to 
the utmost all them that come unto him. 

I saw, indeed, that many old offenders ap- 
peared to be sorry for what they had done ; that 
is, they did not like to be punished for it. They 
were willing enough to be delivered from the 
penalty of their guilt, but they did not heartily 
wish to be delivered from the power of it. Many 
declared, in the most public manner, once every 
week, that they were sorry they had done amiss* 
that they had erred and strayed like lost sheep , 
but it was not enough to declare their sorrow, 
ever so often, if they gave no other sign of their 
penitence. For there was so little truth in them, 
that the lord required other proofs of their sin- 
cerity beside their own word, for they often lied 
with their lips and dissembled with their tongue. 
But those who professed to be penitents must 
give some outward proof of it. They were nei 
ther allowed to raise heaps of clay, by circum 
venting their neighbours, or to keep great piles 
lying by them useless ; nor must they bartej 
them for any of those idle vanities which re 
duced the heaps on a sudden : for I found that 
among the grand articles of future reckoning, 
the use they had made of the heaps would be a 
principal one. 

I was sorry to observe many of the fairer part 
of these pilgrims spend too much of their heaps 
in adorning and beautifying their tenements ot 
clay, in painting, white-washing, and enamel- 
ling them. All those tricks, however, did not 
preserve them from decay ; and when they grew 
old, they even looked worse for all this cost and 
varnish. Some, however, acted a more sensible 
part, and spent no more upon their mouldering 
tenements than just to keep them whole and 
clean, and in good repair, which is what every 
tenant ought to do ; and I observed that those 
who were most moderate in the care of their 
own tenements, were most attentive to repaii 
and warm the ragged tenements of others. But 
none did this with much zeal or acceptance, but 
those who had acquired a habit of overlooking 
the things below, and who also, by the constant 
use of the telescope had got their natural weak 
and dim sight so strengthened, as to be able to 
discern pretty distinctly the nature of the things 
above. The habit of fixing their eyes on these 
glories made all the shining trifles, which com- 
pose the mass of things below, at last appear in 



180 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



their own diminutive littleness. For it was in 
this case particularly true, that things are only 
big or little by comparison ; and there was no 
other way of making the things below, appear as 
small as they really were, but by comparing 
them, by means of the telescope, with the things 
above. But I observed that the false judgment 
of the pilgrims ever kept pace with their wrong 
practices ; for those who kept their eyes fasten- 
ed on the things below, were reckoned wise in 
their generation, while the few who looked for- 
ward to the future glories, were accounted by 
the bustlers, or heapers, to be either fools or 
mad. 

Most of these pilgrims went on in adorning 
their tenements, adding to their heaps, grasping 
the things below as if they would never let them 
go, shutting their eyes, instead of using their 
telescope, and neglecting their title deed, as if 
it was the parchment of another man's estate, 
and not of their own ; till one after another each 
felt his tenement tumbling about his ears.— Oh ! 
then what a busy, bustling, anxious, terrifying, 
distracting moment was that ! What a deal of 
business was to be done, and what a strange 
time was this to do it in ! Now, to see the con- 
fusion and dismay occasioned by having left 
every thing to the last minute. First, some one 
was sent for to make over the yellow heaps, to 
another, which the heaper now found would be 
of no use to himself in shooting the gulf; a 
transfer which ought to have been made while 
the tenement was sound. Then there was a 
consultation between two or threv, masons at 



once perhaps, to try to patch up the walls, and 
strengthen the props, and stop the decays of the 
tumbling tenement ; but not till the masons 
were forced to declare it was past repairing (a 
truth they were rather too apt to keep back) did 
the tenant seriously think it was time to pack 
up, prepare and begone. Then what sending for 
the wise men who professed to explain the title 
deed ! And oh ! what remorse that they had ne- 
glected to examine it till their senses were too 
confused for so weighty a business ! What re. 
proaches, or what exhortations to others, to look 
better after their own affairs than they had done.' 
Even to the wisest of the inhabitants the falling 
of their tenements was a solemn thing ; solemn, 
but not surprising ; they had long been packing 
up and preparing ; they praised their lord's 
goodness that they had been suffered to stay so 
long ; many acknowledged the mercy of their 
frequent warnings, and confessed that those very 
dilapidations which had made the house uncom- 
fortable had been a blessing, as it had set them 
on diligent preparation for their future inherit- 
ance ; had 1 made them more earnest in examin- 
ing their title to it, and had set them on such a 
frequent application to the telescope, that the 
things above had seemed every day to approach 
nearer and nearer, and the things below to re- 
cede and vanish in proportion. These desired 
not to be unclothed but to be clothed upon, for 
they knew that if their tabernacle was dissolved, 
they had an house not made with hands, eternal 
in the heavens.'' 



THE VALLEY OF TEARS 



A VISION. 
OR, BEAR YE ONE ANOTHER'S BURTHENS. 



Once upon a time methought I set out upon a 
long journey, and the place through which I 
travelled appeared to be a dark valley, which 
was called the Valley of Tears. It had obtained 
this name, not only on account of the many sor- 
rowful adventures which poor passengers com- 
monly meet with in their journey through it ; 
but also because most of these travellers entered 
it weeping and crying, and left it in very great 
pain and anguish. This vast valley was full of 
people of all colours, ages, sizes and descrip- 
tions. But whether white, or black, or tawny, 
all were travelling the same road ; or rather 
they were taking different little paths which all 
led to the same common end. 

Now it was remarkable, that notwithstanding 
the different complexions, ages, and tempers of 
this vast variety of people, yet all resembled each 
other in this one respect, that each had a burthen 
on his back which he was destined to carry 
through the toil and heat of the day, until he 
should arrive, by a longer or shorter course, at 
his journey's end. These burthens would in 
general have made the pilgrimage quite intolera- 
ble, had not the lord of the valley, out of his 
great compassion for these poor pilgrims, pro- 



vided, among other things, the following meana 
for their relief: 

In their full view over the entrance of the 
valley, there were written, in great letters of 
gold, the following words : 

Bear ye one another's burthens. 
Now I saw in my vision that many of the 
travellers hurried on without stopping to read 
this inscription, and others, though they had 
once read it, yet paid little or no attention to it. 
A third sort thought it very good advice for 
other people, but very seldom applied it to them- 
selves. They uniformly desired to avail them- 
selves of the assistance which by this injunction 
others were bound to offer them, but seldom con- 
sidered that the obligation was mutual, and that 
reciprocal wants and reciprocal services formed 
the strong cord in the bond of charity. In short, 
I saw that too many of these people were of opi- 
nion that they had burthens enough of their own, 
and that there was therefore no occasion to take 
upon them those of others ; so each tried to make 
his own load as light, and his own journey as 
pleasant as he could, without so much as once 
casting a thought on a poor overloaded neigh- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



181 



bour. Here, however, I have to make a rather 
singular remark, by which I shall plainly show 
the folly of these selfish people. It was so or- 
dered and contrived by the lord of this valley, 
that if any one stretched out his hand to lighten 
a neighbour's burthen, in fact he never failed to 
find that he at that moment also lightened his 
own. Besides the benefit of helping each other, 
was as mutual as the obligation. If a man help- 
ed his neighbour, it commonly happened that 
some other neighbour came by-and-by and help- 
ed him in his turn ; for there was no such thing 
as what we called independence in the whole 
valley. Not one of all these travellers, however 
stout and strong, could move on comfortably 
without assistance, for so the lord of the valley, 
whose laws were all of them kind and good, had 
expressly ordained. 

I stood still to watch the progress of these 
poor way-faring people, who moved slowly on, 
like so many ticket-porters, with burthens of 
various kinds on their backs ; of whieh some 
were heavier, and some were lighter, but from 
a burthen of one kind or other, not one traveller 
was entirely free. There might be some dif- 
ference in the degree, and some distinction in 
the nature, but exemption there was none. 

The Widow. 

A sorrowful widow, oppressed with the bur- 
then of grief for the loss of an affectionate hus- 
band, moved heavily on ; and would have been 
bowed down by her heavy load, had not the 
surviving children with great alacrity stepped 
forward and supported her. Their kindness 
after a while, so much lightened the load which 
threatened at first to be intolerable, that she 
even went on her way with cheerfulness, and 
more than repaid their help, by applying the 
strength she derived from it to their future as- 
sistance. 

The Husband. 

I next saw a poor old man tottering under a 
burthen so heavy, that I expected him every 
moment to sink under it I peeped into his 
pack, and saw it was made up of many sad ar- 
ticles ; there were poverty, oppression, sickness, 
debt, and, what made by far the heaviest part, 
undutiful children. I was wondering how it 
was that he got on even so well as he did, till 
I spied his wife, a kind, meek, christian woman, 
who was doing her utmost to assist him. She 
quietly got behind, gently laid her shoulder to 
the burthen, and carried a much larger portion 
of it than appeared to me when I was at a dis- 
tance. It was not the smallest part of the be- 
nefit that she was anxious to conceal it. She 
not only sustained him by her strength, but 
cheered him by her counsels. She told him, 
that ' through much tribulation we must enter 
into rest ;' that ' he that overcometh shall in- 
herit all things.' In short, she so supported 
his fainting spirit, that he was enabled to ' run 
with patience the race which was set before him., 

The Kind Neighbour. 

An infirm blind woman was creeping forward 
with a very heavy burthen, in which were 
packed sickness and want, with numberless 



other of those raw materials, out of whicjh hu- 
man misery is worked up. She was so weak 
that she could not have got on at all, had^t not 
been for the kind assistance of another woman 
almost as poor as herself; who, though she had 
no light burthen of her own, cheerfully lent an 
helping hand to a fellow traveller who was still 
more heavily laden. This friend had indeed 
little or nothing to give, but the very voice of 
kindness is soothing to the weary. And I re- 
marked in many other cases, that it was not so 
much the degree of the help afforded, as the 
manner of helping that lightened the burthens. 
Some had a coarse, rough, clumsy way of as- 
sisting a neighbour, which, though in fact it 
might be of real use, yet seemed, by galling the 
traveller, to add to the load it was intended to 
lighten ; while I observed in others that so 
cheap a kindness as a mild word, or even an 
affectionate look made a poor burthened wretch 
move on cheerily. — The bare feeling that some 
human being cared for him, seemed to lighten 
the load. — But to return to this kind neighbour. 
She had a little old book in her hand, the covers 
of which were torn out by much use. When 
she saw the blind woman ready to faint, she 
would read her a few words out of this book, 
such as the following — ' Blessed are the poor in 
spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.' — 
' Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be 
comforted.' — ' I will never leave thee nor for- 
sake thee.' — For our light affliction, which is 
but for a moment, worketh out for us a far more 
exceeding and eternal weight of glory.' These 
quickened the pace, and sustained the spirits 
of the blind traveller : and the kind neighbour 
by thus directing the attention of the poor suf- 
ferer to the blessings of a better world, helped 
to enable her to sustain the afflictions of this, 
more effectually than if she had had gold and 
silver to bestow on her. 

The Clergyman. 

A pious minister, sinking under the weight 
of a distressed parish, whose worldly wants he 
was totally unable to bear, was suddenly re- 
lieved by a charitable widow, who came up and 
took all the sick and hungry on her own shoul- 
ders as her part of the load. The burthen of 
the parish thus divided became tolerable. The 
minister being no longer bowed down by the 
temporal distresses of his people, applied him- 
self cheerfully to his own part of the weight. 
And it was pleasant to see how those two per- 
sons, neither of them very strong, or rich, or 
healthy, by thus kindly uniting together, were 
enabled to bear the weight of a whole parish ; 
though singly, either of them must have sunk 
under the attempt. And I remember one great 
grief I felt during my whole journey was, that 
I did not see more of this union and concurring 
kindness, more of this acting in concert, by 
which all the burthens might have been so 
easily divided. It troubled me to observe, that 
of all the laws of the valley there was not one 
more frequently broken than the late of kindness. 

The Negroes. 

I now spied a swarm of poor black men, wo- 
men, and children, a multitude whicm no man 



lm 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



couy> number; these groaned and toiled, and 
BweSed, and bled under far heavier loads than 
I have yet seen. But for a while no man help- 
ed them ; at length a few white travellers were 
touched with the sorrowful sighing of those 
millions, and very heartily did they put their 
hands to the burthens ; but their number was 
not quite equal to the work they had undertaken. 
I perceived, however, that they never lost sight 
of those poor heavy-laden wretches ; though 
often repulsed, they returned again to the 
charge ; though discomfited, they renewed the 
effort, and some even pledged themselves to an 
annual attempt till the project was accomplish- 
ed ; and as the number of these generous help- 
ers increased every year, I felt a comfortable 
hope, that before all the blacks got out of the 
valley, the whites would fairly divide the burthen, 
and the loads would be effectually lightened. 

Among the travellers, I had occasion to re- 
mark, that those who most kicked and struggled 
under their burthens, only made them so much 
the heavier, for their shoulders became ex- 
tremely galled by those vain and ineffectual 
struggles. The load, if borne patiently, would in 
the end have turned even to the advantage of 
the bearers, for so the lord of the valley had 
kindly decreed ; but as to these grumblers, they 
had all the smart, and none of the benefit; they 
had the present suffering without the future re- 
ward. But the thing which made all these 
burthens seem so very heavy was, that in every 
one without exception, there was a certain inner 
packet, which most of the travellers took pains 
to conceal, and kept carefully wrapped up ; and 
while they were forward enough to complain 
of the other part of their burthens, few said a 
word about this, though in truth it was the 
pressing weight of this secret packet which 
served to render the general burthen so intoler- 
able. In spite of all their caution, I contrived 
to get a peep at it. I found in each that this 
packet had the same label ; the word sin was 
written on all as a general title, and in ink so 
black, that they could not wash it out. I ob- 



served that most of them took no small pains to 
hide the writing ; but I was surprised to see that 
they did not try to get rid of the load but the 
label. If any kind friend who assisted these 
people in bearing their burthens, did but so 
much as hint at the secret packet, or advise 
them to get rid of it, they took fire at once, and 
commonly denied they had any such article in 
their portmanteau ; and it was those whose se- 
cret packet swelled to the most enormous size, 
who most stoutly denied they had any. 

I saw with pleasure, however, that some who 
had long laboured heartily to get rid of this in- 
ward packet, at length found it much diminish- 
ed, and the more this packet shrunk in size, the 
lighter was the other part of their burthen also. 
I observed, moreover, that though the label, al- 
ways remained in some degree indelible, yet 
that those who were earnest to get rid of the 
load, found that the original traces of the label 
grew fainter also ; it was never quite obliterated 
in any, though in some cases it seemed nearly 
effaced. 

Then methought, all at once, I heard a voice, 
as it had been the voice of an angel, crying out 
and saying, ' Ye unhappy pilgrims, why are 
ye troubled about the burthen which ye are 
doomed to bear through this valley of tears ? 
Know ye not, that as soon as ye shall have es- 
caped out of this valley the whole burthen shall 
drop off, provided ye neglect not to remove that 
inward weight, that secret load of sin which 
principally oppresses you ? Study then the whole 
will of the lord of this valley. Learn from him 
how this heavy part of your burthens may now 
be lessened, and how at last it shall be removed 
for ever. Be comforted. Faith and hope may 
cheer you even in this valley. The passage, 
though it seems long to weary travellers, is com- 
paratively short ; for beyond there is a land of 
everlasting rest, where ye shall hunger no more, 
neither thirst any more, where ye shall be led 
by living fountains of waters, and all tears shall 
be wiped away from your eyes.' 



THE STRAIT GATE AND THE BROAD WAY 

AN ALLEGORY. 



Now I had a second vision of what was pass- 
ing in the Valley of Tears. Methought I saw 
again the same kind of travellers whom I had 
seen in the former part, and they were wander- 
ing at large through the same vast wilderness. 
At first setting out on his journey, each travel- 
ler had a small lamp so fixed in his bosom that 
it seemed to make a part of himself; but as this 
natural light did not prove to be sufficient to 
direct them in the right way, the king of the 
country, in pity to their wanderings and blind- 
ness, out of" his gracious condescension, pro- 
mised to give these poor wayfaring people an 
additional supply of light from his own royal 
treasury. But as he did not choose to lavish 
his favours where there seemed no disposition 
to receive them, he would not bestow any of his 
oil on such as did not think it worth asking for 



' Ask and ye shall have,' was the universal rule 
he had laid down for them. But though they 
knew the condition of the obligation, many 
were prevented from asking through pride and 
vanity, for they thought they had light enough 
already, preferring the feeble glimmerings of 
their own lamp, to all the offered light from the 
king's treasury. Yet it was observed of those 
who rejected it, as thinking they had enough, 
that hardly any acted up to what even their own 
natural light showed them. Others were deter- 
red from asking, because they were told that this 
light not only pointed out the dangers and difficul- 
ties of the road, but by a certain reflecting power, 
it turned inward on themselves, and revealed 
to them ugly sights in their own hearts, to 
which they rather chose to be blind ; for those 
travellers were of that preposterous number, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



183 



who ' chose darkness rather than light,' and for 
the old obvious reason, ' because their deeds were 
evil.' Now, it was remarkable that these two 
properties were inseparable, and that the lamp 
would be of little outward use, except to those 
who used it as an internal reflector. A threat 
and a promise also never failed to accompany 
the offer of this light from the king ; a promise 
that to those who improved what they had, more 
should be given ; and a threat, that from those 
who did not use it wisely, should be taken away 
even what they had. 

I observed that when the road was very dan- 
gerous ; when terrors, and difficulties, and death 
beset the fervent traveller ; then, on their faithful 
importunity, the king voluntarily gave large 
and bountiful supplies of light, such as in com- 
mon seasons never could have been expected : 
always proportioning the quantity given to the 
necessity of the case ; ' as their day was, such 
was their light and strength.' 

Though many chose to depend entirely on 
their own original lamp, yet it was observed 
that this light was apt to go out if left to itself. 
It was easily blown out by those violent gusts 
which were perpetually howling through the 
wilderness ; and indeed it was the natural ten- 
dency of that unwholesome atmosphere to extin- 
guish it, just as you have seen a candle go out 
when exposed to the vapours and foul air of a 
damp room. It was a melancholy sight to see 
multitudes of travellers heedlessly pacing on, 
boasting they had light enough of their own, 
and despising the offer of more. But what as- 
tonished me most of all was, to see many, and 
some of them too accounted men of first rate 
wit, actually busy in blowing out their own light, 
because while any spark of it remained, it only 
served to torment them, and point out things 
which they did not wish to see. And having 
once blown out their own light, they were not 
easy till they had blown out that of their neigh- 
bours also ; so that a good part of the wilderness 
seemed to exhibit a sort of universal blindmari's 
buff, each endeavoring to catch his neighbour, 
while his own voluntary blindness exposed him 
to be caught himself; so that each was actually 
falling into the snare he was laying for another, 
till at length, as selfishness is the natural con- 
sequence of blindness, ' catch he that catch can,' 
became the general motto of the wilderness. 

Now I saw in my vision, that there were some 
others who were busy in strewing the most gaudy 
flowers over the numerous bogs, and precipices, 
and pitfalls with which the wilderness abounded ; 
and thus making danger and death look so gay, 
that poor thoughtless creatures seemed to delight 
in their own destruction. Those pitfalls did not 
appear deep or dangerous to the eye, because 
over them were raised gay edifices with alluring 
names. These were filled with singing men and 
singing women, and with dancing, and feasting, 
and gaming, and drinking, and jollity, and mad- 
ness. But though the scenery was gay, the 
footing was unsound. The floors were full of 
holes, through which the unthinking merry- 
makers were continually sinking. Some tum- 
bled through in the middle of a song ; more .at 
the end of a feast; and though there was many 
a cup of intoxication wreathed round with flow- J 



ers, yet there was always poison at the bottom- 
But what most surprised me was that though no 
day past over their heads in which some of the 
most merry-makers did not drop through, yet 
their loss made little impression on those who 
were left. Nay, instead of being awakened to 
more circumspection, and self-denial by the con- 
tinual dropping off of those about them, several 
of them seemed to borrow from thence an argu- 
ment of a direct contrary tendency, and the very 
shortness of time was only urged as a reason to 
use it more sedulously for the indulgence in 
sensual delights. 'Let us eat and drink, for to- 
morrow we die.' 'Let us crown ourselves with 
rose-buds before they are withered.' With these 
and a thousand other such little inscriptions, the 
gay garlands of the wilderness were decorated. 
Some admired poets were set to work to set the 
most corrupt sentiments to the most harmonious 
tunes ; these were sung without scruple, chiefly 
indeed by the looser sons of riot, but not seldom 
also by the more orderly daughters of sobriety, 
who were not ashamed to sing to the sound of 
instruments, sentiments so corrupt and immoral, 
that they would have blushed to speak or read 
them: but the music seemed to sanctify the 
corruption, especially such as was connected 
with love or drinking. 

Now I observed that all the travellers who 
had so much as a spark of life left, seemed every 
now and then, as they moved onwards, to cast 
an eye, though with very different degrees of 
attention, towards the Happy Land, which they 
were told lay at the end of their journey ; but as 
they could not see very far forward, and as they 
knew there was a dark and shadoviy valley which 
must needs be crossed before they could attain 
to the Happy Land, they tried to turn their at- 
tention from it as much as they could. The 
truth is, they were not sufficiently apt to consult 
a map and a road-book which the King had 
given them, and which pointed out the path to 
the Happy Land so clearly, that the ' wayfaring 
men, though simple, could not err.' This map 
also defined very correctly the boundaries of the 
Happy Land from the Land of Misery, both of 
which lay on the other side of the dark and sha- 
dowy valley ; but so many beacons and light- 
houses were erected, so many clear and explicit 
directions furnished for avoiding the one coun- 
try and attaining the other, that it was not the 
king's fault, if even one single traveller got 
wrong. But I am inclined to think that, in 
spite of the map and the road-book, and the 
King's word, and his offers of assistance to get 
them thither, that the travellers in general did 
not heartily and truly believe, after all, that 
there was any such country as the Happy Land ; 
or at least the paltry and transient pleasures of 
the wilderness so besotted them, the thoughts of 
the dark and shadowy valley so frightened them, 
that they thought they should be more com- 
fortable by ba'nishing all thought and forecast, 
and driving the subject quite out of their heads. 

Now, I also saw in my dream, that there were 
two roads through the wilderness, one of which 
every traveller must needs take. The first was 
narrow, and difficult, and rough, but it was in. 
fallibly safe. It did not admit the traveller to 
stray either to the right hand or to the left, yet 



184 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



it was far from being destitute of real comforts 
or sober pleasures. The other was a broad and 
tempting way, abounding with luxurious fruits 
and gaudy flowers, to tempt the eye and please 
the appetite. To forget this dark valley, through 
which every traveller was well assured he must 
one day pass, seemed the object of general de- 
sire. To this grand end, all that human inge- 
nuity could invent was industriously set to work. 
The travellers read, and they wrote, and they 
painted, and they sung, and they danced, and 
they drank as they went along, not so much 
because they all cared for these things, or had 
any real joy in them, as because this restless 
activity served to divert their attention from 
ever being fixed on the dark and shadowy valley. 
The king, who knew the thoughtless tempers 
of the travellers, and how apt they were to forget 
their journey's end, had thought of a thousand 
Jittle kind attentions to warn them of their dan- 
gers : and as we sometimes see in our gardens 
written on a board in great letters, Beware of 

SPRING GUNS — MAN TRAPS ARE SET HERE ; SO had 

this king caused to be written and stuck up be- 
fore the eyes of the travellers, several little 
notices and cautions ; such as, ' Broad is the 
way that leadeth to destruction. — ' Take heed, 
lest ye also perish.' — ' Wo to them that rise up 
early to drink wine.' — 'The pleasures of sin are 
but for a season,' &c. Such were the notices 
directed to the broad-way travellers ; but they 
were so busily engaged in plucking the flowers, 
sometimes before they were blown, and in de- 
vouring the fruits often before they were ripe, 
and in loading themselves with yelloio clay, under 
the weight of which millions perished, that they 
had no time so much as to look at the king's 
directions. Many went wrong because they 
preferred a merry journey to- a safe one, and 
because they were terrified by certain notices 
chiefly intended for the narrow-way travellers ; 
such as, 'ye shall weep and lament, but the 
world shall rejoice :' but had these foolish people 
allowed themselves time or patience to read to 
the end, which they seldom would do, they would 
have seen these comfortable words added, ' But 
your sorrow shall be turned into joy ;' also, 
* your joy no man taketh from you ;' and, ' they 
that sow in tears shall reap in joy.' 

Now, I also saw in my dream, that many 
travellers who had a strong dread of ending at 
the Land of Misery walked up to the Strait 
Gale, hoping that though the entrance was nar- 
row, yet if they could once get in, the road would 
widen ; but what was their grief, when on look- 
ing 1 more closely they saw written on the inside, 
' Narrow is the way ;' this made them take 
fright; they compared the inscriptions with 
which the whole way was lined, such as, ' Be 
ye not conformed to this world ; deny yourselves, 
take up your cross,' with all the tempting plea- 
sures of the wilderness. Some indeed recollected 
the fine descriptions they had read of the Happy 
Land, the Golden City, and the Rivers of Plea- 
sure, and they sighed : but then those joys were 
distant, and from the faintness of their light, 
they soon got to think that what was remote 
might be uncertain, and while the present good 
increased in bulk the distant good receded, di- 
minished, disappeared. Their faith failed ; they 



would trust no farther than they could see ; they 
drew back and got into the Broad Way, taking 
a common but sad refuge in the number, the 
fashion, and the gayety of their companions. 
When these faint-hearted people, who yet had 
set out well, turned back, their light was quite 
put out, and then they became worse than those 
who had made no attempt to get in. ' For it is 
impossible, that is, it is next to impossible, for 
those who were once enlightened, and have tasted 
of the heavenly gift, and the good word of God, 
and the powers of the world to come, if they fall 
away, to renew them again to repentance.' 

A few honest humble travellers not naturally 
stronger than the rest, but strengthened by their 
trust in the king's word, came up, by the light 
of their lamps, and meekly entered in at the 
Strait Gate. As they advanced farther they 
felt less heavy, and though the way did not in 
reality grow wider, yet they grew reconciled to 
the narrowness of it, especially when they saw the 
walls here and there studded with certain jewels 
called promises, such as : 'He that endureth to the 
end shall be saved ;' and 'my grace is sufficient for 
you.' Some, when they were almost ready to 
faint, were encouraged by seeing that many 
niches in the Narrow Way were filled with sta- 
tues and pictures of saints and martyrs, who 
had borne their testimony at the stake, that the 
Narrow Way was the safe way ; and these tra- 
vellers, instead of sinking at the sight of the 
painted wheel and gibbet, the sword and furnace, 
were animated with these words written under 
them, ' Those that wear white robes, came out 
of great tribulation,' and ' be ye followers of 
those who through faith and patience inherit the 
promises.' 

In the mean time there came a great multi- 
tude of travellers all from Laodicea ; this was 
the largest party I had yet seen ; these were 
neither hot nor cold ; they would not give up 
future hope, and they could not endure present 
pain. So they contrived to deceive themselves, 
by fancying that though they resolved to keep 
the Happy Land in view, yet there must needs 
be many different ways which lead to it, no doubt 
all equally sure, without all being equally rough ; 
so they set on foot certain little contrivances to 
attain the end without using the means, and 
softened down the spirit of the king's directions 
to fit them to their own practice. Sometimes 
they would split a direction in two, and only use 
that half which suited them. For instance when 
they met with the following rule on the way- 
post, ' Trust in the Lord and be doing good,* 
they would take the first half, and make them- 
selves easy with a general sort of trust, that 
through the mercy of the king all would go well 
with them, though they themselves did nothing. 
And on the other hand, many made sure that a 
few good works of their own would do their 
business, and carry them safely to the Happy 
Land, though they did not trust in the Lord, 
nor place any faith in his word. So they took 
the second half of the spliced direction. Thus 
some perished by a lazy faith, and others by a 
working pride. 

A large party of Pharisees now appeared, who 
had so neglected their lamp that they did not 
see their way at all^ though they fancied them- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



185 



selves to be full of light ; they kept up appear- 
ances so well as to delude others, and most effec- 
tually to delude themselves, with a notion that 
they might be found in the right way at last. 
In this dreadful delusion they went on to the 
end, and till J-hey were finally plunged in the 
dark valley, never discovered the horrors which 
awaited them on the dismal shore. It was re- 
markable that while these Pharisees were often 
boasting how bright their light burnt, in order 
to get the praise of men, the humble travellers, 
whose steady light showed their good works to 
others, refused all commendation, and the 
brighter their light shined before men, so much 
the more they insisted that they ought to glorify 
not themselves, but their Father which is in 
heaven. 

I now set myself to observe what was the 
particular let, molestation and hindrance which 
obstructed particular travellers in their endea- 
fours to enter in at the Strait Gate. I re- 
marked a huge portly man who seemed desirous 
of getting in, but he carried about him such a 
vast provision of bags full of gold, and had on 
so many rich garments, which stuffed him out 
so wide, that though he pushed and squeezed, 
like one who had really a mind to get in, yet 
he could not possibly do so. Then I heard a 
voice crying, ' Wo to him who loadeth himself 
with thick clay.' The poor man felt something 
was wrong, and even went so far as to change 
some of his more cumbersome vanities into 
others which seemed less bulky, but still he 
and his pack were much too wide for the gate. 
He would not however give up the matter so 
easily, but began to throw away a little of the 
coarser part of his baggage, but still I remarked 
that he threw away none of the vanities which 
lay near his heart. He tried again, but it would 
not do ; still his dimensions were too large. He 
now looked up and read these words, ' How 
hardly shall those who have riches enter into 
the kingdom of God.' The poor man sighed to 
find that it was impossible to enjoy his fill of 
both worlds, and ' went away sorrowing.' If he 
ever afterwards cast a thought towards the 
Happy Land, it was only to regret that the road 
which led to it was too narrow to admit any buf 
the meagre children of want, who were not so 
encumbered by wealth as to be too big for the 
passage. Had he read on, he would have seen 
that ' with God all things are possible.' 

Another advanced with much confidence of 
success, for having little worldly riches or ho- 
nours, the gate did not seem so strait to him. 
He got to the threshold triumphantly, and seem- 
ed to look back with disdain on all that he was 
quitting. He soon found, however, that he was 
so bloated with pride, and stuffed out with self- 
sufficiency, that he could not get in. Nay, he 
was in a worse way than the rich man just 
named; for he had been willing to throw away 
some of his outward luggage, whereas this man 
refused to part with a grain of that vanity and 
self-applause whicli made him too large for the 
way. The sense of his own worth so swelled 
him out that he stuck fast in the gateway, and 
could neither get in nor out. Finding now that 
he must cut off all those big thoughts of himself, 
if he wished to be reduced to such a size as to 



pass the gate, he gave up all thoughts of it. Ho 
scorned that humility and self-denial which 
might have shrunk him down to the proper di- 
mensions ; the more he insisted on his own qua- 
lifications for entrance, the more impossible it 
became to enter, for the bigger he grew. Find- 
ing that he must become quite another manner 
of man before he could hope to get in, he gave 
up the desire ; and I now saw that though when 
he set his face towards the Happy Land he could 
not get an inch forward, yet the instant he made 
a motion to turn back into the world, his speed 
became rapid enough, and he got back into the 
Broad Way much sooner than he got out of it. 

Many, who for a time were brought down 
from their usual bulk by some affliction, seemed 
to get in with ease. They now thought all their 
difficulties over, for having been surfeited with 
the world during their late disappointment, they 
turned their backs upon it willingly enough, and 
fancied they were tired of 'it. A fit of sickness, 
perhaps, which is very apt to reduce, had for a 
time brought their bodies into subjection, so that 
they were enabled just to get in at the gateway ; 
but as soon as health and spirits returned, the 
way grew narrower and narrower to them ; and 
they could not get on, but turned short, and got 
back into the world. I saw many attempt to 
enter who were stopped short by a large burthen 
of worldly cares ; others by a load of idolatrous 
attachments ; but I observed that nothing proved 
a more complete bar than that vast bundle of 
prejudices with which multitudes were loaded. 
— Other were fatally obstructed by loads of bad 
habits which they would not lay down, though 
they knew it prevented their entrance. 

Some few, however, of most descriptions, who 
had kept their light alive by craving constant 
supplies from the king's treasury, got through 
at last by a strength which they felt not to be 
their own. One poor man, who carried the 
largest bundle of bad habits I had seen, could 
not get on a step ; he never ceased, however, to 
implore for light enough to see where his mise- 
ry lay ; he threw down one of his bundles, then 
another, but all to little purpose ; still he could 
not stir. At last striving as if in agony (which 
is the true way of entering) he threw down the 
the heaviest article in his pack ; this was sel- 
fishness : the poor fellow felt relieved at once, 
his light burned brightly, and the rest of his 
pack was as nothing. 

Then I heard a great noise as of carpenters 
at work. I looked what this might be, and saw 
many sturdy travellers, who finding they were 
too bulky to get through, took it into their heads 
not to reduce themselves, but to widen the gate ; 
they hacked on this side, and hewed on that; 
but all their hacking and hewing, and hammer- 
ing was to no purpose, they got their labour for 
their pains. It would have been possible for 
them to have reduced themselves, had they at- 
tempted it, but to widen the narrow way was 
impossible. 

What grieved me most was to observe that 
many who had got on successfully a good way, 
now stopped to rest and to admire their own 
progress. While they were thus valuing them- 
selves on their attainments, their light diminish 
ed. While these were boasting how far they had 



186 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



left others behind who had set out much earlier, 
some slower travellers whose beginning had not 
been so promising, but who had walked meekly 
and circumspectly, now outstripped them. — 
These last walked'not as though they had already 
attained ; but this one thing they did, forgetting 
the things which were behind, they pushed for- 
ward to the mark, for the prize of their high 
calling. These, though naturally weak, yet by 
laying aside every weight, finished the race that 
was before them. Those who had kept their 
* light burning,' who were not ' wise in their 
own conceit,' who ' laid their help on one that is 
mighty,' who had chosen to suffer affliction ra- 
ther than to enjoy the pleasure of sin for a sea- 
son,' came at length to the Happy Land. — They 
had indeed the Dark and Shadowy Valley to 



cross, but even there they found a rod and a 
staff to comfort them. Their light instead of 
being put out by the damps of the Valley and 
of the Shadow of Death, often burnt with added 
brightness. Some indeed suffered the terrors 
of a short eclipse ; but even then their light, like 
that of a dark lantern, was not put out; it was 
only turned for a while from him who carried 
it, and even these often finished their course 
with joy. — But be that as it might, the instant 
they reached the Happy Land, all tears were 
wiped from their eyes, and the king himself 
came forth and welcomed them into his pre- 
sence, and put a crown upon their heads, with 
these words, ' Well done, good and faithful ser 
vant, enter thou into the joy of thy lord.' 



PARLEY, THE PORTER. 

AN ALLEGORY : 
Showing how robbers without can never get into a house, unless there are traitors within. 



There was once a certain nobleman who had 
a house or castle situated in the midst of a great 
wilderness, but inclosed in a garden. Now there 
was a band of robbers in the wilderness who 
had a great mind to plunder and destroy the 
castle, but they had not succeeded in their en- 
deavours, because the master had given strict 
orders to ' watch without ceasing.' To quicken 
their vigilance he used to tell them that their 
care would soon have an end ; that though the 
nights they had to watch were dark and stormy, 
yet they were but few ; the period of resistance 
was short, that of rest would be eternal. 

The robbers, however, attacked the castle in 
various ways. They tried at every avenue, 
watched to take advantage of every careless mo- 
ment ; looked for an open door or a neglected 
window. But though they often made the bolts 
shake and the windows rattle, they could never 
greatly hurt the house, much less get into it. 
Do you know the reason ? it was because the 
servants were never off their guard. They 
heard the noises plain enough, and used to be 
not a little frightened, for they were aware both 
of the strength and perseverance of their ene- 
mies. But what seemed rather odd to some of 
these servants, the lord used to tell them, that 
while they continued to be afraid they would be 
safe ; and it passed into a sort of proverb in that 
family ' Happy is he that feareth always.' Some 
of the servants, however, thought this a contra- 
diction. 

One day, when the master was going from 
home, he called his servants all together, and 
spoke to them as follows : ' I will not repeat to 
you the directions I have so often given you ; 
they are all written down in the book of laws, 
of which every one of you has a copy. Remem- 
ber, it is a very short time that you are to re- 
main in this castle ; you will soon remove to my 
more settled habitation, to a more durable house, 
not made with hands. As that house is never 
exposed to any attack, so it never stands in need 
of anjr repair ; for that country is never infested 



by any sons of violence. Here you are servants ; 
there you will be princes. Bill mark my words, 
and you will find the same in the book of my 
laws, whether you will ever attain to that house, 
will depend on the manner in which you defend 
yourselves in this. A stout vigilance for a short 
time will secure your certain happiness for ever. 
But every thing depends on your present exer- 
tions. Don't complain and take advantage of 
my absence, and call me a hard master, and 
grumble that you are placed in the midst of an 
howling wilderness without peace or security. 
Say not, that you are exposed to temptations 
without any power to resist them. You have 
some difficulties, it is true, but you have many 
helps and many comforts to make this house 
tolerable, even before you get to the other. Your's 
is not a hard service; and if it were, ' the time 
is short.' You have arms if you will use them, 
and doors if you will bar them, and strength if 
you will use it. I would defy all the attacks of 
the robbers without, if I could depend on the 
fidelity of the people within. If the thieves ever 
get in and destroy the house, it must be by the 
connivance of one of the family. For it is a 
standing law of this castle, that mere outward 
attack can never destroy it, if there be no con- 
senting traitor within. You will stand or fall 
as you will observe this rule. If you are finally 
happy, it will be by my grace and favour ; if you 
are ruined, it will be your own fault.' 

When the nobleman had done speaking, every 
servant repeated his assurance of attachment 
and firm allegiance to his master. But among 
them all, not one was so vehement and loud in 
his professions as old Parley the porter. Parley, 
indeed, it was well known, was always talking, 
which exposed him to no small danger ; for as 
he was the foremost to promise, so he was the 
slackest to perform : and, to speak the truth, 
though he was a civil spoken fellow, his lord was 
more afraid of him, with all his professions, than 
he was of the rest who protested less. He knew 
that Parley was vain, credulous, and self-suffi 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



187 



cient ; and he always apprehended more danger 
from Parley's impertinence, curiosity, and love 
of novelty, than even from the stronger vices of 
some of his other servants. The rest indeed, 
seldom got into any scrape, of which Parley was 
not the cause in some shape or other. 

I am sorry to be obliged to confess, that 
though Parley was allowed every refreshment, 
and all the needful rest which the nature of his 
place permitted, yet he thought it very hard to 
be forced to be so constantly on duty. ' Nothing 
but watching,' said Parley. ' I have, to be sure, 
many pleasures, and meat sufficient ; and plenty 
of chat, in virtue of my office, and I pick up a 
good deal of news of the comers and goers by 
day, but it is hard that at night I must watch 
as narrowly as a house-dog, and yet let in no 
company without orders ; only because there is 
said to be a few straggling robbers here in the 
wilderness, with whom my master does not care 
to let us be acquainted. He pretends to make 
us vigilant through fear of the robbers, but I 
suspect it is only to make us mope alone. A 
merry companion and a mug of beer would 
make the night pass cheerily.' Parley, how- 
ever, kept all these thoughts to himself, or ut- 
tered them only when no one heard, for talk he 
must. He began to listen to the nightly whist- 
ling of the robbers under the windows with 
rather less alarm than formerly, and was some- 
times so tired of watching, that he thought it 
was even better to run the risk of being robbed 
once, than to live always in the fear of robbers. 

There was certain bounds in which the lord 
allowed his servants to walk and divert them- 
selves at all proper seasons. A pleasant garden 
surrounded the castle, and a thick hedge sepa- 
rated this garden from the wilderness, which 
was infested by the robbers ; in this gar- 
den they were permitted to amuse themselves. 
The master advised them always to keep within 
these bounds. ' While you observe this rule,' 
said be, ' you will be safe and well ; and you 
will consult your own safety and happiness, as 
well as show your love to me, by not venturing 
over to the extremity of your bounds ; he who 
goes as far as he dares, always shows a wish to 
go farther than he ought, and commonly does 
so.' 

It was remarkable, that the nearer these ser- 
vants kept to the castle, and the farther from 
the hedge, the more ugly the wilderness appear- 
ed. And the nearer they approached the for- 
bidden bounds, their own home appeared more 
dull, and the wilderness more delightful. And 
this the master knew when he gave his orders ; 
for he never either did or said any thing without 
a good reason. And when his servants some- 
times desired an explanation of the reason, he 
used to tell them they would understand it when 
they came to the other house ; for it was one of 
the pleasures of that house, that it would ex- 
plain all the mysteries of this, and any little ob- 
scurities in the master's conduct would be then 
made quite plain, 

Parley was the first who promised to keep 
clear of the hedge, and yet was often seen look- 
ing as near as he durst. One day he ventured 
close up to the hedge, put two or three stones 
one on another, and tried to peep over. He saw 



one of the robbers strolling as near as he could 
be on the forbidden side. This man's name was 
Mr. Flatterwell, a smooth civil man, 'whose 
words were softer than butter, having war in his 
heart' He made several low bows to Parley. 

Now, Parley knew so little of the world, that 
he actually concluded all robbers must have an 
ugly look which should frighten you at once, 
and coarse brutal manners which would at first 
sight show they were enemies. He thought, 
like a poor ignorant fellow as he was, that this 
mild specious person could never be one of the 
band. Flatterwell accosted Parley with the 
utmost civility, which put him quite off his 
guard ; for Parley had no notion that he could 
be an enemy who was so soft and civil. For an 
open foe he would have been prepared. Parley, 
however, after a little discourse drew this con- 
clusion, that either Mr. Flatterwell could not be 
one of the gang, or that if he was, the robbers 
themselves could not be such monsters as his 
master had described, and therefore it was a 
folly to be afraid of them. 

Flatterwell began, like a true adept in his art, 
by lulling all Parley's suspicions asleep ; and in- 
stead of openly abusing his master, which would 
have opened Parley's eyes at once, he pretended 
rather to commend him in a general way, as a 
person who meant well himself, but was too apt 
to suspect others. To this Parley assented. 
The other then ventured to hint by degrees, that 
though the nobleman might be a good master in 
the main, yet he must say he was a little strict, 
and a little stingy, and not a little censorious. 
That he was blamed by the gentlemen of the 
wilderness for shutting his house against good 
company, and his servants were laughed at by 
people of spirit for submitting to the gloomy 
life of the castle, and the insipid pleasures of 
the garden, instead of ranging in the wilderness 
at large. 

' It is true enough,' said Parley, who was 
generally of the opinion of the person he was 
talking with, ' My master is rather harsh and 
close. But to own the truth, all the barring, 
and locking, and bolting, is to keep out a set of 
gentlemen, who he assures us are robbers, and 
who are waiting for an opportunity to destroy 
us. I hope no offence, sir, but by your livery 
I suspect you, sir, are one of the gang he is so 
much afraid of.' 

Flatterwell. Afraid of me ? Impossible dear 
Mr. Parley. You see, I do not look like an 
enemy. I am unarmed ; what harm can a plain 
man like me do ? 

Parley. Why, that is true enough. Yet my 
master says, if we were to let you into the house, 
we should be ruined soul and body. 

Flatterwell. I am sorry Mr. Parley to hear 
so sensible a man as you are so deceived. This 
is mere prejudice. He knows we are cheerful 
entertaining people, foes to gloom and super- 
stition, and therefore he is so morose he will not 
let you get acquainted with us. 

Farley. Well ; he says you are a band of 
thieves, gamblers, murderers, drunkards, and 
atheists. 

Flatterwell. Don't believe him; the worst 
we should do, perhaps, is, we might drink a 
friendly glass with you to vour master's health 



188 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



or play an innocent game of cards just to keep 
you awake, or sing a cheerful song with the 
maids ; now is there any harm in all this ? 

Parley. Not the least in the world. And 
I begin to think there is not a word of truth in 
all my master says. 

Flatterwell. The more you know us, the more 
you will like us. But I wish there was not this 
ugly hedge between us. I have a great deal to 
say, and I am afraid of being overheard. 

Parley was now just going to give a spring 
over the hedge, but checked himself, saying, 
* I dare not come on your side, there are people 
about, and every thing is carried to my master.' 
Flatterwell saw by this that his new friend was 
kept on his own side of the hedge by fear rather 
than by principle, and from that moment he 
made sure of him. ' Dear Mr. Parley,' said he, 
'if you will allow me the honour of a little con- 
versation with you, I will call under the window 
of your lodge this evening. I have something 
to tell you greatly to your advantage. I ad- 
mire you exceedingly. I long for your friend- 
ship; our whole brotherhood is ambitious of be- 
ing known to so amiable a person.' — ' O dear,' 
said Parley, ' I shall be afraid of talking to you 
at night. It is so against my master's orders. 
But did you say you had something to tell me 
to my advantage?' 

Flatterwell. Yes, I can point out to you how 
you may be a richer, a merrier, and a happier 
man. If you will admit me to-night under the 
window, I will convince you that it is prejudice 
and not wisdom, which makes your master bar 
his door against us ; I will convince you that 
the mischief of a robber, as your master scurri- 
lously calls us, is only in the name ; that we are 
your true friends, and only mean to promote 
your happiness. 

' Don't say ice,' said Parley, ' pray come 
alone ; I would not see the rest of the gang for 
the world ; but I think there can be no great 
harm in talking to you through the bars, if you 
come alone ; but I am determined not to let you 
in. Yet I can't say but I wish to know what 
you can tell me so much to my advantage ; in- 
deed, if it is for my good I ought to know it.' 

Flalterwell. (going out, turns back.) Dear 
Mr. Parley, there is one thing I had forgotten. 
I cannot get over the hedge at night without 
assistance. You know there is a secret in the 
nature of that hedge ; you in the house may get 
over it into the wilderness of your own accord, 
but we cannot get to your side by our own 
strength. You must look about to see where 
the hedge is thinnest, and then set to work to 
clear away here and there a little bough for me, 
it won't be missed ; and if there is but the 
smallest hole made on your side, those on ours 
can get through ; otherwise we do but labour in 
vain. To this Parley made some objection, 
through the fear of being seen. Flatterwell re- 
plied, that the smallest hole from within would 
be sufficient, for he could then work his own 
way. ' Well,' said Parley, ' I will consider of 
it. To be sure I shall even then be equally safe 
in the castle, as I shall have all the bolts, bars, 
and locks between us, so it will make but little 
difference.' 

'Certainly not,' said Flatterwell, who knew 



it would make all the difference in the world. 
So they parted with mutual protestations of re- 
gard. Parley went home charmed with his 
new friend. His eyes were now clearly opened 
as to his master's prejudices against the rob- 
bers, and he was convinced there was more in 
the name than in the thing. ' But,' said he, 
' though Mr. Flatterwell is certainly an agree, 
able companion, he may not be so safe an in- 
mate. There can, however, be no harm in talk- 
ing at a distance, and I certainly won't let him 
in.' 

Parley, in the course of the day, did not for- 
get his promise to thin the hedge of separation 
a little. At first he only tore off a handful of 
leaves, then a little sprig, then he broke away 
a bough or two. It was observable, the larger 
the breach became, the worse he began to think 
of his master, and the better of himself. Every 
peep he took through the broken hedge increas- 
ed his desire to get out into the wilderness, and 
made the thoughts of the castle more irksome 
to him. 

He was continually repeating to himself, ' I 
wonder what Mr. Flatterwell can have to say 
so much to my advantage ? I see he does not 
wish to hurt my master, he only wishes to serve 
me.' As the hour of meeting, however, drew 
near, the master's orders now and then came 
across Parley's thoughts. So to divert them, 
he took up the book. He happened to open it 
at these words : ' My son, if sinners entice thee, 
consent thou not.' For a moment his heart 
failed him. 'If this admonition should be sent 
on purpose ?' said he ; ' but no, 'tis a bugbear. 
My master told me that if I went to the bounds 
I should get over the hedge. Now I went to 
the utmost limits, and did not get over.' Here 
conscience put in ; ' Yes, but it was because you 
were watched.' — ' I am sure,' continued Parley, 
' one may always stop where one will, and this 
is only a trick of my master's to spoil sport. So 
I will even hear what Mr. Flatterwell has to say 
so much to my advantage. I am not obliged 
to follow his counsels, but there can be no harm 
in hearing them.' 

Flatterwell prevailed on the rest of the rob- 
bers to make no public attack on the castle that 
night. ' My brethren,' said he, ' you now and 
then fail in your schemes, because you are for 
violent beginnings, while my smoothing in- 
sinuating measures hardly ever miss. You 
come blustering and roaring, and frighten peo- 
ple, and set them on their guard. You inspire 
them with terror of you, while my whole scheme 
is to make them think well of themselves, and 
ill of their master. If I once get them to enter- 
tain hard thoughts of him, and high thoughts 
of themselves, my business is done, and they 
fall plump into my snares. So let this delicate 
affair alone to mo : Parley is a softly fellow ; 
he must not be frightened, but cajoled. He is 
the very sort of a man to succeed with ; and 
worth a hundred of your sturdy sensible fellows. 
With them we want strong arguments and 
strong temptations ; but with such fellows as 
Parley, in whom vanity and sensuality are the 
leading qualities (as, let me tell you, is the case 
with far the greater part) flattery and a promise 
of ease and pleasure, will do more than vour 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



189 



whole battle array. If you will let me manage, 
I will get you all into the castle before mid- 
night.' 

At night the castle was barricadoed as usual, 
and no one had observed the hole which Parley 
had made in the hedge. This oversight arose 
that night from the servants' neglecting one of 
the master's standing orders — to make a nightly 
examination of the state of things. The ne- 
glect did not proceed so much from wilful dis- 
obedience, as from having passed the evening in 
sloth and diversion, which often amounts to 
nearly the same in its consequences. 

As all was very cheerful within, so all was 
very quiet without. And before they wont to 
bed, some of the servants observed to the rest, 
that as they heard no robbers that night, they 
thought they might now begin to remit some- 
thing of their diligence in bolting and barring : 
that all this fastening and locking was very 
troublesome, and they hoped the danger was now 
pretty well over. It was rather remarkable, 
that they never made these sort of observa- 
tions, but after an evening of some excess, and 
when they had neglected their private business 
with their master. All, however, except Parley, 
went quietly to bed, and seemed to feel uncom- 
mon security. 

Parley crept down to his lodge. He had half 
a mind to go to bed too. Yet he was not will- 
ing to disappoint Mr. Flatterwell. So civil a 
gentleman ! To be sure he might have had bad 
designs. Yet what right had he to suspect any 
body who made such professions, and who was 
so very civil ? ' Besides, it is something for my 
advantage,' added Parley. ' I will not open the 
door, that is certain ; but as he is to come alone, 
he can do me no harm through the bars of the 
windows : and he will think I am a coward if I 
don't keep my word. No, I will let him see 
that I am not afraid of my own strength ; I will 
show him I can go what length I please, and 
stop short when I please.' Had Flatterwell 
heard this boastful speech, he would have been 
quite sure of his man. 

About eleven, Parley heard the signal agreed 
upon. It was so gentle as to cause little alarm. 
So much the worse. Flatterwell never frighten- 
ed any one, and therefore seldom failed of any 
one. Parley stole softly down, planted himself 
at his little window, opened the casement, and 
spied his new friend. It was pale starlight. 
Parley was a little frightened ; for he thought he 
perceived one or two persons behind Flatter- 
well ; but the other assured him it was only his 
own shadow, which his fears had magnified into 
a company. 'Though I assure you,' said he, 
' I have not a friend but what is as harmless as 
myself.' 

They now entered into serious discourse, in 
which Flatterwell showed himself a deep poli- 
tician. He skilfully mixed up in his conver- 
sation a proper proportion of praise on the plea- 
sures of the wilderness, of compliments to Par- 
ley, of ridicule on his master, and of abusive 
sneers on the book in which the master's laws 
were written. Against this last he had always 
a particular spite, for he considered it as the 
grand instrument by which the lord maintain- 
ed his servants in their allegiance ; and when 



they could once be brought to sneer at the book 
there was an end of submission to the lord 
Parley had not penetration enough to see his 
drift. ' As to the book, Mr. Flatterwell,' said 
he, ' I do not know whether it be true or false. 
I rather neglect than disbelieve it. I am forced, 
indeed, to hear it read once a week, but I never 
look into it myself, if I can help it.' — ' Excel 
lent,' said Flatterwell to himself, ' that is just 
the same thing. This is safe ground for me. 
For whether a man docs not believe in the book, 
or does not attend to it, it comes pretty much to 
the same, and I generally get him at last.' 

4 Why cannot we be a little nearer, Mr. Par- 
ley,' said Flatterwell ; ' I am afraid of being 
overheard by some of your master's spies. The 
window from which you speak is so high ; I 

wish you would come down to the door.' 

' Well,' said Parley, ' I see no great harm in 
that. There is a little wicket in the door 
through which we may converse with more ease 
and equal safety. The same fastenings will be 
still between us.' So down he went, but not 
without a degree of fear and trembling. 

The little wicket being now opened, and 
Flatterwell standing close on the outside of 
the door, they conversed with great ease. 
' Mr. Parley,' said Flatterwell, 1 1 should not 
have pressed you so much to admit me into 
the castle, but out of pure disinterested regard 
to your own happiness. I shall get nothing by 
it, but I cannot bear to think that a person so 
wise and amiable should be shut up in this 
gloomy dungeon, under a hard master, and a 
slave to the unreasonable tyranny of his book 
of laws. If you admit me, you need have no 
more waking, no more watching.' Here Par- 
ley involuntarily slipped back the bolt of the door. 
1 To convince you of my true love,' continued 
Flatterwell, ' I have brought a bottle of the most 
delicious wine that grows in the wilderness. 
You shall taste it, but you must put a glass 
through the wicket to receive it, for it is a 
singular property in this wine, that we of the 
wilderness cannot succeed in conveying it to 
you of the castle, without you hold out a vessel 
to receive it.' — ' O here is a glass,' said Parley, 
holding out a large goblet, which he always 
kept ready to be filled by any chance-comer. 
The other immediately poured into the capa- 
cious goblet a large draught of that delicious in- 
toxicating liquor, with which the family of the 
Flatterwells have for near six thousand years 
gained the hearts, and destroyed the souls of all 
the inhabitants of the castle, whenever they 
have been able to prevail on them to hold out a 
hand to receive it. This the wise master of the 
castle well knew would be the case, for he knew 
what was in men ; he knew their propensity to 
receive the delicious poison of the Flatterwells ; 
and it was for this reason tha-t he gave them the 
book of his laws, and planted the hedge and in- 
vented the bolts, and doubled the lock. 

As soon as poor Parley had swallowed the 
fatal draught, it acted like enchantment. He 
at once lost all power of resistance. He had 
no sense of fear left. He despised his own safe- 
ty, forgot his master, lost all sight of the house in 
the other country, and reached out for another 
draught as eagerly as Flatterwell held out the 



190 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



bottle to administer it. ' What a fool, have I 
been,' said Parley, ' to deny myself so long !' — 
4 Will you now let me in ?' said Flatterwell. 
4 Ay, that I will,' said the deluded Parley. 
Though the train was now increased to near a 
hundred robbers, yet so intoxicated was Parley, 
that he did not see one of them except his new 
friend. Parley eagerly pulled down the bars, 
drew back the bolts and forced open the locks ; 
thinking he could never let in his friend soon 
enough. He had, however, just presence of 
mind to say, 4 My dear friend, I hope you are 
alone.' Flatterwell swore he was — Parley open- 
ed the door — in rushed, not Flatterwell only, but 
the whole banditti, who always lurked behind 
in his train. The moment they had got sure 
possession, Flatterwell changed his soft tone, 
and cried in a voice of thunder, ' Down with the 
castle — kill, burn, and destroy.' 

Rapine, murder, and conflagration, by turns j 



took place. Parley was the very first whom tney 
attacked. He was overpowered with wounds. 
As he fell he cried out, 'O my master, I die a 
victim to my unbelief in thee, and to my own 
vanity and imprudence. O that the guardians 
of all other castles would hear me with my dying 
breath repeat my master's admonition, that all 
attacks from without will not destroy unless there 
is some confederate within. O that the keepers 
of all other castles would learn from my ruin, 
that he who parleys with temptation is already 
undone. That he who allows himself to go to 
the very bounds will soon jump over the hedge ; 
that he who talks out of the window with the 
enemy, will soon open the door to him ; that he 
who holds out his hand for the cup of sinful 
flattery, loses all power of resisting ; that when 
he opens the door to one sin, all the rest fly in 
upon him, and the man perishes as I now do.' 



TALES 

FOR THE COMMON PEOPLE. 

Religion is for the man in humble life, and to raise his nature, and to put him in mind ol a 
state in which the privileges of opulence will cease, when he will be equal by nature, and may 
be more than equal by virtue. — Burke on the French Revolution. 

— »»e@e*'— 

ADVERTISEMENT 

TO THESE AND THE PRECEDING TALES. 

To improve the habits, and raise the principles of the common people, at a time when their 
dangers and temptations, moral and political, were multiplied beyond the example of any former 
period, was the motive which impelled the author of these volumes to devise and prosecute the 
institution of the Cheap Repository. This plan was established with an humble wish not only to 
counteract vice and profligacy on the one hand, but error, discontent, and false religion on the 
other. And as an appetite for reading had, from a variety of causes, been increased among the 
inferior ranks in this country, it was judged expedient, at this critical period, to supply such 
wholesome aliment as might give a new direction to their taste, and abate their relish for those 
corrupt and inflammatory publications which the consequences of the French Revolution have 
been so fatally pouring in upon us. 

The success of the plan exceeded the most sanguine expectations of its projector. Above two 
millions of the tracts were sold within the first year, besides very large numbers in Ireland ; and 
they continue to be very extensively circulated, in their original form of single tracts, by Evans, 
in Long-lane, West Srnithfield, Hatchard in Piccadilly, and Hazard in Bath, as well as in three 
bound volumes, sold by Rivington, Hatchard, and all other booksellers. 

As these stories, though principally, are not calculated exclusively for the middle and lower 
classes of society, the author has, at the desire of her friends, selected those which were written 
by herself, and presented them to the public in this collection of her works, in an enlarged and 
improved form. 



THE SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN. 



Mr. Johnson, a very worthy charitab'e gentle- 
man, was travelling some time ago across one 
of those vast plains which are well known in 
Wiltshire. It was a fine summer's evening, and 
he rode slowly that he might have leisure to 
admire God in the works of his creation. For 



this gentleman was of opinion, that a walk or a 
ride was as proper a time as any to think about 
good things ; for which reason, on such occa- 
sions, he seldom thought so much about his 
money, or his trade, or public news, as at other 
times, that he might with more ease and satis 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



191 



faction enjoy the pious thought which the 
wonderful works of the great Maker of heaven 
and earth are intended to raise in the mind. 

As this serene contemplation of the visible 
heavens insensibly lifted up his mind from the 
works of God in nature, to the same God as he 
is seen in Revelation, it occurred to him that 
this very connexion was clearly intimated by 
the Royal Prophet in the nineteenth Psalm. — 
That most beautiful description of the greatness 
and power of God exhibited in the former part, 
plainly seeming intended to introduce, illustrate, 
and unfold the operations of the word and Spirit 
of God on the heart in the latter. And he began 
to run a parallel in his own mind between the 
effects of that highly poetical and glowing pic- 
ture of the material sun in searching and warm- 
ing the earth, in the first six verses, and the 
spiritual operation attributed to the ' law of God,' 
which fills up the remaining part of the Psalm. 
And he persuaded himself that the divine Spirit 
which dictated this fine hymn, had left it as a 
kind of general intimation to what use we were 
to convert our admiration of created things; 
namely, that we might be led by a sight of them 
to raise our views from the kingdom of nature 
to that of grace, and that the contemplation of 
God in his works might draw us to contemplate 
him in his word. 

In the midst of these reflections, Mr. John- 
son's attention was all of a sudden called off by 
the barking of a shepherd's dog, and looking up 
he spied one of those little huts, which are here 
and there to be seen on those great downs ; and 
near it was the shepherd himself busily employ- 
ed with his dog in collecting together his vast 
flock of sheep. As he drew nearer, he perceived 
him to be a clean, well-looking, poor man, near 
fifty years of age. His coat, though at first it 
had probably been of one dark colour, had been 
in a long course of years so often patched with 
different sorts of cloth, that it was now become 
hard to say which had been the original colour. 
But this, while it gave a plain proof of the shep- 
herd's poverty, equally proved the exceeding 
neatness, industry and good management of his 
wife. His stockings no less proved her good 
house-wifery, for they were entirely covered with 
darns of different coloured worsted, but had not 
a hole in them ; and his shirt, though nearly as 
coarse as the sails of a ship, was as white as the 
drifted snow, and was neatly mended where time 
had either made a rent, or worn it thin. This 
furnishes a rule of judging, by which one shall 
seldom be deceived. If I meet with a labourer, 
hedging, ditching, or mending the highways, 
with his stockings and shirt tight and whole, 
however mean and bad his other garments are, 
I have seldom failed, on visiting his cottage, to 
find that also clean and well ordered, and his 
wife notable, and worthy of encouragement. 
"Whereas a poor woman, who will be lying a-bed, 
or gossiping with her neighbours when she ought 
to be fitting out her husband in a cleanly man- 
ner, will seldom be found to be very good in other 
respects. 

This was not the case with our shepherd : 
and Mr. Johnson was not more struck with the 
decency of his mean and frugal dress, than with 



his open honest countenance, which bore strong 
marks of health, cheerfulness, and spirit. 

Mr. Johnson, who was on a journey, and 
somewhat fearful from the appearance of the 
sky, that rain was at no great distance, accosted 
the shepherd with asking what sort of weather 
he thought it would be on the morrow. ' It will 
be such weather as pleases me,' answered the 
shepherd. Though the answer was delivered 
in the mildest and most civil tone that could be 
imagined, the gentleman thought the words 
themselves rather rude and surly, and asked 
him how that could be. ' Because,' replied the 
shepherd, ' it will be such weather as shall please 
God, and whatever pleases him always pleases 
me.' 

Mr. Johnson, who delighted in good men and 
good things, was very well satisfied with his 
reply. For he justly thought that though a 
hypocrite may easily contrive to appear better 
than he really is to a stranger ; and that no one 
should be too soon trusted, merely for having a 
few good words in his mouth ; yet as he knew 
that out of the abundance of the heart the mouth 
speaketh ; he always accustomed himself to 
judge favorably of those who had a serious de- 
portment and solid manner of speaking. It 
looks as if it proceeded from a good habit, said 
he, and though I may now and then be deceived 
by it, yet it has not often happened to me to be 
so. Whereas if a man accosts me with an idle, 
dissolute, vulgar, indecent, or profane expres- 
sion, I have never been deceived in him, but 
have generally on inquiry found his character 
to be as bad as his language gave me room to 
expect. 

He entered into conversation with the shep 
herd in the following manner : ' Your's is a 
troublesome life, honest friend,' said he. ' To be 
sure, sir,' replied the shepherd, ' 'tis not a very 
lazy life ; but 'tis not near so toilsome as that 
which my Great Master led for my sake ; and 
he had every state and condition of life at his 
choice, and chose a hard one ; while I only sub- 
mit to the lot that is appointed to me.' ' You 
are exposed to great cold and heat,' said the 
gentleman : ' True, sir,' said the shepherd ; ' but 
then I am not exposed to great temptations ; and 
so throwing one thing against another, God is 
pleased to contrive to make things more equal 
than we poor, ignorant, short-sighted creatures, 
are apt to think. David was happier when he 
kept his father's sheep on such a plain as this, 
and employed in singing some of his own Psalms 
perhaps, than ever he was when he became king 
of Israel and Judah. And I dare say we should 
never have had some of the most beautiful texts 
in all those fine Psalms, if he had not been a 
shepherd, which enabled him to make so many 
fine comparisons and similitudes, as one may 
say, from country life, flocks of sheep, hills, and 
vallies, fields of corn, and fountains of water.' 

' You think then,' said the gentleman, 4 that a 
laborious life is a happy one.' 4 1 do, sir ; and 
more so especially, as it exposes a man to fewer 
sins. If king Saul had continued a poor labori- 
ous man to the end of his days, he might have 
lived happy and honest, and died a natural death 
in his bed at last, which you know, sir was 



192 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



more than he did. But I speak with reverence, 
for it was divine Providence overruled all that, 
you know sir, and I do not presume to make 
comparisons. — Besides, sir, my employment has 
been particularly honoured — Moses was a shep- 
herd in the plains of Midian. It was to " shep- 
herds keeping their flocks by night," that the 
angels appeared in Bethlehem, to tell the best 
news, the gladdest tidings, that ever were re- 
vealed to poor sinful men ; often and often has 
the thought warmed my poor heart in the cold- 
est night, and filled me with more joy and thank- 
fulness than the best supper could have done.' 

Here the shepherd stopped, for he began to 
feel that he had made too free, and talked too 
long. But Mr. Johnson was so well pleased with 
what he said, and with the cheerful contented 
manner in which he said it, that he desired him 
to go on freely, for that it was a pleasure to him 
to meet with a plain man, who, without any 
kind of learning but what he had got from the 
Bible, was able to talk so well on a subject in 
which all men, high and low, rich and poor, are 
equally concerned. 

' Indeed I am afraid I make too bold, sir, for 
it better becomes me to listen to such a gentle- 
man as you seem to be, than to talk in my poor 
way : but as I was saying, sir, I wonder all 
working men do not derive as great joy and de- 
light as 1 do from thinking how God has ho- 
noured poverty ! Oh ! sir, what great, or rich, 
or mighty men have had such honour put on 
them, or their condition, as shepherds, tent- 
makers, fishermen, and carpenters have had ? 
Besides, it seems as if God honoured indus- 
try also. The way of duty is not only the way 
of safety, but it is remarkable how many in the 
exercise of the common duties of their calling, 
humbly and rightly performed, as we may sup- 
pose, have found honours, preferment, and bless- 
ing : while it does not occur to me that the 
whole sacred volume presents a single instance 
of a like blessing conferred on idleness. Re- 
bekah, Rachel, and Jethro's daughters, were 
diligently employed in the lowest occupations of 
a country life, when Providence, by means of 
those very occupations, raised them up husbands 
so famous in history, as Isaac, Jacob, and the 
prophet Moses. The shepherds were neither 
playing nor sleeping, but " watching their 
flocks," when they received the news of a Sa- 
viour's birth : and the woman of Samaria, by 
the laborious office of drawing water, was 
brought to the knowledge of Him who gave her 
to drink of " living water." 

• My honest friend,' said the gentleman, ' I 
perceive you are well acquainted with scripture.' 
— ' Yes, sir, pretty well, blessed be God! through 
his mercy I learned to read when I was a little 
boy ; though reading was not so common when 
I was a child, as I am told, through the good- 
ness of Providence and the generosity of the 
rich, it is likely to become now-a-days. I be- 
lieve there is no day for the last thirty years 
that I have not peeped at my Bible. If we can't 
find time to read a chapter, I defy any man to 
say he can't find time to read a verse : and a 
single text, sir, well followed, and put in prac- 
tice every day, would make no bad figure at the 
year's end ; three hundred and sixty -five texts, 



without the loss of a moment's time, would 
make a pretty stock, a little golden treasury, as 
one may say, from new-year's day to new-year's 
day ; and if children were brought up to it, they 
would come to look for their text as naturally as 
they do for their breakfast. No labouring man, 
'tis true, has so much leisure as a shepherd, for 
while the flock is feeding I am obliged to be 
still, and at such times I can now and then tap 
a shoe for my children or myself, which is a 
great saving to us, and while I am doing that I 
repeat a chapter or a psalin, which makes tho 
time pass pleasantly in this wild solitary place. 
I can say the best part of the New Testament 
by heart ; I believe I should not say the best 
part, for every part is good, but I mean the 
greatest part. I have led but a lonely life, and 
have often had but little to eat, but my Bible, 
has been meat, drink, and company to me, as I 
may say, and when want and trouble have come 
upon me, I don't know what I should have done 
indeed, sir, if I had not had the promises of this 
book for my stay and support.' 

' You have had great difficulties then ?' said 
Mr. Johnson. ' Why, as to that, sir, not more 
than neighbours' fare ; I have but little cause 
to complain, and much to be thankful; but I 
have had some little struggles, as I will leave 
you to judge. I have a wife and eight children, 
whom I bred up in that little cottage which you 
see under the hill, about half a mile off.' ' What, 
that with the smoke coming out of the chimney?' 
said the gentleman. ' O no, sir,' replied the 
shepherd, smiling, ' we have seldom smoke in 
the evening, for we have little to cook, and firing 
is very dear in these parts. 'Tis that cottage 
which you see on the left hand of the church, 
near that little tuft of hawthorns.' — 'What, that 
hovel with only one room above and below, with 
scarcely any chimney ? how is it possible that 
you can live there with such a family ?' ' O it 
is very possible, and very certain too,' cried the 
shepherd. ' How many better men have been 
worse lodged ! how many good Christians have 
perished in prisons and dungeons, in compari- 
son of which my cottage is a palace ! The house 
is very well, sir; and if the rain did not some- 
times beat down upon us through the thatch 
when we are a-bed, I should not desire a better ; 
for I have health, peace, and liberty, and no man 
maketh me afraid.' 

1 Well, I will certainly call on you before it 
be long ; but how can you contrive to lodge so 
many children ?' ' We do the best we can, sir. 
My poor wife is a very sickly woman ; or we 
should always have done tolerably well. There 
are no gentry in the parish, so that she has not 
met with any great assistance in her sickness. 
The good curate of the parish, who lives in that 
pretty parsonage in the valley, is very willing, 
but not very able to assist us on these trying 
occasions, for he has little enough for himself, 
and a large family into the bargain. Yet he 
does what he can, and more than many other 
men do, and more than he can well afford. Be- 
sides that, his prayers and good advice we are 
always sure of, and we are truly thankful for 
that, for a man must give, you know, sir, ac- 
cording to what he hath, and not according to 
what he hath not.' 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



193 



1 1 am afraid,' said Mr. Johnson, * that your 
difficulties may sometimes lead you to repine.' 

'No, sir,' replied the shepherd, 'it pleases 
God to give me two ways of bearing up under 
them. I pray that they may be either removed 
or sanctified to me. Besides, if my road be 
right I am contented though it be rough and 
uneven. I do not so much stagger at hardships 
in the right way, as I dread a false security, 
and a hollow peace, while I may be walking in 
a more smoth, but less safe way. Besides, sir, 
I strengthen my faith by recollecting what the 
best men have suffered, and my hope, with the 
view of the shortness of all suffering. It is a 
good hint, sir, of the vanity of all earthly pos- 
sessions, that though the whole Land of Pro- 
mise was his, yet the first bit of ground which 
Abraham, the father of the faithful, got posses- 
sion of, in the land of Canaan, was a grave. 

' Are you in any distress at present ?' said Mr. 
Johnson. ' No, sir, thank God,' replied the shep- 
herd. ' I get my shilling a-day, and most of my 
children will soon be able to earn something ; 
for we have only three under five years old.' — 
'Only!' said the gentleman, 'that is a heavy 
burden.' — ' Not at all ; God fits the back to it. 
Though my wife is not able to do any out-of- 
door work, yet she breeds up our children to 
such habits of industry, that our little maids, be- 
fore they are six years old, can first get a half- 
penny, and then a penny a day by knitting. The 
boys, who are too little to do hard work, get a 
trifle by keeping the birds off the corn ; for this 
the farmers will give them a penny or two pence, 
and now and then a bit of bread and cheese into 
the bargain. When the season of crow-keeping 
is over, then they glean or pick stones ; any thing 
is better than idleness, sir, and if they did not 
get a farthing by it, I would make them do it 
just the same, for the sake of giving them early 
habits of labour. 

' So you see, sir, I am not so badly off as 
many are ; nay, if it were not that it costs me 
so much in 'pothecary's stuff for my poor wife, 
I should reckon myself well off, nay I do reckon 
myself well off; for blessed be God, he has 
granted her life to my prayers, and I would 
work myself to a 'natomy, and live on one meal 
a day, to add any comfort to her valuable life ; 
indeed I have often done the last, and thought it 
no great matter neither.' 

While they were in this part of the discourse, 
a fine plump cherry-cheek little girl ran up out 
breath, with a smile on her young happy face, 
and without taking any notice of the gentleman, 
cried out with great joy — ' Look here, father, 
only see how much 1 have got !' Mr. Johnson 
was much struck with her simplicity, but puz- 
zled to know what was the occasion of this great 
joy. On looking at her he perceived a small 
quantity of coarse wool, some of which had 
found its way through the holes of her clean, 
but scanty and ragged woollen apron. The 
father said, ' this has been a successful day in- 
deed, Molly, but don't you see the gentleman ?' 
Molly now made a curtesy down to the very 
ground ; while Mr. Johnson inquired into the 
cause of mutual satisfaction which both father 
and daughter had expressed, at the unusual good 
fortune of the day 

Vol. I. N 



' Sir,' said the shepherd, ' poverty is a great 
sharpener of the wits — My wife and I cannot 
endure to see our children (poor as they are,) 
without shoes and stockings, not only on ac- 
count of the pinching cold which cramps their 
poor little limbs, but because it degrades and 
debases them ; and poor people who have but 
little regard to appearances, will seldom be 
found to have any great regard for honesty and 
goodness; I don't say this is always the case; 
but I am sure it is so too often. Now shoes and 
stockings being very dear, we could never afford 
to get them without a little contrivance. I must 
show you how I manage about the shoes when 
you condescend to call at our cottage, sir ; as to 
stockings, this is one way we take to help to 
get them. My young ones, who are too little to 
do much work, sometimes wander at odd hours 
over the hills for the chance of finding what 
little wool the sheep may drop when they rub 
themselves, as they are apt to do against the 
bushes.* These scattered bits of wool the chil- 
dren pick out of the brambles, which I see have 
torn sad holes in Molly's apron to-day ; they 
carry this wool home, and when they have got 
a pretty parcel together, their mother cards it ; 
for she can sit and card in the chimney corner, 
when she is not able to wash or work about 
house. The biggest girl then spins it ; it does 
very well for us without dying, for poor people 
must not stand for the colour of their stockings. 
After this our little boys knit it for themselves, 
while they are employed in keeping cows in the 
fields, and after they get home at night. As for 
the knitting which the girls and their mother 
do, that is chiefly for sale, which helps to pay 
our rent.' 

Mr. Johnson lifted up his eyes in silent asto- 
nishment, at the shifts which honest poverty 
can make rather than beg or steal ; and was 
surprised to think how many ways of subsisting 
there are, which those who live at their ease 
little suspect. He secretly resolved to be more 
attentive to his own petty expenses than he had 
hitherto been ; and to be more watchful that no- 
thing was wasted in his family. 

But to return to the shepherd. Mr. Johnson 
told him that as he must needs be at his friend's 
house, who lived many miles off, that night, he 
could not as he wished to do, make a visit to his 
cottage at present. ' But I will certainly do it,' 
said he, ' on my return, for I long to see your 
wife and her nice little family, and to be an eye- 
witness of her neatness and good management. 
The poor man's tears started into his eyes on 
hearing the commendation bestowed on his wife; 
and wiping them off with the sleeve of his coat; 
for he was not worth a handkerchief in the 
world, he said — 'Oh, sir, you just now, I am 
afraid called me an humble man, but indeed I 
am a very proud one.' — ' Proud !' exclaimed 
Mr. Johnson, ' I hope not — Pride is a great sin, 
and as the poor are liable to it as well as the 
rich, so good a man as you seem to be, ought to 
guard against it.' — ' Sir,' said he, ' you are right, 
but I am not proud of myself, God knows I havo 
nothing to be proud of. I am a poor sinner, but 

* This piece of frugal industry is not imaginary, but 
a real fact, as is the character of the shepherd, and hw 
uncommon knowledge of the Scripturei. 



194 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



indeed, sir, I am proud of my wife : she is not 
only the most tidy, notable woman on the plain, 
but she is the kindest wife and mother, and the 
most contented, thankful Christian that I know. 
Last year I thought I should have lost her in a 
violent fit of the rheumatism, caught by going 
to work too soon after her lying-in, I fear ; for 
'tis but a bleak coldish place, as you may see, 
sir, in winter, and sometimes the snow lies so 
long under the hill, that I can hardly make my- 
self a path to get out and buy a few necessaries 
in the next village ; and we are afraid to send 
out the children, for fear they should be lost 
when the snow is deep. So, as I was saying, 
the poor soul was very bad indeed, and for 
several weeks lost the use of all her limbs ex- 
cept her hands ; a merciful Providence spared 
her the use of these, so that when she could not 
turn in her bed, she could contrive to patch a 
rag or two for her family. She was always 
saying, had it not been lor the great goodness 
of God, she might have had her hands lame as 
well as her feet, or the palsy instead of the 
rheumatism, and then she could have done no- 
thing — but, nobody had so many mercies as she 
had. 

' I will not tell you what we suffered during 
that bitter weather, sir, but my wife's faith and 
patience during that trying time, were as good 
a lesson to me as any sermon I could hear, and 
yet Mr. Jenkins gave us very comfortable ones 
too, that helped to keep up my spirits.' 

' I fear, shepherd,' said Mr. Johnson, ' you 
have found this to be but a bad world.' 

' Yes, sir,' replied the shepherd, ' but it is 
governed by a good God. And though my 
trials have now and then been sharp, why then, 
sir, as the saying is, if the pain be violent, it is 
seldom lasting, and if it be but moderate, why 
then we can bear it the longer, and when it is 
quite taken away, ease is the more precious, 
and gratitude is quickened by the remem- 
brance ; thus every way, and in every case, I 
can always find out a reason for vindicating 
Providence.' 

' But,' said Mr. Johnson, ' how do you do to 
support yourself under the pressure of actual 
want. Is not hunger a great weakener of your 
faith ?' 

' Sir,' replied the shepherd, ' I endeavour to 
live upon the promises. You who abound in 
the good things of this world are apt to set too 
high a value on them. Suppose, sir, the king, 
seeing me at hard work, wore to say to me, that, 
if I would patiently work on till Christmas, a 
fine palace and a great estate should be the re- 
ward of my labours. Do you think, sir, that 
a little hunger, or a little wet, would make me 
flinch, when I was sure that a few months 
would put me in possession ! Should I not say 
to myself frequently — cheer up, shepherd, 'tis 
but till Christmas ! now is there not much less 
difference between this supposed day and Christ- 
mas, when I should take possession of the es- 
tate and palace, than there is between time and 
eternity, when I am sure of entering on a king- 
dom not made with hands 7 There is some com- 
parison between a moment and a thousand years, 
because a thousand years are made up of mo- 
ments, all time being made up of the same sort 



of stuff, as I may say ; while there is no sort of 
comparison between the longest portion of time 
and eternity. You know, sir, there is no way 
of measuring two things, one of which has 
length and breadth, which shows it must have 
an end somewhere, and another thing, which 
being eternal, is without end and without mea 
sure.' 

' Bst,' said Mr. Johnson, • is not the fear of 
death sometimes too strong for your faith V 

' Blessed be God, sir,' replied the shepherd, 
' the dark passage through the valley of the 
shadow of death, is made safe by the power of 
Him who conquered death. I know, indeed, 
we shall go as naked out of this world as we 
came into it, but an humble penitent will 
not be found naked in the other world, sir. My 
Bible tells me of garments of praise, and robes 
of righteousness. And is it not a support, sir, 
under any of the petty difficulties and distresses 
here, to be assured by the word of Him who 
cannot lie, that those who were in white robes 
came out of tribulation ? But, sir, I beg»your 
pardon for being so talkative. Indeed you 
great folks can hardly imagine how it raises 
and cheers a poor man's heart, when such as 
you condescend to talk familiarly to him on re- 
ligious subjects. It seems to be a practical 
comment on that text which says, the rich and 
the poor vieet together, the Lord is the maker of 
them all. And so far from creating disrespect, 
sir, and that nonsensical wicked notion about 
equality, it rather prevents it. But to turn to 
my wife. One Sunday afternoon when she 
was at the worst, as I was coming out of 
church, for I went one part of the day, and 
my eldest daughter the other, so my poor wife 
was never left alone ; as I was coming out of 
church, I say, Mr. Jenkins, the minister, called 
out to me and asked me how my wife did, saying 
he had been kept from coming to see her by the 
deep fall of snow, and indeed from the parson- 
age-house to my hovel it was quite impassable. 
I gave him all the particulars he asked, and I 
am afraid a good many more, for my heart was 
quite full. He kindly gave me a shilling, and 
said he would certainly try to pick out his way 
and come and see her in a day or two. 

' While he was talking to me a plain farmer- 
looking gentleman in boots, who stood by, listen- 
ed to all I said, but seemed to take no notice. 
It was Mr. Jenkin's wife's father, who was come 
to pass the Christmas-holidays at the parsonage- 
house. I had always heard him spoken of aa 
a plain frugal man, who lived close himself 
but was remarked to give away more than any 
of his show-away neighbours. 

' Well ! I went home with great spirits at 
this seasonable and unexpected supply ; for we 
had tapped our last sixpence, and there was 
little work to be had on account of the weather. 
I told my wife I had not come back empty- 
handed. — ' No, I dare say not,' says she, ' you 
have been serving a master who Jilleth the 
hungry with good things, though he sendeth the 
rich empty away.'' True ; Mary, says I, we 
seldom fail to get good spiritual food from Mr. 
Jenkins, but to-day he has kindly supplied our 
bodily wants. She was more thankful when 1 
showed her the shilling, than, I dare say, some 



Thri WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



195 



of your great people are when they get a hun- 
dred pounds.' 

Mr. Johnson's heart smote him when he 
heard such a value set upon a shilling ; surely, 
said he to himself, I will never waste another ; 
but he said nothing to the shepherd, who thus 
pursued his story : 

' Next morning before I went out, I sent part 
of the money to buy a little ale and brown sugar 
to put into her water-gruel ; which you know, 
6ir, made it nice and nourishing. I went out 
to cleave wood in a farm-yard, for there was no 
standing out on the plain, after such snow as 
had fallen in the night. I went with a lighter 
heart than usual, because I had left my poor 
wife a little better, and comfortably supplied for 
this day, and I now resolved more than ever to 
trust God for the supplies of the next. When 
I came back at night, my wife fell a crying as 
soon as she saw mr. This, I own, I thought 
but a bad return for the blessings she had so 
lately received, and so I told her. — ' Oh,' said 
she, ' ii. is too much, we are too rich ; I am now 
frightened, not le6t we should have no portion 
in this world, but for fear we should have our 
whole portion in it. Look here, John !' So say- 
ing, she uncovered the bed whereon she lay, 
and showed me two warm, thick, new blankets. 
I could not believe my own eyes, sir, because 
when I went out in the morning, I had left her 
with no other covering than our little old, thin, 
blue rug. I was still more amazed when she 
put half a crown into my hand, telling me she 
had had a visit from Mr. Jenkins, and Mr. 
Jones, the latter of whom had bestowed all these 
good things upon us. Thus, sir, have our lives 
been crowned with mercies. My wife got 
about again, and I do believe, under Providence, 
it was owing to these comforts; for the rheu- 
matism, sir, without blankets by night, and 
flannel by day, is but a baddish job, especially 
to people who have little or no fire. She will 
always be a weakly body ; but thank God her 
soul prospers and is in health. But I beg your 
pardon, sir, for talking on at this rate.' — ' Not 
at all, not at all,' said Mr. Johnson ; ' I am much 
pleased with your story, you shall certainly see 
me in a few days. Good night.' So saying, 
he slipped a crown into his hand and rode off. 
Surely, said the shepherd, goodness and mercy 
have followed me all the days of my life, as he 
gave the money to his wife when he got home 
at night. 

As to Mr. Johnson, he found abundant, mat- 
ter for his thoughts during the rest of his jour- 
ney. On the whole, he was more disposed to 
envy than to pity the shepherd. I have seldom 
seen, said he, so happy a man. It is a sort of 
happiness which the world could not give, and 
which I plainly see, it has not been able to take 
away. This must be the true spirit of religion. 
I see more and more, that true goodness is not 
merely a thing of words and opinions, but a 
living principle brought into every common ac- 
tion of a man's life. What else could have sup- 
ported this poor couple under every bitter trial 
of want and sickness ? No, my honest shepherd, 
I do not pity, but I respect and even honour 
thee ; and I will visit thy poor hovel on my re- 



turn to Salisbury, with as much pleasure as I 
am now going to the house of my friend. 

If Mr. Johnson keeps his word in sending 
me an account of his visit to the shepherd's 
cottage, I shall be very glad to entertain my 
readers with it. 



PART II. 

I am willing to hope that my readers will not 
be sorry to hear some farther particulars of 
their old acquaintance, the Shepherd of Salis- 
bury Plain. They will call to mind that at the 
end of the first part, he was returning home full 
of gratitude for the favours he had received 
from Mr. Johnson, whom we left pursuing his 
journey, after having promised to make a visit 
to the shepherd's cottage. 

Mr. Johnson, after having passed some time 
with his friend, set out on his return to Salis- 
bury, and on the Saturday evening reached a 
very small inn, a mile or two distant from the 
shepherd's village ; for he never travelled on a 
Sunday without such a reason as he might be 
able to produce at the day of judgment. He 
went the next morning to the church nearest 
the house where he had passed the night ; and 
after taking such refreshment as he could get 
at that house, he walked on to find out the shep- 
herd's cottage. His reason for visiting him on 
a Sunday was chiefly because he supposed it to 
be the only day which the shepherd's employ- 
ment allowed him to pass at home with his fa- 
mily ; and as Mr. Johnson had been struck with 
his talk, he thought it would be neither un- 
pleasant or unprofitable to observe how a man 
who carried such an appearance of piety spent 
his Sunday : for though he was so low in the 
world, this gentleman was not above entering 
very closely into his character, of which he 
thought he should be able to form a better judg- 
ment, by seeing whether his practice at home 
kept pace with his professions abroad : for it is 
not so much by observing how people talk, as 
how they live, that we ought to judge of their 
characters. 

After a pleasant walk, Mr. Johnson got with- 
in sight of the cottage, to which he was direct- 
ed by the clump of hawthorns and the broken 
chimney. He wished to take the family by 
surprise ; and walking gently up to the house 
he stood awhile to listen. The door being half 
open he saw the shepherd who (looked so re- 
spectable in his Sunday coat that he should hard, 
ly have known him) his wife, and their nu- 
merous young family, drawing round their little 
table, which was covered with a clean, though 
very coarse cloth. There stood on it a large 
dish of potatoes, a brown pitcher, and a piece of 
a coarse loaf. The wife and children stood in 
silent attention, while the shepherd, with up- 
lifted hands and eyes, devoutly begged the bles- 
sing of heaven on their homely fare. Mr. 
Johnson could not help sighing to reflect, that 
he had sometimes seen better dinners eaten with 
less appearance of thankfulness. 

The shepherd and his wife sat down with 



196 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



great seeming cheerfulness, but the children 
stood ; and while the mother was helping them, 
little fresh-coloured Molly, who had picked the 
wool from the bushes with so much delight, 
cried out, ' Father I wish I was big enough to 
say grace, I am sure I should say it very hearti- 
ly to-day, for I was thinking what must poor 
people do who have no salt to their potatoes ; 
and do but look, our dish is quite full.' — ' That 
is the true way of thinking, Molly,' said the 
father ; ' in whatever concerns bodily wants and 
bodily comforts, it is our duty to compare our 
own lot with the lot of those who are worse off, 
and will keep us thankful : on the other hand, 
whenever we are tempted to set up our own 
wisdom or goodness, we must compare ourselves 
with those who are wiser and better, and that 
will keep us humble.' Molly was now so hun- 
gry, and found the potatoes so good, that she 
had no time to make any more remarks ; but 
was devouring her dinner very heartily, when 
the barking of the great dog drew her attention 
from her trencher to the door, and spying the 
stranger, she cried out, 'Look father, see here, 
if yonder is not the good gentleman !' Mr. John- 
son finding himself discovered, immediately 
walked in, and was heartily welcomed by the 
honest shepherd, who told his wife that this was 
the gentleman to whom they were so much 
obliged. 

The good woman began, as some very neat 
people are rather apt to do, with making many 
apologies that her house was not cleaner, and 
that things were not in a fitter order to receive 
euch a gentleman. Mr. Johnson, however, on 
looking round, could discover nothing but the 
most perfect neatness. The trenchers on which 
they were eating, were almost as white as their 
linen ; and notwithstanding the number and 
emallness of the children, there was not the least 
appearance of dirt or litter. The furniture was 
very simple and poor, hardly indeed amounting 
to bare necessaries. It consisted of four brown 
wooden chairs, which by constant rubbing, were 
become as bright as a looking-glass ; an iron 
pot and kettle; a poor old grate, which scarcely 
held a handful of coal, and out of which the little 
fire that had been in it appeared to have been 
taken, as soon as it had answered the end for 
which it had been lighted — that of boiling their 
potatoes. Over the chimney stood an old-fashion- 
ed broad bright candlestick, and a still brighter 
spit ; it was pretty clear that this last was kept 
rather for ornament than use. An old carved 
elbow chair, and a chest of the same date, which 
stood in the corner, were considered the most 
valuable part of the shepherd's goods, having 
been in his family for three generations. But 
all these were lightly esteemed by him, in com- 
parison of another possession, which, added to 
the above, made up the whole of what he had 
inherited from his father ; and which last he 
would not have parted with, if no other could 
have been had, for the king's ransom : this was 
a large old Bible, which lay on the window-seat, 
neatly covered with brown cloth, variously 
patched. This sacred book was most reverently 
preserved from dog's ears, dirt, and every other 
injury, but such as time and muck use had 
made it suffer in spite of care. On the clean 



white walls was pasted, a hymn on the Cruci 
fixion of our Saviour, a print of the Prodiga' 
Son, the Shepherd's Hymn, a New History of a 
True Book, and Patient Joe, or the Newcastle 
Collier.* 

After the first salutations were over, Mr. 
Johnson said, that if they would go on with their 
dinner he would sit down. Though a good deal 
ashamed, they thought it more respectful to 
obey the gentleman, who having cast his eye on 
their slender provisions, gently rebuked the 
shepherd for not having indulged himself, as it 
was Sunday, with a morsel of bacon to relish 
his potatoes. The shepherd said nothing, but 
poor Mary coloured and hung down her head, 
saying, ' Indeed, sir, it is not my fault, I did beg 
my husband to allow himself a bit of meat to- 
day out of your honour's bounty ; but he was 
too good to do it, and it is all for my sake.' The 
shepherd seemed unwilling to come to an expla- 
nation, but Mr. Johnson desired Mary to go on. 
So she continued : ' You must know, sir, that 
both of us, next to a sin, dread a debt, and in- 
deed in some cases a debt is a sin ; but with all 
our care and pains, we have never been able 
quite to pay off the doctor's bill for that bad fit 
of rheumatism which I had last winter. Now 
when you were pleased to give my husband that 
kind present the other day, I heartily desired 
him to buy a bit of meat for Sunday as I said 
before, that he might have a little refreshment 
for himself out of your kindness. — ' But answer, 
ed he, ' Mary, it is never out of my mind long 
together that we still owe a few shillings to the 
doctor (and thank God it is all we did owe in 
the world.) Now if I carry him this money di- 
rectly it will not only show him our honesty 
and our good-will, but it will be an encourage 
ment to him to come to you another time in case 
you should be taken once more in such a bad 
fit ; for I must own,' added my poor husband, 
' that the thought of your being so terribly ill 
without any help, is the only misfortune that I 
want courage to face.' 

Here the grateful woman's tears ran down so 
fast that she could not go on. She wiped them 
with the corner of her apron, and humbly beg. 
ged pardon for making so free. * Indeed, sir,' 
said the shepherd, ' though my wife is full as 
unwilling to be in debt as myself, yet I could 
hardly prevail on her to consent to my paying 
this money just then, because she said it was 
hard I should not have a taste of the gentle- 
man's bounty myself. — But for once, sir, I would 
have my own way. For you must know, as I 
pass best part of my time alone, tending my 
sheep, 'tis a great point with me, sir, to get 
comfortable matter for my own thoughts ; so 
that 'tis rather self-interest in me to allow my 
self in no pleasures and no practices that won't 
bear thinking on over and over. For when one 
is a good deal alone, you know, sir, all one's bad 
deeds do so rush in upon one, as I may say, and 
so torment one, that there is no true comfort to 
be had but in keeping clear of wrong doings 
and false pleasures ; and that I suppose may be 
one reason why so many folks hate to stay a bit 
by themselves. But as I was saying — when I 
camo to think the matter over on the hill yon- 
• Printed for the Cheap Repository. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



197 



der, said I to myself, a good dinner is a good 
thing I grant, and yet it will be but cold com- 
fort to me a week after, to be able to say — to be 
sure I had a nice shoulder of mutton last Sun- 
day for dinner, thanks to the good gentleman ! 
but then I am in debt. I had a rare dinner, 
that's certain, but the pleasure of that has long 
been over, and the debt still remains. I have 
spent the crown ; and now if my poor wife 
should be taken in one of those fits again, die 
she must, unless God work a miracle to prevent 
it, for I can get no help for her. This thought 
settled all ; and I set off directly and paid the 
crown to the doctor with as much cheerfulness 
as I should have felt on sitting down to the fat- 
test shoulder of mutton that ever was roasted. 
And if I was contented at the time, think how 
much more happy I have been at the remem- 
brance ! O sir, there are no pleasures worth the 
name but such as bring no plague or penitence 
after them.' 

Mr. Johnson was satisfied with the shepherd's 
reasons ; and agreed that though a good dinner 
was not to be despised, yet it was not worthy 
to be compared with a contented mind, which (as 
the Bible truly says) is a continual feast. * But 
come,' said the good gentleman, ' what have we 
got in this brown mug ?' — ' As good water,' said 
the shepherd, ' as any in the king's dominions. 
I have heard of countries beyond sea, in which 
there is no wholesome water ; nay, I have been 
myself in a great town not far off, where they 
are obliged to buy all the water which they get, 
while a good Providence sends to my very door 
a spring as clear and fine as Jacob's well. When 
I am tempted to repine that I have often no 
other drink, I call to mind, that it was nothing 
better than a cup of cold water which the wo- 
man at the well of Sychar drew for the greatest 
guest that ever visited this world. 

' Very well,' replied Mr. Johnson ; ' but as 
your honesty has made you prefer a poor meal 
to being in debt, I will at least send and get 
something for you to drink. I saw a little public 
house just by the church, as I came along. Let 
that little rosy-faced fellow fetch a mug of beer.' 
So saying, he looked full at the boy, who did 
not offer to stir ; but cast an eye at his father 
to know what he was to do. ' Sir,' said the 
shepherd, ' I hope we shall not appear ungrate- 
ful, if we seem to refuse your favour ; my little 
body would, I am sure, fly to serve you on any 
other occasion. But, good sir, it is Sunday ; 
and should any of my family be seen at a public 
house on a Sabbath-day, it would be a much 
greater grief to me than to drink water all my 
life. I am often talking against these doings to 
others ; and if I should say one thing and do 
another, you can't think what an advantage it 
would give many of my neighbours over me, 
who would be glad enough to report that they 
had caught the shepherd's son at the alehouse 
without explaining how it happened. Christians 
you know, sir, must be doubly watchful ; or they 
will not only bring disgrace on themselves, but 
what is much worse, on that holy name by 
which they are called.' 

4 Are you not a little too cautious, my honest 
friend V said Mr. Johnson. ' I humbly ask your 
purdon, sir,' replied the shepherd, ' if I think 



that is impossible. In my poor notion I no more 
understand how a man can be too cautious, than 
how he can be too strong, or too healthy.' 

'You are right indeed,' said Mr. Johnson, 
' as a general principle, but this struck me as a 
very small thing.' — 'Sir,' said tho shepherd, 'I 
am afraid you will think me very bold, but you 
encourage me to speak out.' — ' 'Tis what I 
wish,' said the gentleman. ' Then, sir,' resumed 
the shepherd, ' I doubt if, where there is a fre- 
quent temptation to do wrong, any fault can be 
called small ; that is, in short, if there is any 
such thing as a small wilful sin. A poor man 
like me is seldom called out to do great things, 
so that it is not by a few striking deeds his 
character can be judged by his neighbours, but 
by the little round of daily customs he allows 
himself in.' 

* I should like,' said Mr. Johnson, ' to know 
how you manage in this respect.' 
■ • I am but a poor scholar, sir' replied the shep- 
herd, ' but I have made myself a little sort of 
rule. I always avoid, as I am an ignorant man, 
picking out any one single difficult text to dis- 
tress my mind about, or to go and build opinions 
upon, because I know that puzzles and injures 
poor unlearned Christians. But I endeavour to 
collect what is the general spirit or meaning of 
Scripture on any particular subject, by putting 
a few texts together, which though I find them 
dispersed up and down, yet all seem to look the 
same way, to prove the same truth, or hold out 
the same comfort. So when I am tried or tempt- 
ed, or any thing happens in which I am at a 
loss what to do, I apply to my rule — to the law 
and the testimony. To be sure I can't always 
find a particular direction as to the very case, 
because then the Bible must have been bigger 
than all those great books I once saw in the li- 
brary at Salisbury palace, which the butler told 
me were acts of parliament ; and had that been 
the case, a poor man would never have had mo- 
ney to buy, nor a working man time to read the 
Bible ; and so Christianity could only have been 
a religion for the rich, for those who had money 
and leisure ; which, blessed be God ! is so far 
from being the truth, that in all that fine dis- 
course of our Saviour to John's disciples, it is 
enough to reconcile any poor man in the world 
to his low condition, to observe, when Christ 
reckons up the things for which he came on 
earth, to observe, I say, what he keeps for last. 
Go tell John, says he, those things which ye do 
hear and see; the blind receive their sight, and 
the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, and the 
deaf hear, and the dead are raised up. Now, 
sir, all these are wonders to be sure, but they 
are nothing to what follows. They are but like 
the lower rounds of a ladder, as I may say, by 
which you mount to the top — and the poor have 
the Gospel preached to them. I dare say, if John 
had any doubts before, this part of the message 
must have cleared them up at once. For it must 
have made him certain sure at once, that a reli- 
gion which placed preaching salvation to the 
poor above healing the sick, which ranked the 
soul above the body, and set heaven above health, 
must have come from God.' 

'But,' said Mr. Johnson, 'you say you can 
generally pick out your particular duty from 



198 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the Bible, though that immediate duty be not 
fully explained.' 

* Indeed, sir,' replied the shepherd, ' I think 
I can find out the principle at least, if I bring 
but a willing mind. The want of that is the 
great hindrance. Whoso doeth my will, he shall 
know of the doctrine. You know that text, sir. 
I believe a stubborn will makes the Bible harder 
to be understood than any want of learning. 
'Tis corrupt affections which blind the under- 
standing, sir. The more a man hates sin, the 
clearer he will see his way, and the more he 
loves holiness, the better he will understand his 
Bible — the more practical conviction will he get 
of that pleasant truth, that the secret of the Lord 
is with them that fear him. Now, sir, suppose 
I had time and learning, and possessed of all 
the books I saw at the bishop's, where could I 
find out a surer way to lay the axe to the root 
of all covetousness, selfishness, and injustice, 
than the plain and ready rule, to do unto all men 
as I would they should do unto me. If my neigh- 
bour does me an injury, can I be at any loss 
how to proceed with him, when I recollect the 
parable of the unforgiving steward, who refused 
to pardon a debt of a hundred pence, when his 
own ten thousand talents had been remitted to 
him? I defy any man to retain habitual selfish- 
ness, hardness of heart, or any other allowed 
sin, who daily and conscientiously tries his own 
heart by this touehstone. The straight rule 
will show the crooked practice to every one who 
honestly tries the one by the other.' 

' Why you seem to make Scripture a thing of 
general application,' said Mr. Johnston, ' in cases 
in which many, I fear do not apply.' 

' It applies to every thing, sir,' replied the 
shepherd. ' When those men who are now dis- 
turbing the peace of the world, and trying to 
destroy the confidence of God's children in their 
Maker and their Saviour ; when those men, I 
say, came to my poor hovel with their new doc- 
trines and their new books, I would never look 
into one of them ; for I remember it was the 
first sin of the first pair to lose their innocence 
for the sake of a little wicked knowledge ; be- 
sides, my own book told me — To fear God and 
honour the king — To meddle not with, them who 
are given to change — Not to speak evil of'digni. 
ties — To render honour to whom honour is due. 
So that I was furnished with a little coat of mail, 
as I may say, which preserved me, while those 
who had no such armour fell into the snare.' 

While they were thus talking, the children 
who had stood very quietly behind, and had not 
stirred a foot, now began to scamper about all at 
once, and in a moment ran to the window-seat 
to pick up their little old hats. Mr. Johnson 
looked surprised at this disturbance ; the shep- 
herd asked his pardon, telling him it was the 
sound of the church bell which had been the 
cause of their rudeness ; for their mother had 
brought them up with such a fear of being too 
late for church, that it was but who could catch 
the first stroke of the bell, and be first ready. 
He had always taught them to think that no- 
thing was more indecent than to get into church 
after it was begun ; for as the service opened 
with an exhortation to repentance, and a con- 
*ession of sin, it looked very presumptuous not 



to be ready to join it; it looKed as if people did 
not feel themselves to be sinners. And though 
such as lived at a great distance might plead 
difference of clocks as an excuse, yet those who 
lived within the sound of the bell, could pretend 
neither ignorance nor mistake. 

Mary and her children set forward. Mr. 
Johnson and the shepherd followed, taking care 
to talk the whole way on such subjects as might 
fit them for the solemn duties of the place to 
which they were going. ' I have often been 
sorry to observe, said Mr. Johnson, ' that many 
who are reckoned decent, good kind of people, 
and who would on no account neglect going to 
church, yet seem to care but little in what frame 
or temper of mind they go thither. They will 
talk of their worldly concerns till they get within 
the door, and then take them up again the very 
minute the sermon is over, which makes me 
ready to fear they lay too much stress on the 
mere form of going to a place of worship. Now, 
for my part, I always find that it requires a little 
time to bring my mind into a state fit to do any 
common business well, much more this great and 
most necessary business of all.' — ' Yes, sir,' re- 
plied the shepherd ; ' and then I think too how 
busy I should be in preparing my mind, if I 
were going into the presence of a great gentle- 
man, or a lord, or the king ; and shall the King 
of kings be treated with less respect ? Besides, 
one likes to see people feel as if going to church 
was a thing of choice and pleasure, as well as a 
duty, and that they were as desirous not to bo 
the last there, as they would be if they were 
going to a feast or a fair.' 

After service, Mr. Jenkins the clergyman, 
who was well acquainted with the character of 
Mr. Johnson, and had a great respect for him, 
accosted him with much civility ; expressing 
his concern that he could not enjoy just now so 
much of his conversation as he wished, as he 
was obliged to visit a sick person at a distance, 
but hoped to have a little talk with him' before 
he left the village. As they walked along to- 
gether, Mr. Johnson made such inquiries about 
the shepherd, as served to confirm him in the 
high opinion he entertained of his piety, good 
sense, industry, and self-denial. They parted ; 
the clergyman promising to call in at the cottage 
in his way home. 

The shepherd, who took it for granted that 
Mr. Johnson was gone to the parsonage, walked 
home with his wife and children, and was be- 
ginning in his usual way to catechise and instruct 
his family, when Mr. Johnson came in, and in- 
sisted that the shepherd should go on with his 
instructions just as if he were not there. This 
gentleman.who was very desirous of being useful 
to his own servants and workmen in the way of 
religious instruction, was sometimes sorry to 
find that though he took a good deal of pains, 
they now and then did not quite understand 
him ; for though his meaning was very good, 
his language was not always very plain ; and 
though the things he said were not hard to be 
understood, yet the words were, especially to 
such as were very ignorant. And he novv began 
to find out that if people were ever so wise and 
good, yet if they had not a simple, agreeable, 
and familiar way of expressing themselves, soma 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



199 



of their plain hearers would not be much the 
better for them. For this reason he was not 
above listening tc the plain, humble way in 
which this honest man taught his family ; for 
though he knew that he himself had many ad- 
vantages over the shepherd ; had more learning, 
and could teach him many things, yet he was 
not too proud to learn even of so poor a man, in 
any point where he thought the shepherd might 
have the advantage of him. 

This gentleman was much pleased with the 
knowledge and piety which he discovered in the 
answers of the children : and desired the shep- 
herd to tell him how he contrived to keep up a 
sense of divine things in his own mind, and in 
that of his family, with so little leisure, and so 
little reading. ' Oh ! as to that, sir,' said the 
shepherd, ' we do not read much except in one 
book, to be sure ; but with my heart prayer for 
God's blessing on the use of that book, what little 
knowledge is needful seems to come of course, 
as it were. And my chief study has been to 
bring the fruits of the Sunday reading into the 
week's business, and to keep up the same sense 
of God in the heart, when the Bible is in the 
cupboard as when it is in the hand. In short, 
to apply what I read in the book to what I meet 
with in the field.' 

1 1 don't quite understand you,' said Mr. John- 
son. ■ Sir, replied the shepherd, ' I have but a 
poor gift at conveying these things to others, 
though I have much comfort from them in my 
own mind ; but I am sure that the most igno- 
rant and hard-working people,who are in earnest 
about their salvation, may help to keep up de- 
vout thoughts and good affections during the 
week, though they have hardly any time to look 
at a book ; and it will help them to keep out 
bad thoughts too ; which is no small matter. 
But then they must know the Bible ; the}' must 
have read the word of God diligently ; that is a 
kind of stock in trade for a Christian to set up 
with ; and it is this which makes me so careful 
in teaching it to my children ; and even in 
storing their memories with psalms and chap- 
ters. This is a great help to a poor hard-work- 
ing man, who will scarcely meet with any thing 
in them but what he may turn to some good 
account. If one lives in the fear and love of 
God, almost every thing one sees abroad will 
teach one to adore his power and goodness, and 
bring to mind some text of Scripture, which shall 
fill his heart with thankfulness, and the mouth 
with praise. When I look upwards the Heavens 
declare the glory of God, and shall I be silent 
and ungrateful ? If I look round and see the 
vallies standing thick with corn, how can I help 
blessing that Power who giveth me all things 
richly to enjoy ? I may learn gratitude from the 
beasts of the field, for the ox knoweth his owner, 
and the ass his master's crib, and shall a Christian 
Slot know, shall a Christian not consider what 
great things God has done for him ? I, who am 
a shepherd, endeavour to fill my soul with a con- 
stant remembrance of that good shepherd, who 
feedeth me in green pastures, and maketh me to 
lie down beside the still waters, and whose rod 
and staff comfort me. A religion, sir, which 
has its seat in the heart, and its fruits in the 
life, takes up little time in the study. And yet 



in another sense, true religion, which from sound 
principles brings forth right practice, fills up the 
whole time, and life too as one may say.' 

• You are happy,' said Mr. Johnson, ' in this 
retired life, by which you escape the corruptions 
of the world.' ■ Sir,' replied the shepherd, ' I do 
not escape the corruptions of my own evil na 
ture. Even there, on that w;ld solitary hill, I 
can find out that my heart is prone to evil 
thoughts. I suppose, sir, that different states 
have different temptations. You great folks 
that live in the world, perhaps, are exposed to 
some, of which such a poor man as I am, knows 
nothing. But to one who leads a lonely life like 
me, evil thoughts are a chief besetting sin ; and 
I can no more withstand these without the grace 
of God, than a rich gentleman can withstand 
the snares of evil company, without the same 
grace. And I find that I stand in need of God's 
help continually, and if he should give me up to 
my own evil heart I should be lost.' 

Mr. Johnson approved of the shepherd's sin- 
cerity, for he had always observed, that where 
there was no humility, and no watchfulness 
against sin, there was no religion, and he said 
that the man who did not feel himself to be a 
sinner, in his opinion could not be a Christian. 

Just as they were in this part of their dis- 
course, Mr. Jenkins, the clergyman, came in. 
After the usual salutations, he said, ' Well shep- 
herd, I wish you joy ; I know you will be sorry 
to gain any advantage by the death of a neigh- 
bour ; but old Wilson, my clerk, was so infirm, 
and I trust so well prepared, that there is no 
reason to be sorry for his death. I have been to 
pray by him, but he died while I staid. I have 
always intended you should succeed to his place; 
'tis no great matter of profit, but every little is 
something.' 

' No great matter, sir !' cried the shepherd ; 
' indeed it is a great thing to me ; it will more 
than pay my rent. Blessed be God for all his 
goodness!' — Mary said nothing, but lifted up her 
eyes full of tears in silent gratitude. 

' I am glad of this little circumstance,' said 
Mr. Jenkins, ' not only for your sake, but for the 
sake of the office itself. I so heartily reverence 
every religious institution, that I would never 
have even the amen added to the excellent pray- 
ers of our church, by vain or profane lips, and if 
it depended on me, there should be no such thing 
in the land as an idle, drunken, or irreligious 
parish clerk. Sorry I am to say that this mat- 
ter is not always sufficiently attended to, and 
that I know some of a very indifferent cha- 
racter. 

Mr. Johnson now inquired of the clergyman 
whether there were many children in the parish. 
' More than you would expect,' replied he, ' from 
the seeming smallness of it ; but there are some 
little hamlets which you do not see.' — ' I think,' 
returned Mr. Johnson, ' I recollect that in the 
conversation I had with the shepherd on the hill 
yonder, he told me you had no Sunday school.' 
' I am sorry to say we have none,' said the mi- 
nister. ' I do what I can to remedy this misfor- 
tune by public catechising ; but having two or 
three churches to serve, I cannot give so much 
time as I wish to private instruction ; and having 
a large family of my own, and no assistance from. 



200 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



others, I have never been able to establish a 
school' 

' There is an excellent institution in London,' 
said Mr. Johnson, 'called the Sunday-school 
Society, which kindly gives books and other 
helps, on the application of such pious clergy- 
men as stand in need of their aid, and which I 
am sure would have assisted you, but I think 
we shall be able to do something ourselves. 
4 Shepherd,' continued he, ' if I were a king, and 
had it in my power to make you a rich and a 
great man, with a word speaking, I would not do 
it. Those who are raised, by some sudden stroke, 
much above the station in which Divine Pro- 
vidence had placed them, seldom turn out very 
good, or very happy. I have never had any 
great things in my power, but as far as I have 
been able, I have been always glad to assist the 
worthy, I have, however, never attempted or 
desired to set any poor man much above his na- 
tural condition, but it is a pleasure to me to 
lend him such assistance as may make that con- 
dition more easy to himself, and put him in a 
way which shall call him to the performance of 
more duties than perhaps he could have per- 
formed without my help, and of performing 
them in a better manner to others, and with 
more comfort to himself. — What rent do you 
pay for this cottage ?' . 

4 Fifty shillings a year, sir,' 
' It is in a sad tattered condition ; is there not 
a better to be had in the village ?' 

4 That in which the poor clerk lived,' said the 
clergyman, ' is not only more tight and whole, 
but has two decent chambers, and a very large 
light kitchen.' — ' That will be very convenient,' 
replied Mr. Johnson, ' pray what is the rent ?' 
— ' I think,' said the shepherd, ' poor neighbour 
Wilson gave somewhat about four pounds a 
year, or it might be guineas.' — 4 Very well,' 
said Mr. Johnson, 4 and what will the clerk's 
place be worth, think you ?' About three pounds, 
was the answer. 

4 Now,' continued Mr. Johnson, 4 my plan is 
that the shepherd should take that house im- 
mediately ; for as the poor man is dead, there 
will be no need of waiting till quarter-day, if 
I make up the difference.' 4 True, sir,' said 
Mr. Jenkins, 4 and I am sure my wife's father, 
whom I expect to-morrow, will willingly assist 
a little towards buying some of the clerk's .old 
goods. And the sooner they remove the better, 
for poor Mary caught that bad rheumatism by 
sleeping under a leaky thatch.' The shepherd 
was too much moved to speak, and Mary could 
hardly sob out, ' Oh, sir ! you are too good ; in- 
deed this house will do very well.' ' It may do 
very well for you and your children, Mary,' 
said Mr. Johnson gravely, ' but it will not do for 
a school; the kitchen is neither large nor light 
enough. Shepherd,' continued he, 4 with your 
good minister's leave, and kind assistance, I 
propose to set up in this parish a Sunday School, 
and to make you the master. It will not at all 
interfere with your weekly calling, and it is 
the only lawful way in which you could turn 
the Sabbath into a day of some little profit to 



your family, by doing, as I hope, a great dca. 
of good to the souls of others. The rest of the 
week you will work as usual. The difference 
of rent between this house and the clerk's I 
shall pay myself, for to put you in a better 
house at your own expense would be no great 
act of kindness. — As for honest Mary, who is 
not fit for hard labour, or any other out-of-door, 
work, I propose to endow a small weekly school, 
of which she shall be the mistress, and employ 
her notable turn to good account, by teaching 
ten or a dozen girls to knit, sew, spin, card, or any 
other useful way of getting their bread; for all 
this I shall only pay her the usual price, for 
I am not going to make you rich, but useful.' 

' Not rich, sir ?' cried the shepherd ; ' How 
can I ever be thankful enough for such bless- 
ings ? And will my poor Mary have a dry thatch 
over her head ? and shall I be able to send for 
the doctor when I am like to lose her ? Indeed 
my cup runs over with blessings, I hope God 
will give me humility.' — Here he and Mary 
looked at each other and burst into tears. The 
gentleman saw their distress, and kindly walk- 
ed out upon the little green before the door, 
that these honest people might give vent to 
their feelings. As soon as they were alone 
they crept into one corner of the room, where 
they thought they could not be seen, and fell on 
their knees, devoutly blessing and praising God 
for his mercies. Never were more hearty 
prayers presented, than this grateful couple 
offered up for their benefactors. The warmth 
of their gratitude could only be equalled by the 
earnestness with which they besought the bless- 
ing of God on the work in which they were 
going to engage. 

The two gentlemen now left this happy fa- 
mily, and walked to the parsonage, where the 
evening was spent in a manner very edifying to 
Mr. Johnson, who the next day took all proper 
measures for putting the shepherd in imme- 
diate possession of his now comfortable habita- 
tion. Mr. Jenkins's father-in-law, the worthy 
gentleman who gave the shepherd's wife the 
blankets, in the first part of this history, arrived 
at the parsonage before Mr. Johnson left it, and 
assisted in fitting up the clerk's cottage. 

Mr. Johnson took his leave, promising to call 
on the worthy minister and his new clerk once 
a year, in his summer's journey over the plain, 
as long as it should please God to spare his life. 
He had every reason to be satisfied with the 
objects of his bounty. The shepherd's zeal and 
piety made him a blessing to the rising genera- 
tion. The old resorted to his school for the 
benefit of hearing the young instructed ; and 
the clergyman had the pleasure of seeing that 
he was rewarded for the protection he gave the 
school by the great increase in his congrega- 
tion. The shepherd not only exhorted both pa- 
rents and children to the indispensable duty o 
a regular attendance at church, but by his pious 
counsels he drew them thither, and by his plain 
and prudent instructions enabled them to un. 
derstand, and of course to delight in the pubha 
worship of God. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



201 



THE TWO SHOEMAKERS. 



Jack Brown and James Stock, were two lads 
apprenticed at nearly the same time, to Mr. 
Williams, a shoemaker, in a small town in Ox- 
fordshire : they were pretty near the same age, 
but of very different characters and dispositions. 

Brown was eldest son to a farmer in good cir- 
cumstances, who gave the usual apprentice fee 
with him. Being a wild giddy boy, whom his 
father could not well manage or instruct in far- 
ming, he thought it better to send him out to 
learn a trade at a distance, than to let him idle 
about at home ; for Jack always preferred bird's- 
nesting and marbles to any other employment ; 
lie would trifle away the day, when his father 
thought he was at school, with any boys he 
could meet with, who were as idle as himself; 
and he could never be prevailed upon to do, or 
to learn any thing, while a game at taw could 
be had for love or money. All this time his 
little brothers, much younger than himself, were 
beginning to follow the plough, or to carry the 
corn to the mill as soon as they were able to 
mount a cart-horse. 

Jack, however, who was a lively boy, and did 
not naturally want either sense or good-nature, 
might have turned out well enough, if he had 
not had the misfortune to be his mother's fa- 
vourite. She concealed and forgave all his faults. 
To be sure he was a little wild, she would say, 
but he would not make the worse man for that, 
for Jack had a good spirit of his own, and she 
would not have it broke, and so make a mope of 
the boy. The farmer, for a quiet life, as it is 
called, gave up all these points to his wife, and, 
with them, gave up the future virtue and hap- 
piness of his child. He was a laborious and in- 
dustrious man, but had no religion ; he thought 
only of the gains and advantages of the present 
day, and never took the future into the account. 
His wife managed him entirely, and as she was 
really notable, he did not trouble his head about 
any thing farther. If she had been careless in 
her dairy, he svould have stormed and sworn ; 
but as she only ruined one child by indulgence, 
and almost broke the hearts of the rest by un- 
kindness, he gave himself little concern about 
the matter. The cheese, certainly was good, 
and that indeed is a great point ; but she was 
neglectful of her children, and a tyrant to her 
servants. Her husband's substance, indeed, 
was not wasted, but his happiness was not con- 
sulted. His house, it is true, was not dirty, 
but it was the abode of fury, ill-temper, and cove- 
tousness. And the farmer, though he did not 
care for liquor, was too often driven to the public- 
house in the evening, because his own was 
neither quiet nor comfortable. The mother was 
always scolding, and the children were always 
crying. 

Jack, however, notwithstanding his idleness, 
picked up a little reading and writing, but never 
would learn to cast an account: that was too 
much labour. His mother was desirous he 
should continue at school, not so much for the 
sake of his learning, which she had not sense 
Vol. I. 



enough to value, but to save her darling from 
the fatigue of labour : for if he had not gone to 
school, she knew he must have gone to work, 
and she thought the former was the least tire- 
some of the two. Indeed this foolish woman 
had such an opinion of his genius, that she used 
from a child, to think he was too wise for any 
thing but a parson, and hoped she should live 
to see him one. She did not wish to see her son a 
minister, because she loved either learning or 
piety, but because she thought it would make 
Jack a gentleman, and set him above his brothers. 
Farmer Brown still hoped, that though Jack 
was likely to make but an idle and ignorant 
farmer, yet he might make no bad tradesman, 
when he should be removed from the indul- 
gences of a father's house, and from a silly 
mother, whose fondness kept him back in every 
thing. This woman was enraged when she 
found that so fine a scholar, as she took Jack 
to be, was to be put apprentice to a shoemaker. 
The farmer, however, for the first time in his 
life, would have his own way. But being a 
worldly man, and too apt to mind only what is 
falsely called the main chance ; instead of being 
careful to look out for a sober, prudent, and re- 
ligious master for his son, he left all that to ac- 
cident, as if it had been a thing of little or no 
consequence. This is a very common fault ; 
and fathers who are guilty of it, are in a great 
measure answerable for the future sins and 
errors of their children, when they come out 
into the world, and set up for themselves. If a 
man gives his son a good education, a good ex- 
ample, and a good master, it is indeed possible 
that the son may not turn out well, but it does 
not often happen ; and when it does, the father 
has no blame resting on him ; and it is a great 
point towards a man's comfort to have his con- 
science quiet in that respect, however God may 
think fit to overrule events. 

The farmer, however, took care to desire his 
friends to inquire for a shoemaker who had 
good business, and was a good workman ; and 
the mother did not forget to put : . her word, 
and desired that it might be one who was not 
too strict ; for Jack had been brought up tender- 
ly, was a meek boy, and could not bear to be 
contradicted in any thing. And this is the 
common notion of meekness among people who 
do not take up their notions on rational and 
Christian grounds. 

Mr. Williams was recommended to the far 
mer as being the best shoemaker in the town in 
which he lived, and far from a strict master , 
and, without farther inquiries, to Mr. Williams 
he went. 

James Stock, who was the son of an honest 
labourer in the next village, was bound out by 
the parish in consideration of his father having 
so numerous a family, that he was not able to 
put him out himself. James was in every thing 
the very reverse of his new companion. He was 
a modest, industrious, pious youth ; and though 
so poor, and the child of a labourer, was a much 



202 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



better scholar than Jack, who was a wealthy 
farmer's son. — His father had, it is true, been 
able to give him but very little schooling, for he 
was obliged to be put to work when quite a child. 
When very young he used to run of errands for 
Mr. Thomas, the curate of the parish ; a very 
kind-hearted young gentleman, who boarded 
next door to his father's cottage. He used also 
to rub down and saddle his horse, and do any 
other little job for him, in the most civil oblig- 
ing manner. All this so recommended him to 
the clergyman, that he would often send for him 
of an evening, after he had done his day's work 
in the field, and condescended to teach him him- 
self to write and cast accounts, as well as to in- 
struct him in the principles of his religion. It 
was not merely out of kindness for the little 
good-natured services James did him, that he 
showed him this favour, but also for his readi- 
ness in the catechism, and his devout behaviour 
at church. 

The first thing that drew the minister's at- 
tention to this boy, was the following ; he had 
frequently given him half-pence and pence for 
holding his horse and carrying him to water 
before he was big enough to be further useful 
to him. On Christmas day he was surprised to 
see James at church, reading out of a handsome 
new prayer-book ; he wondered how he came 
by it, for he knew there was nobody in the pa- 
rish likely to have given it to him, for at that 
time there were no Sunday schools; and the fa- 
ther could not afford it he was sure. 

' Well James,' said he, as he saw him when 
they came out, 'you made a good figure at 
church to-day : it made you look like a man and 
a Christian, not only to have so handsome a 
book, but to be so ready in all parts of the ser- 
vice. How came you by that book ?' James 
owned modestly, that he had been a whole year 
saving up the money by single half-pence, all 
of which had been of the minister's own giving, 
and that in all that time he had not spent a sin- 
gle farthing on his own diversions. — ' My dear 
boy,' said the good Mr. Thomas, * I am much 
mistaken if thou dost not turn out well in the 
world, for two reasons : — first, from thy saving 
turn and self-denying temper; and next, be- 
cause thou didst devote the first eighteen-pence 
thou wast ever worth in the world to so good a 
purpose.' 

James bowed and blushed, and from that time 
Mr. Thomas began to take more notice of him, 
and to instruct him as I said above. As James 
soon grew able to do him more considerable 
service, he would now and then give him a six- 
pence. This he constantly saved till it became 
a little sum, with which he bought shoes and 
stockings ; well knowing that his poor father, 
with a large family and low wages, could not 
buy them for him. As to what little money 
he earned himself by his daily labour in the 
field, he constantly carried it to his mother every 
Saturday night, to buy bread for the family, 
which was a pretty help to them. 

As James was not overstout in his make, his 
father thankfully accepted the offer of the pa- 
rish officers to bind out his son to a trade. This 
good man, however, had not, like farmer Brown, 
the liberty of choosing a master for his son ; or 



he would carefully have inquired if he was a 
proper man to have the care of youth ; but Wil- 
liams the shoemaker was already fixed on, by 
those who were to put the boy out, who told him 
if he wanted a master it must be him or none ; 
for the overseers had a better opinion of Wil- 
liams than he deserved, and thought it would 
be the making of the boy to go to him. The 
father knew that beggars must not be choosers, 
so he fitted out James for his new place, having 
indeed little to give him besides his blessing. 

The worthy Mr. Thomas, however, kindly 
gave him an old coat and waistcoat, which his 
mother, who was a neat and notable woman, 
contrived to make up for him herself without a 
farthing expense, and when it was turned and 
made fit for his size, it made him a very hand- 
some suit for Sundays, and lasted him a couple 
of years. 

And here let me stop to remark what a pity 
it is, that poor women so seldom are able or wil- 
ling to do these sort of little handy jobs them- 
selves ; and that they do not oftener bring up 
their daughters to be more useful in family 
work. They are great losers by it every way , 
not only as they are disqualifying their girls 
from making good wives hereafter, but they are 
losers in point of present advantage ; for gentry 
could much oftener afford to give a poor boy a 
jacket or a waistcoat, if it was not for the ex- 
pense of making it, which adds very much to 
the cost. To my certain knowledge, many poor 
women would often get an old coat, or a bit of 
coarse new cloth given to them to fit out a boy, 
if the mothers or sisters were known to be able 
to cut out to advantage, and to make it up de- 
cently themselves. But half a crown for the 
making a bit of kersey, which costs but a few 
shillings, is more than many very charitable 
gentry can afford to give — so they often give 
nothing at all, when they see the mothers so 
little able to turn it to advantage. It is hoped 
they will take this hint kindly, as it is meant 
for their good. 

But to return to our two young shoe-makers. 
They were both now settled at Mr. Williams's, 
who, as he was known to be a good workman, 
had plenty of business — He had sometimes two 
or three journeymen, but no apprentices but 
Jack and James. 

Jack, who, with all his faults, was a keen, 
smart boy, took to learn the trade quick enough, 
but the difficulty was to make him stick two 
hours together to his work. At every noise he 
heard in the street down went the work — the 
last one way, fhe upper leather another ; the 
sole dropped on the ground, and the thread 
dragged after him, all the way up the street. If 
a blind fiddler, a ballad singer, a mountebank, 
a dancing bear, or a drum were heard at a dis- 
tance — out ran Jack — nothing could stop him, 
and not a stich more could he be prevailed on to 
do that day. Every duty, every promise was 
forgotten for the present pleasure — he could not 
resist the smallest temptation — he never stopped 
for a moment to consider whether a thing was 
right or wrong, but whether he liked or disliked 
it. And as his ill-judging mother took care to 
send him privately a good supply of pocket- 
money, that deadly bane to all youthful virtue 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



203 



he had generally a few pence ready to spend, 
and to indulge in the present diversion whatever 
it was. And what was still worse even than 
spending his money, he spent his time too, or 
rather his master's time. Of this he was con- 
tinually reminded by James, to whom he always 
answered, ' what have you to complain about ? 
It is nothing to you or any one else ; I spend 
nobody's money but my own. ' That may be,' 
replied the other, ' but you cannot say it is your 
own time that you spend.' He insisted upon it 
that it was ; but James fetched down their in- 
dentures, and there showed him that he had so- 
lemnly bound himself by that instrument, not to 
waste his master's property. ' Now,' quoth 
James, l thy own time is a very valuable part of 
thy master's property.' To this he replied, 
' every one's time was his own, and he should 
not sit moping all day over his last — for his part, 
he thanked God, he was no parish 'prentice.' 

James did not resent this piece of foolish im- 
pertinence, as some silly lads would have done ; 
nor fly out into a violent passion : for even at 
this early age, he had begun to learn of Him 
who was meek and lowly of heart ; and therefore 
when he teas reviled, he reviled not again. On 
the contrary he was so very kind and gentle, 
that even Jack, vain and idle as he was, could 
not help loving him, though he took care never 
to follow his advice. 

Jack's fondness for his boyish and silly diver- 
sions in the street, soon produced the effects 
which might naturally be expected; and the 
same idleness which led him to fly out into the 
town at the sound ©f a fiddle or the sight of a 
puppet-show, soon led him to those places to 
which all these fiddles and shows naturally lead ; 
I mean the alehouse. The acquaintance picked 
up in the street was carried on at the Gray- 
hound ; and the idle pastimes of the boy soon 
led to the destructive vices of the man. 

As he was not an ill-tempered youth, nor na- 
turally much given to drink, a sober and prudent 
master, who had been steady in his manage- 
ment and regular in his own conduct, who would 
have recommended good advice by a good ex- 
ample, might have made something of Jack. 
But I am sorry to say, that Mr. Williams, though 
a good workman, and not a very hard or severe 
master, was neither a sober nor a steady man — 
bo far from it that he spent much more time at 
the Grayhound than at home. There was no 
ojder either in his shop or family. He left the 
chief care of his business to his two young ap- 
prentices ; and being but a worldly man, he was 
at first disposed to show favour to Jack, much 
more than to James, because he had more mo- 
ney, and his father was better in the world than 
the father of poor James. 

At first, therefore, he was disposed to consider 
James as a sort of drudge ; who was to do all 
the menial work of the family, and he did not 
care how little he taught him of his trade. With 
Mrs. Williams the matter was still worse ; she 
constantly called him away from the business of 
his trade to wash the house, nurse the child, turn 
the spit, or run of errands. And here I must re- 
mark, that though parish apprentices are bound 
in duty Me submissive to both master and 
mistress, and always to make themselves as use- 



ful as they can in a family, and to be civil and 
humble ; yet on the other hand, it is the duty of 
masters always to remember, that if they are 
paid for instructing them in their trade, they 
ought conscientiously to instruct them in it, and 
not to employ them the greater part of their 
time in such household or other drudgery, as to 
deprive them of the opportunity of acquiring 
their trade. This practice is not the less unjust 
because it is common. 

Mr. Williams soon found out that his favourite 
Jack would be of little use to him in the shop ; 
for though he worked well enough, he did not 
care how little he did. Nor could he be of the least 
use to his master in keeping an account, or 
writing out a bill upon occasion, for, as he never 
could be made to learn to cypher, he did not 
know addition from multiplication. 

One day one of the customers called at the 
shop in a great hurry, and desired his bill might 
be made out that minute. Mr. Williams, having 
taken a cup too much, made several attempts to 
put down a clear account, but the more he tried, 
the less he found himself able to do it. James, 
who was sitting at his last, rose up, and with 
great modesty, asked his master if he would 
please to give him leave to make out the bill, 
saying, that though but a poor scholar, he would 
do his best, rather than keep the gentleman wait- 
ing. Williams gladly accepted his offer, and 
confused as his head was with liquor, he yet 
was able to observe with what neatness, despatch, 
and exactness, the account was drawn out. From 
that time he no longer considered James as a 
drudge, but as one fitted for the high depart- 
ments of the trade, and he was now regularly 
employed to manage the accounts, with which 
all the customers were so well pleased, that it 
contributed greatly to raise him in his master's 
esteem : for there were now never any of those 
blunders or false charges for which the shop 
had before been so famous. 

James went on in a regular course of in- 
dustry, and soon became the best workman Mr. 
Williams had ; but there were many things in 
the family which he greatly disapproved. Some 
of the journeymen used to swear, drink, and 
sing- very licentious songs. All these things 
were a great grief to his sober mind ; he com- 
plained to his master who only laughed at him ; 
and, indeed, as Williams did the same himself, 
he put it out of his power to correct his servants, 
if he had been so disposed. James however, 
used always to reprove them with great mild- 
ness indeed, but with great seriousness also. 
This, but still more his own excellent example, 
produced at length very good effects on such of 
the men as were not quite hardened in sin. 

What grieved him most, was the manner in 
which the Sunday was spent. The master lay 
in bed all the morning ; nor did the mother or 
her children ever go to church, except there was 
some new finery to be shown, or a christening 
to be attended. The town's people were coming 
to the shop all the morning, for work which 
should have been sent home the night before, 
had not the master been at the alehouse. And 
what wounded James to the very soul was, that 
the master expected the two apprentices to carry 
home shoes to the country customers on the 



204 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Sunday morning ; which he wickedly thought 
was a saving of time, as it prevented their hin- 
dering their work on the Saturday. These 
shameful practices greatly afflicted poor James ; 
he begged his master with tears in his eyes, to 
excuse him, but he only laughed at his squeamish 
conscience, as he called it. 

Jack did not dislike this part of the business, 
and generally after he had delivered his parcel, 
wasted good part of the day in nutting, playing 
&t fives, or dropping in at the public house : any 
thing was better to Jack than going to church. 

James on the other hand, when he was com- 
pelled, sorely against his conscience, to carry 
home any goods on a Sunday morning, always 
got up as soon as it was light, knelt down and 
prayed heartily to God to forgive him a sin 
which it was not in his power to avoid ; he took 
care not to lose a moment by the way, but as he 
was taking his walk with the utmost speed, to 
leave his shoes with the customers, he spent his 
time in endeavouring to keep up good thoughts 
in his mind, and praying that the day might 
come when his conscience might be delivered 
from this grievous burthen. He was now par- 
ticularly thankful, that Mr. Thomas had for- 
merly taught him so many psalms and chapters, 
which he used to repeat in these walks with 
great devotion. 

He always got home before the rest of the 
family were up, dressed himself very clean, and 
went twice to church ; as he greatly disliked the 
company and practices of his master's house, 
particularly on the Sabbath-day, he preferred 
spending his evening alone, reading his Bible, 
which I had forgot to say the worthy clergyman 
had given him when he left his native village. 
Sunday evening, which is to some people such 
a burden, was to James the highest holiday. He 
had formerly learnt a little how to sing a psalm 
of the clerk of his own parish, and this was now 
become a very delightful part of his evening ex- 
ercise. And as Will Simpson, one of the jour- 
neymen, by James's advice and example, was 
now beginning to be of a more serious way of 
thinking, he often asked him to sit an hour with 
him, when they read the Bible, and talked it 
over together in a manner very pleasant' and 
improving ; and as Will was a famous singer, a 
psalm or two sung together, was a very innocent 
pleasure. 

James's good manners and civility to the cus- 
tomers drew much business to the shop ; and 
his skill as a workman was so great, that every 
one desired that his shoes might be made by 
James. Williams grew so very idle and negli- 
gent, that he now totally neglected his affairs, 
and to hard drinking added deep gaming. All 
James's care, both of the shop and the accounts, 
could not keep things in any tolerable order : he 
represented to his master that they were grow- 
ing worse and worse, and exhorted him, if he 
valued his credit as a tradesman, his comfort as 
a husband and father, his character as a master, 
and his soul as a Christian to turn over a new 
leaf. Williams swore a great oath, that he 
would not be restrained in his pleasures to please 
& canting parish 'prentice, nor to humour a par- 
cel of squalling brats — that let people say what 
they would of him, they should never say he was 



a. hypocrite, and as long as they could not call 
him that, he did not care what else they called 
him. 

In a violent passion he immediately went to 
the Grayhound, where he now spent not only 
every evening, which he had long done, but good 
part of the day and night also. — His wife was 
very dressy, extravagant, and fond of company, 
and wasted at home as fast as her hus.band spent 
abroad, so that all the neighbours said, if it had 
not been for James, his master must have been 
a bankrupt long ago, but they were sure he could 
not hold it much longer. 

As Jack Brown sung a good song, and played 
many diverting tricks, Williams liked his com- 
pany ; and often allowed him to make one at 
the Grayhound, where he would laugh heartily 
at his stories ; so that every one thought Jack 
was much the greater favourite — se he was as a 
companion in frolic, and foolery, and pleasure, 
as it is called ; but he would not trust him with 
an inch of leather or sixpence in money : No, 
no — when business was to be done, or trust was 
to be reposed, James was the man : the idle and 
the drunken never trust one another, if they 
have common sense. They like to laugh, and 
sing, and riot, and drink together, but when they 
want a friend, a counsellor, a helper in business 
or in trouble, they go farther afield ; and Wil- 
liams, while he would drink with Jack, would 
trust James with untold gold ; and even was 
foolishly tempted to neglect his business the 
more from knowing that he had one at home who 
was taking care of it. 

In spite of all James's care and diligence, 
however, things were growing worse and worse ; 
the more James saved, the more his master and 
mistress spent. One morning, just as the shop 
was opened, and James had set every body to 
their respective work, and he himself was set- 
tling the business for the day, he found that his 
master was not yet come from the Grayhound. 
As this was now become a common case, he 
only grieved but did not wonder at it. While 
he was indulging sad thoughts on what would 
be the end of all this, in ran the tapster from the 
Grayhound out of breath, and with a look of 
terror and dismay, desired James would step 
over to the public house with him that moment, 
for that his master wanted him. 

James went immediately, surprised at this 
unusual message. When he got into the kitchen 
of the public house, which he now entered for 
the first time in his life, though it was just op- 
posite to the house in which he lived, he was 
shocked at the beastly disgusting appearance of 
every thing he beheld. There was a table cover- 
ed with tankards, punch-bowls, broken glasses, 
pipes, and dirty greasy packs of cards, and all 
over wet with liquor ; the floor was strewed with 
broken earthen cups, odd cards, and an EO table 
which had been shivered to pieces in a quarrel ; 
behind the table stood a crowd of dirty fellows, 
with matted locks, hollow eyes, and faces smear, 
ed with tobacco ; James made his way after the 
tapster, through this wretched looking crew, to 
a settle which stood in the chimney corner. Not 
a word was uttered, but the silent horror seemed 
to denote something more than a njpfe common 
drunken bout. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



205 



What was the dismay of James, when he saw 
his miserable master stretched out on the settle, 
in all the agonies of death ! He had fallen into 
a fit ; after having drunk hard best part of the 
night, and seemed to have but a few minutes to 
live. In his frightful countenance, was dis- 
played the dreadful picture of sin and death, for 
he struggled at once under the guilt of intoxica- 
tion, and the pangs of a dying man. He reco- 
vered his senses for a few moments, and called 
out to ask if his faithful servant was come. — 
James went up to him, took him by his cold 
hand, but was too much moved to speak. — ' Oh ! 
James, James,' cried he in a broken voice, 'pray 
for me, comfort me.' James spoke kindly to 
him, but was too honest to give him false com- 
fort, as is too often done by mistaken friends in 
these dreadful moments. 

' James,' said he, ' I have been a bad master 
to you — you would have saved me, soul and body, 
but I would not let you — I have ruined my wife, 
my children, and my own soul. Take warning, 
oh, take warning by my miserable end,' said he 
to his stupified companions : but none were able 
to attend to him but James, who bid him lift up 
his heart to God, and prayed heartily for him 
himself. ' Oh !' said the dying man, ' it is too 
late, too late for me — but you have still time,' 
said he to the half-drunken terrified crew around 
him. * Where is Jack V Jack Brown came 
forward, but was too much frightened to speak. 
' O wretched boy !' said he, ' I fear I shall have 
the ruin of thy soul, as well as my own to answer 
for. Stop short ! — Take warning — now in the 
days of thy youth. O James, James, thou dost 
not pray for me. Death is dreadful to the wick- 
ed — O the sting of death to a guilty conscience !' 
Here he lifted up his ghastly eyes in speechless 
horror, grasped hard at the hand of James ; gave 
a deep hollow groan, and closed his eyes, never 
to open them but in an awful eternity. 

This was death in all its horrors ! the gay 
companions of his sinful pleasures, could not 
stand the sight ; all slunk away like guilty 
thieves from their late favourite friend — no one 
was left to assist him, but his two apprentices. 
Brown was not so hardened but that he shed 
many tears for his unhappy master ; and even 
made some hasty resolutions of amendment, 
which were too soon forgotten. 

While Brown stepped home to call the work- 
men to come and assist in removing their poor 
master, James staid alone with the corpse, and 
employed those awful moments in indulging the 
most serious thoughts, and praying heartily to 
God, that so terrible a lesson might not be thrown 
away upon him ; but that he might be enabled 
to live in a constant state of preparation for 
death. — The resolutions he made at this moment, 
as they were not made in his own strength, but 
in an humble reliance on God's gracious help, 
were of use to him as long as he lived ; and if 
ever he Was for a moment tempted to say, or do 
a wrong thing, the remembrance of his poor 
dying master's last agonies, and the dreadful 
words he uttered, always operated as an instant 
check upon him. 

When Williams was buried, and his affairs 
came to be inquired into, they were found to be 
in a sad condition. His wife, indeed, was the 



less to be pitied, as she had contributed her full 
share to the common ruin. James, however, 
did pity her, and by his skill in accounts, his 
known honesty, and the trust the creditors put 
in his word, things came to be settled rather 
better than Mrs. Williams expected. 

Both Brown and James were now within a 
month or two of being out of their time. The 
creditors, as was said before, employed James 
to settle his late master's accounts, which he did 
in a manner so creditable to his abilities, and 
his honesty, that they proposed to him to take 
the shop himself. He assured them it was ut- 
terly out of his power for want of money. As 
the creditors had not the least fear of being re- 
paid, if it should please God to spare his life, 
they generously agreed among themselves to 
advance him a small sum of money without any 
security but his bond ; for this he was to pay a 
very reasonable interest, and to return the whole 
in a given number of years. James shed tears 
of gratitude at this testimony to his character, 
and could hardly be prevailed on to accept their 
kindness, so great was his dread of being in 
debt. 

He took the remainder of the lease from his 
mistress ; and in settling affairs with her, took 
care to make every thing as advantageous to her 
as possible. He never once allowed himself to 
think how unkind she had been to him ; he only 
saw in her the needy widow of his deceased 
master, and the distressed mother of an infant 
family ; and was heartily sorry it was not in his 
power to contribute to their support ; it was not 
only James's duty, but his delight, to return good 
for evil — for he was a Christian. 

James Stock was now, by the blessing of God 
on his own earnest endeavours, master of a con- 
siderable shop, and was respected by the whole 
town for his prudence, honesty, and piety. How 
he behaved in his new station, and also what 
befel his comrade Brown, must be the subject 
of another book ; and I hope my readers will 
look forward with some impatience for some 
further account of this worthy young man. In 
the meantime, other apprentices will do well to 
follow so praiseworthy an example, and to re- 
member, that the respectable master of a large 
shop, and of a profitable business, was raised to 
that creditable situation, without money, friends, 
or connexions, from the low beginning of a parish 
apprentice, by sobriety, industry, the fear of 
God, and, an obedience to the divine principles 
of the Christian religion. 



PART II. 

The Apprentice turned Master. 

The first part of this history left off with the 
dreadful sudden death of Williams the idle shoe- 
maker, who died in a drunken fit at the Gray- 
hound. It also showed how James Stock, his 
faithful apprentice, by his honest and upright 
behaviour, so gained the love and respect of his 
late master's creditors, that they set him up in 
business, though he was not worth a shilling of 
his own — such is the power of a good character I 



206 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



And when we last parted from him he had just 
got possession of his master's shop. 

This sudden prosperity was a time of trial 
for James ; who, as he was now become a cre- 
ditable tradesman, I shall hereafter think proper 
to call Mr. James Stock. I say, this sudden 
rise in life was a time of trial ; for we hardly 
know what we are ourselves till we become our 
own masters. There is indeed always a rea- 
sonable hope that a good servant will not make 
a bad master, and that a faithful apprentice will 
prove an honest tradesman. But the heart of 
man is deceitful ; and some folks who seem to 
behave very well while they are under subjec- 
tion, no sooner get a little power than their 
heads are turned, and they grow prouder than 
those who are gentlemen born. They forget at 
once that they were lately poor and dependant 
themselves, so that one would think that with 
their poverty they had lost their memory too. 
I have known some who had suffered most 
hardships in their early days, become the most 
hard and oppressive in their turn : so that they 
seem to forget that fine considerate reason which 
God gives to the children of Israel why they 
should be merciful to their servants, remember- 
ing, said he, that thou thyself was a bond-man. 

Young Mr. Stock did not so forget himself. 
He had indeed the only sure guard from falling 
into this error. It was not from any uneasiness in 
his natural disposition: for that only just serves 
to make folks good-natured when they are 
pleased, and patient when they have nothing 
to vex them. — James went upon higher ground. 
He brought his religion into all his actions ; 
he did not give way to abusive language, be- 
cause he knew it was a sin. He did not use 
his apprentices ill, because he knew he had him- 
self a Master in heaven. 

He knew he owed his present happy situation 
to the kindness of the creditors. But did he 
grow easy and careless because he knew he had 
such friends? No indeed. He worked with 
double diligence in order to get out of debt, and 
to let these friends see he did not abuse their 
kindness. Such behaviour as this is the great- 
est encouragement in the world to rich people 
to lend a little money. It creates friends, and 
it keeps them. 

His shoes and boots were made in the best 
manner ; this got him business ; he set out with 
a rule to tell no lies, and deceive no customers ; 
this secured his business. He had two reasons 
for not promising to send home goods when he 
knew he should not be able to keep his word. 
The first, because he knew a lie was a sin, the 
next, because it was a folly. There is no credit 
sooner worn out than that which is gained by 
false pretences. After a little while no one is 
deceived by them. Falsehood is so soon detect- 
ed, that I believe most tradesmen are the poorer 
for it in the long rung. Deceit is the worst 
part of a shopkeeper's stock in trade. 

James was now at the head of a family. — 
This is a serious situation, (said he to himself, 
one fine summer's evening, as he stood leaning 
over the half-door of his shop to enjoy a little 
fresh air) I am now master of a family. My 
cares are doubled, and so are my duties. I see 
the higher one gets in life the more one has to 



answer for. Let me now call to mind the sor- 
row I used to feel when I was made to carry 
work home on a Sunday by an ungodly master : 
and let me now keep the resolution I then form- 
ed. 

So what his heart found right to do, he re- 
solved to do quickly ; and he set out at first as. 
he meant to go on. The Sunday was .ruly a 
day of rest at Mr. Stock's. He would not allow 
a pair of shoes to be given out on that day to 
oblige the best customer he had. And what did 
he lose by it? Why nothing. For when the peo- 
ple were once used to it, they liked Saturday 
night just as well. But had it been otherwise 
he would have given up his gains to his con 
science. 

Showing how Mr. Stock behaved to his appren 
tices. 

When he got up in the world so far as to have 
apprentices, he thought himself as accountable 
for their behaviour as if they had been his chil- 
dren. He was very kind to them, and had a 
cheerful merry way of talking to them, so that 
the lads who had seen too much of swearing, re- 
probate masters, were fond of him. They were 
never afraid of speaking to him ; they told him 
all their little troubles, and considered their mas- 
ter as their best friend, for they said they would 
do any thing for a good word and a kind look. 
As he did not swear at them when they had 
been guilty of a fault, they did not lie to him to 
conceal it, and thereby make one fault two. 
But though he was very kind, he was very 
watchful also, for he did not think neglect any 
part of kindness. He brought them to adopt one 
very pretty method, which was, on a Sunday 
evening to divert themselves with writing out 
half a dozen texts of Scripture in a neat copy- 
book with gilt covers. You have the same at 
any of the stationers ; they do not cost above 
fourpence, and will last nearly a year. 

When the boys carried him their books, he 
justly commended him whose texts were writ- 
ten in the fairest hand. ' And now my boys,' 
said he, ' let us see which of you will learn your 
texts best in the course of the week ; he who 
does this shall choose for next Sunday.' Thus 
the boys soon got many psalms and chapters by 
heart, almost without knowing how they came 
by them. He taught them how to make a prac- 
tical use of what they learnt : ' for,' said he, ' it 
will answer little purposes to learn texts if we 
do not try to live up to them.' One of the boys 
being apt to play in his absence, and to run 
back again to his work when he heard his 
master's step, he brought him to a sense of his 
fault by the last Sunday's text, which happened 
to be the sixth of Ephesians. He showed him 
what was meant by being obedient to his master 
in singleness of heart as unto Christ, and ex- 
plained to him with so much kindness what it 
was, not to work with eye-service as men pleasers, 
but doing the will of God from the heart, that 
the lad said he should never forget it, and it did 
more towards curing him of idleness than the 
soundest horse-whipping would have done. 
How Mr. Stock got out of debt. 

Stock's behaviour was very regular, and he 
was much beloved for his kind and peaceable 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



207 



temper. He had also a good reputation for skill 
in his trade, and his industry was talked of 
through the whole town, so that he had soon 
more work than he could possibly do. He paid 
all his dealers to the very day, and took care to 
carry his interest money to the creditors the 
moment it became due. In two or three years 
he was able to begin to pay off a small part of 
the principal. His reason for being so eager to 
pay money as soon as it became due, was this : 
— He had observed tradesmen, and especially 
his old master, put off the day of payment as 
long as they could, even though they had the 
means of paying in their power. This deceived 
them : for having money in their pockets they 
forgot it belonged to the creditor, and not to 
themselves, and so got to fancy they were rich 
when they were really poor. This false notion 
led them to indulge in idle expenses, whereas, 
if they had paid regularly, they would have had 
this one temptation the less : a young trades- 
man, when he is going to spend money, should 
at least ask himself, ' Whether this money is 
his own or his creditors ?' This little question 
might help to prevent many a bankruptcy. 

A true Christian always goes heartily to work 
to find out what is his besetting sin ; and when 
he has found it (which he easily may if he looks 
sharp) against this sin he watches narrowly. 
Now I know it is the fashion among some folks, 
(and a bad fashion it is,) to faney that good 
people have no sin ; but this only shows their 
ignorance. It is not true. That good man, St. 
Paul, knew better.* And when men do not 
own their sins, it is not because their is no sin 
in their hearts, but because they are not anxi- 
ous to search for it, nor humble to confess it, 
nor penitent to mourn over it. But this was 
not the case with James Stock. ' Examine 
yourselves truly,' said he, ' is no bad part of 
the catechism.' He began to be afraid that his 
desire of living creditably, and without being a 
burden to any one, might, under the mask of 
honesty and independence, lead him into pride 
and covetousness. He feared that the bias of 
his heart lay that way. So instead of being 
proud of his sobriety ; instead of bragging that 
he never spent his money idly, nor went to the 
alehouse ; instead of boasting how hard he work- 
ed and how he denied himself, he strove in secret 
that even these good qualities might not grow 
out of a wrong root. The following event was 
of use to him in the way of indulging any dis- 
position to covetousness. 

One evening as he was standing at the door 
of his shop a poor dirty boy, without stockings 
and shoes, came up and asked him for a bit of 
broken victuals, for he had eaten nothing all 
day. In spite of his dirt and rags he was a 
very pretty, lively, civil spoken boy, and Mr. 
Stock could not help thinking he knew some- 
thing of his face. He fetched him out a good 
piece of bread and cheese, and while the boy was 
devouring it, asked him if he had no parents, 
and why he went about in that vagabond man- 
ner ? ' Daddy has been dead some years,' said 
the boy ; ' he died in a fit over at the Grayhound. 
Mammy says he used to live at this shop, and 

* See Romans, vii. 



then we did not want for clothes nor victuals 
neither.' Stock was melted almost to tears on 
finding that this dirty beggar-boy was Tommy 
Williams, the son of his old master. He blessed 
God on comparing his own happy ' condition 
with that of this poor destitute child, but he was 
not prouder at the comparison ; and while he 
was thankful for his own prosperity, he pitied 
the helpless boy. • Where have you been living 
of late ?' said he to him, ' for I understand you 
all went home to your mother's friends.' — ' So 
we did, sir,' said the boy, ' but they are grown 
tired of maintaining us, because they said that 
mammy spent all the money which should have 
gone to buy victuals for us, on snuff and drams. 
And so they have sent us back to this place, 
which is daddy's parish.' 

1 And where do you live here ?' said Mr. Stock. 
' O sir, we are all put into the parish poor- 
house.' — ' And does your mother do any thing 
to help to maintain you ?' — ' No, sir, for mammy 
says she was not brought up to work like poor 
folks, and she would rather starve than spin or 
knit ; so she lies a-bed all the morning, and sends 
us about to pick up what we can, a bit of vic- 
tuals or a few half-pence.' — 'And have you any 
money in your pocket now ?' — ' Yes, sir, I 
have got three half-pence which I have begged 
to-day.' — ' Then, as you were so very hungry, 
how came you not to buy a roll at that baker's 
over the way ?' — ' Because, sir, I was going to 
lay it out in tea for mammy, for I never lay out 
a farthing for myself. Indeed mammy says 
she will have her tea twice a-day if we beg or 
starve for it.' — ' Can you read my boy ?' said 
Mr. Stock : — ' A little, sir, and say my prayers 
too.' — ' And can you say your catechism ?' — ' I 
have almost forgotten it all, sir, though I re- 
member something about honouring my father 
and mother t and that makes me still carry the 
halfpence home to mammy instead of buying 
cakes.' — ' Who taught you these good things ?' 
— 'One Jemmy Stock, sir, who was a parish 
'prentice to my daddy. He taught me one 
question out of the catechism every night, and 
always made me say my prayers to him before 
I went to bed. He told me I should go to the 
wicked place if I did not fear God, so I am still 
afraid to tell lies like the other boys. Poor 
Jemmy gave me a piece of ginger bread every 
time I learnt well ; but I have no friend now ; 
Jemmy was very good to me, though mammy 
did nothing but beat him.' 

Mr. Stock was too much moved to carry on 
the discourse ; he did not make himself known 
to the boy, but took him over to the baker's 
shop ; as they walked along he could not help 
repeating aloud a verse or two of that beautiful 
hymn so deservedly the favourite of all children 

' Not more than others I deserve, 

Yet God hath given me more ; 
For I have food while others starve,' 

Or beg from door to door.' 

The little boy looked up in his face, saying, 
' Why, sir, that's the very hymn which Jemmy 
Stock gave me a penny for learning.' Stock 
made no answer, but put a couple of threepenny 
loaves into his hand to carry home, and told 
him to call on him again at such a time in the 
following week. 



208 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



How Mr. Stock contrived to be charitable without 
any expense. 

Stock had abundant subject for meditation 
that night. He was puzzled what to do with 
the boy. While he was carrying on his trade 
upon borrowed money, he did not think it right 
to give any part of that money to assist the 
idle, or even to help the distressed. • I must be 
iust ,' said he, ' before I am generous.' Still he 
could not bear to see this fine boy given up to a 
certain ruin. He did not think it safe to take 
nim into his shop in his present ignorant un- 
principled state. At last he hit upon this 
Jiought : I work for myself twelve hours in the 
day. Why shall I not work one hour or two 
for this boy in the evening ? It will be but for 
a year, and I shall then have more right to do 
what I please. My money will then be my 
own, I shall have paid my debts. 

So he began to put his resolution in practice 
that very night, sticking to his old notion of 
not putting off till to-morrow what should be 
done to-day ; and it was thought he owed much 
of his success in life, as well as his growth in 
goodness, to this little saying : ' I am young and 
healthy,' said he, ' one hour's work more will do 
me no harm ; I will set aside all I get by these 
over-hours, and put the boy to school. I have 
not only no right to punish this child for the 
sins of his father, but I consider that though 
God hated those sins, he has made them to be 
instrumental to my advancement.' 

Tommy Williams called at the time appointed. 
In the mean time Mr. Stock's maid had made 
him a neat little suit of clothes out of an old 
coat of her master's. She had also knit him a 
pair of stockings, and Mr. Stock made him sit 
down in the shop, while he fitted him with a 
pair of new shoes. The maid having washed 
and dressed him, Mr. Stock took him by the 
hand, and walked along with him to the parish 
poor-house to find his mother. They found her 
dressed in ragged filthy finery, standing at the 
door, where she passed most of her time, quar- 
relling with half a dozen women as idle and dirty 
as herself. When she saw Tommy so neat and 
well-dressed, she fell a crying for joy. She 
said ' it put her in mind of old times, for Tommy 
always used to be dressed like a gentleman.' — ' So 
much the worse,' said Mr. Stock ; ' if you had 
not begun by making him look like a gentleman, 
you needed not have ended by making him look 
like a beggar.' ' Oh Jem !' said she, (for though 
it was four years since she had seen him, she 
soon recollected him) ' fine times for you ! set a 
beggar on horseback — you know the proverb. 
I shall beat Tommy well for finding you out 
and exposing me to you.' 

Instead of entering into any dispute with this 
bad woman, or praising himself at her expense ; 
instead of putting her in mind of her past ill 
behaviour to him, or reproaching her with the 
bad use she had made of her prosperity, he 
mildly said to her, — ' Mrs. Williams I am sorry 
for your misfortunes ; I am come to relieve you 
of part of your burden. I will take Tommy off 
your hands. I will give him a year's board and 
schooling, and by that time I shall see what he 
is fit for. I will promise nothing, but if the 



boy turns out well, I will never forsake him 
I shall make but one bargain with you, which 
is, that he must not come to this place to hear 
all this railing and swearing, nor shall he keep, 
company with these pilfering idle children. 
You are welcome to go and see him when you 
please, but here he must not come.' 

The foolish woman burst out a crying, say- 
ing, ' she should lose her poor dear Tommy for 
ever. Mr. Stock might give her the money he 
intended to pay at the school, for nobody could 
do so well by him as his own mother.' The 
truth was, she wanted to get these new clothes, 
into her clutches, which would all have been 
pawned at the dram-shop before the week was 
out. This Mr. Stock well knew. From crying 
she fell to scolding and swearing. She told him 
he was an unnatural wretch, that wanted to 
make a child despise his own mother because 
she was poor. She even went so far as to say 
she would not part from him ; she said she hated 
your godly people, they had no bowels of com- 
passion, but tried to set men, women, and chil- 
dren against their own flesh and blood. 

Mr. Stock now almost lost his patience, and 
for one moment a thought came across him, to 
strip the boy, carry back the clothes, and leave 
him to his unnatural mother. ' Why,' said he, 
' should I work over-hours, and wear out my 
strength for this wicked woman ?' But soon he 
checked this thought, by reflecting on the pa- 
tience and long-suffering of God with rebellious 
sinners. This cured his anger in a moment, 
and he mildly reasoned with her on the folly 
and blindness in opposing the good of her child. 

One of the neighbours who stood by said, 
' What a fine thing it was for the boy ! but some 
people were born to be lucky. She wished Mr. 
Stock would take a fancy to her child, he should 
have him soon enough.' Mrs. Williams now 
began to be frightened lest Mr. Stock should 
take the woman at her word, and sullenly con- 
sented to let the boy go, from envy and malice, 
not from prudence and gratitude ; and Tommy 
was sent to school that very night, his mother 
crying and roaring instead of thanking God for 
such a blessing. 

And here I cannot forbear telling a very good- 
natured thing of Will Simpson, one of the work- 
men. By the by it was that very young fellow 
who was reformed by Stock's good example, 
when he was an apprentice, and who used to 
sing psalms with him on a Sunday evening, 
when they got out of the way of Williams's 
junketing. Will coming home early one even- 
ing was surprised to find his master at work by 
himself, long after the usual time. He begged 
so heartily to know the reason, that Stock owned 
the truth. Will was so struck with this piece 
of kindness, that he snatched up a last, crying 
out, ' Well, master, you shall not work by your- 
self however ; we will go snacks in maintaining 
Tommy : it shall never be said that Will Simp- 
son was idling about when his master was work- 
ing for charity.' This made the hour pass 
cheerfully, and doubled the profits. 

In a year or two Mr. Stock, by God's bless- 
ing on his labours, became quite clear of the 
world. He now paid off his creditors, but he 
never forgot his obligation to them, and found 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



209 



many opportunities of showing kindness to 
them, and to their children after them. He now 
cast about for a proper wife, and as he was 
thought a prosperous man, and was very well 
looking besides, most of the smart girls of the 
place, with their tawdry finery, used to be often 
parading before the shop, and would even go to 
church in order to put themselves in his way. 
But Mr. Stock when he went to church, had 
other things in his head ; and if ever he thought 
about these gay damsels at all, it was with con- 
cern in seeing them so. improperly tricked out, 
so that the very means they took to please him 
made him dislike them. 

There was one Betsy West, a young woman 
of excellent character, and very modest appear- 
ance. He had seldom seen her out, as she was 
employed night and day in waiting on an aged, 
widowed mother, who was both lame and blind. 
This good girl was indeed almost literally eyes 
and feet to her helpless parent, and Mr. Stock 
used to see her, through the little casement win- 
dow, lifting her up, and feeding with a tender- 
ness which greatly raised his esteem for her. 
He used to tell YVill Simpson, as they sat at 
work, that such a dutiful daughter could hardly 
help to make a faithful wife. He had not, how- 
ever, the heart to try to draw her off from her 
care of her sick mother. The poor woman de- 
clined very fast. Betsy was much employed in 
reading or praying by her, while she was awake, 
and passed a good part of the night while she 
slept, in doing some fine works to sell, in order 
to supply her sick mother with little delicacies 
which their poor pittance could not afford, while 
she herself lived on a crust. 

Mr. Stock knew that Betsy would have little 
or nothing after her mother's death, as she had 
only a life income. On the other hand, Mr. 
Thompson, the tanner, had offered him two hun- 
dred pounds with his daughter Nancy ; but he 
was almost sorry that he had not in this case an 
opportunity of resisting his natural bias, which 
rather lay on the side of loving money : ' For,' 
said he, ' putting principle and putting affection 
out of the question, I shall do a more prudent 
thing by marrying Betsy West, who will con- 
form to her station, and is a religious, humble, 
industrious girl, without a shilling, than by 
having an idle dressy lass, who will neglect my 
family and fill my house with company, though 
she should have twice the fortune which Nancy 
Thompson would bring.' 

At length poor old Mrs. West was released 
from all her sufferings. At a proper time Mr. 
Stock proposed marriage to Betsy, and was ac- 
cepted. All the disappointed girls in the town 
wondered what any body could like in 6uch a 
dowdy as that. Had the man no eyes ? They 
thought Mr. Stock had had more taste. Oh! 
how did it provoke all the vain idle things to 
find, that staying at home, dressing plainly, 
serving God, and nursing a blind mother, should 
do that for Betsy West, which all their con- 
trivances, flaunting, and dancing, could not do 
for them. 

He was not disappointed in his hope of meet- 
ing with a good wife in Betsy, as indeed those 
who marry on right grounds seldom are. But 
if religious persons will, for the sake of money, 

Vol. I. O 



choose partners for life who have no religion, do 
not let them complain that they are unhappy ; 
they might have known that beforehand 

Tommy Williams was now taken home to 
Stock's house and bound apprentice. He was 
always kind and attentive to his mother ; and 
every penny which Will Simpson or his master, 
gave him for learning a chapter, he would save 
to buy a bit of tea and sugar for her. When the 
other boys laughed at him for being so foolish 
as to deny himself cakes and apples to give his 
money to her who was so bad a woman, he 
would answer, ' It may be so, but she is my 
mother for all that.' 

Mr. Stock was much moved at the change in 
this boy, who turned out a very good youth. He 
resolved, as God should prosper him, that he 
would try to snatch other helpless creatures from 
sin and ruin. ■ For,' said he, ■ it is owing to 
God's blessing on the instructions of my good 
minister when I was a child, that I have been 
saved from the broad way of destruction.' — He 
still gave God the glory of every thing he did 
aright : and when Will Simpson one day said to 
him, 'Master, I wish I were half as good as you 
are.' ' Hold, William,' answered he gravely, ' I 
once read in a book, that the devil is willing 
enough we should appear to do good actions, if 
he can but make us proud of them.' 

But we must not forget our other old acquaint- 
ance, Mr. Stock's fellow 'prentice. So next 
month you may expect a full account of the 
many tricks and frolics of idle Jack Brown. 



PART III. 

Some account of the frolics of idle Jack Brown. 

You shall now hear what befel idle Jack 
Brown, who, being a farmer's son, had many 
advantages to begin life with. But he who 
wants prudence may be said to want every 
thing, because he turns all his advantages to no 
account. 

Jack Brown was just out of his time when 
his master Williams died in that terrible drunken 
fit at the Grayhound. You know already how 
Stock succeeded to his master's business, and 
prospered in it. Jack wished very much to en- 
ter into partnership with him. His father and 
mother too were desirous of it, and offered to 
advance a hundred pounds with him. Here is 
a fresh proof of the power of character ! The old 
farmer, with all his covetousness, was eager to 
get his son into partnership with Stock, though 
the latter was not worth a shilling ; and even 
Jack's mother, with all her pride, was eager for 
it, for they had both sense enough to see it 
would be the making of Jack. The father knew 
that Stock would look to the main chance ; and 
the mother that he would take the labouring oar, 
and so her darling would have little to do. The 
ruling passion operated in both. One parent 
wished to secure to the son a life of pleasure, 
the other a profitable trade. Both were equally 
indifferent to whatever related to his eternal 
good. 

Stock, however, young as he was, was too old 
a bird to be caught with chaff. His wisdom 



210 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



was an overmatch for their cunning. He had 
a kindness for Brown, but would on no account 
enter into business with him. — ' One of these 
three things,' said he, ' I am sure will happen 
if I do; he will either hurt my principles, my 
character, or my trade ; perhaps all.' And here 
by-the-by, let me drop a hint to other young 
men who are about to enter into partnership. 
Let them not do that in haste which they may 
repent at leisure. Next to marriage it is a tie 
the hardest to break ; and next to that it is an 
engagement which ought to be entered into with 
the most caution. Many things go to the making 
such a connexion suitable, safe, and pleasant. — 
There is many a rich merchant need not be 
above taking a hint in this respect, from James 
Stock the shoemaker. 

Brown was still unwilling to port from him ; 
indeed he was too idle to look out for business, 
so he offered Stock to work with him as a jour- 
neyman, but this ho also mildly refused. It hurt 
his good-nature to do so ; but he reflected that a 
young man who has his way to make in the 
world must not only be good-natured, he must 
be prudent also. ' I am resolved,' said he, ' to 
employ none but the most sober, regular young 
men I can get. Evil communications corrupt 
good manners, and I should be answerable for 
all the disorders of my house, if I knowingly 
took a wild drinking young fellow into it. That 
which might be kindness to one, would be in- 
justice to many, and therefore a sin in myself.' 

Brown's mother was in a great rage when 
she heard that her son had stooped so low as to 
make this offer. — She valued herself on being 
proud, for she thought pride was a grand thing. 
Poor woman ! She did not know that it is the 
meanest, thing in the world. It was her igno- 
rance which made her proud, as is apt to be the 
case. — ' You mean-spirited rascal,' said she to 
Jack, ' I had rather follow you to your grave, as 
well as I love you, than see you disgrace your 
family by working under Jem Stock, the parish 
apprentice.' She forgot already what pains she 
had taken about the partnership, but pride and 
passion have bad memories. 

It is hard to say which was now uppermost 
in her mind, her desire to be revenged on Stock, 
or to see her son make a figure. She raised 
every shilling she could get from her husband, 
and all she could crib from the dairy to set up 
Jack in a showy way. So the very next market 
day she came herself, and took for him the new 
whjte house, with the two little sash windows 
painted blue, and blue posts before the door. It 
is that house which has the old cross just before 
it, as you turn down between the church and 
the Grayhound. Its being so near the church 
to be sure was no recommendation to Jack, but 
its being so near the Grayhound was, and so 
taking one thing with the other it was to be 
sure no bad situation ; but what weighed most 
with the mother was, that it was a much more 
showy shop than Stock's ; and the house, though 
not half so convenient, was far more smart. 

In order to draw custom, his foolish mother 
advised him to undersell his neighbours just at 
first ; to buy ordinary but showy goods, and to 
employ cheap workmen. In short she charged 
him to leave no stone unturned to ruin his old 



comrade Stock. Indeed she always thought 
with double satisfaction of Jack's prosperity, 
because she always joined to it the hope that 
his success would be the ruin of Stock, for she 
owned it would be the joy of her heart to bring 
that proud upstart to a morsel of bread. She 
did not understand, for her part, why such beg- 
gars must become tradesmen ; it was making a 
velvet purse of a sow's ear. 

Stock, however, set out on quite another set 
of principles. He did not allow himself to square 
his own behaviour to others by theirs to him. 
He seldom asked himself what he should like to 
to do: but he had a mighty way of saying, I 
wonder now what is my duty to do ? — And when 
he was once clear in that matter he generally 
did it, always begging God's blessing and direc- 
tion. So instead of setting Brown at defiance ; 
instead of all that vulgar selfishness, of catch 
he that catch can — and two of a trade can never 
agree — he resolved to be friendly towards him. 
Instead of joining in the laugh against Brown 
for making his house so fine, he was sorry for 
him, because he feared he would never be able 
to pay such a rent. He very kindly called upon 
him, told him there was business enough for 
them both, and gave him many useful hints for 
his going on. He warned him to go oftener to 
church and seldomer to the Grayhound : put 
him in mind how following the one and forsak- 
ing the other had been the ruin of their poor 
master, and added the following 

ADVICE TO YOUNG TRADESMEN. 

Buy the best goods ; cut the work out yourself; 
let the eye of the master be every where ; employ 
the soberest men ; avoid all the low deceits of 
trade ; never lower the credit of another to raise 
your own ; make short payments ; keep exact ac- 
counts ; avoid idle company, and be very strict 
to your word. 

For a short time things went on swimmingly. 
Brown was merry and civil. The shop was 
well situated for gossip ; and every one who 
had something to say, and nothing to do waa 
welcome. Every idle story was first spread, and 
every idle song first sung, in Brown's shop. 
Every customer who came to be measured was 
promised that his shoes should be done first. 
But the misfortune was, if twenty came in a day 
the same promise was made to all ; so that nine- 
teen were disappointed, and of course affronted. 
He never said no to any one. It is indeed a 
word which it requires some honesty to pro- 
nounce. By all these false promises he was 
thought the most obliging fellow that ever made 
a shoe. And as he set out on the principle of 
underselling, people took a mighty fancy to the 
cheap shop. And it was agreed among all the 
young and giddy, that he would beat Stock hol- 
low, and that the old shop would soon be knock- 
ed up. 

All is not gold that glistens. 
After a few months, however, folks began to 
be not quite so fond of the cheap shop; one 
found out that the leather was bad, another that 
the work was slight. Those who liked substan- 
tial goods went all of them to Stock's, for they 
said Brown's heel taps did not last a week ; hia 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



211 



new boots let in water ; and they believed he 
made his soles of brown paper. Besides, it was 
thought by most, that this promising all, and 
keeping his word with none, hurt his business 
as much as any thing. Indeed, I question, put- 
ting religion out of the question, if lying ever 
answers, even in a political view. 

Brown had what is commonly called good 
heart ; that is, he had a thoughtless good nature, 
and a sort of feeling for the moment which made 
him very sorry when others were in trouble. 
But he was not apt to put himself to any incon- 
venience, nor go a step out of his way, nor give 
up any pleasure to serve the best friend he had. 
He loved fun; and those who do should always 
eee that it be harmless, and that they do not give 
up more for it than it is worth. I am not going 
to say a word against innocent merriment. I 
like it myself. But what the proverb says of 
gold, may be said of mirth ; it may be bought 
too dear. If a young man finds that what he 
fancies is a good joke may possibly offend God, 
hurt his neighbour, afflict his parent, or make a 
modest girl blush, let bim then be assured it is 
not fun, but wickedness, and he had better let it 
Alone. 

Jack Brown then, as good a heart as he had, 
did not know what it was to deny himself any 
thing. He was so good-natured indeed, that he 
never in his life refused to make one of a 
jolly sot ; but he was not good-natured enough 
to consider that those men whom he kept up all 
night roaring and laughing, had wives and chil- 
dren at home, who had little to eat, and less to 
wear, because they were keeping up the charac- 
ter of merry fellows, and good hearts at the pub- 
lic house. 

The Mountebank. 

One day he saw his father's plough-boy come 
galloping up to the door in great haste. This 
boy brought Brown word that his mother was 
dangerously ill, and that his father had sent his 
own best bay mare Smiler, that his son might 
lose no time, but set out directly to see his mo- 
ther before she died. Jack burst into tears, la- 
mented the danger of so fond a mother, and all 
the people in the shop extolled his good heart. 

He sent back the boy directly, with a message 
that he would follow him in half an hour, as 
soon as the mare had baited : for he well knew 
that his father would not thank him for any 
haste he might make if Smiler was hurt. 

Jack accordingly set off, and rode with such 
speed to the next town, that both himself and 
Smiler had a mind to another bait. They stop- 
ped at the Star : unluckily it was fair-day, and 
as he was walking about while Smiler was eat- 
ing her oats, a bill was put into his hand setting 
forth, that on the stage opposite the Globe a moun- 
tebank was showing away, and his Andrew per- 
forming the finest tricks that ever were seen. 
He read — he stood still — he went on — ' It will 
not hinder me,' says he ; ' Smiler must rest ; and 
1 shall see my poor dear mother quite as soon 
if I just take a peep, as if I sit moping at the 
Star.' " 

The tricks were so merry that the time seem- 
ed short, and when they were over he could not 
forbear going into the Globe and treating these 



choice spirits with a bowl of punch. Just as 
they were taking the last glass Jack happened 
to say that he was the best fives player in the 
country. ' That is lucky,' said the Andrew. 
1 for there is a famous match now playing in tho 
court, and you may never again have such an 
opportunity to show your skill.' Brown declared 
' he could not stay, for that he had left his horse 
at the Star, and must set off on urgent business.' 
They now all pretended to call his skill in ques- 
tion. This roused his pride, and he thought 
another half hour could break no squares. Smi- 
ler had now had a good feed of corn, and he 
would only have to push her on a little more ; 
so to it he went. 

He won the first game. This spurred him 
on ; and he played till it was so dark they could 
not see a ball. Another bowl was called for 
from the winner. Wagers and bets now drained 
Brown not only of all the money he had won, 
but of all he had in his pocket, so that he was 
obliged to ask leave to go to the house where 
his horse was, to borrow enough to discharge 
his reckoning at the Globe. 

All these losses brought his poor dear mother 
to his mind, and he inarched off with rather a 
heavy heart to borrow the money, and to order 
Smiler out of the stable. The landlord express- 
ed much surprise at seeing him, and the ostler 
declared there was no Smiler there ; that he had 
been rode off above two hours ago by the merry 
Andrew, who said he come by order of the owner, 
Mr. Brown, to fetch him to the Globe, and to 
pay for his feed. It was indeed one of the 
neatest tricks the Andrew ever performed, for 
he made such a clean conveyance of Smiler, 
that neither Jack nor his father ever heard of 
her again. 

It was night : no one could tell what road the 
Andrew took, and it was another hour or two 
before an advertisement could be drawn up for 
apprehending the horse-stealer. Jack had some 
doubts whether he should go on or return back. 
He knew that though his father might fear his 
wife most, yet he loved Smiler best. At length 
he took that courage from a glass of brandy 
which he ought to have taken from a hearty re- 
pentance, and he resolved to pursue his journey. 
He was obliged to leave his watch and silver 
buckles in pawn for a little old hack which was 
nothing but skin and bone, and would hardly 
trot three miles an hour. 

He knocked at his father's door about five in 
the morning. The family were all up. — He 
asked the boy who opened the door how his 
mother was ? 'She is dead,' said the boy ; ' she 
died yesterday afternoon.' Here Jack's heart 
smote him, and he cried aloud, partly from grief, 
but more from the reproaches of his own con- 
science, for he found by computing the hours, 
that had he come straight on, he should have 
been in time to receive his mother's blesing. 

The farmer now came from within, 'I hear 
Smiler's step. Is Jack come ?' — ' Yes, father,' 
said Jack, in a low voice. ' Then,' cried the 
farmer, ' run every man and boy of you and 
take care of the mare. Tom, do thou go and 
rub her down ; Jem, run and get her a good 
feed of corn. Be sure walk her about that she 
may not catch cold.' Young Brown came in. 



212 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



' Are you not an undutiful dog ? said the father ; 
'you might have been here twelve hours ago. 
Your mother could not die in peace without see- 
ing you. She said it was cruel return for all 
her fondness that you could not make a little 
haste to see her ; but it was always so, for she 
had wronged her other children to help you, and 
this was her reward.' Brown sobbed out a few 
words, but his father replied, ' Never cry Jack, 
for the boy told me that it was out of regard for 
Smiler, that you were not here as soon as he 
was ; and if 'twas your over care of her, why 
there's no great harm done. You could not 
have saved your poor mother, and you might 
have hurt the mare.' Here Jack's double guilt 
flew into his face. He knew that his father was 
very covetous, and had lived on bad terms with 
his wife ; and also that his own unkindness to 
her had been forgiven by him out of love to the 
horse ; but to break to him how he had lost that 
horse through his own folly and want of feeling, 
was more than Jack had courage to do. The 
old man, however, soon got at the truth, and no 
words can describe his fury. Forgetting that 
his wife lay dead above stairs, he abused his son 
in a way not fit to be repeated ; and though his 
covetousness had just before found an excuse 
for a favourite son neglecting to visit a dying 
parent, yet he now vented his rage against Jack 
as an unnatural brute, whom he would cut off 
with a shilling, and bade him never see his face 
again. 

Jack was not allowed to attend his mother's 
funeral, which was a real grief to him ; nor 
would his father advance even the little money 
which was needful to redeem his things at the 
Star. He had now no fond mother to assist 
him, and he set out on his return home on his 
borrowed hack, full of grief. He had the added 
mortification of knowing, that he had also lost 
by his folly a little hoard of money which his 
mother had saved up for him. 

When Brown got back to his own town he 
found that the story of Smiler and the Andrew 
had got thither before him, and it was thought a 
very good joke at the Grayhound. He soon re- 
covered his spirits as far as related to the horse, 
but as to his behaviour to his dying mother it 
troubled him at times to the last day of his life, 
though he did all he could to forget it. He did 
not however go on at all better, nor did he en- 
gage in one frolic the less for what had passed 
at the Globe ; his good heart continually betray- 
ed him into acts of levity and vanity. 

Jack began at length to feel the reverse of 
that proverb, Keep your shop and your shop will 
keep you. He had neglected his customers, and 
they forsook him. Quarter-day came round ; 
there was much to pay and little to receive. He 
owed two years' rent. He was in arrears to his 
men for wages. He had a long account with 
his currier. It was in vain to apply to his father. 
He had now no mother. Stock was the only 
true friend he had in the world, and had helpsd 
him out of many petty scrapes, but he knew 
Stock would advance no money in so hopeless a 
case. Duns came fast about him. He named a 
speedy day for payment ; but as soon as they 
were out of the house, and the danger put off to 
a little distance, he forgot every promise, wajs aa. 



merry as ever, and run the same round of 
thoughtless gaiety. Whenever he was in trou- 
ble Stock did not shun him, because that was 
the moment to throw in a little good advice. He 
one day asked him if he always intended to go 
on in this course ?' 'No, said he, ' I am re- 
solved by and by to reform, grow sober, and go 
to church. Why I am but five and twenty, 
man, I am stout and healthy, and likely to live 
long ; I can repent, and grow melancholy and 
good at any time.' 

' Oh Jack !' said Stock, ' don't cheat thyself 
with that false hope. What thou dost intend to 
do, do quickly. Did'st thou never read about 
the heart growing hardened by long indulgence 
in sin ? Some folk, who pretend to mean well, 
show that they mean nothing at all, by never 
beginning to put their good resolutions into 
practice ; which made a wise man once say, 
that hell is paved with good intentions. We 
cannot repent when we please. It is the good- 
ness of God ichich leadeth us to repentance.' .' 

' I am sure,' replied Jack, ' I am no one's ene- 
my but my own.' 

' It is as foolish,' said Stock, ' to say a bad 
man is no one's enemy but his own, as that a 
good man is no one's friend but his own. There 
is no such neutral character. A bad man cor- 
rupts or offends all within reach of his example, 
just as a good man benefits or instructs all with- 
in the sphere of his influence. And there is no 
time when we can say that this transmitted good 
and evil will end. A wicked man may be punish- 
ed for sins he never committed himself, if he 
has been the cause of sin in others, as surely as 
a saint will be rewarded for more good deeds 
that he himself has done, even for the virtues 
and good actions of all those who are made 
better by his instruction, his example, or his 
writings.' 

Michaelmas-day was at hand. The landlord 
declared he would be put off no longer, but 
would seize for rent if it was not paid him on 
that day, as well as for a considerable sum due 
to him for leather. Brown at last began to be 
frightened. He applied to Stock to be bound 
for him. This, Stock flatly refused. Brown 
now began to dread the horrors of a jail, and 
really seemed so very contrite, and made so ma- 
ny vows and promises of amendment, that at 
length Stock was prevailed on, together with 
two or three of Brown's other friends, to advance 
each a small sum of money to quiet the landlord, 
Brown promising to make over to them every 
part of his stock, and to be guided in future by 
their advice, declaring that he would turn over 
a new leaf, and follow Mr. Stock's example, as 
well as his direction in every thing. 

Stock's good nature was at length wrought 
upon, and he raised the money. The truth is, 
he did not know the worst, nor how deeply 
Brown was involved. Brown joyfully set out on 
the very quarter-day to a town at some distance, 
to carry his landlord this money, raised by the 
imprudent kindness of his friend. At his de- 
parture Stock put him in mind of the old story 
of Smiler and the Merry Andrew, and he pro- 
mised of his own head that he would not even 
call at a public house till he had paid the 
money. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



213 



He was as good as his word. He very tri- 
umphantly passed by several. He stopped a 
little under the window of one where the sounds 
of merriment and loud laughter caught his ear. 
At another he heard the enticing notes of a fiddle 
and the light heels of the merry dancers. Here 
his heart had well nigh failed him, but the dread 
of a jail on the one hand, and what he feared 
almost as much, Mr. Stock's anger on the other, 
spurred him on ; and he valued himself not a 
little at having got the better of this temptation. 
He felt quite happy when he found he had 
reached the door of his landlord without having 
yielded to one idle inclination. 

He knocked at the door. The maid who open- 
ed it said her master was not at home. ' I am 
sorry for it,' said he, strutting about ; and with 
a boasting air he took out his money. ' I want 
to pay him my rent : he needed not to have been 
afraid of me.' The servant, who knew her mas- 
ter was very much afraid of him, desired him to 
Walk in, for her master would be at home in half 
an hour. ' I will call again,' said he ; ' but no, 
let him call on me, and the sooner the better : I 
shall be at the Blue Posts.' While he had been 
talking he took care to open his black leather 
case, and to display the bank bills to the servant, 
and then, in a swaggering way, he put up his 
money and marched off to the Blue Posts. 

He was by this time quite proud of his own 
resolution, and having tendered the money, and 
being clear in his own mind that it was the 
landlord's own fault and not his that it was not 
paid, he went to refresh himself at the Blue 
Posts. In a barn belonging to this public house 
a set of strollers were just going to perforin some 
of that sing-song ribaldry by which our villages 
are corrupted, the laws broken, and that money 
drawn from the poor for pleasure, which is 
wanted by their families for bread. The name 
of the last new song which made part of the en- 
tertainment, made him think himself in high 
luck, that he should have just that half hour to 
spare. He went into the barn, but was too much 
delighted with the actor, who sung his favourite 
song, to remain a quiet hearer. He leaped out 
of the pit, and got behind the two ragged blan- 
kets which served for a curtain. He sung so 
much better than the actors themselves, that 
they praised and admired him to a degree which 
awakened all his vanity. He was so intoxicated 
with their flattery, that he could do no less than 
invite them all to supper, an invitation which 
they were too hungry not to accept. 

He did not, however, quite forget his appoint- 
ment with his landlord ; but the half hour was 
long since past by. 'And so,' says he, 'as I 
know he is a mean curmudgeon, who goes to 
bed by daylight to save candles, it will be too 
late to speak with him to-night ; besides, let 
him call upon me ; it is his business and not 
mine. I left word where I was to be found ; the 
money is ready, and if I don't pay him to-night, 
I can do it before breakfast.' 

By the time theae firm resolutions were made, 
supper was ready. There never was a more 
jolly evening. Ale and punch were as plenty 
as water. The actors saw what a vain fellow 
was feasting them ; and as they wanted victuals, 
and he wanted flattery, the business was soon 



settled. They ate, and Brown sung They 
pretended to be in raptures. Singing promoted 
drinking, and every fresh glass produced a song 
or a story still more merry than the former. 
Before morning, the players, who were engaged 
to act in another barn a dozen miles off, stole 
away quietly. Brown having dropt asleep they 
left him to finish his nap by himself. As to him 
his dreams were gay and pleasant, and the 
house being quite still, he slept comfortably till 
morning. 

As soon as he had breakfasted, the business 
of the night before popped into his head. He 
set off once more to his landlord's in high spirits, 
gaily singing by the way, scraps of all the tunes 
he had picked up the night before from his new 
friends. The landlord opened the door himself, 
and reproached him with no small surliness for 
not having kept his word with him the evening 
before, adding, that he supposed he was come 
now with some more of his shallow excuses. 
Brown put on all that haughtiness which is com- 
mon to people who being generally apt to be in 
the wrong, happen to catch themselves doing a 
right action ; he looked big, as some sort of 
people do when they have money to pay. ' You 
need not have been so anxious about your mo- 
ney,' said he, ' I was not going to break or run 
away.' The landlord well knew this was the 
common language of those who are ready to do 
both. Brown haughtily added, ' You shall see 
I am a man of my word ; give me a receipt.' 
The landlord had it ready and gave it him. 

Brown put his hand in his pocket for his black 
leathern case in which the bills were ; he felt, 
he searched, he examined, first one pocket, then 
the other ; then both waistcoat pockets, but no 
leather case could he find. He looked terrified. 
It was indeed the face of real terror, but the 
landlord conceived it to be that of guilt, and 
abused him heartily for putting his old tricks 
upon him ; he swore he would not be imposed 
upon any longer ; the money or a jail — there 
lay his choice. 

Brown protested for once with great truth, 
that he had no intention to deceive; declared 
that he had actually brought the money, and 
knew not what was become of it ; but the thing 
was far too unlikely to gain credit. Brown now 
called to mind that he had fallen asleep on the 
settle in the room where they had supped. This 
raised his spirits ; for he had no doubt but the 
case had fallen out of his pocket ; he said he 
would step to the public house and search for it, 
and would be back directly. Not one word of 
this did the landlord believe, so inconvenient is 
it to have a bad character. He swore Brown 
should not stir out of his house without a con- 
stable, and made him wait while he sent for one. 
Brown, guarded by the constable, went back to 
the Blue Posts, the landlord charging the officer 
not to lose sight of the culprit. The caution 
was needless ; Brown had not the least design 
of running away, so firmly persuaded was he 
that he should find his leather case. 

But who can paint his dismay, when no tale 
or tidings of the leather case could be had : 
The master, the mistress, the boy, the maid of 
the public house all protested they were inno- 
cent. His suspicions soon fell on the strollers 



214 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



with whom he had passed the night ; and he now 
found out for the first time, that a merry even- 
ing did not always produce a happy morning. He 
obtained a warrant, and proper officers were sent 
in pursuit of the strollers. No one, however, 
believed he had really lost any thing ; and as 
he had not a shilling left to defray the expensive 
treat he had given, the master of the inn agreed 
with the other landlord in thinking this story 
was a trick to defraud them both, and Brown 
remained in close custody. At length the 
officers returned, who said they had been ob- 
liged to let the strollers go, as they could not 
fix the charge on any one, and they had offered 
to swear before a justice that they had seen no- 
thing of the leasher case. It was at length 
agreed that as he had passed the evening in a 
crowded barn, he had probably been robbed 
there, if at all ; and among so many, who could 
pretend to guess at the thief? 

Brown raved like a madman; he cried, tore 
his hair, and said he was ruined forever. The 
abusive language of his old landlord, and his 
new creditor at the Blue Posts, did not lighten 
his sorrow. His landlord would be put off no 
longer. Brown declared he could neither find 
bail nor raise another shilling ; and as soon as 
the forms of law were made out, he was sent to 
the county jail. 

Here it might have been expected that hard 
living and much leisure would have brought 
him to reflect a little on his past follies. But 
his heart was not truly touched. The chief 
thing which grieved him at first was, his hav- 
ing abused the kindness of Stock, for to him he 
should appear guilty of a real fraud, where he 
had indeed been only vain, idle, and imprudent. 
And it is worth while here to remark, that 
vanity, idleness, and imprudence, often bring a 
man to utter ruin both of soul and body, though 
silly people do not put them in the catalogue of 
heavy sins, and those who indulge in them are 
often reckoned honest, merry fellows, with the 
best hearts in the world. 

I wish I had room to tell my readers what 
befel Jack in his present doleful habitation, and 
what became of him afterwards. I promise 
them, however, that they shall certainly know 
the first of next month, when I hope they will 
not forget to inquire for the fourth part of the 
Shoemakers, or Jack Brown in prison 



PART IV. 

Jack Brown in Prison. 

Brown was no sooner lodged in his doleful 
habitation, and a little recovered from his first 
surprise, than he sat down and wrote his friend 
Stock the whole history of the transaction. Mr. 
Stock, who had long known the exceeding light- 
ness and dissipation of his mind, did not so ut- 
terly disbelieve the story as all the other credi- 
tors did. To speak the truth, Stock was the 
only one among them who had good sense 
enough to know, that a man may be completely 
ruined, both in what relates to his property and 
bis soul, without committing Old Bailev crimes. 



He well knew that idleness, vanity, and the 
love of pleasure, as it is falsely called, will bring 
a man to a morsel of bread, as surely as. those 
things which are reckoned much greater sins 
and that they undermine his principles as cer 
tainly, though not quite so fast. 

Stock was too angry with what had happened 
to answer Brown's letter, or to seem to take the 
least notice of him. However, he kindly and 
secretly, undertook a journey to the hard-heart- 
ed old farmer, Brown's father, to intercede with 
him, and to see if he would do any thing for his 
son. Stock did not pretend to excuse Jack, or 
even to lessen his offences ; for it was a rule of 
his never to disguise truth or to palliate wicked- 
ness. Sin was still sin in his eyes, though it were 
committed by his best friend ; but though he 
would not 6often the sin, he felt tenderly for the 
sinner. He pleaded with the old farmer on the 
ground, that his son's idleness and other vices 
would gather fresh strength in a jail. He told 
him, that the loose and worthless company 
which he would there keep, would harden him 
in vice, and if he was now wicked, he might 
there become irreclaimable. 

But all his pleas were urged in vain. The far- 
mer was not to be moved, indeed he argued with 
some justice, that he ought not to make his in- 
dustrious children beggars to save one rogue 
from the gallows. Mr. Stock allowed the force 
of his reasoning, though he saw the father was 
less influenced by this principle of justice than 
by resentment on account of the old story of 
Smiler. People, indeed, should take care that 
what appears in their conduct to proceed from 
justice, does not really proceed from revenge. 
Wiser men than farmer Brown often deceive 
themselves, and fancy they act on better prin- 
ciples than they really do, for want of looking 
a little more closely into their own hearts, and 
putting down every action to its true motive. 
When we are praying against deceit we should 
not forget to take self-deceit into the account. 

Mr. Stock at length wrote to poor Jack ; not 
to offer him any help, that was quite out of the 
question, but to exhort him to repent of his evil 
ways ; to lay before him the sins of his past 
life, and to advise him to convert the present 
punishment into a benefit, by humbling himself 
before God. He offered his interest to get his 
place of confinement exchanged for one of those 
improved prisons, where solitude and labour 
have been made the happy instruments of bring- 
ing many to a better way of thinking, and end- 
ed by saying, that if he ever gave any solid signs 
of real amendment he would still be his friend, 
in spite of all that was past. 

If Mr. Stock had sent him a good sum of 
money to procure his liberty, or even to make 
merry with his wretched companions, Jack 
would have thought him a friend indeed. But 
to send him nothing but dry advice, and a few 
words of empty comfort, was, he thought, but a 
cheap shabby way of showing his kindness 
Unluckily the letter came just as he was going 
to sit down to one of those direful merry-mak- 
ings which are often carried on with brutal riot 
within the doleful walls of a jail on the entrance 
of a new prisoner, who is often expected to give 
a feast to the rest 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



215 



When his companions were heated with gin ; 
'Now,' said Jack, ' I'll treat you with a sermon, 
and a very pretty preachment it is.' So saying, 
he took out Mr. Stock's kind and pious letter, 
and was delighted at the bursts of laughter it 
produced. ' What a canting dog !' said one. 
4 Repentance, indeed !' cried Tom Crew ; ' No, 
no, Jack, tell this hypocritical rogue that if we 
have lost our liberty, it is only for having been 
jelly, hearty fellows, and we have more spirit 
than to repent of that I hope : all the harm we 
have done is living a little too fast, like honest 
bucks as we are. — ' Ay, ay,' said jolly George, 
' had we been such sneaking miserly fellows as 
Stock, we need not have come hither. But if 
the ill nature of the laws has been so cruel as to 
clap up such fine hearty blades, we are no felons 
however. We are afraid of no Jack Ketch ; and 
I see no cause to repent of any sin that's not 
hanging matter. As to those who are thrust 
into the condemned hole indeed, and have but a 
few hours to live, they must see the parson, and 
hear a sermon, and such stuff. But I do not 
know what such stout young fellows as we are 
have to do with repentance. And so, Jack, let 
us have that rare new catch which you learnt 
of the strollers that merry night when you lost 
your pocket-book.' 

This thoughtless youth soon gave a fresh 
proof of the power of evil company, and of the 
quick progress of the heart of a sinner from bad 
to worse. Brown, who always wanted principle, 
soon grew to want feeling also. He joined in 
the laugh which was raised against Stock, and 
told many good stories, as they were called, in 
derision of the piety, sobriety, and self-denial of 
his old friend. He lost every day somewhat of 
those small remains of shame and decency 
which he had brought with him to the prison. 
He even grew reconciled to this wretched way 
of life, and the want of money seemed to him 
the heaviest evil in the life of a jail. 

Mr. Stock finding from the jailer that his 
letter had been treated with ridicule, would not 
write to him any more. He did not come to 
see him nor send him any assistance, thinking 
it right to let him suffer that want which his 
vices had brought uporl him. But as he still 
hoped that the time would come when he might 
be brought to a sense of his evil courses, he 
continued to have an eye upon him by means 
of the jailer, who was an honest, kind-hearted 
man. 

Brown spent one part of his time in thought- 
legs riot, and the other in gloomy sadness. Com- 
pany kept up his spirits ; with his new friends 
he contrived to drown thought ; but when he 
was alone he began to find that a merry fellow, 
when deprived of his companions and his liquor, 
is often a most forlorn wretch. Then it is that 
even a merry fellow says, Of laughter, what is 
it ? and of mirth, it is madness. 

As he contrived, however, to be as little alone 
as possible his gaiety was commonly uppermost 
till that loathsome distemper, called the jail 
fever, broke out in the prison. Tom Crew, the 
ringleader in all their evil practices, was first 
seized with it. Jack staid a little while with 
his comrade to assist and divert him, but of 
assistance he could give little, and the very 



thought of diversion was now turned into horror. 
He soon caught the distemper, and that in so 
dreadful a degree, that his life was in great 
danger. Of those who remained in health not 
a soul came near him, though he shared his last 
farthing with them. He had just sense enough 
left to feel this cruelty. Poor fellow ! he did 
not know before, that the friendship of the 
worldly is at an end when there is no more drink 
or diversion to be had. He lay in the most de- 
plorable condition ; his body tormented with a 
dreadful disease, and his soul terrified and 
amazed at the approach of death : that death 
which he thought at so great a distance, and of 
which his comrades had so often assured him 
that a young fellow of five-and-twenty was is no 
danger. Poor Jack ! I cannot help feeling for 
him. Without a shilling ! without 1 friend ! with- 
out one comfort respecting this wjrld, an(i| what 
is far more terrible, without one hope respect- 
ing the next. 

Let not the young reader fancy that Brown's 
misery arose entirely from his altered circum- 
stances. It was not merely his being in want, 
and sick, and in prison, which made his condi- 
tion so desperate. Many an honest man un- 
justly accused, many a persecuted saint, many 
a holy martyr has enjoyed sometimes more 
peace and content in a prison than wicked men 
have ever tasted in the height of their pros- 
perity. But to any such comforts, to any com- 
fort at all, poor Jack was an utter stranger. 

A christian friend generally comes forward 
at the very time when worldly friends forsake 
the wretched. The other prisoners would not 
come near Brown, though he had often enter- 
tained, and had never offended them ; even bis 
own father was not moved with his sad condi- 
tion. When Mr. Stock informed him of it, he 
answered, ' 'Tis no more than he deserves. As 
he brews so he must bake. He has made his 
own bed, and let him lie in it.' The hard old 
man had ever at his tongue's end some proverb 
of hardness, or frugality, which he contrived to 
turn in such a way as to excuse himself. 

We shall now see how Mr. Stock behav- 
ed. He had his favourite sayings too ; but 
they were chiefly on the side of kindness, 
mercy, or some other virtue. ' I must not,' 
said he, 'pretend to call myself a Christian, if 
I do not requite evil with good.' When he re- 
ceived the jailer's letter with the account of 
Brown's sad condition, Will Simpson and Tom- 
my Williams began to compliment him on his 
own wisdom and prudence, by which he had 
escaped Brown's misfortunes. He only gravely 
said, ' Blessed be God that I am not in the same 
misery. It is He who has made us to differ. 
But for his grace I might have been in no bet- 
ter condition. — Now Brown is brought low by 
the hand of God, it is my time to go to him.' 
1 What, you !' said Will, ' whom he cheated of 
your money?' — 'This is not a time to remem- 
ber injuries,' said Mr. Stock. ' How can I ask 
forgiveness for my own sins, if 1 withhold for- 
giveness from him '/' So saying, he ordered his 
horse, and set off to see poor Brown ; thus prov- 
ing that his was a religion not of words but of 
deeds. 

Stock's heart nearly failed him as he passed- 



216 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



through the prison. The groans of the sick and 
dying, and, what to such a heart as his was still 
more moving, the brutal merriment of the 
healthy in such a place, pierced his very soul. 
Many a silent prayer did he put up as he passed 
along, that God would yet be pleased to touch 
their hearts, and that now (during this infec- 
tious sickness) might be the accepted time. The 
jailer observed him drop a tear, and asked the 
cause. ' I cannot forget, said he, ' that the most 
dissolute of these men is still my fellow creature. 
The same God made them ; the same Saviour 
died for them ; how then can I hate the worst 
of them ? With my advantages they might have 
been much better than I am ; without the bless- 
ing of God on my good minister's instructions, 
I might have been worse than the worst of these. 
I have no cause for pride, much for thankful- 
ness f ** Let us not be high-minded, but fear.'' 

It would have moved a heart of stone to have 
seen poor miserable Jack Brown lying on his 
wretched bed, his face so changed by pain, po- 
verty, dirt, and sorrow, that he could hardly be 
known for that merry soul of a jack-boot, as he 
used to be proud to hear himself called. His 
groans were so piteous that it made Mr. Stock's 
heart ache. He kindly took him by the hand, 
though he knew the distemper was catching. — 
4 How dost do, Jack ?' said he, ' dost know me ?' 
Brown shook his head and said, faintly, ' Know 
you ? ay, that I do. I am sure I have but one 
friend in the world who would come to see me 
in this woeful condition. O James ! what have 
I brought myself to? What will become of my 
poor soul ? I dare not look back, for that is all 
sin ; nor forward, for that is all misery and woe.' 

Mr. Stock spake kindly to him, but did not 
attempt to cheer him with false comfort, as is 
too often done. ' I am asham'd to see you in 
this dirty place,' says Brown. ' As to the place, 
Jack,' replied the other, ' if it has helped to 
bring you to a sense of your past offences, it 
will be no bad place for you. I am heartily sorry 
for your distress and your sickness ; but if it 
fihouid please God by them to open your eyes, 
and to show you that sin is a greater evil than 
the prison to which it has brought you, all may 
yet be well. I had rather see you in this hum- 
ble penitent state, lying on this dirty bed, in this 
dismal prison, than roaring and rioting at the 
Grayhound, the. king of the company, with 
handsome clothes on your back, and plenty of 
money in your pocket.' 

Brown wept bitterly, and squeezed his hand, 
but was too weak to say much. Mr. Stock then 
desired the jailor to let him have such things as 
were needful, and he would pay for them. He 
would not leave the poor fellow till he had given 
him, with his own hands, some broth which the 
jailor had got ready for him, and some medi- 
cines which the doctor had sent. All this kind- 
ness cut Brown to the heart. He was just able 
to sob out, ' My unnatural father leaves me to 
perish, and my injured friend is more than a 
father to me.' Stock told him that one proof he 
must give of his repentance, was, that he must 
forgive his father, whose provocation had been 
very great. He then said he would leave him 
for the present to take some rest, and desired 
him to lift up his heart to God for mercy. ' Dear 



James,' replied Brown, 'do you pray for me 
God perhaps may hear you, but he will never 
hear the prayer of such a sinner as I have been.' 
' Take care how you think so,' said Stock., ' To 
believe that God cannot forgive you would be 
still a greater sin than any you have yet com- 
mitted against him.' He then explained to him 
in a few words, as well as he was able, the na- 
ture of repentance and forgiveness through a 
Saviour, and warned him earnestly against un- 
belief and hardness of heart. 

Poor Jack grew much refreshed in body with 
the comfortable things he had taken ; and a little 
cheered with Stock's kindness in coming so far 
to see and to forgive such a forlorn outcast, sick 
of an infectious distemper, and locked within 
the walls of a prison. 

Surely, said he to himself, there must be some 
mighty power in a religion which can lead men 
to do such things ! things so much against the 
grain as to forgive such an injury, and to risk 
catching such a distemper ; but he was so weak 
he could not express this in words. He tried to 
pray but he could not ; at length, overpowered 
with weariness, he fell asleep. 

When Mr. Stock came back, he was surprised 
to find him so much better in body ; but his 
agonies of mind were dreadful, and he had now 
got strength to express part of the horrors which 
he felt, 'James,' said he (looking wildly) 'it 
is all over with me. I am a lost creature. Even 
your prayers cannot save me.' — ' Dear Jack,' 
replied Mr. Stock, 'I am no minister; it does 
not become me to talk much to ihee : but I know 
I may venture to say whatever is in the Bible. 
As ignorant as I am I shall be safe enough 
while I stick to that.' ' Ay,' said the sick man, 
'you used to be ready enough to read to me, and 
I would not listen, or if I did it was only to 
make fun of what I heard, and now you will not 
so much as read a bit of a chapter to me.' 

This was the very point to which Stock long- 
ed to bring him. So he took a little Bible out 
of his pocket, which he always carried with him 
on a journey, and read slowly, verse by verse, 
the fifty-fifth chapter of Isaiah. When he came 
to the sixth and seventh verses, poor Jack cried 
so much that Stock was forced to stop. The 
words were, Let the wicked man forsake his way, 
and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let 
him return unto the Lord. Here Brown stopped 
him, saying, ' Oh it is too late, too late for me.' 
— ' Let me finish the verse,' said Stock, ' and you 
will see your error ; you will see that it is never 
too late.' So he read on — Let him return unto 
the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him, and 
to our God, and he will abundantly pardon. Here 
Brown started up, snatched the book out of his 
hand, and cried out, ' Is that really there ?. No, 
no ; that's of your own putting in, in order to 
comfort me ; let me look at the words myself.' 
— 'No, indeed,' said Stock, ' I would not for the 
world give you unfounded comfort, or put off 
any notion of my own for a Scripture doctrine.' 
— ' But is it possible,' cried the sick man, ' that 
God may really pardon me ? Do'st think he can ! 
Do'st think he will ?' ' I dare not give thee false 
hopes, or indeed any hopes of my own. But 
these are God's own words, and the only diffi- 
culty is to know when we are really brought 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



217 



into such a state as that the words may be ap- 
plied to us. For a text may be full of comfort, 
and yet may not belong to us.' 

Mr. Stock was afraid of saying more. He 
would not venture out of his depth ; nor indeed 
was poor Brown able to bea> more discourse 
just now. So he made him a present of the Bi- 
ble, folding down such places as he thought 
might be best suited to his state, and took his 
leave, being obliged to return home that night. 
He left a little money with the jailor, to add a 
few comforts to the allowance of the prison, and 
promised to return in a short time. 

When he got home, he described the suffer- 
ings and misery of Brown in a very moving 
manner ; but Tommy Williams, instead of be- 
ing properly affected by it, only said, ' Indeed, 
master, I am not very sorry ; he is rightly 
served.' — ' How, Tommy,' said Mr. Stock (ra- 
ther sternly) ' not sorry to see a fellow creature 
brought to the lowest state of misery ; one too 
whom you have known so prosperous V ' No, 
master, I can't say I am ; for Mr. Brown used 
to make fun of you, and laugh at you for being 
so godly, and reading your Bible.' 

• Let me say a few words to you Tommy,' 
said Mr. Stock. ' In the first place you should 
never watch for the time of a man's being 
brought low by trouble to tell of his faults. 
Next, you should never rejoice at his trouble, 
but pity him, and pray for him. Lastly, as to 
his ridiculing me for my religion, if I cannot 
stand an idle jest, I am not worthy the name of 
a Christian. — He that is ashamed of me and my 
word — do'st remember what follows Tommy ?' 
— ' Yes, master, it was last Sunday's text — of 
him shall the Son of Man be ashamed when he 
shall judge the world.' 

Mr. Stock soon went back to the prison. But 
he did not go alone. He took with him Mr. 
Thomas, the worthy minister who had been the 
guide and instructor of his youth, who was so 
kind as to go at his request and visit this forlorn 
prisoner. When they got to Brown's door, they 
found him sitting up in his bed with the Bible 
in his hand. This was a joyful sight to Mr. 
Stock, who secretly thanked God for it. Brown 
was reading aloud ; they listened ; it was the 
fifteenth of Saint Luke. The circumstances of 
this beautiful parable of the prodigal son were 
so much like his own, that the story pierced 
him to the soul ; and he stopped every minute 
to compare his own case with that of the prodi- 
gal. He was just got to the eighteenth verse, / 
toill arise and go to my father — at that moment 
he spied his two friends ; joy darted into his 
eyes. l dear Jem,' said he, 'it is not too late, 
I will arise, and go to my Father, my heavenly 
Father, and you, sir, will show me the way, 
won't you?' said he to Mr. Thomas, whom he 
recollected. ' I am very glad to see you in so 
hopeful a disposition,' said the good minister. 
* O, sir,' said Brown, ' what a place is this to re- 
ceive you in ? O, see to what I have brought 
myself!' 

' Your condition, as to this world, is indeed 
very low,' replied the good divine. ' But what 
are mines, dungeons, or gallies, to that eternal 
hopeless prison to which your unrepented sins 
must soon have consigned you. Even in the 
Vol. I S y 



gloomy prison, on this bed of straw, worn down 
by pain, poverty, and want, forsaken by your 
worldly friends, an object of scorn to those with 
whom you used to carouse and riot ; yet here, I 
say, brought thus low, if you have at last found 
out your own vileness, and your utterly undone 
state by sin, you may still be more an object of fa- 
vour in the sight of God, than when you thought 
yourself prosperous and happy ; when the world 
smiled upon you, and you passed your days and 
nights in envied gaiety and unchristian riot. If 
you will but improve the present awful visita- 
tion ; if you do but heartily renounce and ab- 
hor your present evil courses; if you even now 
turn to the Lord your Saviour with lively faith, 
deep repentance, and unfeigned obedience, I 
shall still have more hope of you than of many 
who are going on quite happy, because quite in- 
sensible. The heavy laden sinner, who has dis- 
covered the iniquity of his own heart, and his 
utter inability to help himself, may be restored 
to God's favour, and become happy, though in a 
dungeon. And be assured, that he who from 
deep and humble contrition dares not so much 
as lift up his eyes to heaven, when with a hearty 
faith he sighs out, Lord, be mtrcifvl to me a sin- 
ner, shall in no wise be cast out. These are the 
words of him who cannot lie.' 

It is impossible to describe the self-abasement, 
the grief, the joy, the shame, the hope, and the 
fear which filled the mind of this poor man. A 
dawn of comfort at length shone on his benight- 
ed mind. His humility and fear of falling back 
into his former sins, if he should ever recover, 
Mr. Thomas thought were strong symptoms of a 
sound repentance. He improved and cherished 
every good disposition he saw arising in his 
heart, and particularly warned him against self- 
deceit, self-confidence, and hypocrisy 

After Brown had deeply expressed his sorrow 
for his offences, Mr. Thomas thus addressed 
him. ' There are two ways of being sorry for 
sin. Are you, Mr. Brown, afraid of the guilt of 
sin because of the punishment annexed to it, or 
are you afraid of sin itself? Do you wish to be 
delivered from the power of sin ? Do you hate 
sin because you know it is offensive to a pure 
and holy God ? Or are you only ashamed of it 
because it has brought you to a prison and ex- 
posed you to the contempt of the world ? It is 
not said that the wages of this or that particular 
sin is death, but of sin in general ; there is no 
exception made because it is a more creditable 
or a favourite sin, or because it is a little one. 
There are, I repeat, two ways of being sorry 
for sin. Cain was sorry — My punishment is 
greater than I can bear, said he ; but here you 
see the punishment seemed to be the cause of 
concern, not the sin. David seems to have had 
a good notion of godly sorrow, when he says, 
Wash me from mine iniquity, cleanse me from 
my sin. And when Job repented in dust and 
ashes, it is not said he excused himself, but he 
abhorred himself. And the prophet Isaiah called 
himself undone, because he was a man of un- 
clean lips ; for, said he "■ I have seen the King, 
the Lord of hosts ;" that is, he could not take 
the proper measure of his own iniquity till he 
had considered the perfect holiness of God.' 
One day, when Mr. Thomas and Mr. Stock 



218 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



came to see him, they found him more than 
commonly affected. His face was more ghastly 
pale than usual, and his eyes were red with cry- 
ing. 'Oh, sir,' said he, ' what a sight have I 
just seen ! jolly George, as we used to call him, 
the ringleader of all our mirth, who was at the 
bottom of all the fun and tricks, and wickedness 
that are carried on within these walls, jolly 
George is just dead of the jail distemper ! He 
talcen, and I left ! I would be carried into his 
room to speak to him, to beg him to take warn- 
ing by me, and that I might take warning by 
him. But what did I see ! what did I hear ! 
not one sign of repentance ; not one dawn of 
hope. Agony of body, blasphemies on his tongue, 
despair in his scul ; while I am spared and com- 
forted with hopes of mercy and acceptance. Oh, 
if all my old friends at the Gray hound could but 
then have seen jolly George ! A hundred ser- 
mons about death, sir, don't speak so home, and 
cut so deep, as the sight of one dying sinner.' 

Brown grew gradually better in his health, 
that is, the fever mended, but the distemper set- 
tled in his limbs, so that he seemed likely to be 
a poor, weakly cripple the rest of his life. But 
as he spent much of his time in prayer, and in 
reading such parts of the Bible as Mr. Thomas 
directed, he improved every day in knowledge 
and piety, and of course grew more resigned to 
pain and infirmity. 

Some months after this, his hard-hearted fa- 
ther, who had never been prevailed upon to see 
him, or offer him the least relief, was taken off 
suddenly by a fit of apoplexy ; and, after all his 
threatenings, he died without a will. He was 
one of those silly, superstitious men, who fancy 
they shall die the sooner for having made one ; 
and who love the world and the things that are 
in the world so dearly, that they dread to set 
about any business which may put them in mind 
that they are not always to live in it. As, by 
this neglect, his father had not fulfilled his threat 
of cutting him offwith a shilling, Jack, of course, 
went shares with his brothers in what their fa- 
ther left. What fell to him proved to be just 
enough to discharge him from prison, and to 
pay all his debts, but he had nothing left. His 
joy at being thus enabled to make restitution 
was so great that he thought little of his own 
wants. He did not desire to conceal the most 
trifling debt, nor to keep a shilling for himself. 

Mr. Stock undertook to settle all his affairs. 
There did not remain money enough after every 
creditor was satisfied, even to pay for his remo- 
val home. Mr. Stock kindly sent his own cart 
for him with a bed in it, made as comfortable as 
possible, for he was too weak and lame to be re- 
moved any other way, and Mrs. Stock gave the 
driver particular charge to be tender and careful 
of him, and not to drive hard, nor to leave the 
cart a moment. 

Mr. Stock would fain have taken him into his 
own house, at least for a time, so convinced was 
he of the sincere reformation both of heart and 
life ; but Brown would not be prevailed on to be 
further burthensome to. this generous friend. He 
insisted on being carried to the parish work- 
house, which he said was a far better place than 
he deserved. In this house Mr. Stock furnished 
a small room for him, and sent hira every day a 



morsel of meat from his own dinner. Tommy 
Williams begged that he might always be al- 
lowed to carry it, as some atonement for his 
having for a moment so far forgotten his duty, 
as rather to rejoice than sympathize in Brown's 
misfortunes. He never thought of this fault 
without sorrow, and often thanked his master for 
the wholesome lesson he then gave him, and he 
was the better for it all his life. 

Mrs. Stock often carried poor Brown a dish 
of tea or a basin of good broth herself. He was 
quite a cripple, and never able to walk out as 
long as he lived. Mr. Stock, Will Simpson and 
Tommy Williams laid their heads together, and 
contrived a sort of barrow on which he was often 
carried to church by some of his poor neigh- 
bours, of which Tommy was always one ; and 
he requited their kindness, by reading a good 
book to them whenever they would call in ; and 
he spent his time in teaching their children to 
sing psalms or say the catechism. 

It was no small joy to him thus to be enabled 
to go to church. Whenever he was carried by 
the Grayhound, he was much moved, and used 
to put up a prayer full of repentance for the 
past, and praise for the present. 



PARTV. 

A dialogue between James Stock and Will Simp- 
son, the shoemakers, as they sat at work, on 
the duty of carrying religion into our common 
business. 

James Stock, and his journeyman Will Simp- 
son, as I informed my readers in the second part, 
had resolved to work together one hour every 
evening, in order to pay for Tommy Williams's 
schooling. This circumstance brought them to 
be a good deal together when the rest of the men 
were gone home. Now it happened that Mr. 
Stock had a pleasant way of endeavouring to 
turn all common events to some use ; and he 
thought it right on the present occasion to make 
the only return in his power to Will Simpson 
for his great kindness. For, said he, if Will 
gives up so much of his time to help to provide 
for this poor boy, it is the least I can do to try 
to turn part of that time to the purpose of pro- 
moting Will's spiritual good. Now as the bent 
of Stock's own mind was religious, it was easy 
to him to lead their talk to something profitable. 
He always took especial care, however, that the 
subject should be introduced properly, cheer- 
fully, and without constraint. As he well knew 
that great good may be sometimes done by a 
prudent attention in seizing proper opportunities, 
so he knew that the cause of piety had been 
sometimes hurt by forcing serious subjects 
where there was clearly no disposition to re- 
ceive them. I say he had found out that two 
things were necessary to the promoting of re- 
ligion among his friends; a warm zeal to be 
always on the watch for occasions, and a cool 
judgment to distinguish which was the right 
time and place to make use of them. To know 
how to do good is a great matter, but to know 
when to do it is no small one. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



219 



Simpson was an honest good-natured young 
man ; he was now become sober, and rather re- 
ligiously disposed. But he was ignorant, he did 
not know much of the grounds of religion, or of 
the corruption of his own nature: He was re- 
gular at church, but was first drawn thither 
rather by his skill in psalm-singing than by any 
great devotion. He had left off going to the 
Grayhound, and often read the Bible, or some 
other good book on the Sunday evening. This 
he thought was quite enough ; he thought the 
Bible was the prettiest history book in the world, 
and that religion was a very good thing for Sun- 
days. But he did not much understand what 
business people had with it on working days. 
He had left off drinking because it had brought 
Williams to the grave, and his wife to dirt and 
rags ; but not because he himself had seen the 
evil of sin. He now considered swearing and 
Sabbath-breaking as scandalous and indecent, 
but he had not found out that both were to be 
left off because they are highly offensive to God, 
and grieve his Holy Spirit. As Simpson was 
less self-conceited than most ignorant people are, 
Stock had always a good hope that when he 
should come to be better acquainted with the 
word of God, and with the evil of his own heart, 
he would become one day a good Christian. The 
great hindrance to this was, that he fancied him- 
self so already. 

One evening Simpson had been calling to 
Stock's mind how disorderly the house and shop, 
where they were now sitting quietly at work, 
had formerly been and he went on thus : 

Will. How comfortably we live now, master, 
to what we used to do in Williams's time ! I 
used then never to be happy but when we were 
keeping it up all night, but now I am as merry 
as the day is long. I find I am twice as happy 
since I am grown good and sober. 

Stock. I am glad you are happy, Will, and I 
rejoice that you are sober ; but I would not have 
you take too much pride in your own goodness, 
for fear it should become a sin, almost as great 
as some of those you have left off. Besides, I 
would not have you make quite so sure that you 
are good. 

Will. Not good, master ! why don't you find 
me regular and orderly at work ? 

Stock. Very much so ; and accordingly I have 
a great respect for you. 

Will. I pay every one his own, seldom miss 
church, have not been drunk since Williams 
died, have handsome clothes for Sundays, and 
save a trifle every week. 

Stock. Very true, and very laudable it is ; and 
to all this you may add that you very generously 
work an hour, for poor Tommy's education, 
every evening without fee or reward. 

Will. Well, master, what can a man do more ? 
If all this is not being good, I don't know what is. 

Stock. All these things are very riafht as far 
as they go, and you could not well be a Christian 
without doing them. But I shall make you 
stare, perhaps, when I tell you, you may do all 
these things, and many more, and yet be no 
Christian. 

Will. No Christian ! surely, master, I do hope 
that after all I have done, you will not be so un- 
kind as to say I am no Christian, 



Stock. God forbid that I should say so, Will. 
I hope better things of you. But come now, 
what do you think it is to be a Christian ? 

Will. What ! why to be christened when one 
is a child ; to learn the catechism when one can 
read ; to be confirmed when one is a youth ; and 
to go to church when one is a man. 

Stock. These are all very proper things, and 
quite necessary. They make part of a Christi- 
an's life. But for all that, a man may be exact 
in them all, and yet not be a Christian. 

Will. Not be a christian ! ha ! ha ! ha I you 
are very comical, master. 

Stock. No, indeed, I am very serious, Will. 
At this rate it would be a very easy thing to be 
a Christian, and every man who went through 
certain forms would be a good man ; and one 
man who observed those forms would be as good 
as another. Whereas, if we come to examine 
ourselves by the word of God, I am afraid there 
are but few comparatively whom our Saviour 
would allow to be real Christians. What is your 
notion of a Christian's practice? 

Will. Why, he must not rob, nor murder, nor 
got drunk. He must avoid scandalous things, 
and do as other decent orderly people do. 

Stock. It is easy enough to be what the world 
calls a Christian, but not to be what the Bible 
calls so. 

Will. Why, master, we working men are not 
expected to be saints, and martyrs, and apostles, 
and ministers. 

Stock. We are not. And yet, Will, there are 
not two sorts of Christianity ; we are called to 
practise the same religion which they practised, 
and something of the same spirit is expected in 
us which we reverence in them. It was not 
saints and martyrs only to whom our Saviour 
said that they must crucify the world with its 
affections and lusts. We are called to he holy 
in our measure and degree, as he ivho hath call- 
ed us is holy. It was not only saints and mar- 
tyrs who were told that they must be like minded 
with Christ. That they must do all to the glory 
of God. That they must renounce the spirit of 
the world, and deny themselves. It was not to 
apostles only that Christ said, They must have 
their conversation in heaven. It was not to a 
few holy men, set apart for the altar, that he 
said, They tnust set their affections on things 
above. That they must not be conformed to the 
world. No, it was to fishermen, to publicans, to 
farmers, to day-labourers, to poor tradesmen, 
that he spoke when he told them, they must love 
not the world, nor the things of the icorld. — That 
they 7nust renounce the hidden things of disho- 
nesty, groio in grace, lay up for themselves trea- 
sures in Heaven. 

Will. All this might be very proper for them 
to be taught, because they had not been bred up 
Christians, but Heathens or Jews : and Christ 
wanted to make them his followers, that is, 
Christians. But thank God we do not want to 
be taught all this, for we are Christians, born in 
a Christian country, of Christian parents. 

Stock. I suppose then you fancy that Christi- 
anity comes to people in a Christian country by 
nature ? 

Will. I think it comes by a good education 
or a good example. When a fellow who has 



220 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



got any sense, sees a man cut off in his prime 
by drinking, like Williams, I think he will begin 
to leave it off. When he sees another man re- 
spected, like you, master, for honesty and so- 
briety, and going to church, why he will grow 
honest, and sober, and go to church : that is, he 
will see it his advantage to be a Christian. 

Stock. Will, what you say is the truth, but 
'tis not the whole truth. You are right as far 
as you go, but you do not go far enough. The 
worldly advantages of piety, are, as you suppose, 
in general great. Credit, prosperity, and health, 
almost naturally attend on a religious life, both 
because a religious life supposes a sober and in- 
dustrious life, and because a man who lives in 
a course of duty puts himself in the way of 
God's blessing. But a true Christian has a 
still higher aim in view, and will follow religion 
even under circumstances, when it may hurt 
his credit and ruin his prosperity, if it should 
ever happen to be the will of God that he should 
be brought into such a trying state. 

Will. Well, master, to speak the truth, if I 
go to church on Sundays, and follow my work 
in the week, I must say I think that is being 
good. 

Stock. I agree with you, that he who does 
both, gives the best outward signs that he is 
good, as you call it. But our going to church, 
and even reading the Bible, are no proofs that 
we are as good as we need be, but rather that 
we do both these in order to make us better than 
we are. We do both on Sundays, as means, by 
God's blessing, to make us better all the week. 
We are to bring the fruits of that chapter or of 
that sermon into our daily life, and try to get 
our inmost heart and secret thoughts, as well 
as our daily conduct, amended by them. 

Will. Why sure, master, you won't be so un- 
reasonable as to want a body to be religious al- 
ways ? I can't do that neither. I'm not such a 
hypocrite as to pretend to it. 

Stock. Yes, you can be so in every action of 
your life. 

Will. What, master, always to be thinking 
about religion ? 

Stock. No, far from it, Will ; much less to be 
always talking about it. But you must be al- 
ways under its power and spirit. 

Will. But surely 'tis pretty well if I do this 
when I go to church ; or while I am saying my 
prayers. Even you, master, as strict as you are, 
would not have me always on my knees, nor 
always at church, I suppose: for then how 
would your work be carried on, and how would 
our town be supplied with shoes ? 

Slock. Very true, Will. 'Twould be no proof 
of our religion to let our customers go barefoot ; 
but 'twould be a proof of our laziness, and 
we should starve, as we ought to do. The 
business of the world must not only be carried 
on, but carried on with spirit and activity. 
We have the same authority for not being 
slothful in business, as we have for being 
fervent in spirit. Religion has put godliness 
and laziness, as wide asunder as any two things 
in the world ; and what God has separated let 
no man pretend to join. Indeed, the spirit of 
religion can have no fellowship with sloth, in- 
dolence, and self-indulgence, But still, a Chris- 



tian does not carry on his common trade quite 
like another man neither ; for something of the 
spirit which he labours to attain at church, he 
carries with him into his worldly concerns. 
While there are some who set up for Sunday 
Christians, who have no notion that they are 
bound to be week-day Christians too. 

Will. Why, master, I do think, if God Al- 
mighty is contented with one day in seven, he 
won't thank you for throwing him the other six 
into the bargain. I thought he gave us them 
for our own use ; and I am sure nobody works 
harder all the week than you do. 

Stock. God, it is true, sets apart one day in 
seven for actual rest from labour, and for more 
immediate devotion to his service. — But show 
me that text wherein he says, thou shalt love 
the Lord thy God on Sundays — Thou shalt 
keep my commandments on the Sabbath day — 
To be carnally minded on Sundays, is death — 
Cease to do evil, and learn to do well one day in 
seven — Grow in grace on the Lord's day — Is 
there any such text ? 

Will. No, to be sure there is not ; for that 
would be encouraging sin on all the other days. 

Stock. Yes, just as you do when you make 
religion a thing for the church, and not for the 
world. There is no one lawful calling, in pur- 
suing which we may not serve God acceptably. 
You and I may serve him while we are stitch- 
ing this pair of boots. Farmer Furrow, while 
he is ploughing yonder field. Betsy West, over 
the way, whilst she is nursing her sick mother. 
Neighbour Incle, in measuring out his tapes 
and ribands. I say, all these may serve God 
just as acceptably in those employments as at 
church, I had almost said more so. 

Will. Ay, indeed ; how can that be ? — Now 
you're too much on t'other side. 

Stock. Because a man's trials in trade being 
often greater, they give him fresh means of 
glorifying God, and proving the sincerity of re- 
ligion. A man who mixes in business, is na- 
turally brought into continual temptations and 
difficulties. These will lead him, if he be a good 
man, to look more to God, than he perhaps 
would otherwise do. — He sees temptations on 
the right hand and on the left ; he knows that 
there are snares all around him ; this makes 
him watchful : he feels that the enemy within is 
too ready to betray him ; this makes him humble 
himself; while a sense of his own difficulties 
makes him tender to the failings of others. 

Will. Then you would make one believe, 
after all, that trade and business must be sinful 
in itself, since it brings a man into all these 
snares and scrapes. 

Stock. No, no, Will ; trade and business don't 
create evil passions — they were in the heart be 
fore — only now and then they seem to lie snug 
a little — our concerns with the world bring them 
out into action a little more, and thus show both 
others and ourselves what we really are. But 
then, as the world offers more trials on the one 
hand, so on the other it holds out more duties. 
If we are called to battle oftener, we have more 
opportunities of victory. Every temptation re- 
sisted, is an enemy subdued ; and he that ruleth 
his own spirit, is better than he that taketh a city 
Will. I don't quite understand vou, master 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



221 



Stock. I will try to explain myself. — There 
is no passion more called out by the transac- 
tions of trade than covetousness. — Now, 'tis im- 
possible to withstand such a master sin as that, 
without carrying a good deal of the spirit of re- 
ligion into one's trade. 

Will. Well, I own I don't yet see how I am 
to be religious when I'm hard at work, or busy 
settling an account. I can't do two things at 
once ; 'tis as if I were to pretend to make a 
shoe and cut out a boot at the same moment. 

Stock. I tell you both must subsist together. 
Nay, the one must be the motive to the other. 
God commands us to be industrious, and if we 
love him, the desire of pleasing him should be 
the main spring of our industry. 

Will. I don't see how I can always be think- 
ing about pleasing God. 

Stock. Suppose, now, a man had a wife and 
children whom he loved, and wished to serve ; 
would he not be often thinking about them 
while he was at work ? and though he would 
not be always thinking nor always talking about 
them, yet would not the very love he bore them 
be a constant spur to his industry ? He would 
always be pursuing the same course from the 
same motive, though his words and even his 
thoughts must often be taken up in the common 
transactions of life. 

Will. I say first one, then the other ; now for 
labour, now for religion. 

Stock. I will show that both must go together. 
I will suppose you were going to buy so many 
skins of our currier — that is quite a worldly 
transaction — you can't see what a spirit of re- 
ligion has to do with buying a few calves' skins. 
Now, I tell you it has a great deal to do with 
it. Covetousness, a desire to make a good bar- 
gain, may rise up in your heart. Selfishness, 
a spirit of monopoly, a wish to get all, in order 
to distress others ; these are evil desires, and 
must be subdued. Some opportunity of unfair 
gain offers, in which there may be much sin, 
and yet little scandal. Here a Christian will 
stop short ; he will recollect, That he who maketh 
haste to be rich shall hardly be innocent. Per- 
haps the sin may be on the side of your dealer 
— he may want to overreach you — this is pro- 
voking — you are tempted to violent anger, per- 
haps to swear ; — here is a fresh demand on you 
for a spirit of patience and moderation, as there 
was before for a spirit of justice and self-denial. 
If, by God's grace, you get the victory over 
these temptations, you are the better man for 
having been called out to them ; always pro- 
vided, that the temptations be not of your own 
seeking. If you give way, and sink under 
these temptations, don't go and say trade and 
business have made you covetous, passionate, 
and profane. No, no ; depend upon it, you were 
so before ; you would have had all these evil 
seeds lurking in your heart, if you had been 
loitering about at home and doing nothing, with 
the additional sin of idleness into the bargain. 
When you are busy, the devil often tempts you ; 
when you are idle, you tempt the devil. If 
business and the world call these evil tempers 
into action, business and the world call that re- 
ligion into action too which teaches us to resist 
them. And in this ^ou see the week-day fruit 



of the Sunday's piety. 'Tis trade and business 
in the week which call us to put our Sunday 
readings, praying, and church-going into prac- 
tice. 

Will. Well, master, you have a comical way, 
somehow, of corning over one. I never should 
have thought there would have been any reli. 
gion wanted in buying and selling a few calves' 
skins. But I begin to see there is a good deal 
in what you say. And, whenever I am doing a 
common action, I will try to remember that it 
must be done after a godly sort. 

Stock. I hear the clock strike nine — let us 
leave off our work. I will only observe farther, 
that one good end of our bringing religion into 
our business is, to put us in mind not to under- 
take more business than we can carry on con- 
sistently with our religion. I shall never com- 
mend that man's diligence, though it is often 
commended by the world, who is not diligent 
about the salvation of his soul. We are as much 
forbidden to be overcharged with the cares of 
life, as with its pleasures. I only wish to prove 
to you, that a discreet Christian may be wise 
for both worlds ; that he may employ his hands 
without entangling his soul, and labour for the 
meat that perisheth, without neglecting that 
which endureth unto eternal life ; that he may 
be prudent for time whilst he is wise for eter- 
nity. 



PART VI. 

Dialogue the second. On the duty of carrying 
Religion into our amusements. 

The next evening Will Simpson being got 
first to his work, Mr. Stock found him singing 
very cheerfully over his last. His master's 
entrance did not prevent his finishing his song, 
which concluded with these words : 

' Since life is no more than a passage at best, 
Let us strew the way over with flowers.' 

When Will had concluded his song, he turned 
to Mr. Stock, and said, ' I thank you, master, for 
first putting it into my head how wicked it is to 
sing profane and indecent songs. I never sing 
any now which have any wicked words in them.' 

Stock. I am glad to hear it. So far you do 
well. But there are other things as bad as 
wicked words, nay worse perhaps, though they 
do not so much shock the ear of decency. 

Will. What is that, master ? What can be so 
bad as wicked words ? 

Stock. Wicked thovghts,\V'\l\. Which thoughts,, 
when they are covered over with smooth words, 
and dressed out in pleasing rhymes, so as not to 
shock modest young people by the sound, do 
more harm to their principles, than those songs 
of which the words are so gross and disgusting, 
that no person of common decency can for a mo- 
ment listen to them. 

Will. Well, master, I am sure that was a 
very pretty song I was singing when you came 
in, and a song which very sober good people 
sing. 

Stock. Do they ? Then I will be bold to say 



222 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



that singing such songs is no part of their good- 
ness. I heard indeed but two lines of it, but 
they were so heathenish that I desire to hear no 
more. 

Will. Now you are really too hard. What 
harm could there be in it ? there was not one 
indecent word. 

Stock. I own, indeed, that indecent words are 
particularly offensive. But, as I said before, 
though immodest expressions offend the ear 
more, they do not corrupt the heart, perhaps, 
much more than songs of which the words are 
decent, and the principle vicious. In the latter 
case, because there is nothing that shocks his 
ear, a man listens till the sentiment has so cor- 
rupted his heart, that his ears grow hardened 
too, and by long custom he loses all sense of the 
danger of profane diversions ; and 1 must say I 
have often heard young women of character 
6ing songs in company, which I should be 
ashamed to read by myself. But come, as we 
work, let us talk over this business a little ; and 
first let us stick to this sober song of yours, that 
you boast so much about. (repeats.) 

' Since life is no more than a passage at best, 
Let us strew the way over with flowers. 

Now what do you learn by this ? 

Will. Why, master, I don't pretend to learn 
much by it. But 'tis a pretty tune and pretty 
words. 

Stock. But what do these pretty words mean ? 

Will. That we must make ourselves merry 
because life is short. 

Stock. Will ! Of what religion are you ? 

Will. You are always asking one such odd 
questions, njaster ; why a Christian to be sure. 

Slock. If I often ask you, or others this ques- 
tion, it is only- because I like to know what 
grounds I am to go upon when I am talking 
with you or them. I conceive that there are in 
this country two sorts of people, Christians and 
no Christians. Now, if people profess to be of 
this first description, I expect one kind of no- 
tions, opinions, and behaviour from them ; if 
they say they are of the latter, then I look for 
another set of notions and actions from them. 
I compel no man to think with me. I take 
every man at his word. I only expect him to 
think and believe according to the character he 
takes upon himself, and to act on the principles 
of that character which he professes to maintain. 

Will. That's fair enough ; I can't say but it 
is, to take a man at his own word, and on his 
own grounds. 

Stock. Well then. Of whom does the Scrip- 
ture speak when it says, Let us eat and drink 
for to-morrow we die ? 

Will. Why of heathens to be sure, not of 
Christians. 

Stock. And of whom when it says, Let us 
crown ourselves with rosebuds before they are 
withered? 

Will. O that is Solomon's worldly fool. 

Stock. You disapprove of both then. 

Will. To be sure I do. I should not be a 
Christian if I did not. 

Stock. And yet, though a Christian, you are 
admiring the very same thought in the song you 
were singing. How do you reconcile this ? 



Will. O there is no comparison between them. 
These several texts are designed to describe 
loose wicked heathens. Now I learn texts as 
part of my religion. But religion you know has 
nothing to do with a song. I sing a song for 
my pleasure. 

Stock. In our last night's talk, Will, I endea- 
voured to prove to you that religion was to be 
brought into our business. I v.'ish now to let 
you see that it is to be brought into our pleasure 
also. And that he who is really a Christian, 
must be a Christian in his very diversions. 

Will. Now you are too strict again, master , 
as you last night declared, that in our business 
you would not have us always praying, so I 
hope that in our pleasure you would not have 
us always psalm-singing. I hope you would 
not have all one's singing to be about good 
things. 

Stock. Not so, Will ; but I would not have any 
part either of our business or our pleasure to be 
about evil things. It is one thing to be singing 1 
about religion, it is another thing to be singing 
against it. Saint Peter, I fancy, would not much 
have approved your favourite song. He, at least 
seemed to have another view of the matter, when 
he said, The end of all things is at hand. Now 
this text teaches much the same awful truth 
with the first line of your song. But let us see 
to what different purposes the apostle and the 
poet turn the very same thought. Your song' 
says, because life is so short, let us make it 
merry. Let us divert ourselves so much on the 
road, that we may forget the end. Now what 
says the apostle, Because the end of all things is 
at hand, be ye therefore sober and watch unto 
prayer. 

Will. Why master, I like to be sober too, and 
have left off drinking. But still I never thought 
that we were obliged to carry texts out of the 
Bible to try the soundness of a song ; and to 
enable us to judge if we might be both merry 
and wise in singing it. 

Stock. Providence has not so stinted our en- 
joyments, Will, but he has left us many subjects 
of harmless merriment : but, for my own part, 
I am never certain that any one is quite harm- 
less till I have tried it by this rule that you 
seem to think so strict. There is another fa- 
vourite catch which I heard you and some of 
the workmen humming yesterday. 

Will. I will prove to you that there is not a 
word of harm in that ; pray listen now. (sings.) 
' Which is the best day to drink— Sunday, Monday, 
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday?' 

Stock. Now, Will, do you really find your 
unwillingness to drink is so great that you 
stand in need of all these incentives to provoke 
you to it ? Do you not find temptation strong 
enough without exciting your inclinations, and 
whetting your appetites in this manner ? Can 
any thing be more unchristian than to persuade 
youth by pleasant words, set to the most allur- 
ing music, that the pleasures of drinking are so 
great, that every day in the week, naming them 
all successively, by way of fixing and enlarging 
the idea, is equally fit, equally proper, and 
equally delightful, for what ? — for the low and 
sensual purpose of getting drunk. Tell me, 
Will, are you so very averse to pleasure ? Are 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



223 



you naturally so cold and dead to all passion 
and temptation, that you really find it necesaary 
to inflame your imagination, and disorder your 
senses, in order to excite a quicker relish for 
the pleasures of sin ? 

Will. All this is true enough, indeed ; but I 
never saw it in this light before. 

Stock. As I passed by the Grayhound last 
night, in my way to my evening's walk in the 
fields, I caught this one verse of a song which 
the club were singing : 

' Brini* the flask, the music bring, 

Joy shall quickly find us ; 
Drink and dance, and laugh and sing. 

And cast dull care behind us.' 

When I got into the fields, I could not forbear 
comparing this song with the second lesson last 
Sunday evening at church ; these were the 
words : Take heed lest at any time your heart 
be overcharged with drunkenness, and so that 
day come upon, you unawares, for as a snare 
shall it come upon all them that are on the face 
of the earth. 

Will. Why, to be sure, if the second lesson 
was right, the song must be wrong. 

Stock. I ran over in my mind also a compari- 
son between such songs as that which begins 
with 

' Drink and drive care away.' 

with those injunctions of holy writ, Watch and 
pray therefore, that you enter not into temptation ; 
aad again, Watch and pray that you may escape 
all these things. I say I compared this with the 
song I allude to, . 

Drink and drive care away. 

Drink and be merry ; 
You '11 ne'er go the faster 

To the Stygian ferry.' 

I compared this with that awful admonition 
of Scripture how to pass the time. Not in riot- 
ing and drunkenness, not in chambering and 
wantonness, but put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, 
and make not provision for the flesh to fulfil the 
lusts thereof. 

Will. I am afraid then, master, you would 
not much approve of what I used to think a very 
pretty song, which begins with, 

' A plague on those musty old lubbers, 
Who teach us to fast and to think." 

Stock. Will, what would you think of any one 
who should sit down and write a book or a song 
to abuse the clergy ? 

Will. Why I should think he was a very 
wicked fellow, and I hope no one would look 
into such a book, or sing such a song. 

Stock. And yet it must certainly be the cler- 
gy, who are scoffed at in that verse, it being 
their professed business to teach us to think and 
be serious. 



Will. Ay, master, and now you have opened 
my eyes, I think I can make some of those 
comparisons myself between the spirit of the Bi- 
ble, and the spirit of these songs. 

' Bring the flask, the goblet bring,' 

won't stand very well in company with the 
threat of the prophet : Wo unto them that rise 
up early, that, they may mingle strong drink. 

Stock. Ay, Will ; and these thoughtless peo- 
ple who live up to their singing, seem to be the 
very people described in another place as glory- 
ing in their intemperance, and acting what their 
songs describe : — They look at the wine, and say 
it is red, it moveth itself aright in the cup. 

Will. I do hope I shall for the future not only 
become more careful what songs I sing myself, 
but also not to keep company with those who 
sing nothing else but what in my sober judg- 
ment, I now see to be wrong. 

Stock. As we shall have no body in the world 
to come, it is a pity not only to make our plea- 
sures here consist entirely in the delights of 
animal life, but to make our very songs consist 
in extolling and exalting those delights which 
are unworthy of the man as well as of the Chris- 
tian. If, through temptation or weakness, we 
fall into errors, let us not establish and confirm 
them by picking up all the songs and scraps of 
verses which excuse, justify, and commend sin. 
That time is short, is a reason given by these 
song mongers why we should give into greater 
indulgences. That time is short, is a reason 
given by the apostle why we should enjoy our 
dearest comforts as if we enjoyed them not. 

Now, Will, I hope you will see the impor- 
tance of so managing, that our diversions (for 
diversions of some kind we all require,) may be 
as carefully chosen as our other employments. 
For to make them such as effectually drive out 
of our minds all that the Bible and the minister 
have been putting into them, seems to me as 
imprudent as it is unchristian. But this is not 
all. Such sentiments as these songs contain, set 
off by the prettiest music, heightened by liquor 
and all the noise and spirit of what is called jo- 
vial company, all this, I say, not only puts every 
thing that is right out of the mind, but puta 
every thing that is wrong into it. Such songs, 
therefore, as tend to promote levity, thought- 
lessness, loose imaginations, false views of life, 
forgetfulness of death, contempt of whatever is 
serious, and neglect of whatever is sober, whe- 
ther they be love songs, or drinking songs, will 
not, cannot be sung by any man or any woman 
who makes a serious profession of Christianity.* 

* It is with regret I have lately observed, that the fa- 
shionable author and simrer of songs more loose, pro- 
fane, and corrupt, than any of those here noticed, not 
only received a prize as the reward of his important ser- 
vices, but received also the public acknowledgments of 
an illustrious society for having contributed to the hap- 
piness of their country 



224 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



THE HISTORY OF TOM WHITE, THE POST BOY. 

IN TWO PARTS. 



PART I. 

Tom White was one of the best drivers of a 
post-chaise on the Bath road. Tom was the son 
of an honest labourer at a little village in Wilt- 
shire : he was an active industrious boy, and as 
soon as he was old enough he left his father, 
who was burdened with a numerous family, and 
went to live with farmer Hodges, a sober worthy 
man in the same village. He drove the wagon 
all the week; and on Sundays, though he was 
now grown up, the farmer required him to attend 
the Sunday school, carried on under the inspec- 
tion of Dr. Shepherd, the worthy vicar, and al- 
ways made him read his Bible in the evening 
after he had served his cattle ; and would have 
turned him out of his service if he had ever gone 
to the ale-house for his own pleasure. 

Tom by carrying some wagon loads of fagots 
to the Bear inn, at Devizes, made many ac- 
quaintances in the stable-yard. He soon learnt 
to compare his own carter's frock, and shoes 
thick set with nails,with the smart red jacket, and 
tight boots of the post-boys, and grew ashamed 
of his own homely dress ; he was resolved to 
drive a chaise, to get money, and to see the 
world. Foolish fellow ! he never considered 
that, though it is true, a wagoner works hard 
all day, yet he gets a quiet evening at home, and 
undisturbed rest at night. However, as there 
must be chaise-boys as well as plough-boys, there 
was no great harm in the change. The evil 
company to which it exposed him, was the chief 
mischief. He left farmer Hodges, though not 
without sorrow at quitting so kind a master, and 
got himself hired at the Black Bear. 

Notwithstanding the temptations to which he 
was now exposed, Tom's good education stood 
by him for some time. At first he was frighten- 
ed to hear the oaths and wicked words which 
are too often uttered in a stable-yard. However, 
though he thought it very wrong, he had not the 
courage to reprove it, and the next step to being 
easy at seeing others sin is to sin ourselves. By 
degrees he began to think it manly, and a mark 
of spirit in others to swear ; though the force of 
good habits was so strong, that at first when he 
ventured to swear himself it was with fear, and 
in a low voice. But he was soon laughed out of 
his sheepishness, as they called it ; and though 
he never became so profane and blasphemous as 
some of his companions (for he never swore in 
cool blood, or in mirth, as so many do) yet he 
would too often use a dreadful bad word when 
he was in a passion with his horses. And here 
I cannot but drop a hint on the deep folly as 
well as wickedness, of being in a great rage 
with poor beasts, who, not having the gift of 
reason, cannot be moved like human creatures, 
with all the wicked words that are said to them ; 
though these dumb creatures, unhappily, having 
the gift of feeling, suffer as much as human 
creatures can do, at the cruel and unnecessary 
beatings given them. Tom had been bred up 
to think that drunkenness was a great sin, for 



he never saw farmer Hodges drunk in his life, 
and where a farmer is sober himself his men are 
less likely to drink, or if they do the master can 
reprove them with the better grace. 

Tom was not naturally fond of drink, yet for 
the sake of being thought merry company, and 
a hearty fellow, he often drank more than he 
ought. As he had been used to go to church 
twice on a Sunday, while he lived with the farm- 
er (who seldom used his horses on that day, ex- 
cept to carry his wife to church behind him) 
Tom felt a little uneasy when he was sent the 
very first Sunday a long journey with a great 
family ; for I cannot conceal the truth, that too 
many gentlefolks will travel, when there is no 
necessity for it, on a Sunday, and when Monday 
would answer the end just as well. This is a 
great grief to all good and sober people, both 
rich and poor ; and it is still more inexcusable 
in the great, who have every day at their com- 
mand. However, he kept his thoughts to him- 
self, though he could not now and then help 
thinking how quietly things were going on at 
the farmer's, whose wagoner on a Sunday led 
as easy life as if he had been a gentleman. But 
he soon lost all thoughts of this kind, and in 
time did not know a Sunday from a Monday. 
Tom went on prosperously, as it is called, for 
three or four years, got plenty of money, but 
sajred not a shilling. As soon as his horses were 
orice in the stable, whoever would might see 
them fed for Tom. He had other fish to fry. — 
Fives, cards, cudgel-playing, laying wagers, and 
keeping loose company, each of which he at 
first disliked, and each of which he soon learned 
to practise, ran away with all his money, and 
all his spare time ; and though he was generally 
in the way as soon as the horses were ready 
(because if" there was no driving there was no 
pay) yet he did not care whether the carriage 
was clean or dirty, if the horses looked well or 
ill, if the harness was whole, or the horses were 
shod. The certainty that the gains of to-morrow 
would make up for the extravagance of to-day, 
made him quite thoughtless and happy ; for he 
was young, active, and healthy, and never fore- 
saw that a rainy day might come, when he would 
want what he now squandered. 

One day being a little flustered with liquor as 
he was driving his return chaise through Brent- 
ford, he saw just before him another empty car- 
riage, driven by one of his acquaintance : he 
whipped up his horses, resolving to outstrip the 
other, and swearing dreadfully that he would 
be at the Red Lion first — for a pint — ' Done,' 
cried the other — a wager. Both cut and spurred 
the poor beasts with the usual fury, as if their 
credit had been really at stake, or their lives had 
depended on this foolish contest. Tom's chaise 
had now got up to that of his rival, and they 
drove along side of each other with great fury 
and many imprecations. But in a narrow part 
Tom's chaise being in the middle, with his an- 
tagonist on one side, and a cart driving against 
him on the other, the horses reared, the carriages 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



225 



got entangled ; Tom roared out a great oath to 
the other to stop, which he either could not, or 
would not do, but returned an horrid impreca- 
tion that he would win the wager if he was 
alive. — Tom's horses took fright, and he him- 
self was thrown to the ground with great vio- 
lence. — As soon as he could be got from under 
the wheels, he was taken up senseless, his leg 
was broken in two places, and his body much 
bruised. Some people whom the noise had 
brought together, put him in the post-chaise in 
which the wagoner kindly assisted, but the other 
driver seemed careless and indifferent, and drove 
off, observing with a brutal coolness, I am sorry 
T have lost my pint; I should have beat him 
hollow, had it not been for this little accident. 
Some gentlemen who came out of the inn, after 
reprimanding this savage, inquired who he was, 
wrote to inform his master, and got him dis- 
charged : resolving that neither they nor any of 
their friends would ever employ him, and he 
was long out of place, and nobody ever cared to 
be driven by him. 

Tom was taken to one of those excellent hos- 
pitals with which London abounds. His agonies 
were dreadful, his leg was set, and a high fever 
came on. As soon as he was left alone to reflect 
on his condition, his first thought was that he 
should die, and his horror was inconceivable. 
Alas I said he, what will become of my poor 
soul ? I am cut off in the very commission of 
three great sins : — I was drunk, I was in a hor- 
rible passion, and I had oaths and blasphemies 
in my mouth. He tried to pray, but he could 
not ; his mind was all distraction, and he thought 
he was so very wicked that God would not for- 
give him ; because, says he, I have sinned 
against light and knowledge ; I have had a sober 
education, and good examples ; I was bred in 
the fear of God, and the knowledge of Christ, 
and I deserve nothing but punishment. At 
length he grew light-headed, and there was little 
hope of his life. Whenever he came to his senses 
for a few minutes, he cried out, O ! that my old 
companions could now see me, surely they would 
take warning by my sad fate, and repent before 
it is too late. 

By the blessing of God on the skill of the sur- 
geon, and the care of the nurses, he however, 
grew better in a few days. And here let me 
stop to remark, what a mercy it is that we live 
in a christian country, where the poor, when 
sick, or lame, or wounded, are taken as much 
care of as any gentry ; nay, in some respects 
more, because in hospitals and infirmaries there 
are more doctors and surgeons to attend, than 
most private gentlefolks can afford to have at 
their own houses, whereas there never was an 
hospital in the whole heathen world. Blessed be 
God for this, among the thousand other excellent 
fruits of the christian religion ! A religion 
which, like its Divine founder, while its grand 
object is the salvation of men's souls, teaches us 
also to relieve their bodily wants. It directs us 
never to forget that He who forgave sins, healed 
diseases, and while he preached the Gospel, fed 
the multitude. 

It was eight weeks before Tom could be taken 
out of bed. This was a happy affliction ; for by 
the grace of God, this long sickness and solitude 

Voi. I. p 



gave him time to reflect on his past life. He 
began seriously to hate those "darling sins which 
had brought him to the brink of ruin. He could 
now pray heartily ; he confessed and lamented 
his iniquities, with many tears, and began to 
hope that the mercies of God, through the merits 
of a Redeemer, might yet be extended to him on 
his sincere repentance. He resolved never more 
to return to the same evil courses, but he did 
not trust in, his own strength, but prayed that 
God would give him grace for the future, as well 
as pardon for the past. He remembered, and 
he was humbled at the thought, that he used to 
have short fits of repentance, and to form reso- 
lutions of amendment, in his wild and thought- 
less days ; and often when he had a bad head-ache 
after a drinking bout, or had lost his money at 
all-fours, he vowed never to drink or play again. 
But as soon as his head was well and his pockets 
recruited, he forgot all his resolutions. And 
how should it be otherwise ? for he trusted in 
his own strength, he never prayed to God to 
strengthen him, nor ever avoided the next 
temptation. He thought thai amendment was a 
thing to be set about at any time ; he did not 
know that it is the grace of God which bringeth 
us to repentance. 

The case was now different. Tom began to 
find that his strength was perfect weakness, and 
that he could do nothing without the divine as- 
sistance, for which he prayed heartily and con- 
stantly. He sent home for his Bible and Prayer 
book, which he had not opened for two years, 
and which had been given him when he left the 
Sunday school. He spent the chief part of his 
time in reading them, and derived great com- 
fort, as well as great knowledge, from this em- 
ployment of his time. The study of the Bible 
filled his heart with gratitude to God, who had 
not cut him off in the midst of his sins ; but had 
given him space for repentance ; and the agonies 
he had lately suffered with his broken leg in- 
creased his thankfulness, that he had escaped 
the more dreadful pain of eternal misery. And 
here let me remark what encouragement this is 
for rich people to give away Bibles and good 
books, and not to lose all hope, though, for a time, 
they see little or no good effect from it. Ac- 
cording to all appearance, Tom's books were 
never likely to do him any good, and yet his 
generous benefactor, who had cast his bread 
upon the waters, found it after many days ; for 
this Bible, which had lain untouched for years, 
was at last made the instrument of his reforma- 
tion. God will work in his own good time, and 
in his own way, but our zeal and our exertions 
are the means by which he commonly chooses 
to work. 

As soon as he got well, and was discharged 
from the hospital, Tom began to think he must 
return to get his bread. At first he had some 
scruples about going back to his old employ : 
but, says he sensibly enough, gentlefolks must 
travel, travellers must have chaises, and chaises 
must have drivers • 'tis a very honest calling, 
and I don't know that goodness belongs to one 
sort of business more than another ; and he who 
can be good in a state of great temptation, pro- 
vided the calling be lawfid, and the temptations 
are not of his own seeking, and he be diligent 



226 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



in prayer, may be better than another man for 
aught I know : and all that belongs to us is, to 
do our duty in that state of life in which it shall 
please God to call us ; and to leave events in 
God's hand. Tom had rubbed up his catechism 
at the hospital, and 'tis a pity that people don't 
look at their catechism sometimes when they 
are grown up ; for it is full as good for men and 
women as it is for children; nay, better; for 
though the answers contained in it are intended 
for children to repeat, yet the duties enjoined 
in it are intended for men and women to put in 
practice. It is, if I may so speak, the very 
grammar of Christianity and of our church, and 
they who understand every part of their cate- 
chism thoroughly, will not be ignorant of any 
thing which a plain Christian need know. 

Tom now felt grieved that he was obliged to 
drive on Sundays. But people who are in 
earnest and have their hearts in a tiling, can 
find helps in all cases. As soon as he had set 
down his company at their stage, and had seen 
his horses fed, says Tom, a man who takes care 
of his horses, will generally think it right to let 
them rest an hour or two at least. In every 
town it is a chance but there may be a church 
open during part of that time. If the prayers 
should be over, I'll try hard for the sermon ; 
and if I dare not stay to the sermon it is a 
chance but I may catch the prayers ; it is worth 
trying for, however; and as I used to think no- 
thing of making a push, for the sake of getting 
an hour to gamble, I need not grudge to take a 
little pains extraordinary to serve God. By 
this watchfulness he soon got to know the hours 
of service at all the towns on the road he travel- 
led ; and while the horses fed, Tom went to 
church ; and it became a favourite proverb with 
him, that prayers and provender hinder no man's 
journey ; and I beg leave to recommend Tom's 
maxim to all travellers ; whether master or 
servant, carrier or coachman. 

At first his companions wanted to laugh and 
make sport of this — but when they saw that no 
lad on the road was up so early or worked so 
hard as Tom ; when they saw no chaise so neat, 
no glasses so bright, no harness so tight, no 
driver so diligent, so clean, or so civil, they 
found he was no subject tc make sport at. Tom 
indeed was very careful in looking after the 
linch pins ; in never giving his horses too much 
water when they were hot ; nor whatever was 
his haste, would he ever gallop them up hill, 
strike them across the head, or when tired, cut 
and slash them, or gallop over the stones, as soon 
as he got into town, as some foolish fellows do. 
What helped to cure Tom of these bad practices, 
was that remark he met with in the Bible, tliat 
a good man is merciful to his beast. He was 
much moved one day on reading the prophet 
Jonah, to observe what compassion the great 
God of Heaven and earth had for poor beasts : 
for one of the reasons there given why the Al- 
mighty was unwilling to destroy the great city 
of Ninevah was, because there was much cattle 
in it. After this, Tom never could bear to see 
a wanton stroke inflicted. Doth God care for 
horses, said he, and shall man be cruel to tbem ? 

Tom soon grew rich for one in his station: 
for every gentleman on the road would be 



driven by no other lad if careful Tom was to be 
had. Being diligent, he got a great deal of 
money ; being frugal, he spent but little : and 
having no vices, he wasted none. He soon 
found out that there was some meaning in that 
text which says, that Godliness hath the promise 
if the life that now is, as well as that luhich is 
to come: for the same principles which make a 
man sober and honest, have also a natural ten- 
dency to make him healthy and rich ; while a 
drunkard and a spendthrift can hardly escape 
being sick and a beggar. Vice is the parent of ' 
misery in both worlds. 

After a few years Tom begged a holiday, and 
made a visit to his native village ; his good 
character had got thither before him. He found 
his father was dead, but during his long illness 
Tom had supplied him with money, and by al- 
lowing him a trifle every week, had had the 
honest satisfaction of keeping him from the 
parish. Farmer Hodges was still living, but 
being grown old and infirm, he was desirous to 
retire from business. He retained a great re- 
gard for his old servant, Tom ; and finding he 
was worth money, and knowing he knew some- 
thing of country business, he offered to let him 
a small farm at an easy rate, and promised his 
assistance in the management for the first year, 
witli the loan of a small sum of money, that he 
might set out with a pretty stock. Tom thank- 
ed him with tears in his eyes, went back and 
took a handsome leave of his master, who made 
him a present of a horse and cart, in acknow- 
ledgment of his long and faithful services ; for, 
says he, I have saved many horses by Tom's 
care and attention, and I could well afford to do 
the same by every servant who did the same by 
me ; and should be a richer man at the end of* 
every year by the same generosity, provided I 
could meet with just and faithful servants who 
deserve the same rewards. Tom was soon set- 
tled in his new farm, and in less than a year 
had got every thing neat and decent about him. 
Farmer Hodge's long experience and friendly 
advice, joined to his own industry and hard la- 
bour, soon brought the farm to great perfection. 
The regularity, sobriety, peaceableness, and 
piety of his daily life, his constant attendance 
at church twice every Sunday, and his decent 
and devout behaviour when there, soon recom- 
mended him to the notice of Dr. Shepherd, who 
was still living a pattern of zeal, activity, and 
benevolence to all parish priests. The doctor 
soon began to hold up Tom, or, as we must now 
more properly term him, Mr. Thomas White, 
to the imitation of the whole parish, and the 
frequent and condescending conversation of this 
worthy clergyman contributed no less than his 
preaching to the iinprovementof his new parish- 
ioner in piety. 

Farmer White soon found out that a dairy 
could not well be carried on without a mistress, 
and began to think seriously of marrying ; he 
prayed to God to direct him in so important a 
business. He knew that a tawdry, vain, dressy 
girl was not likely to make good cheese and 
butter, and that a worldly ungodly woman would 
make a sad wife and mistress of a family. He 
1 soon heard of a young woman of excellent 
I character, who had been bred up by the vicar's 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



227 



ady, and still lived in the family as upper maid. 
She was prudent, sober, industrious and reli- 
gious. Her neat, modest, and plain appearance 
at church (tor she was seldom seen any where 
else out of her master's family) was an example 
to all persons in her station, and never failed to 
recommend her to strangers, even before they 
had an opportunity of knowing the goodness of 
her character. It was her character, however, 
which recommended her to farmer White. He 
knew that favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain, 
but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be 
praised : — ay, and not only praised, but chosen 
too, says farmer White, as lie took down his hat 
from the nail on which it hung, in order to go 
and wait on Dr. Shepherd, to break his mind 
and ask his consent ; for he thought it would 
be a very unhandsome return for all the favours 
he was receiving from his minister, to decoy 
away his faithful servant from her place with- 
out his consent. 

This worthy gentleman, though sorry to lose 
so valuable a member of his little family, did not 
scruple a moment about parting with her, when 
he found it would be so greatly to her advantage. 
Tom was agreeably surprised to hear she had 
saved fifty pounds by her frugality. The doc- 
tor married them himself, farmer Hodges being 
Dresent. 

In the afternoon of the wedding day, Dr. 
Shepherd condescended to call on farmer and 
Airs. White, to give a few words of advice on 
the new duties they had entered into ; a com- 
mon custom with him on these occasions. He 
often took, an opportunity to drop, in the most 
kind and tender way, a hint upon the great in- 
decency of making marriages, christenings, and 
above all, funerals, days of riot and excess, as is 
too often the case in country villages. The ex- 
pectation that the vicar might possibly drop in, 
in his walks, on these festivals, often restrained 
excessive drinking, and improper conversation, 
even among those who were not restrained by 
higher motives, as farmer and Mrs. White were. 

What the doctor said was always in such a 
cheerful, good-humoured way, that it was sure 
to increase the pleasure of the day, instead of 
damping it. ' Well, farmer,' said he, l and you, 
my faithful Sarah, any other friend might re- 
commend peace and agreement to you on your 
marriage ; but I, on the contrary, recommend 
cares and strifes.'* The company stared — but 
Sarah, who knew that her old master was a 
facetious gentleman, and always had some mean- 
ing behind, looked serious. ' Cares and strife, 
sir, said the farmer, ' what do you mean ?' — ' I 
mean,' said he, ' for the first, that your cares 
shill be who shall please God most, and your 
strifes, who shall serve him best, and do your 
duty most faithfully. Thus, all your cares and 
strifes being employed to the highest purposes, 
all petty cares and worldly strifes shall be at an 
end.' 

• Always remember, that you have, both of 
you, a better friend than each other.' The com- 
pany stared again, and thought no woman could 
havo so good a friend as her husband. ' As you 
Have chosen each other from the best motives,' 

* See Dodd's Sayings 



continued the doctor, 'you have every reasonable 
ground to hope for happiness ; but as this world 
is a soil in which troubles and misfortunes will 
spring up ; troubles from which you cannot save 
one another ; misfortunes which no human pru- 
dence can avoid : then remember, 'tis the best 
wisdom to go to that friend who is always near, 
always willing, and always able to help you ; 
and that friend is God.' 

' Sir,' said farmer White, ' I humbly thank 
you for all your kind instructions, of which I 
shall now stand more in need than ever, as I 
shall have more duties to fulfil. I hope the re- 
membrance of my past offences will keep me 
humble, and the sense of my remaining sin will 
keep me watchful. I set out in the world, sir, 
with what is called a good-natural disposition, 
but I soon found to my cost, that without God's 
grace that will carry a man but a little way. 
A good temper is a good thing, but nothing but 
the fear of God can enable one to bear up 
against temptation, evil company, and evil pas- 
sions. The misfortune of breaking my leg, as 
I then thought it, has proved the greatest bless- 
ing of my life. It showed me my own weak- 
ness, the value of the Bible, and the goodness 
of God. How many of my brother drivers have 
I seen, since that time, cut off in the prime of 
life by drinking, or sudden accident, while I 
have not only been spared, but blessed and 
prospered. O sir !' it would be the joy of my 
heart, if some of my old comrades, good-na- 
tured, civil fellows (whom I can't help loving) 
could see, as I have done, the danger of evil 
courses before it is too late. Though they may 
not hearken to you, sir, or any other minister 
they may believe me because I have been one 
of them : and I can speak from experience, of 
the great difference there is, even as to worldly 
comfort, between a life of sobriety and a life of 
sin. I could tell them, sir, not as a thing I 
have read in a book, but as a truth I feel in iny 
own heart, that to fear God and keep his com- 
mandments, will not only bring a man peace at 
last, but will make him happy now. And I will 
venture to say, sir, that all the stocks, pillories, 
prisons, and gibbets in the land, though so very 
needful to keep bad men in order, yet will never 
restrain a good man from committing evil half 
so much as that single text, How shall I do this 
great wickedness and sin against God ?' Dr. 
Shepherd condescended to approve of what the 
farmer had said, kindly shook him by the hand 
and took leave. 



PART II. 

The Way to Plenty, or the second part oj Tom 
White. Written in 1795, the year of scarcity. 

Tom White, as we have shown in the first 
part of this history, from an idle post boy was 
become a respectable farmer. God had blessed 
his industry, and he had prospered in the world. 
He was sober and temperate, and, as was the 
natural consequence, he was active and healthy. 
He was industrious and frugal, and he became 
prosperous in his circumstances. This is in the 



228 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ordinary course of Providence. But it is not a 
certain and necessary rule. God maketh his 
sun to shine on the just and on the unjust. A 
man who uses every honest means of thrift and 
industry, will, in most cases, find success attend 
his labours. But still, the race is not always 
to the sicift nor the battle to the strong. God is 
■ sometimes pleased, for wise ends, to disappoint 
all the worldly hopes of the most upright man. 
His corn may be smitten by a blight; his 
barns may be consumed by fire ; his cattle 
may be carried off by distemper. And to these, 
and other misfortunes, the good man is as liable 
as the spendthrift or the knave. Success is the 
common reward of industry, but if it were its 
constant reward, the industrious would be 
tempted to look no further than the present 
state. They would lose one strong ground of 
their faith. It would set aside the scripture 
scheme. This world would then be looked on 
as a state of reward, instead of trial, and we 
should forget to look to a day of final retribution. 

Farmer White never took it into his head, 
that, because he paid his debts, worked early 
and late, and ate the bread of carefulness, he 
was therofore to come into no misfortune like 
other folk, but was to be free from the common 
trials and troubles of life. He knew that pros- 
perity was far from being a sure mark of God's 
favour, and had read in good books, and espe- 
cially in the Bible, of the great poverty and af- 
flictions of the best of men. Though he was no 
great scholar, he had sense enough to observe, 
that a time of public prosperity "was not always 
a time of public virtue ; and he thought that 
what was true of a whole nation might be true 
of one man. So the more he prospered the more 
ne prayed that prosperity might not corrupt his 
heart. And when he saw lately signs of public 
distress coming on, he was not half so much 
frightened as some others were, because he 
thought it might do us good in the long run ; 
and he was in hope that a little poverty might 
bring on a little penitence. The great grace he 
laboured after was that of a cheerful submission. 
He used to say, that if the Lord's prayer had 
only contained those four little words, Thy will 
be done, it would be worth more than the biggest 
book in the world without them. 

Dr. Shepherd, the worthy vicar (with whom 
the farmer's wife had formerly lived as house- 
keeper) was very fond of taking a walk with 
him about his grounds, and he used to say that 
he learnt as much from the farmer as the farmer 
did from him. If the doctor happened to observe, 
I am afraid these long rains will spoil this fine 
piece of oats, the farmer would answer, but then, 
sir, think how good it is for the grass. If the 
doctor feared the wheat would be but indifferent, 
the farmer was sure the rye would turn out well. 
When grass failed, he did not doubt but turnips 
would be plenty. Even for floods and inunda- 
tions he would find out some way to justify Pro- 
vidence. 'Tis better, said he, to have our lands 
a little overflowed, than that the springs should 
be dried up, and our cattle faint for lack of wa- 
ter. When the drought came, he thanked God 
that the season would be healthy ; and the high 
winds, which frightened others, he said, served 
to clear the air. Whoever, or whatever was 



wrong, he was always sure that Providence was 
in the right. And he used to say, that a man 
with ever so small an income, if he had but fru- 
gality and temperance, and would cut off all vain 
desires, and cast his care upon God, was richer 
than a lord who was tormented by vanity and 
covctousness. When he saw others in the wrong, 
he did not, however, abuse them for it, but took 
care to avoid the same fault. He had sense and 
spirit enough to break through many old, but 
very bad customs of his neighbours. If a thing 
is wrong in itself (said he one day to farmer 
Hodges) a whole parish doing it can't make it 
right. And as to its being an old custom, why, 
if it be a good one, I like it the better for being 
old, because it has had the stamp of ages, and 
the sanction of experience on its worth. But if 
it be old as well as bad, that is another reason 
for my trying to put an end to it, that we may 
not mislead our children as our fathers have 
misled us. 

The Roof -Raising." 

Some years after he was settled, he built a 
large new barn. All the workmen were looking 
forward to the usual holiday of roof-raising. On 
this occasion it was a custom to give a dinner 
to the workmen, with so much liquor after it, 
that they got so drunk that they not only lost 
the remaining half day's work, but they were 
not always able to work the following day. 

Mrs. White provided a plentiful dinner for 
roof-raising, and gave each man his mug of beer. 
After a hearty meal they began to grow clamor, 
ous for more drink. The farmer said, ' My lads, 
I don't grudge you a few gallons of ale merely 
for the sake of saving my liquor, though that is 
some consideration, especially in these dear 
times ; but I never will, knowingly, help any 
man to make a beast of himself. I am resolved 
to break through a bad custom. You are now 
well refreshed. If you will go cheerfully to 
your work, you will have half a day's pay to 
take on Saturday night more than you would 
have if this afternoon were wasted in drunken, 
ness. For this your families will be the better ; 
whereas, were I to give you more liquor, when 
you have already had enough, I should help to 
rob them of their bread. But I wish to show 
you, that I have your good at heart full as much 
as my profit. If you will now go to work, I 
will give you all another mug at night when you 
leave off. Thus your time will be saved, your 
families helped, and my ale will not go to make 
reasonable creatures worse than brute beasts.' 

Here ho stopped. ' You are in right on't, 
master,' said Tom the thatcher ; 'you are a 
hearty man, farmer,' said John Plane, the car- 
penter 'Come along, boys,' said Tim Brick 
the mason : so they all went merrily to work, 
fortified with a good dinner. There was only 
one drunken surly fellow that refused ; this was 
Dick Guzzle, the smith. — Dick never works 
above two or three days in the week, and spends 
the others at the Red Lion. He swore, that if 
the farmer did not give him as much liquor as 
he liked at roof-raising, he would not strike ano- 
ther stroke, but would leave the job unfinished, 
and he might get hands where he could. Far 
mcr White took him at his word, and paid him 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



229 



off directly : glad enough to get rid of such a 
sot, whom he had only employed from pity to a 
large and almost starving family. When the 
men came for their mug in the evening, the 
farmer brought out the remains of the cold gam- 
mon ; they made a hearty supper, and thanked 
him for having broken through a foolish custom, 
which was afterwards much left off in that pa- 
rish, though Dick would not come into it, and 
lost most of his work in consequence. 

Farmer White's labourers were often com- 
plaining, that things were so dear that they 
could not buy a bit of meat. He knew it was 
partly true, but not entirely ; for it was before 
these very hard times that their complaints be- 
gan. One morning he stept out to see how an 
outhouse which he was thatching went on. He 
was surprised to find the work at a stand. He 
walked over to the thatcher's house. 'Tom,' 
said he, ' I desire that piece of work may be 
finished directly. If a shower comes my grain 
will be spoiled.' ' Indeed, master, I shan't work 
to-day, nor to-morrow neither,' said Tom. — 
' You forget that 'tis Easter Monday, and to- 
morrow is Easter Tuesday. And so on Wed- 
nesday I shall thatch away, master. — But it is 
hard if a poor man, who works all the seasons 
round, may not enjoy these few holydays, which 
come but once a year.' 

' Tom,' said the farmer, ' when these days 
were first put into our prayer-book, the good 
men who ordained them to be kept, little thought 
that the time would come when holy day should 
mean drunken-day, and that the seasons which 
they meant to distinguish by superior piety, 
should be converted into seasons of more than 
ordinary excess-. How much dost think now I 
shall pay thee for this piece of thatch 1 ' Why, 
you know, master, you have let it to me by the 
great. I think between this and to-morrow 
night, as the weather is so fine, I could clear 
about four shillings, after I have paid my boy ; 
but thatching does not come often, and other 
work is not so profitable.' ' Very well, Tom ; 
and how much now do you think you may spend 
in these two holydays ?' ' Why, master, if the 
ale is pleasant, and the company merry, I do 
not expect to get off for less than three shillings.' 
' Tom, can you do pounds, shillings, and pence ?' 
* I can make a little score, master, behind the 
kitchen door, with a bit of chalk, which is as 
much as I want.' ' Well, Tom, add the four 
shillings you would have earned to the three 
you intend to spend, what does that make ?' 
' Let me sec ! throe and four make seven. Seven 
shillings, master.' ' Tom, you often tell me the 
times are so bad that you can never buy a bit 
of meat. Now here is the cost of two joints at 
once : to say nothing of the sin of wasting time 
and getting drunk.' ' I never once thought of 
that,' said Tom. ' Now Tom,' said the farmer, 
if I were you, I would step over to butcher 
Jobbins's, buy a shoulder of mutton, which being 
left from Saturday's market you will get a little 
cheaper. This I would make my wife bake in 
a deep dish full of potatoes. I would then go to 
work, and when the dinner was ready I would 
go and enjoy it with my wife and children ; you 
need not give the mutton to the brats, the pota- 
toes will have all the gravy, and be very savoury 



for them.' ' Ay, but I have got no beer, master ; 
the times are so hard that a poor man can't af- 
ford to brew a drop of drink now as we used to 
do.' 

' Times are bad, and malt is very dear, Tom, 
and yet bot,h don't prevent you from spending 
seven shillings in keeping holyday. Now send 
for a quart of ale as it is to be a feast : and you 
will even then be four shillings richer than if 
you had gone to the public house. I would have 
you put by these four shillings, till you can add 
a couple to them ; with this I would get a bushel 
of malt, and my wife should brew it, and you 
may take a pint of your own beer at home of a 
night, which will do you more good than a gal- 
lon at the Red Lion.' ' I have a great mind to 
take your advice, master, but I shall be made 
such fun of at the Lion ! they will so laugh at 
me if I don't go !' ' Let those laugh that win, 
Tom.' 'But master, I have got a friend to meet 
me there.' ' Then ask your friend to come and 
eat a bit of your cold mutton at night, and here 
is sixpence for another pot, if you will promise 
to brew a small cask of your own.' ' Thank 
you, master, and so I will ; and I won't go to 
the Lion. Come boy, bring the helm, and fetch 
the ladder.' And so Tom was upon the roof in 
a twinkling. The barn was thatched, the mut- 
ton bought, the beer brewed, the friend invited, 
and the holyday enjoyed. 

The Sheep Shearing 

Dr. Shepherd happened to say to farmer 
White one day, that there was nothing that he 
disliked more than the manner in which sheep- 
shearing and harvest-home were kept by some 
in his parish. ' What,' said the good doctor, 
'just when we are blest with a prosperous ga- 
thering in of these natural riches of our land, 
the fleece of our flocks ; when our barns are 
crowned with plenty, and we have, through the 
Divine blessing on our honest labour, reaped the 
fruits of the earth in due seasqri ; is that very 
time to be set apart for ribaldry, and riot, and 
drunkenness ? Do we thank God for his mer- 
cies, by making ourselves unworthy and unfit 
to enjoy them 1 When he crowns the year with 
his goodness, shall we affront him by our im- 
piety ? It is more than a common insult to his 
providence ; it is a worse than brutal return to 
Him who openeth his hand and filleth all things 
living with plenteousness.' 

'I thank you for the hint, sir,' said the farmer. 
' I am resolved to rejoice though, and others 
shall rejoice with me : and we will have a merry 
night on't.' 

So Mrs. White dressed a very plentiful supper 
of meat and pudding; and spread out two tables. 
The farmer sat at the head of one, consisting 
of some of his neighbours, and all his work- 
people. At the other sat his wife, with two long 
benches on each side of her. On these benches 
sat all the old and infirm poor, especially those 
who lived in the work-house, and had no day 
of festivity to look forward to in the whole year 
but this. On the grass, in the little court, sat 
the children of his labourers, and of the other 
poor, whose employment it had been to gather 
flowers, and dress and adorn the horns of the 
ram ; for the farmer did not wish to put an end 



230 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



to an old custom, if it was innocent. — His own 
children stood by the table, and he gave them 
plenty of pudding, which they carried to the 
children of the poor, with a little draught of ci- 
der to eveiy one. The farmer who never sat 
down without begging a blessing on his meal, 
did it with suitable solemnity on the present joy- 
ful occasion. 

Dr. Shepherd practised one very useful me- 
thod, which I dare say was not peculiar to him- 
self; a method of which I doubt not other country 
clergymen have found the advantage. He was 
often on the watch to observe those seasons when 
a number of his parishioners were assembled 
together, not only at any season of festivity, but 
at their work. He has been known to turn a 
walk through a hay-field to good account; and 
has been found to do as much good by a few 
minutes discourse with a little knot of reapers, 
as by a Sunday's sermon. He commonly in- 
troduced his religious observations by some 
questions relating to their employment ; he first 
gained their affections by his kindness, and then 
converted his influence over them to their soul's 
good. The interest he took in their worldly 
affairs opened their hearts to the reception of 
those divine truths which he was always earnest 
to impress upon them. By these methods too 
he got acquainted with their several characters, 
their spiritual wants, their individual sins, 
dangers, and temptations, which enabled him to 
preach with more knowledge and successful ap- 
plication, than those ministers can do who are 
unacquainted with the state of their congrega- 
tions. It was a remark of Dr. Shepherd, that a 
thorough acquaintance with human nature was 
one of the most important species of knowledge 
a clergyman could possess. 

The sheep-shearing feast, though orderly and 
decent, was yet hearty and cheerful. Dr. Shep- 
herd dropped in with a good deal of company 
he had at his house, and they were much pleased. 
When the doctor saw how the aged and infirm 
poor were enjoying themselves, he was much 
moved; he shook the farmer by the hand and 
said, ' But thou, when thou makest a feast, call 
the blind, and the lame, and the halt, they can- 
not recompense thee, but thou shalt be recom- 
pensed at the resurrection of the just.' 

' Sir,' said the farmer, ' 'tis no great matter 
of expense ; I kill a sheep of my own ; potatoes 
are as plenty as blackberries, with people who 
have a little forethought. I save much more 
cider in the course of a year by never allowing 
any carousing in my kitchen, or drunkenness 
in my fields, than would supply many such 
feasts as these, so that I shall be never the poorer 
at Christmas. It is cheaper to make people 
happy, sir, than to make them drunk. The 
doctor and the ladies condescended to walk from 
one table to the other, and heard many merry 
stories, but not one profane word, or one inde- 
cent song : so that he was not forced to the pain- 
ful necessity either of reproving them, or leaving 
them in anaer. When all was over, they sung 
the sixty-fifth Psalm, and the ladies all joined in 
it ; and when they got home to the vicarage to 
tea, they declared they liked it better than any 
concert. 



The Hard Winter. 

Is the famous cold winter of the year 1795, it 
was edifying to see how patiently farmer White 
bore that long and severe frost. Many of his 
sheep were frozen to death, but he thanked God 
that he had still many left. He continued to 
find in-door work that his men might not be out 
of employ. The season being so bad, which 
some others pleaded as an excuse for turning 
off their workmen, he thought a fresh reason for 
keeping them. Mrs. White was so considerate, 
that just at that time she lessened the number 
of her hogs, that she might have more whey and 
skim-milk to assist poor families. Nay, I have 
known her to live on boiled meat for a long 
while together, in a sickly season, becauso the 
pot liquor made such a supply of broth for the 
sick poor. As the spring came on, and things 
grew worse, she never had a cake, a pie, or a pud- 
ding in her house ; notwithstanding she used to 
have plenty of these good things, and will again 
I hope, when the present scarcity is over ; 
though she says she will never use such white 
flour again, even if it should come down to five 
shillings a bushel. 

All the parish now began to murmur. Far- 
mer Jones was sure the frost had killed the 
wheat. Farmer Wilson said the rye would 
never come up. Brown, the maltster, insisted 
the barley was dead at the root. Butcher Job- 
bins said beef would be a shilling a pound. All 
declared there would not be a hop to brew with. 
The orchards were all blighted ; there would 
not be apples enough to make a pie ; and as to 
hay there would be none to be had for love nor 
money. ' I'll tell you what,' said farmer White, 
' the season is dreadful ; the crops unpromising 
just now ; but 'tis too early to judge. Don't let 
us make things worse than they are. We 
ought to comfort the poor, and you are driving 
them to despair. Don't you know how much 
God was displeased with the murmurs of his 
chosen people ? And yet, when they were tired 
of manna he sent them quails ; but all did not 
do. Nothing satisfies grumblers. We have a 
promise on our side, that there shall be seed-time 
and harvest time to the end. Let us then hope 
for a good day, but provide against an evil one. . 
Let us rather prevent the evil before it is come 
upon us, than sink under it when it comes. 
Grumbling cannot help us ; activity can. Let 
us set about planting potatoes in every nook and 
corner, in case the corn should fail, which, how- 
ever, I don't believe will be the case. Let us 
mend our management before we are driven to 
it by actual want. And if we allow our honest 
labourers to plant a few potatoes for their fa- 
milies in the headlands of our ploughed fields, 
or other waste bits of ground, it will do us 
no harm, and be a great help to them. The 
way to lighten the load of any public calamity 
is not to murmur at it but put a hand to lessen it. 

The farmer had many temptations to send his 
corn at an extravagant price to a certain seaport 
town, but as he knew that it was intended to 
export it against law, he would not be tempted 
to encourage unlawful gain ; so he thrashed out 
a small mow at a time, and sold it to the neigh- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



231 



bouring poor far below the market-price. He 
served his own workmen first. This was the 
same to them as if he had raised their wages, 
and even better, as it was a benefit of which 
their families were sure to partake. If the poor 
in the next parish were more distressed than 
his own, he sold them at the same rate. For, 
said he, there is no distinction of parishes in 
heaven ; and though charity begins at home, 
yet it ought not to end there. 

He had been used in good times now and 
then to catch a hare or a partridge, as he was 
qualified ; but he now resolved to give up that 
pleasure. So he parted from a couple of 
spaniels he had : for he said he could not bear 
that his dogs should be eating the meat, or the 
milk, whicli so many men, women, and chil- 
dren wanted. 

The White Loaf. 

One day, it was about the middle of last July, 
when things seemed to be at the dearest, and 
the rulers of the land had agreed to set the ex- 
ample of eating nothing but coarse bread, Dr. 
Shepherd read, before sermon^in the church, 
their public declaration, which the magistrates 
of the county sent him, and which they had 
also signed themselves. Mrs. White, of course, 
was at church, and commended it mightily. 
Next morning the doctor took a walk over to 
the farmer's, in order to settle further plans for 
the relief of the parish. He was much sur- 
prised to meet Mrs. White's little maid Sally 
with a very small white loaf, which she had been 
buying at a shop. He said nothing to the girl, 
as he never thought it right to expose the faults 
of a mistress to her servants ; but walked on, 
resolving to give Mrs. White a severe lecture 
for the first time in his life. He soon changed 
his mind, for on going into the kitchen, the 
first person he saw was Tom the thatcher, who 
had had a sad fall from a ladder; his arm, which 
was slipped out of his sleeve, was swelled in a 
frightful manner. Mrs. White was standing 
at the dresser making the little white loaf into 
a poultice, which she laid upon the swelling in 
a large clean old linen cloth. 

' I ask your pardon, my good Sarah,' said the 
doctor ; ' I ought not, however appearances 
were against you, to have suspected that so 
humble and prudent a woman as you are, would 
be led either to indulge any daintines of your 
own, or to fly in the face of your betters, by 
eating white bread while they are eating brown. 
Whenever I come here, I see it is not needful 
to be rich in order to be charitable. A bounti- 
ful rich man would have sent Tom to a surgeon, 
who would have done no more for him than you 
have done ; for in those inflammations the most 
skilful surgeon could only apply a poultice. 
Your kindness in dressing the wouud yourself, 
will, I doubt not, perform the cure at the ex- 
pense of that threepenny loaf and a little hog's 
lard. And I will take care that Tom shall have 
a good supply of rice from the subscription.' 
' And he shan't want for skim-milk,' said Mrs. 
White ; ' and was he the best lord in the land 
in the state he is in, a dish of good rice mi'k 
would be better for him than the richest meat.' 



The Parish Meeting- 

On the tenth of August, the vestry held an- 
other meeting, to consult on the best method of 
further assisting the poor. The prospect of 
abundant crops now cheered every heart. Far- 
mer White, who had a mind to be a little jocular 
with his desponding neighbours, said, ' Well, 
neighbour Jones, all the wheat was killed, I sup- 
pose ! the barley is all dead at the root !' Far- 
mer Jones looked sheepish, and said, ' To be 
sure the crops had turned out better than he 
thought.' — 'Then,' said Dr. Shepherd, 'let us 
learn to trust Providence another time ; let our 
experience of his past goodness strengthen our 
faith.' 

Among other things, they agreed to subscribe 
for a large quantity of rice, which was to be sold 
out to the poor at a very low price, and Mrs. 
White was so kind as to undertake the trouble 
of selling it. After their day's work was over, 
all who wished to buy at these reduced rates, 
were ordered to come to the farm on the Tues- 
day evening. Dr. Shepherd dropped in at the 
same time, and when Mrs. White had done 
weighing her rice, the doctor spoke as follows : 

' My honest friend, it has pleased God, for 
some wise end, to visit this land with a scarcity, 
to which we have been but little accustomed. 
There are some idle, evil-minded people, who 
are on the watch for the public distresses ; not 
that they may humble themselves under the 
mighty hand of God (which is the true use to 
be made of all troubles) but that they may bene- 
fit themselves by disturbing the public peace. 
These people, by riot and drunkenness, double 
the evil which they pretend to cure. Riot will 
complete our misfortunes ; while peace, indus- 
try, and good management, will go near to cure 
them. Bread, to be sure, is uncommonly dear. 
Among the various ways of making it cheaper, 
one is to reduce the quality of it, another to les- 
sen the quantity we consume. If we cannot 
get enough of coarse wheaten bread, let us make 
it of other grain. Or let us mix one half of 
potatoes, and one half of wheat. This last is 
what I eat in my own family ; it is pleasant and 
wholesome. Our blessed Saviour ate barley 
bread, you know, as we are told in the last 
month's Sunday reading of the Cheap Reposi- 
tory,* which I hope you have all heard ; as I 
desired the master of the Sunday-school to read 
it just after evening service, when I know many 
of the parents are apt to call in at the school. 
This is a good custom, and one of those little 
books shall be often read at that time. 

' My good women, I truly feel for you at this 
time of scarcity ; and I am going to show my 
good will, as much by my advice as my sub- 
scription. It is my duty, as your friend and 
minister, to tell you, that one half of your present 
hardships is owing to bad management. I often 
meet your children without shoes and stock- 
ings, with great luncheons of the very whitest 
bread, and that three times a day. Half that 
quantity, and still less if it were coarse, put into 
a dish of good onion or leek porridge, would 

Cheap Repository, Tract on the Scarcity, print 
cJ for T. Evans, Long-lane, West Smithfield, London 



232 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



make them an excellent breakfast. Many too, of 
the very poorest of you, eat your broad hot from 
the oven ; this makes the difference of one loaf in 
five ; I assure you 'tis what I cannot afford to 
do. Come, Mrs. White, you must assist me a 
little. I am not very knowing in these matters 
myself; but I know that the rich would be twice 
as charitable as they are, if the poor made a 
better use of their bounty. Mrs. White, do give 
these poor women a little advice how to make 
their pittance go further than it now does. When 
you lived with me you were famous for making 
us nice cheap dishes, and I dare say you are not 
less notable, now you manage for yourself.' 

' Indeed, neighbours,' said Mrs. White, ' what 
the good doctor says is very true. A halfpenny 
worth of oatmeal, or groats, with a leek or onion, 
out of your own garden, which costs nothing, a 
bit of salt, and a little coarse bread, will break- 
fast your whole family. It is a great mistake 
at any time to think a bit of meat is so ruinous, 
and a great load of bread so cheap. A poor man 
gets seven or eight shillings a week ; if he is 
careful he brings it home. I dare not say how 
much of this goes for tea in the afternoon, now 
sugar and butter are so dear, because I should 
have you all upon me ; but I will say, that too 
much of this little goes even for bread, from a 
mistaken notion that it is the hardest fare. 
This, at all times, but particularly just now, is 
bad management. Dry peas, to be sure, have 
been very dear lately ; but now they are plenty 
enough. I am certain then, that if a shilling or 
two of the seven or eight was laid out for a bit 
of coarse beef, a sheep's head, or any such thing, 
it would be well bestowed. I would throw a 
couple of pounds of this into the pot, with two 
or three handsful of gray peas, an onion, and a 
little pepper. Then I would throw in cabbage 
or turnip, and carrot ; or any garden stuff that 
was most plenty ; let it stew two or three hours, 
and it will make a dish fit for his majesty. The 
working men should have the meat ; the chil- 
dren don't want it ; the soup will be thick and 
substantial, and requires no bread.' 



Rice Milk. 

'You who can get skim-milk, as all our work- 
men can, have a great advantage. A quart of 
this, and a quarter of a pound of the rice you 
have just bought, a little bit of alspice, and 
brown sugar, will make a dainty and cheap 
dish.' 

' Bless your heart !' muttered Amy Grumble, 
who looked as dirty as a cinder-wench, with her 
face and fingers all daubed with snuff: 'rice 
milk, indeed ! it is very nice to be sure for those 
who can dress it, but we have not a bit of coal ; 
rice is no use to us without firing ;' ' and yet,' 
said the doctor, ' I see your tea-kettle boiling 
twice every day, as I pass by the poor-house, 
and fresh butter at thirteen-pence a pound on 
your shelf.' ' O dear sir,' cried Amy, ' a few 
sticks serve to boil the tea-kettle.' — ' And a few 
more,' said the doctor, ' will boil the rice milk, 
and give twice the nourishment at a quarter of 
the expense.' 

Rice Pudding. 

4 Pray, Sarah,' said the doctor, ' how did you 
\ 



use to make that pudding my children were so 
fond of? And I remember, when it was cold, 
we used to have it in the parlour for supper.' 
' Nothing more easy,' said Mrs. White : ' I put 
half a pound of rice, two quarts of skim-milk, 
and two ounces of brown sugar.' ' Well,' said 
the doctor, ' and how many will this dine V 
' Seven or eight, sir.' ' Very well, and what 
will it cost ?' — ' Why, sir, it did not cost you so 
much, because we baked it at home, and I used 
our own milk ; but it will not cost above seven 
pence to those who pay for both. Here, too, 
bread is saved.' 

' Pray, Sarah, let me put in a word,' said far- 
mer White : ' I advise my men to raise each a 
large bed of parsnips. They are very nourish- 
ing, and very profitable. Sixpenny worth of 
seed, well sowed and trod in, will produce more- 
meals than four sacks of potatoes ; and what is 
material to you who have so little ground, it will 
not require more than an eighth part of the 
ground which the four sacks will take. Provi- 
dence having contrived by the very formation of 
this root that it shall occupy but a very small 
space. Parsnips are very good the second day 
warmed in the frying pan, and a little rasher of 
pork, or bacon, will give them a nice flavour.' 

Dr. Shepherd now said, ' as a proof of tho 
nourishing quality of parsnips, I was reading in 
a history book this very day, that the American 
Indians make a great part of their bread of pars- 
nips, though Indian corn is so famous ; it will 
make a little variety too.' 



A Cheap Stew. 

' I remember,' said Mrs. White, ' a cheap dish, 
so nice that it makes my mouth water. I peel 
some raw potatoes, slice them thin, put the slices 
into a deep frying-pan, or pot with a little water, 
an onion, and a bit of pepper. Then I got a 
bone or two of a breast of mutton, or a little strip 
of salt pork and put into it. Cover it down 
close, keep in the steam, and let it stew for an 
hour.' 

' You really give me an appetite, Mrs. White, 
by your dainty receipts,' said the doctor. ' I am 
resolved to have this dish at my own table.' ' I 
could tell you another very good dish, and still 
cheaper,' answered she. ' Come, let us have it,' 
cried the doctor. ' I shall write all down as 
soon as I get home, and I will favour any body 
with a copy of these receipts who will call at 
my house.' — ' And I will do more, sir,' said Mrs. 
White, ' for I will put any of these women in 
the way how to dress it the first time, if they 
are at a loss. But this is my dish: 

' Take two or three pickled herrings, put them 
into a stone jar, fill it up with potatoes, and a 
little water, and let it bake in the oven till it is 
done. I would give one hint more,' added she ; 
1 1 have taken to use nothing but potatoe starch ; 
and though I say it, that should not say it, no- 
body's linen in a common way looks better than 
ours.' 

The doctor now said, ' I am sorry for one 
hardship which many poor people labour under ■ 
I mean the difficulty of getting a little milk. I 
wish all farmer's wives were as considerate as 
you arc, Mrs. White. A little milk is a great 
comfort to the poor, especially when their chil- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



233 



dren are sick ; and I have known it answer to 
the seller as well as to the buyer, to keep a cow 
or two on purpose to sell it by the quart, instead 
of making butter and cheese. 

'Sir, said farmer White, ' I beg leave to say 
a word to the men, if you please, for all your 
advice goes to the women. If you will drink 
less gin, you may get more meat. If you ab- 
stain from the ale-house, you may, many of you, 
get a little one-way beer at home.' — ' Ay, that 
we can farmer,' said poor Tom, the thatcher, 
who was now got well. ' Easter Monday for 
that — I say no more. A word to the wise.' 
The farmer smiled and went on : ' The number 
of public houses in many a parish, brings on 
more hunger and rags, than all the taxes in it, 
heavy as they are. All the other evils put to- 
gether hardly make up the sum of that one. 
We are now raising a fresh subscription for you. 
This will be our rule of giving. We will not 
give to sots, gamblers, and Sabbath-breakers. 
Those who do not set their young children to 
work on week-days, and send them to school and 
church on Sundays, deserve little favour. No 
man should keep a dog till he has more food 
than his family wants. If he feeds them at 
home, they rob his children ; if he starves them, 
they rob his neighbours. We have heard in a 
neighbouring city, that some people carried 
back the subscription loaves, because they were 
too coarse ; but we hope better things of you.' 
Here Betty Plane begged, with all humility, to 
put in a word. ' Certainly,' said the doctor, 'we 
will listen to all modest complaints, and try to 
redress them.' ' You are pleased to say, sir,' 
said she, 'that we might find much comfort 
from buying coarse bits of beef. And so we 
might, but you do not know, sir, that we could 
seldom get them, even when we had the money, 
and times were so bad.' ' How so, Betty ?' ' Sir, 
when we go to butcher Jobbins, for a bit of shin, 
or any other lean piece, his answer is, ' You 
can't have it to-day. The cook at the great 
house has bespoke it for gravy, or the doctor's 



maid (begging your pardon, sir,) has just or- 
dered it for soup.' — Now, if such kind gentlefolk 
were awaro that this gravy and soup not only 
consume a great deal of meat, which, to be sure, 
those have a right to do who can pay for it ; but 
that it takes away those coarse pieces which the 
poor would buy, if they bought at all. For, in- 
deed, the rich have been very kind, and I don't 
know what we should have done without them.' 

' I thank you for the hint, Betty,' said the 
doctor, ' and I assure you I will have no more 
gravy soup. My garden will supply me with 
soups that are both wholesomer and better ; and 
I will answer for my lady at the great house, 
that she will do the same. I hope this will be- 
come a general rule, and then we shall expect 
that butchers will favour you in the prices of 
the coarse pieces, if we who are rich, buy no- 
thing but the prime. In our gifts we shall pre- 
fer, as the farmer has told you, those who keep 
steadily to their work. Such as come to tho 
vestry for a loaf, and do not come to church for 
the sermon, we shall mark ; and prefer those 
who come constantly, whether there are any 
gifts or not. But there is one rule from which 
we never will depart. . Those who have been 
seen aiding, or abetting any riot, any attack on 
butchers, bakers, wheat-mows, mills, or millers, 
we will not relieve ; but with the quiet, con- 
tented, hard-working man, I will share my last 
morsel of bread. I shall only add, though it has 
pleased God to send hs this visitation as a pun- 
ishment, yet we may convert this short trial into 
a lasting blessing, if we all turn over a new leaf. 
Prosperity had made most of us careless. The 
thoughtless profusion of some of the rich could 
only be exceeded by the idleness and bad manage- 
ment of some of the poor. Let us now at last 
adopt that good old maxim, every one mend one. 
And may God add his blessing.' 

The people now cheerfully departed with their 
rice, resolving as many of them as could get 
milk, to put one of Mrs. White's receipts in 
practice, and an excellent supper they had. 



THE HISTORY OF HESTER WILMOT. 



BEING THE SECOND PART OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. 



Hester Wit.mot was born in the parish of 
Weston, of parents who maintained themselves 
by their labour ; they were both of them ungod- 
ly, it is no wonder therefore they were unhappy. 
They lived badly together, and how could they 
do otherwise ? for their tempers were very differ- 
ent, and they had no religion to smooth down 
this difference, or to teach them that they ought 
to bear with each other's faults. Rebecca Wil- 
mof was a proof that people may have some 
right qualities, and yet be but bad characters, 
and utterly destitute of religion. She was clean, 
notable and industrious. Now I know some 
folks fancy that the poor who have these quali- 
ties need have no other, but this is a sad mistake, 
as I am sure every page in the Bible would 
show ; and it is a pity people do not consult it 

Vol. I. 



oftener. They direct their ploughing and sow- 
ing by the information of the Almanac, why 
will they not consult the Bible for the direction 
of their hearts and lives ? Rebecca was of a 
violent, ungovernable temper; and that very 
neatness which is in itself so pleasing, in her 
became a sin, for her affection to her husband 
and children was quite lost in an over -anxious 
desire to have her house reckoned the nicest in 
the parish. Rebecca was also a proof that a 
poor woman may be as vain as a rich one, for it 
was not so much the comfort of neatness, as the 
praise of neatness, which she coveted. A spot 
on her hearth, or a bit of rust on a brass can- 
dlestick, would throw her into a violent passion. 
Now it is very right to keep the hearth clean 
and the candlestick bright, but it is very wrong 



234 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



so to set one's affections on a hearth or a candle- 
stick, as to make one's self unhappy if any tri- 
fling- accident happens to them ; and if Rebecca 
had been as careful to keep her heart without 
spot, or her life without blemish, as she was to 
keep her fire-irons free from either, she would 
have been held up in this history, not as a warn- 
ing, but as a pattern, and in that case her nicety 
would have come in for a part of the praise. It 
was no fault in Rebecca, but a merit, that her 
oak table was so bright you could almost see to 
put your cap on in it; but it was no merit but 
a fault, that when John, her husband, laid down 
his cup of beer upon it so as to leave a mark, 
she would fly out into so terrible a passion that 
all the children were forced to run to corners ; 
now poor John having no corner to run to, ran 
to the ale-house, till that which was at first a 
refuge too soon became a pleasure. 

Rebecca never wished her children to learn 
to read, because she said it would only serve to 
make them lazy, and she herself had done very 
well without it. She would keep poor Hester 
from church to stone the space under the stairs 
in fine patterns and flowers. I don't pretend to 
say there was any harm in this little decoration, 
it looks pretty enough, and it is better to let the 
children do that than nothing. But still these 
are not things to set one's heart upon ; and be- 
sides Rebecca only did it as a trap for praise ; 
for she was sulky and disappointed if any ladies 
happened to call in and did not seem delighted 
with the flowers which she used to draw with a 
burnt stick on the whitewash of the chimney 
corners. Besides all this finery was often done 
on a Sunday, and there is a great deal of harm 
in doing right things at a wrong time, or in 
wasting much time on things which are of no 
real use, or in doing any thing at all out of va- 
nity. Now I beg that no lazy slattern of a wife 
will go and take any comfort in her dirt from 
what is here said against Rebecca's nicety ; for 
I believe, that for one who makes her husband 
unhappy through neatness, twenty do so by dirt 
and laziness. All excuses are wrong, but the 
excess of a good quality is not so common as the 
6xcess of a bad one ; and not being so obvious, 
perhaps, for that very reason requires more ani- 
madversion. 

John Wilmot was not an ill-natured man, but 
he had no fixed principle. Instead of setting 
himself to cure his wife's faults by mild reproof 
and good example, he was driven by them into 
still greater faults himself. It is a common case 
with people who have no religion when any cross 
accident bcfals them, instead of trying to make 
the best of a bad matter, instead of considering 
their trouble as a trial sent from God to purify 
them, or instead of considering the faults of 
others as a punishment for their own sins, in- 
stead of this I say, what do they do, but either 
sink down at once into despair, or else run for 
comfort into evil courses. Drinking is the com- 
mon remedy for sorrow, if that can be called a 
remedy, the end of which is to destroy soul and 
body. John now began to spend all his leisure 
hours at the Bell. He used to be fond of his chil- 
dren : but when he could not come home in quiet, 
and play with the little ones, while his wife 
dressed him a bit of hot supper, he grew in time 



not to come home at all. He who has once 
taken to drink can seldom be said to be guilty 
of one sin only ; John's heart became hardened. 
His affection for his family was lost in self-in- 
dulgence. Patience and submission, on the part 
of the wife, might have won much upon a man 
of John's temper ; but instead of trying to re- 
claim him, his wife seemed rather to delight in 
putting him as much in the wrong as she could, 
that she might be justified in her constant abuse 
of him. I doubt whether she would have been as 
much pleased with his reformation as she was 
with always talking of his faults, though I know 
it was the opinion of the neighbours, that if she 
had taken as much pains to reform her husband 
by reforming her own temper, as she did to 
abuse him and expose him, her endeavours 
might have been blessed with success. Good 
Christians, who are trying to subdue their own 
faults, can hardly believe that the ungodly have 
a sort of savage satisfaction in trying, by indul- 
gence of their own evil tempers, to lessen the 
happiness of those with whom they have to do. 
Need we look any farther for a proof of our own 
corrupt nature, when we see mankind delight in 
sins which have neither the temptation of profit 
or the allurement of pleasure, such as plaguing, 
vexing, or abusing each other. 

Hester was the eldest of their five children 
she was a sharp sensible girl, but at fourteen 
years old she could not tell a letter, nor had she 
ever been taught to how her knee to Him who 
made her, for John's or rather Rebecca's house, 
had seldom the name of God pronounced in it, 
except to be blasphemed. 

It was just about this time, if I mistake not, 
that Mrs. Jones set up her Sunday-school, of 
which Mrs. Betty Crew was appointed mistress, 
as has been before related. Mrs. Jones finding 
that none of the Wilmots were sent to school, 
took a walk to Rebecca's house, and civilly told 
her, she called to let her know that a school was 
opened, to which she desired her to send her 
children on Sunday following, especially her 
eldest daughter Hester. ' Well,' said Rebecca, 
' and what will you give her if I do ?' ' Give 
her !' replied Mrs. Jones, ' that is rather a rude 
question, and asked in a rude manner : how- 
ever, as a soft answer turneth away wrath, I 
assure you that I will give her the best of learn- 
ing ; I will teach her to fear God and keep his 
commandments.' 1 • I would rather you would 
teach her to fear me, and keep my house clean,' 
said this wicked woman. ' She shan't come, 
however, unless you will pay her for it.' ' Pay 
her for it !' said the lady, ' will it not be reward 
enough that she will be taught to read the word 
of God without any expense to you ? For though 
many gifts both of books and clothing will be 
given the children, yet you are not to consider 
these gifts so much in the light of payment as 
an expression of good will in your benefactors.' 
' I say,' interrupted Rebecca, ' that Hester shan't 
go to school. Religion is of no use that I know 
of but to make people hate their own flesh and 
blood ; and I see no good in learning but to 
make folks proud, and lazy, and dirty. I cannot 
tell a letter myself, and, though I say it, that 
should not say it, there is not a notabler woman 
in the parish.' ' Pray,' said Mrs. Jones mildly 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



235 



do you thinK that young people will disobey 
their parents the more for being taught to fear 
God ?' ' I don't think any thing about it,' said 
Rebecca; ' I shan't let her come, and there's the 
long and short of the matter. Hester has other 
fish to fry ; but you may have some of these lit- 
tle ones if you will :' • No,' said Mrs. Jones, 
4 1 will not; I have not set up a nursery, but a 
school. I am not at all this expense to take cry- 
ing babes out of the mother's way, but to in- 
struct reasonable beings in the road to eternal 
life ; and it ought to be a rule in all schools not 
to take the troublesome young; children unless 
the mother will try to spare the elder ones, who 
are capable of learning.' ' But,' said Rebecca, 
' I have a young child which Hester must nurse i 
while I dress dinner. And she must iron the 
rags, and scour the irons, and dig the potatoes, 
and fetch the water to boil them.' ' As to nurs 
ing the child, that is indeed a necessary duty, 
and Hester ought to stay at home part of the 
day to enable you to go to church ; and families 
should relieve each other in this way, but as to 
all the rest they are no reasons at all, for the 
irons need not be scoured so often, and the rags 
should be ironed, and the potatoes dug, and the 
water fetched on the Saturday ; and I can tell 
you that neither your minister here, nor your 
Judge hereafter, will accept of any such ex- 
cuses.' 

All this while Hester staid behind pale and 
trembling, lest her unkind mother should carry 
her point. She looked up at Mrs. Jones with so 
much love and gratitude, as to win her affection, 
and this good lady went on trying to soften this 
harsh mother. At last Rebecca condescended 
to say, ' Well I don't know but I may let her 
come now and then when I can spare her, pro- 
vided I find you make it worth her while.' All 
this time she had never asked Mrs. Jones to 
sit down, nor had once bid her young children 
be quiet, though they were crying and squalling 
the whole time. Rebecca fancied this rudeness 
was the only way she had of showing she thought 
herself to be as good as her guest, but Mrs. 
Jones never lost her temper. The moment she 
went out of the house, Rebecca called out loud 
enough for her to hear, and ordered Hester to 
get the stone and a bit of sand to scrub out the 
prints of that dirty woman's shoes. Hester in 
high spirits cheerfully obeyed, and rubbed out 
the stains so neatly, that her mother could not 
help lamenting that so handy a girl was going 
to be spoiled, by being taught godliness, and 
learning any such nonsense. 

Mrs. Jonns who knew the world, told her 
agent Mrs. Crew, that her grand difficulty would 
arise not so much from the children as the pa- 
rents. These, said she, are apt to fall into that 
sad mistake, that because their children are 
poor, and have a little of this world's woods, the 
mothers must make it up to them in false indul- 
gence. The children of the gentry are much 
more reproved and corrected for their faults, and 
bred up in far stricter discipline. He was a 
king who said, Chasten thy son, and let not thy 
rod spare for his crying. But do not lose your 
patience ; the more vicious the children are, you 
must remember the more they stand in need of 
vour instruction. When they are bad, comfort 



yourself with thinking how much worse they 
would have been but for you ; and what a bur- 
den they would become to society if these evil 
tempers were to receive no check. The great 
thing which enabled Mrs. Crew to teach well, 
was the deep insight she had got into the corrup- 
tion of human nature. And I doubt if any one can 
make a thoroughly good teacher of religion and 
morals, who wants the master-key to the heart. 
Others indeed may teach knowledge, decency, 
and good manners ; but those, however valuable, 
are not Christianity. Mrs. Crew, who knew 
that out of the heart proceed lying, theft, and 
all that train of evils which begin to break out 
even in young children, applied her labours to 
correct this root of evil. But though a diligent, 
she was a humble teacher, well knowing that 
unless the grace of God blessed her labours, she 
should but labour in vain. 

Hestor Wilmot never failed to attend the 
school, whenever her perverse mother would 
give her leave, and her delight in learning was 
so great, that she would work early and late to 
gain a little time for her book. As she had a 
quick capacity, she learned soon to spell and 
read, and Mrs. Crew observing her diligence, 
used to lend her a book to carry home, that she 
might pick up a little at odd times. It would 
be well if teachers would make this distinction. 
To give, or lend books to those who take no de- 
light in them is an useless expense ; while it i3 
kind and right to assist well-disposed young peo- 
ple with every help of this sort. Those who 
love books seldom hurt them, while the slothful 
who hate learning, will wear out a book more 
in a week, than the diligent will do in a year. 
Hester's way was to read over one question in 
her catechism, or one verse in her hymn book, 
by fire-light before she went to bed ; this she 
thought over in the night ; and when she was 
dressing herself in the morning, she was glad 
to find she always knew a little more than she 
had done the morning before. It is not to be 
believed how much those people will be found 
to have gained at the end of the year, who are 
accustomed to work up all the little odd ends 
and remnants of leisure ; who value time even 
more than money ; and who are convinced that 
minutes are no more to be wasted than pence. 
Nay, he who finds he has wasted a shilling may 
by diligence hope to fetch it up again ; but no 
repentance or industry can ever bring back one 
wasted hour. My good young reader, if ever 
you are tempted to waste an hour, go and ask a 
dying man what he would give for that hour 
which you are throwing away, and according as 
he answers so do you act. 

As her mother hated the sight of a book, Hes- 
ter was forced to learn out of sight : it was no 
disobedience to do this, as long as she wasted no 
part of that time which it was her duty to spend 
in useful labour. She would have thought it a 
sin to have Jeff her work for her book ; but she 
did not think it wrong to steal time from her 
sleep, and to be learning an hour before the rest 
of the lamily were awake. Hester would not 
neglect the washing-tub, or the spinning-wheel, 
even to get on with her catechism ; but she 
thought it fair to think over her questions, while 
she was washing and spinning. In a few months 



236 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



she was able to read fluently in St. John's Gos- 
pel, which is the easiest. But Mrs. Crew did 
not think it enough that her children could read 
a chapter, she would make them understand it 
also. It is in a good degree owing to the want 
of religious knowledge in teachers, that there is 
so little religion in the world. Unless the Bible 
is laid open to the understanding, children may 
read from Genesis to the Revelation, without 
any other improvement than barely learning 
how to pronounce the vvords. Mrs. Crew found 
there was but one way to compel their attention ; 
this was by obliging them to return back again 
to her the sense of what she had read to them, 
and this they might do in their own words, if 
they could not remember the words of Scrip- 
ture. Those who had weak capacities would, 
to be sure, do this but very imperfectly ; but 
even the weakest, if they were willing, would 
retain something. She so managed that saying 
the catechism was not merely an act of the me- 
mory, but of the understanding : for she had ob- 
served formerly that those who had learned the 
catechism in the common formal way, when 
they were children, had never understood it 
when they became men and women, and it re- 
mained in the memory without having made 
any impression on the mind. Thus this fine 
summary of the Christian religion is considered 
as little more than a form of vvords, the being 
able to repeat which, is a qualification for being 
confirmed by the bishop, instead of being con- 
sidered as really containing those grounds of 
Christian faith and practice, by which they are 
to be confirmed Christians. 

Mrs. Crew used to say to Mrs. Jones, those 
who teach the poor must indeed give line upon 
line, precept upon precept, here a little and there 
a little, as they can receive it. So that teaching 
must be a great grievance to those who do not 
really make it a labour of love. I see so much 
levity, obstinacy, and ignorance, that it keeps 
my own forbearance in continual exercise, inso- 
much that I trust I am getting good myself, 
while I am doing good to others. No one, ma- 
dam, can know till they try, that after they have 
asked a poor untaught child the same question 
nineteen times, they must not lose their temper, 
but go on and ask it the twentieth. Now and 
then, when I am tempted to be impatient, I cor- 
rect myself by thinking over that active proof 
which our blessed Saviour requires of our love 
to him when he says, Feed my lambs. 

Hester Wilmot had never been bred to go to 
church, for her father and mother had never 
thought of going themselves, unless at a chris- 
tening in their own family, or at a funeral of 
their neighbours, both of which they considered 
merely as opportunities for good eating and 
drinking, and not as offices of religion. 

As poor Hester had no comfort at home, it 
was the less wonder she delighted in her school, 
her Bible, and her church ; for so great is God's 
goodness, that he is pleased to make religion a 
peculiar comfort to those who have no other 
comfort. The God whose name she had seldom 
heard but when it was taken in vain, was now 
revealed to her as a God of infinite power, jus- 
tice, and holiness. What she read in her Bible, 
and what she felt in her own heart, convinced 



her she was a sinner, and her catechism said 
the same. She was much distressed one day 
on thinking over this promise which she had 
just made (in answer to the question which fell 
to her lot) To renounce the devil and all his 
works, the pomps and, vanities of this icicked 
world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh. I 
say she was distressed on finding that these 
were not merely certain words which she was 
bound to repeat, but certain conditions which 
she was bound to perform. She was sadly puz- 
zled to know how this was to be done, till she 
met with these words in her Bible : My grace 
is sufficient for thee. But still she was at a loss 
to know how this grace was to be obtained. 
Happily Mr. Simpson preached on the next Sun- 
day from this text, Ask and ye shall receive, &.c. 
In this sermon was explained to her the nature, 
the duty, and the efficacy of prayer. After this 
she opened her heart to Mrs. Crew, who taught 
her the great doctrines of Scripture, in a serious 
but plain way. Hester's own heart led her to 
assent to that humbling doctrine of the catechism, 
that We are by nature born in sin; and truly 
glad was she to be relieved by hearing of That 
spiritual grace by which we have a new birth 
unto righteousness. Thus her mind was no 
sooner humbled by one part than it gained com- 
fort from another. On the other hand, while 
she was rejoicing in a lively hope in GWs mer- 
cy through Christ, her mistress put her in mind 
that that was only the true repentance by which 
we forsake sin. Thus the catechism, explained 
by a pious teacher, was found to contain all the 
articles of the Christian faith. 

Mrs. Jones greatly disapproved the practice 
of turning away the scholars because they were 
grown up. Young people, said she, want to be 
warned at sixteen more than they did at six, 
and' they are commonly turned adrift at the very 
age when they want most instruction ; when 
dangers and temptations most beset them. They 
are exposed to more evil by the leisure of a Sun- 
day evening than by the business of a whole 
week : but then religion must be made pleasant, 
and instruction must be carried on in a kind, 
and agreeable, and familiar way. If they once 
dislike the teacher they will soon get to dislike 
what is taught, so that a master or mistress is 
in some measure answerable for the future piety 
of young persons, inasmuch as that piety de 
pends on their manner of making religion plea 
sant as well as profitable. 

To attend Mrs. Jones's evening instructions 
was soon thought not a task but a holiday. In 
a few months it was reckoned a disadvantage 
to the character of any young person in the pa- 
rish to know that they did not attend the even- 
ing school. At first, indeed, many of them came 
only with a view to learn amusement ; but, by 
the blessing of God, they grew fond of instruc- 
tion, and some of them became truly pious. 
Mrs. Jones spoke to them on Sunday evening 
as follows : — ' My dear young women, I rejoice 
af your improvement; but I rejoice with trem- 
bling. I have known young people set out well, 
who afterwards fell off. The heart is deceitful. 
Many like religious knowledge, who do not like 
the strictness of a religious life. I must there- 
fore watch whether those who are diligent at 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



237 



church and school, are diligent in their daily 
walk. Whether those who say they believe in 
God, really obey him. Whether they who pro- 
fess to love Christ keep his commandments. 
Those who hear themselves commended for 
early piety, may learn to rest satisfied with the 
praise of man. People may get a knack at re- 
ligious phrases without being religious; they 
may even get to frequent places of worship as 
an amusement, in order to meet their friends, 
and may learn to delight in a sort of spiritual 
gossip, while religion has no power in their 
hearts. But I hope better things of you, and 
things that accompany salvation, though I thus 
speak. 

What became of Hester Wilmot, with some 
account of Mrs. Jones's May-day feast for her 
school, my readers shall be told next month. 



PART II. 

The New Goion. 

Hester Wilmot, I am sorry to observe, had 
been by nature peevish, and lazy ; she would 
when a child, now and then slight her work, 
and when her mother was unreasonable she was 
too apt to return a saucy answer ; but when she 
became acquainted with her own heart, and with 
the Scriptures, these evil tempers were, in a good 
measure, subdued, for she now learnt to imitate, 
not her violent mother, but him who was meek 
and lowly. When she was scolded for doing ill, 
she prayed for grace to do better ; and the only 
answer she made to her mother's charge, ' that 
religion only served to make people lazy,' was 
to strive to do twice as much work, in order to 
prove that really made them diligent. The only 
thing in which she ventured to disobey her mo- 
ther was, that when she ordered her to do week 
day's work on a Sunday, Hester cried, and said, 
she did not dare to disobey God ; but to show 
that she did not wish to save her own labour, 
she would do a double portion of work on the 
Saturday night, and rise two hours earlier on 
Monday morning. 

Once, when she had worked very hard, her 
mother told her she would treat her with a holy- 
day the following Sabbath, and take her a fine 
walk to eat cakes and drink ale at Weston fair, 
which, though it was professed to be kept on the 
Monday, yet, to the disgrace of the village, al- 
ways began on the Sunday evening.* Rebecca, 
who would on no account have wasted the Mon- 
day, which was a working day, in idleness and 
pleasure, thought she had a very good right to 
enjoy herself at the fair on the Sunday evening, 
as well as to take her children. Hester earnest- 
ly begged to be left at home, and her mother in 
a rage went without her. A wet walk, and 
more ale than she was used to drink, gave Re- 
becca a dangerous fever. — During this illness 

*This practice is too common. Those fairs which 
profess to be kept on Monday, commonly begin on the 
Sunday. It is much to be wished that magistrates would 
put a stop to it, as Mr. Simpson did at Weston, at the 
request of Mrs. Jones. There is another great evil worth 
the notice of justices. In many villages, during the fair, 
ale is sold at private houses, which have no license, to 
ihe great injury of sobriety and good morals. 



Hester, who would not follow her to a scene of 
dissolute mirth, attended her night and day, and 
denied herself necessaries that her sick mother 
might have comforts : and though she secretly 
prayed to God that this sickness might change 
her mother's heart, yet she never once reproach- 
ed her, or put her in mind, that it was caught 
by indulging in a sinful pleasure. 

Another Sunday night her father told Hester, 
he thought she had now been at school long 
enough for him to have a little good of her learn- 
ing, so he desired she would stay at home and 
read to him. Hester cheerfully ran and fetched 
her Testament. But John fell a laughing, call- 
ed her a fool, and said, it would be time enough 
to read the Testament to him when he was go- 
ing to die, but at present he must have some- 
thing merry. So saying, he gave her a song 
book which he had picked up at the Bell. Hester 
having cast her eyes over it, refused to read it, 
saying she did not dare offend God by reading 
what would hurt her own soul. — John called 
her a canting hypocrite ; and said, he would 
put the Testament into the fire for that there 
was not a more merry girl than she was before 
she became religious. — Her mother for once took 
her part, not because she thought her daughter 
in the right, but because she was glad of any 
pretence to show her husband was in the wrong ; 
though she herself would have abused Hester 
for the same thing if John had taken her part. 
John, with a shocking oath abused them both ; 
and went off in a violent passion. — Hester, in- 
stead of saying one undutiful word against her 
father, took up a Psalter in order to teach her 
little sisters ; but Rebecca was so provoked at 
her for not joining her in her abuse of her hus- 
band, that she changed her humour, said John 
was in the right, and Hester a perverse hypo- 
crite, who only made religion a pretence for 
being undutiful to her parents. Hester bore all 
in silence, and committed her cause to Him who 
judgeth righteously. It would have been a great 
comfort to her if she had dared to go to Mrs. 
Crew, and to have joined in the religious exer- 
cises of the evening at school. But her mother 
refused to let her, saying it would only harden 
her heart in mischief. Hester said not a word, 
but after having put the little ones to bed, and 
heard them say their prayers out of sight, she 
went and sat down in her own little loft, and 
said to herself, it would be pleasant to me to 
have taught my little sisters to read, I thought 
it was my duty, for David has said, Come ye 
children hearken unto me, I will teach you the 
fear of the Lord. It would have been still more 
pleasant to have passed the evening at school, 
because I am still ignorant, and fitter to learn 
than to teach ; but I cannot do either without 
flying in the face of my mother ; God sees fit 
to-night to change my pleasant duties into a 
painful trial. I give up my will, and I submit 
to the will of my father ; but when he orders 
me to commit a known sin, then I dare not do 
it, because, in so doing, I must disobey my Fa- 
ther which is in heaven. 

Now it so fell out, that this dispute happened 
on the very Sunday next before Mrs. Jones's 
yearly feast. On May-day all the school at- 
tended her to church, each in a stuff gown of 



238 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



their own earning, and a cap and white apron 
of her giving. After church there was an ex- 
amination made into the learning and behaviour 
of the scholars ; those who were most perfect in 
their chapters, and who brought the best cha- 
racter for industry, humility, and sobriety, re- 
ceived a Bible, or some other good book. 

Now Hester had been a whole year hoarding 
up her little savings, in order to be ready with 
a new gown on the May-day feast. She had 
never got less than two shillings a week by her 
spinning, besides working for the family, and 
earning a trifle by odd jobs. — This money she 
faithfully carried to her mother every Saturday 
night, keeping back by consent, only twopence 
a-week towards the gown. The sum was com- 
plete, the pattern had long been settled, and 
Hester had only on the Monday morning to go 
to the shop, pay her money, and bring home her 
gown to be made. Her mother happened to go 
out early that morning to iron in a gentleman's 
family, where she usually staid a day or two, 
and Hester was busy putting the house in order 
before she went to the shop. 

On that very Monday there was to be a 
meeting at the Bell of all the idle fellows in the 
parish. John Wilmot of course was to be there. 
Indeed he had accepted a challenge of the black- 
smith to a batch at all-fours. The blacksmith 
was flush of money, John thought himself the 
best player ; and that he might make sure of 
winning, he resolved to keep himself sober, 
which he knew was more than the other would 
do. John was so used to go upon tick for ale, 
that he got to the door of the Bell before he re- 
collected that he could not keep his word with 
the gambler without money, and he had not a 
penny in his pocket, so he sullenly turned home- 
wards. He dared not apply to his wife, as he 
knew he should be more likely to get a scratch- 
ed face than a sixpence from her ; but he knew 
that Hester had received two shillings for her 
last week's spinning on Saturday, and perhaps 
she might not yet have given it to her mother. 
Of the hoarded sum he knew nothing. He ask- 
ed her if she could lend him half a crown, and 
he would pay her next day. Hester pleased to 
see him in good humour after what had passed 
the night before ran up and fetched down her 
little box, and in the joy of her heart that he 
how desired something she could comply with 
without wounding her conscience, cheerfully 
poured out her whole little stock upon the table. 
John was in raptures at the sight of three half- 
crowns and a sixpence, and eagerly seized it, 
box and all, together with a few hoarded half- 
pence at the bottom, though he had only asked 
to borrow half-a-crown. None but one whose 
heart was hardened by a long course of drunk- 
enness could have taken away the whole, and 
for such a purpose. He told her she should 
certainly have it again next morning, and, in- 
deed intended to pay it, not doubting but he 
should double the sum. But John overrated 
his own skill, or luck, for he lost every farthing 
to the blacksmith, and sneaked home before 
midnight, and quietly walked up to bed. He 
was quite sober, which Hester thought a good 
sign. Next morning she asked him, in a very 
humble way, for the money, which she said she 



would not have done, but that if the gown was 
not bought directly it would not be ready in time 
for the feast. John's conscience had troubled 
him a little for what he had done, for when he 
was not drunk he was not ill-natured, and ho 
stammered out a broken excuse, but owned ho 
had lost the money, and had not a farthing left. 
The moment Hester saw him mild and kind 
her heart was softened, and she begged him not 
to vex , adding, that she would be contented 
never to have a new gown as long as she lived, 
if she could have the comfort of always seeing 
him come home sober as he was last night. For 
Hester did not know that he had refrained from 
getting drunk, only that he might gamble with 
a better chance of success, and that when a 
gamester keeps himself sober, it is not that he 
may practice a virtue, but that he may commit 
a worse crime. ' I am indeed sorry for what I 
have done,' said he ; ' you cannot go to the feast, 
and what will madam Jones say ?' — ' Yes, but' I 
can, said Hester, ' for God looks not at the gown, 
but at the heart, and I am sure he sees mine full 
of gratitude at hearing you talk so kindly ; and 
if I thought my dear father would change hig 
present evil courses, I should be the happiest 
girl at the feast to-morrow.' John walked away 
mournfully, and said to himself, surely there 
must be something in religion, since it can thus 
change the heart. Hester was once a pert girl, 
and now she is as mild as a lamb. She was once 
an indolent girl, and now she is up with the 
lark. She was a vain girl, and would do any 
thing for a new riband ; and now she is con- 
tented to go in rags to a feast at which every 
one else will have a new gown. She deprived 
herself of her gown to give me the money ; and 
yet this very girl, so dutiful in some respects, 
would submit to be turned out of doors rather 
than read a loose book at my command, or 
break the Sabbath. I do not understand this ; 
there must be some mystery in it. All this he 
said as he was going to work. In the evening 
he did not go to the Bell : whether it was owing 
to his new thoughts, or to his not having a penny 
in his pocket, I will not take upon me positively 
to say, but I believe it was a little of one and a 
little of the other. 

As the pattern of the intended gown had long 
been settled in the family, and as Hester had 
the money by her, it was looked on as good as 
bought, so that she was trusted to get it brought 
home, and made in her mother's absence. In- 
deed, so little did Rebecca care about the school, 
that she would not have cared any thing about 
the gown, if her vanity had not made her wish 
that her daughter should be the best drest of 
any girl at the feast. Being from home, as 
was said before, she knew nothing of the dis- 
appointment. On May-day morning, Hester, 
instead of keeping from the feast, because she 
had not a new gown, or meanly inventing any 
excuse for wearing an old one, dressed herself 
out as neatly as she could in her poor old tilings, 
and went to join the school in order to go to 
church. Whether Hester had formerly indulg- 
ed a little pride of heart, and talked of this 
gown rather too much, I am not quite sure ; 
certain it is, there was a great hue and cry 
made at seeing Hester Wilmot, the neatest girl, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



239 



the most industrious girl in the school, come to 
the May-day feast in an old stuff gown, when 
every other girl was so creditably drest. In- 
deed, I am sorry to say, there were two or 
three much too smart for their station, and who 
had dizened themselves out in very improper 
finery, which Mrs. Jones made them take off 
before her. ' I mean this feast,' said she, ' as 
a reward of industry and piety, and not as 
a trial of skill who can be finest, and outvie the 
rest in show. If I do not take care, my feast 
will become an encouragement, not to virtue, 
but to vanity. I am so great a friend to decency 
of apparel, that I even like to see you deny your 
appetites, that you may be able to come decently 
dressed to the house of God. To encourage you 
to do this. I like to set apart this one day of 
innocent pleasure, against which you may be 
preparing all the year, by laying aside some- 
thing every week towards buying a gown out 
of all your savings. But, let me tell you, that 
meekness and an humble spirit is of more value 
in the sight of God and good men, than the 
gayest cotton gown, or the brightest pink riband 
in the parish.' 

Mrs. Jones for all this, was as much surprised 
as the rest at Hester's mean garb : but such is 
the power of a good character, that she gave 
her credit for a right intention, especially as 
she knew the unhappy state of her family. For 
it was Mrs. Jones's way, (and it is not a bad 
way,) always to wait, and inquire into the truth 
before she condemned any person of good cha- 
racter, though appearances were against them. 
As we cannot judge of people's motives, said 
she, we may, from ignorance, often condemn 
their best actions, and approve of their worst. 
It will be always time enough to judge unfa- 
vourably, and let us give others credit as long 
as we can, and then we in our turn, may expect 
a favourable judgment from others, and remem- 
ber who had said, Judge not, that ye he not 
judged. 

Hester was no more proud of what she had 
done for her farther, than she was humbled by 
the meanness of her garb ; and notwithstanding 
Betty Stiles, one of the girls whose finery had 
been taken away, sneered at her, Hester never 
oftored to clear herself, by exposing her father, 
though she thought it right, secretly to inform 
Mrs. Jones of what had past. When the exami- 
nation of the girls began, Betty Stiles was asked 
some questions on the fourth and fifth command- 
ments, which she answered very well. Hester 
was asked nearly the same questions, and, though 
she answered them no better than Betty had 
done, they were all surprised to see Mrs. Jones 
rise up, and give a handsome Bible to Hester, 
while she gave nothing to Betty. This girl 
cried out rather pertly, ' Madam, it is very hard 
that I have no book : I was as perfect as Hes- 
ter.' — l I have often told you,' said Mrs. Jones, 
* that religion is not a thing of the tongue but 
of the heart. That girl gives me the best proof 
that she has learned the fourth commandment 
to good purpose, who persists in keeping holy 
the Sabbath day, though commanded to break 
it by a parent whom she loves. And that girl 
best proves that she keeps the fifth, who gives 
tw her own comfort, and clothing, and credit, to 



honour and obey her father and mother, even 
though they are not such as she could wish. 
Betty Stiles, though she could answer the ques- 
tions so readily, went abroad last Sunday when 
she should have been at school, and refused to 
nurse her sick mother, when she could not help 
herself. Is this having learnt those two com- 
mandments to any good purpose?' 

Farmer Hoskins, who stood by, whispered 
Mrs. Jones, ' Well, madam, now you have con- 
vinced even me of the benefit of religious in- 
struction ; now I see there is a meaning to it. 
I thought it was in at one ear and out at the 
other, and that a song was as well as a psalm ; 
but now I have found the proof of the pudding 
is in the eating. I see your scholars must do 
what they hear, and obey what they learn. Why, 
at this rate, they will all be better servants for 
being really godly, and so I will add a pudding 
to next year's feast.' 

The pleasure Hester felt in receiving a new 
Bible, made her forget that she had on an old 
gown. She walked to church in a thankful 
frame ; but how great was her joy, when she 
saw, among a number of working men, her own 
father going into church. As she past by him 
she cast on him a look of so much joy and affec- 
tion that it brought tears into his eyes, espe- 
cially when he compared her mean dress with 
that of the other girls, and thought who had 
been the cause of it. John, who had not been at 
church for some years, was deeply struck with 
the service. The confession with which it 
opens went to his heart. He felt, for the first 
time, that he was a miserable sinner, and that 
there teas no health in him. He now felt com- 
punction for sin in general, though it was only 
his ill-behaviour to his daughter which had 
brought him to church. The sermon was such 
as to strengthen the impression which the 
prayers had made; and when it was over, in- 
stead of joining the ringers, ffor the belfry was 
the only part of the church John liked, because 
it usually led to the ale-house,) he quietly walk- 
ed back to his work. It was, indeed, the best 
day's work he ever made. He could not get 
out of his head the whole day, the first words 
he heard at church ; When the wicked man 
turneth away from his wickedness, and doeth 
that which is lawful and right, he shall save his 
soul alive. At night, instead of going to the 
Bell, he went home, intending to ask Hester to 
forgive him ; but as soon as he got to the door, 
he heard Rebecca scolding his daughter for 
having brought such a disgrace on the family 
as to be seen in that old rag of a gown, and in- 
sisted on knowing what she had done with the 
money. Hester tried to keep the secret, but her 
mother declared she would turn her out of 
doors if she did not tell the truth. Hester was 
at last forced to confess she had given it to her 
father. Unfortunately for poor John, it was at 
this very moment that he opened the door. The 
mother now divided her fury between her guilty 
husband and her innocent child, till from words 
she fell to blows. John defended his daughter, 
and received some of the strokes intended for 
the poor girl. This turbulent scene partly put 
John's good resolution to flight, though the pa- 
tience of Hester did him almost as much good 



240 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



as the sermon he had heard. At length the 
poor o-irl escaped up stairs, not a little bruised, 
and a scene of much violence passed between 
John and Rebecca. She declared she would 
not sit down to supper with such a brute, and 
set off to a neighbour's house, that she might 
have the pleasure oP abusing him the longer. 
John, whose mind was much disturbed, went 
up stairs without his supper. As he was pass- 
ing by Hester's little room he heard her voice, 
and as he concluded she was venting bitter com- 
plaints against her unnatural parents, he stop- 
ped to listen, resolved to go in and comfort her. 
He stopped at the door, for, by the light of the 
moon, he saw her kneeling by her bedside, and 
praying so earnestly that she did not hear him. 
As he made sure she could be praying for no- 
thing but his death, what was her surprise to 
hear these words : ' O Lord, have mercy upon 
my dear father and mother, teach me to love 
them, to pray for them, and do them good; make 
me more dutiful and more patient, that, adorn- 
ing the doctrine of God, my Saviour, I may re- 
commend his holy religion, and my dear parents 
may be brought to love and fear thee, through 
Jesus Christ. 1 

Poor John, who would never have been hard- 
hearted if he had not been a drunkard, could 
not stand this, he fell down on his knees, em- 
braced his child ; and begged her to teach him 
how to pray. He prayed himself as well as he 
could, and though he did not know what words 
to use, yet his heart was melted ; he owned he 
was a sinner, and begged Hester to fetch the 
prayer-book, and read over the confession with 
which he had been so struck at church. This 
was the pleasantest order she had ever obeyed. 
Seeing him deeply affected with a sense of sin 
she pointed out to him the Saviour of sinners; 
and in this manner she passed some hours with 
her father, which were the happiest of her life; 
such a night was worth a hundred cotton, or 
even silk gowns. In the course of the week Hes- 
ter read over the confession, and some other 
prayers, to her father so often that he got them 
by heart, and repeated them while he was at 
work. — She next taught him the fifty-first 
psalm. At length he took courage to kneel 
down and pray before he went to bed. From 
that time he bore his wife's ill-humour much 
better than he had ever done, and, as he knew 
her to be neat, and notable, and saving, he be- 
gan to think, that if her temper was not quite 
so bad, his home might still become as pleasant 
a place to him as ever the Bell had been ; but 
unless she became more tractable he did not 
know what to do with his long evenings after 
the little ones were in bed, for he began, once 
more, to delight in playing with them. Hester 
proposed that she herself should teach him to 
read an hour every night, and he consented. 
Rebecca began to storm, from the mere trick 
she had got of storming ; but finding that he 
now brought home all his earnings, and that 
she got both his money and his company, (for 
she had once loved him,) she began to reconcile 
herself to this new way of life. In a Tew months 
John could read a psalm. In learning to read 
it he also got it by heart, and this proved a little 
store for private devotion, and while he was 



mowing or reaping, he could call to mind a text 
to cheer his labour. He now went constantly 
to church, and often dropped in at the school on 
a Sunday evening to hear their prayers. He 
expressed so much pleasure at this, that one day 
Hester ventured to ask him if they should set 
up family prayer at home ? John said he should 
like it mightily, but as he could not yet read 
quite well enough, he desired Hester to try to 
get a proper book and begin next Sunday night. 
Hester had bought of a pious hawker, for three 
halfpence,* the Book of prayers, printed for the 
Cheap Repository, and knew she should there 
find something suitable. 

When Hester read the exhortation at the be- 
ginning of this little book, her mother, who sat 
in tho corner, and pretended to be asleep, was 
so much struck that she could not find a word 
to say against it. ' For a Tew nights, indeed, she 
continued to sit still, or pretended to rock the 
young child while her husband and daughter 
were kneeling at their prayers. She expected 
John would have scolded her for this, and so 
perverse was her temper, that she was disap- 
pointed at his finding no fault with her. Seeing 
at last that he was very patient, and that though 
he prayed fervently himself he suffered her to 
do as she liked, she lost the spirit of opposition 
for want of something to provoke it. As her 
pride began to be subdued, some little disposi 
tion to piety was awakened in her heart. — By 
degrees she slid down on her knees, though at 
first it was behind the cradle, or the clock, or 
in some corner where she thought they would 
not see her. Hester rejoiced even in this out- 
ward change in her mother, and prayed that 
God would, at last be pleased to touch her heart 
as he had done that of her father. 

As John now spent no idle money, he had 
saved up a trifle by working over-hours ; this he 
kindly offered to Hester to make up for the loss 
of her gown. Instead of accepting it, Hester 
told him, that as she herself was young and 
healthy, she should soon be able to clothe herself 
out of her own savings, and begged him to 
make her mother a present of this gown, which 
he did. It had been a maxim of Rebecca, that 
it was better not to go to church at all, than go 
in an old gown. She had, however, so far con- 
quered this evil notion, that she had lately gone 
pretty often. This kindness of the gown touched 
her not a little, and the first Sunday she put it 
on Mr. Simpson happened to preach from -this 
text, God resisteth the proud, but giveili grace to 
the humble. This sermon so affected Rebecca 
that she never once thought she had her new 
gown on, till she came to take it off when she 
went to bed, and that very night, instead of 
skulking behind, she knelt down by her hus- 
band, and joined in prayer with much fervour. 

There was one thing sunk deep in Rebecca's 
mind ; she had observed that since her husband 
had grown religious he had been so careful not 
to give her any offence, that he was become 
scrupulously clean ; took off his dirty shoes be- 
fore he sat down, and was very cautious not to 
spill a drop of beer on her shining table. Now 

* These prayers may be had also divided into two 
parts, one fit for private persons, the otlter for families 
price one halfpenny. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



241 



it was rather remarkable, that as John grew 
more neat, Rebecca grew more indifferent to 
neatness. But both these changes arose from 
the same cause, the growth of religion in their 
hearts. John grew cleanly from the fear of 
giving pain to his wife, while Rebecca grew in- 
different from having discovered the sin and 
tolly of an over-anxious care about trifles. When 



the heart is once given up to God, such vanitfes 
in a good degree' die of themselves. 

Hester continues to grow in grace, and in 
knowledge. Last Christmas-day she was ap- 
pointed an under teacher in the school, and ma- 
ny people think that some years hence, if any 
thing should happen to Mrs. Crew, Hester may 
be promoted to be head mistress 



THE GRAND ASSIZES, dec. 

OR GENERAL JAIL DELIVERY. 
AN ALLEGORY. 



There was in a certain country a great king, 
who was also a judge. He was very merciful, 
but he was also very just ; for he used to say, 
that justice was the foundation of all goodness, 
and that indiscriminate and misapplied mercy 
was in fact injustice. His subjects were apt 
enough, in a general way, to extol his merciful 
temper, and especially those subjects who were 
always committing crimes which made them 
particularly liable to be punished by his justice. 
This last quality they constantly kept out of 
sight, till they had cheated themselves into a 
notion that he was too good to punish at all. 

Now it had happened a long time before, that 
this whole people had broken their allegiance, 
and had forfeited the king's favour, and had also 
fallen from a very prosperous state in which he 
had originally placed them, having one and all 
become bankrupts. But when they were over 
head and ears in debt, and had nothing to pay, 
the king's son most generously took the whole 
burden of their debts on himself; and, in short, 
it was proposed that all their affairs should be 
settled, and their very crimes forgiven, (for they 
were criminals as well as debtors) provided only 
they would show themselves sincerely sorry for 
what they had done themselves, and be thankful 
for what had been done for them. I should how- 
ever remark, that a book was also given them, 
in which a true and faithful account of their 
own rebellion was written ; and of the manner 
of obtaining the king's pardon, together with a 
variety of directions for their conduct in time 
to come ; and in this book it was particularly 
mentioned, that after having lived a certain 
number of years in a remote part of the same 
king's country, yet still under his eye and juris- 
diction, there should be a. grand assizes, when 
every one was to be publicly tried for his past 
behaviour ; and after this trial was over, certain 
heavy punishments were to be inflicted on those 
who should have still persisted in their rebellion, 
and certain high premiums were to be bestowed 
as a gracious reward upon the penitent and obe- 
dient. 

It may be proper here to notice, that this 
king's court differed in some respect from our 
courts of justice, being indeed a sort of court of 
appeal, to which questions were carried after 
they had been imperfectly decided in the com- 
mon courts ! And although with us all crimi- 
nals are tried (and a most excellent mode of 
trial it is) by a jury of their peers, yet in this 
king's country the mode was very different ; for 

Q 



since every one of the people had been in a cer- 
tain sense criminals, the king did not think it 
fair to make them judges also. It would, indeed, 
have been impossible to follow in all respects 
the customs which prevail with us, for the crimes 
with which men are charged in our courts are 
mere overt acts, as the lawyers call them, that 
is, acts which regard the outward behaviour ; 
such as the acts of striking, maiming, stealing, 
and so forth. But in this king's court it is rrot 
merely outward sins, but sins of the heart also 
which were to be punished. Many a crime, 
therefore, which was never heard of in the court 
of King's Bench, or at the Old Bailey, and which 
indeed could not be cognizable by these courts, 
was here to be brought to light, and was reserv- 
ed for this great day. Among these were pride, 
and oppression, and envy, and malice, and re- 
venge, and covetousness, and secret vanity of 
mind, and evil thoughts of all sorts, and all sin- 
ful wishes and desires. When covetousness, in- 
deed, put men on committing robbery, or when 
malice drove them to acts of murder, then the 
common courts immediately judged the crimi- 
nal, without waiting for these great assizes ; ne- 
vertheless, since even a thief and murderer 
would now and then escape in the common 
courts, for want of evidence, or through some 
fault or other of the judge or jury, the escape 
was of little moment to the poor criminal, for 
he was sure to be tried again by this great king; 
and even though the man should have been pu- 
nished in some sense before, yet he had now a 
farther and more lasting punishment to fear, 
unless, indeed, he was one of those who had ob- 
tained (by the means I before spoke of) this 
great king's pardon. The sins of the heart, how- 
ever, were by far the most numerous sort of 
sins, which were to come before this great tri- 
bunal ; and these were to be judged by this great 
king in person, and by none but himself; be- 
cause he alone possessed a certain power of get- 
ting at all secrets. 

I once heard of a certain king of Sicily, who 
built a whispering gallery in the form of an ear, 
through which he could hear every word his re- 
bellious subjects uttered, though spoken ever so 
low. But this secret of the king of Sicily was 
nothing to what this great king possessed ; for 
he had the power of knowing every thought 
which was conceived in the mind, though it 
never broke out into words, or proceeded to ac- 
tions. 

Now you may be ready to think, perhaps 



242 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



that tnese people were worse off than any others, 
because they were to be examined so closely, 
and judged so strictly. Far from it; the king 
was too just to expect bricks without giving 
them straw ; lie gave them, therefore, every 
help that they needed. He gave them a book 
of directions, as T before observed; and because 
they were naturally short-sighted, he supplied 
them with a glass for reading it, and thus the 
most dim-sighted might see, if they did not wil- 
fully shut their eyes : but though the king in- 
vited them to open their eyes he did not compel 
them ; and many remain stone blind all their 
lives with the book in their hand, because they 
would not use the glass, nor take the proper 
means for reading and understanding all that 
was written for them. The humble and sincere 
learned in time to see even that part of the book 
which was least plainly written ; and it was 
observed that the ability to understand it de- 
pended more on the heart than the head ; an 
evil disposition blinded the sight, while humility 
operated like an eye-salve. 

Now it happened that those who had been so 
lucky as to escape the punishment of the lower 
courts, took it into their heads that they were 
all very good sort of people, and of course very 
safe from any danger at this great assize. This 
grand intended trial, indeed, had been talked of 
so much, and put off so long (for it had seemed 
long at least to these short-sighted people) that 
many persuaded themselves it would never take 
place at all ; and far the greater part were living 
away therefore without ever thinking about it; 
they went on just as if nothing at all had been 
done for their benefit ; and as if they had no 
king to please, no king's son to be thankful to, 
no book to guide themselves by, and as if the 
assizes were never to come about. 

But with this king a thousand years were as 
a day, for he was not slack concerning his pro- 
mises, as some men count slackness. — So at 
length the solemn period approached. Still, 
however, the people did not prepare for the so- 
lemnity, or rather, they prepared for it much 
as some of the people in our provincial towns 
are apt to prepare for the annual assize times; 
I mean by balls and feastings, and they saw 
their own trial come on, with as little concern 
as is felt by the people in our streets, when they 
see the judge's procession enter the town ; they 
indeed comfort themselves that it is only those in 
the prisons who are guilty. 

But when at last the day came, and every 
man found that he was to be judged for himself; 
and that somehow or other, all his secrets were 
brought out, and that there was now no escape, 
not even a short reprieve, things began to take 
a more serious turn. Some of the worst of the 
criminals were got together debating in an outer 
court of the grand hall ; and there they passed 
their time, not in compunction and tears, not in 
comparing their lives with what was required in 
that book which had been given them, but they 
derived a fallacious hope by comparing them- 
selves with such as had been still more notorious 
offenders. 

One who had grown wealthy by rapine and 
oppression, but had contrived to keep within the 
'wetter of the law, insulted a poor fellow as a 



thief, because he had stolen >a loaf of bread. 
4 You are far wickeder than I was,' said a citi- 
zen to his apprentice, ' for you drank and swore 
at the ale-house every Sunday night.' ' Yes,' 
said the poor lellow, ' but it was your fault that 
I did so, for you took no care of my soul, lut 
spent all your Sabbaths in jaunting abroad or in 
rioting at home; I might have learnt, but there 
was no one to teach me ; I might have followed 
a good example, but I saw only bad ones. I 
sinned against less light than you did.' A 
drunken journeyman, who had spent all his 
wages on gin, rejoiced that he had not spent a 
great estate in bribery at elections, as the lord 
of his manor had done, while a perjured elector 
boasted that he was no drunkard like the jour- 
neyman; and the member himself took comfort 
that ho had never received the bribes which ho 
had not been ashamed to offer. 

I have not room to describe the awful pomp 
of the court, nor the terrible sounding of the 
trumpet which attended the judge's entrance, 
nor the sitting of the judge, nor the opening of 
the books, nor the crowding of the millions, who 
stood before him. I shall pass over the multi- 
tudes who were tried and condemned to dun- 
geons and chains, and eternal fire, and to per- 
petual banishment from the presence of the 
king, which always seemed to be the saddest 
part of the sentence. I shall only notice further, 
a few who brought some plea of merit, and 
claimed a right to be rewarded by the king, and 
even deceived themselves so far as to think that 
his own book of laws would be their justifica- 
tion. 

A thoughtless spendthrift advanced without 
any contrition, and said, 'that he had lived hand- 
somely, and had hated the covetous whom God 
abhorreth ; that he trusted in that passage of 
the book which said, that covetouness was idola- 
try ; and that he therefore hoped for a favoura- 
ble sentence.' Now it proved that this man had 
not only avoided covetousness, but that he had 
even left his wife and children in want through 
his excessive prodigality. The judge therefore 
immediately pointed to that place in the book 
where it is written, he that provideth not for hi» 
household is worse than an infidel. He that 
liveth in pleasure is dead lohile he liveth ; ' thou,' 
3aid he, ' in thy life time, receivedst thy good 
things, and now thou must be tormented.' Then 
a miser, whom hunger and hoarding had worn 
to skin and bone, crept forward, and praised the 
sentence passed on this extravagant youth, ' and 
surely,' said he, ' since he is condemned, I am 
a man that may make some plea to favour — I 
was never idle or drunk, I kept my body in sub- 
jection. I have been so self-denying that I am 
certainly a saint : I have loved neither father 
nor mother, nor wife nor children, to excess, in 
all this I have obeyed the book of the law.' Then 
the judge said, ' But where are thy works of 
mercy and thy labours of love, see that family 
which perished in thy sight last hard winter, 
while thy barns were overflowing ; that poor 
family were my representatives; yet they were 
hungry, and thou gavest them no meat. Go to t 
now thou rich man, weep and howl for the mise- 
ries that are come upon you. Your gold and 
your silver is cankered, and the rust of them 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



243 



shall be a witness against you, and shall eat 
your flesh as it werejire.' 1 

Then came up one with a most self-sufficient 
air. He walked up boldly, having in one hand 
the plan of an hospital which he had built, and 
in the other the drawing of a statue, which was 
erecting for him in the country that he had just 
left, and on his forehead appeared, in gold let- 
ters, the list of all the public charities to which 
he had subscribed. He seemed to take great 
pleasure in the condemnation of the miser, and 
said, ' Lord, when saw I thee hungry and fed 
thee not, or in prison and visited thee not ? 1 
have visited the fatherless and widow in their 
affliction.' Here the judge cut him short, by 
saying, ' True, thou didst visit the fatherless, 
but didst thou fulfil equally that other part of 
my command, ' to keep thyself unspotted from 
the world.' No, thou wast conformed to the 
world in many of its sinful customs, ' thou didst 
follow a multitude to do evil ; thou didst love 
the world and the things of the world ; and the 
motive to all thy charities was not a regard to 
me but to thy own credit with thy fellow men. 
Thou hast done every thing for the sake of re- 
putation, and now thou art vainly trusting in 
thy deceitful works, instead of putting all thy 
trust in my son, who has offered himself to be a 
surety for thee. Where has been that humility 
and gratitude to him which was required of thee. 
No, thou wouldst be thine own surety : thou 
hast trusted in thyself: thou hast made thy 
boast of thine own goodness ; thou hast sought 
after and thou hast enjoyed the praise of men, 
and verily I say unto thee, ' thou hast had thy 
reward.' 

A poor diseased blind cripple, who came from 
the very hospital which this great man had 
built, then fell prostrate on his face, crying out, 
■ Lord be merciful to me a sinner !' on which 
the judge, to the surprise of all, said, ' Well 
done, good and faithful servant.' The poor man 
replied, ' Lord, I have done nothing !' — ' But 
thou hast 'suffered well,' said the judge ; ' thou 
hast been an example of patience and meekness, 
and though thou hadst but few talents, yet thou 
hast well improved those few ; thou hadst time, 
this thou didst spend in the humble duties of thy 
station, and also in earnest prayer ; thou didst, 
pray even for that proud founder of the hospital, 
who never prayed for himself; thou wast indeed 
blind and lame, but it is no where said, my son 
give me thy feet, or thine eyes, but give me thy 
heart ; and even the few faculties I did grant 
thee, were employed to my glory; with thine 
ears thou didst listen to my word, with thy 



tongue thou didst show forth my praise, ' enter 
thou into the joy of thy Lord.' 

There were several who came forward, and 
boasted of some single and particular virtue, in 
which they had been supposed to excel. One 
talked of his generosity, another of his courage, 
and a third of his fortitude ; but it proved on a 
close examination, that some of those supposed 
virtues were merely the effect of a particular 
constitution of body ; that others proceeded from 
a false motive, and that not a few of them were 
actual vices, since they were carried to excess ; 
and under the pretence of fulfilling one duty, 
some other duty was lost sight of; in short, these 
partial virtues were none of them practised in 
obedience to the will of the king, but. merely to 
please the person's own humour, or to gain 
praise, and they would not, therefore, stand this 
day's trial, for ' he that had kept the whole law, 
and yet had wilfully and habitually offended in 
any one point, was declared guilty of breaking 
the whole.' 

At this moment a sort of thick scales fell from 
the eyes of the multitude. They could now no 
longer take comfort, as they had done for so 
many years, by measuring their neighbours' 
conduct against their own. Each at once saw 
himself in his true light, and found, alas ! when 
it was too late, that he should have made the 
book which had been given him his rule of prac- 
tice before, since it now proved to be the rule 
by which he was to be judged. Nay, every one 
now thought himself even worse than his neigh- 
bour, because, while he only saw and heard of 
the guilt of others, he felt his own in all its ag- 
gravated horror. 

To complete their confusion, they were com- 
pelled to acknowledge the justice of the judge 
who condemned them ; and also to approve the 
favourable sentence by which thousands of other 
criminals had not only their lives saved, but 
were made happy and glorious beyond all ima- 
gination ; not for any great merits which they 
had to produce, but in consequence of their sin- 
cere repentance, and their humble acceptance 
of the pardon offered to them by the king's son. 
One thing was remarkable, that whilst most of 
those who were condemned, never expected 
condemnation, but even claimed a reward for 
their supposed innocence or goodness, all who 
were really rewarded and forgiven were sensible 
that they owed their pardon to a mere act of 
grace, and they cried out with one voice, ' Not 
unto us, not unto us, but unto thy name be the 
praise 1' 



THE SERVANT MAN TURNED SOLDIER. 



OR THE FAIR-WEATHER CHRISTIAN. 
AN ALLEGORY. 



Wiu'Xam was a lively young servant, who lived 
in a gnit but very irregular family. His place 
was on the whole, agreeable to him, and suited 
to his gay thoughtless temper. He found a 
plentiful table and a good cellar. There was, 



indeed, a great deal of work to be done, though 
it was performed with much disorder and con- 
fusion. The family in the main were not un- 
kind to him, though they often contradicted and 
crossed him, especially when things went ill 



244 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



with themselves. This, William never much 
liked, for he was always Pond of having his own 
way. There was a merry, or rather a noisy 
and riotous servant's hall ; for disorder and 
quarrels are indeed the usual effects of plenty 
and unrestrained indulgence. The men wore 
smart, but idle ; the maids were showy but li- 
centious, and all did pretty much as they liked 
for a time, but the time was commonly short. 
The wages were reckoned high, but they were 
seldom paid, and it was even said by sober peo- 
ple, that the family was insolvent, and never 
fulfilled any of their flattering engagements, or 
their most positive promises ; but still, notwith- 
standing their real poverty, things went on with 
just the same thoughtlessness and splendour, 
and neither master nor servants looked beyond 
the jollity of the present hour. 

In this unruly family there was little church 
going, and still less praying at home. They 
pretended, indeed, in a general way, to believe 
in the Bible, but it was only an outward pro- 
fession, few of them read it at all, and even 
of those who did read it still fewer were govern- 
ed by it. There was indeed a Bible lying on 
the table in the great hall, which was kept for 
the purpose of administering an oath, but was 
seldom used on any other occasion, and some 
of the heads of the family were of opinion that 
this was its only real use, as it might serve to 
keep the lower parts of it in order. 

William, who was fond of novelty and plea- 
sure, was apt to be negligent of the duties of 
the house. He used to stay out on his errands, 
and one of his favourite amusements was going 
to the parade to see the soldiers exercise. He 
saw with envy how smartly they were dressed, 
listened with rapture to the music, and fancied 
that a soldier had nothing to do but to walk to 
and fro in a certain regular order, to go through 
a little easy exercise, in short, to live without 
fighting, fatigue, or danger. 

O, said he, whenever he was affronted at 
home, what a fine thing it must be to be a sol- 
dier ! to be so well dressed, to have nothing to 
do but to move to the pleasant sound of fife and 
drum, and to have so many people come to look 
at one, and admire one. O it must be a fine 
thing to be a soldier ! 

Yet when the vexation of the moment was 
over, he found so much case and diversion in the 
great family, it was so suited to his low taste 
and sensual appetites, that he thought no more 
of the matter. He forgot the glories of a soldier, 
and eagerly returned to all the mean gratifica- 
tions of the kitchen. His evil habits were but 
little attended to by those with whom he lived ; 
his faults, among which were lying and swear- 
ing, were not often corrected by the family, who 
had little objection to those sins, which only 
offended God and did not much affect their own 
interest or property. And except that William 
was obliged to work rather more than he liked, 
he found little, while he was young and healthy, 
that was very disagreeable in this service. So 
he went on, still thinking, however, when things 
went a little cross, what a fine thing it was to 
be a soldier ! At last one day as he was waiting 
at dinner, he had the misfortune to let fall a 
ehina dish, and broke it all to pieces. It was a 



curious dish, much valued by the family, as they 
pretended ; this family were indeed apt to set a 
false' fantastic value on things, and not to esti- 
mate them by their real worth. The heads of 
the family, who had generally been rather pa- 
tient and good-humoured wilii William, as I 
said before, for those vices, which though offen- 
sive to God did not touch their own pocket, now 
flew out into a violent passion with him, called 
him a thousand hard names, and even threaten- 
ed to horsewhip him for his shameful negli- 
gence. 

William in a great fright, for he was a sad 
coward at bottom, ran directly out of the house 
to avoid the threatened punishment; and hap- 
pening just at that very time to pass by the pa- 
rade where the soldiers chanced to be then ex- 
ercisirig, his resolution was taken in a moment. 
He instantly determined to be no more a slave, 
as he called it ; he would return no more to be 
subject to the humours of a tyrannical family ; 
no, he was resolved to be free ; or at least, if he 
must serve, he would serve no master but the 
king. 

William, who had now and then happened to 
hear from the accidental talk of the soldiers, 
that those who served the great family he had 
lived with, were slaves, to their tyranny and 
vices, had also heard in the same casual man- 
ner, that the service of the king was perfect free- 
dom. Now he had taken it into his head to hope 
that this might be a freedom to do evil, or at 
least to do nothing, so he thought it was the 
only place in the world to suit him. 

A fine likely young man as William was, had 
no great difficulty to get enlisted. The few 
forms were soon settled, he received the bounty 
money as eagerly as it was offered, took the 
oaths of allegiance, was joined to the regiment 
and heartily welcomed by his new comrades. 
He was the happiest fellow alive. All was 
smooth and calm. The day happened to be 
very fine, and therefore William always reckon- 
ed upon a fine day. The scene was gay and 
lively, the music cheerful, he round the exercise 
very easy, and he thought there was little more 
expected from him. 

He soon began to flourish away in his talk ; 
and when he mot with any one of his old fellow 
servants, he fell a prating about marches and 
counter-marches, and blockades, and battles, and 
sieges, and blood, and death, and triumphs, and 
victories, all at random, for these were words 
and phrases he had picked up without at all un- 
derstanding what he said. He had no know- 
ledge, and therefore he had no modesty, ho had 
no experience and therefore he had no fears. 

All seemed to go on swimmingly, for he had 
as yet no trial. He began to think with triumph 
what a mean life he had escaped from in the old 
quarrelsome family, and what a happy, honoura- 
ble life he should have in the army. there was 
no life like the life of a soldier ! 

In a short time, however, war broke out, his 
regiment was one of the first which was callea 
out to actual and hard service. As William 
was the most raw of all the recruits he was the 
first to murmur at the difficulties and hardships, 
the cold and hunger, the fatigue and danger of 
being a soldier. O what watchings, and perils 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



245 



and trials, and hardships, and difficulties he now 
thought attended a military life ! Surely, said 
he, I could never have suspected all this misery 
when I used to see the men on the parade in our 
town 

He now found, when it was too late, that all 
the field-days he used to attend, all the evolu- 
tions and exercises which he had observed the 
soldiers to go through in the calm times of" peace 
and safety, were only meant to fit, train and 
qualify them, for the actual service which they 
were now sent out to perform by the command 
of the king. 

The truth, is, William often contained when 
there was no real hardship to complain of; for 
the common troubles of life fell out pretty much 
alike to the great family which William had 
left, and to the soldiers in the king's army. 
But the spirit of obedience, discipline, and self- 
denial of the latter seemed hardships to one of 
William's loose turn of mind. When he began 
to murmur, some good old soldier clapped him 
on the back, saying, cheer up lad, it is a king- 
dom you are to strive for, if we faint not, hence- 
forth there is laid up for us a great reward, we 
have the king's word for it man. William ob- 
served, that to those who truly believed this, 
their labours were as nothing, but he himself 
did not at the bottom believe it ; and it was ob- 
served, of all the soldiers who failed, the true 
cause was that they did not really believe the 
king's promise. He was surprised to see that 
those soldiers, who used to bluster and boast, 
and deride the assaults of the enemy, now began 
to fall away ; while such as had faithfully obey- 
ed the king's orders, and believed in his word, 
were sustained in the hour of trial. Those who 
had trusted in their own strength all fainted on 
the slightest attack, while those who had put on 
the armour of the king's providing, the sword, 
and the shield, and the helmet, and the breast- 
plate, and whose feet were shod according to 
order, now endured hardship as good soldiers, 
and were enabled to fight the good fight. 

An engagement was expected immediately. 
The men were ordered to prepare for battle. 
While the rest of the corps were so preparing, 
William's whole thoughts were bent on con- 
triving how he might desert. But alas ! he was 
watched on all sides, he could not possibly de- 
vise any means to escape. The danger increas- 
ed every moment, the battle came on. William, 
who had been so sure and confident before he 
entered, flinched in the moment of trial, while 
his more quiet and less boastful comrades pre- 
pared boldly to do their duty. William looked 
about on all sides, and saw that there was no 
eye upon him, for he did not know that the 
king's eye was every where at once. He at 
last thought he spied a chance of escaping;, not 
from the enemy, but from his own army. While 
he was endeavouring to escape, a hall from the 
opposite camp took off his leg. As lie fell, the 
first words which broke from him were, while 
I was in my duty I was preserved ; in the very 
act of deserting I am wounded. He lay ex- 
pecting every moment to be trampled to death, 
but as the confusion was a little over, he was 
taken oif the field by some of his own party, 



laid in a place of safety, and left to himself, 
after his wound was dressed. 

The skirmish, for it proved nothing more, 
was soon over. The greater part of the regi- 
ment escaped in safety. William in the mean 
time suffered cruelly both in mind and body. 
To the pains of a wounded soldier, he added the 
disgrace of a coward, and the infamy of a de- 
serter. O, cried he, why was I such a fool as 
to leave the great family I lived in, where there 
was meat and drink enough and to spare, only 
on account of a little quarrel ? I might have 
made up that with them as we had done our 
former quarrels. Why did I leave a life of ease 
and pleasure, where I had only a little rub now 
and then, for a life of daily discipline and con 
stant danger ? Why did I turn soldier ? O 
what a miserable animal is a soldier ! 

As he was sitting in this weak and disabled 
condition, uttering the above complaints, he ob- 
served a venerable old officer, with thin gray 
locks on his head, and on his face, deep wrinkles 
engraved by time, and many an honest scar 
inflicted by war. William had heard this old 
officer highly commended for his extraordinary 
courage and conduct in battle, and in peace he 
used to see him cool and collected, devoutly em- 
ployed in reading and praying in the interval 
of more active duties. He could not help com- 
paring this officer with himself. I, said he, 
flinched and drew back, and would even have 
deserted in the moment of peril, and now in re- 
turn, I have no consolation in the hour of repose 
and safety. I would not fight then, 1 cannot 
pray now. O why would I ever think of being 
a soldier ? He then began afresh to weep and 
lament, and he groaned so loud that he drew 
the notice of the officer, who came up to him, 
kindly sat down by him, took him by the hand, 
and inquired with as much affection as if he 
had been his brother, what was the matter with 
him, and what particular distress, more than 
the common fortune of war it was which drew 
from him such bitter groans? 'I know some- 
thing of surgery,' added he, ' let me examine 
your wound, and assist you with such little 
comfort as I can.' 

William at once saw the difference between 
the soldiers in the king's army, and the people 
in the great family ; the latter commonly with- 
drew their kindness in sickness and trouble, 
when most wanted, which was just the very 
time when the others came forward to assist. 
He told the officer his little history, the manner 
of his living in the great family, the trifling 
cause of his quarrelling with it, the slight 
ground of his entering into the king's service. 
'Sir,' said he, 'I quarrelled with the family 
and I thought I was at once fit for (he army : I 
did not know the qualifications it required. I had 
not reckoned on discipline, and hardships, and 
self-denial. I liked well enough to sing a loyal 
song, or drink the king's health, hut I find I do 
not relish working and fighting for him, though 
I r.?shlv promised even to lay down my life for 
his service if called upon, when I took the 
bounty money and the oath of allegiance. In 
short, sir, I find that I long for the ease and 
sloth, the merriment and the feasting of ray old 



246 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



service ; I find I cannot be a soldier, and, to 
speak truth, I was in the very act of deserting 
when I was stopped short by the cannon ball. 
So that I feel the guilt of desertion, and the 
misery of having lost my leg into the bargain.' 

The officer thus replied : ' your state is that 
of every worldly irreligious man. The great 
family you served is a just picture of the world. 
The wages the world promises to those who are 
willing to do its work are high, but the payment 
is attended with much disappointment ; nay, 
the world, like your great family, is in itself 
insolvent, and in its very nature incapable of 
making good the promises, and of paying the 
high rewards which it holds out to tempt its 
credulous followers. The ungodly world, like 
your family, cares little for church, and still less 
for prayer ; and considers the Bible rather as an 
instrument to make an oath binding, In order to 
keep the vulgar in obedience, than in contain- 
ing in itself a perfect rule of faith and practice, 
and as a title deed to heaven. The generality 
of men love the world as you did your service, 
while it smiles upon them, and gives them easy 
work and plenty of meat and drink ; but as soon 
as it begins to cross and contradict them, they 
get out of humour with it, just as you did with 
your service. They then think its drudgery 
hard, its rewards low. They find out that it is 
high in its expectations from them, and slack 
in its payments to them. And they begin to 
fancy, (because they do not hear religious peo- 
ple murmur as they do,) that there must be 
some happiness in religion. The world, which 
takes no account of their deeper sins, at length 
brings them into discredit for some act of im- 
prudence, just as your family overlooked your 
lying and swearing, but threatened to drub you 
for breaking a china dish. Such is the judg- 
ment of the world ! it particularly bears with 
those who only break the laws of God, but se- 
verely punishes the smallest negligence by 
which they themselves are injured. The world 
eooner pardons the breaking ten commandments 
of God, than even a china dish of its own. 

' After some cross or opposition, worldly men, 
as I said before, begin to think how much con- 
tent and cheerfulness they remember to have 
seen in religious people. They therefore begin 
to fancy that religion must be an easy and de- 
lightful, as well as a good thing. They have 
heard that, her ways are ways of pleasantness, 
and all her paths are peace ; and they persuade 
themselves, that by this is meant worldly 
pleasantness and sensual peace. They resolve 
at length to try it, to turn their back upon the 
world, to engage in the service of God and turn 
Christians ; just as you resolved to leave your 
old service, to enter into the service of the king 
and turn soldier. But as you quitted your place 
in a passion, so they leave the world in a huff. 
They do not count the cost. They do not cal- 
culate upon the darling sin, the habitual plea- 
sures, the ease and vanities which the.y under- 
take by their new engagements to renounce, any 
more than you counted what indulgences you 
were going to give up when you quitted the 
luxuries and idleness of your place to enlist in 
the soldier's warfare. They have, as I said, 
6een Christians cheerful, and they mistook the 



ground of their cheerfulness ; they fancied it 
arose, not because through grace they had con- 
quered difficulties, but because they had no 
difficulties in their passage. They fancied that 
religion found the road smooth, whereas it only 
helps to bear with a rough road without com- 
plaint. They do not know that these Christians 
are of good cheer, not because the world is 
free from tribulation, but because Christ, their 
captain, has overcome the world. But the irre- 
ligous man, who has only seen the outside of a 
Christian in his worldly intercourse, knows 
little of his secret conflicts, his trials, his self- 
denials, his warefare with the world without ; 
and with his own corrupt desires within. 

' The irreligious man quarrels with the world 
on some such occasion as you did with your 
place. He now puts on the outward forms and 
ceremonies of religion, and assumes the badge 
of Christianity, just as you were struck with the 
show of a field day ; just as you were pleased 
with the music and the inarching, and put on 
the cockade and red coat. All seems smooth 
for a little while. He goes through the out- 
ward exercises of a Christian, a degree of credit 
attends his new profession, but he never sus- 
pects there is either difficulty or discipline at- 
tending it ; he fancies religion is a thing for 
talking about, and not a thing of the heart and 
the life. He never suspects that all the psalm- 
singing he joins in, and the sermons he hears, 
and the other means he is using, are only as 
the exercises and the evolutions of the soldiers, 
to fit and prepare him for actual service ; and 
that these means are no more religion itself, 
than the exercises and evolutions of your parade 
were real warfare. 

' At length some trial arises : this nominal 
Christian is called to differ from the world in 
some great point; something happens which 
may strike at his comfort, or his credit, or se- 
curity. This cools his zeal for religion, just as 
the view of an engagement cooled your courage 
as a soldier. He finds he was only angry with 
the world, he was not tired of it. He was out 
of humour with the world, not because he had 
seen through its vanity and emptiness, but be- 
cause the world was out of humour with him. 
He finds that it is an easy thing to be a fair- 
weather Christian, bold where there is nothing 
to be done, and confident where there is nothing 
to be feared. Difficulties unmask him to others ; 
temptations unmask him to himself; he dis- 
covers, that though he is a high professor, he is 
no Christian ; just as you found out that your 
red coat and your cockade, your shoulder-knot, 
and your musket, did not prevent you from be 
ing a coward. 

' Your misery in the military life, like that of 
the nominal Christian, arose from your love of 
ease, your cowardice, and your self ignorance. 
You rushed into a new way of life, without 
trying after one qualification for it. A total 
change of heart and temper were necessary for 
your new calling. With new views and prin- 
ciples the soldier's life would have been not only 
easy, but delightful to you. But while with a new 
profession you retained your old nature it is no 
wonder if all discipline seemed intolerable to 
you. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



247 



' The true Christian, like the brave soldier, i rewards for which he strives are remote. He 
is supported under dangers by a strong faith j therefore fails, because nothing short of a lively 
that the fruits of that victory for which he fights J faith can ever outweigh a strong present tempta- 
will be safet}' and peace. But, alas ! the plea- tion, and lead a man to prefer the joys of con- 
6ures of this world are present and visible ; the | quest to the pleasures of indulgence. 



BETTY BROWrvT, 

THE ST. GILES'S ORANGE GIRL :' 
WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF MRS. SPONGE, THE MONEY-LENDER. 



Betty Brown the orange girl, was born no- 
body knows where, and bred nobody knows 
how. No girl in all the streets of London could 
drive a barrow more nimbly, avoid pushing 
againstrpassengers more dexterously, or cry her 
' fine China oranges' in a shriller voice. But 
then she could neither sew, nor spin, nor knit, 
nor wasli, nor iron, nor read, nor spell. Betty 
had not been always in so good a situation as 
that in which we now describe her. She came 
into the world before so many good gentlemen 
and ladies began to concern themselves so 
kindly that the poor might have a little learning. 
There was no charitable society then as there is 
now, to pick up poor friendless children in the 
streets,* and put them into a good house, and 
give them meat, and drink, and lodging, and 
learning, and teacli them to get their bread in 
an honest way, into the bargain. Whereas, this 
now is often the case in London ; blessed be God 
who has ordered the bounds of our habitation, 
and cast our lot in such a country ; 

The longest thing that Betty can remember 
is, that she used -to crawl up out of a night cel- 
lar, stroll about the streets, and pick cinders 
from the scavengers' carts. Among the ashes 
she sometimes found some ragged gauze and 
dirty ribands ; with these she used to dizen her- 
self out, and join the merry bands on the first 
of May. This was not, however, quite fair, as 
she did not lawfully belong either to the female 
dancers, who foot it gayly round the garland, or 
to the sooty tribe, who, on this happy holyday, 
forget their year's toil in Portman square, cheer- 
ed by the tender bounty of her whose wit has 
long enlivened the most leirned, and whose 
taste and talents long adorned the most polished 
societies. Betty, however, often got a few scraps, 
by appearing to belong to both parties. But as 
she grew bigger and was not an idle girl, she 
always put herself in the way of doing some- 
thing. She would run of errands for the foot- 
men, or sweep the door for the maid of any 
house where she was known; she would run and 
fetch some porter and never was once known 
either to sip a drop by the way, or steal the pot. 
Her quickness and fidelity in doing little jobs, 
got her into favour with a lazy coolc-miid, who 
was too apt to give away her master's cold meat 
and beer, not to those who were most in want, 
but to those who waited upon her, and did the 
little things for her which she ought to have 
done herself. 

The cook, who f uind Betty a dexterous girl, 
soon employed her to sell ends of candles, pieces 
* The Philanthropic 



[ of meat and cheese, the lumps of butter, or any 
thing else she could crib from the house. These 
were all cirried to her friend, Mrs. Sponge, who 
kept a little shop, and a kind of eating-house 
for poor working people, not far from the Seven 
Dials. She also bought as well as sold, many 
i kinds of second-hand things, and was not scru 
pulous to know whether what she bought was 
honestly corr.e by, provided she could get it for 
a sixth part of what it was worth. But if the 
| owner presumed to ask for its real value, then 
i she had sudden qualms of conscience, instantly 
j suspected the things were stolen, and gave her- 
i self airs of honesty, which often took in poor 
[ silly people, and gave her a sort of half reputa- 
tion among the needy and ignorant, whose friend 
she hypocritically pretended to be. 

To this artful woman Betty carried the cook's 
pilterings ; and as Mrs. Sponge would give no 
great price for these in money, the cook was 
willing to receive payment for her eatables in 
Mrs. Sponge's drinkables; for she dealt in all 
kinds of spirits. I shall only just remark here, 
that one receiver, like Mrs. Sponge, makes many 
pilferers, who are tempted Jo commit these petty 
thieveries, by knowing how easy it is to dispose 
of them at such iniquitous houses. 

Betty was faithful to both her employers, 
which is extrrordinary, considering the great- 
ness of the temptation and her utter ignorance 
of good and evil. One day she ventured to ask 
Mrs. Sponge, if she could not assist her to get 
into a more settled way of life. She told her 
that when she rose in the morning she never 
knew where she should lie at night, nor was sho 
ever sure of a meal beforehand. Mrs. Sponge 
asked her what she thought herself fit for " 
Betty, with fear and trembling, said there was 
one trade for which she thought herself quali- 
fied, but she had not the ambition to look so 
high ; it was far above her humble views ; this 
was, to have a barrow, and sell fruit, as several 
oth jr of Mrs. Sponge's customers did, whom she 
had often looked up to with envy, little expect- 
ing herself ever to attain so independent a sta- 
tion. 

Mrs. Sponge was an artful woman. Bad as 
she was, she was always aiming at something 
of a character ; this was a great help to her 
trade. While she watched keenly to make every 
thinT turn to her own profit, she had a false 
fawning way of seeming to do all she did out 
of pity and kindness to the distressed; and she 
seldom committed an extortion, but she tried to 
make the persons she cheated believe them- 
selves highly obliged to her kindness. By thus 



248 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



pretending to be their friend, she gained their 
confidence ; and she grew rich herself, while 
they thought she was only showing favour to 
them. Various were the arts she had of getting 
rich ; and the money she got by grinding the 
poor, she spent in the most luxurious living ; 
while she would haggle with her hungry cus- 
tomers for a farthing, she would spend pounds 
on the most costly delicacies for herself. 

Mrs. Sponge, laying aside that haughty look 
and voice, well known to such as had the mis- 
fortune to be in her debt, put on the hypocritical 
smile and soft canting tone, which she always 
assumed, when she meant to flatter her supe- 
riors, or take in her dependents. ' Betty,' said 
she, ' I am resolved to stand your friend. These 
are sad times to be sure. Money is money now. 
Yet I am resolved to put you in a handsome 
way of living. You shall have a barrow, and 
well furnished too-' Betty could not have felt 
more joy or gratitude, if she had been told that 
she should have a coach. 'O, madam!' said 
Betty, ' it is impossible. I have not a penny in 
the world towards helping me to set up.' ' I will 
take care of that,' said Mrs. Sponge ; ' only you 
must do as I bid you. You must pay me in- 
terest for my money ; and you will, of course, 
be glad also to pay so much every night for a 
nice hot supper which I get ready quite out of 
kindness, for a number of poor working people. 
This will be a great comfort for such a friend- 
less girl as you, for my victuals and drink are 
the best, and my company the merriest of any 
in all St. Giles's.' Betty thought all this only so 
many more favours, and curtseying to the 
ground, said, ' To be sure, ma'am, and thank 
you a thousand times into the bargain. I never 
could hope for such a rise in life.' 

Mrs. Sponge knew what she was about. Betty 
was a lively girl, who had a knack at learning 
any thing; and so well looking through all her 
dirt and rags, that there was little doubt she 
would get custom. A barrow was soon provided, 
and five shillings put into Betty's hands. Mrs. 
Sponge kindly condescended to go to show her 
how to buy the fruit ; for it was a rule with this 
prudent gentlewoman, and one from which she 
never departed, that no one should cheat but 
herself; and suspecting from her own heart the 
fraud of all other dealers, she was seldom guilty 
of the weakness of being imposed upon. 

Betty had never possessed such a sum before. 
She grudged to lay it out all at once, and was 
ready to fancy she could live upon the capital. 
The crown, however, was laid out to the best 
advantage. Betty was carefully taught in what 
manner to cry her oranges; and received many 
useful lessons how to get off the bad with the 
good, and the stale with the fresh. Mrs. Sponge 
also lent her a few bad sixpences, for which she 
ordered her to bring home good ones at night. 
Betty stared. Mrs. Sponge said, ' Betty, those 
who would get money, must not be too nice 
about trifles. Keep one of these sixpences in 
your hand, and if an ignorant young customer 
gives you a good sixpence, do you immediately 
slip it into your other hand, and give him the 
bad one, declaring that it is the very one you 
have just received, and be ready to swear that 
70U have not another sixpence in the world. 



You must also learn how to treat different sorts 
of customers. To some you may put oft*, with 
safety, goods which would be quite unsaleable 
to others. Never offer bad fruit, Betty, to those 
who know better ; never waste the good on those 
who may be put off with worse : put good 
oranges at top to attract the eye, and the mouldy 
ones under for sale.' 

Poor Betty had not a nice conscience, for she 
had never learnt that grand, but simple rule of 
all moral obligation, Never do that to another 
which you would not have another do to you. She 
set off with her barrow, as proud and as happy 
as if she had been set up in the first shop in 
Covent Garden. Betty had a sort of natural 
good temper, which made her unwilling to im- 
pose, but she had no principle which told her it 
was a sin to do so. She had such good success, 
that when night came, she had not an*orange 
left. With a light heart she drove her empty 
barrow to Mrs. Sponge's door. She went in 
with a merry face, and threw down on the coun- 
ter every farthing she had taken. ' Betty,' said 
Mrs. Sponge, ' I have a right to it all, as it was 
got by my money. But I am too generous to 
take it. I will therefore only take sixpence for 
this day's use of my five shillings. This is a 
most reasonable interest, and I will lend you the 
same sum to trade with to-morrow, and so on ; 
you only paying me sixpence for the use of it 
every night, which will be a great bargain to 
you. You must also pay me my price every 
night for your supper, and you shall have an ex- 
cellent lodging above stairs ; so you see every 
thing will now be provided for you in a genteel 
manner, through my generosity.'* 

Poor Betty's gratitude blinded her so com- 
pletely, that she had forgot to calculate the vast 
proportion which this generous benefactress was 
to receive out of her little gains. She thought 
herself a happy creature, and went in to supper 
with a number of others of her own class. For 
this supper, and for more porter and gin than 
she ought to have drunk, Betty was forced to 
pay so high that it ate up all the profits of the 
day, which, added to the daily interest, ma<3e 
Mrs. Sponge a rich return for her five shillings 

Betty was reminded again of the gentility of 
her new situation, as she crept up to bed in one 
of Sirs. Sponge's garrets, five stories high. This 
loft, to be sure, was small and had no window, 
but what it wanted in light was made up in 
company, as it had three beds and thrice as ma- 
ny lodgers. Those gentry had one night, in a 
drunken frolic, broken down the door, which 
happily had never been replaced ; for, since that 
time, the lodgers had died much seldomer of in- 
fectious distempers, than when they were close 
shut in. For this lodging Betty paid twice as 
much to her good friend as she would have done 
to a stranger. Thus she continued with great 
industry and a thriving trade, as poor as on the 
first day, and not a bit nearer to saving money 
enough to buy her even a pair of shoes, though 
her feet were nearly on the ground. 

One day, as Betty was driving her barrow 
through a street near Holborn, a lady from a 

* For an authentic account of numberless frauds of 
this bind, see that very useful work of Mr. C'olqahoua 
on the ' Police of the Metropolis of London.' 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



249 



wtiidow called out to her that she wanted some 
oranges. While the servant went to fetch a 
plate, the lady entered into some talk with Bet- 
ty, having' been struck with her honest counte- 
nance and civil manner She questioned her as 
to her way of life, and the profits of her trade ; 
and Betty, who had never been so kindly treated 
before by so genteel a person, was very commu- 
nicative. She told her little history as far as she 
knew it, and dwelt much on the generosity of 
Mrs. Sponge, in keeping her in her house, and 
trusting her with so large a capital as five shil- 
lings. At first it sounded like a very good-na- 
tured thing ; but the lady, whose husband was 
one of the justices of the new police, happened 
to know more of Mrs. Sponge than was good, 
which led her to inquire still further. Betty 
owned, that to be sure it was not all clear profit, 
for that besides that the high price of the sup- 
per and bed ran away with all she got, she paid 
sixpence a-day for the use of the five shillings.' 
' And how long have you done this ?' said the 
lady. ' About a year, madam.' 

The lady's eyes were at once opened. ' My 
poor girl,' said she, ' do you know that you have 
already paid for that single five shillings the 
enormous sum of 11. 10s.? I believe it is the 
most profitable five shillings Mrs. Sponge ever 
laid out.' — ' O no, madam,' said the girl, ' that 
good gentlewoman does the same kindness to 
ten or twelve other poor friendless creatures like 
me.' — ' Does she so ?' said the lady ; ' then I 
never heard of a more lucrative trade than this 
woman carries on, under the mask of charity, 
at the expense of her poor deluded fellow crea- 
tures.' 

' But, madam,' said Betty, who did not com- 
prehend this lady's arithmetic, ' what can I do? 
I now contrive to pick up a morsel of bread 
without begging or stealing. Mrs. Sponge has 
been very good to me ; and I don't see how I can 
help myself.' 

' I will tell you,' said the lady : ' if you will 
follow my advice, you may not only maintain 
yourself honestly but independently. Only ob- 
lige yourself to live hard for a little time, till 
you have saved five shillings out of your own 
earnings. Give up that expensive supper at 
night, drink only one pint of porter, and no gin 
at all. As soon as you have scraped together 
the five shillings, carry it back to your false 
friend ; and if you are industrious, you will, at 
the end of the year, have saved 11. 10s. If you 
can make a shift to live now, when you have 
this heavy interest to pay, judge how things will 
mend when your capital becomes your own. 
You will put some clothes on your back; and, 
by leaving the use of spirits, and the company 
in which you drink them, your health, your mo- 
rals, and your condition will mend.' 

The lady did not talk thus to save her money. 
She would willingly have given the girl the five 
shillings ; but she thought it was beginning at 
the wrong end. She wanted to try her. Be- 
sides, she knew there was more pleasure, as 
well as honour, in possessing five shillings of 
one's own saving, than of another's giving. 
Betty promised to ohey. She owned she had 
got no good by the company or the liquor at 
Mrs. Sponge's. She promised that very night 
Vol. I. 



to begin saving the expense of the supper : and 
that she would not taste a drop of gin till she. 
had the five shillings beforehand. The lady,, 
who knew the power of good habits, was con- 
tented with this, thinking, that if the girl could 
abstain for a certain time, it would become easy 
to her. She therefore, at present, said little 
about the sin of drinking, and only insisted on 
the expense of it. 

In a very few weeks Betty had saved up the 
five shillings. She went to carry back this 
money with great gratitude to Mrs. Sponge. 
This kind friend began to abuse her most un- 
mercifully. She called her many hard names, 
not fit to repeat, for having forsaken the supper, 
by which she swore she herself got nothing at 
all ; but as she had the charity to dress it for 
such beggarly wretches, she insisted they should 
pay for it, whether they eat it or not. She also 
brought in a heavy score for lodging, though 
Betty had paid for it every night, and had given 
notice of her intending to quit her. By all these 
false pretences, she got from her, not only her 
own five shillings, but all the little capital" with 
which Betty was going to set up for herself. 
All was not sufficient to answer her demands — 
she declared she would send her to prison : but 
while she went to call a constable, Betty con- 
trived to make off. 

With a light pocket and a heavy heart she 
went back to the lady ; and with many tears 
told her sad story. The lady's husband, the 
justice, condescended to listen to Betty's tale. 
He said Mrs. Sponge had long been upon his 
books as a receiver of stolen goods. Betty's evi- 
dence strengthened his bad opinion of her. 'This 
petty system of usury,' said the magistrate, 
' may be thought trifling ; but it will no longer 
appear so, when you reflect, that if one of these 
female sharpers possesses a capital of seventy 
shillings, or 31. 10s. with fourteen steady regu- 
lar customers, she can realize a fixed income of 
one hundred guineas a year. Add to this the 
influence such a loan gives her over these friend- 
less creatures, by compelling them to eat at her 
house, or lodge, or buy liquors, or by taking 
their pawns, and you will see the extent of tho 
evil. I pity these poor victims : you, Betty, 
shall point out some of them to me, I will en- 
deavour to open their eyes on their own bad 
management. It is not by giving to the impor- 
tunate shillings and half crowns, and turning 
them adrift to wait for the next accidental re- 
lief, that much good is done. It saves trouble, 
indeed, but that trouble being the most valuable 
part of charity, ought not to be spared ; at least 
by those who have leisure as well as affluence. 
It is one of the greatest acts of kindness to the 
poor to mend their economy, and to give them 
right views of laying out their little money to 
advantage. These poor blinded creatures look 
no farther than to be able to pay this heavy in- 
terest every night, and to obtain the same loan 
on the same hard terms the next day. Thus 
they are kept in poverty and bondage all their 
lives ; but I hope as many as hear of this will 
go on a better plan, and I shall he ready to help 
any who are willing to help themselves.' This 
worthy magistrate wentdirectly to Mrs. Sponge's 
with proper officers ; and he soon got to the bot- 



250 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



torn of many iniquities. He not only made her 
refund poor Betty's money, but committed her 
to prison for receiving stolen goods, and various 
other offences, winch may, perhaps, make the 
subject of another history. 

Betty was now set up in trade to her heart's 
content. She had found the benefit of leaving 
off spirits, and she resolved to drink them no 
more. The first fruits of this resolution was, 
that in a fortnight she bought her a pair of new 
shoes ; and as there was now no deduction for 
interest, or for gin, her earnings became con- 
siderable. The lady made her a present of a 
gown and a hat, on the easy condition that she 
should go to church. She accepted the terms, 
at first rather as an act of obedience to the lady 
than from a sense of higher duty. But she soon 
began to go from a better motive. This constant 
attendance at church, joined to the instructions 
of the lady, opened a new world to Betty. She 
now heard, for the first time, that she was a sin- 
ner ; that God had given a law which was holy, 
just, and good ; that she had broken this law, 
had been a swearer, a Sabbath-breaker, and had 
lived without God in the world. All this was 
sad news to Betty ; she knew, indeed, before, 
that there were sinners, but she thought they 
were only to be found in the prisons, or at Bo- 
tany Bay, or in those mournful carts which she 
had sometimes followed with her barrow, with 
the unthinking crowd, to Tyburn. — She was 
deeply struck with the great truths revealed in 
the Scripture, which were quite new to her ; 
her heart smote her, and she became anxious to 
flee from the wrath to come. She was desirous 
of improvement, and said, ' she would give up 
all the profits of her barrow, and go into the 
hardest service, rather than live in sin and ig- 
norance.' , 

' Betty,' said the lady, ' I am glad to see you 
so well disposed, and will do what I can for you. 
Your present way of life, to be sure, exposes 
you to much danger ; but the trade is not un- 
lawful in itself, and we may please God in any 
calling, provided it be not a dishonest one. In 
this great town there must be barrow-women to 
sell fruit. Do you, then, instead of forsaking 
your business, set a good example to those in it, 
and show them, that though a dangerous trade, 
it need not be a wicked one. Till Providence 
points out some safer way of getting your bread, 
let your companions see, that it is possible to be 
good even in this. Your trade being carried 
on in the open street, and your fruit bought in 
an open shop, you are not so much obliged to 
keep sinful company as may be thought. Take 
a garret in an honest house, to which you may, 
go home in safety at night. I will give you a 
bed, and a few necessaries to furnish your room ; 
and I will also give you a constant Sunday's 
dinner. A barrow woman, blessod be God and 



our good laws, is as much her own mistress on 
Sundays as a duchess ; and the church and the 
Bible are as much open to her. You may soon 
learn as much of religion as you are expected 
to know. A barrow-woman may pray as hearti- 
ly morning and night, and serve God as accepta- 
bly all day, while she is carrying on her little 
trade, as if she had her whole time to spare.' 
' To do this well, you must mind the following 

' Rules for Retail Dealers. 

' Resist every temptation to cheat. 

' Never impose bad goods on false pretences. 

' Never put oft' bad money for good. 

' Never use profane or uncivil language. - 

' Never swear your goods cost so much, when 
you know it is false. By so doing you are guilty 
of two sins in one breath, a lie and an oath. 

' To break these rules will be your chief 
temptation. God will mark how you behave 
under them, and will reward or punish you ac- 
cordingly. These temptations will be as great 
to you, as higher trials are to higher people ; 
but you have the same God to look to for strength 
to resist them as they have. — You must pray to 
him to give you this strength. You shall attend 
a Sunday-school, where you will be taught these 
good things ; and I will promote you as you 
shall be found to deserve.' 

Poor Betty hero burst into tears. of joy and 
gratitude, crying out, ' What ! shall such a poor 
friendless creature as I be treated so kindly, and 
learn to read the word of God too ? Oh, madam, 
what a lucky chance brought me to your door." 
— ' Betty,' said the lady, ' what you have just 
said shows the need you have of being bettei 
taught ; there is no such thing as chance ; and 
we offend God when we call that luck or chance 
which is brought about by his will and pleasure. 
— None of the events of your life have happen- 
ed by chance ; but all have been under the di- 
rection of a good and kind Providence. — He has 
permitted you to experience want and distress, 
that you might acknowledge His hand in your 
present comfort and prosperity. Above all, you 
must bless his goodness in sending you to me, 
not only because I have been of use to you in 
your worldly affairs, but because he has enabled 
me to show you the danger of your state from 
sin and ignorance, and to put you in a way to 
know his will and to keep his commandments, 
which is eternal life. 

How Betty, by industry and piety, rose in the 
world, till at length she came to keep that hand- 
some sausage shop near the Seven Dials, and 
was married to that very hackney-coachman, 
whose history and honest character may be 
learned from that ballad of the Cheap Reposito- 
ry which bears his name, may be shown here- 
after 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



251 



BLACK GILES THE POACHER : 



CONTAINING SOME ACCOUNT OF A FAMILY WHO HAD RATHER LIVE BY THEIR WITS THAN THEIR 

WORK. 



PART I. 

Poaching Giles lives on the borders of those 
great moors in Somersetshire. Giles, to be sure, 
has been a sad fellow in his time ; and it is none 
of his fault if his whole family do not end their 
career, either at the gallows or Botany Bay. He 
lives at that mud cottage with the broken win- 
dows, stuffed with dirty rags, just beyond the 
gate which divides the upper from the lower 
/noor. You may know the house at a good dis- 
tance by the ragged tiles on the roof, and the 
loose stones which are ready to drop out from 
the chimney ; though a short ladder, a hod of 
mortar, and half an hour's leisure time, would 
have prevented all this, and made the little 
dwelling tight enough. But as Giles had never 
learnt any tiling that was good, so he did not 
know the value of such useful sayings, as, that 
'a tile in time saves nine.' 

Besides this, Giles fell into that common mis- 
take, that a beggarly looking cottage, and filthy 
ragged children, raised most compassion, and of 
course drew most charity. But as cunning as 
he was in other things, he was out in his reck- 
oning here ; for it is neatness, housewifery, and 
a decent appearance, which draw the kindness 
of the rich and charitable, while they turn away 
disgusted from filth and laziness ; not out of 
pride, but because they see that it is next to im- 
possible to mend the condition of those who de- 
grade themselves by dirt and sloth ; and few peo- 
ple care to help those who will not help them- 
selves. 

The common on which Giles's hovel stands, 
is quite a deep marsh in a wet winter : but in 
summer it looks green and pretty enough. To 
be sure it would be rather convenient when one 
passes that way in a carriage, if one of the chil- 
dren would run out and open the gate : but in- 
stead of any one of them running out as soon as 
they heard the wheels, which would be quite 
time enough, what does Giles do, but set all his 
ragged brats, with dirty faces, matted locks, and 
naked feet and legs, to lie all day upon a sand 
bank hard by the gate, waiting for the slender 
chance of what may be picked up from travellers. 
At the sound of a carriage, a whole covey of these 
little scare-crows start up, rush to the gate, and 
all at once thrust out their hats and aprons ; and 
for fear this, together with the noise of their 
clamorous begging, should not sufficiently 
frighten the horses, they are very apt to let the 
gate slap full against you, before you are half 
way through, in their eager scuffle to snatch 
from each other the halfpence which you have 
thrown out to them. I know two ladies who 
were one day very near being killed by these 
abominable tricks. 

Thus five or six little idle creatures, who 
might be earning a trifle by knitting at home, 
who might be useful to the public by working in 
the field, and who might assist their families by 



learning to get their bread twenty honest ways, 
are suffered to lie about all day, in the hope of 
a few chance halfpence, which after all, they are 
by no means sure of getting. Indeed, when the 
neighbouring gentlemen found out that opening 
the gate was a family trade, they soon left off 
giving any thing. And I myself, though I used 
to take out a penny ready to give, had there 
been only one to receive it, when I see a whole 
family established in so beggarly a trade, quietly 
put it back again in my pocket, and give no- 
thing at all. And so few travellers pass that 
way, that sometimes after the whole family 
have lost a day, their gains do not amount to 
two- pence. 

As Giles had a far greater taste for living by 
his wits than his work, he was at one time in 
hopes that his children might have got a pretty 
penny by tumbling for the diversion of travel- 
lers, and he set about training them in that in- 
decent practice ; but unluckily the moors being 
level, the carriage travelled faster than the chil- 
dren tumbled. He envied those parents who 
lived on the London road, over the Wiltshire 
downs, which downs being very hilly, it enables 
the tumbler to keep pace with the traveller, till 
he sometimes extorts from the light and unthink- 
ing, a reward instead of a reproof. I beg leave, 
however, to put all gentlemen and ladies in mind, 
that such tricks are'a kind of apprenticeship to 
the trades of begging and thieving ; and that 
nothing is more injurious to good morals than, 
to encourage the poor in any habits which 
may lead them to live upon chance. 

Giles, to be sure, as his children grew older, 
began to train them to such other employments, 
as the idle habits they had learned at the gate 
very properly qualified them for. The right of 
common, which some of the poor cottagers havo 
in that part of the country, and which is doubt- 
less a considerable advantage to many, was 
converted by Giles, into the means of corrupting 
his whole family; for his children, as soon as 
they grew too big for the trade of begging at the 
gate, were promoted to the dignity of thieves on 
the moor. Here he kept two or three asses, 
miserable beings, which if they had the good 
fortune to escape an untimely death by starving, 
did not fail to meet with it by beating. Some 
of the biggest boys were sent out with these 
lean and galled animals to carry sand or coals 
about the neighbouring towns. Both sand and 
coals were often stolen before they got them to 
sell ; or if not, they always took care to cheat in 
selling them. By long practice in this art, they 
grew so dexterous, that they could give a pretty 
good guess how large a coal they could crib out 
of every bag before the buyer would be likely to 
miss it. 

All their odd time was taken up under the 
pretence of watching their asses on the moor, 
or running after five or six half-starved geese : 
but the truth is these bovs were only watching 



252 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORK 



for an opportunity to steal an odd goose of their 
neighbour's, while they pretended to look after 
their own. They used also to pluck the quills 
or the down from these poor live creatures, or 
half milk a cow before the farmer's maid came 
with her pail. They all knew how to calculate 
to a minute what time to be down in a morning 
to let out their lank hungry beasts, which they 
had turned over night into the farmer's field to 
steal a little good pasture. They contrived to 
get there just time enough to escape being 
caught replacing the stakes they had pulled out 
for the cattle to get over. For Giles was a pru- 
dent long-headed fellow ; and whenever he stole 
food for his colts, took care never to steal stakes 
from the hedges at the same place. He had sense 
enough to know that the gain did not make up 
for the danger ; he knew that a loose faggot, 
pulled from a neighbour's pile of wood after the 
family were gone to bed, answered the end 
better, and was not half the trouble. 

Among the many trades which Giles pro- 
fessed, he sometimes practised that of a rat- 
catcher ; but he was addicted to so many tricks, 
that he never followed the same trade long ; for 
detection will, sooner or later, follow the best 
concerted villany. Whenever he was sent for 
to a farm house, his custom was to kill a few 
of the old rats, always taking care to leave a 
little' stock of young ones alive, sufficient to 
keep up the breed ; ' for,' said he, ' if I were to 
be such a fool as to clear a house or a barn at 
once, how would my trade be carried on ?' 
And where any barn was over-stocked, he used 
to borrow a few rats from thence, just to people 
a neighbouring granary which had none; and 
he might have gone on till now, had he not 
unluckily been caught one evening emptying 
his cage of rats under parson Wilson's barn 
door. 

This worthy minister, Mr. Wilson, used to 
pity the neglected children of Giles, as much as 
he blamed the wicked parents. He one day 
picked up Dick, who was far the best of Gile's 
bad boys. Dick was loitering about in a field 
behind the parson's garden in search of a hen's 
nest, his mother having ordered him to bring 
home a few eggs that night, by hook or by 
crook, as Giles was resolved to have some pan- 
cakes for supper, though he knew that eggs 
were a penny a-piece. Mr. Wilson had long 
heen desirous of snatching some of this vagrant 
family from ruin ; and his chief hopes were 
bent on Dick, as the least hackneyed in knavery. 
He had once given him a new pair of shoes, on 
his promising to go to school next Sunday ; but 
no sooner had Rachel, the boy's mother, got the 
shoes into her clutches, than she pawned them 
for a bottle of gin ; and ordered the boy to keep 
out of the parson's sight, and to be sure to play 
his marbles on Sunday for the future, at the 
other end of the parish, and not near the church- 
yard. Mr. Wilson, however, picked up the boy 
once more, for it was not his way to despair of 
any body. Dick was just going to take to his 
heels, as usual, for fear the old story of the shoes 
should be brought forward ; but finding he could 
not get off, what does he do bat run into a little 
puddle of muddy water which lay between him 
and the parson, that the sight of his naked feet 



might not bring on the dreaded subject. Now 
it happened that Mr. Wilson was planting a 
little field of beans, so he thought this a good 
opportunity to employ Dick, and he told him he 
had got some pretty easy work for him. Dick 
did as he was bid ; he willingly went to work, 
and readily began to plant his beans with des- 
patch and regularity according to the directions 
given him. 

While the boy was busily at work by himself, 
Giles happened to come by, having been skulk- 
ing round the back way to look over the parson's 
garden wall, to see if there was any thing worth 
climbing over for on the ensuing night. He 
spied Dick, and began to scold him for working 
for the stingy old parson, for Giles had a natural 
antipathy to whatever belonged to the church. 
' What has he promised thee a-day ?' said he ; 
' little enough I dare say.' ' He is not to pay 
me by the day,' said Dick, l but says he will 
give me so much when I have planted this peck, 
and so much for the next.' ' Oh, oh ! that alters 
the case,' said Giles. ' One may, indeed, get a 
trifle by this sort of work. I hate your regular 
day -jobs, where one can't well avoid doing one's 
work for one's money. Come, give me a hand- 
ful of beans, I will teach thee how to plant when 
thou art paid for planting by the peck. All we 
have to do in that case is to despatch the work as 
fast as we can, and get rid of the beans with all 
speed; and as to the seed coming up or not, that 
is no business of our's ; we are paid for planting 
not for growing. At the rate thou goest on thou 
would'st not get sixpence to-night. Come along, 
bury away.' So saying he took his hatful of 
the seed, and where Dick had been ordered to 
set one bean, Giles buried a dozen ; of course the 
beans were soon out. But though the peck was 
emptied, the ground was unplanted. But cun- 
ning Giles knew this could not be found out till 
the time when the beans might be expected to 
come up, ' and then Dick,' says he, ' the snails 
and the mice may go shares in the blame, or 
we can lay the fault on the rooks or the black- 
birds.' So saying he sent the boy into the par- 
sonage to receive his pay, taking care to secure 
about a quarter of the peck of beans for his own 
colt. He put both bag and beans into his own 
pocket to carry home, bidding Dick tell Mr. 
Wilson that he had planted the beans and lost 
the bag. 

In the meantime Giles's other boys were busy 
in emptying the ponds and trout-streams in the 
the neighbouring manor. They would steal 
away the carp and tench when they were no 
bigger than gudgeons. By this untimely de- 
predation they plundered the owner of his pro- 
perty, without enriching themselves. But the 
pleasure of mischief was reward enough. These, 
and a hundred other little thieveries, they com- 
mitted with such dexterity, that old Tim Crib, 
whose son was transported last assizes for sheep 
stealing, used to be often reproaching his boys 
that Giles's sons were worth a hundred of such 
blockheads, as he had ; for scarce a night pass- 
ed but Giles had some little comfortable thing 
for supner which his boys had pilfered in the 
day, while his undutiful dogs never stele any 
thing worth having. Giles, in the meantime, 
was busy in his way, but as busy as he was 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



253 



in laying his nets, starting coveys, and training 
dogs, he always took care that his depredations 
should not be confined merely to game. 

Gile's boys had never seen the inside of a 
church since they were christened, and the fa- 
ther thought he knew his own interest better 
than to force them to it; for church-time was 
the season of their harvest. Then the hen's 
nests were searched, a stray duck was clapped 
under the smock frock, the tools which might 
have been left by chance in a farm-yard were 
picked up,and all the neighbouring pigeon-houses 
were thinned, so that Giles used to boast to 
tawny Rachel his wife, that Sunday was to 
them the most profitable day in the week. With 
her it was certainly the most laborious day, as 
she always did her washing and ironing on the 
Sunday morning, it being, as she said, the only 
leisure day she had, for on the other days she 
went about the country telling fortunes, and 
selling dream-books and wicked songs. Neither 
her husband's nor her children's clothes were 
ever mended, and if Sunday, her idle day, had 
not come about once in every week, it is likely 
they would never have been washed neither. 
You might however see her as you were going 
to church smoothing her own rags on her best 
red cloak, which she always used for her iron- 
ing-cloth on Sundays, for her cloak when she 
travelled, and for her blanket at night; such a 
wretched manager was Rachel ! Among her 
other articles of trade, one was to make and sell 
pepper-mint, and other distilled waters. These 
she had the cheap art of making without trouble 
and without expense, for she made them with- 
out herbs and without a still. Her way was, to 
fill so many quart bottles with plain water, put- 
ting a spoonful of mint water in the mouth of 
each ; these she corked down with rosin, carry- 
ing to each customer a phial of real distilled 
water to taste by way of sample. This was so 
good that her bottles were commonly bought up 
without being opened ; but if any suspicion 
arose, and she was forced to uncork a bottle, by 
the few drops of distilled water lying at top,,she 
even then escaped detection, and took care to 
get out of reach before the bottle was opened a 
second time. She was too prudent ever to go 
twice to the same house. 

The upright Magistrate. 
There is hardly any petty mischief that is not 
connected with the life of a poacher. Mr. Wil- 
son was aware of this ; he was not only a pious 
clergyman, but an upright justice. He used to 
say, that people who were truly conscientious, 
must be so in small things as well as in great 
ones, or they would destroy the effect of their 
own precepts, and their example would not be 
of general use. For this reason he never would 
accept of a hare or a partridge from any unqua- 
lified person in the parish : He did not content 
himself with shuffling the thing off by asking 
questions, and pretending to take it for granted 
in a general way that the game was fairty come 
at ; but he used to say, that by receiving the 
booty he connived at a crime, made himself a 
sharer in it ; and if he gave a present to the 
man who brought it, he even tempted him to 
repeat the fault. 



One day poor Jack Weston, an honest fellow 
in the neighbourhood, whom Mr. Wilson had 
kindly visited and relieved in a long sickness, 
from which he was but just recovered, was 
brought before him as he was sitting on the jus- 
tice's bench ; Jack was accused of having knock- 
ed down a hare ; and of all the birds in the air 
who should the informer be but black Giles the 
poacher ? Mr. Wilson was grieved at the charge; 
he had a great regard for Jack, but he had still 
a greater regard for the law. The poor fellow 
pleaded guilty. He did not deny the fact, but 
said he did not consider it as a crime, for he did 
not think game was private property, and he 
owned he had a strong temptation for doing 
what he had done, which he hoped would plead 
his excuse. The justice desired to know what 
this temptation was. — ' Sir,' said the poor fellow, 
' you know I was given over this spring in a 
bad fever. I had no frieY.d in the world but you, 
sir. Under God you saved my life by your cha- 
ritable relief; and I trust also you may have 
helped to save my soul by your prayers and 
your good advice ; for, by the grace of God, I 
have turned over a new leaf since that sickness. 

' I know I can never make you amends for 
all your goodness, but I thought it would be 
some comfort to my full heart if I could but 
once give you some little token of my gratitude. 
So I had trained a pair of nice turtle doves for 
madam Wilson, but they were stolen from me, 
sir, and I do suspect black Giles stole them. 
Yesterday morning, sir, as I was crawling out 
to my work, for I am still but very weak, a fine 
hare ran across my path. I did not stay to con- 
sider whether it was wrong to kill a hare, but I 
felt it was right to show my gratitude ; so, sir, 
without a moment's thought I did knock down 
the hare, which I was going to carry to your 
worship, because I knew madam was fond of 
hare. I am truly sorry for my fault, and will 
submit to whatever punishment your worship 
may please to inflict.' 

Mr. Wilson was much moved with this ho- 
nest confession, and touched with the poor fel- 
low's gratitude. What added to the effect of the 
story, was the weak condition and pale sickly 
looks of the offender. But this worthy magis- 
trate never suffered his feeling to bias his inte- 
grity ; he knew that he did not sit on that bench 
to indulge pity, but to administer justice; and 
while he was sorry for the offender, he would 
never justify the offence. ' John,' said he, ' I 
am surprised that you could for a moment for- 
get that,I never accept any gift which causes 
the giver to break a law. On Sunday I teach 
you from the pulpit the laws of God, whose, mi- 
nister I am. At present I fill the chair of the 
magistrate, to enforce and execute the laws of 
the land. Between those and the others there 
is more connexion than you are aware. I thank 
you, John, for your affection to me, and I ad- 
mire your gratitude ; but I must not allow either 
affection or gratitude to be brought as a plea 
for a wrong action. It is not your business nor 
mine, John, to settle whether the game laws are 
good or bad. Till they are repealed we must 
obey them. Many, I doubt not, break these laws 
through ignorance, and many, T am certain, 
who would not dare to steal a g»Qse or a turkey, 



254 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



make no scruple of knocking down a hare or a 
partridge. You will hereafter think yourself 
happy that this your first attempt has proved 
unsuccessful, as I trust you are too honest a fel- 
low ever to intend to turn poacher. With poach- 
ing much moral 'evil is connected; a habit of 
nightly depredation ; a custom of prowling in 
the dark for prey produces in time a disrelish 
for honost labour. He whose first offence was 
committed without much thought or evil inten- 
tion, if he happens to succeed a few times in car- 
rying off his booty undiscovered, grows bolder 
and bolder : and when he fancies there is no 
shame attending it, ho very soon gets to per- 
suade himself that there is also no sin. While 
some people pretend a scruple about stealing a 
sheep, they partly live by plundering of war- 
rens. But remember that the warrener pays a 
high rent, and that therefore his rabbits are as 
much his property as hrs sheep. Do not then 
deceive yourselves with these false distinctions. 
All property is sacred, and as the laws of the 
land are intended to fence in that property, he 
who brings up his children to break down any 
of these fences, brings them up to certain sin 
and ruin. He who begins with robbingorchards, 
rabbit-warrens, and fish-ponds, will probably 
end with horse-stealing or high-way robbery. 
Poaching is a regular apprenticeship to bolder 
crimes. Ha whom I may commit as a boy to 
sit in the stocks for killing a partridge, may be 
likely to end at the gallows for killing a man. 

■ Observe, you who now hear me, the strict- 
ness and impartiality of justice. I know Giles 
to be a worthless fellow, yet it is my duty to 
take his information; I know Jack Weston to 
be an honest youth, yet I must be obliged to 
make him pay the penalty. Giles is a bad man, 
but he can prove this fact ; Jack is a worthy 
lad, but he has committed this fault. I am sorry 
for you, Jack ; but do not let it grieve you that 
Giles has played worse tricks a hundred times, 
and yet got off, while you were detected in the 
very first offence, for that would be grieving be- 
cause you are not as great a rogue as Giles. At 
this moment you think your good luck is very 
unequal; but all this will one day turn out in 
your favour. Giles is not the more a favourite 
of Heaven because he has hitherto escaped Bo- 
tany Bay, or the hulks ; nor is it any maik of 
God's displeasure against you, John, that you 
were found out in your very first attempt.' 

Here the good justice left off speaking, and 
no one could contradict the truth of what he had 
said. Weston humbly submitted to his sentence, 
but he was very poor, and knew not where to 
raise the money to pay his fine. His character 
had always been so fair, that several farmers 
present kindly agreed to advance a trifle each 
to prevent his being sent to prison, and he thank- 
fully promised to work out the debt. The jus- 
tice himself, though he could not soften the law, 
yet showed Weston so much kindness that He 
was enabled before the year was out, to get out 
of this difficulty. He began to think more se- 
riously than he had ever yet done, and grew to 
abhor poaching, not merely from fear, but from 
principle. 

We shall soon see whether poaching Giles al- 
ways got off s# successfully. Here we have 



seen that worldly prosperity is no sure sign of 
goodness. Next month we may, perhaps, see 
that the 'triumph of the wicked is short;' for I 
then promise to give the second part of the 
Poacher, together with the entertaining storv 
of the Widow Brown's Apple-tree. 



PART II. 

History of Widow Brown's Apple-tree. 

I think my readers got so well acquainted 
last month with black Giles the poacher, that 
they will not expect this v month to hear any 
great good, either of Giles himself, his wife Ra- 
chel, or any of their family. I am sorry to ex- 
pose their tricks, but it is their fault, not mine. 
If I pretend to speak about people at all, I must 
tell the truth. I am sure, if folks would but turn 
about and mend, it would be a thousand times 
pleasanter to me to write their histories ; for it 
is no comfort to tell of any body's faults. If the 
world would but grow good, I should be glad 
enough to publish it ; but till it really becomes 
so, I must go on describing it as it is ; other- 
wise, I should only mislead my readers, instead 
of instructing them. It is the duty of a faithful 
historian to relate the evil with the good. 

As to Giles and his boys, I am sure old widow 
Brown has good reason to remember their dex- 
terity. Poor woman ! she had a fine little bed 
of onions in her neat and well-kept garden ; she 
was very fond of her onions, and many a rheu- 
matism has she caught by kneeling down to 
weed them in a damp day, notwithstanding the 
little flannel cloak and the bit of an old mat 
which madam Wilson gave her, because the old 
woman would needs weed in wet weather. Her 
onions she always carefully treasured up for her 
winter's store; for an onion makes a little broth 
very relishing, and is indeed the only savoury 
thing poor people are used to get. She had also 
a small orchard, containing about a dozen apple- 
trees, with which in a good year she had been 
known to make a couple of barrels of cider, 
which she sold to her landlord towards paying 
her rent, besides having a little keg which she 
was able to keep back for her own drinking. 
Well ! would you believe it, Giles and his boys 
marked both onions and apples for their own ; 
indeed, a man who stole so many rabbits from 
the warrener, was likely enough to steal onions 
for sauce. One day, when the widow was 
abroad on a little business, Giles and his boys 
made a clear riddance of the onion bed ; and 
when they had pulled up every single onion, 
they then turned a couple of pigs into the gar- 
den, who, allured by the smell, tore up the bed 
in such a manner, that the widow, when she 
came home, had not the least doubt but the pigs 
had been the thieves. To confirm this opinion, 
they took care to leave the latch half open at 
one end of the garden, and to break down a 
slight fence at the other end. 

I wonder how any body can find in his heart 
not to pity and respect poor old widows. There 
is something so forlorn and helpless in their 
condition, that methinks it is a call on every 
body, men, women, and children, to do them all 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



255 



the kind services that fall in their way. Surely 
their having no one to take their part, is an ad- 
ditional reason for kind-hearted people not to 
hurt and oppress them. But it was this very 
reason which led Giles to do this woman an in- 
jurv. With what a touching simplicity is it 
recorded in Scripture, of the youth whom our 
blessed Saviour raised from the dead, that he 
was the only son of his mother, and she a widow .' 

It happened unluckily for poor widow Brown 
that her cottage stood quite alone. On several 
mornings together, (for roguery gets up much 
earlier than industry,) Giles and his boys stole 
regularly into her orchard, followed by their 
jack-asses. She was so deaf that she could not 
hear the asses if they had brayed ever so loud, 
and to this Giles trusted ; for he was very cau- 
tious in his rogueries ; since he could not other- 
wise have contrived so long to keep out of prison ; 
for though he was almost always suspected, he 
had seldom been taken up, and never convicted. 
The boys used to fill their bags, load their asses, 
and then march ofF; and if in their way to the 
town where the apples were to be sold they 
chanced to pass by one of their neighbours who 
might be likely to suspect them, they then all 
at once began to scream out, ' Buy my coal ! — 
buy my sand !' 

Besides the trees in her orchard, poor widow 
Brown had in her small garden, one apple-tree 
particularly fine ; it was a red-streak, so tempt- 
ing and so lovely, that Giles's family had watch- 
ed it with longing eyes, till at last they resolved 
on a plan for carrying otf all this fine fruit in 
their bags. But it was a nice point to manage. 
The tree stood directly under her chamber win- 
dow, so that there was some danger that she 
might spy them at the work. They therefore 
determined to wait till the next Sunday morn- 
ing when they knew she would not fail to be at 
church. Sunday came, and during service Giles 
attended. It was a lone house, as I said before, 
and the rest of the parish were safe at church. 
In a trice the tree was cleared, the bags were 
filled, the asses were whipped, the thieves were 
off, the coast was clear, and all was safe and 
quiet by the time the sermon was over. 

Unluckily, however, it happened, that this 
tree was so beautiful, and the fruit so fine, that 
the people, as they used to pass to and from the 
church, were very apt to stop and admire widow 
Brown's red-streaks : and some of the farmers 
rather envied her that in that scarce season, 
when they hardly expected to make a pye out 
of a large orchard, she was likely to make a 
cask of cider from a single tree. I am afraid, 
indeed, if I must speak out, she herself rather 
set her heart too much upon this fruit, and had 
felt as much pride in her tree as gratitude to a 
good Providence for it ; but this failing of hers 
was no excuse for Giles. The covetousness of 
this thief had for once got the better of his cau- 
tion ; the tree was too completely stripped, 
though the youngest boy Dick did beg hard that 
his father would leave the poor old woman 
enough for a few dumplings ; and when Giles 
ordered Dick in his turn to shake the tree, the 
boy did it so gently that hardly any apples fell, 
for which he got a good stroke of the stick with 
which the old man was beating down the apples. 



The neighbours on their return from church 
stopped as usual, but it was not, alas ! to admire 
the apples, for apples there were none left, but 
to lament the robbery, and console the widow ; 
meantime the red-streaks were safely lodged in 
Giles's hovel under a few bundles of new hay 
which he had contrived to pull from the farmer's 
mow the night before, for the use of his jack- 
asses. Such a stir, however, began to be made 
about the widow's apple-tree, that Giles, who 
knew how much his character had laid him open 
to suspicion, as soon as he saw the people safe 
in church again in the afternoon, ordered his 
boys to carry each a hatful of the apples and 
thrust them in a little casement window which 
happened to be open in the house of Samuel 
Price, a very honest carpenter in that parish, 
who was at church with his whole family. 
Giles's plan, by this contrivance, was to lay the 
theft on Price's sons in case the thing should 
come to be further inquired into. Here Dick 
put in a word, and begged and prayed his father 
not to force them to carry the apples to Price's. 
But all that he got by his begging was such a 
knock as had nearly laid him on the earth. 
' What, you cowardly rascal,' said Giles, ' you 
will go aud 'peach, I suppose, and get your 
father sent to gaol.' 

Poor widow Brown, though her trouble had 
mode her still weaker than she was, went to 
church again in the afternoon : indeed she 
rightly thought that her being in trouble was a 
new reason why she ought to go. During the 
service she tried with all her might not to think 
of her red-streaks, and whenever they would 
come into her head, she took up her prayer-book 
directly, and so she forgot them a little ; and in- 
deed she found herself much easier when she 
came out of the church than when she went in ; 
an effect so commonly produced by prayer, that 
methinks it is a pity people do not try it oftener. 
Now it happened oddly enough, that on that 
Sunday, of all the Sundays in the year, the wi- 
dow should call in to rest a little at Samuel 
Price's, to tell over again the lamentable story 
of the apples, and to consult with him how the 
thief might be brought to justice. ButO, reader '. 
guess if you can, for I am sure I cannot tell you, 
what was her surprise, when, on going into 
Samuel Price's kitchen, she saw her own red 
streaks lying on the window! The apples were 
of a sort too remarkable, for colour, shape, and 
size, to be mistaken. There was not such an 
other tree in the parish. Widow Brown imme- 
diately screamed out, ' Alas-a-day ! as sure as 
can be, here are my red-streakes ; I could swear 
to them in any court.' Samuel Price, who be- 
lieved his sons to be as honest as himself, was 
shocked and troubled at the sight. He knew he 
had no red-streaks of his own, he knew there 
were no apples in the window when he went to 
church : he did verily believe these apples to be 
the widow's. But how they came there he could 
not possibly guess. He called for Tom, the only 
one of his sons who now lived at home. Tom 
was at the Sunday-school, which he had never 
once missed since Mr. Wilson the minister had 
set up one in the parish. Was such a boy likely 
to do such a deed ! 
A crowd was by this time got about Price's 



256 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



door, among which were Giles and his boys, 
who had already taken care to spread the news 
that Tom Price was the thief. Most people 
were unwilling to believe it. His character 
was very good, but appearances were strongly 
against him. Mr. Wilson, who had staid to 
christen a child, now came in. He was much 
concerned that Tom Price, the best boy in his 
school, should stand accused of such a crime. 
He sent for the boy, examined, and cross-ex- 
amined him. — No marks of guilt appeared. 
But still though he pleaded not guilty, there lay 
the red-streaks in his father's window. All the 
idle fellows in the place, who were most likely 
to have committed such a theft themselves, were 
the very people who fell with vengeance on poor 
Tom. The wicked seldom give any quarter. 
' This is one of your sanctified onr.a !' cried they. 
' This was all the good that Sunday-schools did ! 
For their parts they never saw any good come 
by religion. Sunday was the only day for a 
little pastime, and if poor boys must be shut up 
with their godly books, when they ought to be 
out taking a little pleasure, it was no wonder 
they made themselves amends by such tricks.' 
Another said he should like to see parson Wil- 
son's righteous one well whipped. A third 
hoped he would be clapped in the stocks for a 
young hypocrite as he was ; while old Giles, 
who thought the only way to avoid suspicion 
was by being more violent than the rest, de- 
clared, ' that he hoped the young dog would be 
transported for life.' 

Mr. Wilson was too wise and too just to pro- 
ceed against Tom without full proof. — He de- 
clared the crime was a very heavy one, and he 
feared that heavy must be the punishment. 
Tom, who knew his own innocence, earnestly 
prayed to God that it might be made to appear 
as clear as the noon-day ; and very fervent were 
his secret devotions on that night. 

Black Giles passed his night in a very differ- 
ent manner. He set off as soon as it was dark, 
with his sons and their jack-asses, laden with 
their stolen goods. As such a cry was raised 
about the apples, he did not think it safe to keep 
them longer at home, but resolved to go and sell 
them at the next town ; borrowing without leave 
a lame colt out of the moor to assist in carrying 
off his booty. 

Giles and his eldest sons had rare sport all the 
way in thinking, that while they were enjoying 
the profit of their plunder, Tom Price would be 
whipt round the market place at least, if not 
sent beyond sea. But the younger boy Dick, 
who had naturally a tender heart, though hard- 
ened by his long familiarity with sin, could not 
help crying, when he thought that Tom Price 
might, perhaps, be transported for a crime which 
he himself had helped to commit. He had had 
no compuction about the robbery, for he had not 
been instructed in the great principles of truth 
and justice ; nor would he therefore, perhaps, 
have had much remorse about accusing an in- 
nocent boy. But though utterly devoid of prin- 
ciple, he had some remains of natural feeling 
and of gratitude. Tom Price had often given 
him a bit of his own bread and cheese ; and once, 
when Dick was like to be drowned, Tom had 
jumped into the pond with his clothes on, and 



saved his life when he was just sinking ; the ie. 
membrance of all this made his heart heavy. 
He said nothing ; but as he trotted barefoot 
after the asses, he heard his father and bro- 
thers laugh at having outwitted the godly ones ; 
and he grieved to think how poor Tom would 
sutler for his wickedness, yet fear kept him si- 
lent ; they called him a sulky dog, and lashed 
the asses till they bled. 

In the mean time Tom Price kept up his 
spirits as well as he could. He worked hard 
all day, and prayed heartily night and morning. 
It is true, said he to himself, I am not guilty of 
this sin ; but let this accusation set me on ex- 
amining myself, and truly repenting of all my 
other sins ; for I find enough to repent of, though 
I thank God I did not steal the widow's ap 
pies. 

At length Sunday came, and Tom went to 
school as usual. As soon as he walked in there 
was a great deal of whispering and laughing 
among the worst of the boys ; and he overheard 
them say, ' Who would have thought it ? This 
is master's favourite ! — This is parson Wilson's 
sober Tommy ! We shan't have Tommy thrown 
in our teeth again if we go to get a bird's nest, 
or gather a few nuts on a Sunday.' ' Your de 
mure ones are always hypocrites,' says another. 
— ' The still sow sucks all the milk,' says a 
third. 

Giles's family had always kept clear of the 
school. Dick, indeed, had sometimes wished to 
go ; not that he had much sense of sin, or de- 
sire after goodness, but he thought if he could 
once read, he might rise in the world, and not 
be forced to drive asses all his life. Through 
this whole Saturday night he could not sleep. 
He longed to know what would be done to Tom. 
He began to wish to go to school, but he had not 
courage ; sin is very cowardly. So o'n the Sun- 
day morning he went and sat himself down un- 
der the church wall. Mr. Wilson passed by. It 
was not his way to reject the most wicked, till 
he had tried every means to bring them over ; 
and even then he pitied and prayed for them. — 
He had, indeed, long left off talking to Giles's 
sons ; but seeing Dick sitting by himself, he once 
more spoke to him, desired him to leave off his 
vagabond life, and go with him into the school. 
The boy hung down his head, but made no an- 
swer. He did not, however, either rise up and 
run away, or look sulky, as he used to do. The 
minister desired him once more to go. 'Sir,' 
said the boy, ' I can't go ; I am so big I am 
ashamed.' 'The bigger you are the less time 
you have to lose.' But, sir, I can't read.' ' Then 
it is high time you should learn.' ' I should be 
ashamed to begin to learn my letters.' ■ The 
shame is not in beginning to learn them, but in 
being contented never to know them.' — ' But, 
sir, I am so ragged !' • God looks at the heart, 
and not at the coat.' ' But, sir, I have no shoes 
and stockings.' 'So much the worse. I re- 
member who gave you both — (Here Dick co- 
loured.) It is bad to want shoes and stockings, 
but still if you can drive your asses a dozen 
miles without them, you may certainly walk a 
hundred yards to school without them.' ' But, 
Sir, the good boys will hate me, and won't speak 
to me.' — • Good boys hate nobody • and as to not 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



257 



speaking to you, to be sure they will not keep 
your company while you go on in your present 
evil courses, but as soon as they see you wish to 
reform, they will help you, and pity you, and 
teach you ; and so come along.' — Here Mr. Wil- 
son took this dirty boy by the hand, and gently 
pulled him forward, kindly talking to him all 
the vvay, in the most condescending manner. 

How the whole school stared to see Dick Giles 
come in ! No one however, dared to say what 
he thought. The business went on, and Dick 
slunk into a corner, partly to hide his rags, and 
partly to hide his sin ; for last Sunday's trans- 
action sat heavy on his heart, not because he 
had stolen the apples, but because Tom Price 
had been accused. This, I say, made him slink 
behind. Poor boy ! he little thought there was 
One saw him who sees all things, and from 
whose eye no hole nor corner can hide the sin- 
ner : ' for he is about our bed, and about our 
path, and spieth out all our ways.' 

It was the custom in that school, and an ex- 
cellent custom it is, for the master, who was a 
good and wise man, to mark down in his pocket- 
book all the events of the week, that he might 
turn them to some account in his Sunday even- 
ing instructions ; such as any useful story in the 
newspaper, any account of boys being drowned 
as they were out in a pleasure boat on Sundays, 
any sudden death in the parish, or any other re- 
markable visitation of Providence; insomuch, 
that many young people in the place, who did 
not belong to the school, and many parents also, 
used to drop in for an hour on a Sunday even- 
ing, when they were sure to hear something 
profitable. The minister greatly approved this 
practice, and often called in himself, which was 
a great support to the master, and encourage- 
ment to the people who attended. 

The master had taken a deep concern in the 
story of widow Brown's apple tree. He could 
not believe Tom Price was guilty, nor dared he 
pronounce him innocent ; but he resolved to turn 
the instructions of the present evening to this 
subject. He began thus : ' My dear boys, how- 
ever light some of you may make of robbing an 
orchard, yet I have often told you there is no 
such thing as a little sin, if it be wilful or habi- 
tual. I wish now to explain to you, also, that 
there is hardly such a thing as a single solitary 
sin. You know I teach you not merely to re- 
peat the commandments as an exercise for your 
memory, but as a rule for your conduct. If you 
were to come here only to learn to read and spell 
on a Sunday, I should think that was not em- 
ploying God's day for God's work; but I teach 
you to read that you may, by this means, come 
so to understand the Bible and the Catechism, 
as to make every text in the one, and every 
question and answer in the other, to be so fixed 
in your hearts, that they may bring forth in you 
the fruits of good living.' 

Master. How many commandments are there ? 

Boy. Ten. 

Master. How many commandments did that 
boy break who stole widow Brown's apples ? 

Boy. Only one, master ; the eighth. 

Master. What is the eighth ? 

Boy. Thou shalt not steal. 

Master. And you are very sure that this was 
R 



the only one he broke ? Now suppose I could 
prove to you that he probably broke not less 
than six out of those ten commandments, which 
the great Lord of heaven himself stooped down 
from his eternal glory to deliver to men, would 
you not, then, think it a terrible thing to steal, 
whether apples or guineas ? 

Boy. Yes, master. 

Master. I will put the case. Some wicked boy 
has robbed widow Brown's orchard. (Here the 
eyes of every one were turned on poor Tom 
Price, except those of Dick Giles, who fixed his 
on the ground.) I accuse no one, continued the 
master, Tom Price is a good boy, and was not 
missing at the time of the robbery ; these are 
two reasons why I presume that he is innocent ; 
but whoever it was, you allow that by stealing 
these apples he broke the eighth commandment? 

Boy. Yes, master. 

Master. On what day were these apples 
stolen ? 

Boy. On Sunday. 

Master. What is the fourth commandment ? 

Boy. Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath-day 

Master. Does that person keep holy the Sab- 
bath-day who loiters in an orchard on Sunday, 
when he should be at church, and steals apples 
when he ought to be saying his prayers ? 

Boy. No, master. 

Master. What command does he break ? 

Boy. The fourth. 

Master. Suppose this boy had parents who 
had sent him to church, and that he had dis- 
obeyed them by not going, would that be keep- 
ing the fifth commandment ? 

Boy. No, master ; for the fifth commandment 
says, Thou shalt honour thy father and thy mo- 
ther. 

This was the only part of the case in which 
poor Dick Giles's heart did not smite him ; he 
knew he had disobeyed no father ; for his father, 
alas ! was still wickeder than himself, and had 
brought him up to commit the sin. But what a 
wretched comfort was this ! The master went on. 

Master. Suppose this boy earnestly coveted 
this fruit, though it belonged to another person, 
would that be right ? 

Boy. No, master; for the tenth command- 
ment says, thou shalt not covet. 

Master. Very well. Here are four of God's 
positive commands already broken. Now do 
you think thieves ever scruple to use wicked 
words ? 

Boy. I am afraid not, master. 

Here Dick Giles was not so hardened but that 
he remembered how many curses had passed 
between him and his father while they were 
filling the bags, and he was afraid to look up. 
The master went on. 

I will now go one step further. If the thief, 
to all his other sins, has added that of accusing 
the innocent to save himself, if he should break 
the ninth commandment, by hearing false wit. 
ness against a harmless neighbour, then six com- 
mandments are broken for an apple '. But if it be 
otherwise, if Tom Price should be found guilty, 
it is not his good character shall save bim. I shall 
shed tears over him, but punish him I must, 
and that severely. ' No, that you shan't,' roared 
out Dick Giles, who sprung from his hiding 



258 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



place, fell on his knees, and burst out a crying, 
' Tom Price is as good a boy as ever lived ; it 
was father and I who stole the apples !' 

It w«>uld have done your heart good to have 
seen the joy of the master, the modest blushes 
of Tom Price, and the satisfaction of every ho- 
nest boy in the school. All shook hands with 
Tom, and even Dick got some portion of pity. I 
wish I had room to give my readers the moving 
exhortation which the master gave. But while 
Mr. Wilson left the guilty boy to the manage- 
ment of the master, he thought it became him, 
as a minister and a magistrate, to go to the ex- 
tent of the law in punishing the father. Early 
on the Monday morning he sent to apprehend 
Giles. In the meantime Mr. Wilson was sent 
for to a gardener's house two miles distant, to 
attend a man who was dying. This was a duty 
to which all others gave way in his mind. He 
set out directly ; but what was his surprise, on 
his arrival, to see, on a little bed on the floor, 
poaching Giles lying in all the agonies of death ! 
Jack Weston, the same poor young man against 
whom Giles had informed for killing a hare, 
was kneeling by him, offering him some broth, 
and talking to him in the kindest manner. Mr. 
Wilson begged to know the meaning of all this ; 
and Jack Weston spoke as follows : 

* At four in the morning, as I was going out 
to mow, passing under the high wall of this gar- 
den, I heard a most dismal moaning. The 
nearer I came the more dismal it grew. At last, 
who should I see but poor Giles groaning, and 
struggling uuder a quantity of bricks and stones, 
but not able to stir. The day before he had 
marked a fine large net on this old wall, and re- 
solved to steal it, for he thought it might do as 
well to catch partridges as to preserve cherries ; 
so, sir, standing on the very top of this wall, and 
tugging with all his might to loosen the net 
from the hooks which fastened it, down came 
Giles, net, wall, and all ; for the wall was gone 
to decay. It was very high indeed, and poor 
Giles not only broke his thigh, but has got a 
terrible blow on his head, and is bruised all over 
like a mummy. On seeing me, sir, poor Giles 
cried out, ' Oh, Jack ! I did try to ruin thee by 
lodging that information, and now thou wilt be 



revenged by letting me lie here and perish.' 
' God forbid, Giles ! cried I ; thou shalt see what 
sort of revenge a Christian takes.' So sir, I 
sent off the gardener's boy to fetch a surgeon, 
while I scampered home and brought on my 
back this bit of a hammock, which is indeed my 
own bed, and put Giles upon it : we then lifted 
him up, bed and all, as tenderly as if he had 
been a gentleman, and brought him in here. 
My wife has just brought him a drop of nice 
broth ; and now, sir, as I have done what I 
could for this poor perishing body, it was I who 
took the liberty to send to you to come to try to 
help his poor soul, for the doctor says he cant 
live. 

Mr. Wilson could not help saying to himself, 
Such an action as this is worth a whole volume 
of comments on that precept of our blessed Mas- 
ter, Love your enemies ; do good to them that 
hate you. Giles's dying groans confirmed the 
sad account Weston had just given. The poor 
wretch could neither pray himself nor attend to 
the minister. He could only cry out, ' Oh ! sir, 
what will become of me ? I don't know how to 
repent. O my poor wicked children ! Sir, I 
have bred them all up in sin and ignorance. 
Have mercy on them, sir ; let me not meet them 
in the place of torment to which I am going. 
Lord grant them that time for repentance which 
I have thrown away !' He languished a few 
days, and died in great misery : — a fresh and 
sad instance that people who abuse the grace 
of God and resist his Spirit, find it difficult to 
repent when they will. 

Except the minister and Jack Weston, no one 
came to see poor Giles, besides Tommy Price, 
who had been so sadly wronged by him. Tom 
often brought him his own rice-milk- or apple- 
dumpling ; and Giles, ignorant and depraved as 
he was, often cried out, ' That he thought now 
there must be some truth in religion, since it 
taught even a boy to deny himself, and to for- 
give an injury. Mr. Wilson the next Sunday, 
made a moving discourse on the danger of what 
are called petty offences. This, together with the 
awful death of Giles, produced such an effect 
that no poacher has been able to show his head 
in that parish ever since. 



TAWNEY RACHEL; 

OR, THE FORTUNE TELLER: 
WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF DREAMS, OMENS, AND CONJURORS. 



Tawney Rachel was the wife of poaching 
Giles. There seemed to be a conspiracy in 
Giles's whole family to maintain themselves by 
tricks and pilfering. Regular labour and honest 
industry did not suit their idle habits. They 
had a sort of genius at finding out every unlaw- 
ful means to support a vagabond life. Rachel 
travelled the country with a basket on her arm. 
She pretended to get her bread by selling laces, 
cabbage-nets, ballads, and history books, and 
used to buy old rags and rabbit skins. Many 
honest people trade in these things, and I 
am sure I do not mean to say a word against 



honest people, let them trade in what they will. 
But Rachel only made this traffic a pretence for 
getting admittance into farmers' kitchens in 
order to tell fortunes. 

She was continually practising on the credu. 
lity of sill) r girls ; and took advantage of their 
ignorance to cheat and deceive them. Many 
an innocent servant has she caused to be sus- 
pected of a robbery, while she herself, perhaps, 
was in league with the thief. Many a harmless 
maid has she brought to ruin by first contriving 
plots and events herself, and then pretending to 
foretel them. She had not, to be sure, the power 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



259 



of really foretelling things, because she had no 
power of seeing into futurity : but she had the 
art sometimes to bring them about according as 
she foretold them. So she got that credit for 
her wisdom which really belonged to her wick- 
edF-jss. 

Rachel was also a famous interpreter of 
dreams, and could distinguish exactly between 
the fate of any two persons who happened to 
have a mole on the right or the left cheek. She 
had a cunning way of getting herself off when 
any of her prophecies failed. When she ex- 
plained a dream according to the natural ap- 
pearance of things, and it did not come to pass ; 
then she would get out of that scrape by saying, 
that this sort of dreams went by contraries. Now 
of two very opposite things, the chance always 
is that one of them may turn out to be true ; so 
in either case she kept up the cheat. 

Rachel, in one of her rambles, stopped at the 
house of farmer Jenkins. She contrived to call 
when she knew the master of the house was 
from home, which indeed was her usual way. 
She knocked at the door ; the maids being in 
the field haymaking, Mrs. Jenkins went to open 
it herself. Rachel asked her if she would please 
to let her light her pipe ? This was a common 
pretence, when she could find no other way of 
getting into a house. While she was filling her 
pipe, she looked at Mrs. Jenkins, and said, she 
could tell her some good fortune. The farmer's 
wife, who was a very inoffensive, but a weak 
and superstitious woman, was curious to know 
what she meant. Rachel then looked about 
carefully, and shutting the door with a myste- 
rious air, asked her if she was sure nobody would 
hear them. This appearance of mystery was 
at once delightful and terrifying to Mrs. Jen- 
kins, who, with trembling agitation, bid the 
cunning woman speak out. ' Then,' said Ra- 
chel in a solemn whisper, ' there is to my certain 
knowledge a pot of money hid under one of the 
stones in your cellar.' — ' Indeed !' said Mrs. 
Jenkins, ' it is impossible, for now I think of it, 
I dreamt last night I was in prison for- debt.' 
* Did you really ?' said Rachel ; ' that is quite 
surprising. Did you dream this before twelve 
o'clock or after ?' — l O it was this morning, just 
before I awoke.' — ' Then I am sure it is true, 
for morning dreams always go by contraries,' 
cried Rachel. ' How lucky it was you dreamt 
it so late.' — Mrs. Jenkins could hardly contain 
her joy, and asked how the money was to be 
come at. ' There is but one way,' said Rachel ; 
' I must go into the cellar. I know by my art 
under which stone it lies, but I must not tell.' 
Then they both went down into the cellar, but 
Rachel refused to point at the stone unless Mrs. 
Jenkins would put five pieces of gold into a ba- 
sin and do as she directed. The simple woman, 
instead of turning her out of doors for a cheat, 
did as she was bid. She put the guineas into a 
basin which she gave into Rachel's hand. Ra- 
chel strewed some white powder over the gold, 
muttered some barbarous words, and pretended 
to perform the black art. She then told Mrs. 
Jenkins to put the basin quietly down within 
the cellar ; teling her that if she offered to look 
into it, or even to speak a word, the charm would 
be broken She also directed her to lock the 



cellar door, and on no pretence to open it in less 
than forty-eight hours. 'If,' added she, 'you 
closely follow these directions, then, by the power 
of my art, you will find the basin conveyed to 
the very stone under which the money lies hid, 
and a fine treasure it be !' Mrs. Jenkins, who 
firmly believed every word the woman said, did 
exactly as she was told, and Rachel took her 
leave with a handsome reward. 

When farmer Jenkins came home he desired 
his wife to draw him a cup of cider ; this she 
put off so long that he began to be displeased. 
At last she begged he would be so good as to 
drink a little beer instead. He insisted on know- 
ing the reason, and when at last he grew angry, 
she told him all that had passed ; and owned 
that as the pot of gold happened to be in the ci- 
der cellar, she did not dare open the door, as she 
was sure it would break the charm. ' And it 
would be a pity you know,' said she, ' to lose a 
good fortune for the sake of a draught of cider.' 
The farmer, who was not so easily imposed 
upon, suspected a trick. He demanded the key, 
and went and opened the cellar door ; there he 
found the basin, and in it five round pieces of 
tin covered with powder. Mrs. Jenkins burst 
out a-crying ; but the farmer thought of nothing 
but of getting a warrant to apprehend the cun. 
ning woman. Indeed she well proved her claim 
to that name, when she insisted that the cellar 
door might be kept locked till she had time to 
get out of the reach of all pursuit. 

Poor Sally Evans ! I am sure she rued the 
day that ever she listened to a fortune-teller. 
Sally was as harmless a girl as ever churned a 
pound of butter ; but Sally was credulous, igno- 
rant and superstitious. She delighted in dream 
books, and had consulted all the cunning women 
in the country to tell her whether the two molos 
on her cheek denoted that she was to have two 
husbands, or two children. If she picked up an 
old horse-shoe going to church, she was sure 
that would be a lucky week. She never made 
a black pudding without borrowing one of the 
parson's old wigs to hang in the chimney, firmly 
believing there was no other means to preserve 
them from burning. She would never go to bed 
on Midsummer eve without sticking up in her 
room the well-known plant called Midsummer- 
men, as the bending of the leaves to the right 
or to the left, would not fail to tell her whether 
Jacob, of whom we shall speak presently, was 
true or false. She would rather go five miles 
about than pass near a church-yard at night. 
Every seventh year she would not eat beans be- 
cause they grew downward in the pod, instead 
of upward ; and, though a very neat girl, she 
would rather have gone with her gown open 
than have taken a pin from an old woman, for 
fear of being bewitched. Poor Sally had so ma- 
ny unlucky days in her calender, that a large 
portion of her time became of little use, because 
on these days she did not dare set about any 
new work. And she would have refused the 
best offer in the country if made to her on a 
Friday, which she thought so unlucky a day that 
she often said what a pity it was that there were 
any Friday in the week. Sally had twenty 
pounds left her by her grandmother. She had 
long been courted by Jacob, a sober lad, with 



260 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



whom she lived fellow servant at a creditable 
farmer's. Honest Jacob, like his namesake of 
old, thought it little to wait seven years to get 
this damsel to wife, because of the love he bore 
her, for Sally had promised to marry him when 
he could mutch her twenty pounds with another 
of his own. 

Now there was one Robert, a rambling idle 
young gardener, who, instead of sitting down 
steadily in one place, used to roam about the 
country, and do odd jobs where he could get 
them. No one understood any thing about him, 
except that he was a down-looking fellow, who 
came nobody knew whence, and got his bread 
nobody knew how, and never had a penny in 
his pocket. Robert, who was now in the neigh- 
bourhood, happened to hear of Sally Evans and 
her twenty pounds. He immediately conceived 
a long desire for the latter. So he went to his 
old friend Rachel the fortune-teller, told her all 
he had heard of Sally, and promised if she could 
bring about a marriage between them, she should 
go shares in the money. 

Rachel undertook the business. She set off 
to the farm-house, and fell to singing one of her 
most enticing songs just under the dairy win- 
dow. Sally was so struck with the pretty tune, 
which was unhappily used, as is too often the 
case, to set off some very loose words, that she 
jumped up, dropped the skimming dish into the 
cream and ran out to buy the song. While she 
stooped down to rummage the basket for those 
■ongs which had the most tragical pictures (for 
Sally had a tender heart, and delighted in what- 
ever was mournful) Rachel looked stedfastly in 
her face, and told her she knew by art that she 
was born to good fortune, but advised her not 
to throw herself away. ' These two moles on 
vour cheek,' added she, ' show you are in some 
danger.' ' Do they denote husbands or chil- 
dren ?' cried Sally, starting up, and letting fall 
the song of the Children in the Wood — ' Hus- 
bands,' muttered Rachel — ' Alas ! poor Jacob !' 
said Sally, mournfully, ' then he will die first, 
won't he ?' ' Mum for that,' quoth the fortune 
teller, ' I will say no more.' Sally was impa- 
tient, but the more curiosity she discovered, the 
more mystery Rachel affected. At last, she 
said, ' if you will cross my hand with a piece of 
silver, I will tell your fortune. ' By the power 
of my art I can do this three ways ; first by 
cards, next by the lines on your hand, or by 
turning a cup of tea grounds ; which will you 
have ?' ' O, all ! all !' cried Sally, looking up 
with reverence to this sun-burnt oracle of wis- 
dom, who was possessed of no less than three 
different ways of diving into the secrets of futu- 
rity. Alas ! persons of better sense than Sally 
have been so taken in ; the more is the pity. 
The poor girl said she would run up stairs to 
her little box where she kept her money tied up 
in a bit of an old glove, and would bring down 
a bright queen Ann's sixpence very crooked. 
1 1 am sure,' added she, ' it is a lucky one, for it 
cured me of a very bad ague last spring, by 
only laying it nine nights under my pillow with- 
out speaking a word. But then you must know 
what gave the virtue to this sixpence was, that 
it had belonged to three young men of the name 
of John ; I am sure I had work enough to get 



it. But true it is, it certainly cured me. It 
must be the sixpence you know, for I am sure I 
did nothing else for my ague, except indeed 
taking some bitter stuff every three hours which 
the doctor called bark. To be sure I lost my 
ague soon after I took it, but I am certain it 
was owing to the crooked sixpence, and not to 
the bark. And so, good woman, you may come 
in, if you will, for there is not a soul in the 
house but me.' This was the very thing Ra- 
chel wanted to know, and very glad she was to 
learn it. 

While Sally was above stairs untying her 
glove, Rachel slipped in to the parlour, took a 
small silver cup from the beaufet, and clapped 
it into her pocket. Sally ran down, lamenting 
that she had lost her sixpence, which she verily 
believed was owing to her having put it into 
a left glove, instead of a right one. Rachel 
comforted her by saying, that if she gave her 
two plain ones instead, the charm would work 
just as well. Simple Sally thought herself hap- 
py to be let off so easily, never calculating that 
a smooth shilling was worth two crooked six- 
pences. But this skill was a part of the black 
art in which Rachel excelled. She took the 
money and began to examine the lines of Sally's 
left hand. She bit her withered lip, shook her 
head, and bade her poor dupe beware of a young 
man who had black hair. ' No, indeed,' cried 
Sally, all in a fright, ' you mean black eyes, for 
our Jacob has got brown hair, 'tis his eyes that 
are black.' ' That is the very thing I was go- 
ing to say,' muttered Rachel, ' I meant eyes, 
though I said hair, for I know his hair is as 
brown as a chesnut, and his eyes as black as a 
sloe.' ' So they are, sure enough,' cried Sally, 
' how in the world could you know that ?' for- 
getting that she herself had just told her so. 
And it is thus that these hags pick out of the 
credulous all which they afterwards pretend to 
reveal to them. ' O, I know a pretty deal more 
than that,' said Rachel, ' but you must beware 
of this man.' ' Why so,' cried Sally, with great 
quickness : ' Because,' answered Rachel, ' you 
are fated to marry a man worth a hundred of 
him, who has blue eyes, light hair, and a stoop 
in the shoulders.' ' No, indeed, but I can't,' 
said Sally ; ' I have promised Jacob, and Jacob 
I will marry.' ' You cannot, child,' returned 
Rachel in a solemn tone ; ' it is out of your pow- 
er, you are fated to marry the gray eyes and 
light hair.' ' Nay, indeed,' said Sally, sighing 
deeply, ' if I am fated, I must ; I know there's 
no resisting one's fate.' This is a common cant 
with poor deluded girls, who are not aware that 
they themselves make their fate by their folly, 
and then complain there is no resisting it. 
' What can I do ?' said Sally. ' I will tell you 
that, too,' said Rachel. ' You must take a walk 
next Sunday afternoon to the church-yard, and 
the first man you meet in a blue coat, with a 
large posy of pinks and southern-wood in his 
bosom, sitting on the church-yard wall, about 
seven o'clock, he will be the man.' ' Provided, 1 
said Sally, much disturbed, ' that he has grey 
eyes and stoops.' ' Q to be sure,' said Rachel, 
' otherwise it is not the right man.' ' But if I 
should mistake,' said Sally, ' for two men may 
happen to have a coat and eyes of the samo co- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



26f 



lour V ' To prevent that,' replied Rachel, ' if it 
is the right man, the two first letters of his name 
will be R. P. This man has got money beyond 
sea.' 'O, I do not value his money,' said Sally, 
with tears in her eyes, ' for I love Jacob better 
than house or land ; but if I am fated to marry 
another, I can't help it ; you know there is no 
struggling against my fate.' 

Poor Sally thought of nothing, and dreamt 
of nothing all the week but the blue coat and the 
gray eyes. She made a hundred blunders at 
her work. She put her rennet into the butter- 
pan, and her skimming-dish into the cheese- 
tub. She gave the curds to the hogs, and put 
the whey into the vats. She put her little knife 
out of her pocket for fear it should cut love, and 
would not stay in the kitchen if there was not 
an even number of people, lest it should break 
the charm. She grew cold and mysterious in 
her behaviour to faithful Jacob, whom she truly 
loved. — But the more she thought of the fortune- 
teller, the more sha was convinced that brown 
hair and black eyes were not what she was 
fated to marry, and therefore, though she trem- 
bled to think it, Jacob could not be the man. 

On Sunday she was too uneasy to go to 
church; for poor Sally had never been taught 
that her being uneasy was only a fresh reason 
why she ought to go thither. She spent the 
whole afternoon in ner little garret, dressing in 
all her best. First she put on her red riband, 
which she had bought at last Lammas fair : then 
she recollected that red was an unlucky colour, 
and changed it for a blue riband, tied in a true 
lover's knot ; but suddenly calling to mind that 
poor Jacob had bought this knot for her of a 
pedlar at the door, and that she had promised to 
wear it for his sake, her heart smote her, and 
she laid it by, sighing to think she was not fated 
to marry the man who had given it to her. — 
When she had looked at herself twenty times 
in the glass (for one vain action always brings 
on another) she set off, trembling and shaking 
every step she went. She walked eagerly to- 
wards the church-yard, not daring to look to the 
right or left, for fear she should spy Jacob, who 
would have offered to walk with her, and so 
have spoilt all. As soon as she came within 
sight of the wall, she spied a man sitting upon 
it: Her heart beat violently. She looked again ; 
but alas ! the stranger not only had on a black 
coat, but neither hair nor eyes answered the 
description. She now happened to cast her 
eyes on the church-clock, and found she was 
two hours before her time. This was some 
comfort. She walked away and got rid of the 
two hours as well as she could, paying great at- 
tention not to walk over any straws which lay 
across, and carefully looking to see if there were 
never an old horse-shoe in the way, that infal- 
lible symptom of good fortune. While the clock 
was striking seven, she returned to the church- 
yard, and O ! the wonderful power of fortune- 
tellers ! there she saw him ! there sat the very 
man ! his hair as light as flax, his eyes as blue 
as butter-milk, and his shoulders as round as a 
tub. Every tittle agreed to the very nosegay in 
his waistcoat button-hole. At first, indeed, she 
thought it iiad been sweetbriar, and glad to catch 
at a straw, whispered to herself, it is not he, 



and I shall marry Jacob still ; but on looking 
again, she saw it was southern-wood plain 
enough, and that of course all was over. The 
man accosted her with some very nonsensical, 
but too acceptable, compliments. She was na- 
turally a modest girl, and but for Rachel's wick- 
ed arts, would not have had courage to talk with 
a strange man ; but how could she resist her 
fate you know ? After a little discourse, sh» 
asked him, with a trembling heart, what might 
be his name ? Robert Price, at your service, was 
the answer. ' Robert Price ! that is R. P. as 
sure as I am alive, and the fortune-teller was a 
witch ! It is all out ' O the wonderful art of for- 
tune- tellers !' 

The little sleep she had that night was dis- 
turbed with dreams of graves, and ghosts, and fu- 
nerals, but as they were morning dreams, she 
knew those always went by contraries, and that, a 
funeral denoted a wedding. Still a sigh would 
now and then heave, to think that in that wed- 
ding Jacob would have no part. Such of my 
readers as know the power which superstition 
has over the weak and credulous mind, scarcely 
need be told, that poor Sally's unhappiness was 
soon completed. She forgot all her vows to 
Jacob; she at once forsook an honest man whom 
she loved, and consented to marry a stranger, 
of whom she knew nothing, from a ridiculous 
notion that she was compelled to do so by a de- 
cree which she had it not in her power to resist. 
She married this Richard Price, the strange 
gardener, whom she soon found to be very 
worthless, and very much in debt. He had no 
such thing as ' money beyond sea,' as the for- 
tune-teller had told her ; but alas ! he had an 
other wife there. — He got immediate possession 
of Sally's twenty pounds. Rachel put in for 
her share, but he refused to give her a farthing 
and bid her get away or he would have her 
taken up on the vagrant act. He soon ran 
away from Sally, leaving her to bewail her own 
weakness ; for it was that indeed, and not any 
irresistible fate, which had been the cause of 
her ruin. To complete her misery, she herself 
was suspected of having stole the silver cup 
which Rachel had pocketed. Her master, how- 
ever, would not prosecute her, as she was fall 
ing into a deep decline, and she died in a few 
months of a broken heart, a sad warning to all 
credulous girls. 

Rachel, whenever she got near home, used to 
drop her trade of fortune-telling, and only dealt 
in the wares of her basket. Mr. Wilson, the 
clergyman, found her one day dealing out some 
very wicked ballads to some children. He went 
up with a view to give her a reprimand ; but had 
no sooner begun his exhortation than up came 
a constable, followed by several people. — • There 
she is, that is the old witch who tricked my 
wife out of the five guineas,' said one of them, 
' Do your office constable, seize that old hag. 
She may tell fortunes and find pots of gold in 
Taunton jail, for there she will have nothing 
else to do !' This was that very farmer Jenkins, 
whose wife had been cheated by Rachael of the 
five guineas. He had taken pains to trace her 
to her own parish : he did not so much value 
the loss of the money, as he thought it was a 
duty he owed the public to clear the country of 



262 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



such vermin. Mr. Wilson immediately com- 
mitted her. She took her trial at the next as- 
sizes, when she was sentenced to a year's im- 
prisonment. In the mean time, the pawn- 
broker to whom she had sold the silver cup, 
which she had stolen from poor Sally's master, im- 
peached her; and as the robbery was fully proved 
upon Rachel, she was sentenced for this crime 
to Botany Bay ; and a happy day it was for the 
county of Somerset, when such a nuisance was 
sent out of it. She was transported much about 
the same time that her husband Giles lost his 
life in stealing the net from the garden wall, as 
related in the second part of poaching Giles. 

I have thought it my duty to print this little 
history, as a kind of warning to all young men 
and maidens not to have any thing to say to 
cheats, impostors, cunning -women, fortune-tel- 
lers, conjurors, and interpreters of dreams. Lis- 
ten to me, your true friend, when I assure you 
that God never reveals to weak and wicked wo- 
men those secret designs of his providence, 
which no human wisdom is able to foresee. To 
consult these false oracles is not only foolish, 
but sinful. It is foolish, because they are them- 



selves as ignorant as those whom they pretend 
to teach : and is sinful, because it is prying into 
that futurity which God, in mercy as well as 
wisdom, hides from men. God indeed orders 
all things; but when you have a mind to do a 
foolish thing, do not fancy you are fated to do 
it. This is tempting Providence, and not trust- 
ing him. It is indeed charging God with folly- 
Prudence is his gift, and you obey him better 
when you make use of prudence, under the di- 
rection of prayer, than when you madly run 
into ruin, aud think you are only submitting to 
your fate. Never fancy that you are compelled 
to undo yourself, or to rush upon your own de- 
struction, in compliance with any supposed fa- 
tality. Never believe that God conceals his will 
from a sober Christian who obeys his laws, and 
reveals it to a vagabond gypsy who runs up and 
down breaking the laws both of God and man 
King Saul never consulted the witch till he left 
off serving God. The Bible will direct us what 
to do better than any conjurer, and there are nc 
days unlucky but those which we make so b^ 
our own vanity, sin, and folly. 



THOUGHTS 



ON THE IMPORTANCE OF THE MANNERS OF THE GREAT, 
TO GENERAL SOCIETY. 

' You are the makers of manners.' — Shakspeare. 



To a large and honourable class of the com- 
munity, to persons considerable in reputation, 
important by their condition in life, and com- 
mendable for the decency of general conduct, 
these slight hints are respectfully addressed. 
They are not intended as a satire upon vice, or 
ridicule upon folly, being written neither for the 
foolish nor the vicious. The subject is too se- 
rious for ridicule ; and those to whom it is ad- 
dressed are too respectable for satire. It is re- 
commended to the consideration of those who, 
filling the higher ranks of life, are naturally 
regarded as patterns, by which the manners of 
the rest of the world are to be fashioned. 

The mass of mankind, in most places, and 
especially in those conditions of life which ex- 
empt them from the temptation to shameful 
vices, is perhaps chiefly composed of what is 
commonly termed by the courtesy of the world 
good kind of people ; for persons of very flagitious 
wickedness are almost as rare as those of very 
eminent piety. To the latter of these, admoni- 
tion were impertinent ; to the former it were 
superfluous. These remarks, therefore, are 
principally written with a view to those persons 
of rank and fortune who live within the re- 
straints of moral obligation, and acknowledge 
the truth, of the Christian religion ; and who, 
if in certain instances they allow themselves 
in practices not compatible with a strict pro- 
fession of Christianity, seem to do it rather from 
habit and want of reflection, than either from 
disbelief of its doctrines, or contempt of its pre- 
cepts. 



Ineonsideration, fashion, and the world, are 
three confederates against virtue, with whom 
even good kind of people often contrive to live 
on excellent terms ; and the fair reputation 
which may be obtained by a complaisant con- 
formity to the prevailing practice, and by mere 
decorum of manners without a strict attention 
to religious principle, is a constant source of 
danger to the rich and great. There is some- 
thing almost irresistibly seducing in the conta. 
gion of general example ; hence the necessity of 
that vigilance, which it is the business of Chris- 
tianity to quicken by incessant admonition, and 
which it is the business of the world, to lay 
asleep by the perpetual opiates of ease and plea- 
sure. 

A fair reputation is among the laudable ob- 
jects of human ambition ; yet even this really 
valuable blessing is sometimes converted into a 
snare, by inducing a treacherous security as 
soon as it is obtained ; and by leading him who 
is too anxious about obtaining it to stop short 
without aiming at a higher motive of action. 
A fatal indolence is apt to creep in upon the 
soul when it has once acquired the good opinion 
of mankind, if the acquisition of that good opi- 
nion was the ultimate end of its endeavours. 
Pursuit is at an end when the object is in pos- 
session ; for he is not likely to ' press forward,' 
who thinks he has already ' attained.' The 
love of worldly reputation, and the desire of 
God's favour, have this specific difference, that 
in the latter, the possession always augments 
the desire ; and the spiritual mind accounts 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



263 



nothing done while any thing remains un- 
done. 

But after all, a fair fame, the support of num. 
bers, and the flattering concurrence of human 
opinion, is obviously a deceitful dependence ; for 
as every individual must die for himself, and 
answer for himself, both these imaginary re- 
sources will fail, just at the moment when they 
could have been of any use. A good reputation, 
even without internal piety, would be worth ob- 
taining, if the tribunal of heaven were fashioned 
after the manner of human courts of judicature. 
If at the general judgment we were to be tried 
by a jury of our fellow mortals, it would be but 
common prudence to secure their favour at any 
price. But it can stand us in little stead in the 
great day of decision, it being the consummation 
of infinite goodness not to abandon us to the 
mercy of each other's sentence; but to reserve 
us for his final judgment who knows every mo- 
tive of every action : who will make strict in- 
quisition into singleness of heart, and upright- 
ness of intention ; in whose eyes the sincere 
prayer of powerless benevolence will outweigh 
the most splendid profession or the most daz- 
zling action. 

We cannot but rejoice in every degree of hu- 
man virtue which operates favourably on society, 
whatever be the motive, or whoever be the actor ; 
and we should gladly commend every degreo 
of goodness, though it be not exactly squared by 
our own rules and notions. Even the good ac- 
tions of such persons as are too much actuated 
by a regard to appearances, are not without 
their beneficial effects. The righteousness of 
those who occupy this middle region of morality 
among us, certainly exceed the righteousness 
of the Scribes and Pharisees ; for they are not 
only exact in ceremonials, but in many respects 
fulfil the weightier matters of law and con- 
science. Like Herod, they often ' hear gladly,' 
and ' do many things.' Yet I am afraid I shall 
be thought severe in remarking that in general 
those characters in the New Testament, of 
whose future condition no very comfortable hope 
is given, seem to have been taken, not from the 
profligate, the abandoned, and the dishonourable; 
but from that decent class commonly described 
by the term good sort of people, that mixed kind 
of character in which virtue appears, if it do 
not predominate. The young ruler was certainly 
one of the first of this order ; and yet we are 
left in dark uncertainty as to his final allotment. 
The rich man who built him barns and store- 
houses, and only proposed to himself the full en- 
joyment of that fortune, which we do not hear 
was unfairly acquired, might have been for all 
that appears to the contrary, a very good sort of 
man ; at least if we may judge of him by mul- 
titudes who live precisely for the same purposes, 
and yet enjoy a good degree of credit, and who 
are rather considered as objects of respect, than 
of censure. His plan, like theirs, was ' to take 
his ease, to eat, drink, and be merry.' 

But the most alarming instance is that of the 
splendid epicure, who was clothed in purple and 
fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day. 
He committed no enormities that have been 
transmitted to us ; for that he dined well and 
dressed well, could hardly incur 'the bitter pe- 



nalty of eternal misery. That his expenses 
were suitable to his station, and his splendour 
proportioned to his opulence, does not exhibit 
one objection to his character. Nor are we told 
that he refused the crumbs which Lazarus soli- 
cited. And yet this man on an authority which 
we are not permitted to question, is represented, 
in a future state, as lifting up his eyes being in 
torments. His punishment seems to have been 
the consequence of an irreligious, a worldly 
spirit, a heart corrupted by the softness and de- 
lights of life. It was not because he was rich, 
but because he trusted in riches ; or, if even he 
was charitable, his charity wanted that princi- 
ple which alone could sanctify it. His views 
terminated here ; this world's good, and this 
world's applause, were the motives and the end 
of his actions. He forgot God ; he was destitute 
of piety ; and the absence of this great and first 
principle of human actions rendered his shini»g 
deeds, however they might be admired among 
men, of no value in the sight of God. 

There is no error more common, or more dan- 
gerous, than the notion that an unrestrained in. 
dulgence of pleasure, and an unbounded grati- 
fication of the appetites is generally attended 
with a liberal, humane, and merciful temper. 
Nor is there any opinion more false and more 
fatal, or which demands to be more steadily con- 
troverted, than that libertinism and good-nature 
are natural and necessary associates. For after 
all that corrupt poets, and more corrupt philoso- 
phers, have told us of the blandishments of plea- 
sure, and of its tendency to soften the temper 
and humanize the affections, it is certain, that 
nothing hardens the heart like excessive and un- 
bounded luxury ; and he who refuses the fewest 
gratifications to his own voluptuousness, will 
generally be found the least susceptible of ten- 
derness for the wants of others. In one reign 
the cruelties at Rome bore an exact proportion 
to the dissoluteness at Capreas. Arid in another 
it is not less notorious : that the imperial fiddler 
became more barbarous, as he grew more pro- 
fligate. Prosperity, says the Arabian proverb, 
fills the heart until it makes it hard ; and tho 
most dangerous pits and snares for human vir- 
tue are those, which are so covered over with 
the flowers of prosperous fortune, that it requires 
a cautious foot, and a vigilant eye, to escape 
them. 

Ananias and Sapphira, were, perhaps, well 
esteemed in society ; for it was enough to esta- 
blish a very considerable reputation to sell even 
part of their possessions for religious purposes : 
but what an alarm does it sound to hypocrisy, 
that, instead of being rewarded for what they 
brought, they were punished for what they kept 
back ! And it is to be feared, that this deceitful 
pair are not the only one, upon whom a good 
action, without a pure intention, has drawn down 
a righteous retribution. 

Outward actions are the surest, and, indeed, 
to human eyes the only evidences of sincerity, 
but Christianity is a religion of motives and prin- 
ciples. The Gospel is continually referring to 
the heart, as the source of good ; it is to the poor 
in spirit, (o the pure in heart, that the divine 
blessing is annexed. A man may correct many 
improper practices, and refrain from many im- 



264 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



moral actions, from merely human motives ; but 
though this partial amendment is not without 
its uses, yet this is only attacking symptoms, 
and neglecting the mortal disease. But to sub- 
due a worldly temper, to controul irregular de- 
sires, and to have ' a clean heart,' is to attack 
sin in its strong holds. Totally to accomplish 
this, is, perhaps, beyond the narrow limits of 
human perfection, the best men being constantly 
humbled to find, that when they ' would do good, 
evil is present with them ;' but to attempt it, 
with an humble reliance on superior aid, is bo 
far from being an extravagant or romantic flight 
of virtue, that it is but the common duty of every 
ordinary Christian. And this perfection is not 
the less real, because it is a point which 6eems 
constantly to recede from our approaches, just 
as the sensible horizon recedes from our natural 
eye. Our highest attainments, instead of bring- 
ing us ' to the mark,' only teach us that the 
mark is at a greater distance, by giving us more 
humbling views of ourselves, and more exalted 
conceptions of the state after which we are la- 
bouring. — Though the progress towards perfec- 
tion may be perpetual in this world, the actual 
attainment is reserved for a better. And this 
restless desire of a happiness which we cannot 
reach, and this lively idea of a perfection which 
we cannot attain, are among the many argu- 
ments for a future state, which seem to come 
little short of demonstration. The humble Chris- 
tian, takes refuge under the deep sense of his 
disappointments and defects, in this consoling 
hope, ' When I awake up after thy likeness I 
shall be satisfied.' 

Let me not here be misunderstood as under- 
valuing the virtues which even worldly men 
may possess. I am charmed with humanity, 
generosity, and integrity, in whomsoever they 
may be found. But one virtue must not intrench 
upon another. Charity must not supplant faith. 
If a man be generous, good-natured, and hu- 
mane, it is impossible not to feel for him the 
tenderness of a brother ; but if, at the same time, 
he be irreligious, intemperate, or profane, who 
shall dare to say he is in a safe state ? Good hu- 
mour and generous sentiments, will always 
make a man a pleasant acquaintance ; but who 
shall lower the doctrines of the Gospel, to ac- 
commodate them to the conduct of men ? Who 
shall bend a straight rule to favour a crooked 
practice ? Who shall controvert that authority 
which has said, that without holiness no man 
shall see the Lord ? 

May I venture to be a little paradoxical ; and 
while so many grave persons are descanting on 
the mischiefs of vice, may I be permitted to say 
a word on the mischiefs of virtue, or, rather, of 
that shining counterfeit, which, while it wants 
the specific gravity, has much of the brightness 
of sterling worth ? Never, perhaps, did any 
age produce more beautiful declamations in 
praise of virtue than the present ; never were 
more polished periods rounded in honour of hu- 
manity. An ancient Pagan would imagine that 
Astrea had returnedto take up her abode in our 
metropolis ; a primitive Christian would con- 
clude that ' righteousness and peace had there 
met together.' But how would they be surprised 
to find that the obligation to these duties was 



not always thought binding, not only on the 
reader, but on their eloquent encomiasts them- 
selves. How would they be surprised to find 
that universal benevolence may subsist with 
partial injustice, and boundless liberality with 
sordid selfishness ! that a man may seem eager 
in redressing the injuries of half the globe, with- 
out descending to the petty detail of private vir- 
tues : and burn with zeal for the good of mil- 
lions he never saw, while he is spreading vice 
and ruin through the little circle of his own per- 
sonal influence ! 

When the general texture of an irregular life 
is spangled over with some constitutional pleas- 
ing qualities ; when gayety, good humour, and 
a thoughtless profusion of expense, throw a lus- 
tre round the faultiest characters, it is no won- 
der that common observers are blinded into ad- 
miration ; a profuse generosity dazzles them 
more than all the duties of the decalogue. But 
though it may be a very good electioneering 
virtue, yet there are many qualities which may 
obtain popularity among men, which do not tend 
to secure the favour of God. It is somewhat 
strange that the extravagance of the great should 
be the criterion of their goodness with those very 
people who are themselves the victims to this 
idol ; for the prodigal pays no debts if he can 
help it ; and it is a notorious instance of the 
danger of these popular virtues, and of the false 
judgments of men, that in one of the wittiest and 
most popular comedies* which this country has 
ever produced, those very passages which exalt 
liberality, and turn justice into ridicule, were 
nightly applauded with enthusiastic rapture by 
those deluded tradesmen, whom, perhaps that 
very sentiment helped to keep out of their 
money. 

There is another sort of fashionable charac. 
ter, whose false brightness is still more perni- 
cious, by casting a splendour over the most de- 
structive vices. Corrupt manners, ruinous ex- 
travagance, and the most fatal passion for play, 
are sometimes gilded over with many engaging 
acts of charity, and a general attention and re- 
spect to the ceremonials of religion. But this is 
degrading the venerable image and superscrip- 
tion of Christianity, by stamping them on a 
baser metal than they were ever intended to im- 
press. The young and gay shelter themselves 
under such examples, and scruple the less to 
adopt the bad parts of such mixed characters, 
when they see that a loose and negligent, not to 
say immoral conduct, is so compatible with a 
religious profession. 

But I digress from my intention ; for it is not 
the purpose of this address to take notice of any 
actions which the common consent of mankind 
has determined to be wrong : but of such chiefly 
as are practised by the sober, the decent, and 
the regular ; and to drop a few hints on such 
less obvious offences as are, in general, 

Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne. 

Nor will the bounds which I have prescribed 
myself allow of my wandering into a wide and 
general field of observation. 

The idea of the present slight performance 
was suggested by reading the king's late excel. 
* The School for Scandal. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



265 



lent proclamation against irreligion and immo- 
rality.* Under the shelter of so high a sanction, 
it may not be unseasonable to press on the hearts 
of the better disposed, such observances as seem 
to be generally overlooked, and to remark such 
offences as commonly elude censure, because 
they are not commonly thought censurable. 

It is obvious to all pious persons, that that 
branch of the divine law, against which the bet- 
ter kind of people trespass with the least scruple, 
is the fourth commandment. Many who would 
shudder at the violation of the other nine, seem 
without ceremony to expunge this from the Di- 
vine code ; but by what authority they do this, has 
never been explained. The christian legislator 
does not seem to have abridged the command- 
ments : and there is no subsequent authority so 
much as pretended to by Protestants. 

It is not here intended to take notice of such 
flagrant offences as lie open to the cognizance 
of higher tribunals ; or to pollute this paper with 
descanting on the holders of card assemblies on 
Sundays ; the frequenters of taverns and gaming 
houses ; the printers of Sunday newspapers ; the 
proprietors of Sunday Stage-coaches; and others 
who openly insult the laws of the land ; laws 
which will always be held sacred by good sub- 
jects, even were not the law of God antecedent 
to them. 

Many of the order whom I here address are 
persons of the tenderest humanity, and not only 
wish well to the interests of virtue, but are fa- 
vourably disposed to advance the cause of reli- 
gion ; nay, would be extremely startled at not 
being thought sincerely religious ; yet from in- 
consideration, want of time, want of self-exami- 
nation, want of a just sense of the high require- 
ments of the Divine law, want of suspecting the 
deceitfulness of the human heart, sometimes 
allow themselves in inattentions and negligences 
which materially affect their own safety, and 
the comfort of others. — While an animated spirit 
of charity seems to be kindled among us : while 
there is a general disposition to instruct the ig- 
norant, and to reform the vicious ; we cannot 
help regretting that these amiable exertions 
should be counteracted, in some degree, by 
practices of a directly opposite tendency ; tri- 
fling in their appearance, but serious in their 
effects. 

There are still among us petty domestic evils, 
which seemed too inconsiderable to claim re- 
dress. There is an aggrieved body of men in 
our very capital, whose spiritual hardships seem 
scarcely to have been taken into consideration, I 
mean the hair dressers on whom 

The Sunday shines, no day of rest to them. 

Is there not a peculiar degree of unkindness 
in exercising such cruelty on the souls of men, 
whose whole lives are employed in embellishing 
our persons ? And is it quite conceivable how 
a lady's conscience is able to make such nice 
distinctions that she would be shocked at the 
idea of sending for her mantuamakert or milli- 

* This tract was written soon after the institution of 
the society for enforcing the king's proclamation against 
vice and irreligion. 

t ft is feared that since these pa»es were written the 
scruple of sending for either is much diminished. 
Vol. I. 



ner, her carpenter or mason, on a Sunday, while 
she makes no scruple regularly to employ a 
hair-dresser ? 

Is it not almost ridiculous to observe the zeal 
we have for doing good at a distance, while we 
neglect the little, obvious, every-day, domestic 
duties which should seem to solicit our imme- 
diate attention ? But an action ever so right 
and praise-worthy which is only to be periodi- 
cally performed, at distant intervals, is less bur. 
thensome to corrupt nature, than an undeviating 
attention to such small, constant right habits as 
are hostile to our natural indolence, and would 
be perpetually vexing and disturbing our self- 
love. The weak heart indulges its infirmity, by 
allowing itself intermediate omissions, and ha- 
bitual neglects of duty ; reposing itself for safety, 
on regular but remote returns of stated perform- 
ances. It is less trouble to subscribe to the pro- 
pagation of the Gospel in foreign parts, than to 
have daily prayers in our own families, and I am 
persuaded that there are multitudes of well- 
meaning people who would gladly contribute to 
a mission of Christianity to Japan or Otaheite, 
to whom it never occurred that the hair-dresser, 
whom they are every Sunday detaining from 
church has a soul to be saved ; that the law of 
the land co-operates with the law of God, to for- 
bid their employing him ; and that they have no 
right, either legal or moral, to this portion of 
his time. The poor man, himself, perhaps, dares 
not remonstrate, for fear he should be deprived 
of his employment for the rest of the week. If 
there were no other objection to a pleasurable 
Sunday among the great and affluent, methinks 
this single one might operate : would not a de- 
vout heart be unwilling to rob a fellow creature 
of his time for devotion, or a humane one of his 
hour of rest ? ' Love worketh no ill to his neigh- 
bour, therefore love is the fulfilling of the law.' 

It is strange that there should be so little con- 
sistency in human conduct, that the same per- 
sons shoukl gladly contribute to spread the light 
of Christianity in another hemisphere ; while, 
by their example, they actually obstruct the pro- 
gress of it at home. But it is, I doubt not, much 
oftener owing to the imperceptible influence of 
custom and habit, than to a decided ill intention. 
Besides, it may be in morals as it is in optics, 
the eye and the object may come too close to 
each other, to answer the end of vision. There 
are certain faults which press too near our self- 
love to be even perceptible to us. 

The petty mischief of what is called card mo- 
ney is so assimilated to our habits, and interwo- 
ven with our family arrangements, that even 
many of the prudent and virtuous no longer 
consider it as a worm which is feeding on the 
vitals of domestic virtue. How many poor 
youths, after having been trained in a wholesome 
dread of idleness and gaming, when they are 
sent abroad into the world, are astonished to 
find that part of the wages of the servant is to 
be paid by his furnishing the implements of di- 
version for the guests of the master. Thus good 
servants are a commodity which has long been 
diminishing by an elaborate system. The more 
sober the family, the fewer attractions it must 
necessarily have ; for these servants will natu- 
rally quit a place, however excellent, where there 



2G6 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



is no play, for one where there is some ; and a 
family where there is but little, for one where 
there is much. Thus if the advantage of the 
dependent is to increase in a direct ratio to the 
dissipation of his employer, what encouragement 
is left for valuable servants, or what prospect 
remains of securing valuable servants for sober 
minded families ? 

It will be said that so small an evil is scarcely 
worth insisting on. But a small fault which is 
become a part of a system, in time establishes 
an error into a principle. And that remon- 
Btrance which should induce people to abolish 
one wrong habit, or pluck out one rooted error, 
however trifling, would be of more real use than 
the most eloquent declamation against vice in 
general. To take out only one thorn from a 
suffering patient, is more beneficial to him than 
the most elaborate disquisition on the pain he is 
suffering from the thorns which remain. 

It should be held as an eternal truth, that 
what is morally wrong can never be politically 
right. It would be arguing great ignorance of 
human nature, and exacting a very rigorous de- 
gree of virtue from a person of vulgar sentiments 
to expect that he should wish well to the inte- 
rests of sobriety, or heartily desire the decrease 
of dissipation, while the growth of it is made so 
profitable to himself. It is requiring too much 
to make the temptation so forcible where the 
power of resistance is so weak. To hold out to 
a poor fellow the strong seduction of interest, 
and yet to expect he will retain the same in- 
flexible principle, is to expect from an illiterate 
servant an elevation of virtue, which has not 
always been found even in statesmen and mi- 
nisters. 

It is not here intended to enter into any ani- 
madversion on the subject of play itself. But 
may we not ask without offence, if it be per- 
fectly right to introduce any money arising from 
or connected with it, into a part of regular fa- 
mily economy ? Is it not giving an -air of sys- 
tem to diversion, which does not seem entirely 
of a piece with the other orderly practices of 
many discreet families where this odd traffic is 
carried on ? Would not our ancestors, who 
eeem to have understood economy and magnifi- 
cence too, at least as well as their desc ndants, 
have been scandalized had At been proposed tr> 
them to incorporate play so intimately with the 
texture of their domestic arrangements, as that 
it should make part of their plan ! And would 
they have thought it a very dignified practice 
not to have paid themselves for the amusements 
of their own houses ; but to have invited their 
friends to an entertainment of which the guests 
were to defray part of the expense ? 

Let me suppose a case : what appearance 
would it have, if every gentleman who has par- 
taken of the social entertainment of a friend's 
table, were after dinner, expected by the butler, 
to leave a piece of money under his plate to pay 
for his wine ? Do not common sense, hospitality, 
friendship, and liberal feelings revolt at the bare 
suggestion of such a project ? Yet there is in 
effect as little hospitality, as little friendship, 
and as little liberality in being obliged to pay 
for the cards as for the wine ; both equally ma- 
king a part of the entertainment. 



It is hardly too ludicrous to add, that seeing 
how this point has been carried in favour of the 
groom of the chambers (and it descends down 
to the lowest footman,) we need not despair of 
seeing the butler insist on being allowed to fur- 
nish the wine, for which he shall compel the 
guests to pay with the same high interest with 
which they now pay for the cards. It will seem 
odd at first, but afterwards we shall think no 
more about it, to see him, during dinner, noting 
down those who drink the more costly wines, 
that they may be taxed double. And it will 
sound whimsical at first, to hear the butler give 
his master notice that he must quit his place, 
because the company have drank a little wine. 
This only sounds ridiculous, while the leaving 
a place through deficiency of card money sounds 
reasonable, because we are accustomed to the 
one, and the other is not yet become fashionable. 
The extinction of this favourite perquisite 
would at first be considered as a violent innova- 
tion. All reformations seem formidable before 
they are attempted. The custom of vails, 'which 
gave corruption broader wings to fly,' was sup- 
posed to be invincible. Yet how soon did a 
general concurrence exterminate it ! Had any 
one foretold twenty years ago, that in a very 
short space, near half a million of pilfering, 
swearing, Sabbath-breaking children, should be 
rescued from the streets, and brought into ha- 
bits of sobriety and virtue, should we not have 
undertaken that the cleansing stream of reli- 
gious instruction should thus be poured through 
the Augean stable of ignorance and vice, and 
in some measure wash away its grossest impu- 
rities ? 

The servant would probably complain of the 
annihilation of this gainful custom : but the 
master would find his account in indemnifying 
the loss ; for he in his turn would be released 
from the preposterous contribution to the wages 
of other men's servants. If in a family of over- 
grown dissipation the stated addition should not 
be found equivalent to the relinquished perqui- 
site, the servant must heroically submit to the 
disadvantageous commutation for the public 
good. And after all it would be no very serious 
grievance if his reduced income should not then 
exceed that of the chaplain. It will still at least 
exceed that of many a deserving gentleman, 
bred to liberal learning, whose feelings that 
learning has refined to a painful acuteness, and 
who is witnering away in hopeless penury with 
a large family, on a curacy, but little surpassing 
the wages of a livery servant. 

The same principle in human nature by which 
the nabob, the contractor, and others, by a sud- 
den influx of unaccustomed wealth, become vo- 
luptuous, extravagant, and insolent, seldom fails 
to produce the same effect on persons in these 
humbler stations, when raised from inferior 
places, to the sudden affluence of these gainful 
ones. Increased profligacy on a sudden swell 
of fortune is commonly followed by desperate 
methods to improve the circumstances when im- 
paired by the improvidence attending unaccus- 
tomed prosperity. 

There is another domestic practice which it 
is almost idle to mention, because it is so diffi, 
cult to redress, since such is the present state 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



267 



of society, that even the conscientious think 
themselves obliged to concur in it. That inge- 
nuity which could devise some effectual substi- 
tute for the daily and hourly lie of Not at home, 
would deserve well of society. Why will not 
some of those illustrious ladies who lead in the 
fashionable world invent some phrase which 
shall equally rescue from destruction the time 
of the master and the veracity of the servant ? 
Some new and appropriate expression, the not 
adopting which should be blended with the stig- 
ma of vulgarity, might accomplish that which 
the charge of its being immoral has failed to 
accomplish. 

The expediency of the denial itself, no one 
will dispute, who has a just idea of the value of 
time. Some scrupulous persons so very much 
dispute the lawfulness of making their servant's 
tongue the medium of any kind of falsehood, as 
to make it a point of conscience rather to lay 
themselves open to the irruption of every idle 
invader, who sallies out on morning visits bent 
on the destruction of business and the annihila- 
tion of study. People of very strict integrity 
lament that this practice induces a general spi- 
rit of lying, mixes itself with the habit, and by 
a quality, the reverse of an alterative, gradually 
undermines the moral constitution. Others on 
the contrary assert, that it is one of those lies 
of convention, no more intended to deceive than 
the dear sir at the beginning, or your humble 
servant at the close of a letter to a person who 
is not dear to you, and to whom you owe no sub- 
jection. There is, however, this very material 
difference, that if the first be a falsehood, you 
do not convey it by proxy : You use it yourself, 
and you use it to one who sets no more value on 
your words than you intended he should ; and 
who shows you he does not, by using the same 
stated phrase in return, in addressing you, for 
whom he cares as little. Here the words pass 
for no more than they are worth. 

The ill effect of the custom we are lamenting 
may be traced in marking the gradual initiation 
of an unpractised country servant. And who 
has not felt for his virtuous distress, when he 
has been ordered to call back a more favoured 
visitant, whom he had just sent away with the 
assurance that his lady was not at home ? Who 
has not seen his suppressed indignation at being 
obliged to become himself the detector of that 
falsehood of which he had been before the in- 
strument? But a little practice, and a repetition 
of reproof for even daring to look honest, soon 
cures this fault, especially as he is sure to be 
commended in proportion to the increased firm- 
ness of his voice, and the steadiness of his coun- 
tenance. 

If this evil, petty as it may seem to be, be 
really without a remedy ; if the state of society 
be such that it cannot be redressed, let us not 
be so unreasonable as to expect that a servant 
will equivocate in small instances, and not in 
great ones. To hope that he will always lie for 
your convenience, and never for his own, is per- 
haps expecting more from human nature in a 
low and uncultivated state than we have any 
right to expect. Nor should the master look for 
undeviating and perfect rectitude from his ser- 
vant, in whom the principle of veracity is daily 



and hourly weakened in conformity to his own 
command. 

Let us bring home the case to ourselves, the 
only fair way of determining in all cases of con- 
science. Suppose we had established it into a 
system to allow ourselves regularly to lie on one 
certain given subject, everyday ; while we con- 
tinued to value ourselves on the most undeviat- 
ing adherence to truth on every other point. 
Who shall say, that at the end of one year's to- 
lerable and systematic lying, on this individual 
subject, we should continue to look upon false- 
hood in general with the same abhorrence we 
did, when we first entered upon this partial ex- 
ercise of it. 

There is an evil newly crept into polished so- 
ciety, and it comes under a mask so specious 
that they who are allured by it, come not sel- 
dom under the description of good sort of people, 
I allude to Sunday-concerts. Many who would 
be startled at a profane or even a light amuse- 
ment, allow themselves to fancy that the name 
of sacred music sanctifies the diversion. But if 
those more favoured beings, whom Providence 
enables to live in ease and affluence, do not 
make these petty renunciations of their own 
ways, and their own pleasure, what criterion 
have we by which to judge of their sincerity 1 
For as the goodness of Providence has exempted 
them from painful occupations, they have nei- 
ther labour from which to rest, nor business 
from which to refrain. A little abstinence from 
pleasure is the only valid evidence they have ta 
give of their obedience to the divine precept. 

I know with what indignant scorn this re- 
mark will, by many, be received : I know that 
much will be advanced in favour of the sanctity 
of this amusement. I shall be told that the words 
are, many of them, extracted from the Bible, 
and that the composition is the divine Handel's. 
But were the angel Gabriel the poet, the arch- 
angel Michael the composer, and the song of 
the Lamb the subject, it would not abrogate that 
statute of the Most High, which has said, ' Thou 
shalt keep holy the Sabbath day, and thy servant, 
and thy cattle, shall do no manner of work.' 
I am persuaded that the hallelujahs of heaven 
would make no moral music to the ear of a con- 
scientious person, while he reflected that multi- 
tudes of servants are through his means wait- 
ing in the street, exposed to every temptation ; 
engaged, perhaps, in profane swearing, and idle, 
if not dissolute conversation, and the very cattle 
are deprived of that rest which the tender mercy 
of God was graciously pleased, by an astonish- 
ing condescension, to include in the command- 
ment. 

But I will, for the sake of argument, so far 
concede as to allow of the innocence and even 
piety of Sunday-concerts : I will suppose (what, 
however, does not often happen) that no unhal- 
lowed strains are ever introduced ; I will admi* 
that some attend these concerts with a view to 
cultivate devout affections ; that they cherish the 
serious impressions excited by the music, and 
retire in such a frame of spirit as convinces 
them that the heart was touched while the ear 
was gratified : nay, I would grant, if such a 
concession would be accepted, that the intervals 
were filled up with conversation, ' whereby one 



2G8 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



may edify another :' yet all these good effects, 
allowing them really to have been produced, 
will not remove the invincible objection of an 
evil example ; and what liberal spirit would re- 
fuse any reasonable sacrifice of its own pleasure 
to so important a motive ? Your servants have 
been accustomed to consider a concert as a se- 
cular diversion ; if you, therefore, continue it 
on a Sunday, will not they also expect to be in- 
dulged on that day with their common amuse- 
ments ? Saint Paul, who was a very liberal 
thinker, believed it prudent to make frequent 
sacrifices of things indifferent in themselves. 
He was willing to deny himself a harmless and 
lawful gratification, even as long as the world 
stood, rather than shock the tender consciences 
of men of less understanding. Where a prac- 
tice is neither good nor evil in itself, it is both 
discreet and generous to avoid it, if it can beat- 
tended with any possible danger to minds less 
enlightened, and to faith less confirmed. 

But religion apart, I have sometimes wonder- 
ed that people do not yield to the temptation that 
is held out to them, of abstaining from diver- 
sions one day in seven, upon motives of mere 
human policy ; as voluptuaries sometimes fast, 
to give a keener relish to the delights of the 
next repast : for pleasure, like an over-fed lamp, 
is extinguished by the excess of its own ali- 
ment : not to say that the instrument of our 
gratification is often converted into our bane- 
Anacreon was choaked by a grape stone. The 
lovers of pleasure are not always prudent, even 
upon their own principles ; for I am persuaded 
that this world would afford much more real sa- 
tisfaction than it does, if we did not press, and 
torture, and strain it, in order to make it yield 
what it does not contain. Much good, and 
much pleasure, it does liberally bestow ; but no 
labour or art, can extract from it that elixir of 
peace, that divine essence of content, which it is 
not in its nature to produce. There is good 
sense in searching into every blessing for its 
hidden properties ; but it is folly to ransack and 
plunder it for such properties as the experience 
of all ages tells us are foreign to it- We ex- 
haust the world of its pleasures, and then la- 
ment that it is empty : we wring those pleasures 
to the very dregs, and then complain that they 
are vapid. We erroneously seek in the world 
for that peace which we are repeatedly told is 
not to be found in it. While we neglect to seek 
it in Him who has expressly told us that our 
happiness depends on his having overcome the 
world. — ' Peace I leave with you, my peace I 
give unto you ; not as the world giveth give I 
unto you.'' 

I shall, probably, be accused of a very narrow 
and fanatical spirit in animadverting on a prac- 
tice s6 little suspected of harm as the frequent- 
ing of public walks and gardens on a Sunday ; 
and certainly there cannot be an amusement 
more entirely harmless in itself. But I must 
appeal to the honest testimony of our own hearts, 
if the effect be favourable to seriousness. Do 
we commonly retire from these places with the 
impressions which were made on us at church, 
in their full force ? We entered these sprightly 
scenes, perhaps with a strong remaining tinc- 
ture of that devout spirit which the public wor- 



ship had infused into the mind : but have we 
not felt it gradually diminish ? Have not our 
powers of resistance grown insensibly weaker? 
Has not the gayety of the scene converted, as it 
were, argument into allusion ? The doctrine?, 
which in the morning appeared the sober dic- 
tates of reason, now seem unreasonably rigid, 
and truths, which were then thought incontro- 
vertible, now appear impertinent. To answer 
objections is much easier than to withstand al- 
lurements. The understanding may controvert 
a startling proposition with less difficulty than 
the sliding heart can resist the infection of se- 
ducing gayety. To oppose a cold and specula- 
tive faith to the enchantment of present plea- 
sure, is to fight with inadequate weapons ; it is 
resisting arms with rules ; it is combating temp- 
tation with an idea. Whereas, he who engages 
in the christian warfare, will find that his chief 
strength consists in knowing that he is very 
weak ; his progress will depend on his convic- 
tion that he is every hour liable to go back; his 
success, on the persuasion of his fallibility ; his 
safety, on the assurance that to retreat from 
danger is his highest glory, and to decline the 
combat his truest courage. 

Whatever indisposes the mind for the duty 
of any particular season, though it assume ever 
so innocent a form, cannot be perfectly right. 
If the heart be laid open to the incursion of 
vain imaginations, and worldly thoughts, it 
matters little by what gate the enemy entered. 
If the effect be injurious, the cause cannot be 
quite harmless. It is the perfidious property of 
certain pleasures, that though they seem not to 
have the smallest harm in themselves, they im- 
perceptibly indispose the mind to every thing 
that is good. 

Many readers will be apt to produce against all 
this preciseness, that haekneyed remark which 
one is tired of hearing, that Sunday diversions 
are allowed publicly in many foreign ooun 
tries, as well in those professing the reform- 
ed religion, as popery. But the corruptions 
of one part of the protestant world are no 
reasonable justification of the evil practices of 
another. Error and infirmity can never be pro- 
per objects of imitation. It is still a remnant 
of the old leaven; and as to pleading the prac- 
tice of Roman catholic countries, one blushes to 
hear an enlightened protestant justifying him- 
self by examples drawn from that benighted re- 
ligion, whose sanctions we should in any other 
instance be ashamed to plead. 

Besides, though I am far from vindicating 
the amusements permitted on Sundays in fo- 
reign countries, by allowing that established 
custom and long prescription have the privilege 
of conferring right ; yet foreigners may, at least, 
plead the sanction of custom, and the conni- 
vance of the law : while in this country, the law 
of the land, and established usage, concurring 
with still higher motives, give a sort of venera- 
ble sanction to religious observances, the breach 
of which will be always more liable to miscon- 
struction than in countries where so many mo. 
tives do not concur in its support. 

I do not assert that all those who neglect a 
strict observation of the Lord's day are remiss 
; n the performance of all their other duties 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



269 



though they should bear in mind that the ob- 
servance of their other duties is no atonement 
for the neglect of this ; I will however venture 
to affirm, that all whom I have remarked con- 
scientiously to observe this day from right mo- 
tives, have been uniformly attentive to their ge- 
neral conduct. It has been the opinion of many 
wise and good men,* that Christianity will stand 
or fall, as this day is neglected or observed. 
Sunday seems to be a kind of Christian Palla- 
dium ; and the city of God will never be totally 
taken by the enemy till the observance of that 
be quite lost. Every sincere soldier of the great 
Captain of our Salvation must, therefore, exert 
himself in its defence, if ever he would preserve 
the divine Fort of Revelation against the con- 
federated attacks of the world and the devil. 

I shall proceed to enumerate a few of the 
many causes which seem to impede well-dis- 
posed people in the progress of religion. None 
perhaps contributes more to it than that cold, 
prudential caution against the folly of aiming 
at perfection, so frequent in the mouths of the 
worldly wise. ' We must take the world,' say 
they, ' as we find it, reformation is not our busi- 
ness, and we are commanded not to be righte- 
ous overmuch.' A text by the way entirely 
misunderstood and perverted by people of this 
sort. But these admonitions are contrary to 
every maxim in human affairs. In arts and 
letterst the most consummate models are held 
out to imitation. We never hear any body 
cautioned against becoming too wise, too learn- 
ed, or too rich. Activity in business is account- 
ed commendable ; in friendship it is amiable ; 
in ambition it is laudable. The highest exer- 
tions of industry are commended ; the finest 
energies of genius are admired. In all the 
perishing concerns of earthly things, zeal is ex- 
tolled as exhibiting marks of a sprightly temper 
and a vigorous mind ! Strange ! that to be ' fer- 
vent in spirit,' should only be dishonourable in 
that single instance which should seem to de- 
mand unremitting diligence, and unextinguish- 
able warmth. 

But after all, is an excessive and intemperate 
zeal the common vice of the times ? Is there any 
very imminent danger that the enthusiasm of 
the great should transport them to dangerous 
and inconvenient excesses ? Are our young men 
of fashion so very much led away by the fer- 
vours of piety, that they require to have their 
imaginations tamed and their ardours cooled 

* The testimony of one lawyer, will, perhaps, be less 
suspected than that of many priests. ' I have ever 
found,' says the great lord chief justice Hale, ' by a 
strict and diligent observation, that a due observance of 
the duty of Sunday has ever had joined to it a blessing 
upon the re3t of my time ; and the week that has been 
so begun has been blessed and prosperous to me : and, 
on the other side, when I have been negligent of the 
duties of this day, the rest of the week has been unsuc- 
cessful and unhappy to my own secular employments. 
So that I could easily make an estimate of my successes 
the week following, by the manner of my passing this 
day. And 1 do not write this lightly but by long and 
sound experience.'— Sir Matthew Hale's Works. 

t When Pliny the younger was accused of despising 
the degenerate eloquence of his own age, and of the va- 
nity of aspiring at perfection in oratory, and of endea- 
vouring to become the rival of Cicero ; instead of deny- 
ing the charge, he exclaimed with a noble spirit, ' I 
think it the height of folly not always to propose to my- 
self the most perfect object of imitation.' 



by the freezing maxims of worldly wisdom ? 
Is the spirit of the age so very much inclined to 
catch and communicate the fire of devotion, as 
to require to be damped by admonition, or ex- 
tinguisned by ridicule ? When the inimitable 
Cervantes attacked the wild notions and ro. 
mantic ideas which misled the age in which he 
lived, he did wisely, because he combated an 
actually existing evil : but in this latter end of 
the 18th century, there seems to be little more 
occasion, (among persons of rank, I mean) of 
cautions against enthusiasm than against chival- 
ry ; and he who declaims against religious ex- 
cesses in the company of well-bred people shows 
himself to be as little acquainted with the man- 
ners of the times in which he lives, as he 
would do who should think it a point of duty to 
write another Don Quixotte. 

Among the devices dangerous to our moral 
safety, certain favourite and specious maxims 
are not the least successful, as they carry with 
them an imposing air of indulgent candour, and 
always seem to be on the popular side of good 
nature. Of the most obvious of these is, that 
method of reconciling the conscience to prac- 
tices not decidedly wicked, and yet not scrupu- 
lously right by the qualifying phrase, that there 
is no harm in it. I am mistaken if more inno- 
cent persons do not inflame their spiritual reck- 
oning by this treacherous apology than by al- 
most any other means. Few are systematically, 
or premeditatedly wicked, or propose to them- 
selves, at first, more than such small indulgences 
as they are persuaded have no harm in them. 
But this latitude is gradually and imperceptibly 
enlarged. As the expression is vague and in- 
determinate ; as the darkest shade of virtue, and 
the brightest shade of vice, melt into no very 
incongruous colouring ; as the bounds between 
good and evil are not always so precisely defined 
but that he who ventures to the confines of the 
one, will find himself on the borders of the 
other ; every one furnishes his own definition ; 
every one extends the supposed limits a little 
farther ; till the bounds which fence in, per- 
mitted from unlawful pleasures, are gradually 
broken down and the marks which separated 
them imperceptibly destroyed. 

It is, perhaps, one of the most alarming symp- 
toms of the degeneracy of morals in the present 
day, that the distinctions of right and wrong 
are almost swept away in polite conversation. 
The most grave offences are often named with 
cool indifference ; the most shameful profligacy 
with affected tenderness and indulgent tolera- 
tion. The substitution of the word gallantry 
for that crime which stabs domestic happiness 
and conjugal virtue, is one of the most danger- 
ous of all the modern abuses of language. Atro- 
cious deeds should never be called by gentle 
names. This must certainly contribute more 
than any thing to diminish the horror of vice in 
the rising generation. That our passions should 
be too often engaged on the side of error, we 
may look for the cause, though not for the vin- 
dication, in the unresisted propensities of our 
constitution : but that our reason should ever be 
exerted in its favour, that our conversation 
should ever be taught to palliate it, that our 
judgment should ever look on with indifference, 



270 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



that our tongues should ever be employed to 
confound the eternal distinctions of right and 
wrong ; this has no shadow of excuse : because 
this can pretend to no foundation in nature, no 
apology in temptation, no palliative in passion. 

However defective, therefore, our practice 
may be; however we may be allured by seduc- 
tion or precipitated by passion, let us beware of 
lowering the standard of right. This induces 
an imperceptible corruption into the heart, stag- 
nates the noblest principles of action, irrecover- 
ably debases the sense of moral and religious 
obligation, and prevents us from living up to the 
height of our nature, because it prevents us from 
Knowing its possible elevation. It cuts off" all 
communication with virtue, and almost prevents 
the possibility of a return to it. If we do not 
rise as high as we aim, we shall rise the higher 
for having aimed at a lofty mark : but where the 
rule is low, the practice cannot be high, though 
the converse of the proposition is not proportion- 
ably true. 

Nothing more benumbs the exertions of ar- 
dent youthful virtue than the cruel sneer which 
worldly prudence bestows on active goodness, 
and the cool derision it expresses at the defeat 
of a benevolent scheme, of which malice, rather 
than penetration, had foreseen the failure. Alas! 
there is little need of any such discouragements. 
The world is a climate which too naturally chills 
a glowing generosity, and contracts an expand- 
ed heart. The zeal of the most sanguine is but 
too apt to cool, and the activity of the most dili- 
gent, to slacken of itself: and the disappoint- 
ments which benevolence encounters in the 
failure of her best concerted projects, and the 
frequent depravity of the most chosen objects of 
her bounty, would soon dry up the amplest 
streams of charity, were they not fed by the 
living fountain of religious principle. 

I cannot dismiss this part of my subject with- 
out animadverting on the too prompt alacrity, 
even of worthy people, to disseminate, in public 
and general conversation, instances of their un- 
successful attempts to do good. I never hear 
a charity sermon begun to be related in mixed 
company that I do not tremble for the catas- 
trophe, lest it should exhibit some mortifying 
disappointment, which may deter the inexpe- 
rienced from running any generous hazards, and 
excite harsh suspicions, at an age when it is 
less dishonourable to meet with a few casual 
hurts, and transient injuries, than to go cased 
in the cumbersome and impenetrable armour of 
distrust. The liberal should be particularly 
cautious how they furnish the avaricious with 
creditable pretences for saving their money, 
since all the instances of the mortifications the hu- 
mane meet with are carefully treasured up, and 
added to the armoury of the covetous man's ar- 
guments, and never fail to be produced by him 
as defensive weapons, upon every fresh attack 
on his heart or his purse. 

But I am willing to hope that that uncharita- 
bleness which we so often meet with in persons 
of advanced years, is not always the effect of a 
heart naturally hard. Misanthropy is very 
often nothing but abused sensibility. Long ha- 
bits of the world, and a melancholy conviction 
bow little good he has been able to do in it, har- 



den many a tender-hearted person. The milk 
of human kindness becomes soured by repeated 
acts of ingratitude. This commonly induces an 
indifference to the well-being of others, from a 
hopelessness of adding to the stock of human 
virtue and human happiness. This uncomfort- 
able disease is very fond of spreading its cwn 
contagion, which is a cruelty to the health of 
young and uninfected virtue. For this distem- 
per, generated by a too sanguine disposition, 
and grown chronical from repeated disappoint, 
ments, from having rated worldly generosity too 
highly, there is but one remedy, or rather one 
prevention : and this is a genuine principle of 
piety. He who is once convinced that he is to 
assist his fellow creatures, because it is the will 
of God; he who is persuaded that his forgiving 
his fellow-servant the hundred pence, is a con- 
dition annexed to the remission of his own ten 
thousand talents, will soon get above all uneasi 
ness when the consequence does not answer his 
expectation. He will soon become only anxious 
to do his duty, humbly committing events to 
higher hands. Disappointments will then only 
serve to refine his motives, and purify his virtue. 
His charity will then become a sacrifice with 
which God is well pleased ! His affections will 
be more spiritualized, and his devotions more 
intense. Nothing short of such a courageous 
piety growing on the stock of Christian princi- 
ple, can preserve a heart hackneyed in the world 
from relaxed diligence or criminal despair. 

People in general are not aware of the mis- 
chief of judging of the righteousness of any ac- 
tion by its prosperity, or of the excellence of 
any institution by the abuse of it. 

We must never proportion our exertions to 
our success, but to our duty. If every laudable 
undertaking were to be dropped because it failed 
in some cases, or was abused in others, there 
would not be left an alms-house, a charity-school, 
or an hospital in the land. If every right prac- 
tice were to be discontinued because it had been 
found not to be successful in every instance, and 
if every right principle were rejected because 
it had not been operative in all cases, this false 
reasoning pushed to the extreme, might at last 
be brought as an argument for shutting up our 
churches, and burning our Bibles. 

But if, on the one hand, there is a proud and 
arrogant discretion which ridicules, as Utopian 
and romantic, every generous project of the ac- 
tive and the liberal; so there is on the other, a 
sort of popular bounty which arrogates to itself 
the exclusive name of feeling, and rejects with 
disdain the influence of an higher principle. I 
am far from intending to deprecate this humane 
and exquisitely tender sentiment which the be- 
neficent Author of our nature gave us, as a sti- 
mulus to remove the distresses of the others, in 
order to get rid of our own uneasiness. I would 
only observe that where not strengthened by 
superior motives, it is a casual and precarious 
instrument of good, and ceases to operate, ex- 
cept in the immediate presence, and within the 
audible cry of misery. This sort of feeling for- 
gets that any calamity exists which is out of its 
own sight ; and though it would empty its purse 
for such an occasional object as rouses transient 
sensibility, yet it seldom makes any stated pro- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



271 



vision for miseries, which are not the less real 
because they do not obtrude upon the sight, and 
awaken the tenderness of immediate sympathy. 
This is a mechanical charity, which requires 
springs and wheels to set it a going ; whereas 
real Christian charity does not wait to be acted 
upon by impressions and impulses. 

Another cause which very much intimidates 
well-disposed people, is their terror lest the cha- 
racter of piety should derogate from their repu- 
tation as men of sense. Every man of the world 
naturally arrogates to himself the superiority of 
understanding over every religious man. He, 
therefore, who has been accustomed to set a 
high value on his intellectual powers, must have 
made very considerable advances in piety be- 
fore he can acquire a magnanimous indifference 
to this usurped superiority of another : before 
he can submit to the parsimonious allotment of 
wit and learning, which is assigned him by the 
supercilious hand of worldly wisdom. But this 
attack upon his pride will be no bad touchstone 
of his sincerity. If his advances have not been 
so considerable, then by an hypocrisy of the 
least common kind, he will be industrious to 
appear less good than he really is, lest the de- 
tection of his serious propensities should draw 
on him the imputation of ordinary parts or low 
attainments. But the danger is, that while he 
is too sedulously intent on maintaining his pre- 
tensions as an ingenious man, his claims to 
piety should daily become weaker. That which 
k long suppressed is too frequently extin- 
guished. 

Nothing, perhaps, more plainly discovers the 
faint impression which religion has really made 
upon our hearts, than this disinclination, even 
of good people, to serious conversation. Let me 
not be misunderstood ; I do not mean the wran- 
gle of debate ; I do not mean the gall of contro- 
versy ; I do not mean the fiery strife of opinions, 
than which nothing can be less favourable to 
good nature, good manners, or good society. 
But it were to be wished, that it was not thought 
ill-bred and indiscreet that the escapes of the 
tongue should now and then betray the ' abun- 
dance of the heart ;' that when such subjects 
are casually introduced, a discouraging cold- 
ness did not instantly take place of that sprightly 
animation of countenance which made common 
topics interesting. If these * outward and visi- 
ble signs were unequivocal, we should form but 
moderate ideas of the ' inward and spiritual 
grace.' It were to be wished, that such sub- 
jects were not thought dull merely because they 
are good ; it were to be wished that they had 
the common chance of fair discussion ; and that 
parts and learning were not ashamed to exert 
themselves on occasions where both might ap- 
pear to so much advantage. If the heart were 
really interested, could the affections forbear 
now and then to break out into language ? Art- 
its, physicians, merchants, lawyers, and scho- 
lars keep up the spirit of their professions by 
mutual intercourse. New lights are struck out, 
improvements arc suggested, emulation is kin- 
dled, love of the object is inflamed, mistakes of 
the judgment are rectified, and desire of excel- 
lence is excited by communication. And is piety 
alone so very easy of acquisition, so very natu- 



ral to our corrupt hearts, as to require none of 
the helps which are indispensable on all other 
subjects ? Travellers, who are to visit any par- 
ticular country, are full of earnest inquiry, and 
diligent research ; they think nothing indiffer- 
ent by which their future pleasure or advantage 
may be affected. Every hint which may pro- 
cure them any information, or caution them 
against any danger, is thankfully received ; and 
all this, because they are really in earnest in 
their preparation for this journey ; and do filly 
believe, not only that there is such a country, but 
that they themselves have a personal individual 
interest in the good or evil which may be found 
in it. 

A farther danger to good kind of people seems 
to arise from a mistaken idea, that only great 
and actual sins are to be guarded against. 
Whereas, in effect, temptations to the grosser 
sins do not so frequently occur to those who are 
hedged in by the blessings of affluence, by a re 
gard to reputation and the care of health ; while 
sins of omission make up, perhaps, the most for- 
midable part of their catalogue of offences. These 
generally supply in number what they want in 
weight, and are the more dangerous for being 
little ostensible. They continue to be repeated 
with less regret, because the remembrance of 
their predecessors does not, like the remem- 
brance of formal, actual crimes, assume a body 
and a shape, and terrify by the impression of 
particular scenes and circumstances. While 
the memory of transacted evil haunts a tender 
conscience by perpetual apparition ; omitted 
duty, having no local or personal existence, not 
being recorded by standing acts and deeds, and 
dates, and having no distinct image to which 
the mind may recur, sinks into quiet oblivion, 
without deeply wounding the conscience, or 
tormenting the imagination. These omissions 
were, perhaps, among the ' secret sins,' from 
which the royal penitent so earnestly desired to 
be cleansed : and it is worthy of the most serious 
consideration, that these are the offences against 
which the Gospel pronounces some of its very 
alarming denunciations. It is not less against 
negative than against actual evil, that affection- 
ate exhortation, lively remonstrance, and point- 
ed parable, are exhausted. It is against the 
tree which bore no fruit, the lamp which had no 
oil, the unprofitable servant who made no use of 
his talent, that the severe sentence is denounced; 
as well as against corrupt fruit, bad oil, and ta- 
lents ill employed. We are led to believe, from 
the same high authority, that omitted duties 
and neglected opportunities, will furnish no in- 
considerable portion of our future condemnation. 
A very awful part of the decision, in the great 
day of account, seems to be reserved merely for 
carelessness, omissions, and negatives. Ye gave 
me no meat ; ye gave me no drink ; ye took me 
not in ; ye visited me not. On the punishment 
attending positive crimes, as being more natu- 
rally obvious, it was not, perhaps, thought so 
necessary to insist. 

Another cause, which still further impedes 
the reception of Religion even among the well- 
disposed, is, that garment of sadness in which 
people delight to suppose her dressed ; and that 
life of hard austerity, and pining abstinence, 



272 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



which they pretend she enjoins on her disciples. 
And it were well if this were only the misre- 
presentation of her declared enemies ; but un- 
happily, it is the too frequent misconception of 
her injudicious friends. But such an over- 
charged picture is not more unamiable than it 
is unlike ; for I will venture to affirm, that reli- 
gion, with all her beautiful and becoming sancti- 
ty, imposes fewer sacrifices, not only of rational, 
but of pleasurable enjoyment, than the uncon- 
trolled dominion of any one vice. Her service 
is not only safety hereafter, but freedom here. 
She is not so tyrannizing as appetite, so exact- 
ing as the world, nor so despotic as fashion. Let 
us try the case by a parallel, and examine it, 
not as affecting our virtue but our pleasure. 
Does Religion forbid the cheerful enjoyments of 
life as rigorously as Avarice forbids them ? Does 
6he require such sacrifices of our ease as Ambi- 
tion, or such renunciation of our quiet as Pride ? 
Does Devotion murder sleep like Dissipation ? 
Does she destroy health like Intemperance ? 
Does she annihilate Fortune like Gaming ? Does 
she embitter Life like Discord ; or abridge it 
like Duelling? Does Religion impose more vi- 
gilance than Suspicion ? or inflict half as many 
mortifications as Vanity ? Vice has her mar- 
tyrs : and the most austere and self-denying 
Ascetic (who mistakes the genius of Christianity 
almost as much as her enemies mistake it) never 
tormented himself with such cruel and causeless 
severity as that with which Envy lacerates her 
unhappy votaries. Worldly honour obliges us 
to be at the trouble of resenting injuries ; and 
worldly prudence obliges us to be at the expense 
of litigating about them : but Religion spares us 
the inconvenience of the one, and the cost of the 
other, by the summary command to forgive ; 
and by this injunction she consults our happi- 
ness no less than our virtue, for the torment of 
constantly hating any one must be, at least, 
equal to the sin of it. And resentment is an 
evil so costly to our peace that we should find it 
more cheap to forgive even were it not more 
right. If this estimate be fairly made, then is 
the balance clearly on the side of Religion, even 
in the article of pleasure. 

It is an infirmity not uncommon to good kind 
of people, to comfort themselves that they are 
living in the exercise of some one natural good 
quality, and to make a religious merit of a con- 
stitutional happiness. They have also a strong 
propensity to separate what God has joined, be- 
lief and practice ; the creed and the command- 
ments ; actions and motives; moral duty and 
religious obedience. Whereas, you will hardly 
find, in all the new Testament, a moral, or a so- 
cial virtue, that is not hedged in by some reli- 
gious injunction : scarcely a good action enjoined 
towards others, but it is connected with some 
exhortation to personal purity. All the charities 
of benevolence are, in general, so agreeable to 
the natural make of the heart, that it is a very 
tender mercy of God to have made that a duty, 
which, to finer spirits would have been irresisti- 
hle as an inclination, and to have annexed the 
highest future reward to the greatest present 
pleasure. But in order to give a religious sanc- 
tion to a social virtue, the duty of ' visiting the 
fatherless and widow in their affliction,' is inse- 



parably attached to the difficult and self-denying 
injunction of ' keeping ourselves unspotted from 
the world.' This adjunct is the more needful, 
as many are apt to make a kind of moral com- 
mutation, and to allow themselves so much 
pleasure in exchange for so much charity. But 
one good quality can never stand proxy for an- 
other. The Christian virtues derive their high- 
est lustre from association : they have such a 
spirit of society, that they are weak and imper- 
fect when solitary ; their radiance is brightened 
by an intermingling of their beams, and their 
natural strength multiplied by their alliance 
with each other. 

It cannot be denied that good sort of people | 
sometimes use religion as the voluptuous use 
physic. As the latter employ medicine to make 
health agree with luxury, the former consider 
religion as a medium to reconcile peace of con- 
science with a life of pleasure. But no moral 
chemistry can blend natural contradictions. In 
all such unnatural mixtures the world will still 
be uppermost, and religion will disdain to coa- 
lesce wi'Ji its antipathy. 

Let me not be suspected of intending to insi- 
nuate that religion encourages men to fly from 
society, and hide themselves in solitudes ; to re- 
nounce the generous and important duties of 
active life for the visionary, cold, and fruitless 
virtues of an hermitage or a cloister. No: the 
mischief arises not from our living in the world, 
but from the world living in us ; occupying our 
hearts, and monopolizing our affections. Action 
is the life of virtue ; and the world is the theatw 
of action. Perhaps some of the most perfect 
patterns of human conduct maybe found in the 
most public stations, and among the busiest or- 
ders of mankind. It is, indeed, a scene of trial, 
but the glory of the triumph is proportioned 
to the peril of the conflict. A sense of danger 
quickens circumspection, and makes virtue 
more vigilant. Lot, perhaps, is not the only 
character, who maintained his integrity in a 
great city, proverbially wicked, and forfeited it 
in the bosom of retirement. 

It has been said that worldly good sort of 
people are a greater credit to their profession, 
by exhibiting more cheerfulness, gayety, and 
happiness, than are visible in serious Christians. 
If this assertion be true, which I very much 
suspect, is it not probable that the apparent 
ease and gayety of the former may be derived 
from the same source of consolation which Mrs. 
Quickly recommends to Falstaff, in Shaks- 
peare's admirable picture of the death-bed scene 
of that witty profligate? 'He wished for com- 
fort, quoth mine hostess, and began to talk of 
God ; now I, to comfort him, begged him he 
should not think of God ; it was time enough to 
trouble himself with these things.' Do not ma- 
ny deceive themselves by drawing water from 
these dry wells of comfort ? and patch up a pre- 
carious and imperfect happiness in this world, 
by diverting their attention from the concerns 
of the next. 

Another obstruction to the growth of piety, 
is that unhappy prejudice which even good kind 
of people too often entertain against those who 
differ from them in opinion. Every man who 
is sincerely in earnest to advance the interests 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



27S 



of religion, will have acquired such a degree of 
candour, as to become indifferent by whom good 
is done, or who has the reputation of doing it, 
provided it be actually done. He will be anxi- 
ous to increase the stock of human virtue and 
of happiness by every possible means. He will 
whet and sharpen every instrument of goodness, 
though it be not cast in his own mould, or 
fashioned after his own pattern. He will never 
consider whether the form suits his own parti- 
cular taste, but whether the instrument itself 
be calculated to accomplish tho work of his 
master. 

I shall conclude these Isose and immethodi- 
cal hints with a plain though short address to 
those who content themselves with a decent pro- 
fession of the doctrines, and a formal attend- 
ance on the offices, instead of a diligent dis- 
charge of the duties of Christianity. Believe, 
and forgive me ! — you are the people who lower 
religion in the eyes of its enemies. The open- 
ly profane, the avowed enemies to God and 
goodness, serve to confirm the truths they mean 
to oppose, to illustrate the doctrines they deny, 
and to accomplish the very prediction they affect 
to disbelieve. But you, like an inadequate and 
faithless prop, overturn the edifice which you 
pretend to support. — When an acute and keen- 
eyed infidel measures your lives with the rule 
by which you profess to walk, he finds so little 
analogy between them, the copy is so unlike the 
pattern, that this inconsistency of your's is the 
pass through which his most dangerous attack 
is made. And I must confess, that, of all the 
arguments, which the malignant industry of in- 
fidelity has been able to muster, the negligent 
conduct of professing Christians seems to me to 
be the only one which is really capable of stag- 
gering a man of sense. — He hears of a spiritual 
and self-denying religion ; he reads the beati- 
tudes ; he observes that the grand artillery of 
the gospel is planted against pride and sensu- 
ality. He then turns to the transcript of this 
perfect original ; to the lives which pretend to 
be fashioned by it. There he sees, with tri- 
umphant derision that pride, self-love, luxury, 
self-sufficiency, unbounded personal expense, 
and an ino.dinate appetite for pleasure, are re- 
putable vices in the eyes of many of those who 
acknowledge the truth of the Christian doctrines. 
He weighs that meekness to which a blessing 
is promised, with that arrogance which is too 
common to be very dishonourable. He com- 
pares that non-conformity to the world, which 
the Bible makes the criterion of a believer, with 
that rage for amusement which is not consider- 
ed as disreputable in a Christian. He opposes 
the self-denying and lowly character of the Au- 
thor of our faith with the sensual practices of 
his followers. He finds little resemblance be- 
tween the restraints prescribed, and the gratifi- 
cations indulged in. What conclusions must a 
speculative reasoning sceptic draw from such 
premises ? Is it any wonder that such phrases 
as ' a broken spirit,' a ' contrite heart,' 'poverty 
of spirit,' ' refraining the soul,' ' keeping it low,' 
and ' casting down high imaginations,' should 
be to the unbeliever ' foolishness,' when such 
humiliating doctrines are a ' stumbling block' to 
professing Christians ; to Christians who cannot 

Vol. I. S 



cordially relish a religion which professedly 
tells them it was sent to stain the pride of hu- 
man glory, and ' to exclude boasting ?' 

But though the passive and self-denying vir- 
tues are not high in the esteem of mere good 
sort of people, yet they are peculiarly the evan- 
gelical virtues. The world extols brilliant ac- 
tions ; the Gospel enjoins good habits and right 
motives : it seldom inculcates those splendid 
deeds which make heroes, or teaches those lofty 
sentiments which constitute philosophers ; but 
it enjoins the harder task of renouncing self, of 
living uncorrupted in the world, of subduing 
besetting sins, and of 'not thinking of ourselves 
more highly than we ought.' The acquisition 
of glory was the precept of other religions, the 
contempt of it is the perfection of Christianity. 

Let us then be consistent, and we shall never 
be contemptible, even in the eyes of our ene- 
mies. Let not the unbeliever say that we have 
one set of opinions for our theory, and another 
for our practice, that to the vulgar 

We show the rough and thorny way to heav'n, 
While we the primrose path of dalliance tread. 

Would it not become the character of a man 
of sense, of which consistency is a most une- 
quivocal proof, to choose some rule and abide by 
it ? An extempore Christian is a ridiculous 
character. Fixed principles, if they be really 
principles of the heart, and not merely opinions 
of the understanding, will be followed by a con- 
sistent course of action ; while indecision of 
spirit will produce instability of conduct. If 
there be a model which we profess to admire, 
Jet us square our lives by it. If either the Ko- 
ran of Mahomet, or the Revelations of Zoroaster, 
be a perfect guide, let us follow one of them. If 
either Epicurus, Zeno, or Confucius, be the pe- 
culiar object of our veneration and respect, let 
us avowedly fashion our conduct by the dictates 
of their philosophy ; and then, though we may 
be wrong, we shall not be absurd ; we may be 
erroneous, but we shall not be inconsistent ; but 
if the Bible be in truth the word of God, as wo 
profess to believe, we need look no farther for a 
consummate pattern. ' If the Lord be God, let 
us follow Him.' If Christ he a sacrifice for sin ; 
let Him be also to us the example of an holy 
life. 

But I am willing to flatter myself that the 
moral and intellectual scene about us begins to 
brighten. I indulge myself in moments of the 
most enthusiastic and delightful vision, that 
things are beginning gradually to lead to the 
fulfilment of that promise, that ' all the king- 
doms of the earth shall become the kingdoms of 
our God and of his Christ.' I take encourage- 
ment that that glorious prophecy, that ' of the 
increase of his government there shall be no 
end,' seems to be gradually accomplishing ; and 
in no instance more, perhaps, than in the noble 
attempt about to be made for the abolition of 
the African slave-trade.* For what event can 
human wisdom foresee more likely to contri- 
bute to ' give the Son the heathen for his in- 
heritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth 
for his possession,' than the success of such an 

* This interestine; question was then beginning to be 
agitated in parliament. 



274 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



enterprise, which'will restore the lustre of the 
British name, and cut off at a single stroke as 
large and disgraceful a portion of national guilt 
as ever impaired the virtue or dishonoured the 
councils of a Christian country. 

A good spirit seems to be at work. A catho- 
lic temper is diffusing itself among aH sects and 
parties : an enlightened candour, and a liberal 
toleration, were never more prevalent; good men 
combat each others opinions with less rancour, 
and better manners;* they hate each other 
less for those points in which they disagree, 
and love each other more for those points in 
which they join issue than they formerly did. 
We have many public encouragements ; we have 
a pious king; a wise and virtuous minister; 
very many respectable, and not a few serious 
clergy. Their number I am willing to hope is 
daily increasing. Among these some of the 
first in dignity are the most exemplary in con- 
duct. An increasing desire to instruct the poor, 
to inform the ignorant, and to reclaim the vi- 
cious, is spreading among us. The late royal 
proclamation affords an honourable sanction to 
virtuous endeavours, and lends nerves and si- 
news to the otherwise feeble exertions of in- 
dividuals, by enforcing laws wisely planned, 
but hitherto feebly executed. In short, there is a 
good hope that we shall more and more become 
• that happy people who have the Lord for their 
God :' that as prosperity is already within our 
walls, peace and virtue may abidein our dwellings. 

But vain will be all endeavours after partial 
and subordinate amendment. Reformation must 
begin with the great, or it will never be effec- 
tual. Their example is the fountain whence 
the vulgar draw their habits, actions, and cha- 
racters. To expect to reform the poor while 
the opulent are corrupt is to throw odours into 
the stream while the springs are poisoned. 

If, therefore, the rich and great will not, 
from a liberal spirit of doing right, and from a 
christian spirit of fearing God, abstain from those 
offences, for which the poor are to suffer fines 
and imprisonments, effectual good cannot be 
done. It will signify little to lay penalties on 
the horses of the drover, or. the wagon of the 
husbandman, while the chariot wheels of the 
great roll with incessant motion ; and while the 
sacred day on which the sons of industry are 
commanded by royal proclamation to desist from 
travelling, is for that very reason selected for 
f * This was written before the French revolution ! I 



the journeys of the great, and preferred because 
the road is incumbered with fewer interruptions 
But will it not strike every well-meaning Sun- 
day traveller with a generous remorse, when he 
reflects that he owes the accommodation of an 
unobstructed road to the very obedience which 
is paid by others to that divine and human law 
which he is in the very act of violating? 

Will not the common people think it a little 
inequitable that they are abridged of the diver- 
sions of the public house and the gaming yard 
on Sunday evening, when they shall hear that 
many houses of the first nobility are on that 
evening crowded with company, and such 
amusements carried on as are prohibited by hu- 
man laws even on common days ? As imitation, 
and a desire of being in the fashion, govern the 
lower orders of mankind, it is to be feared that 
they win not think reformation reputable, while 
they see it recommended only, and not practised, 
by their superiors. A precept counteracted by 
an example, is worse than fruitless ; it is ridicu- 
lous ; and the common people will be tempted to 
set an inferior value on goodness, when they 
find it is only expected from the lower ranks. 
They cannot surely but smile at the disinterest- 
edness of their superiors, who, while they seem 
anxiously concerned to save others, are so little 
solicitous about their own state. The ambitious 
vulgar will hardly relish a salvation which is 
only intended for plebians ; nor will they be apt 
to entertain very exalted notions of that pro- 
mised future reward, the road to which they 
perceive their betters are so much more earnest 
to point out to them, than to walk in themselves. 

It was not by inflicting pains and penalties 
that Christianity first made its way into the 
world : the divine truths it inculcated received 
irresistible confirmation from the lives, prac- 
tices, and examples of its venerable professors. 
These were arguments which no popular pre- 
judice could resist, no Jewish logic refute, and 
no Pagan persecution discredit. Had the pri- 
mitive Christians only praised and promulgated 
the most perfect religion the world ever saw, it 
would have produced but very slender effects on 
the faith and manners of the people. The asto- 
nishing consequences which followed the pure 
doctrines of the Gospel, would never have been 
produced, if the jealous and inqusitive eye of 
malice could have detected that the doctrines 
the Christians recommended had not been illus- 
trated by the lives they led. 



POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION 



The public favour having already brought 
this little essay to another edition, the author 
has been sedulous to discover any particular ob- 
jections that have been made to it. Since the 
preceding sheets were printed off, it has been 
suggested by some very respectable persons who 
have honoured this slight performance with their 
notice, that it inculcates a too rigid austerity, 
and carries the point of observing Sunday much 
too far ; that it takes away all the usual occu- 
pations of the day, without substituting any 
others in their stead ; and that it only pulls down 



a wrong system, without so much as attempting 
to build up a right one. To these observations 
the author begs leave to reply, that whilst ani- 
madverting on error, the insisting on obvious 
duty was purposely omitted. To tell people what 
they already know to be right, was less the in- 
tention of this address, than to observe upon 
practices which long habit had prevented them 
from perceiving to be wrong. Sensible and well- 
meaning persons can hardly be at a loss on a 
subject which has exhausted precept and wea- 
•ried exhortation. To have expatiated on it, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



275 



would only have been to repeat what is already 
known and acknowledged to be right, even by 
those whom the hurry of engagements will not 
allow to take breath one day in a week, that they 
may run the race of pleasure with more alacrity 
on the other six. But probably it is not the du- 
ties, but the amusements appropriated to the day 
about which the inquiry is made. It will, per- 
haps, be found, that the intervals of a Sunday 
regularly devoted to all its reasonable and ob- 
vious employments, are not likely to be so very 
tedious, but that they might be easily and plea- 
santly filled up by cheerful, innocent, and in- 
structive conversation. Human delights would 
be very circumscribed indeed, if the practices 
here noticed as erroneous, included the whole 
circle of enjoyments. In addition to the appro- 
priate pleasures of devotion, are the pleasures 
of retirement, the pleasures of friendship, the 
pleasures of intellect, and the pleasures of be- 
neficence, to be estimated as nothing? 

There will not be found, perhaps, a single 
person who shall honour these pages with a pe- 
rusal, who has not been repeatedly told, with an 
air of imposing gravity, by those who produce 
cards on a Sunday evening, that it is better to 
play than to talk scandal. — Before this pithy 
axiom was invented, it was not perhaps suspect- 
ed that Sunday gaming would ever be adduced 
as an argument in favour of morals. Without 
entering into the comparative excellence of these 
two occupations, or presuming to determine 
which has a claim to pre-eminence of piety, 
may we not venture to be thankful that these 
alternatives do not seem to empty the whole 
stock of human resource ; but that something 
will still be left to occupy and to interest those 
who adopt neither the one nor the other ? 

People in the gay and elegant scenes of life 
are perpetually complaining that an extensive 
acquaintance, and the necessity of being con- 
stantly engaged in large circles and mixed as- 
semblies, leaves them little leisure for family 
enjoyment, select conversation, and domestic 
delights. Others, with no less earnestness, la- 
ment that the hurry of public stations, and the 
necessary demands of active life, allow them no 
time for any but frivolous reading. Now the 
recurrence of one Sunday in every week seems 
to hold out an inviting remedy for both these 
evils. The sweet and delightful pleasures of 



family society might then be uninterruptedly 
enjoyed, by the habitual exclusion of trifling and 
idle visiters, who do not come to see their friends, 
but to get rid of themselves. Persons of fashion, 
living in the same house, and connected by the 
closest ties, whom business and pleasure keep a- 
sunder during the greatest part of the week, would 
then have an opportunity of spending a little time 
together, and of cultivating that friendship for 
each other, that affection for their children, and 
that intercourse with their Maker, to which the 
present manners are not very favourable. To 
the other set of complainers, those who can find 
no time to read, this interval naturally presents 
itself; and it so happens, that some of the most 
enlightened men the world ever saw, have, not 
unfrequcntly, devoted their rare talents to sub- 
jects peculiarly suited to this day ; and that not 
merely in the didactic form of sermons, which 
men of the world affect to disdain, but in every 
alluring shape which human ingenuity could 
assume. It can be fortunately produced among 
a thousand other instances, that the deepest 
metaphysician,* the greatest astronomer, the 
sublimest poet, the acutest reasoner, the politest 
writer, the most consummate philosopher, and 
the profoundest investigator of nature, which 
this, or perhaps any country has produced, have 
all written on such subjects as are analogous to 
the business of the Lord's day. Such authors 
as these, even wits, philosophers, and men of 
the world, must acknowledge that it is not 
bigotry to read, nor enthusiasm to commend. 
Of this illustrious group only one was a clergy- 
man, which to a certain class of readers will be 
a strong recommendation ; though it is a little 
hard that the fastidiousness of modern taste 
should undervalue the learned and pious labours 
of divines, only because they are professional. — 
In every other function, a man's compositions 
are not the less esteemed because they peculi- 
arly belong to his more immediate business. 
Blackstone's opinions in jurisprudence are in 
high reputation, though he was a lawyer ; Sy- 
denham is still consulted as oracular in fevers, 
in spite of his having been a physician ; and the 
Commentaries of Cassar are of established au- 
thority in military operations, notwithstanding 
he was a soldier. 

* Locke, Newton, Milton, Butler, Addison, Bacon, 
Boyle. 



AN ESTIMATE 

OF THE RELIGION OF THE FASHIONABLE WORLD. 

There was never found in any age of the world, either philosophy, or sect, or religion, or law, 
or discipline, which did so highly exalt the public good as the Christian faith. — Lord Bacon. 

INTRODUCTION. Christianity ; but among that more decent class 

also, who, while they acknowledge their belief of 
The general design of these pages is to offer its truth by a public profession, and are not inat- 
some cursory remarks, on the present state of tentive to any of its forms, yet exhibit little of 
religion among agreat part of the polite and the its spirit in their general temper and conduct- 
fashionable ; not only among that description of It is designed to show that Christianity, like its 
persons who, whether from disbelief or whatever Divine Author, is not only denied by those who 
other cause, avowedly neglect the duties of in so many word6 disown their submission tc 



276 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



its authority, but is betrayed by the still more 
treacherous disciple, even while he cries, Hail, 
Master ! 

For this visible declension of piety various 
reasons have been assigned, some of which how- 
ever do not seem fully adequate to the effects 
ascribed to them. The author of a late popular 
pamphlet* has accounted for the increased pro- 
fligacy of the common people, by ascribing it, 
very justly, to the increased dissoluteness of 
their superiors. And who will deny what he 
farther affirms — that the general conduct of high 
-and low receives a deep tincture of depravity 
from the growing neglect of public worship ? 
So far I most cordially agree with the noble 
author. Nothing can be more obvious than that 
the disuse of public worship is naturally follow- 
ed by a neglect of all religious duties. Energies, 
which are not called out into action, almost ne- 
cessarily die in the mind. The soul, no less 
than the body, requires its stated repairs, and 
regular renovations. And from the sluggish 
and procrastinating spirit of man, that religious 
duty to which no fixed time is assigned, is sel- 
dom, it is to be feared, performed at all.f 

I must, however, take leave to dissent from 
the opinion of the noble author, that the too 
common desertion of persons of rank from the 
service of the establishment is occasioned in 
general, as he intimates, by their disapprobation 
of the Liturgy; as it may more probably be sup- 
posed, that the far greater part of them are de- 
terred from going to church by motives widely 
removed from speculative objections and con- 
scientious scruples. 

It would be quite foreign to my present pur- 
pose to enter upon the question of the superior 
utility of a form of prayer for public worship. 
Most sincerely attached to the establishment 
myself, not, as far as I am able to judge, from 
prejudice, but from a fixed and settled convic- 
tion. I regard its institution with a veneration 
at once affectionate and rational. Never need a 
Christian, except when his own heart is strange- 
ly indisposed, fail to derive benefit from its or- 
dinances, and he may bless the overruling pro- 
vidence of God, that, in this instance, the natural 
variableness and inconstancy of human opinion 
is, as it were fixed, and settled, and hedged in, 
by a stated service so pure, so evangelical, and 
which is enriched by such a large infusion of 
sacred Scripture. 

If so many among us contemn the service as 
having been, individually, to us fruitless and un- 
profitable, let us inquire whether the blessing 
may not be withheld because we are not fervent 
in asking it. If we do not find a suitable hu- 
miliation in the Confession, a becoming earnest- 
ness in the Petitions, a congenial joy in the 
Adoration, a corresponding gratitude in the 
Thanksgivings, it is because our hearts do not 
accompany our words ; it is because we rest in 
' the form of godliness,' and are contented tore- 
main destitute of its ' power.' If we are not 
duly interested when the select portions of Scrip- 
ture are read to us, it is because we do not as 

* Hints to an Association for preventing Vice and Im- 
morality, written by a nobleman of the highest rank. 

t On this subject see Dr. Johnson's Life of Milton. 



' new born babes desire the sincere milk of the 
word, that we may grow thereby.' 

Perhaps there has not been since the age of 
the Apostles, a church upon earth in which the 
public worship was so solemn and so cheerful ; 
so simple, yet so sublime ; so full of fervour, at 
the same time so free from enthusiasm ; so rich 
in the gold of Christian antiquity, yet so asto- 
nishingly exempt from its dross. That it has 
imperfections we do not deny, but what are they 
compared with its general excellence ? They 
are as the spots on the sun's disk, which a sharp 
observer may detect, but which neither diminish 
the warmth, nor obscure the brightness. 

But if those imperfections which are insepa- 
rable from all human institutions, are to be al- 
leged as reasons for abstaining to attend on the 
service of the established church, we must on 
the same principle, and on still stronger grounds, 
abstain from all public worship whatever ; and 
indeed it must be confessed that the persons of 
whom we are now speaking are very consistent 
in this matter. 

But the difference of opinion here intimated, 
is not so much about the Liturgy itself, as the 
imaginary effects attributed to it in thinning the 
pews of our people of fashion. The slightest 
degree of observation serves to contradict this 
assertion. Those, however, who, with the noble 
author, maintain the other opinion, may satisfy 
their doubts by inquiring, whether the regular 
and systematic absentees from church are chiefly 
to be found among the thinking, the reading 
the speculative, and the scrupulous part of man- 
kind. 

Even the most negligent attendant on public 
worship must, know, that the obnoxious creed, 
to whose malignant potency this general deser- 
tion is ascribed, by the noble author, is never 
read above three or four Sundays in the year ; 
and even allowing the validity of the objections 
brought against it, that does not seem a very 
adequate reason for banishing the most scru- 
pulous and tender consciences from church on 
the remaining eight-and-forty Sundays of the 
calender. 

Besides, there is one test which is absolutely 
unequivocal : this creed is never read at all in 
the afternoon, any more than the Litany, that 
other great source of offence and supposed de- 
sertion ; and yet with all these multiplied rea- 
sons for their attendance do we see the con- 
scientious crowds of the high born, who abstain 
from the morning service through their repug- 
nance to subscribe to the dogmas of Athanasius, 
or the more orthodox clauses of the morning 
Litany, do we see them, I say, flocking to the 
evening service, impatient for the exercise of 
that devotion which had ' been obstructed by 
these two objectionable portions of the Li- 
turgy ? Do we see them eager to explain the 
cause of their morning absence, and zealous to 
vindicate their piety by assiduously attending 
when the reprobated portions are omitted ? So 
far from it, is it not pretty evident that the 
general quarrel (with some few exceptions) of 
those who habitually absent themselves from 
public worship, is not with the Creed, but the 
commandments ? With such, to reform the 
Prayer-book would go but a little way, unless 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



277 



the new Testament could be also abridged. Cut, 
and pare, and prune the service of the church 
ever so much, still Christianity itself will be 
found full of formidable objections. Should the 
church even give up her abstruse creeds, it 
would avail but little, unless the Bible would 
also expunge those rigorous laws which not only 
prohibit sinful actions, but corrupt inclinations. 
And to speak honestly, I do not see how such 
persons as habitually infringe the laws of virtue 
and sobriety, and who are yet men of acute sa- 
gacity, accustomed on other subjects to a con- 
sistent train of reasoning ; who see consequen- 
ces in their causes ; who behold practical self- 
denial necessarily involved in the sincere ha- 
bit of religious observances — I do not see 
how, with respect to such men, any doctrines 
reformed, any redundancies lopped, any obscuri- 
ties brightened, could effect the object of this 
author's very benevolent and Christian wish. 

Religious duties are often neglected upon 
more consistent grounds than the friends of Re- 
ligion are willing to allow. They are often dis- 
continued, not as repugnant to the understanding, 
not as repulsive to the judgment, but as hostile 
to a licentious life. And when a prudent man, 
after having entered into a solemn convention, 
finds that he is living in a constant breach of 
every article of the treaty he has engaged to 
observe, one cannot much wonder at his getting 
out of the hearing of the heavy artillery which 
he knows is planted against him, and against 
every one who lives in the allowed infraction 
of the covenant into which every Christian has 
entered. 

For a man of sense who should acknowledge 
the truth of the doctrine, would find himself 
obliged to submit to the force of the precept. 
It is not easy to be a comfortable sinner, with- 
out trying, at least, to be a confirmed unbeliever. 
And as that cannot be achieved by a wish, the 
next expedient is to shun the recollection of that 
belief, and to forget that of which we cannot be 
ignorant. The smallest remains of faith would 
embitter a life of libertinism, and to be frequent- 
ly reminded of the articles of that faith would 
disturb the ease induced by a neglect of all ob- 
servances. While to him who retains any im- 
pression of Christianity, the wildest festivals of 
intemperance will be converted into the terrify- 
ing feast of Damocles. 

That many a respectable non-conformist is 
kept out of the pale of the establishment by some 
of the causes noticed by the noble author, can- 
not be questioned, and a matter of regret it is. 
But these, however, are often sober thinkers, 
serious inquirers, conscientious reasoners, whose 
object we may charitably believe is truth, how- 
ever they may be deceived as to its nature : but 
that the same objections banish the great and 
the gay, is not equally evident. Thanks to the 
indolence and indifference of the times, it is not 
dogmas or doctrines, it is not abstract reason- 
ings, or puzzling propositions, it is not perplexed 
argument, or intricate metaphysics, which can 
now disincline from Christianity ; so far from 
it they cannot even allure to unbelief. Infidelity 
itself, with all that strong and natural bias which 
selfishness and appetite "entertain in its favour, 
if it appear in the grave and scholastic form of 



speculation, argument, or philosophical deduc- 
tion may lie almost as quietly on the shelf; as 
the volumes of its most able antagonist ; and the 
cobwebs are almost as seldom brushed from 
Hobbes as from Hooker. No : prudent scepti- 
cism hath wisely studied the temper of the 
times, and skilfully felt the pulse of this relaxed, 
and indolent, and selfish age. It prudently ac- 
commodated itself to the reigning character, 
when it adopted sarcasm instead of reasoning, 
and preferred a sneer to an argument. It dis- 
creetly judged, that, if it would now gain prose- 
lytes, it must show itself under the bewitching 
form of a profane bon-mot; must be interwoven in 
the texture of some amusing history, written with 
the levity of a romance, and the point and glitter 
of an epigram: it must embellish the ample 
margin with some offensive anecdote or impure 
allusion, and decorate impiety with every loose 
and meretricious ornament which a corrupt 
imagination can invent. It must break up the 
old flimsy system into little mischievous apho- 
risms, ready for practical purposes : it must di- 
vide the rope of sand into little portable parcels, 
which the shallowest wit can comprehend, and 
the shortest memory carry away. 

Philosophy therefore (as Unbelief by a patent 
of its own creation, has been pleased to call it- 
self) will not do nearly so much mischief to the 
present age as its primitive apostles intended, 
since it requires time, application, and patience 
to peruse the reasoning veterans of the sceptic 
school : and these are talents not now very se- 
verely devoted to study of any sort, by those 
who give the law to fashion ; especially since, 
as it was hinted above, the same principles may 
be acquired on cheaper terms, and the reputa- 
tion of being philosophers obtained without the 
sacrifices of pleasure for the severities of study ; 
since the industry of our literary chemists has 
extracted the spirit from the gross substance of 
the old unvendible poison, and exhibited it in the 
volatile essence of a few sprightly sayings. 

If therefore in this voluptuous age, when a 
frivolous and relaxing dissipation has infected 
our very studies, Infidelity will not be at the 
pains of deep research and elaborate investiga- 
tion, even on such subjects as are congenial to 
its affections, and promotive of its object ; it is 
in vain to expect that Christianity will be more 
engaging, either as an object of speculation, or 
as a rule of practice ; since it demands a still 
stronger exertion of those energies which the 
gay world is not at the pains to exercise, even 
on the side they approve. For the evidences of 
Christianity require attention to be comprehend- 
ed, no less than its doctrines require humility 
to be received, and its precepts self-denial to be 
obeyed. 

Will it then be uncharitable to pronounce, 
that the leading mischief, not which thins bur 
churches (for that is not the evil I propose to 
consider) but which pwvades our whole charac- 
ter, and gives the colour to our general conduct, 
is practical irreligion ? an irreligion not so much 
opposed to a speculative faith, not so much in 
hostility to the evidences of Christianity, as to 
that spirit, temper, and behaviour which Chris- 
tianity inculcates. 
On this practical irreligion it is proposed to 



278 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



offer a few hints. After attempting to show, 
by a comparison with the religion of the great 
in preceding age^, that there is a visible decline 
of piety among the higher ranks — that even 
those more liberal spirits who neglect not many 
of the great duties of benevolence, yet hold the 
severer obligations of piety in no esteem — I 
shall proceed, though perhaps with too little 
method to remark on the notorious effects of the 
decay of this religious principle, as it corrupts 
our mode of education, infects domestic conduct, 
spreads the contagion downwards among ser- 
vants and inferiors, and influences our general 
manners, habits, and conversation. 

But what it is here proposed principally to in- 
sist on is, that this defect of religious principle 
is almost equally fatal as to all the ends and pur- 
poses of genuine piety, whether it appear in the 
open contempt and defiance of all sacred insti- 
tutions, or under the more decent veil of exter- 
nal observances, unsupported by such a conduct 
as is analogous to the christian profession. 

I shall proceed with a few remarks on a third 
class of fashionable characters, who profess to 
acknowledge Christianity as a perfect system 
of morals, while they deny its divine authority: 
and conclude with some slight animadversions 
on the opinion which these modish Christians 
maintain, that morality is the whole of religion. 
It must be confessed, however, that manners 
and principles act reciprocally on each other ; 
and are, by turns, cause, and effect. For in- 
stance — the increased relaxation of morals pro- 
duces the increased neglect of infusing religious 
principle in the education of youth ; which effect 
becomes, in its turn, a cause, and in due time, 
when that cause comes to operate, helps on the 
decline of manners. 



CHAP. I. 

Decline of Christianity shown by a comparative 
view of the religion of the great in preceding 
ages. 

If the general position of this little tract be 
allowed, namely, that Religion is at present in 
no very flourishing state among those whose ex- 
ample, from the high ground on which they 
stand, guides and governs the rest of mankind, 
it will not be denied by those who are ever so 
superficially acquainted with the history of 
our country, that this has not always been the 
case. Those who make a fair comparison must 
allow, that however the present age may be im- 
proved in other important and valuable advan- 
tages, yet, that there is but little appearance re- 
maining among the great and the powerful of 
that ' righteousness which exalteth a nation.' — 
They must confess that there has been a moral 
revolution in the national manners and princi- 
ples, very little analogous to that great political 
one which we hear so much and so justly ex- 
tolled. That our public virtues bear little pro- 
portion to our public blessings ; and that our re- 
ligion has decreased in pretty exact proportion 
to our having secured the means of enjoying it. 

That the antipodes to wrong are hardly ever 
right, was very strikingly illustrated about the 



middle of the last century, when the fiery and 
indiscreet zeal of one party was made a pretext 
for the profligate impiety of the other ; who to 
the bad principle which dictated a depraved 
conduct, added the bad taste of being proud of 
it: — when even the least abandoned were ab- 
surdly apprehensive that an appearance of de- 
cency might subject them to the charge of fana- 
ticism, a charge in which they took care to 
involve real piety, as well as enthusiastic pre- 
tence, till it became the general fashion to avoid 
no sin but hypocrisy ; to dread no imputation 
but that of seriousness, and to be more afraid of 
the virtues which procure a good reputation 
than of every vice which ever earned a bad one 
Party was no longer confined to political dis- 
tinctions, but became a part of morals, and wa3 
carried into religion. The more profligate of 
the court party began to connect the idea of de 
votion with that of republicanism ; and to prove 
their aversion to the one, though they could 
never cast too much ridicule upon the other. 
The public taste became debauched, and to be 
licentious in principle, was thought by many to 
be the best way of making their court to the 
restored monarch, and of proving their abhor- 
rence of the hypocritical side. And Poems by 
a. person of honour, the phrase of the day to de- 
signate a fashionable author, were often scan- 
dalous offences against modesty and virtue. 

It was not till piety was thus unfortunately 
brought into disrepute, that persons of condition 
thought it made their sincerity, their abilities, 
or their good breeding questionable, to appear 
openly on the side of Religion. A strict at- 
tachment to piety did not subtract from a great 
reputation. Men were not thought the worst 
lawyers, generals, ministers, legislators, or his- 
torians, for believing, and even defending, the 
religion of their country. The gallant Sir 
Philip Sidney, the rash but heroic Essex, the 
politic and sagacious Burleigh, the all-accom- 
plished Falkland,* not only publicly owned 
their belief in Christianity, but even wrote some 
things of a religious nature.t These instances, 
and many others which might be adduced, are 
not, it will be allowed, selected from among con- 
templative recluses, grave divines, or authors by 
profession ; but from the busy, the active, and 
the illustrious; from public characters, from 
men of strong passions, beset with great tempta- 
tions ; distinguished actors on the stage of life ; 
and whose respective claims to the title of fine 
gentlemen, brave soldiers, or able statesmen, 
have never been called in question. 

What would the Hales, and the Clarendons, 
and the Somersets, t have said, had they been 
told that the time was at no great distance when 
that sacred book, for which they thought it no 
derogation from their wisdom or their dignity 
to entertain the profoundest reverence ; the book 
which they made the rule of their faith, the ob- 
ject of their most serious study, and the founda- 

* Lord Faulklaml assisted the great Chillingworth in 
his incomparable work. The Religion of a Protestant. 

t See that equally elegant and authentic work, 'The 
Anecdotes of Royal and Noble Authors.' 

1 This consummate statesman was not only remark- 
able for a strict attendance on the public duties of reli- 
gion, hut for maintaining them with equal exactness in 
his family, at a period too when religion was most dis- 
countenanced. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



279 



tion of their eternal hope ; that this book would 
one day be of little more use to men in high 
public stations, than to be the instrument of an 
oath ; and that the sublimest rites of the chris- 
tian religion would soon be considered as little 
more than a necessary qualification for a place, 
or the legal preliminary to an office. 

This indeed is the boasted period of free in- 
quiry and liberty of thinking : but it is the pe- 
culiar character of the present age, that its mis- 
chiefs often assume the most alluring forms ; 
and that the most alarming evils not only look 
so like goodness as to be often mistaken for it, 
but are sometimes mixed up with so much real 
good, as often to disguise though never to coun- 
teract, their malignity. Under the beautiful 
mask of an enlightened philosophy, all religious 
restraints are set at nought ; and some of the 
deadliest wounds have been aimed at Christi- 
anity, in works written in avowed vindica- 
tion of the most amiable of all the christian 
principles !* Even the prevalence of a liberal 
and warm philanthropy is secretly sapping 
the foundation of christian morals, because 
many of its champions allow themselves to 
live in the open violation of the severer duties 
of justice and sobriety, while they are contend- 
ing for the gentler ones of charity and bene- 
ficence. 

The strong and generous bias in favour of 
universal toleration, noble as the principle itself 
is, has engendered a dangerous notion that all 
error is innocent. Whether it be owing to this, 
or to whatever other cause, it is certain that the 
discriminating features of the Christian religion 
are every day growing into less repute ; and 
it is become the fashion, even among the better 
sort, to evade, to lower, or to generalize, its most 
distinguishing peculiarities. 

There is so little of the Author of Christianity 
left in his own religion, that an apprehensive 
believer is ready to exclaim, with the woman at 
the sepulchre, 'They have taken away my 
Lord, and I know not where they have laid 
him.' The locality of Hell and the existence 
of an Evil Spirit are annihilated, or considered 
as abstract ideas. When they are alluded to, 
it is periphrastically ; or they are discontinued 
not on the ground of their being awful and ter- 
rible, but they are set aside as topics too vulgar 
for the polished, too liberal for the learned, and 
as savouring too much of credulity for the en- 
lightened. 

While we glory in having freed ourselves 
from the trammels of human authority, are we 
not turning our liberty into licentiousness, and 
wantonly struggling to throw off" the Divine 
authority too? Freedom of thought is the glory 
of the human mind, while it is confined within 
its just and sober limits ; but though we may 

* See particularly Voltaire sur la Tolerance. This is 
a common artifice of that insidious author. In this in- 
stance he has made use of the popularity he obtained in 
the fanatical tragedy at Thoulouse, (the murder of Ca- 
lais) to discredit, though in the most guarded manner 
Christianity itself; degrading martyrdoms, denying the 
truth of the Pagan persecutions, &c. &c. And by mix- 
ing some truths with many falsehoods, by assuming an 
amiable candour, and professing to serve the interest of 
goodness, he treacherously contrives to leave on the 
mind of the unguarded reader impressions the most un- 
favourable to Christianity, 



think ourselves accountable for opinions at no 
earthly tribunal, yet it should be remembered 
that thoughts as well as actions are amenable at 
the bar of God ; and though we may rejoice that 
the tyranny of the spiritual Procustes is so far 
annihilated, that we are in no danger of having 
our opinions lopped or lengthened till they are 
brought to fit the measure of human caprice, 
yet there is still a standard by which not only 
actions are weighed, but opinions are judged ; 
and every sentiment which is clearly inconsis- 
tent with the revealed will of God, is as much 
as throwing off" his dominion as the breach of 
any of his moral precepts. This cuts up by the 
roots that popular and independent phrase, that 
' thoughts are free,' for in this view we are no 
more at liberty to indulge opinions in opposition 
to the express word of God, that we are at liberty 
to infringe practically on his commandments. 

There is then surely one test by which it is 
no mark of intolerance to try the principles of 
men, namely, the Law and the Testimony : and 
on applying to this touchstone, it is impossible 
not to lament, that while a more generous spirit 
governs our judgment, a purer principle does 
not seem to regulate our lives. May it not be 
said, that while we are justly commended for 
thinking charitably of the opinions of others 
we seem, in return, as if we were desirous of 
furnishing them with an opportunity of exer- 
cising their candour by the laxity of principle 
in which we indulge ourselves ? If the hearts of 
men were as firmly united to each other, by the 
bond of charity as some pretend, they could not 
fail of being united to God also by one common 
principle of piety. And christian piety furnishes 
the only certain source of all charitable judg- 
ment, as well as of all virtuous conduct. 

Instead of abiding by the salutary precept of 
judging no man, it is the fashion to exceed our 
commission, and to fancy every body to be in 
a safe state. ' Judge not' is the precise limit 
of our rule. There is no more encouragement 
to judge falsely on the side of worldly candour, 
than there is to judge harshly on the side of 
Christian charity. In forming our notions we 
have to choose between the Bible and thefjTorld, 
between the rule and the practice. Where 
these do not agree it is left to the judgment of 
believers, at least, by which we are to'decide. 
But we never act, in religious concerns, by the 
same rule of common sense and equitable judg- 
ment which governs us on other occasions. In 
weighing any commodity, its weight is deter- 
mined by some generally allowed standard ; 
and if the commodity be heavier or lighter than 
the standard weight, we add or take from it : 
but we never break, or clip, or reduce the weight 
to suit the thing, we are weighing ; because the 
common consent of mankind has agreed that 
the one shall be considered as the standard to 
ascertain the value of the other. But, in weigh- 
ing our principles by the standard of the Gos- 
pel, we do just the reverse. Instead of bringing 
our opinions and actions to the balance of the 
sanctuary, to determine and rectify their com- 
parative deficiencies, we lower and reduce the 
standard of the Scripture doctrines till we have 
accommodated them to our own purposes ; so 
that instead of trying others and ourselves by 



280 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



God's unerring rule, we try the truth of God's 
rul* by its conformity or non-conformity to our 
own depraved notions and corrupt practices. 



CHAP. II. 

Benevolence allowed to be the reigning virtue, 
but not exclusively the virtue of the present 
age. — Benevolence not the whole of Religion, 
though one of its most characteristic features. 
Whether Benevolence proceeds from a religious 
principle, will be more infallibly known by the 
general disposition of time, fortune, and the 
common habits of life, than from a few occa- 
sional acts' of bounty. 

To all the remonstrance and invective of the 
preceding chapter, there will not fail to be op- 
posed that which we hear every day so loudly 
insisted on — the decided superiority of the pre- 
sent age in other and better respects. It will 
be said, that even those who neglect the outward 
forms of religion, exhibit, however, the best 
proofs of the best principles; that the unparal- 
leled instances of charity of which we are con- 
tinual witnesses ; that the many striking acts 
of public bounty, and the various new and no- 
ble improvements in this shining virtue, justly 
entitle the present age to be called, by way of 
eminence, the Age of Benevolence. 

It is with the liveliest joy I acknowledge the 
delightful truth. Liberality flows with a full 
tide through a thousand channels. There is 
scarcely a newspaper but records some meeting 
of men of fortune for the most salutary purposes. 
The noble and numberless structures for the 
relief of distress, which are the ornament and 
the glory of our metropolis, proclaim a species 
of munificence unknown to former ages. Sub- 
scriptions, not only to hospitals, but to various 
other valuable institutions, are obtained almost 
as soon as solicited. And who but must wish 
that these beautiful monuments of benevolence 
may become every day more numerous, and 
more extended ! 

YefJ with all these allowed and obvious ex- 
cellences, it is not quite clear whether some- 
thing too much has not been said of the liberal- 
ity of the present age, in a comparative view with 
that of those ages which preceded it. A gene- 
ral alteration of habits and manners has at the 
same time multiplied public bounties and pri- 
vate distress ; and it is scarcely a paradox, to 
say that there was probably less misery when 
there was less munificence. 

If an increased benevolence now ranges 
through and relieves a wider compass of dis- 
tress ; yet still, if those examples of luxury and 
dissipation which promote that distress are still 
more increased, this makes the good done, bear 
little proportion to the evil promoted. If the 
miseries removed by the growth of charity fall, 
both in number and weight, far below those 
which are caused by the growth of vice and 
disorder ; if we find that, though bounty is ex- 
tended, yet those corruptions which make boun- 
ty so necessary are extended also, almost beyond 
calculation ; if it appear that, though more ob- 
jects are relieved by our money, yet incompara- 



bly more are debauched by our licentiousness— 
the balance perhaps will not turn out so de- 
cidedly in our favour of the times as we are wil- 
ling to imagine. 

If then the most valuable species of charity 
is that which prevents distress by preventing or 
lessening vice, the greatest and most inevitable 
cause of want — we ought not so highly to exalt 
the bounty of the great in the present day, in 
preference to that broad shade of protection, pa- 
tronage, and maintenance, which the wide- 
spread bounty of their forefathers stretched out 
over whole villages, I had almost said whole 
provinces. When a few noblemen in a county, 
like their own stately oaks, (paternal oaks ! 
which were not often, set upon a card,) extend- 
ed their sheltering branches to shield all the un- 
derwood of the forest — when there existed a 
kind of passive charity, a negative sort of be- 
nevolence, which did good of itself; and with- 
out effort, exertion, or expense, produced the 
effect of all, and performed the best functions of 
bounty, though it did not aspire to the dignity 
of its name — it was simply this : — great people 
staid at home ; and the sober pomp and orderly 
magnificence of a noble family, residing at their 
own castle a great part of the year, contributed in 
the most natural way to the maintenance of the 
poor ; and in a good degree prevented their dis- 
tress, which it must however thankfully be con- 
fessed it is the laudable object of modern bounty 
to relieve. A man of fortune might not then, 
it is true, so often dine in public for the benefit 
of the poor ; but the poor were more regularly 
and comfortably fed with the abundant crumbs 
which then fell from the rich man's table. 
Whereas it cannot be denied that the prevailing 
mode of living has pared real hospitality to the 
very quick ; and, though the remark may be 
thought ridiculous, it is a material disadvantage 
to the poor, that the introduction of the modern 
style of luxury has rendered the remains of the 
most costly table but of small value. 

But even allowing the boasted superiority of 
modern benevolence, still it would not be incon- 
sistent with the object of the present design, to 
inquire whether the diffusion of this branch of 
charity, though the most lovely offspring of re- 
ligion, be yet any positive proof of the preva- 
lence of religious principle ? and whether it be 
not the fashion rather to consider benevolence 
as a substitute for Christianity than as an evi- 
dence of it ? 

It seems to be one of the reigning errors 
among the better sort, to reduce all religion into 
benevolence, and all benevolence into alms-giv- 
ing. The wide and comprehensive idea of chris- 
tian charity is compressed into the slender com- 
pass of a little pecuniary relief. This species of 
benevolence is indeed a bright gem among the 
ornaments of a Christian ; but by no means fur- 
nishes all the jewels of his crown, which derives 
its lustre from the associated radiance of every 
christian grace. Besides, the genuine virtues 
are all of the same family : and it is only by be- 
ing seen in company with each other, and with 
Piety their common parent, that they are cer- 
tainly known to be legitimate. 

But it is the property of the christian virtues, 
that, like all other amiable members of the same 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



231 



famrly, while each is doing its own particular 
duty, it is contributing to the prosperity of the 
rest; and the larger the family, the better they 
live together, as no one can advance itself with- 
out labouring for the advancement of the whole : 
thus, no man can be benevolent on Christian 
principles without self-denial ; and so of the 
other virtues : each is connected with some other, 
and all with Religion. 

I already anticipate the obvious and hack- 
neyed reply, that, ' whoever be the instrument, 
and whatever be the motive of bounty, still the 
poor are equally relieved, and therefore the end 
is the same.' And it must be confessed that 
those compassionate hearts, who cannot but be 
earnestly anxious that the distressed should be 
relieved at any rate, should not too scrupulously 
inquire into any cause of which the effect is so 
beneficial. Nor indeed will candour scrutinize 
too curiously into the errors of any life of which 
benevolence will always be allowed to be the 
shining ornament, while it does not pretend to 
be the atoning virtue. 

Let me not be misrepresented, as if I were 
seeking to detract from the value of this amia- 
ble feeling ; we do not surely lower the practice 
by seeking to enoble the principle ; the action 
will not be impaired by mending the motive ; 
and no one will be likely to give the poor less 
because he seeks to please God more. 

One cannot then help wishing that pecuniary 
bounty were not only not practised, but that it 
were not sometimes enjoined too, as a redeem- 
ing virtue. In many conversations, (I had al- 
most said in many charity-sermons,) it is insi- 
nuated as if a little alms-giving could pay off 
old scores contracted by favourite indulgences. 
This, though often done by well-meaning men 
to advance the interests of some present pious 
purpose, yet has the mischievous effect of those 
medicines which, while they may relieve a local 
complaint, are yet undermining the general 
habit. 

That great numbers who are not influenced 
by so high a principle as Christianity holds out, 
are yet truly compassionate without hypocrisy 
and without ostentation, who can doubt ? But 
who that feels the beauty of benevolence can 
avoid being solicitous, not only that its offer- 
ings should comfort the receiver, but return in 
blessings to the bosom of the giver, by spring- 
ing from such motives, and being accompanied 
by such a temper as shall redound to his eternal 
good ? For that the benefit is the same to the 
object, whatever be the character of the bene- 
factor, is but an uncomfortable view of things to 
a real Christian, whose compassion reaches to 
the souls of men. Such a one longs to see the 
charitable giver as happy as he is endeavouring 
to make the object of his bounty : but such a 
one knows that no happiness can be fully and 
finally enjoyed but on the solid basis of chris- 
tian piety. 

For as Religion is not, on the one hand, mere- 
ly an opinion or a sentiment, so neither is it, on 
the other, merely an act or a performance ; but 
it is a disposition, a habit, a temper : it is not a 
name, but a nature : it is a turning the whole 
mind to God : it is a concentration of all the 
Dowers and affections of the soul into one steadv 

Vol. T. 



point, an uniform desire to please Him. This 
desire will naturally and necessarily manifest 
itself in our doing all the good we can to our 
fellow-creatures in every possible way ; for it 
will be found that neither of the two parts into 
which practical religion is divided, can be per- 
formed with any degree of perfection but by 
those who unite both ; as it may be questioned 
if any man really does 'love his neighbour as 
himself,' who does not first endeavour to ' love 
God with all his heart.' As genius has been de- 
fined to be strong general powers of mind, acci- 
dentally determined to some particular pursuit, 
so piety may be denominated a strong general 
disposition of the heart to every thing that is 
right, breaking forth into every excellent action, 
as the occasion presents itself. The temper 
must be ready in the mind, and the whole heart 
must be prepared and trained to every act of 
virtue to which it may be called out. For reli- 
gious principles are like the military exercise ; 
they keep up an habitual state of preparation 
for actual service ; and, by never relaxing the 
discipline, the real Christian is ready for every 
duty to which he may be commanded. Right 
actions best prove the existence of religion 
of the heart; but they are evidences, not 
causes. 

Whether therefore, a man's charitable actions 
proceed from religious principle, he will be best 
able to ascertain by scrutinizing into what is 
the general disposition of his time and fortune, 
and by observing whether his pleasures and ex- 
penses are' habitually regulated with a view 
to enable him to be more or less useful to 
others. 

It is in vain that he possesses what is called 
by the courtesy of fashion, the best heart in the 
world, (a character we every day hear applied 
to the libertine and the prodigal,) if he squander 
his time and estate in such a round of extrava- 
gant indulgences and thoughtless dissipation as 
leaves hirn little money, and less leisure for no- 
bler purposes. It makes but little difference 
whether a man is prevented from doing good by 
hard-hearted parsimony or an unprincipled ex- 
travagance ; the stream of usefulness is equally 
cut off by both. 

The mere casual benevolence of any man can 
have little claim to solid esteem ; nor does any 
charity deserve the name, which does not grow 
out of a tender conviction that it is his bounden 
duty ; which does not spring from a settled pro- 
pensity to obey the whole will of God ; which 
is not therefore made a part of the general plan 
of his conduct; and which does not lead him to 
order the whole scheme of his affairs with an 
eye to it. 

He therefore, who does not habituate himself 
to certain interior restraints, who does not live 
in a regular course of self-renunciation, will not 
be likely often to perform acts of beneficence, 
when it becomes necessary to convert to such 
purposes any of that time or money which ap- 
petite, temptation, or vanity solicit him to divert 
to other purposes. 

And surely he who seldom sacrifices one dar- 
ling indulgence, who does not subtract one gra- 
tification from the incessant round of his enjoy- 
ments, when the indulgence would obstruct his 



282 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



capacity of doing good, or when the sacrifice 
would enlarge his power, does not deserve the 
name of benevolent. And for such an unequivo- 
cal criterion of charity, to whom are we to look, 
but to the conscientious Christian ? No other 
spirit but that by which he is governed, can 
subdue self-love : and where self-love is the pre- 
dominant passion, benevolence can have but a 
feeble, or an accidental dominion. 

Now if we look around, and remark the ex- 
cesses of luxury, the costly diversions, and the 
intemperate dissipation in which numbers of 
professing Christians indulge themselves, can 
any stretch of candour, can even that tender 
sentiment by which we are enjoined ' to hope' 
and to ' believe all things,' enable us to hope 
and believe that such are actuated by a spirit of 
christian benevolence, merely because we see 
them perform some casual acts of charity, which 
the spirit of the world can contrive to make 
extremely compatible with^i voluptuous life; 
and the cost of which, after all, bears but lit- 
tle proportion to that of any one vice, or even 
vanity. 

Men will not believe that there is hardly any 
one human good quality which will know and 
keep its proper bounds, without the restraining 
influence of religious principle. There is, for 
instance, great danger lest a constant attention 
to so right a practice as an invariable economy, 
should incline the heart to the love of money. 
Nothing can effectually counteract this natural 
propensity but the christian habit of devoting 
those retrenched expenses to some good pur- 
pose ; and then economy instead of narrowing 
the heart, will enlarge it, by inducing a con- 
stant association of benevolence with frugality. 
An habitual attention to the wants of others is 
the only wholesome regulator of our own ex- 
penses ; and carries with it a whole train of 
virtues, disinterestedness, sobriety, and tempe- 
rance. And those who live in the custom of 
levying constant taxes on their vanities for such 
purposes, serve the poor still less than they serve 
themselves. For if they are charitable upon 
true christian principles, ' they are laying up 
for themselves a good foundation against the 
time to come.' 

Thus when a vein of Christianity runs through 
the whole mass of a man's life, it gives a new 
value to all his actions, and a new character to 
all his views. It transmutes prudence and eco- 
nomy into christian virtues ; and every offering 
that is presented on the altar of charity becomes 
truly consecrated, when it is the gift of obedi- 
ence, and the price of self-denial. Piety is that 
fire from heaven that can alone kindle the sacri- 
fice, which through the mediation and interces- 
sion of our great High Priest, ' will go up for a 
memorial before God.' 

On the other hand, when any act of bounty is 
performed by way of composition with our Ma- 
ker, either as a purchase or an expiation of un- 
allowed indulgences ; though, even in this case, 
God (who makes all passions of men subservient 
to his good purposes,) can make the gift equally 
beneficial to the receiver, yet it is surely not too 
severe to say, that to the giver such acts are an 
unfounded dependence, a deceitful refuge, a 
broken staff. 



CHAP. III. 

The neglect of religious education, both a cause 
and a consequence of the decline of Christiani- 
ty. — No moral restraints. — Religion only inci- 
dentally taught, not as a principle of action- 
A few of the many causes which dispose the 
young to entertain low opinions of Religion. 

Let not the truly pious be offended, as if, in 
the present chapter, which is intended to treat 
of the notorious neglect of religious education, 
I meant to insinuate, that the principles and 
tempers of Christianity may be formed in the 
young mind, by the mere mechanical operation 
of early instruction, without the co-operating 
aid of the Holy Spirit of God. To imply this 
would be indeed to betray a lamentable igno- 
rance of human nature, of the disorder that sin 
has introduced, of the inefheacy of mere human 
means ; and entirely to mistake the genius, and 
overlook the most obvious and important truths 
of our holy religion. 

It must however be allowed, that the Supreme 
Being works chiefly by means ; and though it 
be confessed that no defect of education, no cor- 
ruption of manners can place any out of the 
reach of the Divine influences (for it is under 
such circumstances, perhaps, that some of the 
most extraordinary instances of Divine grace 
have been manifested) yet it must be owned, 
that instructing children in principles of reli- 
gion, and giving them early habits of tempe- 
rance and piety, is the way in which we may 
most confidently expect the Divine blessing. — 
And that it is a work highly pleasing to God, 
and which will be most assuredly accompanied 
by his gracious energy, we may judge from 
what he says of his faithful servant Abraham ; 
' I know him that he will command his children, 
and his household after him, and they shall keep 
the way of the Lord.' 

But religion is the only thing in which we 
seem to look for the end, without making use 
of the means ; and yet it would not be more sur- 
prising if we were to expect that our children 
should become artists and scholars without be- 
ing bred to arts and languages, than it is to 
look for a christian world, without a christian 
education. 

The noblest objects can yield no delight if 
there be not in the mind a disposition to relish 
them. There must be a oongruity between the 
mind and the object, in order to produce any 
capacity of enjoyment. To the mathematician, 
demonstration is pleasure ; to the philosopher, 
the study of nature ; to the voluptuary, the gra- 
tification of his appetite ; to the poet, the plea- 
sures of the imagination. These objects they 
each respectively pursue, as pleasures adapted 
to that part of their nature which they have been 
accustomed to indulge and cultivate. 

Now as men will be apt to act consistently 
with their general views and habitual tenden- 
cies, would it not be absurd to expect that the 
philosopher should look for his sovereign good 
at a ball, or the sensualist in the pleasures of in- 
tellect or piety ? None of these ends are an- 
swerable to tbe general views of the respective 
pursuer; they are not correspondent to his ideas; 
the; are not commensurate to his aims. The 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



283 



sublimest pleasures can afford little gratification 
where a taste for them has not been previously 
formed. A clown, who should hear a scholar 
or an artist talk of the delights of a library, a 
picture gallery, or a concert, could not guess at 
the nature of the pleasures they afford ; nor 
Would his being introduced to them give him 
much clearer ideas ; because he would bring to 
them an eye blind to proportion, an understand- 
ing new to science, and an ear deaf to harmony. 

Shall we expect then, since men can only be- 
come scholars by diligent labour, that they shall 
become Christians by mere chance ! Shall we 
be surprised if those do not fulfil the offices of 
religion who are not trained to an acquaintance 
with them ? And will it not be obvious that it 
must be some other thing besides the abstruse- 
ness of creeds, which has tended to make Chris- 
tianity unfashionable, and piety obsolete ? 

It probably will not be disputed, that in no 
age have the passions of our high-born youth 
been so early freed from all curb and restraint. 
In no age has the paternal authority been so 
contemptuously treated, or every species of 
subordination so disdainfully trampled upon. 
In no age have simple, and natural, and youth- 
ful pleasures so early lost their power over the 
mind ; nor was ever one great secret of virtue 
and happiness, the secretof being cheaply pleas- 
ed, so little understood. 

A taste for costly, or artificial, or tumultuous 
pleasures cannot be gratified, even by their most 
sedulous pursuers, at every moment ; and what 
wretched management is it in the economy of 
human happiness, so to contrive, as that the en- 
joyment shall be rare- and difficult, and the in- 
tervals long and languid ! Whereas real and 
unadulterated pleasures occur perpetually to 
him who cultivates a taste for truth and nature, 
and science and virtue. But these simple and 
tranquil enjoyments cannot but be insipid to 
him whose passions have been prematurely ex- 
cited by agitating pleasures, or whose taste has 
been depraved by such as are debasing and fri- 
volous ; for it is of more consequence to virtue 
than some good people are willing to allow, to 
preserve the taste pure and the judgment sound. 
A vitiated intellect has no small connexion with 
depraved morals. 

Since amusements of some kind are necessa- 
ry to all ages (I speak now with an eye to mere 
human enjoyment) why should it be an object 
of early care, to keep a due proportion of them 
in reserve for those future seasons of life in 
which there will be so much more needed ? 
Why should there not, even for this purpose, be 
adopted a system of salutary restriction, to be 
used by parents toward their children, by in- 
structors toward their pupils, and in the pro- 
gress of life by each man toward himself? In 
a word, why should r not the same reasons, which 
have induced us to tether inferior animals, sug- 
gest the expediency of, in some sort, tethering 
man also ? Since nothing but experience seems 
to teach him, that if he be allowed to anticipate 
his future possessions, and trample all the flow- 
ery fields of real, as well as those of imaginary 
and artificial enjoyment, he not only endures 
present disgust, but defaces and destroys all the 
rich materials of bis future happiness ; and 



leaves himself, for the rest of his life, nothing 
but ravaged fields and barren stubble. 

But the great and radical defect, and that 
which comes more immediately within the pre- 
sent design, seems to be, that in general the 
characteristical principles of Christianity are 
not early and strongly infused into the mind : 
that religion, if taught at all, is rather taught 
incidentally, as a thing of subordinate value, 
than as the leading principle of human actions, 
the great animating spring of human conduct. 
Were the high influential principles of the chris- 
tian religion anxiously and early inculcated, we 
should find that those lapses from virtue, to 
which passion and temptation afterwards too 
frequently solicit, would be more easily reco- 
verable. 

For though the evil propensities of fallen na- 
ture, and the bewitching allurements of plea- 
sure, will too often seduce even those of the best 
education into devious paths, yet we shall find 
that men will seldom be incurably wicked unless 
that internal corruption of principle has taken 
place, which teaches them how to justify ini- 
quity by argument, and to confirm evil conduct 
by the sanction of false reasoning ; or where 
there is a total ignorance of the very nature and 
design of Christianity, which ignorance can on- 
ly exist where early religious instruction has 
been entirely neglected. 

The errors occasioned by the violence of pas- 
sion may be reformed, but systematic wicked- 
ness will be only fortified by time ; and no de- 
crease of strength, no decay of appetite, can 
weaken the power of a pernicious principle. 
He who deliberately commits a bad action, puts 
himself indeed out of the path of safety ; but he 
who adopts a false principle, not only throws 
himself into the enemy's country, but burns the 
ships, breaks the bridge, cuts off every retreat 
by which he might one day hope to return to 
his own. 

It is remarkable that in almost all the cele- 
brated characters of whom we have an account 
in former periods of the English history, we 
find a serious attention to religion discovering 
itself at the close of life, however the preceding 
years might have been misemployed. We meet 
with striking examples of this kind amongst 
statesmen, amongst philosophers, amongst men 
of business, and even amongst men of pleasure. 
We have on record the dying sentiments of 
Walsingha7n, of Smith, of Hutton, the favourites 
of queen Elizabeth. We see, in the following 
reign, Raleigh supporting himself by religion 
under the severity of his fate ; Bacon seeking 
comfort in devotion amidst his disgraces ; and 
Wotton, after having been ambassador to almost 
every court in Europe, taking refuge at last in 
a pious retirement at Eton college. But to enu- 
merate instances would be endless, when, in 
fact, we scarcely discover a single instance to 
the contrary. — In those times it was considered 
as a matter even of common decency, that ad- 
vanced age should possess, at least, the exterior 
of piety ; and we have every reason to believe 
that an irreligious old man would have been 
pointed at as a sort of monster. 

But is this the case in our day ? Do we now 
commonly perceive in any rank that disposition 



284 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



to close life religiously, which at the period to 
which I have alluded was so general even in the 
fashionable world ? I fear it is so far the reverse, 
that if Pope had been our contemporary, and 
were now composing his famous Ethical Poem, 
he could not hazard even that light remark, 

That beads and prayer-books are the toys of age, 
without grossly violating probability. 

But to what cause are we to ascribe that su- 
perannuated impiety, which seems to distinguish 
the present from the preceding generations ? 
Is it not chiefly owing to the neglect of early re- 
ligious instruction, which now for so many 
years has been gaining ground among us ? In 
the last age even public schools were places, no 
less of christian than of classical instruction : 
and the omission of religious worship, whether 
public or private, was deemed, at least, as cen- 
surable a fault as the neglect of a lesson. — Pa- 
rents had not yet imbibed that maxim of modern 
refinement, that religious instruction ought to 
be deferred until the mind be capable of choos- 
ing for itself — that is, until it be so preoccupied 
as to leave neither room nor relish for the arti- 
cles of Christian faith, or the rules of Christian 
obedience. The advice of the wise king of 
Israel of ' training up a child in the way he 
should go,' had not then become obsolete ; and 
the truth of his assertion in the remaining 
clause of the passage, was happily realized in the 
sincere, though late return of many a wanderer. 

Even in the very laws of our nature, there 
seems to be a gracious provision for promoting 
the final efficacy of early religious instruction. 
When the old man has no longer any relish left 
for his accustomed gratifications, in what way 
does he endeavour to fill up the void ? Is it not 
by sending back his thoughts to his early years, 
and endeavouring to live over again in idea 
those scenes which, in this distant retrospect, 
appear far more delightful than he had found 
them to be at the actual period of enjoyment ? 
Disgusted at every thing around him, and dis- 
appointed in those pursuits to which he had 
once looked forward with all the ardour of hope ; 
but to which he now feels he has sacrificed in 
vain, his quiet, and perhaps his integrity, he 
takes a pensive pleasure in reviewing the season 
when his mind was yet cheerful and innocent ; 
and even the very cares and anxieties of that 
happy period appear to him now, in a more 
captivating form than any pleasures he can yet 
hope to enjoy. What then is more natural, I 
had almost said more certain, than that if the 
principles of religion were inculcated, and the 
feelings of devotion excited in his mind in that 
most susceptible season of life, they should now 
revive as well as other contemporary impres- 
sions, and present themselves in a point of view, 
the more interesting, because, while all other 
instances of youthful occupation can be only re- 
collected, these may be called up into fresh exist- 
ence, and be enjoyed even more perfectly than 
before. 

The defects of memory also, which old age 
induces, will, in this instance, assist rather than 
obstruct. It almost universally happens, that 
the more recent transactions are those soonest 
forgotten, while the events of youth and child- 



hood are remembered with accuracy. If there- 
fore pious principles have been implanted, they 
will, even by the course of nature, be recollect- 
ed, while those things which most contribute to 
hinder their growth are swept from the memory. 
What a powerful encouragement then does this 
consideration afford ! or rather what an indis- 
pensable obligation does it lay upon parents, to 
store the minds of their children with the seeds 
of piety ! And on the other hand, what unna- 
tural barbarity is it, irretrievably to shut up the 
last refuge of the wretched, by a neglect of this 
duty; and to render it impossible for those who 
had ' stood all the day idle,' to be called (at least 
without a miracle) even at the eleventh hour. 

No one surely will impute to bigotry or en- 
thusiasm, the lamenting, or even remonstrating 
against such desperate negligence ; nor can it 
be deemed illiberal to inquire, whether even 
a still greater evil does not exist? I mean, 
whether pernicious principles are not as stre- 
nuously inculcated as those of real virtue and 
happiness are discountenanced ? Whether young 
men are not expressly taught to take custom 
and fashion as the ultimate and exclusive 
standard by which to try their principles and 
to weigh their actions! Whether some idol 
of false honour be not consecrated and set 
up for them to worship ? Whether, even among 
the better sort, reputation be not held out 
as a motive of sufficient energy to produce 
virtue, in a world, where yet the greatest 
vices are every day practised openly, with- 
out at all obstructing the reception of those 
who practise them into the best company? 
Whether resentment be not ennobled ; and pride, 
and many other passions, erected into honour- 
able virtues — virtues not less repugnant to the 
gonius and spirit of Christianity than obvious 
and gross vices ? Will it be thought impertinent 
to inquire if the awful doctrines of a perpetually 
present Deity, and a future righteous judgment, 
are early impressed and lastingly engraved on 
the hearts and consciences of our high-born 
youth ? 

Perhaps if there be any one particular in 
which we fall remarkably below the politer na- 
tions of antiquity, it is in that part of educa- 
tion which has a reference to purity of mind 
and the discipline of the heart. 

The great secret of religious education, which 
seems banished from the present practice, con- 
sists in training young men to an habitual in- 
terior restraint, an early government of the af- 
fections, and a course of self-controul over those 
tyrannizing inclinations which have so natural 
a tendency to enslave the human heart. With- 
out this habit of moral restraint, which is one 
of the ' fundamental laws of christian virtue, 
though men may, from natural temper, often 
do good, yet it is impossible that they should 
ever be good. Without the vigorous exercise of 
this controling principle, the best dispositions 
and the most amiable qualities will go but a 
little way towards establishing a virtuous cha- 
racter. For the best dispositions will bo easily 
overcome by the concurrence of passion and 
temptation, in a heart where the passions have 
not been accustomed to this wholesome disci- 
pline : and the most amiable qualities will but 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



5285 



more easily betray their possessor, unless the 
heart be fortified by repeated acts and long 
habits of resistance. 

In this, as in various other instances, we may 
blush at the superiority of pagan instruction. 
Were the Roman youth taught to imagine 
themselves always in the awful presence of 
Cato, in order to habituate tbem betimes to 
suppress base sentiments, and to excite such as 
were generous and noble ? and should not the 
christian youth be continually reminded, that a 
greater than Cato is here ? Should they not be 
trained to the habit of acting under the con- 
Btant impression, that He to whom they must 
one day be accountable for intentions, as well as 
words and actions, is witness to the one as well 
as the other ? that he not only is l about their 
path,' but ' understands their very thoughts.' 

Were the disciples of a pagan* leader taught 
that it was a motive sufficient to compel their 
obedience to any rule, whether they liked it or 
not, that it had the authority of their teacher's 
name ? Were the bare words, the master hath 
said it, sufficient to settle all disputes, and to 
subdue all reluctance ? And shall the scholars 
of a more Divine teacher, who have a code of 
laws Written by God himself, be contented with 
a lower rule, or abide by a meaner authority ? 
And is any argument drawn from human con- 
siderations likely to operate more forcibly on a 
dependent being, than that simple but grand as- 
sertion, with which so many of the precepts of 
our religion are introduced — Because, thus 

SAITH THE LORD ? 

It is doing but little, in the infusion of first 
principles, to obtain the bare assent of* the un- 
derstanding to the existence of one Supreme 
power, unless the heart and affections go along 
with the conviction, by our conceiving of that 
power as intimately connected with ourselves. 
A feeling temper will be but little affected with 
the cold idea of a geometrical God, as the excel- 
lent Pascal expresses it, who merely adjusts all 
the parts of matter, and keeps the elements in 
order. Such a mind will be but little moved, 
unless he be taught to consider his Maker un- 
der the interesting and endearing representa- 
tion which revealed religion gives of him. 
That ' God is,' will be to him rather an alarm- 
ing than a consolatory idea ; till he be persuad- 
ed of the subsequent proposition, that ' he is a 
rewarder of them that diligently seek him.' 
Nay, if natural religion does even acknowledge 
one awful attribute, that 'God is just,' it will 
only increase the terror of a tender conscience, 
till it be learned from the fountain of truth, 
that ho is 'the justifier of him who believeth in 
Jesus.' 

But if the great sanctions of our religion are 
not deeply engraven on the heart, where shall 
we look for any other adequate curb to the fiery 
spirit of youth ? For, let the elements be ever 
so kindly mixed in a human composition, let the 
natural temper be ever so amiable, still when- 
ever a man ceases to think himself an account- 
able being, what motive can he have for resist- 
ing a strong temptation to a present good, when 
he has no dread that he shall thereby forfeit a 
greater future good ? 

* Pythagoras. 



It may perhaps be oDJected, that this deep 
sense of religion would interfere with the gene- 
ral purpose of education, which is designed to 
qualify men for the business of human life, and 
not train up a race of monks and ascetics. 

There is however so little real solidity in this 
specious objection, that I am firmly persuaded, 
that if religious principles were more deeply im- 
pressed on the heart, even the things of this world 
would be much better carried on. For where 
are we to look for all the qualities ; which 
constitute the man of business ; for punctuality, 
diligence, and application, for such attention 
in doing every thing in its proper day (the 
great hinge on which business turns) as among 
men of principle ? Economy of time, truth 
in observing his word, never daring to de- 
ceive or to disappoint — these form the very es- 
sence of an active and an useful chaiacter ; and 
for these, to whom shall we most naturally look ? 
Who is so likely to be ' slothful in business' as 
he who is ' fervent in spirit ?' And will not he 
be most regular in dealing with men, who is 
most diligent in ' serving the Lord ?' 

But, it may be said, allowing that Religion 
does not necessarily spoil a man of lusiness, 
yet it would effectually defeat those accomplish- 
ments, and counteract that fine breeding, which 
essentially constitute the gentleman. 

This again is so far from being a natural con- 
sequence, that, supposing all the other real ad 
vantages of parts, education, and society, to be 
equally taken into the account, there is no doubt 
but that, in point of true politeness, a real Chris- 
tian would beat the world at his own weapons, 
the world itself being judge. 

It must be confessed, that in the present cor- 
rupt state of things, there is scarcely any one 
contrivance for which we are more obliged to 
the inventions of mankind than for that polite- 
ness, as there is perhaps no screen in the world 
which hides so many ugly sights, yet while we 
allow that there never was so admirable a sub- 
stitute for real goodness as good breeding, it is 
certain that the principles of Christianity put 
into action, would of themselves produce more 
genuine politeness than any maxims drawn 
from motives of human vanity or worldly con- 
venience. If love, peace, joy, long-suffering, 
gentleness, patience, goodness, and meekness,, 
may be thought instruments to produce sweet- 
ness of manners, these we are expressly told are 
the ' fruits of the Spirit.' If mourning with 
the afflicted, rejoicing with the happy ; if to 
' esteem others better than ourselves ;' if ' to 
take the lowest room ;' if not to seek our own ;' 
if not to behave ourselves unseemly;' if ' not 
to speak great swelling words of vanity' — if 
these are amiable, engaging, and polite parts of 
behaviour, then would the documents of Saint 
Paul make as true a fine gentleman as the 
courtier of Castiglione, or even the Letters of 
lord Chesterfield himself. Then would simu- 
lation, and dissimulation, and all the nice shades 
and delicate gradations of passive and active 
deceit, be rendered superfluous ; and the affec- 
tions of every heart be won by a shorter and 
a surer way than by the elegant obliquities of 
this late popular preceptor, whose mischiefs 
have outlived his reputation ; and who notwith 



*i8b 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



standing the present just declension of his fame, 
greatly helped, during its transient meridian, 
to relax the general nerve of virtue, and has 
left a taint upon the public morals, of which we 
are still sensible. 

That self-abasement then, which is insepara- 
ble from true Christianity, and the external 
signs of which good breeding knows so well 
how to assume ; and those charities which sug- 
gest invariable kindness to others, even in the 
smallest things, would if left to their natural 
workings, produce that gentleness which it is 
one great object of a polite education to imitate. 
They would produce it too without effort and 
without exertion; for being inherent in the sub- 
stance, it would naturally discover itself on the 
surface. 

For however useful the institutions of polish- 
ed society may be found, yet they can never 
alter the eternal difference between right and 
wrong, or convert appearances into realities; 
they cannot transform decency into virtue, nor 
make politeness pass for principle. And the 
advocates for fashionable breeding should be 
humbled to reflect that every convention of ar- 
tificial manners was adopted not to cure, but to 
conceal, deformity,; that though the superficial 
civilitiesof elegant life tend to make this corrupt 
world a more tolerable place than it would be 
- without them, yet they never will be considered 
as a substitute for Iruth, nor a commutation for 
virtue, by him who is to pass the definitive sen- 
tence on the characters of men. 

Among the many prejudices which the young 
and the gay entertain against religion, one is, 
that it is the declared enemy to wit and genius. 
But, says one of its wittest champions,* ' piety 
enjoins no man to be dull :' and it will be found, 
on a fair inquiry, that though it cannot be de- 
nied that irreligion has had able men for its ad- 
vocates, yet they have never been the most able. 
Nor can any learned profession, any department 
in letters or in science, produce a champion on 
the side of unbelief, but Christianity has a still 
greater name to oppose to it ; philosophers them- 
selves being judges. 

He who studied the book of nature with a 
scrutiny which has scarcely been permitted to 
any other mortal eye, was deeply learned in the 
book of God.t And the ablest writer on the in- 
tellect of man, has left one of the ablest treatises 
on the Reasonableness of Christianity. Thi* es- 
say of Mr. Locke, on the Human Understand- 
ing, will stand up to latest ages, as a monument 
of wisdom ; while Hume's posthumous work, 
the Essay on Suicide, which had excited such 
large expectations, has been long since forgot- 
ten.t 



* Dr. South. 

t Sir Isaac Newton. 

i The Essay on Suicide was published soon after Mr. 
Hume's death. It might mortify his liberal mind (if 
matter and motion were capable of consciousness) to 
learn that his dying legacy, the last concentrated effect 
of his genius and his principles, sent from the grave as 
it were, by a man so justly renowned in other branches 
of literature, produced no sensation on the public mind. 
And that the precious information that every man had 
a right to be his own executioner, was considered as a 
privilege so little desirable, that it probably had not the 
glory of converting one cross road into a cemetery. It 
is to the credit of this country that fewer copies of this 



Pascal has proved that as much rhetoric and 
logic too may be shown in defending Revelation, 
as in attacking it. His geometrical spirit was 
not likely to take up with any proofs but such 
as came as near to demonstration as the nature 
of the subject would admit. Erasmus in his 
writings on the ignorance of the monks, and the 
Provincial Letters on the fallacies of the Jesuits, 
while they exhibit as entire a freedom from bi- 
gotry, exhibit also as much pointed wit, and as 
much sound reasoning, as can be found in the 
whole mass of modern philosophy. 

But while the young adopt the opinion from 
one class of writers, that religious men are weak 
men, they acquire from another class a notion 
that they are ridiculous. And this opinion, by 
mixing itself with their common notions, and 
deriving itself from their very amusements, is 
the more mischievous, as it is imbibed without 
suspicion, and entertained without resistance. 

One common medium through which they 
take this false view is, those favourite works of 
wit and humour, so captivating to youthful ima- 
ginations, where no small part of the author's 
success perhaps has been owing to his dexter- 
ously introducing a pious character with so 
many virtues, that it is impossible not to love 
him ; yet tinctured with so many absurdities, 
that it is equally impossible not to laugh at him. 
The reader's memory will furnish him with too 
many instances of what is here meant. The 
slightest touches of a witty malice can make the 
best character ridiculous. It is effected by any 
little awkwardness ; absence of mind, an obso- 
lete phrase, a formal pronunciation, a peculiarity 
of gesture. Or if such a character be brought 
by unsuspecting honesty, and credulous good- 
ness, into some foolish scrape, it will stamp on 
him an impression of ridicule so indelible, that 
all his worth shall not be able to efface it ; and 
the young, who do not always separate their 
ideas very carefully, shall ever after, by this 
early and false association, conceive of piety as 
having something essentially ridiculous in itself. 
But one of the most infallible arts by which 
the inexperienced are engaged on the side of 
irreligion, is that popular air of candour, good- 
nature, and toleration, which it so invariably 
puts on. While sincere piety is often accused 
of moroseness and severity, because it cannot 
hear the doctrines on which it founds its eter- 
nal hopes derided without emotion ; indiffer- 
ence and unbelief purchase the praise of candor 
at an easy price, because they neither suffer 
grief nor express indignation at hearing the 
most awful truths ridiculed, or the most solemn 
obligations set at nought. They do not engage 
on equal terms. The infidel appears good-hu- 
moured from his very levity ; but the Christian 

work were sold than perhaps ever was the case with a 
writer of so much eminence. A more impotent act of 
wickedness has seldom been achieved, or one which has 
had the glory of making fewer persons wicked or mise- 
rable. That cold and cheerless oblivion which he held 
out as a refuge to beings who had solaced themselves 
with the soothing hope of immortality, has, by a memo- 
rable retribution, overshadowed his last labour ; the 
Essay on Suicide bein^ already as much forgotten as he 
promised the best men that they themselves would be. 
And this favourite work became at once a prey to that 
forgetfulness to which he had consigned the whole hu- 
man race. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



287 



cannot jest on subjects which involve his ever- 
lasting salvation. 

The scoffers whom young people hear talk, 
and the books they hear quoted, falsely charge 
their own injurious opinions on Christianity, 
and then unjustly accuse her of being the mon- 
ster they have made. They dress her up with 
the sword of persecution in one hand, and the 
flames of intolerance in the other ; and then 
ridicule the sober-minded for worshipping an 
idol which their misrepresentation has rendered 
as malignant as Moloch. In the mean-time 
they affect to seize on benevolence with exclu- 
sive appropriation as their own cardinal virtue, 
and to accuse of a bigotted cruelty that narrow 
spirit which points out the perils of licentious- 
ness, and the terrors of a future account. And 
yet this benevolence, with all its tender mercies, 
is not afraid nor ashamed to endeavour at 
snatching away from humble piety the comfort 
of a present hope, and the bright prospect of a 
felicity that shall have no end. It does not how- 
ever seem a very probable means of increasing 
the stock of human happiness, to plunder man- 
kind of that principle, by the destruction of 
which friendship is robbed of its bond, society 
of its security, patience of its motive, morality 
of its foundation, integrity of its reward, sorrow 
of its consolation, life of its balm, and death of 
its support.* 

It will not perhaps be one of the meanest ad- 
vantages of a better state that, as the will shall 
be reformed, so the judgment shall be rectified ; 
that ' evil shall no more be called good,' nor the 
• churl liberal ;' nor the plunderer of our best pos- 
session, our principles, benevolent. Then it will 
be evident that greater injury could not be done 
to truth, nor greater violence to language, than 
by attempting to wrest from Christianity that 
benevolence which is in fact her most appropri- 
ate and peculiar attribute. ' A new command- 
ment give I unto you, that ye love one another.' 
If benevolence be ' good will to men,' it was 
that which angelic messengers were not thought 
too high to announce, nor a much higher being 
than angels too great to teach by his example, 
and to illustrate by his death. It was the cri- 
terion, the very watch-word as it were, by which 
he intended his religion and his followers should 
be distinguished. ' By this shall all men know 
that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to 
another.' Besides, it is the very genius of 
Christianity to extirpate all selfishness, on whose 
vacated ground benevolence naturally and ne- 
cessarily plants itself. 

But not to run through all the particulars 
which obstruct the growth of piety in young 
persons, I shall only name one more. They 
hear much declamation from the fashionable 
reasoners against the contracted and selfish 

* Young persons are too liable to be misled by that ex- 
treme disingenuousness of the new philosophers, when 
writing on every thing and person connected with re- 
vealed religion. These authors often quote satirical po- 
ets as grave historical authorities ; for instance, because 
Juvenal has said that the Jews were so narrow-minded 
that they refused to s"how a spring of water, or the right 
road, to an enquiring traveller who was not of their re- 
ligion, I make little doubt but manv an ignorant free- 
thinker has actually gone away with the belief, that 
such good-natured acts of information were actually for- 
bidden by the law of Moses. 



spirit of Christianity — that it is of a sordid tem- 
per, works for pay, and looks for reward. 

This jargon of French philosophy, which 
prates of pure disinterested goodness acting for 
its own sake, and equally despising punishment 
and disdaining recompence, indicates as little 
knowledge of human nature as of Christian re- 
velation, when it addresses man as a being made 
up of pure intellect, without any mixture of 
passions, and who can be made happy without 
hope, and virtuous without fear. These philoso- 
phers affect to be more independent than Moses, 
more disinterested than Christ himself; for 
1 Moses had respect to the recompence of re- 
ward ;' and Christ ' endured the cross and de- 
spised the shame, for the joy that was set be- 
fore him.' 

A creature hurried away by the impulse of 
some impetuous inclination, is not likely to be 
restrained (if he be restrained at all) by a cold 
reflection on the beauty of virtue. If the dread 
of offending God, and incurring his everlasting 
displeasure, cannot stop him, how shall a weak- 
er motive do it ? When we see that the power- 
ful sanctions which Religion holds out are too 
often an ineffectual curb ; to think of attaining 
the same end by feebler means, is as if one 
should expect to make a watch go the better by 
breaking the main-spring ; nay, as absurd as if 
the philosopher who inculcates the doctrine 
should undertake, with one of his fingers, to 
lift an immense weight which had resisted the 
powers of the crane and lever. * 

On calm and temperate spirits indeed, in the 
hour of retirement, in the repose of the pas- 
sions, in the absence of temptation, virtue does 
seem to be her own adequate reward : and 
very lovely are the fruits she bears in preserv- 
ing health, credit, and fortune. But on how few 
will this principle act! and even on them how 
often will its operation be suspended ? and 
though virtue for her own sake might have cap- 
tivated a few hearts, which almost seem cast in 
a natural mould of goodness, yet no motive could 
at all times, be so likely to restrain even these, 
(especially under the pressure of temptation) as 
this simple assertion — For all this, God will 
bring thee unto judgment. 

It is the beauty of our religion, that it is not 
held out exclusively to a few select spirits ; that 
it is not an object of speculation, or an exercise 
of ingenuity, but a rule of life suited to every 
condition, capacity, and temper. It is the glory 
of the Christian religion to be, what it was the 
glory of every ancient philosophic system not to 
be, the religion of the people ; and that which 
constitutes its' characteristic value, is its suita- 
bleness to the genius, condition, and necessities 
of mankind. 

For with whatsoever obscurities it has pleased 
God to shadow some parts of his written word, 
yet he has graciously ordered that whatever is 
necessary should be perspicuous also : and 
though, as to his adorable essence, ' clouds and 
darkness are round about him ;' yet these are 
not the medium through which he has left us to 
discover our duty. In this, as in all other points, 
revealed religion has a decided superiority over 
all the ancient systems of philosophy, which 
were alwavs in many respects impracticable 



288 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



and extravagant, because not framed from ob- 
servations drawn from a perfect knowledge ' of 
what was in man.' Whereas the whole scheme 
of the Gospel is accommodated to real human 
nature ; laying open its mortal disease, present- 
ing its only remedy ; exhibiting rules of conduct 
often difficult, indeed, but never impossible ; and 
where the rule was so high that the practicabili- 
ty seemed desperate, holding out a living pat- 
tern, to elucidate the doctrine and to illustrate 
the precept ; offering every where the clearest 
notions of what we have to hope, and what we 
have to fear ; the strongest injunctions of what 
we are to believe, and the most explicit direc- 
tions of what we are to do ; with the most en- 
couraging offers of Divine assistance for strength- 
ening our faith and quickening our obedience. 

In short, whoever examines the wants of his 
own heart, and the appropriate assistance which 
the Gospel furnishes, will find them to be two 
tallies which exactly correspond — an internal 
evidence, stronger perhaps than any other, of 
the truth of Revelation. 

This is the religion with which the ingenuous 
hearts of youth should be warmed, and by which 
their minds, while pliant, should be directed. 
This will afford a ' lamp to their paths,' strong- 
er, steadier, brighter, than the feeble and un- 
certain glimmer of a cold and comfortless ohi- 
losophy. 



Other symptoms of the decline of Christianity — 
No family religion — Corrupt or negligent ex- 
ample of superiors — The self-denying and 
evangelical virtues held in contempt — Neglect 
of encouraging and promoting religion among 
servants. 

It was by no means the design of the present 
undertaking to make a general invective on the 
corrupt state of manners, or even to animadvert 
on the conduct of the higher ranks, but inas- 
much as the corruption of that conduct, and the 
depravation of those manners appear to be a na- 
tural consequence of the visible decline of reli- 
gion ; and as operating in its turn, as a cause, 
on the inferior orders of society. 

Of the other obvious causes which contribute 
to this decline of morals, little will be said. Nor 
is the present a romantic attempt to restore the 
simplicity of primitive manners. This is too 
literally an age of gold, to expect that it should 
be so in the poetical and figurative sense. It 
would be unjust and absurd not to form our opi- 
nions and expectations from the present general 
state of society. And it would argue great ig- 
norance of the corruption which commerce, and 
conquest, and riches, and arts necessarily intro- 
duce into a state, to look for the same sober- 
mindedness, simplicity, and purity among the 
dregs of Romulus, as the severe and simple 
manners of elder Rome presented. 

But though it would be an attempt'of despe- 
rate hardihood, to controvert that maxim of the 
witty bard, that 

To mend the world 's a vast design 1 

«t popular aphorism, by the way, which has done 



no little mischief, inasmuch, as under the mask 
of hopelessness it suggests an indolent acqui 
escence ; yet to make the best of the times in 
which we live ; to fill up the measure of our 
own actual, particular, and individual duties ; 
and to take care that the age shall not be the 
worse for our having been cast into it, seems to 
be the bare dictate of common probity, and not 
a romantic flight of impracticable perfection. 

Is it then so very chimerical to imagine that 
the benevolent can be sober-minded ? Is it ro- 
mantic to desire that the good should be con- 
sistent ? Is it absurd to fancy that what has 
once been practised should not now be imprac- 
ticable ? 

ilt is impossible not to help regretting that it 
should be the general temper of many of the 
leading persons of that age which arrogates to 
itself the glorious character of the age of bene- 
volence, to be kind, considerate, and compassion- 
ate, every where rather than at home ; that the 
rich and the fashionable should be zealous in 
promoting religious as well as charitable insti- 
tutions abroad, and yet discourage every thing 
which looks like religion in their own families ; 
that they sho.uld be at a considerable expense in 
instructing the poor at a distance, and yet dis- 
credit piety among their own servants — those 
more immediate objects of every man's attention, 
whom Providence has enabled to keep any ; 
and for whose conduct he will be finally ac- 
countable, inasmuch as he may have helped to 
corrupt it. 

Is there any degree of pecuniary bounty with- 
out doors which can counteract the mischief of 
a wrong example at home, or atone for that in- 
fectious laxity of principle which spreads cor- 
ruption wherever its influence extends ? ' Is not 
he the best benefactor to society who sets the 
best example, and who does not only the most 
good, but the least evil ? Will not that man, 
however liberal, very imperfectly promote virtue 
in the world at large, who neglects to dissemi- 
nate its principles within the immediate sphere 
of his own personal influence, by a correct con- 
duct and a blameless behaviour ? Can a gene- 
rous but profligate person atone by his purse 
for the disorders of his life ? Can he expect a 
blessing on his bounties, while he defeats their 
effect by a profane or even a careless conver- 
sation ? 

In moral as well as in political treatises, it is 
often asserted that it is a great evil to do no 
good ; but it has not been perhaps enough in- 
sisted on, that it is. a great deal to do no evil. 
This species of goodness is not ostentatious 
enough for popular declamation ; and the value 
of this abstinence from vice is perhaps not well 
understood but by Christians, because it wants 
the ostensible brilliancy of actual performance. 

But as the principles of Christianity are in no 
great repute, so their concomitant qualities, the 
evangelical virtues, are proportionably dises- 
teemed. Let it, however, be remembered, that 
those secret habits of self-control, those interior 
and unobtrusive virtues, which excite no asto- 
nishment, kindle no emulation, and extort no 
praise, are at the same time the most difficult, 
and the most sublime ; and if Christianity be 
true, will be the most graciously accepted by 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



S289 



Him who witnesses the secret combat and the 
silent victory : while the splendid deeds which 
have the world for their witness, and immortal 
tame for their reward, shall perhaps cost him 
who achieved them less than it costs a conscien- 
tious Christian to subdue one irregular inclina- 
tion : a conquest which the world will never 
know, and, if it did, would probably despise. 

Though great actions, performed on human 
motives, are permitted by the Supreme Dispo- 
ser to be equally beneficial to society with such 
as arc performed on purer principles ; yet it is 
an affecting consideration, that, at the final ad- 
justment of accounts, the politician who raised 
a state, or the hero who preserved it, may miss 
of that favour of God which, if it was not his 
motive, will certainly not be his reward. And 
it is awful to reflect, as we visit the monuments 
justly raised by public gratitude, or the statues 
properly erected by well-earned admiration ; it 
is awful, I say, to reflect on what may now be 
the unalterable condition of the illustrious object 
of these deserved but unavailing honours ; and 
that he who has saved a state may have lost his 
own soul ! 

A christian life seems to consist of two things 
almost equally difficult ; the adoption of good 
habits, and the excision of such as are evil. No 
one sets out on a religious course with a stock 
of native innocence, or actual freedom from sin; 
for there is no such state in human life. The 
natural heart is not, as has been too often sup- 
posed, a blank paper, whereon the Divine Spirit 
has nothing to do but to stamp characters of 
goodness. No ! many blots are to be erased, 
many defilements are to be cleansed, as well as 
fresh impressions to be made. 

The vigilant Christian, therefore, who acts 
with an eye to the approbation of his Maker, 
rather than to that of mankind ; to a future ac- 
count, rather than to present glory ; will find 
that diligently to cultivate the ' unweeded gar- 
den' of his own heart ; to mend the soil ; to clear 
the ground of indigenous vices, by practising 
the painful business of extirpation, will be that 
part of his duty which will cost him most la- 
bour, and bring him least credit : while the fair 
flower of one showy action, produced with little 
trouble, and of which the very pleasure is re- 
ward enough, shall gain him more praise than 
the eradication of the rankest weeds which over- 
run the natural heart. 

But the Gospel judges not after the manner 
of men ; for it never fails to make the abstinent 
virtues a previous step to the right performance 
of the operative ones; and the relinquishing 
what is wrong to be a necessary prelude to the 
performance of what is right. It makes ' ceas- 
ing to do evil' the indispensable preliminary to 
' learning to do well.' It continually suggests 
that something is to be laid aside, as well as to 
be practised. We must ' hale vain thoughts' 
before we can ' love God's law.' We must 
lay aside ' malice and hypocrisy,' to enable 
us ' to receive the engrafted word.' Having 
* a conscience void of offence;' — 'abstaining 
fi^rn fleshly lusts ;' — 'bring every thought into 
obedience ;' — these are actions, or rather nega- 
tions, which, though they never will obtain im- 
mortality from the chisel of the statuary, the 

Vol. I. f 



declamation of the historian, or the panegyric 
of the poet, will, however, be ' had in everlasting 
remembrance,' when the works of the statuary, 
tho historian, and the poet will be no more. 

And, for our encouragement, it is observable 
that a more difficult Christian virtue generally 
involves an easier one. A habit of self-denial 
in permitted pleasures, easily induces a victory 
over such as arc unlawful. And to sit loose to 
our own possessions, necessarily includes an ex- 
emption from coveting the possessions of others* 
and so on of the rest. 

Will it be difficult then to trace back to that 
want of early restraint noticed in the preceding 
chapter, that lieence of behaviour which, having 
been indulged in youth, afterwards reigned 
uncontrolled in families : and which having 
infected education in its first springs, taints all 
the streams of domestic virtue ? And will it be 
thought strange that that same want of religious 
principle which corrupted our children, should 
corrupt our servants ? 

We scarcely go into any company without 
hearing some invective against the increased 
profligacy of this order of men ; and the remark 
is made with as great an air of astonishment, as 
if the cause of the complaint were not as visible 
as the truth of it. It would be endless to point 
out instances in which the increased dissipation 
of their betters (as they are oddly called) has 
contributed to the growth of this evil. But 
it comes only within the immediate design of 
the present undertaking to insist on the single 
circumstance of the almost total extermination 
of religion in fashionable families, as a cause 
adequate of itself to any consequence which de- 
praved morals can produce. 

Is there not a degree of injustice in persons 
who express strong indignation at those crimes 
which crowd our prisons, and furnish our inces- 
sant executions, and who yet discourage not an 
internal principle of vice: since those crimes 
are nothing more than that principle put into 
action ? And it is no less absurd than cruel, in 
such of the great as lead disorderly lives, to ex- 
pect to prevent vice by the laws they make to 
restrain or punish it, while their own example 
is a perpetual source of temptation to commit it. 
If, hy their own practice, they demonstrate that 
they think a vicious life is the only happy 
one, with what colour of justice can they inflict 
penalties on others, who, by acting on the same 
principle, expect the same indulgence ! 

And indeed it is somewhat unreasonable to 
expect very high degrees of virtue and probity 
from a class of people whose whole life, after 
they are admitted into dissipated families, is one 
continued counteraction of the principles in 
which they have probably been bred. 

When a poor youth is transplanted from one 
of those excellent institutions which do honor to 
the present age, and give some hope of reform- 
ing the next, into tke family of his noble bene- 
factor in town, who has, perhaps, provided libe- 
rally for his instruction in the country ; what 
must be his astonishment at finding the manner 
of life to which he is introduced diametrically 
opposite to that life to which he has been taught 
that salvation is alone annexed ! He has beeji 
taught that it was his bounden duty to be de- 



290 



THE WORKS O* HANNAH MORE. 



voutly thankful for his own scanty meal, per- 
haps of barley-bread ; yet he sees his noble lord 
sit down every day, 

Not to a dinner, but a hecatomb : 

to a repast of which every element is plundered, 
and every climate impoverished ; for which na- 
ture is ransacked, and art is exhausted ; without 
even the formal ceremony of a slight acknow- 
ledgment. It will be lucky for the master, if 
his servant does not happen to know that even 
the pagans never sat down to a repast without 
making a libation to their deities ; and that the 
Jews did not eat a little fruit, or drink a cup of 
water, without an expression of devout thank- 
fulness. 

Next to the law of God, he has been taught to 
reverence the law of the land, and to respect an 
act of parliament next to a text of Scripture : 
yet he sees his honourable protector, publicly 
in his own house, engaged in the evening in 
playing at a game expressly prohibited by the 
laws, and against which perhaps he himself had 
been assisting in the day to pass an act. 

While the contempt of religion was confined 
to wits and philosophers, the effect was not so 
sensibly felt. But we cannot congratulate the 
ordinary race of mortals on their emancipation 
from old prejudices, or their indifference to sa- 
cred usages ; as it is not at all visible that the 
world is become happier in proportion as it is 
become more enlightened. We might rejoice 
more in the boasted diffusion of light and free 
dom, were it not apparent that bankruptcies are 
grown more frequent, robberies more common, 
divorces more numerous, and forgeries more ex- 
tensive — that more rich men die by their own 
hand, and more poor men by the hand of the 
executioner — than when Christianity was prac- 
tised by the vulgar, and countenanced, at least, 
by the great. 

It is not to be regretted, therefore, while the 
affluent are encouraging so many admirable 
schemes for promoting religion among the chil- 
dren of the poor, that they do not like to perpe- 
tuate the principle, by encouraging it in their 
own children and their servants also ? Is it 
not a pity, since these last are so moderately 
furnished with the good things of this life, to 
rob them of that bright reversion, the bare hope 
of which is a counterpoise to all the hardships 
they undergo here — especially since by dimi- 
nishing this future hope, we shall not be likely 
to add to their present usefulness ? 

Still allowing, what has been already granted, 
that absolute infidelity is not the reigning evil, 
and that servants will perhaps be more likely 
to see religion neglected than to hear it ridiculed 
— would it not be a meritorious kindness in fa- 
milies of a better stamp, to furnish them with 
more opportunities of learning and practising 
thsir duty? Is it not impolitic indeed, as well 
as unkind, to refuse them any means of having 
impressed on their consciences the operative 
principles of Christianity ? It is but little, barely 
not to oppose their going to church, not to pre- 
vent their doing their duty at home, their op- 
portunities of doing both ought to be facilitated, 
by giving them, at certain seasons, as few em- 
ployments as possible that may interfere with 



both. Even when religion is by pretty genera* 
consent banished from our families at home, that 
only furnishes a stronger reason why our fami- 
lies should not be banished from religion in the 
churches. 

But if these opportunities are not made easy 
and convenient to them, their superiors have no 
right to expect from them a zeal so far trans- 
cending their own, as to induce them to sur- 
mount difficulties for the sake of duty. Religion 
is never once represented in Scripture as a light 
attainment ; it is never once illustrated by an 
easy, a quiet, or an indolent allegory. 

On the contrary, it is exhibited under the ac- 
tive figure of a combat, a race ; something ex- 
pressive of exertion, activity, progress. And yet 
many are unjust enough to think that this war- 
fare can be fought, though they themselves are 
perpetually weakening the vigour of the com- 
batant ; this race be run, though they are inces- 
santly obstructing the progress of him who runs 
by some hard and interfering command. That 
our compassionate Judge, who ' knoweth where- 
of we are made, and remembereth that we are 
but dust,' is particularly touched with the feeling 
of their infirmities, can never be doubted ; but 
what portion of forgiveness he will extend to 
those who lay on their virtue, hard burdens 'too 
heavy for them to bear ' who shall say ? 

To keep an immortal being in a state of spi- 
ritual darkness, is a positive disobedience to His 
law, who when he bestowed the Bible, no lesa 
than when he created the material world, said 
Let there he light. It were well, both for the 
advantage of master and servant, that the latter 
should have the doctrines of the Gospel fre 
quently impressed on his heart ; that his con- 
science should be made familiar with a system 
which offers such clear and intelligible proposi- 
tions of moral duty. The striking interrogation, 
' how shall I do this great wickedness, and sin 
against God ?' will perhaps operate as forcibly 
on an uncultivated mind, as the most eloquent 
essay to prove that man is not an accountable 
being. That once credited promise, that ' they 
who have done well shall go into everlasting 
life,' will be more grateful to the spirit of a plain 
man, than that more elegant and disinterested 
sentiment, that virtue is its own reward. That, 
' he that walketh uprightly walketh surely,' is 
not on the whole a dangerous, or a misleading 
maxim. And ' well done, good and faithful ser- 
vant ! I will make thee ruler over many things, 
though offensive to the liberal spirit of philoso- 
phic dignity, is a comfortable support to humble 
and suffering piety. That ' we should do to 
others as we would they should do to us,' is a 
portable measure of human duty, always at hand, 
as always referring to something within him- 
self, not amiss for a poor man to carry constant- 
ly about with him, who ha3 neither time nor 
learning to search for a better. It is an uni- 
versal and compendious law, so universal as to 
include the whole compass of social obligation ; 
so compendious as to be inclosed in so short and 
plain an aphorism, that the dullest mind cannot 
misapprehend, nor the weakest memory for«t 
it. It is convenient for bringing out on all fne 
ordinary occasions of life. We need not say, 
' who shall go up to heaven and bring it unto 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



an 



us, for this word is very nigh unto thee, in 
thy mouth and in thy heart, that thou mayest 
do it.'* 

For it is a very valuable part of the gospel of 
Christ, Ihat though it is an entire and perfect 
system in its design ! though it exhibits one 
great plan from which complete trains of argu- 
ment, and connected schemes of reasoning may 
be deduced ; yet in compassion to the multitude, 
for whom this benevolent institution was in a 
good measure designed, and who could not have 
comprehended a long chain of propositions, or 
have embraced remote deductions, the most im- 
portant truths of doctrine, and the most essential 
documents of virtue, are detailed in single max- 
ims, and comprised in short sentences ; hide, 
pendent of themselves, yet making a necessary 
part of a consummate whole ; from a few of 
which principles the whole train of human vir- 
tues has been deduced, and many a perfect body 
of ethics has been framed. 

If it be thought wonderful, that frbm'so few 
letters of the alphabet, so few figures of arithme- 
tic, so few notes in music, such endless combi- 
nations should have been produced in their re- 
spective arts how far more beautiful would it 
be to trace the whole circle of morals thus grow- 
ing out of a few elementary principles of gospel 
truth. 

All Seneca's arguments against the fear of 
death never yet reconciled one reader to its ap- 
proach half so effectually as the humble believer 
is reconciled to ii by that simple persuasion, ' I 
know that my Redeemer liveth.' 

While the modern philosopher is extending 
the boundaries of human knowledge, by under- 
taking to prove that matter is eternal ; or en- 
larging the stock of human happiness, by de- 
monstrating the extinction of spirit — it can do 
no harm to an unlettered man to believe, that 
' heaven and earth shall pass away, but God's 
word shall not pass away.' While the former 
is indulging the profitable inquiry why the 
Deity made the world so late, or why he made it 
at all, it will not hurt the latter to believe that 
' in the beginning God made the world,' and 
that in the end l he shall judge it in righteous- 
ness.' 

While the liberal scholar is usefully studying 
the law of nature and of nations, let him rejoice 
that his more illiterate brother possesses the 
plain conviction that ' love is the fulfilling of the 
law' — that 'love worketh no ill to his neighbour.' 
And let him be persuaded that he himself, 
though he know all Tully's Offices by heart, 
may not have acquired a more feeling and" ope- 
rative sentiment than is conveyed to the com- 
mon Christian in the rule to 'bear each other's 
burthen.' While the wit is criticising the creed, 
he will be no loser by encouraging his depend- 
ants to keep the commandments ; since a few 
such simple propositions as the above furnish a 
more practical and correct rule of life than can 
be gleaned from all the volumes of ancient phi- 
losophy, justly eminent as many of them are for 
wisdom and purity. For though they abound 
with passages of true sublimity, and sentiments 
of great moral beauty, yet the result is naturally 
defective, the conclusions necessarily contra- 
* Duut. xxx. 11 and 12. 



dictory. — This was no fault of the author, but 
of the system. The vision was acute, but the 
light was dim. The sharpest sagacity could 
not distinguish spiritual objects, in the twilight 
of natural religion, with that accuracy with 
which they are now discerned by every common 
Christian, in the diffusion of gospel light. 

And whether it be that what depraves the 
principle darkens the intellect also, certain it is 
that an uneducated serious Christian reads his 
Bible with a clearness of intelligence, with an 
intellectual comment which no sceptic or mere 
worldling ever attains. The former has not 
prejudged the cause he is examining. He is 
not often led by his passions, still more rarely 
by his interest, to resist his convictions. While 
the ' secret of the Lord is (obviously) with them 
that fear him,' the mind of them who fear him 
not, is generally prejudiced by a retaining fee 
from the world, from their passions or their 
pride, before they enter on the inquiry. 

With what consistency can the covetous man 
embrace a religion which so pointedly forbids 
him to lay up treasures on earth ?' How will 
the man of spirit, as the world is pleased to call 
the duellist, relish a religion which allows not 
' the sun to go down upon his wrath ?' How 
can the ambitious struggle for ' a kingdom 
which is not in this world, and embrace a faith 
which commands hjm to lay down his crown at 
the feet of another ?' How should the professed 
wit or the mere philosopher adopt a system 
which demands in a lofty tone of derision, 
' Where is the scribe ? Where is the wise ? 
Where is the disputer of this world ?' How will 
the self-satisfied Pharisee endure a religion 
which, while it peremptorily demands from him 
every useful action, and every right exertion, 
will not permit him to rest his hope of salvation 
on their performance ? He whose affections are 
voluntarily riveted to the present world, will not 
much delight in a scheme whose avowed prin- 
ciples is to set him above it. The obvious con- 
sequence of these ' hard sayings,' is illustrated 
by daily instances. ' Have any of the rulers 
believed on him ?' is a question not confined to 
the first age of his appearance. Had the most 
enlightened philosophers of the most polished 
nations, collected all the scattered wit and learn- 
ing of the world into one point in order to in- 
vent a religion for the salvation of mankind, the 
doctrine of the cross is perhaps precisely the 
thing they would never have hit upon : precisely 
the thing which, being offered to them, they 
would reject. The intellectual pride of the phi- 
losopher relished it as little as the carnal pride 
of the Jew ; for it flattered human wit no more 
than it gratified human grandeur. The pride 
of great acquirements, and of great wealth, 
equally obstructs the reception of divine truth 
into the heart ; and whether the natural man be 
called upon to part either from ' great posses- 
sions,' or ' high imaginations,' he equally goea 
away sorrowing. 



CHAP. V. 

The negligent conduct of Christians no real oh- 
jection against Christianity. — The reason why 



292 



HE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



its effects are not more manifest to worldly 
men, is because believers do not lead Chris- 
tian lives. Professors differ but little in their 
practice from unielievers. Even real Chris- 
tians are too diffident and timid, and afraid 
of acting up to their principles. — The absur- 
dity of the charge commonly brought against 
religious people, that they are too strict. 

It is, an objection frequently brought against 
Christianity, that if it exhibited so perfect a 
scheme, if its influences were as strong-, if its 
effects were as powerful, as its friends pre- 
tend, it must have produced more visible con- 
sequences in the reformation of mankind. This 
is not the place fully to answer this objection, 
which (like all the other cavils against our re- 
ligion) continues to be urged just as if it never 
had been answered. 

That vice and immorality prevail in no small 
degree in countries professing Christianity, we 
need not go out of our own to be convinced. 
But that this is the case only because this be- 
nign principle is not suffered to operate in its 
full power, will bo no less obvious to all who are 
sincere in their inquiries : For if we allow (and 
who that examines impartially can help allow- 
ing) that it is the natural tendency of Christi- 
anity to make men better, then it must be the 
aversion from receiving it, and not the fault of 
the principle, which prevents them from be- 
coming so. 

Those who are acquainted with the effects 
which Christianity actually produced in the 
first ages of the church, when it was received 
in its genuine purity, and when it did operate 
without obstruction, from its professors at least, 
will want no oth r proof of its inherent power 
and eiiicacy. At that period, its most decided 
and industrious enemy, the emperor Julian, 
could recommend the manners of Gallileans to 
the imitation of his pagan high priests ; though 
he himself, at the same time, was doing every 
thing which the most inveterate malice, sharpen- 
d by the acutest wit, and backed by the most 
absolute power could devise, to discredit their 
doctrines. 

Nor would the efficacy of Christianity be less 
visible now in influencing tfie conduct of its 
professors, if its principles were heartily and 
sincerely received. They would, were they of 
the true genuine cast operate on the conduct so 
effectually, that we should see morals and man- 
ners growing out of principles, as we see other 
consequences grow out of their proper and na- 
tural causes. Let but this great spring have its 
unobstructed play, and there would be little oc- 
casion to declaim against this excess or that 
enormity. If the same skill and care which are 
employed in curing symptoms, were vigorously 
levelled at the internal principle of the disease, 
the moral health would feel the benefit. If that 
attcnti in which is bestowed in lopping the re- 
dundant and unsightly branches, were devoted 
to the cultivation of a sound and uncorrupt root, 
the effect of this labour would soon be discovered 
by the excellence of the fruits. 

For though, even in the highest possible ex- 
ertion of religious principle, and the most dili- 
gent practice of all its consequential train of 



virtues, man would still find evil propensities 
enough, in his fallen nature, to make it neces- 
sary that he should counteract them by keeping 
alive his difigence after higher attainments, and 
toquicken his aspirations after a bettei state ; yot 
the prevailing temper would be in general right; 
the will would be in a great measure rectified ; 
and the heart, feeling, and acknowledging its dis- 
ease, would apply itself diligently to the only 
remedy. Thus though even the best men have 
infirmities enough to deplore, and commit sins 
enough to keep them deeply humble, and feel 
more sensibly than others the imperfections of 
that vessel in which their heavenly treasure is 
hid, they however have the internal consolation 
pf knowing that they shall have to do with a 
morciful Father, who ' despiseth not the sighing 
of the contrite heart, nor the desire of such as 
be sorrowful,' who has been witness to all their 
struggles against sin, and to whom they can ap- 
peal with Peter for the sincerity of their desires 
— ' Lord ! Thou knowest all things : thou 
knowest that I love Thee.' 

All the heavy charges which have been 
brought against religion have been taken from 
the abuses of it. In every other instance, the 
injustice of this proceeding would be notorious : 
but there is a general want of candour in the 
judgment of men on this subject, which we do 
not find them exercise on other occasions ; that 
of throwing the fault of the erring or ignorant 
professor on the profession itself. 

It does not derogate from the honourable pro- 
fession of arms, that there are cowards and^rag- 
garts in the army. If any man lose his estate 
by the chicanery of an attorney, or his health 
by the blunder of a physician, it is commonly 
said that the one was a disgrace to his business, 
and the other was ignorant of it ; but no one 
therefore concludes that law and physic are 
contemptible professions. 

Christianity alone is obliged to bear all the 
obloquy incurred by the misconduct of its follow 
ers ; to sustain all the reproach excited by igno- 
rant, by fanatical, by superstitious, or hypocritical 
professors. But whoever accuses it of a tendency 
to produce the errors of these professors, must 
have picked up his opinion any where rather 
than in the New Testament ; which book being 
the only authentic history of Christianity, is that 
which candour would naturally consult for in- 
formation. 

But as worldly and irreligious men do not 
draw their notions from that pure fountain, but 
from # the polluted stream of human practice ; as 
they form their judgment of Divine truth from 
the conduct of those who pretend to be en- 
lightened by it ; gome charitable allowance must 
be made for the contempt which they entertain 
for Christianity, when they see what poor effects 
it produces in the lives of the generality of pro- 
fessing Christians. What do they observe there 
which can lead them to entertain very high 
ideas of the principles which give birth to such 
practices ? 

Do men of the world discover any marked, 
any decided difference between the conduct of 
nominal Christians and the rest of their neigh- 
bours who pretend to no religion at all ? Do 
they see, in the daily lives of such, any great 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



293 



abundance of those fruits by which they have 
heard believers are to be known ? On the con- 
trary, do they not discern in them the same 
anxious and unwearied pursuit after the things 
of the earth, as in those who do not profess to 
have any thought of heaven ? Do not they see 
them labour as sedulously in the interests of a 
debasing and frivolous dissipation, as those who 
do not pretend to have any nobler object in 
view ? Is there not the same eagerness to plunge 
into all sorts of follies themselves, and the same 
unrighteous speed in introducing their children 
to them, as if they had never entered into a 
solemn engagement to renounce them ? Is 
there not the same self-indulgence, the same 
luxury, and the same passionate attachment to 
the things of this world in them, as is visible in 
those who do not look for another ? 

Do not thoughtless neglect, and habitual dis- 
sipation answer, as to society, all the ends of the 
most decided infidelity ? Between the barely 
decent and the openly profane there is indeed 
this difference — That the one, by making no 
profession, deceives neither the world nor his 
own heart : while the other, by introducing him- 
self in forms, fancies that he does something, 
and thanks God that ' he ia not like this pub- 
lican.' The one only shuts his eyes upon the 
danger which the other despises. 

But these unfruitful professors would do well 
to recollect that, by a conduct so little worthy 
of their high calling, they not only violate the 
law to which they have vowed obedience, but 
occasion many to disbelieve or to despise it; 
that they are thus in a great measure accounta- 
ble for the infidelity of others, and of course will 
have to answer for more than their own person- 
al offences. For did they in any respect live 
up to the principles they profess ; did they adorn 
the doctrines of Christianity by a life in any de- 
gree consonant to their faith ; did they exhibit 
any thing of the ' beauty of holiness' in their 
daily conversation ; they would then give such 
a demonstrative proof not only of the sincerity 
of their own obedience, but of the brightness 
of that divine light by which they profess to 
walk, that the most determined unbeliever would 
at last begin to think there must he something 
in a religion of which the effects were so visible, 
and the fruits so amiable ; and in time be led to 
4 glorify,' not them, not the imperfect doers of 
these works, but 'their Father, which is in 
heaven.' Whereas, as things are at present 
carried «n, the obvious conclusion must be, 
either that Christians do not believe in the re- 
ligion they profess, or that there is no truth in 
the religion itself. 

For will he not naturally say, that if its in- 
fluences were so predominant, its consequences 
must be more evident ! that, if the prize held out 
were really so bright, those who truly believed 
so, would surely do something, and sacrifice 
something to obtain it ! 

This effect of the carelessness of believers on 
the hearts of others, will probably be a heavy 
aggravation of their own guilt at the final reck- 
oning : — and there is no negligent Christian can 
guess where the infection of his example may 
6top ; or how remotely it may be pleaded as a 
palliation of the sins of others, who either may 



think themselves safe while they are only doing 
what Christian's allow themselves to do; or who 
may adduce a Christian's habitual violation of 
the divine law, as a presumptive evidence that 
there is no truth in Christianity. 

This swells the amount of the actual mischief 
beyond calculation ; and there is something 
terrible in the idea of this sort of definite evil, 
that the careless Christian can never know the 
extent of the contagion he spreads, nor the mul- 
tiplied infections which they may communicate 
in their turn, whom his disorders first corrupted. 

And there is this farther aggravation of his 
offence, that he will not only be answerable for 
all the positive evils of which his example is the 
cause; but for the omission of all the probable 
good which might have been called forth in 
others, had his actions been consistent with his 
profession. What a strong, what an almost 
irresistible conviction would it carry to the 
hearts of unbelievers, if they beheld that charac- 
teristic difference in the manner of Christians, 
which their profession gives one to expect, if 
they saw that disinterestedness, that humility, 
sober-rffindedness, temperance, simplicity, and 
sincerity, which are the unavoidable fruits of a 
genuine faith ! and which the Bible has taught 
them to expect in every Christian. 

But, while a man talks like a saint, and yet 
lives like a sinner ; while he professes to believe 
like an apostle, and yet leads the life of a sen- 
sualist ; talks of ardent faith, and yet exhibits a 
cold and low practice ; boasts himself the dis- 
ciple of a meek Master, and yet is as much a 
slave to his passions as they who acknowledge 
no such authority ; while he appears the proud 
professor of an humble religion, or the intem- 
perate champion of a self-denying one — =such a 
man brings Christianity into disrepute, confirms 
those in error who might have been awakened 
to conviction, strengthens doubt into disbelief, 
and hardens indifference into contempt. 

Even among those of a better cast and a 
purer principle, the excessive restraints of 
timidity, caution, and that ' fear of man, which 
bringeth a snare,' confine, and almost stifle the 
e-enerous spirit of an ardent exertion in the 
cause of religion. Christianity may patheti- 
cally expostulate, that it is not always ' an open 
enemy which dishonours her,' but her ' familiar 
friend.' And ■ what dost thou more than 
others ?' is a question which even the good and 
worthy should often ask themselves, in order to 
quicken their zeal ; to prevent the total stagna- 
tion of unexerted principles, on the one hand 
or the danger, on the other, of their being driven 
down the gulf of ruin by the unresisted and con- 
fluent tides of temptation, fashion, and example. 

In a very strict and mortified age, of which a 
scrupulous severity was the predominant cha- 
racter, precautions against an excessive zeal 
might, and doubtless would, be a wholesome 
and prudent measure. But in these times of 
relaxed principle and frigid indifference, to see 
people so vigilantly on their guard against the 
imaginary mischiefs of i they 

run headlong into the real opposite perils of a 
destrui I of the one- 

eyed animal in the fable : who, living on the 
I banks of tiie ocean, never fancied lie could be 



294 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



destroyed any way but by drowning : but, while 
he kept that one eye constantly fixed on the sea, 
on which side he concluded all the peril lay, he 
was devoured by an enemy on the dry land, 
from which quarter he never suspected any 
danger. 

Are not the mischiefs of an enthusiastic piety 
insisted on with as much earnestness as if an 
extravagant devotion were the prevailing pro- 
pensity 1 Is not the necessity of moderation as 
vehemently urged as if an intemperate zeal 
were the epidemic distemper of the great world ? 
as if all our apparent danger and natural bias 
lay on the side of a too rigid austerity, which 
required the discreet and constant counteraction 
of an opposite principle ? Would not a stranger 
be almost tempted to imagine, from the frequent 
invectives against extreme strictness, that ab- 
straction from the world, and a monastic rage 
for retreat, were the ruling temper ? that we 
were in some danger of seeing our places of di- 
version abandoned, and the enthusiastic scenes 
of the Holy Fathers of the desert acted over again 
by the frantic and uncontrollable devotion of 
our young persons of fashion ? 

It is not to be denied, that enthusiasm is an 
evil to which the more religious of the lower 
class are peculiarly exposed ; and this from a 
variety of causes, upon which this is not the 
place to enlarge. But who will be hardy enough 
to assert that the class we are now addressing, 
commonly fall into the same error. In order to 
establish or to overthrow this assertion, let each 
fashionable reader confess whether, within the 
sphere of his own observation, the fact be real- 
ized. Let each bring this vague charge spe- 
cifically home to his own acquaintance. Let 
him honestly declare what proportion of noble 
enthusiasts, what number of honourable fanatics 
his own personal knowledge of the great world 
supplies. Let him compare the list of his en- 
thusiastic with that of his luxurious friends, of 
his fanatical with his irreligious acquaintance, 
of ' the righteous overmuch' with such as ' care 
for none of these things ;' of the strict and pre- 
cise with that of the loose and irregular, of those 
who beggar themselves by their pious alms, with 
those who injure their fortune by extravagance ; 
of those who 'are lovers of God,' with those who 
are lovers of pleasure. Let him declare whether 
he sees more of his associates swallowed up in 
gloomy meditation or immersed in sensuality ; 
whether more are the slaves of superstious ob- 
servances or of ambition. Surely those who ad- 
dress the rich and great in the way of exhorta- 
tion and reproof, would do particularly well to 
define exactly what is indeed the prevailing cha- 
racter ; lest, for want of such discrimination 
they should heighten the disease they might 
wish to cure, and increase the bias they would 
desire to counteract, by addressing to the vo- 
luptuary cautions which belong to the hermit, 
and thus aggravate his already inflamed appe- 
tites by invectives against an evil of which he 
i3 in little danger. 

If, however, superstition, where it really does 
exist, injures religion, and we grant that it 
greatly injures it, yet we insist that scepticism 
injures it no less , for to deride, or to omit any 



surely not a less fatal evil than making uncom. 
manded additions to it. 

It is seriously to be regretted in an age like 
the present, remarkable for indifference in reli 
gion and levity in manners, and which stands 
so much in need of lively patterns of firm and 
resolute piety, that many who really are Chris- 
tians on the soberest conviction, should not ap- 
pear more openly and decidedly on the side they 
have espoused ; that they assimilate so very 
much with the manners of those about them 
(which manners they yet scruple not to disap 
prove) and, instead of an avowed but prudent 
steadfastness, which might draw over the others, 
appear evidently fearful of being thought pre- 
cise and overscrupulous ; and actually seem to 
disavow their right principles, by concessions 
and accommodations not strictly consistent with 
them. They often seem cautiously afraid of do- 
ing- too much, and going too far ; and the dan- 
gerous plea, the necessity of living like other 
people, of being like the rest of the world, and 
the propriety of not being particular, is brought 
as a reasonable apology for a too yielding and 
indiscriminate conformity. 

But, at a time when almost all are sinking 
into the prevailing corruption, how beautiful, a 
rare, a single integrity is, let the instances of 
Lot and Noah declare ! And to those with whom 
a poem is an higher authority than the Bible, 
let me recommend the most animated picture 
of a righteous singularity that ever was deline- 
ated in 

The Seraph Abiliel, faithful found 

Among the faithless, faithful only he 

Among innumerable false, unmov'd, 

Unshaken, unseriue'd, unterrify'd, 

His loyalty he kept, his love and zeal : 

Nor numbers, nor example with him wrought 

To swerve from truth or change his constant mind, 

Though single. Par. Lost, B. iv. 

Few indeed of the more orderly and decent 
have any objection to that degree of Religion 
which is compatible with their general accept- 
ance with others, or the full enjoyment of their 
own pleasures. For a formal and ceremonious 
exercise of the outward duties of Christianity 
may not only be kept up without exciting cen- 
sure, but will even procure a certain respect and 
confidence ; and is not quite irreconcilable with 
a voluptuous and dissipated life. So far many 
go ; and so far as ' godliness is profitable to the 
life that is,' it passes without reproach. 

But as soon as men begin to consider^religious 
exercises not as a decency, but a duty; not as a 
commutation for a self-denying life, but as a 
means to promote a holy temper and a virtuous 
conduct ; as soon as they feel disposed to carry 
the effect of their devotion into their daily life; 
as soon as their principles discover themselves, 
by leading them to withdraw from those scenes 
and abstain from those actions in which the gay 
place their supreme happiness ; as soon as some- 
thing is to be done, and something is to be part, 
ed with, then the world begins to take offence, 
and to stigmatize the activity of that piety which 
*~ad been commended as long as it remained in- 
operative, and had only evaporated in words. 

When religion, like the vital principle, takes 



of the component parts of Christian faith, hjtfits seat in the heart and sends out supplies of 



THE YVonKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



295 



life and heat to every part ; diffuses motion, soul, 
and vigour through the whole circulation, and 
informs and animates the whole man ; when it 
operates on the practice, influences the conver- 
sation, breaks out into a lively zeal for the ho- 
hour of God, and the best interest of mankind, 
then the sincerity of heart or the sanity of mind, 
of that person, will become questionable ; and 
it must be owing to a very fortunate combina- 
tion of circumstances indeed, if he can at once 
preserve the character of parts and piety, and 
retain the reputation of a man of sense after he 
has acquired that of a Christian. 

It is surely a folly to talk of being too holy, 
too strict, or too good. When there really hap- 
pens to appear some foundation for the charge 
of enthusiasm (as there are indeed sometimes 
in good people eccentricities which justify the 
censure) we may depend upon it, that it pro- 
ceeds from some defect in the judgment, and 
not from any excess in the piety : for in good- 
ness there is no excess : and it is as preposter- 
ous to say that any one is too good, or too pious, 
as that he is too wise, too strong, or too healthy : 
Bince the highest point in all these is only the 
perfection of that quality which we admired in 
a lower degree. There may be an imprudent, 
but there cannot be a superabundant goodness. 
An ardent imagination may mislead a rightly 
turned heart ■ and a weak intellect may incline 
the best intentioned to ascribe too much value 
to things of comparatively small importance. 
Such a one not having discernment enough to 
perceive where the force and stress of duty lie, 
may inadvertently discredit religion by a too 
scrupulous exactness in points of small intrinsic 
value. — And even well-meaning men as well as 
hypocrites may think they have done a merito- 
rious service when their ' mint' and ' anise' are 
rigorously tithed. 

But in observing the ' weightier matters of 
the law,' in the practice of universal holiness, 
in the love of God, there can be no possibility 
of exceeding, while there is no limitation in the 
command. We are in no danger of loving our 
neighbour better than ourselves ; and let us re- 
member that we do not go beyond, but fall short 
of our duty, while we love him less. If we were 
commanded to love God with some of our heart, 
with part of our soul, and a portion of our 
strength, there would then be some colour for 
those perpetual cavils about the proportion of 
love and the degree of obedience which are due 
to him. But as the command is so definite, so 
absolute, so comprehensive, so entire, nothing 
can be more absurd, than that unmeaning, but 
not unfrequent charge brought against religious 
persons, that they are too strict. It is in effect 
saying, that they love God too much, and serve 
him too well. 

The foundation of this silly censure is com- 
monly laid in the first principles of education, 
where an early separation is systematically 
made between duty and pleasure. One of the 
first baits held out for the encouragement of 
children, is that when they have done their duty 
they will be entitled to some pleasure ; thus 
forcibly disjoining what should be considered as 
inseparable. And there is not a more common 
justification of that idle and dissipated manner 



in which the second half of the Sunday is com- 
monly spent, even by those who make a con- 
science of spending the former part properly, 
than that, ' now they have done their duty, they 
may take their pleasure.' 

But while Christian observances are consider- 
ed as tasks, which are to be got over to entitle 
us to something more pleasant ; as a burthen 
which we must endure in order to propitiate an 
inexorable judge, who makes a hard bargain 
with his creatures, and allows them just so 
much amusement in pay for so much drudgery 
— we must not wonder that such low views are 
entertained of Christianity, and that a religious 
life is reprobated as strict and rigid. 

But to him who acts from the nobler motive 
of love, and the animating power of the chris- 
tian hope, the exercise is the reward, the per- 
mission is the privilege, the work is the wages. 
He does not carve out some miserable pleasure, 
and stipulate for some meagre diversion, to pay 
himself for the hard performance of his duty 
who in that very performance experiences the 
highest pleasure ; and feels the truest gratifica- 
tion of which his nature is capable, in devoting 
the noblest part of that nature to His service, to 
whom he owes all, because from Him he has 
received all. 

This reprobated strictness, therefore, so far 
from being the source of discomfort and misery, 
as is pretended, is in reality the true cause of 
actual enjoyment, by laying the axe to the root 
of all those turbulent and uneasy passions, the 
unreserved and yet imperfect gratification of 
which does so much more tend to disturb our 
happiness, than that self-government which 
Christianity enjoins. 

But all precepts seem rigorous, all observances 
are really hard, where there is not an entire 
conviction of God's right to our obedience and 
an internal principle of faith and love to make 
that obedience pleasant. A religious life is in- 
deed a hard bondage to one immersed in the 
practices of the world, and under the dominion 
of its appetites and passions. To a real Chris- 
tian it is ' perfect freedom.' He does not now 
abstain from such and such things, merely be- 
cause they are forbidden (as he did in the first 
stages of his progress) but because his soul has 
no longer any pleasure in them. And it would 
be the severest of all punishments to oblige him 
to return to those practices, from which he once 
abstained with difficulty, and through the less 
noble principle of fear. 

There is not, therefore, perhaps, a greater 
mistake than that common notion entertained 
by the more orderly part of the fashionable 
world, that a little religion will make people 
happy, but that a high degree of it is incom- 
patible with all enjoyment. For surely that re- 
ligion can add little to a man's happiness which 
restrains him from the commission of a wrong 
action, but which does not pretend to extinguish 
the bad principle from which the act proceeded. 
A religion which ties the hands, without chang- 
ing the heart ; which, like the hell of Tantalus, 
subdues not the desire, yet forbids the gratifica- 
tion, is indeed an uncomfortable religion : and 
such a religion, though it may gain a man 
something on the side of reputation, will give 



2DG 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



him but little inward comfort. For what true 
peace can that heart enjoy which is left a prey 
to that temper which produced the evil, even 
though terror or shame may have prevented the 
tmtward act. 

That people devoted to the pursuits of a dissi- 
pated life should conceive of religion as a diffi- 
cult and even unattainable state, it is easy to 
believe. That they should conceive of it as an 
unhappy state, is the consummation of their 
error and their ignorance : for that a rational 
being should have his understanding enlighten- 
ed ; that an immortal being should have his 
views extended and enlarged ; that a helpless be- 
ing should have a consciousness of assistance ; 
a sinful being the prospect of a pardon, or a 
fallen one the assurance of restoration, does not 
seem a probable ground of unhappiness : and on 
any other subject but religion, such reasoning 
would not be admissible. 



CHAP. VI. 

A stranger, from observing the fashionable mode 
of life, would not take this to be a Christian 
country. — Lives of professing Christians ex- 
amined by a comparison with the Gospel. — 
Christianity not made the rule of life, even by 
those who profess to receive it as an object of 

faith. Temporizing writers contribute to 

lower the credit of Christianity. Loose ha- 
rangues on morals not calculated to reform the 
heart. 

The Christian religion is not intended, as 
eome of its fashionable professors seem to fancy, 
to operate as a charm, a talisman, or incantation, 
and to produce its effect by our pronouncing 
certain mystical words, attending at certain con- 
secrated places, and performing certain hallow- 
ed ceremonies ; but it is an active, vital, influ- 
ential principle, operating on the heart, restrain- 
ing the desires, affecting the general conduct, 
and as much regulating our commerce with the 
world, our business, pleasures, and enjoyments, 
our conversations, designs, and actions, as our 
behaviour in public worship, or even in private 
devotion. 

That the effects of such a principle are strik- 
ingly visible in the lives and manners of the 
generality of those who give the law to fashion, 
will not perhaps be insisted on. And indeed, 
the whole present system of fashionable life is 
utterly destructive of seriousness. To instance 
only in the growing habit of frequenting great 
assemblies, which is generally thought insigni- 
ficant, and is in effect so vapid, that one almost 
wonders how it can be dangerous ; — it would 
excite laughter, because we are so broken into 
the habit, were I to insist on the immorality of 
passing one's whole life in a crowd. — But those 
promiscuous myriads which compose the so- 
ciety, falsely so called, of the gay world ; who 
are brought together without esteem, remain 
without pleasure, and part without regret ; who 
live in a round of diversions, the possession of 
which is so joyless, though the absence is so in- 
Bupportable ; these, by the mere tbrce of inces- 
eant and indiscriminate association weaken ( 



and in time wear out, the best feelings and af- 
fections of the human heart. And the mere 
spirit of dissipation, thus contracted from inva- 
riable habit, even detached from all its concomi- 
tant evils, is in itself as hostile to a religious 
spirit, as more positive and actual oll'ences. Far 
be it from me to say that it is as criminal ; I 
only insist that it is as opposite to that heavenly 
mindedness which is the essence of the Chris- 
tian temper. 

Let us suppose an ignorant and unprejudiced 
spectator, who should have been taught the 
theory of all the religions on the globe, brought 
hither from the other hemisphere. Set him 
down in the politest part of our capital, and let 
him determine, if he can, except from what he 
shall see interwoven in the texture of our laws, 
and kept up in the service of our churches,to what 
particular religion we belong. Let him not mix 
entirely with the most flagitious, but only with 
the most fashionable ; at least, let him keep 
what they themselves call the best company. Let 
him scrutinize into the manners, customs, ha- 
bits, and diversions, most in vogue, and then in- 
fer from all he has seen and heard, what is the 
established religion of the land. 

That it could not be the Jewish he would 
soon discover : for of rites, ceremonies, and ex- 
ternal observances, he would trace but slender 
remains. He would be equally convinced that 
it could not be the religion of old Greece and 
Rome ; for that enjoined reverence to the gods, 
and inculcated obedience to the laws. His most 
probable conclusion would be in favour of the 
Mahometan faith, did not the excessive indulg- 
ence of some of the most distinguished in an 
article of intemperance prohibited even by the 
sensual prophet of Arabia, defeat that conjec- 
ture. 

How would the petrified inquirer be astonish- 
ed, if he were told that all these gay, thought- 
less, luxurious, dissipated persons, professed a 
religion, meek, spiritual, self-denying; of which 
humility, poverty of spirit, a renewed mind, and 
non-conformity to the world, were specific dis- 
tinctions ! 

When be saw the sons of men of fortune, 
scarcely old enough to be sent to school, admit- 
ted to be spectators of the turbulent and unnatu- 
ral diversions of racing and gaming; and the 
almost infant daughters, even of wise and vir- 
tuous mothers (an innovation which fashion her- 
self forbade till now) carried with most unthrifty 
anticipation to the frequent and late protracted 
ball — would he believe that we were of a religion 
which has required from those very parents a 
solemn vow that these children should be bred 
up ' in the nurture and admonition of the Lord?' 
That they should constantly ' believe God's holy 
word and keep his commandments ?' 

When he observed the turmoils of ambition, 
the competitions of vanity, the ardent thirst for 
the possession of wealth, and the wild misappli. 
cation of it when possessed ; how could he per- 
suade himself that all these anxious pursuers of 
present enjoyment were the disciples of a mas 
ter who exhibited the very character and es- 
sence of his religion, as it were in a motto— 
' My kingdom is not of this world !' 

When he beheld those nocturnal clubs, so 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



297 



subversive of private virtue and domestic happi- 
ness, would he conceive that we were of a reli- 
gion which in express terms ' exhorts young 
men to be sober-minded ?' 

When he saw those magnificent and brightly 
illuminated structures which decorate and dis- 
grace the very precincts of the royal residence, 
(so free itself from all these pollutions) when he 
beheld the nightly offerings made to the demon 
of play, on whose cruel altar the fortune and 
happiness of wives and children are offered up 
without remorse ; would he not conclude that 
we were of some of those barbarous religions 
which enjoins unnatural sacrifices, and whose 
horrid deities are appeased with nothing less 
than human victims ? 

Now ought we not to pardon our imaginary 
spectator, if he should not at once conclude that 
all the various descriptions of persons above no- 
ticed professed the Christian religion ; supposing 
him to have no other way of determining but 
by the conformity of their manners to that rule 
by which he had undertaken to judge them ? 
We indeed must judge with a certain latitude, 
and candidly take the present state of society 
into the account ; which in some few instances, 
perhaps, must be allowed to dispense with that 
literal strictness, which more peculiarly belong- 
ed to the first ages of the Gospel. 

But as this is really a Christian country, pro- 
fessing to enjoy the purest faith in the purest 
form, it cannot be unreasonable to go a little 
farther, and inquire whether Christianity, how- 
ever firmly established and generally professed 
in it, is really practised by that order of fashion- 
able persons, who, while they are absorbed in 
the delights of the world, and their whole souls 
devoted to the pursuit of pleasure, yet still arro- 
gate to themselves the honourable name of Chris- 
tians, and occasionally testify their claim to this 
high character, by a general profession of their 
belief in, and a decent occasional compliance 
with the forms of religion, and the ordinances 
of our church ? 

This inquiry must be made, not by a compa- 
rison with the state of Christianity in other 
countries (a mode always fallacious, whether 
adopted by nations or individuals, is that of com- 
paring themselves with those who are still 
worse) nor must it be made from any notions 
drawn from custom, or any other human stand- 
ard ; but from a scripture view of what real re- 
ligion is ; from any one of those striking and 
comprehensive representations of it, which may 
be found condensed in so many single passages 
of the sacred writings. 

Whoever then looks into the Book of God, 
and observes its prevailing spirit, and then looks 
into that part of the world under consideration, 
will not surely be thought' very censorious, if he 
pronounce that the conformity between them 
does not seem to be very striking ; and the man- 
ners of the one do not very evidently appear to 
be dictated by the spirit of the other. Will he 
discover that the Christian religion is so much 
as pretended to be made the rule of life even by 
that decent order who profess not to have dis- 
carded it as an object of faith ? Do even the 
more regular, who neglect not public observan- 
ces, consider Christianity as the measure of their 

Vol. I. ' 



actions ! Do even what the world calls religi- 
ous persons, employ their time, their abilities, 
and their fortune, as talents for which they how- 
ever confess they believe themselves accounta- 
ble : or do they, in any respect live, I will not 
say up to their profession (for what human being 
does so?) but in any consistency with it, or even 
with an eye to its predominant tendencies ? Do 
persons in general of this description seem to 
consider the peculiar doctrines of the Gospel, as 
any tiling more than a form of words necessary 
indeed to be repeated, and proper to be believed ? 
But do they consider them as necessary to be 
adopted into a governing principle of action ? 

Is it acting a consistent part to declare in the 
solemn assemblies that they are ' miserable 
offenders,' and that ' there is no health in them,' 
and yet never in their daily lives to discover 
any symptom of that humility and self-abase 
ment, which should naturally be implied in such 
a declaration ? 

Is it reasonable or compatible, I will not say 
with piety, but with good sense, earnestly to la- 
ment having ' followed the devices and desires 
of their own hearts,' and then deliberately to 
plunge into such a torrent of dissipations as 
clearly indicates that they do not struggle to 
oppose one of these devices, to resist one of these 
desires ? I dare not say this is hypocrisy, I do 
not believe it is, but surely it is inconsistency. 

' Be ye not conformed to this world,' is a lead- 
ing principle in the book they acknowledge as 
their guide. But after unresistingly assenting 
to this as a doctrinal truth, at church — how ab- 
surd would they think any one who should ex- 
pect them to adopt it into their practice ! Per- 
haps the whole law of God does not exhibit a 
single precept more expressly, more steadily, 
and more uniformly rejected by the class in 
question. If it mean any thing, it can hardly 
be consistent with that mode of life emphatical- 
ly distinguished by the appellation of fashion- 
able. 

Now, would it be much more absurd (for any 
other reason but because it is not the custom) if 
our legislators were to meet one day in every 
week, gravely to read over all the obsolete sta- 
tutes, and rescinded acts of parliament, than it 
is for the order of persons of the above descrip- 
tion to assemble every Sunday, to profess their 
belief in and submission to a system of princi- 
ples, which they do not so much as intend shall 
be binding on their practice ? 

But to continue our inquiry. — There is not a 
more common or more intelligible definition of 
human duty, than that of ' Fear God, and keep 
his commandments.' Now, as to the first of 
these inseparable precepts, can we, with the ut- 
most stretch of charity, be very forward to con- 
clude that God is really ' very greatly feared' in 
secret, by those who give too manifest indica- 
tions that they live ' without him in the world ?' 
And as to the latter precept, which naturally 
grows out of the other — without noticing any of 
the flagrant breaches of the moral law, let us 
only confine ourselves to the allowed, general, 
and notorious violation of the third and fourth 
commandments, by the higher as well as by the 
lower orders; breaches so flagrant, that they 
force themselves on the observation of the most 



298 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



inattentive, too palpably to be either unnoticed 
or palliated. 

Shall we have reason to change our opinion if 
we take that Divine representation of the sum 
and substance of religion, and apply it as a 
touchstone in the present trial — ' Thou shalt 
love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and 
^vith all thy mind, and with all thy soul, and 
with all thy strength, and thy neighbour as thy- 
self ?' Now, judge by inference, do we see 
many public proofs of that heavenly-mindedness 
which would be the inevitable effect of such a 
fervent and animated dedication of all the pow- 
ers, faculties, and affections of the soul to Him 
who gave it ? And, as to the great rule of social 
duty expressed in the second clause, do we ob- 
serve as much of that considerate kindness, that 
pure disinterestedness, that conscientious atten- 
tion to the comfort of others, especially of de- 
pendents and inferiors, as might be expected 
from those who enjoyed the privilege of so un- 
erring a standard of conduct ? a standard, which, 
if impartially consulted, must make our kind- 
ness to others bear an exact proportion to our 
self-love; a rule in which christian principle, 
operating on human sensibility, could not fail 
to decide aright in every supposeable case. For 
no man can doubt how he ought to act towards 
another, while the inward corresponding sug- 
gestions of conscience and feeling concur in 
letting him know how he would wish, in a change 
of circumstances, that others should act towards 
him. 

Or suppose we take a more detailed survey, 
by a third rule, which indeed is not so much the 
principle as the effect of piety — ' True religion, 
and undented before God and the Father, is this : 
to visit the fatherless and widows in their afflic- 
tion, and to keep himself unspotted from the 
world.'' Now, if Christianity insists that obedi- 
ence to the latter injunction be the true evidence 
of the sincerity of those who fulfil the former, is 
the beneficence of the fashionable world very 
strikingly illustrated by this spotless purity, this 
exemption from the pollutions of the world, 
which is here declared to be its invariable con- 
comitant? 

But if I were to venture to take my estimate 
with a view more immediately evangelical ; if I 
presumed to look for that genuine Christianity 
which consists in repentance towards God, and 
faith in our Lord Jesus Christ ;' to insist, that 
whatever natural religion and fashionable reli- 
gion may teach, it is the peculiarity of the Chris- 
tian religion to humble the sinner and exalt the 
Saviour ; to insist that not only the grossly fla- 
gitious, but that all have sinned ; that all are by 
nature in a state of condemnation ; that all stand 
in need of mercy, of which there is no hope but 
on the Gospel terms ; that eternal life is pro- 
mised to those only who accept it on the offered 
conditions of ' faith, repentance, and renewed 
obedience ;' — if I were to insist on such eviden- 
ces of our Christianity as these ; if I were to 
express these doctrines in plain scriptural terms 
without lowering, qualifying, disguising, or do- 
ing them away ; if I were to insist on this belief, 
and its implied and corresponding practices ; I 
am aware that, with whatever condescending 
patience this little tract might have been so far 



perused, many a fashionable reader would here 
throw it aside, as having now detected the pal- 
pable enthusiast, the abettor of ' strange doc- 
trines,' long ago consigned over by the liberal 
and the polite to bigots and fanatics. And yet, 
if the Bible be true, this is a simple and faithful 
description of Christianity. 

Surely men forget that we are urging them 
upon their own principles ; that while we are 
urging them with motives drawn from Chris- 
tianity, they seem to have as little concern in 
these motives as if they themselves were of an- 
other religion. It is not a name that will stand 
us instead. It is not merely glorying in the title 
of Christians, while we are living in the neglect 
of its precepts ; it is not in valuing ourselves on 
the profession of religion as creditable, while we 
reject the power of it as fanatical, that will save 
us ! In any other circumstances of life it would 
be accounted absurd to have a set of propositions, 
principles, statutes, or fundamental articles, and 
not to make them the ground of our acting as 
well as of our reasoning. In these supposed in- 
stances the blame would lie in the contradiction, 
in religion it lies in the agreement. Strange 1 
that to act in consequence of received and ac- 
knowledged principles, should be accounted 
weakness ! Strange, that what alone is truly con- 
sistent, should be branded as absurd ! Strange, 
that men must really forbear to act rationally, 
only that they may not be reckoned mad ! 
Strange, that they should be commended for 
having prayed in the excellent words of the Bi- 
ble and of our church, for ' a clean heart, and a 
right spirit ;' and yet, if they gave any sign of 
such a transformation of heart, they should be 
accounted, if not fanatical, at least, singular, 
weak, or melancholy men. 

After having, however, just ventured to hint 
at what are indeed the humbling doctrines of 
the gospel, the doctrines to which alone eternal 
life is promised, I shall in deep humility forbear 
to enlarge on this part of the subject, which has 
been exhausted by the labours of wise and pious 
men in all ages. Unhappily, however, the most 
awakening of these writers are not the favourite 
guests in the closets of the more fashionable 
Christians ; who, when they happen to be more 
seriously disposed than ordinary, are fond of 
finding out some middle kind of reading, which 
recommends some half-way state, something 
between Paganism and Christianity, suspending 
the mind, like the position of Mahomet's tomb, 
between earth and heaven : a kind of reading 
which, while it quiets the conscience by being 
on the side of morals, neither awakens fear, nor 
alarms security. By dealing in generals, it 
comes home to the hearts of none : it flatters the 
passions of the reader, by ascribing high merits 
to the performance of certain right actions, and 
the forbearance from certain wrong ones ; among 
which, that reader must be very unlucky indeed 
who does not find some performances and soma 
forbearances of his own. It at once enables him 
to keep heaven in his eye, and the world in his 
heart. It agreeably represents the readers to 
themselves as amiable persons, guilty indeed of 
a few faults, but never as condemned sinners 
under sentence of death. It commonly abounds 
with high encomiums on the dignity of human 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



299 



nature ; the good effects of virtue on health, for- 
tune, and reputation : the dangers of a blind 
zeal, the mischiefs of enthusiasm, and the folly 
of singularity, with various other kindred senti- 
ments ; which, if they do not fall in of them- 
selves with the corruptions of our nature, may, 
by a little warping, be easily accommodated to 
them. 

These are the too successful practices of cer- 
tain luke-warm and temporizing divines, who 
have become popular by blunting the edge of 
the heavenly tempered weapon, whose salutary 
keenness, but for their ' deceitful handling,' 
would often ' pierce to the dividing asunder of 
soul and spirit.' 

But those severer preachers of righteousness, 
who disgust by applying too closely to the con- 
science ; who probe the inmost heart and lay 
open all its latent peccancies ; who treat of 
principles as the only certain source of man- 
ners ; who lay the axe at the root, oftener than 
the pruning knife to the branch ; who insist 
much and often on the great leading truths, that 
man is a fallen creature, who must be restored, 
if restored at all, by means very little flattering 

to human pride such heart-searching writers 

as these will seldom find access to the houses 
and hearts of the more modish Christians, unless 
they happen to owe their admission to some sub- 
ordinate quality of style ; unless they can cap- 
tivate, with the seducing graces of language, 
those well-bred readers, who are childishly 
amusing themselves with the garnish, when they 
are perishing for want of food ; who are search- 
ing for polished periods when they should be in 
quest of alarming truths : who are looking for 
elegance of composition when they should be 
anxious for eternal life. 

Whatever comparative praise may be due to 
the former class of writers, when viewed with 
others of a, less decent order, yet I am not sure 
whether so many books of frigid morality, ex- 
hibiting such inferior motives of action, such mo- 
derate representations of duty, and such a low 
standard of principle ; have not done religion 
much more harm than good ; whether they do 
not lead many a reader to inquire what is the 
lowest degree in the scale of virtue with which 
he may content himself, so as barely to escape 
eternal punishment; how much indulgence he 
may allow himself, without absolutely forfeiting 
his chance of safety : what is the uttermost verge 
to which he may venture of this world's enjoy- 
ment, and yet just keep within a possibility of 
hope for the next: adjusting the scales of indul- 
gence and security with such a scrupulous equi- 
librium, as not to lose much pleasure, yet not 
incur much penalty. 

This is hardly an exaggerated representa- 
tion ; and to these low views of duty is partly 
owing so much of that bare-weight virtue with 
which even Christians are apt to content them- 
selves ; fighting for every inch of ground which 
may possibly be taken within the pales of per- 
mission, and stretching those pales to the ut- 
most edge of that limitation about which the 
world and die Bible contend. 

But while the nominal Christian is persuad- 
ing himself that there can be no harm in going 
a little farther, the real Christian is always afraid 



of g-oing too far. While the one is debating for 
a little more disputed ground, the other is so 
fearful of straying into the regions of unhallow- 
ed indulgence, that he keeps at a prudent dis- 
tance from the extremity of his permitted 
limits ; and is anxious in restricting as the other 
is desirous of extending them. One thing is 
clear, and it may be no bad indication by which 
to discover the state of man's heart to himself; , 
while he is contending for this allowance, and 
stipulating for the other indulgence, it will show 
him that, whatever change there may be in his 
life, there is none in his heart ; the temper re- 
mains as it did ; and it is by the inward frame 
rather than the outward act that he can best 
judge of his own state, whatever may be the rule 
by which he undertakes to judge of that of an- 
other. 

It is less wonderful that there are not more 
Christians, than that Christians, as they are 
called, are not better men ; for if Christianity 
be not true, the motives of virtue are not high 
enough to quicken ordinary men to very extra- 
ordinary exertions. We see them do and suffer 
every day for popularity, for custom, for fash- 
ion, for the point of honour, not only more than 
good men do and suffer for religion, but a great 
deal more than religion requires them to do. For 
her reasonable service demands no sacrifices but 
what are sanctioned by good sense, sound policy, 
righfl^reason, and uncorrupt jndgment. 

P»Iany of these fashionable professors even go 
so far as to bring their right faith as an apology 
for their wrong practice. They have a com- 
modious way of intrenching themselves within 
the shelter of some general position of unques- 
tionable truth : even the great Christian hopo 
becomes a snare to them. They apologize for 
a life of offence, by taking refuge in the extreme 
goodness they are abusing. That ' God is all 
merciful,' is the common reply to those who 
hint to them their danger. This is a false and 
fatal application of a divine and comfortable 
truth. Nothing can be more certain than the 
proposition, nor more delusive than the infer- 
ence : for their deduction implies, not that he is 
merciful to sin repented of, but to sin continued 
in. But it is a most fallacious hope to expect 
that God will violate his own covenant, or that 
he is indeed, ' all mercy,' to the utter exclusion 
of his other attributes of perfect holiness, purity 
and justice. 

It is a dangerous folly to rest on these vague 
and general notions of indefinite mercy ; and no- 
thing can be more delusive than this indefinite 
trust in being forgiven in our own way, after 
God has clearly revealed to us that he will only 
forgive us in his way. Besides, is there not 
something singularly base in sinning against 
God because he is merciful ? 

But the truth is no one does truly trust in God, 
who does not endeavour to obey him. For to 
break his laws, and yet to depend on his fa- 
vour ; to live in opposition to his will, and yet in 
expectation of his mercy ; to violate his com- 
mands, and yet to look for his acceptance, would 
not, in any other instance, be thought a reason- 
able ground of conduct; and yet it is by no 
means as uncommon as it is inconsistent. 



300 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



CHAP. VII. 

View of those who acknowledge Christianity as 
a perfect system of morals, but deny its divine 
authority. — Morality not the whole of Religion. 

As in the preceding chapter notice was taken 
of that description of persons who profess to re- 
ceive Christianity with great reverence as a 
matter of faith, who yet do not pretend to adopt 
it as a rule of conduct ; I shall conclude these 
slight remarks with some short animadversions 
on another set of men, and that not a small one 
among the decent and fashionable, who profess 
to think it exhibits an admirable system of 
morals, while they deny its divine authority ; 
though that authority alone can make the neces- 
sity of obeying its precepts binding on the con- 
sciences of men. 

This is a very discreet scheme ; for such per- 
sons at once save themselves from the discredit 
of having their understanding imposed upon 
by a supposed blind submission to evidences and 
authorities ; and yet, prudently enough, secure 
to themselves, in no small degree, the reputa- 
tion of good men. By steering this middle kind 
of course, they contrive to be reckoned liberal 
by the philosophers, and decent by the believers. 

But we are not to expect to see the pure mo- 
rality of the Gospel very carefully transfused 
into the lives of such objectors. And indeed it 
would bo unjust to imagine that the precepts 
should be most scrupulously observed by those 
who reject the authority. The influence of 
divine truth must necessarily best prepare the 
heart for an unreserved obedience to its laws. 
If we do not depend on the offers of tho Gospel, 
we shall want the best motives to the actions 
and performances which it enjoins. A. lively 
belief must therefore precede ahearty obedience. 
Let those who think otherwise, hear what the 
Saviour of the world has said : ' For this end was 
I born, and for this cause came I into the world, 
that I might bear witness unto the truth.' 
Those who reject the Gospel, therefore, reject 
the power of performing good actions. That 
command, for instance, to ' set our affections on 
things above,' will operate but faintly, till that 
Spirit from which the command proceeds, 
touches the heart, and convinces that, no human 
good is worthy of the entire affection of an im- 
mortal creature. An unreserved faith in the 
promiser must precede our acceptable perform- 
ance of any duty to which the promise is an- 
nexed. 

But as to a set of duties enforced by no other 
motive than a bare acquiescence in their beauty, 
and a cold conviction of their . propriety, but 
impelled by no obedience to his authority who 
imposes them ; though we know not how well 
they might be performed by pure and impecca- 
ble beings, yet we know how they commonly 
arc performed by frail and disorderly creatures, 
fallen from their innocence, and corrupt in their 
very natures. / 

Nothing but a conviction of the truth of 
Christianity can reconcile thinking beings to 
the extraordinary appearances of things in the 
Creator's moral government of the world. The 
works of God are an enigma, of which his word 



alone is the solution. The dark veil whicn is 
thrown over the divine dispensations in this 
lower world must naturally shock those who 
consider only the single scene which is acting 
on the present stage ; but is reconcilable to him 
who, having learnt from Revelation the nature 
of the laws by which the great Author acts, 
trusts confidently that the catastrophe will set 
all to rights. The confusion which sin and the 
passions have introduced ; the triumph of wick- 
edness ; the seemingly arbitrary disproportion 
of human conditions, accountable on no scheme 
but that which the Gospel has opened to us — 
have all a natural tendency to withdraw from 
the love of God, the hearts of those who erect 
themselves into critics on the Divine conduct, 
and yet will not study the plan, and get ac- 
quainted with the rules, so far as it has pleased 
the Supreme Disposer to reveal them. 

Till therefore the word of God is used • as a 
lamp to their paths,' men can neither truly dis- 
cern the crookedness of their own ways, nor the 
perfection of that light by which they are di- 
rected to walk. And this light can only be seen 
by its own proper brightness ; it has no other 
medium. Until therefore, 'the secret of the 
Lord' is with men, they will not truly ' fear 
him ;' until he has ' enlarged their hearty' with 
the knowledge and belief of his word, they will 
not very vigorously run ' the way of his com- 
mandments.' Until they have acquired that 
' faith, without which it is impossible to please 
God,' they will not attain that ' holiness, with- 
out which no man can see him.' 

And indeed if God has thought fit to make 
the Gospel an instrument of salvation, we must 
own the necessity of receiving it as a divine in- 
stitution, before it is likely to operate very ef- 
fectually on the human conduct. The great 
Creator, if we may judge by analogy from na- 
tural things, is so just and wise an economist, 
that he always adapts, with the most accurate 
precision, the instrument to the work ; and never 
lavishes more means than are necflesary to ac- 
complish the proposed end. If therefore Chris- 
tianity had been intended for nothing more than 
a mere system of ethics, such a system sorely 
might have been produced at an infinitely less 
expense. The long chain of prophecy, the 
succession of miracles, the labours of apostles, 
the blood of the saints, to say nothing of the 
great costly sacrifice which the Gospel records, 
might surely have been spared. Lessons of 
mere human virtue might have been delivered by 
some suitable instrument of human wisdom, 
strengthened by the visible authority of human 
power. A bare system of morals might have been 
communicated to mankind with a more reasona- 
ble prospect of advantage, by means not so repug- 
nant to human pride. A mere scheme of con- 
duct might have been delivered with far greater 
probability of the success of its reception by 
Antoninus the emperor, or Plato the philosopher, 
than by Paul the tent-maker, or Peter the 
fisherman. 

Christianity, then, must be embraced entirely, 
if it be received at all. It must be taken with- 
out mutilation, as a perfect scheme, in the way 
in which God has been pleased to reveal it. It 
must be accepted, not as exhibiting beautiful 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



301 



parts, but as presenting one consummate whole, 
of which the perfection arises from coherence 
and dependence, from relation and consistency. 
Its power will be weakened, and its energy de- 
stroyed, if every caviller pulls out a pin, or ob- 
structs a spring with the presumptuous view of 
new modelling the Divine work, and making it 
go to his own mind. There must be no break- 
ing the system into portions of which we are 
at liberty to choose one and reject another. 
There is no separating the evidences from the 
doctrines, the doctrines from the precepts, belief 
from obedience, morality from piety, the love of 
our neighbour from the love of God. If we al- 
low Christianity to be any thing, we must allow 
it to be every tiling : if we allow the Divine 
Author to be indeed unto us ' wisdom and 
righteousness,' he must be also sanctification 
and redemption.' 

Christianity then is assuredly something more 
than a mere set of rules ; and faith, though it 
never pretended to be the substitute for an use- 
ful life, is indispensably necessary to its accept- 
ance with God. The Gospel never offers to 
make religion supersede morality, but every 
where clearly proves that morality is not the 
whole of religion. Piety is not only necessary 
as a means, but is itself a most important end. 
It is not only the best principle of moral conduct, 
but is an indispensable and absolute duty in it- 
self. It is not only the highest motive to the 
practice of virtue, but is a prior obligation, and 
absolutely necessary, even when detached from 
its immediate influence on outward actions. 
Religion will survive all the virtues of which it 
is the source ; for we shall be living in the no- 
blest exercises of piety when we shall have no 
objects on which to exercise many human vir- 
tues. When there will be no distress to be re- 
lieved, no injuries to be forgiven, no evil habits 
to be subdued, there will be a Creator to be 
blessed and adored, a Redeemer to be loved and 
praised. 

To conclude, a real Christian is not such 



merely by habit, profession, or education ; he is 
not a Christian in order to acquit his sponsors 
of the engagements they entered into in his 
name ; but he is one who has embraced Chris- 
tianity from a conviction of its truth, and an 
experience of its excellence. He is not only 
confident in matters of faith by evidences sug- 
gested to his understanding, or reasons which 
correspond to his inquiries ; but all these evi- 
dences of truth, all these principles of goodness 
are working into his heart, and exhibit them- 
selves in his practice. He<sees so much of the 
body of the great truths and fundamental points 
of religion, that he has a satisfactory trust in 
those lesser branches which ramify to infinity 
from the parent stock ; though he may not in- 
dividually and completely comprehend them all. 
He is so powerfully convinced of the general 
truth, and so deeply impressed by the general 
spirit of the Gospel, that he is not startled by 
every little difficulty ; he is not staggered by 
every ' hard saying.' Those depths of mystery 
which surpass his understanding do not shake 
his faith, and this, not because he is credulous, 
and given to take things upon trust, but because, 
knowing that his foundations are right, he sees 
how one truth of Scripture supports another like 
the bearings of a geometrical building ; because 
he sees the aspect one doctrine has upon an- 
other ; because he sees the consistency of each 
with the rest, and the place, order, and relation 
of all. The real Christian by no means rejects 
reason from his religion ; so far from it, he most 
carefully exercises it in furnishing his mind 
tvith all the evidences of its truth. Bujt he does 
not stop here. Christianity furnishes him with 
a living principle of action, with the vital in- 
fluences of the holy Spirit, which, while it en- 
lightens his faculties, rectifies his will, turns his 
knowledge into practice, sanctifies his heart, 
changes his habits, and proves that when faith- 
fully received, the word of truth ' is life indeed, 
and is spirit indeed !' 



REMARKS ON THE SPEECH OF M. DUPONT, 

MADE IN THE NATIONAL CONVENTION OF FRANCE. 
ON THE SUBJECTS OF RELIGION AND PUBLIC EDUCATION. 



A PREFATORY ADDRESS 



TO THE LADIES, &C. OF GREAT BRITAIN', IN BEHALF OF THE FRENCH EMIGRANT CLERGY. 



If it be allowed that there may arise occasions 
so extraordinary that all the lesser motives of 
delicacy ought to vanish before them, it is pre- 
sumed that the present emergency will be con- 
sidered as presenting one of those occasions, and 
will in some measure justify the hardiness of 
this address from a private individual, who, sti- 
mulated by the urgency of the case, sacrifices 
inferior considerations to the ardent desire of 



raising further supplies towards relieving a dis. 
tress as pressing as it is unexampled. 

We are informed by public advertisement, 
that the large sums already so liberally subscrib- 
ed for the emigrant clergy are almost exhausted. 
Authentic information adds, that multitudes of 
distressed exiles in the island of Jersey, are on 
the point of wanting bread. 

Very many to whom this address is made have 



NOTE.— The profits of this publication, which were considerable, were given to the French emigrant clergy. 



302 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



already contributed. O let them not be weary 
in well-doing ! I know that many are making 
generous exertions for the just and natural claims 
of the widows and children of our own brave 
seamen and soldiers. Let it not be said, that 
the present is an interfering claim. Those to 
whom I write, have bread enough, and to spare. 
You, who fare sumptuously every day, and yet 
complain that you have little to bestow, let not 
this bounty be subtracted from another bounty, 
but subtract it rather from some superfluous 
expense. 

The beneficent and right-minded want no ar- 
guments to be pressed upon them ; but it is not 
those alone who I address ; I write to persons 
of every description. Luxurious habits of living, 
which really furnish the distressed with the 
fairest grounds for application, are too often 
urged by those who practise them as a motive 
for withholding assistance, and produced as a 
plea for having little to spare. Let her who in- 
dulges such habits, and pleads such excuses in 
consequence, reflect, that by retrenching one 
costly dish from her abundant table, by cutting 
off* the superfluities of one expensive desert, 
omitting one evening's public amusement, she 
may furnish at least a week's subsistence to 
more than one person,* as liberally bred perhaps 
as herself, and who, in his own country, may 
have often tasted how much more blessed it is 
to give than to receive — to a once affluent mi- 
nister of religion, who has been long accustomed 
to bestow the necessaries he is now reduced to 
solicit. 

Even your young daughters, whom maternal 
prudence has not yet furnished with the means 
of bestowing, may be cheaply taught the first 
rudiments of charity, together with an impor- 
tant lesson of economy : they may be taught to 
sacrifice a feather, a set of ribands, an expensive 
ornament, an idle diversion. And if they are 
on this occasion instructed, that there is no true 
charity without self-denial, they will gain more 
than they are called upon to give : for the sup- 
pression of one luxury for a charitable purpose, 
is the exercise of two virtues, and this without 
any pecuniary expense.- An indulgence is abridg- 
ed and christian charity is exercised. 

Let the sick and afflicted remember how 
dreadful it must be, to be exposed to the suffer- 
ings they feel without one of the alleviations 
which mitigate their affliction. How dreadful 
it is to be without comfort, without necessaries, 
without a home — without a country ! "While 
the gay and prosperous would do well to recol- 
lect, how suddenly and terribly those unhappy 

* Mr. Bowdler's letter states, that about six shillings 
a week includes the expenses of each priest at Win- 
ches Sir, 



persons for whom we plead, were, by the sur 
prising vicissitudes of life, thrown down from 
heights of gayety and prosperity equal to what 
they are now enjoying. And let those who have 
husbands, fathers, sons, brothers, or friends, re- 
flect on the uncertainties of war, and the revo- 
lution of human affairs. It is only by imagining 
the possibility that those who are dear to us may 
be placed by the instability of human events in 
the same calamitous circumstances, that we can 
obtain an adequate feeling of the woes we are 
called upon to commiserate. 

In a distress so wide and comprehensive as 
the present, many are prevented from giving by 
that popular excuse, ' That it is but a drop of 
water in the ocean.' But let them reflect, that 
if all the individual drops were withheld, there 
would be no ocean at all ; and the inability to 
give much ought not, on any occasion, to be 
converted into an excuse for giving nothing. 
Even moderate circumstances need not plead an 
exemption. The industrious tradesman will not, 
even in a political view, be eventually a loser 
by his small contribution. The money now 
raised is neither carried out of our country, nor 
dissipated in luxuries, but returns again to the 
community ; returns to our shops and to our 
markets, to procure tha bare necessaries of 
life. 

Some have objected to the difference of reli- 
gion of those for whom we solicit. Such an ob- 
jection hardly deserves a serious answer. Surely 
if the superstitious Tartar hopes to become pos- 
sessed of the courage and talents of the enemy 
he slays, the Christian is not afraid of catching, 
or of propagating the error of the sufferer he 
relieves. — Christian charity is of no party. We 
plead not for their faith, but for their wants. 
But while we affirm that it is not for their pope- 
ry but their poverty which we solicit ; yet let 
the more scrupulous, who look for desert as well 
as distress in the objects of their bounty, bear 
in mind, that if these men could have sacrificed 
their conscience to their convenience, they bad 
not now been in this country ; and if we wish 
for proselytes, who knows but it may be the first 
step towards their conversion, if we show them 
the purity of our religion, by the beneficence of 
our actions. 

If you will permit me to press upon you such 
high motives (and it were to be wished that in 
every action we were to be influenced only by 
the highest) perhaps no act of bounty to which 
you may be called out, can ever come so imn^ 
diately, and so literally under that solemn arra 
affecting description, which will be recorded in 
the great day of account — I was a stranger, and 
ye took me in. 



SPEECH OF MR. DUPONT. 

The following is an exact Translation from a Speech made in the National Convention at Paris, 
on Friday, the 14th of December, 1792, in a debate on the subject of establishing Public Schools 
for the education of Youth, by citizen Dupont, a member of considerable weight ; and as the 
doctrines contained in it were received with unanimous applause, except from two or three of 
.the clergy, it may be fairly considered as an exposition of the creed of that enlightened assem- 
bly. Translated from Le Moniteur, of Sunday, the lGth of December, 1732. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



303 



What! Thrones are overturned! Sceptres 
broken ! Kings expire ! And yet the altars of 
God remain ! (Here there is a murmur from 
some members ; and the abbe Ichon demands 
tha>t the person speaking may be called to order.) 
Tyrants in outrage to nature, continue to burn 
an impious incense on those altars ! (Some mur- 
murs arise, but they are lost in the applauses 
from the majority of the assembly.) The thrones 
that have been reversed, have left these altars 
naked, unsupported, and tottering. A single 
breath of enlightened reason will now be suffi- 
cient to make them disappear ; and if humanity 
is under obligations to the French nation for 
the first of these benefits, the fall of kings, can 
it be doubted but that the French people now 
sovereign, will be wise enough, in like manner, 
to overthrow those altars and those idols to 
which those kings have hitherto made them sub- 
ject ? Nature and Reason, these ought to be the 
gods of men ! These are my gods ! (Here the 
abbe Audrein cried out, ' there is no bearing 
this ;' and rushed out of the assembly. — A great 
laugh.) Admire nature — cultivate reason. And 
you, legislators, if you desire that the French 
people should be happy, make haste to propa- 
gate these principles, and to teach them in your 
primary schools, instead of those fanatical prin- 
ciples which have hitherto been taught. The 
tyranny of kings was confined to make their 
people miserable in this life — but those other 
tyrants, the priests, extend their dominion into 
another, of which they have no other idea than 
of eternal purnhments; a doctrine which some 
men have hitherto had the good nature to believe. 
But the moment of the catastrophe is come — all 
these prejudices must fall at the same time. We 
must destroy them, or they will destroy us. For 



myself, I honestly avow to the convention, lam 
an atheist .' (Here there is some noise and tu- 
mult. But a great number of members cry out, 
' what is that to us — you are an honest man !) 
But I defy a single individual amongst the 
twenty-four millions of Frenchmen, to make 
any well-grounded reproach. I doubt whether 
the Christians or the Catholics, of which the last 
speaker, and those of his opinion, have been 
talking to us, can make the same challenge. 
(Great applauses.) There is another considera- 
tion — Paris has had great losses. It has been 
deprived of the commerce of luxury ; of that 
factitious splendour which was found at courts, 
and invited strangers hither. Well ! We must 
repair these losses. Let me then represent to 
you the times, that are fast approaching, when 
our philosophers, whose names are celebrated 
throughout Europe, Petion, Syeves, Condorcet, 
and others — surrounded in our Pantheon, as the 
Greek Philosophers were at Athens, with a 
crowd of disciples coming from all parts of Eu- 
rope, walking like the peripatetics, and teaching 
— this man, the system of the universe, and de- 
veloping the progress of all human knowledge; 
that, perfectioning the social system, and show- 
ing in our decree of the 17th of June, 1789, the 
seeds of the insurrections of the 14th of July, 
and the 10th of August, and of all those insur- 
rections which are spreading with such rapidity 
throughout Europe — so that these young stran- 
gers, on their return to their respective coun- 
tries, may spread the same lights, and may ope- 
rate/or the happiness of mankind, similar revo- 
lutions throughout the world. 

(Numberless applauses arose, almost through, 
out the whole assembly, and in the galleries.l 



REMARKS ON THE SPEECH OF MR. DUPONT, 



ON THE SUBJECT OF RELIGION AND PUBLIC EDUCATION. 



It is presumed that it may not be thought un- 
seasonable at this critical time to offer to the 
public, and especially to the more religious 
part of it, a few slight observations, occasioned 
by the late famous speech of Mr. Dupont, which 
exhibits the confession of faith of a considerable 
member of the French national convention. 
Though the speech itself has been pretty gene- 
rally read, yet it was thought necessary to pre- 
fix it to these remarks, lest such as have not al- 
ready perused it, might, from an honest reluc- 
tance to credit the existence of such principles, 
dispute its authenticity, and accuse the remarks, 
if unaccompanied by the speech, of a spirit of 
invective, and unfair exaggeration. At the same 
time it must be confessed that its impiety is so 
monstrous, that many good men were of opinion 
that it ought not to be made familiar to the 
minds of Englishmen ; for there are crimes 
with which even the imagination should never 
come in contact, and which it is almost safer 
not to controvert than to detail. 

But as an ancient nation intoxicated their i 
Blaves, and then exposed them before their chil-j 



dren, in order to increase their horror of intern 
perance ; so it is hoped that this piece of impi- 
ety may be placed in such a light before the 
eyes of the Christian reader, that, in proportion 
as his detestation is raised, his faith, instead of 
being shaken, will be only so much the mare 
strengthened. 

This celebrated speech, though delivered in 
an assembly of politicians, is not on a question 
of politics, but on one as superior to all political 
considerations as the soul is to the body, as eter- 
nity is to time. The object of this oration is not 
to dethrone kings, but him by whom kings reign, 
It does not excite the cry of indignation in the 
orator that Louis I he Sixteenth reigns, but that 
the Lord God omnipotenth reigneth ! 

Nor is this the declaration of some obscure 
and anonymous person, but it is an exposition 
of the creed of a public leader. It is not a sen- 
timent hinted in a journal, hazarded in a pam- 
phlet, or thrown out at a disputing club ; but it 
is the implied faith of* the rulers of a great na- 
tion. 

Little notice would have been due to this fa- 



.104 



THE WORKS Or HANNAH MORE. 



mous speech, if it conveyed the sentiments of 
only one vain orator ; but it should be observed, 
that it was heard, received, applauded, with two 
or three exceptions only — a fact, which you, 
who have scarcely believed in the existence of 
atheism, will hardly credit, and which, for the 
honour of the eighteenth century, it is hoped 
that our posterity will reject as totally incredible. 

A love of liberty, generous in its principle, 
inclines some well-meaning but mistaken men 
etill to favour the proceedings of the national 
convention of France. They do not perceive 
that the licentious wildness which has been ex- 
cited in that country, is destructive of all true 
tappiness, and no more resembles liberty, than 
the tumultuous joys of the drunkard resemble 
the cheerfulness of a sober and well-regulated 
mind. 

To those who do not know of what strange 
inconsistencies man is made up ; who have not 
considered how some persons' having at first 
been hastily and heedlessly drawn in as approv- 
ers, by a sort of natural progression, soon be- 
come principals : — to those who have never ob- 
served by what a variety of strange associations 
in the mind, opinions that seem the most irre- 
concilable meet at some unsuspected turning, 
and come to be united in the same man ; — to all 
such it may appear quite incredible, that well 
meaning and even pious people should continue 
to applaud the principles of a set of men who 
have publicly made known their intention of 
abolishing Christianity, as far as the demolition 
of altars, priests, temples, and institutions, can 
abolish it. As to the religion itself, this also 
they may traduce and reject, but we know from 
the comfortable promise of an authority still sa- 
cred in this country at least, that the gates of 
hell shall not prevail against it. 

Let me not be misunderstood by those to 
whom these slight remarks are principally ad- 
dressed; by that class of well-intentioned but 
ill-judging people, who favour at least, if they do 
not adopt, the prevailing sentiments of the new 
republic. You are not here accused of being 
the wilful abettors of infidelity. God forbid ! 
* We are persuaded better things of you ; and 
things which accompany salvation.' But this 
ignis fatuus of liberty and universal brother- 
hood, which the French are madly pursuing, 
with the insignia of freedom in one hand, and 
the bloody bayonet in the other, has bewitched 
your senses, is misleading your steps, and be- 
traying you to ruin. You are gazing at a me- 
teor raised by the vapours of vanity, which these 
wild and infatuated wanderers are pursuing to 
their destruction ; and though for a moment you 
mistake it for a heaven born light, which leads 
to the perfection of human freedom, you will, 
should you join in the mad pursuit, soon disco- 
ver that it will conduct you over dreary wilds 
and sinking bogs, only to plunge you in deep 
and inevitable destruction. 

Much, very much is to be said in vindication 
of your favouring in the^rsi instance their po- 
litical projects. The cause they took in hand 
seemed to be the great cause of human kind. 
Its very name insured 'its popularity. What 
English heart did not exult at the demolition of 
the Bastile ? What lover of his species did not 



triumph in the warm hope, that one of the finest 
countries in the world would soon be one of the 
most free ? Popery and despotism, though chain- 
ed by the gentle influence of Louis the Six- 
teenth, had actually slain their thousands. Little 
was it then imagined, that Anarchy and Atheism, 
the monsters who were about to succeed them, 
would soon slay their ten thousands. If we can 
not regret the defeat of the two former tyrants, 
what must they be who can triumph in the mis- 
chiefs of the two latter ? Who, I say, that had 
a head to reason, or a heart to feel, did not glow 
with the hope, that from the ruins of tyranny, 
and the rubbish of popery, a beautiful and finely 
framed edifice would in time have been con- 
structed, and that ours would not have been the 
only country in which the patriot's fair idea of 
well-understood liberty, the politician's view of 
a perfect constitution, together with the esta- 
blishment of a pure and reasonable, a sublime 
and rectified Christianity, might be realized ? 

But, alas ! it frequently happens that the wise 
and good are not the most adventurous in attack 
ing the mischiefs which they are the first to 
perceive and lament. With a timidity in some 
respects virtuous, they fear attempting any thing 
which may possibly aggravate the evils they de- 
plore, or put to hazard the blessings they already 
enjoy. They dread plucking up the wheat with 
the tares, and are rather apt, with a spirit of 
hopeless resignation, 

' To bear the ills they have, 
' Than fly to others that they know not of.' 

While sober-minded and considerate men, 
therefore, sat mourning over this complicated 
mass of error, and waited till God, in his own 
good time, should open the blind eyes ; the vast 
scheme of reformation was left to that set of rash 
and presumptuous adventurers who are gene- 
rally watching how they may convert public 
grievances to their own personal account. It 
was undertaken, not upon the broad basis of a 
wise and well-digested scheme, of which all the 
parts should contribute to the perfection of one 
consistent whole : it was carried on, not by those 
steady measures, founded on rational delibera- 
tion, which are calculated to accomplish so im- 
portant an end ; not with a temperance which 
indicated a sober love of law, or a sacred regard 
for religion ; but with the most extravagant lust 
of power, with the most inordinate vanity which 
perhaps ever instigated human measures — a lust 
of power, which threatens to extend its desolat- 
ing influence over the whole globe ; — a vanity 
of the same destructive species with that which 
stimulated the celebrated incendiary of Ephesus, 
who being weary of his native onscurity and 
insignificance, and preferring infamy to oblivion, 
could contrive no other road to fame and immor- 
tality, than that of setting fire to the exquisite 
temple of Diana. He was remembered indeed, 
as he desired to be, but it was only to be exe- 
crated ; while the seventh wonder of the world 
lay prostrate through his crime. 

But too often that daring boldness which ex- 
cites admiration, is not energy, is not virtue, is 
not genius. It is blindness in the judgment, is 
vanity in the heart. Strong and unprecedented 
measures, plans instantaneously conceived, and 



THE WORKS OF HANNAii MuRE. 



305 



as rapidly executed, argue not ability but arro- 
gance'. A mind continually driven out in quest 
of presumptuous novelties, is commonly a mind 
void of real resources within, and incapable of 
profiting from observation without Sure princi- 
ples cannot be ascertained without experiment, 
and experiment requires more time than the san- 
guine can spare, and more patience than the vain 
possess. In the crude speculations of these rash 
reformists, few obstructions occur. It is like 
taking a journey, not on a road, but on a map. 
Difficulties are unseen, or are kept in the back 
ground. Impossibilities are smothered, or rather 
they are not suffered to be born. Nothing is 
felt but the ardour of enterprise, nothing is seen 
but the certainy of success. Whereas if diffi- 
culties grow out of sober experiment, the disap- 
pointments attending them generate humility ; 
the failures inseparable from the best concerted 
human undertakings, serve at once to multiply 
resources, and to excite self-distrust ; while 
ideal projectors, and actual demolishers, are the 
most conceited of mortals. It never occurs to 
them that those defects of old institutions, on 
which they frame their objections, are equally 
palpable to all other men. It never occurs to 
them that frenzy can demolish faster than wis- 
dom can build ; that pulling down the strongest 
edifice is far more easy than the reconstruction 
of the meanest, that the most ignorant labourer 
is competent to the one, while for the other the 
skill of the architect, and the patient industry 
of the workman must unite. That a sound 
judgment will profit by the errors of our pre- 
decessors, as well as by their excellences. 
That there is a retrospective wisdom to which 
much of our prospective wisdom owes its birth ; 
and that after all, neither the perfoction pre- 
tended, nor the pride which accompanies the 
pretension, ' is made for man.' 

If. is the same over-ruling vanity which ope- 
rates in their politics, and in their religion which 
makes Kersaint* boast of carrying his destruc- 
tive projects from the Tagus to the Brazils, and 
from Mexico to the shores of the Ganges ; which 
makes him menace to outstrip the enterprise of 
the most extravagant hero of romance, and al- 
most undertake with the marvellous celerity of 
the nimble-footed Puck, 

' To put a girdle round about the earth 
In forty minutes.' — 

It is the same vanity, still the master-passion 
in the bosom of a Frenchman, which leads Du- 
pont and Manuel to undertake in their orations 
to abolish the Sabbath, to exterminate the priest- 
hood, to erect a pantheon for the world, to re- 
store the peripatetic philosophy, and in short to 
revive every thing of ancient Greece, except the 
pure taste, the profound wisdom, the love of vir- 
tue, the veneration of the laws, and that high 
degree of reverence which even virtuous Pagans 
profess for the Deity. 

It is the same spirit of novelty, and the same 
hostility to established opinions, which dictate 
the preposterous and impious doctrine that death 
is an eternal sleep. The prophets and apostles 
assert the contrary. David expressly says, 

* See liia speech enumerating their intended projects. 
Vol. I U 



' when I awake up after thy likeness I shall be 
satisfied ;' implying that our true life will begin 
at our departure out of this world. The destruc- 
tion or dissolution of the body will be the re- 
vival, not the death, of the soul. — It is to the 
living the apostle says, ' awake thou that sleep- 
est, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall 
give thee light.' 

It is surely to be charged to the inadequate 
and wretched hands into which the work of 
reformation fell, and not to the impossibility of 
amending the civil and religious institutions of 
France, that all has succeeded so ill. It can- 
not be denied perhaps, that a reforming spirit 
was wanted in that country ; their government 
was not more despotic, than their church was 
superstitious and corrupt. 

But though this is readily granted, and though 
it may be unfair to blame those who in the Jirst 
outset of the French revolution, rejoiced even 
on religious motives : yet it is astonishing, how 
any pious person, even with all the blinding 
power of prejudice, can think without horror of 
the present state of France. It is no less won- 
derful how any rational man could, even in the 
beginning of the revolution, transfer that reason- 
ing, however just it might be, when applied to 
France, to the case of England. For what can 
be more unreasonable, than to draw from dif- 
ferent and even opposite premises, the same 
conclusion ? Must a revolution be equally neces- 
sary in the case of two sorts of government, and 
two sorts of religion, which are the very reverse 
of each other ? — opposite in their genius, unlike 
in their fundamental principles, and completely 
different in each of their component parts. 

That despotism, priestcraft, intolerance, and 
superstition are terrible evils, no candid Chris- 
tian it is presumed will deny ; but, blessed be 
God, though these mischiefs are not yet entire- 
ly banished from the face of the earth, they 
have scarcely any existence in this happy coun- 
try. 

To guard against a real danger, and to cure 
actual abuses, of which the existence has been 
first plainly proved, by the application of a 
suitable remedy, requires diligence as well as 
courage ; observation as well as genius ; patience 
and temperance as well as zeal and spirit. It 
requires the union of that clear head and sound 
heart which constitute the true patriot. But 
to conjure up fancied evils ; or even greatly to 
aggravate real ones ; and then to exhaust our 
labour in combating them, is the characteristic 
of a distempered imagination and an ill govern- 
ed spirit. 

Romantic crusades, the ordeal trial, drown- 
ing of witches, the torture, and the inqui- 
sition, have been justly reprobated as the foul- 
est stains of the respective periods in which, 
to the disgrace of human reason, they existed ; 
but would any man be rationally employed, 
who should now stand up gravely to declaim 
against these as the predominating mischiefs 
of the present century ? Even the whimsical 
knight of La Mancha himself, would not fight 
wind-mills that were pulled down ; yet I will 
venture to say, that the above-named evils are 
at present little more chimerical than some of 
those now so bitterly complained of among us 



306 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



It is not as Dry den said, when one of his works 
was unmercifully abused, that the piece has not 
faults enough in it, but the critics have not had 
the wit to fix upon the right ones. 

It is allowed that, as a nation, we do not want 
faults ; but our political critics err in the objects 
of their censure. They say little of those real 
and pressing evils resulting from our own cor- 
ruption, of that depravity which constitutes the 
actual miseries of life ; while they gloomily 
speculate upon a thousand imaginary political 
grievances, and fancy that the reformation of 
our rulers and our legislatures is all that is 
wanting to make us a happy people. Alas ! 

How small, of all that human hearts endure, 
That part, which kings or laws can cause or cure. 

The principles of just and equitable govern- 
ment were, perhaps, never more fully establish- 
ed, nor was public justice ever more exactly ad- 
ministered. Pure and undefiled religion was 
never laid more open to all, than at this day. I 
wish I could say we were a religious people; 
but this at least may be safely asserted, that the 
great truths of religion were never better un- 
derstood ; that Christianity was never more com 
pletely stripped from all its incumbrances and 
disguises, or more thoroughly purged from hu- 
man infusions, and from whatever is debasing 
in human institutions, than it is at this day in 
this country. 

In vain we look around us to discover the 
ravages of religious tyranny, or the triumphs of 
priestcraft or superstition. Who attempts to 
impose any yoke upon our reason ? Who seeks 
to put any blind on the eyes of the most illite- 
rate ? Who fetters the judgment or enslaves the 
conscience of the meanest of our Protestant 
bretiiren ? Nay, such is the power of pure Chris- 
tianity, that genuine Christianity, which is ex- 
hibited in our liturgy to enlighten the under- 
standing, as well as to reform the heart, and 
such are the advantages which the most abject 
in this country possess for enjoying its privi- 
leges, that the poorest peasant among us, if he 
be as religious as multitudes of his station really 
are, has clear ideas of God and his own soul, 
purer notions of that true liberty wherewith 
Christ has made him free, than the mere dis- 
puter of this world, though he possess every 
splendid advantage which education, wisdom, 
and genius can bestow. I am not speaking 
either of a perfect form of government, or of a per- 
fect church establishment, because I am speak- 
ing of institutions which are human ; and the 
very idea of their being human involves also 
the idea of imperfection. But I am speaking 
of the best constituted government, and the best 
constituted national church, with which the 
history of mankind is yet acquainted. Time, 
that silent instructor, and experience, that great 
rectifier of the judgment, will more and more 
discover to us what is wanting to the perfection 
of both. And if we may trust to the active 
genius of Christian liberty, and to that liberal 
and candid spirit which is the characteristic 
of the age we live in, there is little doubt but 
that a temperate and well regulated zeal will, at 
a convenient season, correct whatsoever sound 



policy shall suggest as wise and expedient to 
be corrected. 

If there are errors in the church, and it does 
not perhaps require the sharp-sightedness of a 
keen observer to discover that there are, there 
is at least nothing like fierce intolerance, or 
spiritual usurpation. A fiery zeal and unchari- 
table bigotry might have furnished matter for a 
well deserved ecclesiastical philipic in other 
times ; but thanks to the temper of the present 
day, unless we conjure up a spirit of religious 
chivalry, and sally forth in quest of imaginary 
evils, we shall not apprehend any danger from 
persecution or enthusiasm. If grievances there 
are, they do not appear to be those which result 
from polemic pride, and rigid bigotry, but are 
of a kind far different. 

If the warm sun of prosperity has unhappily 
produced its too common effect, in relaxing the 
vigour of religious exertion ; if, in too many in- 
stances, security has engendered sloth, and 
affluence produced dissipation ; let us implore 
the Divine grace, that the present alarming 
crisis may rouse the careless, and quicken the 
supine ; that our pastors may be convinced that 
the Church has less to fear from external vio- 
lence, than from internal decay ; nay, that even 
the violence of attack is often really beneficial, 
by exciting that activity which enables us to 
repel danger, and that increase of diligence is 
the truest accession of strength. May they be 
convinced that the love of power, with which 
their enemies perhaps unjustly accuse them, is 
not more fatal than the love of pleasure ; that no 
stoutness of orthodoxy in opinion can atone for 
a too close assimilation with the manners of the 
world ; that heresy without, is less to be dread- 
ed than indifference from within ; that the most 
regular clerical education, the most scrupulous 
attention to forms, and even the strictest con- 
formity to the established discipline and opinions 
of the Church, will avail but little to the en- 
largement of Christ's kingdom, without a strict 
spirit of personal watchfulness, habitual self- 
denial, and laborious exertion. 

Though it is not here intended to animadvert 
on any political complaint which is not in some 
sort connected with religion ; yet it is presumed 
it may not be thought quite foreign to the pre- 
sent purpose to remark, that among the reign- 
ing complaints against our civil administration, 
the most plausible seems to be that excited by 
the supposed danger of an invasion on the liberty 
of the press. — Were this apprehension well 
founded, we should indeed be threatened by one 
of the most grievous misfortunes that can befall 
a free country. The liberty of the press is not 
only a most noble privilege itself, but the guar- 
dian of all our other liberties and privileges, and, 
notwithstanding the abuse which has lately 
been made of this valuable possession, yet every 
man of a sound unprejudiced mind is well 
aware that true liberty of every kind is scarcely 
inferior in importance to any object for which 
human activity can contend. Nay, the very 
abuse of a good, often makes us more sensible 
of the value of the good itself. Fair and well- 
proportioned freedom will ever retain all her 
native beauty to a judicious eye, nor will the 
genuine loveliness of her form be the less prized 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



307 



for our having lately contemplated the distorted 
features and false colouring of her caricature, 
as presented to us by the daubing hand of Gallic 
patriots. 

But highly as the freedom of the press ought 
to be valued, would it really be so very heavy a 
misfortune, if corrupt and inflaming publica- 
tions, calculated to destroy that virtue which 
every good man is anxious to preserve, that 
peace which every honest man is struggling to 
secure, should, just at this alarming period, be 
somewhat difficult to be obtained ? Would it be 
so very grievous a national calamity, if the 
crooked progeny of treason and blasphemy 
should find it a little inconvenient to venture 
forth from their lurking holes, and range abroad 
in open day ? Is the cheapness of poison, or the 
facility with which it may be obtained, to be 
reckoned among the rSal advantages of medici- 
nal repositories ? And can the easiness of ac- 
cess to seditious or atheistical writings, be seri- 
ously numbered among the substantial blessings 
of any country ? Would France, at this day, 
have had much solid cause of regret, if most of 
the writings of Voltaire, Rousseau, and d'Alem- 
bert (the prolific seed of their wide-spreading 
tree) had found more difficulty in getting into 
the world, or been less profusely circulated when 
in it ? And might not England at this moment 
have been just as happy in her ignorance, if the 
famous orations of citizen Dupont and citizen 
Manuel, had been confined to their own enlight- 
ened and philosophical countries ?* 

To return to these orations : — We have too 
often, in our own nation, seen and deplored the 
mischiefs of irreligion, arising incidentally from 
a neglected or an abused education. But what 
mischiefs will not irreligion produce, when, in 
the projected schools of France, as announced 
to us by the two metaphysical legislators above 
mentioned, impiety shall be taught by system ? 
When out of the mouths of babes and sucklings 
the monstrous opinions, exhibited by Dupont 
and Manuel, shall be perfected ? When the 
fruits of atheism dropping from their newly 
planted tree of liberty, shall pollute the very 
fountains of knowledge ? When education being 
poisoned in all her springs, the rising generation 
shall be taught to look on atheism as decorous, 

* Extract from Mons. Manuel's Letter to the National 
Convention, dated January 26, 1793. 

'The priests of a republic are its magistrates, the law 
its gospel. What mission can be more august than that 
of the instructors of youth, who having themselves esca- 
ped from the hereditary prejudice of all sects, point out 
to the human race their inalienable rights, founded upon 
that sublime wisdom which pervades all nature. Reli- 
gious faith impressed on the mind of an infant seven 
years old, will lead to perfect slavery: or dogmas at that 
age are only arbitrary commands. Ah! what is belief 
without examination, without conviction. It renders 
men either melancholy or mad, &c. 

' Legislators ! Virtue wants neither temples nor syna- 
gogues. It is not from priests vve learn to do good or 
noble actions. No religion must be taught in schools 
which are to be national ones. To prescribe one would 
be to prefer it to all others. — There history must speak 
of sects, as she speaks of other events. It would become 
your wisdom, perhaps, to order that the pupils of the re- I 
public should not enter the temples before the age of 
seventeen, Reason must be taken by surprise, &c. 
Hardly were children born before they fell into the hands 
of priests, who first blinded their eyes, and then deliver- 
ed them over to kings. Wherever kings cease to govern, 
priests must cease to educate ' 



and Christianity as eccentric ? When atheism 
shall be considered as a proof of accomplished 
breeding, and religion as the stamp of a vulgar 
education'? When the regular course of obedi- 
ence to masters and tutors will consist in re- 
nouncing the hope of everlasting happiness, and 
in deriding the idea of future punishment ? 
When every man and every child, in conformity 
with the principles professed in the convention, 
shall presume to say with his tongue, what hither- 
to even the fool has only dared to say in heart, 
That there is no God.* 

Christianity, which involves the whole duty 
of man, divides that duty into two portions — the 
love of God and the love of our neighbour. Now, 
as these two principles have their being from 
the same source, and derive their vitality from 
the union; so impiety furnishes the direct con- 
verse — That atheism which destroys all belief 
in, and of course cuts off all love of, and com- 
munion with God, disqualifies for the due per- 
formance of the duties of civil and social life. 
There is, in its way, the same consistency, agree- 
ment and uniformity, between the principles 
which constitute an infidel and a bad member 
of society, as there is between giving l glory to 
God in the highest,' and exercising ' peace and 
good will to men.' 

My fellow Christians ! This is not a strife of 
words ; this is not a controversy about opinions 
of comparatively small importance, such as you 
have been accustomed at home to hear even good 
men dispute upon, when perhaps they would 
have acted a more wise and amiable part had 
they remained silent, sacrificing their mutual 
differences on the altar of Christian charity : 
But this bold renunciation of the first great fun- 
damental article of faith, this daring rejection 
of the Supreme Creator and Ruler of the world, 
is laying the axe and striking with a vigorous 
stroke at the root of all human happiness. It is 
tearing up the very foundation of human hope, 
and extirpating every true principle of human 
excellence. It is annihilating the very exist- 
ence of virtue, by annihilating its motives, its 
sanctions, its obligations, its object, and its 
end. 

That atheism will be the favoured and the 
popular tenet in France seems highly probable ; 
whilst in the wild contempt of all religion, which 
has lately had the arrogance to call itself tolera- 
tion, it is not improbable that Christianity itself 
may be tolerated in that country, as a sect not 
persecuted perhaps, but derided. It is, how- 
ever, far from clear, that this will be the case, 
if the new doctrines should become generally 

* It is a remarkable circumstance, that though the 
French are continually binding themselves by naths, 
they have not mentioned the name of God in any oath 
which has been invented since the revolution. It may 
also appear curious to the English readers, that though 
in almost all the addresses of congratulation, which 
were sent by the associated clubs from this country to 
the National Convention, the success of the French arms 
was in part ascribed to Divine providence, yet in none 
of the answers was the least notice ever taken of this. 
And to show how the same spirit spreads itself among 
every description of men in France, their admiral La- 
touche, after having described the dangers to which his 
ship was exposed in a storm, says, 'we owe our exist- 
encc to the tutelary Genius which watches over the des. 
tiny of the French republic, and the defenders of liberty 
and equality.' 



308 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



prevalent. Atheists are not without their bigot- 
ry ; they too have their spirit of exclusion and 
monopoly in a degree not inferior to the most 
superstitious monks. And that very spirit of 
intolerance which is now so much the object of 
their invective, would probably be no less the 
rule of their practice, if their will should ever 
be backed by power. It is true that Voltaire 
and the other great apostles of infidelity have 
employed all the acuteness of their wit to con- 
vince us that irreligion never persecutes. To 
prove this, every art of false citation, partial ex- 
tract, suppressed evidence, and gross misrepre- 
sentation, has been put in practice. But if this 
unsupported assertion were true, then Polycarp, 
Ignatius, Justin, Cyprian, and Basil, did not 
suffer for the faith once delivered to the saints. 
Then the famous Christian apologists, most of 
them learned converts from the pagan philoso- 
phy, idly employed their zeal to abate a clamour 
which did not exist, and to propitiate emperors 
who did not persecute. Then Tacitus, Trajan, 
Pliny, and Julian, those bitter enemies to Chris- 
tianity, are suborned witnesses on her side. 
Then ecclesiastical history is a series of false- 
hoods, and the book of martyrs a legend of ro- 
mance.* 

That one extravagant mischief should produce 
its opposite, is agreeable to the ordinary course 
of human events. That to the credulity of a 
dark and superstitious religion, a wanton con- 
tempt of all decency, and an unbridled profane- 
ness should succeed, that to a government abso- 
lutely despotic, an utter abhorrence of all re- 
straint and subordination should follow, though 
it is deplorable, yet it is not strange. The hu- 
man mind in flying from the extreme verge of 
one error, seldom stops till she has reached the 
opposite extremity. She generally passes by 
with a lofty disdain the obvious truth which lies 
directly in her road, and which is indeed com- 
monly to be found in the midway, between the 
error she is flying from, and the error she is 
pursuing. 

Is it a breach of Christian charity to conclude, 
from a view of the present state of the French, 
that since that deluded people have given up 
God, God, by a righteous retribution, seems to 
have renounced them for a time, and to have 
given them over to their own heart's lust, to 
work iniquity with greediness ? If such is their 
present career, what is likely to be their appoint- 
ed end ? How fearfully applicable to them seems 
that awful denunciation against an ancient, 
offending people — ' The Lord shall smite thee 
with madness, and blindness, and astonishment 
of heart.' 

It is no part of the present design to enter in- 
to a detail of their political conduct ; but I can- 
not omit to remark, that the very man in their 
long list of kings who seemed best to have de- 
served their assumed application of most Chris- 
tian, was also most favourable to their acquisi- 

* It may be objected here, that this is not applicable 
to the state of Fiance ; for that the Roman emperors 
were not atheists or deists, bat polytheists, with an esta- 
blished religion. To this it may be answered, that mo- 
dern infidels not only deny the ten pagan persecutions, 
but accuse Christianity of being the only persecuting 
religion ; and affirm that only those who refuse to em- 
brace it discover a spirit of toleration. 



tion of liberty :* his moderation and humanity 
facilitated their plans and increased their power, 
which, with unparalleled ingratitude, they em- 
ployed to degrade his person and character in 
the eyes of mankind, by the blackest and most 
detestable arts, and at length to terminate his 
calamities by a crime which has excited the 
grief and indignation of all Europe. 

On the trial and murder of that most unfortu- 
nate king, and on the inhuman proceedings 
which accompanied them, I shall purposely 
avoid dwelling, for it is not the design of these 
remarks to excite the passions. I will only say, 
that so monstrous has been the inversion of all 
order, law, humanity, justice, received opinion, 
good faith, and religion, that the conduct of his 
bloody executioners seems to have exhibited the 
most scrupulous conformity with the principles 
announced in the speeches we have been con- 
sidering. In this one instance we must not call 
the French an inconsequent people. Savage 
brutality, rapine, treason and murder have been 
the noxious fruit gathered from these thorns ; 
the baneful produce of these thistles. An over- 
turn of all morals has been the well-proportioned 
offspring of a subversion of all principle. 

But, notwithstanding the consistency, in this 
instance, between cause and consequence ; so- 
new and surprising have been the turns in their 
extraordinary projects, that to foretell what their 
next enterprize would be from what their last 
has been, has long baffled all calculation, has 
long bid defiance to all conjecture. Analogy 
from history, *iie study of past events, and an 
investigation of present principles and passions • 
judgment, memory, comparison, combination and 
deduction, afford human sagacity but very slen- 
der assistance in its endeavours to develope their 
future plans. We have not even the data of 
consistent wickedness on which to build rational 
conclusions. Their crimes, though visibly con- 
nected by uniform depravity, are yet so surpri- 
singly diversified by interfering absurdities, as 
to furnish no ground on which reasonable argu- 
ment can be founded. Nay, such is their incre- 
dible eccentricity, that it is hardly extravagant 
to affirm, that improbability is become rather an 
additional reason for expecting any given event 
to take place. 

But let us, in this yet happy country, learn at 
least one great and important truth from the 
errors of this distracted people. Their conduct 
has always illustrated a position, which is not 
the less sound for having been often controvert- 
ed — That no degree of wit and learning, no pre* 
gress in commerce, no advances in the know- 
ledge of nature, or in the embellishments of art, 
can ever thoroughly tame that savage, the natu- 
ral human heart, without religion. The arts 
of social life may give sweetness to manners, 
and grace to language, and induce, in some de- 
gree, a respect for justice, truth, and humanity ; 
but attainments derived from such inferior causes 
are no more than the semblance and the shadow 
of the qualities derived from pure Christianity. 
Varnish is an extraneous ornament, but true 

* Of this the French themselves were so well persua- 
ded, that the title of Rcstorntcur tic la liberte Francoise, 
was solemnly given to Louis XVIth by the Constituent 

Assembly. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



polish is a proof of the solidity of the body on 
whose surface it is produced. It depends greatly 
on the nature of the substance, is not superin- 
duced by accidental causes, but in a good mea- 
sure proceeds from internal soundness. 

The poets of that classic country, whose style, 
sentiments, manners, and religion, the French 
so affectedly labour to imitate, have left keen 
and biting satires on the Roman vices. Against 
the late proceedings in France, no satirist need 
employ his pen ; that of the historian will be 
quite sufficient. Truth will be the severest sa- 
tire ; fact will put fable out of countenance ; and 
the crimes which are usually held up to our ab- 
horrence, and are rejected for their exaggera- 
tion in works of invention, will be regarded as 
flat and feeble by those who shall peruse the re- 
cords of the tenth of August, of the second and 
third of September, and of the twenty-first of 
January. 

If the same astonishing degeneracy in taste, 
principle, „and practice, should ever come to 
flourish among us, Britain may still live to exult 
in the desolation of her cities, and in the de- 
struction of her finest monuments of art ; she 
may triumph in the peopling of the fortresses 
of her rocks and her forests ; may exult in be- 
ing once more restored to that glorious state of 
liberty and equality, when all subsisted by ra- 
pine and the chase ; when all, O enviable privi- 
lege ! were equally savage, equally indigent, and 
equally naked ; her sons may extol it as the re- 
storation of reason, the triumph of nature, and 
the consummation of liberty, that they are again 
brought to feed on acorns, instead of bread ! 
Groves of consecrated misletoe may happily suc- 
ceed to useless cornfields ; and Thor and Woden 
may hope once more to be invested with all 
their bloody honours 

Let not any serious reader feel indignation, 
as if pains were ungenerously taken to involve 
their religious with their political opinions. Far 
be it from me to wound, unnecessarily, the feel- 
ings of a people, many of whom are truly esti- 
mable : but it is much to be suspected, that cer- 
tain opinions in politics have a tendency to lead 
to certain opinions in religion. Where so much 
is at stake, they will do well to keep their con- 
sciences tender, in order to which they should 
try to keep their discernment acute. They will 
do well to observe, that the same restless spirit 
of innovation is busily operating under various, 
though seemingly unconnected forms ; to ob- 
serve, that the same impatience of restraint, the 
same contempt of order, peace, and subordina- 
tion, which makes men bad citizens, makes them 
bad Christians ; and that to this secret and al- 
most infallible connexion between religious and 
political sentiment, does France owe her present 
unparalleled anarchy and impiety. 

There are doubtless in that unhappy country 
multitudes of virtuous and reasonable men, who 
rather silently acquiesce in the authority of 
their present turbulent government, than em- 
brace its principles or promote its projects from 
the sober conviction of their own judgment. 
These, together with those conscientious exiles 
whom this nation so honourably protects, may 
yet live to rejoice in the restoration of true li- 
berty and solid peace to their native country, 



when light and order shall spring from the pre 
sent darkness and confusion, and the reign ot 
chaos shall be no more. 

May I be permitted a short digression on the 
subject of the conduct of Great Britain to these 
exiles ? It shall only be to remark, that all the 
boasted conquests of our Edwards and our Hen- 
rys over the French nation, do not confer such 
substantial glory on our own country, as she de- 
rives from having received, protected, and sup- 
ported among innumerable multitudes of other 
sufferers, at a time and under circumstances so 
peculiarly disadvantageous to herself, three thou- 
sand priests, of a nation habitually her enemy, 
and of a religion intolerant and hostile to her 
own. This is the solid triumph of true Chris- 
tianity ; and it is worth remarking, that the 
deeds which poets and historians celebrate as 
rare and splendid actions ; which they record 
as sublime instances of greatness of soul, in the 
heroes of the pagan world, are but the ordinary 
and habitual virtues which occur in the common 
course of action among Christians ; quietly per- 
forming without effort or exertion, and with no 
view to renown or reward ; but resulting natu- 
rally and consequently from the religion to 
which they belong. 

So predominating is the power of an example 
we have once admired, and set up as a standard 
of imitation, and so fascinating has been the 
ascendency of the convention over the minds of 
those whose approbation of French politics com. 
menced in the earlier periods of the revolution, 
that it extends to the most trivial circumstances. 
I cannot forbear to notice this in an instance 
which, though inconsiderable in itself, yet ceases 
to be so when we view it in the light of a pre- 
vailing symptom of the reigning disease. 

While the fantastic phraseology of the new 
republic is such, as to be almost as disgusting to 
sound taste as their doctrines are to sound mo. 
rals, it is curious to observe how deeply the ad- 
dresses, which have been sent to it from the 
clubs* in this country, have been infected with 
it, as far at least as phrases and terms are ob- 
jects of imitation. In the more leading points 
it is but justice to the French convention to con- 
fess, that they are hitherto without rivals and 
without imitators ; for who can aspire to emu- 
late that compound of anarchy and atheism 
which in their debates is mixed up with the pe- 
dantry of a school-boy, the jargon of a cabal, 
and the vulgarity and ill-breeding of a mob ? 
One instance of the prevailing cant may suffice, 
where a hundred might be adduced, and it is 
not the most exceptionable. To demolish every 
existing law and establishment ; to destroy the 
fortunes and ruin the principles of every coun- 
try into which they are carrying their destruc- 
tive arms and their frantic doctrines ; to untie 
or cut asunder every bond which holds society 
together ; to impose their own arbitrary shac- 
kles where they succeed, and to demolish every 
thing where they fail. This desolating system, 
by a most unaccountable perversion of language, 
they are pleased to call by the endearing name 
of fraternization ; and fraternization is one of 
the favourite terms which their admirers in thia 
country have adopted. Little would a simple 
* See the collection of addresses from England 



310 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



stranger, uninitiated in this new and surprising 
dialect, uninstructed by the political lexicogra- 
phers of modern France, imagine that the peace- 
ful terms of fellow-citizen and of brother, the 
winning offer of freedom and happiness, and the 
Warm embrace of fraternity, were only watch- 
words by which they, in effect, 
Cry havoc, 
And let slip the dogs of war. 

In numberless other instances, the fashiona- 
ble language of France at this day would be as 
unintelligible to the correct writers of the age 
of Louis the XIV. as their fashionable notions 
of liberty would be irreconcilable with those of 
the true revolution patriots of his great contem- 
porary and victorious rival William the Third. 

Such is indeed their puerile rage for novelty 
in the invention of new words, and the perver- 
sion of their taste in the use of old ones, that the 
celebrated Vossius, whom Christiana of Sweden 
oddly complimented by saying, that he was so 
learned as not only to know whence all words 
came, but whither they were going, would, were 
he admitted to the honour of a sitting, be obliged 
to/ confess, that he was equally puzzled to tell 
the one, as to foretel the other. 

If it shall please the Almighty in his anger to 
let loose this infatuated people, as a scourge for 
the iniquities of the human race ; if they are de- 
legated by infinite justice to act 'as storm and 
tempest fulfilling his word,' if they are commis- 
sioned to perform the errand of the destroying 
lightning or the avenging thunderbolt, let us 
try at least to extract personal benefit from a 
national calamity ; let every one of us, high and 
low, rich and poor, enter upon this serious and 
humbling inquiry, how much his own individual 
offences have contributed to that awful aggre- 
gate of public guilt, which has required such a 
visitation. Let us carefully examine in what 
proportion we have separately added to that 
common stock of abounding iniquity, the de- 
ocription of which formed the character of an 
ancient nation, and is so peculiarly applicable 
to our own — Pride, fulness of bread, and abun- 
dance of idleness. Let every one of us humbly 
inquire, in the self-suspecting language of the 
disciples of their Divine Piaster — Lord, is it I? 
Let us learn to fear the fleets and armies of the 
enemy, much less than those iniquities at home, 
which this alarming dispensation may be in- 
tended to chastise. 

The war which the French had declared 
against us, is of a kind altogether unexampled 
in every respect ; insomuch that human wisdom 
is baffled when it would pretend to conjecture 
what may be the event. But this at least we 
may safely say, that it is not so much the force 
of French bayonets, as the contamination of 
French principles, that ought to excite our ap- 
prehensions. We trust, that through the bless- 
ing of God we shall be defended from their open 
hostilities, by the temperate wisdom of our ru- 
lers, and the bravery of our fleets and armies ; 
but the domestic danger arising from licentious 
and irreligious principles among ourselves, can 
only be guarded against by the personal care 
and vigilance of every one of us who values re- 
ligion and the good order of society in this 
world and an eternity of happiness in the next. 



God grant that those who go forth to fight 
our battles, instead of being intimidated by the 
number of their enemies, may bear in mind, 
that ' there is no restraint with God to save by 
many or by few.' And let the meanest among 
us who remains at home remember also, that 
even he may contribute to the internal safety 
of the country, by the integrity of his private 
life, and to the success of her defenders, by fol- 
lowing them with his fervent prayers. And in 
what war can the sincere Christian ever have 
stronger inducements and more reasonable en- 
couragement to pray for the success of his coun- 
try, than in this ? Without entering far into any 
political principles, the discussion of which 
would be in a great measure foreign to the de- 
sign of this little tract, it may be remarked, that 
the unchristian principle of revenge is not our 
motive to this war ; conquest is not our object j 
nor have we had recourse to hostility in order 
to effect a change in the internal government 
of France.* The present war is undoubtedly 
undertaken entirely on defensive principles. It 
is in defence of our king, our constitution, our 
religion, our laws, and consequently our liberty, 
in the sound, sober, and rational sense of that 
term. It is to defend ourselves from the savage 
violence of a crusade, made against all religion, 
as well as all government. If ever therefore a 
war was undertaken on the ground of self-de- 
fence and necessity — if ever men might be libe- 
rally said to fight pro aris el rocis, this seems 
to be the occasion. 

The ambition of conquerors has been the 
source of great and extensive evils : religious 
fanaticism, of still greater. But little as I am 
disposed to become the apologist of either the 
one principle or the other, there is no extrava 
gance in asserting, that they have seemed inca- 
pable of producing, even in ages, that extent of 
mischief, that variety of ruin, that comprehen- 
sive desolation, which philosophy, falsely so call- 
ed, has produced in three years. 

Christians ! it is not a small thing — it is your 
life '. The pestilence of irreligion which you de- 
test, will insinuate itself imperceptibly with 
those manners, phrases, and principles which 
you admire and adopt. It is the humble wisdom 
of a Christian, to shrink from the most distant 
approaches of sin : to abstain from the very ap- 
pearance of evil. If we would fly from the dead- 
ly contagion of atheism, let us fly from those 
seemingly remote but not very indirect paths 
which lead to it. Let France choose this day 
whom she will serve ; but as for us and our 
houses, we will serve the Lord. 

And, O gracious and long-suffering God ! be- 
fore that awful period arrives, which shall ex- 
hibit the dreadful effects of such an education 
as the French nation are instituting ; before a 
race of men can be trained up, not only without 
the knowledge of Thee, but in the contempt of 
Thy most holy law, do Thou, in great mercy 
change the heart of this people as the heart of 
one man. Give them not finally over to their 
own corrupt imaginations, to their own heart's 
lusts. But after having made them a fearful 

* See the report of Mr. Pitt's speech in the House of 
Commons, on February 12, 1793, published by WoodfalL 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 311 



example to all the nations of the earth, what a 
people can do, who have cast off the fear of 
Thee, do Thou graciously bring them back to a 
sense of that law which they have violated, and 



to a participation of that mercy which they have I the earth 



abused; so that they may happily find, whfe 
the discovery can be attended with hope anl 
consolation, that doubtless there is a reward fin 
the righteous ; verily, there is a God who judgetk 



STRICTURES 

ON THE MODERN SYSTEM OF FEMALE EDUCATION 

WITH A VIEW OF THE PRINCIPLES AND CONDUCT PREVALENT AMONG WOMEN OF RANK AND FORTUNE. 

May you so raise your character that you may help to make the next age a better thing, and 
leave posterity in your debt, for the advantage it shall receive by your example. — Lord Halifax. 



Domestic happiness, thou only bliss 
Of Paradise that has survived the Fall ! 
Thou art not known where Pleasure is ador'd, 
That reeling goddess with the zonelcss waist. 
Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made 
Of honour, dignity, and fair renown ! — Cowjier. 



INTRODUCTION. 

It is a singular injustice which is often exercised towards women, first to give them a very 
defective education, and then to expect from them the most undeviating purity of conduct — to 
train them in such a manner as shall lay them open to the most dangerous faults, and then to 
censure them for not proving faultless. Is it not unreasonable and unjust to express disappoint, 
inent if our daughters should, in their subsequent lives, turn out precisely that very kind of 
character for which it would be evident to an unprejudiced by-stander that the whole scope and 
tenor of their instruction had been systematically preparing them? 

Some reflections on the present erroneous system are here with great deference submitted to 
public consideration. The author is apprehensive that she shall be accused of betraying the 
interests of her sex by laying open their defects : but surely an earnest wish to turn their attention 
to objects calculated to promote their true dignity, is not the office of an enemy. So to expose 
the weakness of the land as to suggest the necessity of internal improvement, and to point out 
the means of effectual defence, is not treachery, but patriotism. 

Again, it may be objected to this little work, that many errors are here ascribed to women 
which by no means belongs to them exclusively, and that it seems to confine to the sex those faults 
which are common to the species: but this is in some measure unavoidable. In speaking on the 
qualities of one sex, the moralist is somewhat in the situation of the geographer, who is treating 
on the nature of one country : the air, soil, and produce of the land which he is describing, can- 
not fail in many essential points to resemble those of other countries under the same parallel ; yet 
it is his business to descant on the one without adveiting to the other ; and though in drawing the 
map he may happen to introduce some of the neighbouring coast, yet his principal attention must 
be confined to that country which he proposes to describe, without taking into account the resem- 
bling circumstances of the adjacent shores. 

It may be also objected that the opinion here suggested on the state of manners among the 
higher classes of our countrywomen, may seem to controvert the just encomiums of modern 
travellers, who generally concur in ascribing a decided superiority to the ladies of this country 
over those of every other. But such is, in general, the state of foreign manners, that the com- 
parative praise is almost an injury to English women. To be flattered for excelling those whose 
standard of excellence is very low, is buta degrading kind of commendation ; for the value of all 
praise derived from superiority, depends on the worth of the competitor. The character of 
British ladies, with all the unparalleled advantages they possess, must never be determined by 
comparison with the women of other nations, but by comparing them with what they themselves 
might be if all their talents and unrivalled opportunities were turned to the best account. 

Again, it may be said, that the author is less disposed to expatiate on excellence than error : but 
the office of the historian of human manners is delineation rather than panegyric. Were the end 
in view eulogium and not improvement, eulogium would have been far more gratifying, nor 
would just objects for praise have been difficult to find. Even in her own limited sphere of ob- 
servation, the author is acquainted with much excellence in the class of which she treats — with 
women who, possessing learning which would be thought extensive in the other sex, set an ex- 
ample of deep humility to their own— women who, distinguished for wit and genius, are eminent 



312 THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 

for domestic qualities — who, excelling in the fine arts, have carefully enriched their understand, 
ings — who, enjoying great influence, devote it to the glory of God — who, possessing elevated rank, 
think their noblest style and title is that of a Christian. 

That there is also much worth which is little known, she is persuaded ; for it is the modest 
nature of goodness to exert itself quietly, while a few characters of the opposite cast seem, by the 
rumour of their exploits, to fill the world ; and by their noise to multiply their numbers. It often 
happens that a very small party of people, by occupying the foreground, by seizing the public 
attention and monopolizing the public talk, contrive to appear to be the great body : a few active 
spirits, provided their activity take the wrong turn, and support the wrong cause, seem to fill the 
scene ; and a few disturbers of order, who have the talent of thus exciting a false idea of their 
multitudes by their mischiefs, actually gain strength, and swell their numbers, by this fallacious 
arithmetic. 

But the present work is no more intended for a panegyric on those purer characters who seek 
not human praise because they act from a higher motive, than for a satire on the avowedly 
licentious, who, urged by the impulse of the moment, resist no inclination ; and led away by the 
love of fashion, dislike no censure, so it may serve to rescue them from neglect or oblivion. 

There are, however, multitudes of the young and the well disposed, who have as yet taken no 
decided part, who are just launching on the ocean of life, just about to lose their own right con- 
victions, virtually preparing to counteract their better propensities, and unreluctantly yielding 
themselves to be carried down the tide of popular practices : sanguine, thoughtless, and confident 
of safety. — To these the author would gently hint, that when once embarked, it will be no longer 
easy to say to their passions, or even to their principles, ' Thus far shall ye go, and no further.' 
Their struggles will grow fainter, their resistance will become feebler, till bprne down by the con- 
fluence of example, temptation, appetite, and habit, resistance and opposition will soon be the only 
things of which thy will learn to be ashamed. 

Should any reader revolt at what is conceived to be unwarranted strict?, ess in this little book, 
let it not be thrown by in disgust before the following short consideration be weighed. — If in this 
christian country we are actually beginning to regard the solemn office of Baptism as merely 
furnishing an article to the parish register — if we are learning from our indefatigable teachers, 
to consider this Christian rite as a legal ceremony retained for the sole purpose of recording the 
age of our children ; — then, indeed, the prevaling system of education and manners of which 
these pages presume to animadvert may be adopted with propriety, and persisted in with safety, 
without entailing on our children or on ourselves the peril of broken promises or the guilt of vio- 
lated vows — But, if the obligation which christian Baptism imposes be really binding — if the or- 
dinance have, indeed, a meaning beyond a mere secular transaction, beyond a record of names 
and dates — if it be an institution by which the child is solemnly devoted to God as his Father, to 
Jesus Christ as his Saviour, and to the Holy Spirit as his sanctifier ; if there be no definite period 
assigned when the obligation of fulfilling the duties it enjoins shall be superseded — if, having 
once dedicated our offspring to their Creator, we no longer dare to mock Him by bringing them up 
in ignorance of His will and neglect of His laws — if, after having enlisted them under the banners 
of Christ, to fight manfully against the three great enemies of mankind, we are no longer at liberty 
to let them lay down their arms ; much less to lead them to act as if they were in alliance, instead 
of hostility with these enemies — if, after having promised that they shall renounce the vanities 
of the world, we are not allowed to invalidate the engagement — if, after such a covenant we 
should tremble to make these renounced vanities, the supreme object of our own pursuit or of 
their instruction — if all this be really so, then the Strictures on Modern Education, and on the 
Habits of Polished Life, will not be found so repugnant to truth, and reason, and common sense, 
as may on a first view be supposed. 

But if on candidly summing up the evidence, the design and scope of the author be fairly 
judged, not by the customs or opinions of the worldly (for every English subject has a right to 
object to a suspected or prejudiced jury) but by an appeal to that divine law which is the only in- 
fallible rule of judgment ; if on such an appeal her views and principles shall be found censurable 
for their rigour, absurd in their requisitions, or preposterous in their restrictions, she will have 
no right to complain of such a verdict, because she will then stand condemned by that court to 
whose decision she implicitly submits. 

Let it not be suspected that the author arrogantly conceives herself to be exempt from that 
natural corruption of the heart which it is one chief object of this slight work to exhibit ; that 
she superciliously erects herself into the implacable censor of her sex and of the world , as if from 
the critic's chair she were coldly pointing out the faults and errors of another order of beings, in 
whose welfare she had not that lively interest which can only flow from the tender and intimate 
participation of fellow-feeling. 

With a deep self-abasement, arising from a strong conviction of being indeed a partaker in the 
6ame corrupt nature; together with a full persuasion of the many and great defects of these 
pages, and a sincere consciousness of her inability to do justice to a subject which, hewever, a 
sense of duty impelled her to undertake, she commits herself to the candour of that public, which 
has so frequently, in her instance, accepted a right intention as a substitute for a powerful per 
formance. 

Bath, March 14, 1799. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



313 



STRICTURES 

ON THE MODERN SYSTEM OF FEMALE EDUCATION. 



CHAP. I. 

Address to women of rank and fortune, on the 
effects of their influence on society. — Sugges- 
tions for the exertion of it in carious instances. 

Among the talents for the application of which 
women of the higher class will be peculiarly 
accountable, there is one, the importance of 
which they can scarcely rate too highly. This 
talent is influence. We read of the greatest 
orator of antiquity, that the wisest plans which 
it had cost him years to frame, a woman could 
overturn in a single day ; and when we consider 
the variety of mischiefs wh^ch an ill-directed 
influence has been known to produce, we are led 
to reflect with the most sanguine hope on the 
beneficial effects to be expected from the same 
powerful force when exerted in its true direc- 
tion. 

The general state of civilized society depends, 
more than those are aware who are not accus- 
tomed to scrutinize into the springs of human 
action, on the prevailing sentiments and habits 
of women, and on the nature and degree of the 
estimation in which they are held. Even those 
who admit the power of female elegance on the 
manners of men, do not always attend to the in- 
fluence of female principles on their character. 
In the former case, indeed, women are apt to be 
sufficiently conscious of their power, and not 
backward in turning it to account. But there 
are nobler objects to be effected by the exertion 
of their powers, and unfortunately, ladies, who 
are often unreasonably confident where they 
ought to be diffident, are sometimes capriciously 
diffident just when they ought to feel where 
their true importance lies ; and feeling to exert 
it. To use their boasted power over mankind 
to no higher purpose than the gratification of 
vanity or the indulgence of pleasure, is the de- 
grading triumph of those fair victims to luxury, 
caprice, and despotism, whom the laws and the 
religion of the voluptuous prophet of Arabia ex- 
clude from light, and liberty, and knowledge : 
and it is humbling to reflect, that in those coun- 
tries in which fondness for the mere persons of 
women is carried to the highest excess, they are 
slaves ; and that their moral and intellectual 
degradation increases in direct proportion to 
the adoration which is paid to mere external 
charms. 

But I turn to the bright revefSe of this morti- 
fying scene ; to a country where our sex enjoys 
the blessings of liberal instruction, of reasonable 
laws, of a pure religion, and all the endearing 
pleasures of an equal, social, virtuous, and de- 
lightful intercourse. I turn, with an earnest 
hope, that women thus richly endowed with the 
bounties of Providence, will not content them- 
selves with polishing when they arc able to re- 
form ; with entertaining when they may awaken ; 
and with captivating for a day, when they may 
bring into action powers of which the effects 
may be commensurate with eternity. 

Vol. I. 



In this moment of alarm and peril, I would 
call on them with a 'warning voice,' which 
should stir up every latent principle in their 
minds, and kindle every slumbering energy in 
their hearts : I would call on them to come for- 
ward, and contribute their full and fair propor- 
tion towards the saving of their country. But I 
would call on them to come forward, without 
departing from the refinement of their character, 
without derogating from the dignity of their 
rank, without blemishing the delicacy of their 
sex ; I would call them to the best and most ap- 
propriate exertion of their power, to raise the 
depressed tone of public morals, and to awaken 
the drowsy spirit of religious principle. They 
know too well how arbitrarily they give the law 
to manners, and with how despotic a sway they 
fix the standard of fashion. But this is not 
enough ; this is a low mark, a prize not worthy 
of their high and holy calling. For, on the use 
which women of the superior class may now be 
disposed to make of that power delegated to 
them by the courtesy of custom, by the honest 
gallantry of the heart, by the imperious control 
of virtuous affections, by the habits of civilized 
states, by the usages of polished society ; on the 
use, I say, which they shall hereafter make of 
this influence, will depend, in no low degree, 
the well-being of those states, and the virtue and 
happiness, nay perhaps the very existence, of 
that society. 

At this period when our country can only hope 
to stand by opposing a bold and noble unanimity 
to the most tremendous confederacies against 
religion, and order, and governments, which the 
world ever saw, what an accession would it 
bring to the public strength, could we prevail on 
beauty, and rank, and talents, and virtue, con- 
federating their several powers, to exert them- 
selves with a patriotism at once firm and femi- 
nine, for the general good ! I am not sounding 
an alarm to female warriors, or exciting female 
politicians : I hardly know which of the two is 
the most disgusting and unnatural character. 
Propriety is to a woman what the great Roman 
critic says action is to an orator ; it is the first, 
the second, the third requisite. A woman may 
be knowing, active, witty and amusing; but with- 
out propriety she cannot be amiable. Propriety 
is the centre in which all the lines of duty and 
of agreeableness meet. It is to character what 
proportion is to figure, and grace to attitude. It 
does not depend on any one perfection, but it, is 
the result of general excellence. It shows itself 
by a regular, orderly, undeviating course ; and 
never starts from its sober orbit into any splen- 
did eccentricities ; for it would be ashamed of 
such praise as it might extort by any deviations 
from its proper path. It renounces all commen- 
dation but what is characteristic ; and I would 
make it the criterion of true taste, right princi- 
ple, and genuine feeling, in a woman, whether 
she would be less touched with all the flattery 
of romantic and exaggerated panegyric thaji 



314 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



with that beautiful picture of correct and elegant 
propriety which Milton draws of our first mo- 
ther, when he delineates 

' Those thousand decencies which daily flow 
From all her words and actions.' 

Even the influence of religion is to be exer- 
cised with discretion. A female Polemic wan- 
ders nearly as far from the limits prescribed 
to her sex, as a female Machiavel or warlike 
Thalestris. Fierceness has made almost as few 
converts as the sword, and both are peculiarly 
ungraceful in a female. Even religious violence 
has human tempers of its own to indulge, and 
is gratifying itself when it would be thought to 
be serving God. Let not the bigot place her 
natural passions to the account of Christianity, 
or imagine she is pious when she is only pas- 
sionate. Let her bear in mind that a Christian 
doctrine is always to be defended with a Chris- 
tian spirit, and not make herself amends by the 
stoutness of her orthodoxy for the badness of 
her temper. Many, because they defend a reli- 
gious opinion with pertinacity, seem to fancy 
that they thereby acquire a kind of right to 
withhold the meekness and obedience which 
should be necessarily involved in the principle. 

But the character of a consistent Christian is 
as carefully to be maintained as that of a fiery 
disputant is to be avoided ; and she who is afraid 
to avow her principles, or ashamed to defend 
them, has little claim to that honourable title. 
A profligate who laughs at the most sacred in- 
stitutions and keeps out of the way of every 
thing which comes under the appearance of for- 
mal instruction, may be disconcerted by the 
modest, but spirited rebuke of a delicate woman, 
whose life adorns the doctrines which her con- 
versation defends : but she who administers re- 
proof with ill-breeding, defeats the effect of her 
remedy. On the other hand, there is a dishonest 
way of labouring to conciliate the favour of a 
whole company, though of characters and prin- 
ciples irreconcilably opposite. The words may 
be so guarded as not to shock the believer, while 
the eye and voice may be so accommodated, as 
not to discourage the infidel. She who, with a 
half-earnestness trims between the truth and the 
fashion ; who while she thinks it creditable to 
defend the cause of religion, yet does it in a 
faint tone, a studied ambiguity of phrase, and a 
certain expression in her countenance, which 
proves that she is not displeased with what she 
affects to censure, or that she is afraid to lose 
her reputation for wit, in proportion as she ad- 
vances her credit for piety, injures the cause 
more than he who attacked it, for she proves 
either that she does not believe what she pro- 
fesses, or that she does not reverence what fear 
compels her to believe. But this is not all : she 
is called on, not barely to repress impiety, but 
to excite, to encourage, and to cherish every 
tendency to serious religion. 

Some of the occasions of contributing to the 
general good which are daily presenting them- 
selves to ladies are almost too minute to be 
pointed out. Yet of the good which right mind- 
ed women, anxiously watching these minute oc- 
casions, and adroitly seizing them, might ac- 
complish we may form some idea by the ill 



effects which we actually see produced, through 
the mere levity, carelessness, and inattention 
(to say no worse) of some of those ladies who 
are looked up to as standards in the fashionable 
world. 

I am persuaded if many a woman of fashion, 
who is now disseminating unintended mischief, 
under the dangerous notion that there is no 
harm in any thing short of positive vice, and 
under the false colours of that indolent humility, 
' what good can / do?' could be brought to see in 
its collected force the annual aggregate of the 
random evil she is daily doing, by constantly 
throwing a little casual weight into the wrong 
scale, by a mere inconsiderate and unguarded 
chat, she would start from her self-complacent 
dream. If she could conceive how much 6he 
may be diminishing the good impressions of 
young men; and if she could imagine how little 
amiable levity or irreligion makes her appear in 
the eyes of those who are older and abler (how- 
ever loose their own principles may be) she 
would correct herself in the first instance, from 
pure good nature ; and in the second, from 
worldly prudence and mere self-love. — But on 
how much higher principles would she restrain 
herself, if she habitually took into account the 
important doctrino of consequences : and if she 
reflected that the lesser but more habitual cor- 
ruptions make up by their number, what they 
may seem to come short of by their weight : 
then perhaps she would find, that among the 
higher class of women, inconsideration is adding 
more to the daily quantity of evil than almost all 
other causes put together. 

There is an instrument of inconceivable force, 
when it is employed against the interest of 
Christianity : it is not reasoning, for that may 
be answered ; it is not learning, for luckily the 
infidel is not seldom ignorant ; it is not invec- 
tive, for we leave 60 coarse an engine to the 
hands of the vulgar ; it is not evidence, for hap- 
pily we have that all on our side : it is ridicule, 
the most deadly weapon in the whole arsenal of 
impiety, and which becomes an almost unerring 
shaft when directed by a fair and fashionable 
hand. No maxim has been more readily adopt- 
ed, or is more intrinsically false, than that which 
the fascinating eloquence of a noble sceptic of 
the last age contrived to render so popular, that 
' ridicule is the test of truth.'* It is no test of 
truth itself; but of their firmness who assert 
the cause of truth, it is indeed a severe test. 
This light, keen, missile weapon, the irresolute, 
unconfirmed Christian will find it harder to 
withstand, than the whole heavy artillery of in- 
fidelity united. 

A young man of the better sort, has perhaps 
just entered upon the world, with a certain share 
of good dispositions and right feelings ; neither 
ignorant of the evidences, nor destitute of the 
principles of Christianity : without parting with 
his respect for religion, he sets out with the too 
natural wish of making himself a reputation 
and of standing well with the fashionable part 
of the female world. He preserves for a time a 
horror of vice, which makes it not difficult for 
him to resist the grosser corruptions of society ; 
he can as yet repel profaneness ; nay he can 
* Lord Shaftesbury. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



315 



withstand the banter of a club. He has sense 
enough to see through the miserable fallacies 
of the new philosophy, and spirit enough to ex- 
pose its malignity. So far he does well, and 
you are ready to congratulate him on his secu- 
rity. You are mistaken : the principles of the 
ardent, and hitherto promising adventurer, are 
shaken, just in that very society where, while 
he was looking for pleasure, he doubted not of 
safety. In the company of certain women of 
good fashion and no ill fame, he makes ship- 
wreck of his religion. He sees them treat with 
levity or derision subjects which he has been 
used to hear named with respect. He could 
confute ^an argument, he could unravel a so- 
phistry ; but he cannot stand a laugh. A sneer, 
not at the truth of religion, for that perhaps is 
by none of the party disbelieved, but at its 
gravity, its unseasonableness, its dulness, puts 
all his resolution to flight. He feels his mis- 
take, and struggles to recover his credit ; in or- 
der to which he adopts the gay affectations 
of trying to seem worse than he really is ; he 
goes on to say things which he does not believe, 
and to deny things which he does believe ; and 
all to efface the first impression, and to recover 
a reputation which he has committed to their 
hands, on whose report he knows he shall stand 
or fall, in those circles in which he is ambitious 
to shine. 

That cold compound of irony, irreligion, 
selfishness, and sneer, which make up what the 
French (from whom we borrow the thing as 
well as the word) so well express by the term 
persiflage, has of late years made an incredible 
progress in blasting the opening buds of piety 
in young persons of fashion. A cold pleasantry, 
a temporary cant word, the jargon of the day 
(for the ' great vulgar' have their jargon) blights 
the first promise of seriousness. The ladies of 
ton have certain watch-words, which may be 
detected as indications of this spirit. The 
clergy are spoken of under the contemptuous 
appellation of The Parsons. Some ludicrous 
association is infallibly combined with the very 
idea of religion. If a warm hearted youth has 
ventured to name with enthusiasm some emi- 
nently pious character, his glowing ardour is 
extinguished with a laugh : and a drawling de- 
claration, that the person in question is really a 
mighty harmless good creature, is uttered in a 
tone which leads the youth secretly to vow, that 
whatever else he may be, he will never be a 
good harmless creature. 

Nor is ridicule more dangerous to true piety 
than to true taste. An age which values itself 
on parody, burlesque, irony, and caricature, 
produces little that is sublime, either in genius 
or in virtue ; but they amuse and we live in an 
age which must be amused, though genius, 
feeling, truth, and principle be the sacrifice. 
Nothing chills the ardours of devotion like a 
frigid sarcasm ; and, in the season of youth the 
mind should be kept particularly clear of all 
light associations. This is of so much impor- 
tance, that I have known persons who, having 
been early accustomed to certain ludicrous com- 
binations, were never liable to get their minds 
cleansed from the impurities contracted by this 
habitual levity, even after thorough reformation 



in their hearts and lives had taken place : their 
principles became reformed, but their imagina- 
tions were indelibly soiled. They could desist 
from sins which the strictness of Christianity 
would not allow them to commit, but they could 
not dismiss from their minds images which her 
purity forbade them to entertain. 

There was a time when a variety of epithets 
were thought necessary to express various kinds 
of excellence, and when the different qualities 
of the mind were distinguished by appropriate 
and discriminating terms: when the words 
venerable, learned, sagacious, profound, acute, 
pious, worthy, ingenious, valuable, elegant, 
agreeable, wise, or witty, were used as specific 
marks of distinct characters. But the legisla- 
tors of fashion have of late years thought pro- 
per to comprise all merit in one established 
epithet ; an epithet which, it may be confessed, 
is a very desirable one as far as it goes. This 
term is exclusively and indiscriminately applied 
whenever commendation is intended. The word 
pleasant now serves to combine and express all 
moral and intellectual excellence. Every in- 
dividual, from the gravest professors, of the 
gravest professions, down to the trifler who is 
of no profession at all, must earn the epithet of 
pleasant, or must be contented to be nothing ; 
and must be consigned over to ridicule, under 
the vulgar and inexpressive cant word of a bore. 
This is the mortifying designation of many a 
respectable man, who, though of much worth 
and much ability, cannot perhaps clearly make 
out his letters patent to the title of pleasant. 
For according to this modern classification there 
is no intermediate state, but all are comprised 
within the ample bounds of one or other of 
these two comprehensive terms. 

We ought to be more on our guard against 
this spirit of ridicule, because whatever may be 
the character of the present day, its faults do 
not spring from the redundancies of great 
qualities, or the overflowing of extravagant 
virtues. It is well if more correct views of life, 
a more regular administration of laws, and a 
more settled state of society, have helped to re- 
strain the excesses of the heroic ages, when 
love and war were considered as the great and 
sole business of human life. Yet, if that period 
was marked by a romantic extravagance, and 
the present is distinguished by an indolent sel- 
fishness, our superiority is not so triumphantly 
decisive, as, in the vanity of our hearts we may 
be ready to imagine. 

I do not wish to bring back the frantic reign 
of chivalry, nor to reinstate women in that fan- 
tastic empire in which they then sat enthroned 
in the hearts, or rather in the imaginations of 
men. Common sense is an excellent material 
of universal application, which the sagacity of 
latter ages has seized upon, and rationally ap- 
plied to the business of common life. But let 
us not forget, in the insolence of acknowledged, 
superiority, that it was religion and chastity, 
operating on the romantic spirit of those times, 
which established the despotic sway of wo- 
man ; and though in this altered scene of things, 
she now no longer looks down on her adoring 
votaries from the pedestal to which an absurd 
idolatry had lifted her : yet let her remember 



316 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



that it is the same religion and the same chas- 
tity which once raised her to such an elevation, 
that must still furnish the noblest energies of 
her character, must still attract the admiration, 
still retain the respect of the other sex. 

While we lawfully ridicule the absurdities 
which we have abandoned, let us not plume 
ourselves on that spirit of novelty which glories 
in the opposite extreme. If the manners of the 
period in question were affected, and if the 
gallantly was unnatural, yet the tone of virtue 
was high : and let us remember that constancy, 
purity, and honour, are not ridiculous in them- 
selves, though they may unluckily be associated 
with qualities which are so : and women of de- 
licacy would do well to reflect, when descanting 
on those exploded manners, how far it be de- 
corous to deride with too broad a laugh, attach- 
ments which could subsist on remote gratifica- 
tions ; or grossly to ridicule the taste which led 
the admirer to sacrifice pleasure to respect, and 
inclination to honour ; how far it be delicate to 
sneer at that purity which made self-denial a 
proof of affection ; to call in question the sound 
understanding of him who preferred the fame 
of his mistress to his own indulgence ; to bur- 
lesque that antiquated refinement which con- 
sidered dignity and reserve as additional titles 
to affection and reverence. 

We cannot but be struck with the wonderful 
contrast exhibited to our view, when we con- 
template the opposite manners of the two periods 
in question. In the former all the flower of 
Europe smit with a delirious gallantry ; all that 
was young, and noble, and brave, and great, 
with a frantic frenzv, and preposterous con- 
tempt of danger, t' ^versed seas and scaled 
mountains and compassed a large portion of 
the globe, at the expense of ease, and fortune, 
and life, for the unprofitable project of rescuing, 
oy force of arms, from the hands of infidels, the 
sepulchre of that Saviour, whom, in the other 
period, their posterity would think it the height 
of fanaticism so much as to name in good com- 
pany. That Saviour, whose altars they desert, 
whose temples they neglect ; and though in 
more than one country at least they still call 
themselves by his name, yet too many, it is to 
be feared, contemn his precepts, still more are 
ashamed of his doctrines, and not a few reject 
his sacrifice. Too many consider Christianity 
rather as a political than a religious distinction ; 
too many claim the appellation of Christians, in 
mere opposition to that democracy with which 
they conceive infidelity to be associated, rather 
than from an abhorrence of impiety for its own 
sake ; too many deprecate the charge of irre- 
ligion, as the supposed badge of a reprobated 
party, more than on account of that moral cor- 
ruption which is its inseparable concomitant ! 

On the other hand, in an age when inversion 
is the character of the day, the modern idea of 
improvement does not consist in altering, but 
extirpating. We do not reform, but subvert. 
We do not correct old systems but demolish 
them, fancying that when every thing shall be 
new it will be perfect. Not to have been wrong, 
but to have been at all, is the crime. Existence 
is sin. Excellence is no longer considered as 
an experimental thing which is to grow gra- 



dually out of observation and practice, and tob6 
improved by the accumulating additions brought 
by the wisdom of successive ages. Oar wisdom 
is not a creature slowly brought by ripening 
time and gradual growth to perfection ; but is an 
instantaneously created goddess, which starts 
at once, full grown, mature, armed cap-a-pee, 
from the heads of our modern thunderers. Or 
rather, if I may change the allusion, a perfect 
saystem is now expected inevitably to spring 
spontaneously at once, like the fabled bird of 
Arabia, from the ashes of its parent ; and, like 
that, can receive its birth no other way but by 
the destruction of its predecessor. 

Instead of clearing away what is redundant, 
pruning what is cumbersome, supplying what 
is defective, and amending what is wrong, we 
adopt the indefinite rage for radical reform of 
Jack, who, in altering lord Peter's* coat, showed 
his zeal by crying out, ' Tear away, brother 
Martin, for the love of heaven ; never mind, so 
you do but tear away.' 

This tearing system has unquestionably rent 
away some valuable parts of that strong, rich 
native stuff, which formed the ancient texture 
of British manners. That we have gained much 
I am persuaded ; that we have lost nothing I 
dare not therefore affirm. But though it fairly 
exhibits a mark of our improved judgment to 
ridicule the fantastic notions of love and honour 
in the heroic ages ; let us not rejoice that the 
spirit of generosity in sentiment, and of ardour 
in piety, the exuberances of which were then so 
inconvenient, are now sunk as unreasonably low. 
That revolution of taste and manners which the 
unparalleled wit and genius of Don Quixote so" 
happily effected throughout all the polished 
countries of Europe, by abolishing extravagan- 
cies the most absurd and pernicious, was so far 
imperfect, that some virtues which he never 
meant to expose, unjustly fell into disrepute 
with the absurdities which he did : and it is be- 
come the turn of the present taste inseparably 
to attach in no small degree that which is ridi- 
culous to that which is, serious and heroic. 
Some modern works of wit have assisted in 
bringing piety and some of the noblest virtues 
into contempt, by studiously associating them 
with oddity, childish simplicity, and ignorance 
of the world : and unnecessary pains have been 
taken to extinguish that zeal and ardour, which 
however liable to excess and error, are yet the 
spring of whatever is great and excellent in the 
human character. The novel of Cervantes is 
incomparable ; the Tartuffe of Moliere is un** 
equalled ; but true generosity and true religion 
will never lose any thing of their intrinsic value, 
because knight-errantry and hypocrisy are legi- 
timate objects for satire. 

But to return from this too long digression, 
to the subject of female influence. Those who 
have not watched the united operation of vanity 
and feeling on a youthful mind, will not conceive 
how much less formidable the ridicule of all his 
own sex will be to a very young man, than that 
of those women to whom he has been taught to 
look up as the arbiters of elegance. Such a 
youth, I doubt not, might be able to work him- 

Swift's Tale of a Tub 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



317 



self up, by the force of genuine Christian prin- 
ciple, to such a pitch of true heroism, as to re- 
fuse a challenge (and it requires more real cou- 
rage to refuse a challenge than to accept one) 
who would yet be in danger of relapsing into 
the dreadful pusillanimity of the world, when he 
is told that no woman of fashion will hereafter 
look on him but with contempt. While we have 
cleared away the rubbish of the Gothic ages, it 
were to be wished we had not retained the most 
criminal of all their inslitutions. Why chivalry 
should indicate a madman, while its leading ob- 
ject, the single combat, should designate a gen- 
fnan, has not yet been explained. Nay, the 
usible original motive is lost, while the sinful 
practice is continued ; for the fighter of the duel 
no longer pretends to be a glorious redresser of 
the wrongs of strangers ; no longer considers 
himself as piously appealing to heaven for the 
justice of his cause ; but from the slavish fear 
of unmerited reproach, often selfishly hazards 
the happiness of his nearest connexions, and al- 
ways comes forth in direct defiance of an ac- 
knowledged command of the Almighty. Per- 
haps there are few occasions on which female 
influence might be exerted to a higher purpose 
than on this, in which laws and conscience have 
hitherto effected so little. But while the duellist 
(who perhaps becomes a duellist only because 
he was first a seducer) is welcomed with smiles ; 
the more hardy dignified youth, who, not be- 
cause he fears man but God, declines a challenge, 
who is resolved to brave disgrace rather than 
commit sin, would be treated with cool contempt 
by those very persons to whose esteem he might 
reasonably have looked, as one of the rewards 
of his true and substantial fortitude. 

How then is it to be reconciled with the deci- 
sions of principle, that delicate women should 
receive with complacency the successful liber- 
tine, who has been detected by the wretched fa- 
ther or the injuied husband in a criminal com- 
merce, the discovery of which has too justly ba- 
nished the unhappy partner of his crime from 
virtuous society ? Nay, if he happens to be 
very handsome, or very brave, or very fashion- 
able, is there not sometimes a kind of disho- 
nourable competition for his favour ? Is there 
not a sort of bad popularity attached to his atten- 
tions ? But, whether his flattering reception be 
derived from birth, or parts, or person, or (what 
is often a substitute for all) from his having 
made his way into good company, women of dis- 
tinction sully the sanctity of virtue by the too 
visible pleasure they sometimes express at the 
attentions of such a popular libertine, whose vo- 
luble small-talk they admire, whose sprightly 
nothings they quote, whose vices they justify or 
extenuate, and whom perhaps their very favour 
tends to prevent from becoming a better charac- 
ter, because he finds himself more acceptable as 
he is. 

May I be allowed to introduce a new part of 
my subject, by remarking that it is a matter of 
inconceivable importance, though not perhaps 
sufficiently considered, when any popular work, 
not on a religious topic, but on any common 
subject, such as politics, history or science, has 
happened to be written by an author of sound 
Christian principles ? It may not have been ne- 



cessary ; nor prudently practicable, to have a, 
single page in the whole work professedly reli. 
gious ; but still, when the living principle in- 
forms the mind of the writer, it is almost im- 
possible but that something of its spirit will dif- 
fuse itself even into subjects with which it 
should seem but remotely connected. It is at 
least a comfort to the reader, to feel that honest 
confidence which results from knowing that he 
has put himself into safe hands ; that he has 
committed himself to an author, whose known 
principles are a pledge that his reader need not 
be driven to watch himself at every step with 
anxious circumspection; that he need not be 
looking on the right hand and on the left, as if 
he knew there were pitfalls under the flowers 
which are delighting him. And it is no small 
point gained, that on subjects in which you do 
not look to improve your religion, it is at least 
secured from deterioration. If the Athenian 
laws were so delicate that they disgraced any 
one who showed an inquiring traveller the 
wrong road, what disgrace among Christians, 
should attach to that author, who when a youth 
is inquiring the road to history or philosophy, 
directs him to blasphemy and unbelief?* 

In animadverting farther on the reigning 
evils which the times more particularly demand 
that women of rank and influence should ro- 
press, Christianity calls upon them to bear their 
decided testimony against every thing which is 
notoriously contributing to the public corrup- 
tion. It calls upon them to banish from their 
dressing rooms (and oh, that their influence 
could banish from the libraries of their sons 
and husbands) that sober and unsuspected mass 
of mischief, which, by assuming the plausible 
names of science, of philosophy, of arts, of 
belles lettres, is gradually administering death 
to the principles of those who would be on their 
guard, had the poison been labelled with its own 
pernicious title. Avowed attacks upon revela- 
tion are more easily resisted, because the ma- 
lignity is advertised. But who suspects the de- 
struction which lurks under the harmless or in- 
structive names of general history, natural his- 
tory, travels, voyages, lives, encyclopedias, criti- 
cism, and romance ? Who will deny that many 
of these works contain much admirable matter ; 
brilliant passages, important facts, just descrip- 
tions, faithful pictures of nature, and valuable 
illustrations of science ? But while ' the dead 
fly lies at the bottom,' the whole will exhale a 
corrupt and pestilential stench. 

* The author has often heard it, mentioned as matter 
of regret, that Mr. Gihhon should have blemished his 
elegant history with the two notoriously offensive chap- 
ters against Christianity. But does not this regret seem 
to implv-that the work would, by this omission, have 
been left safe and unexceptionable ? .May we not rather 
consider these chapters as a fatal rock indeed ; but as a 
rock enlightened by a beacon, fairly and unequivocally 
warning us of the surrounding perils ? To change the 
metaphor— Had not the mischiefs of these chapters been 
rendered thus conspicuous, the incautious reader would 
have been still left, exposed to (lie fatal effects of tha 
more disguised poison which is infused through almost 
all pans of the volumes. Is it not obvious that a spirit 
so virulent against revealed religion as ihcse two chap- 
ters indicate, would be incessantly pouring out some 
of its infectious matter on every occasion ; and would 
even industriously make the opportunities which it did 
not find ? 



318 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Novels, which chiefly used to be dangerous 
in one respect, are now become mischievous in 
a thousand. They are continually shifting their 
ground, and enlarging their sphere, and are 
daily becoming vehicles of wider mischief. 
Sometimes they concentrate their force, and are 
at once employed to diffuse destructive politics, 
deplorable profligacy, and impudent infidelity. 
Rousseau was the first popular dispenser of this 
complicated drug, in which the deleterious in- 
fusion was strong, and the efFect proportionably 
fatal. For he does not attempt to seduce the af- 
fections but through the medium of the princi- 
ples. He does not paint an innocent woman 
ruined, repenting, and restored ; but with a far 
more mischievous refinement, he annihilates the 
value of chastity, and with pernicious subtlety 
attempts to make this heroine appear almost 
more amiable without it. He exhibits a virtuous 
woman the victim, not of temptation, but of rea- 
son ; not of vice, but of sentiment ; not of pas- 
sion, but of conviction ; and strikes at the very 
root of honour, by elevating a crime into a prin- 
ciple. With a metaphysical sophistry the most 
plausible, he debauches the heart of woman, by 
cherishing her vanity in the erection of a system 
of male virtues, to which, with a lofty derelic- 
tion of those that are her more peculiar and cha- 
racteristic praise, he tempts her to aspire; pow- 
erfully insinuating, that to this splendid system 
chastity does not necessarily belong : thus cor- 
rupting the judgment, and bewildering the un- 
derstanding, as the most effectual way to in- 
flame the imagination and deprave the heart. 
The rare mischief of this author, consists in his 
power of seducing by falsehood those who love 
truth, but whose minds are still wavering, and 
whose principles are not yet formed. He allures 
the warm-hearted to embrace vice, not because 
they prefer vice, but because he gives to vice so 
natural an air of virtue : and ardent and enthu- 
siastic youth, too confidently trusting in their 
integrity and in their teacher, will be undone, 
while they fancy they are indulging in the no- 
blest feelings of their nature. Many authors 
will more infallibly complete the ruin of the 
loose and ill-disposed : but perhaps there never 
was a net of such exquisite art, and inextrica- 
ble workmanship, spread to entangle innocence, 
and ensnare inexperience, as the writings of 
Rousseau; and, unhappily, the victim does not 
even struggle in the toils, because part of the 
delusion consists in his imagining that he is set 
at liberty. 

Some of our recent popular publications have 
adopted and enlarged all the mischiefs of this 
school ; and the principal evil arising from them 
is, that the virtues they exhibit are almost more 
dangerous than the vices. The chief materials 
out of which these delusive systems are framed, 
are characters who practice superfluous acts of 
generosity, while they are trampling on obvious 
and commanded duties, who combine inflated 
sentiments of honour with actions the most fla- 
gitious ; a high tone of self-confidence, with a 
perpetual neglect of self-denial ; pathetic apos- 
trophes to the passions, but no attempt to resist 
them. They teach that chastity is only indi- 
vidual attachment ; that no duty exists which 
is not prompted by feeling ; that impulse is the 



main-spring of virtuous actions, while laws and 
religion are only unjust restraints ; the former 
imposed by arbitrary men, the latter by the ab- 
surd prejudices of timorous and unenlightened 
conscience. Alas ! they do not know that the 
best creature of impulse that ever lived, 1b but a 
wayward, unfixed, unprincipled being ! That 
the best natural man requires a curb ; and needs 
that balance to the affections which Christianity 
alane can furnish, and without which benevolent 
£ densities are no security to virtue. And 
perhaps it is not too much to say, in spite of the 
monopoly of benevolence to which the new phi- 
losophy lays claim, that the human duties of tJM 
second table have never once been well perform^ 
ed by any of the rejectors of that previous por- 
tion of the decalogue which enjoins duty to God. 

In some of the most splendid of these charac- 
ters compassion is erected into the throne of 
justice, and justice degraded into the rank of 
plebian virtues. It is considered as a noble ex- 
emplification of sentiment that creditors should 
be defrauded, while the money due to them is 
lavished in dazzling acts of charity to some ob- 
ject that affects the senses ; which paroxysms 
of charity are made the sponge of every sin, and 
the substitute of every virtue : the whole indi- 
rectly tending to intimate how very benevolent 
people are icho are not Christians. From many 
of these compositions, indeed, Christianity is 
systematically, and always virtually, excluded ; 
for the law, and the prophets, and the gospel, 
can make no part of a scheme in which this 
world is looked upon as all in all ; in which 
want and misery are considered as evils arising 
solely from the defects of human governments, 
and not as making part of the dispensations of 
God ; in which poverty is represented as merely 
a political evil, and the restraints which tend to 
keep the poor honest, are painted as the most 
flagrant injustice. The Gospel can make no 
part of a system in which the absurd idea of 
perfectibility is considered as applicable to fallen 
creatures ; in which the chimerical project of 
consummate earthly happiness, (founded on the 
mad pretence of loving the poor better than God 
loves them) would defeat the divine plan, which 
meant this world for a scene of discipline, not 
of remuneration. The Gospel can have nothing 
to do with a system in which sin is reduced to 
a little human imperfection, and Old Baily 
crimes are softened down to a few engaging 
weaknesses ; and in which the turpitude of all 
the vices a man himself comhiits, is done away 
by his candour in tolerating all the vices com- 
mitted by others.* 

But the part of the system the most fatal to 
that class whom I am addressing is, that even 
in those works which do not go all the length of 
treating marriage as an unjust infringement on 
liberty, and a tyrannical deduction from gene- 
ral happiness ; yet it commonly happens that 

* It is to be lamented that some, even of those more 
virtuous novel writers, who intend to espouse the cause 
of religion, yet exhibit such false views of it. I have 
lately seen a work of some merit in this way, which was 
meritoriously designed to expose the impieties of the 
new philosophy. But the writer betrayed his own im- 
perfect knowledge of the Christianity he was defending, 
by making his hero, whom he proposed as a pattern, 
Jight a dik ' I 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



319 



the hero or heroine, who has particularly viola- 
ted the letter of the seventh commandment, and 
continues to live in the allowed violation of its 
spirit, is painted as so amiable, and so benevo- 
lent, so tender or so brave; and the temptation 
is represented as so irresistible, (for all these 
philosophers are fatalists) the predominant and 
cherished sin is so filtered and defected of its 
pollutions, and is so sheltered and surrounded, 
and relieved with shining qualities, that the in- 
nocent and impressible young reader is brought 
to lose all horror of the awful crime in question, 
in the complacency she feels for the engaging 
virtues of the criminal- 
There is another object to which I would di- 
rect the exertion of that power of female influ- 
ence of which I am speaking. Those ladies 
who take the lead in society, are loudly called 
upon to act as the guardians of the public taste, 
as well as of the public virtue. They are called 
upon, therefore, to oppose with the whole weight 
of their influence, the irruption of those swarms 
of publications now daily issuing from the banks 
of the Danube, which, like their ravaging pre- 
decessors of the darker ages, though with far 
other and more fatal arms, are overrunning ci- 
vilized society. Those readers, whose purer 
taste has been formed on the correct models of 
the old classic school, see with indignation and 
astonishment the Huns and Vandals once more 
overpowering the Greeks and Romans. They 
behold our minds, with a retrograde but rapid 
motion, hurried back to the reign of' chaos and 
old night,' by distorted and unprincipled compo- 
sitions, which, in spite of strong flashes of geni- 
us, unite the taste of the Goths with the morals 
of Bagshot ;* 

Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimeras dire ! 
These compositions terrify the weak, and amaze 
and enchant the idle ; while they disgust the 
discerning, by wild and misshapen superstitions, 
in which, with that consistency which forms so 
striking a feature of the new philosophy, those 
who most earnestly deny the immortality of the 
soul, are most eager to introduce the machinery 
of ghosts. 

The writings of the French infidels were some 
years ago circulated in England with uncommon 
industry, and with some effect : but the plain 
sense and good principles of the far greater part 
of our countrymen, resisted the attack, and rose 
superior to the trial. Of the doctrines and prin- 
ciples here alluded to, the dreadful consequen- 
ces, not only in the unhappy country where they 
originated, and were almost universally adopted, 
but in every part of Europe where they have 
been received, have been such as to serve as a 
beacon to surrounding nations, if any warning 
can preserve them from destruction. In this 
country the subject is now so well understood, 
that every thing which issues from the French 
press is received with jealousy ; and a work, on 
the first appearance of its exhibiting the doc- 
trines of Voltaire and his associates, is rejected 
with indignation. 

* Tbe newspapers announce that Schiller's tragedy of 
vhe Robbers, which inflamed the young nobility of Ger- 
many to enlist themselves into a band of highwaymen 
to rob in the forests of Rohemia, is now acting in En- 
gland by persons of quality I 



But let us not on account of this victory re- 
pose in confident security. The modern apos- 
tles of infidelity and immorality, little less inde- 
fatigable in dispersing their pernicious doctrines 
than the first apostles were in propagating Gos- 
pel truths, have indeed changed their weapons, 
but they have by no means desisted from the 
attack. To destroy the principles of Christiani- 
ty in this island, appears at the present moment 
to be their grand aim. Deprived of the assist' 
ance of the French press, they are now attempt- 
ing to attain their object under the close and 
more artificial veil of German literature. Con 
scious that religion and morals will stand or fall 
together, their attacks are sometimes levelled 
against the one, and sometimes against the other. 
With strong occasional professions of general 
attachment to both of these, they endeavour to 
interest the feelings of the reader, sometimes in 
favour of some one particular vice, at other times 
on the subject of some one objection to revealed 
religion. Poetry as well as prose, romance as 
well as history, writings on philosophical as well 
as on political subjects, have thus been employ- 
ed to instil the principles of Illuminism, while 
incredible pains have been taken to obtain able 
translations ot every book which was supposed 
likely to be of use in corrupting the heart or mis- 
leading the understanding. In many of these 
translations, certain bolder passages, which, 
though well received in Germany, would have 
excited disgust in England, are wholly omitted, 
in order that the mind may be more certainly, 
though more slowly, prepared for the full effect 
of the same poison to be administered in a strong- 
er degree at another period. 

Let not those to whom these pages are ad- 
dressed deceive themselves, by supposing this 
to be a fable ; and let them inquire most seri- 
ously whether I speak truth, in asserting that 
the attacks of infidelity in Great Britain are at 
this moment principally directed against the fe- 
male breast. Conscious of the influence of wo- 
men in civil society, conscious of the effect 
which female infidelity produced in France, 
they attribute the ill success of their attempts in 
this country to their having been hitherto chiefly 
addressed to the male sex. They are now sedu- 
lously labouring to destroy the religious princi- 
ples of women, and in too many instances have 
fatally succeeded. For this purpose, not only 
novels and romances have been made the vehi- 
cles of vice and infidelity, but the same allure- 
ment has been held out to the women of our 
country, which was employed by the first phi- 
losophists to the first sinner — Knowledge. Lis- 
ten to the precepts of the new German enlight- 
eners, and you need no longer remain in that 
situation in which Providence has placed you ! 
Follow their example, and you shall be permit- 
ted to indulge in all those gratifications which 
custom, and not religion has tolerated in the 
male sex. 

Let us jealously watch every deepening shade 
in the change of manners ; let us mark every 
step, however inconsiderable, whose tendency is 
downwards. Corruption is neither stationary 
nor retrograde ; and to have departed from mo- 
desty, simplicity, and truth, is already to have 
made a progress. It is not only awfully true, 



320 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



that since the new principles have been afloat, 
women have been too eagerly inquisitive after 
these monstrous compositions ; but it is true 
also, that with a new and offensive renunciation 
of their native delicacy, many women of charac- 
ter n.ake little hesitation in avowing their fami- 
liarity with works abounding with principles, 
sentiments, and descriptions, ' which should not 
be so much as named among them. By allow- 
ing their minds to come in contact with such 
contagious matter, they are irrecoverably taint- 
ing them ; and by acknowledging that they are 
actually conversant with such corruptions (with 
whatever reprobation of the author they may 
qualify their perusal of the book) they are exci- 
ting in others a most mischievous curiosity for 
the same unhallowed gratification. Thus they 
are daily diminishing in the young and timid 
those wholesome scruples, by which, when a ten- 
der conscience ceases to be intrenched, all the 
subsequent stages of ruin are gradually facili- 
tated. 

We have hitherto spoken only of the German 
writings ; but because there are multitudes who 
seldom read, equal pains have been taken to 
promote the same object through the medium 
of the stage : and this weapon is, of all others, 
that against which it is, at the present moment, 
the most important to warn the more inconsi- 
derate of my countrywomen. 

As a specimen of the German drama, it may 
not be unseasonable to offer a few remarks on 
the admired play of the Stranger. In this piece 
the character of an adultress, which, in all peri- 
ods of the world, ancient as well as modern, in 
all countries, heathen as well as christian, has 
hitherto been held in detestation, and has never 
been introduced but to be reprobated, is for the 
first time presented to our view in the most 
pleasing and fascinating colours. The heroine 
is a woman who forsook a husband the most 
affectionate and the most amiable, and lived for 
some time in a criminal commerce with her 
seducer. Repenting at length of her crime, she 
buries herself in retirement. — The talents of the 
poet during the whole piece are exerted in at- 
tempting to render this woman the object not 
only of the compassion and forgiveness, but of 
the esteem and affection of the audience. The 
injured husband, convinced of his wife's repent- 
ance, forms a resolution which every man of 
true feeling and christian piety will probably ap- 
prove. He forgives her offence, and promises 
her through life, his advice, protection and for- 
tune, together with every thing which can alle- 
viate the misery of her condition, but refuses to 
replace her in the situation of his wife ! But 
this is not sufficient for the German author. His 
efforts are employed, and it is to be feared but 
too successfully, in making the audience consi- 
der the husband as an unrelenting savage, while 
they are led by the art of the poet anxiously to 
wish to see an adultress restored to that rank of 
women who have not violated the most solemn 
covenant that can be made with man, nor dis- 
obeyed one of the most positive laws which has 
been enjoined by God. 

About the same time that this first attempt at 
representing an adultress in an exemplary light 
was made by a German dramatist, which forms 



an sera in manners, a direct vindication of adul. 
tery was for the first time attempted by a woman, 
a professed admirer and imitator of the German 
suicide Werter. The female Werter, as she is 
styled by her biographer, asserts in a work en- 
titled, ' The Wrongs of Women,' that adultery 
is justifiable, and that the restrictions placed on 
it by the laws of England, constitute one of the 
Wrongs of Women. 

This leads me to dwell a little longer on this 
most destructive class in the whole wide range 
of modern corrupters, who effect the most des- 
perate work of the passions without so much as 
pretending to urge their violence, in extenuation 
of the guilt of indulging them. They solicit 
this very indulgence with a sort of cold blooded 
speculation, and invite the reader to the most 
unbounded gratifications, with all the saturnine 
coolness of a geometrical calculation. Theirs 
is an iniquity rather of phlegm than of spirit : 
and in the pestilent atmosphere they raise about 
them, as in the infernal climate described by 
Millon — 

Tlic parching air* 
Burns frore, and frost performs tli' effects of fire. 

This cool, calculating, intellectual wickedness 
eats out the very heart and core of virtue, and 
like a deadly mildew blights and shrivels the 
blooming promise of the human spring. Its be- 
numbing touch communicates a torpid sluggish- 
ness which paralyses the soul. It descants on 
depravity as gravely, and details its grossest acts 
as frigidly as if its object were to allay the tu- 
mult of the passions, while it is letting them 
loose on mankind, by ' plucking off the muzzle 
of present restraint and future accountableness.' 
The system is a dire infusion, compounded of 
bold impiety, brutish sensuality, and exquisite 
folly, which creeping fatally about the heart, 
checks the moral circulation, and totally stops 
the pulse of goodness by the extinction of the 
vital principle : thus not only choking the stream 
of actual virtue, but drying up the very fountain 
of future remorse and remote repentance. 

The ravages which some of the old offenders 
against purity made in the youthful heart, by 
the exercise of fervid but licentious imagination 
on the passions, resembled the mischief effected 
by floods, cataracts, and volcanos. The desola- 
tion indeed was terrible, and the ruin was tre- 
mendous ; yet it was a train which did not in- 
fallibly preclude the possibility of recovery. The 
country, though deluged, and devastated, was 
not utterly put beyond the power of restoration. 
The harvests indeed were destroyed, and all was 
wide sterility. But though the crops were lost, 
the seeds of vegetation were not absolutely era- 
dicated ; so that, after a long and barren blank, 
fertility might finally return. 

But the heart once infected with this newly 
medicated venom, subtile though sluggish in its 
operation, resembles what travellers relate of 
that blasted spot the dead sea, where those de- 
voted cities once stood, which for their pollutions 
were burnt with fire from heaven- It continues 
a stagnant lake of putrify ing waters. No whole- 

* ' When the north wind bloweth it devourMh the 
mountains, ;md burnetii t!io wilderness, and con.jiimeth 
the grus:; as & 1 " 1 -' Eccles. xl. -2Q. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



321 



some blade ever more shoots up ; the air is so 
tainted that no living- thing subsists within its 
influence. Near the sulphureous pool the very 
principle of being is annihilated. All is death, 

Death, unrepeatable, eternal death! 

But let us take comfort, These projects are 
not yet generally realized. These atrocious 
principles are not yet adopted into common 
practice. Though corruption seems with a 
confluent tide to be pouring in upon us from 
every quarter, yet there is still left among us a 
discriminating judgment. Clear and strongly 
marked distinctions between right and wrong 
still subsist. While we continue to cherish this 
sanity of mind, the case is not desperate. 
Though that crime, the growth of which al- 
ways exhibits the most irrefragable proof of the 
dissoluteness of public manners ; though that 
crime, which cuts up order and virtue by the 
roots, and violates the sanctity of vows, is aw- 
fully increasing, 

'Till senates seem, - 
For purposes of empire less conven'd 
Than to release the adult'ress from her bonds : 

yet, thanks to the surviving efficacy of a holy 
religion, to the operation of virtuous laws, and 
to the energy and unshaken integrity with 
which these laws are now administered ; and, 
most of all. perhaps, to a standard of morals 
which continues in force, when the principles 
which sanctioned it are no more ; this crime, in 
the female sex at least, is still held in just ab- 
horrence. If it be practised, it is not honoura- 
ble ; if it be committed, it is not justified ; we 
do not yet affect to palliate its turpitude ; as yet 
it hides its abhorred head in lurking privacy ; 
and reprobation hitherto follows its publicity. 

But on your exerting your influence, with 
just application and increasing energy, may in 
no small degree, depend whether this corruption 
shall still continue to be resisted. For the abhor- 
rence of a practice will too probably diminish, of 
which the theory is perused with enthusiasm. 
From admiring to adopting, the step is short, and 
the progress rapid ; and it is in the moral as in 
the natural world ; the motion, in the case of 
minds as well as of bodies, is accelerated as they 
approach the centre to which they are tending. 
O ye to whom this address is particularly di- 
rected ! an awful charge is, in this instance, 
committed to your hands ; as you discharge it 
or shrink from it, you promote or injure the ho- 
nour of your daughters and the happiness of 
your sons, of both of which you are the deposi- 
tories. And, while you resolutely persevero in 
making a stand against the encroachments of 
this crime, suffer not your firmness to be shaken 
by that affectation of charity, which is growing 
into a general substitute for principle. Abuse 
not so noble a quality as Christian candour, by 
misemploying it in instances to which it does 
not apply. Pity the wretched woman you dare 
not countenance ; and bless Him who has 'made 
you to differ.' If unhappily she be your rela- 
tion or friend, anxiously watch for the period 
when- she shall be deserted by her betrayer ; 
and see if, by your Christian offices, she can be 
enatched fr»rn a perpetuity of vice. But if, 
Vol. I. X 



thi ough the Divine blessing on your patient en . 
deavours, she should ever be awakened to re- 
morse, be not anxious to restore the forlorn peni- 
tent to that society against whose laws she has 
so grievously offended ; and remember that her 
soliciting such a restoration, furnishes but too 
plain a proof that she is not the penitent your 
partiality would believe ; since penitence is 
more anxious to make its peace with heaven 
than with the world. Joyfully would a truly 
contrite spirit commute an earthly for an ever- 
lasting reprobation ! To restore a criminal to 
public society, is perhaps to tempt her to repeat 
her crime, or to deaden her repentance for hav- 
ing committed it, as well as to insult and to in- 
jure that society ; while to restore a strayed soul 
to God will add lustre to your Christian charac- 
ter, and brighten your eternal crown. 

In the mean time, there are other evils, ulti- 
mately perhaps tending to this, into which we 
are falling, through that sort of fashionable can- 
dour, which, as was hinted above, is among the 
mischievous characteristics of the present day ; 
of which period perhaps it is not the smallest 
evil, that vices are made to look so like virtues 
and are so assimilated to them, that it requires 
watchfulness and judgment sufficient to analyze 
and discriminate. There are certain women ot 
good fashion who practice irregularities not con- 
sistent with the strictness of virtue ; while their 
good sense and knowledge of the world make 
them at the same time keenly alive to the value 
of reputation. They want to retain their indul- 
gences, without quite forfeiting their credit ; 
but finding their fame fast declining, they cling, 
by flattery and marked attentions, to a few per- 
sons of more than ordinary character ; and thus, 
till they are driven to let go their hold, continue 
to prop a falling fame. 

On the other hand, there are not wanting wo- 
men of distinction of very correct general con- 
duct, and of no ordinary sense and virtue, who 
confiding with a high mind on what they too 
confidently call the integrity of their own hearts, 
anxious to deserve a good fame on the one hand, 
by a life free from reproach, yet secretly too de- 
sirous on the other of securing a worldly and 
fashionable reputation ; while their general as- 
sociates are persons of honour, and their general 
resort places of safety ; yet allow themselves to 
be occasionally present at the midnight orgies 
of revelry and gaming, in houses of no honour- 
able estimation ; and thus help to keep up cha- 
racters, which without their sustaining hand, 
would sink to their just level of contempt and 
reprobation. While they are holding out this 
plank to a drowning reputation, rather, it is to 
to be feared, showing their own strength than 
assisting another's weakness, they value them- 
selves, perhaps, on not partaking of the worse 
parts of the amusements which may be carry- 
ing on ; but they sanction them by their pre- 
sence ; they lend their countenance to corrup. 
tions they should abhor, and their example to 
the young and inexperienced, who are looking 
about for some such sanction to justify them in 
that to which they were before inclined, but 
were too timid to have ventured upon without 
the protection of such unsullied names. Thus 
these respectable characters, without looking to 



322 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the general consequences of their indiscretion, 
are thoughtlessly employed in breaking down, 
as it were, the broad fence which should ever 
separate two very different sorts of society, 
and are becoming a kind of unnatural link be- 
tween vice and virtue. 

There is a gross deception which even per- 
sons of reputation practise on themselves. They 
loudly condemn vice and irregularity as an ab- 
stract principle, nay, they stigmatise them in 
persons of an opposite party, or in those from 
whom they themselves have no prospect of per- 
sonal advantage or amusement, and in whom 
therefore they have no particular interest to to- 
lerate evil. But the same disorders are viewed 
without abhorrence when practised by those 
who in any way minister to their pleasures. Re- 
fined entertainments, luxurious decorations, se- 
lect music ; whatever furnishes any delight rare 
and exquisite to the sense, these soften the se- 
verity of criticism ; these palliate sins ; these 
varnish over the flaws of a broken character, and 
extort not pardon merely but justification, coun- 
tenance, intimacy ! The more respectable will 
not, perhaps, go all the length of vindicating the 
disreputable vice, but they affect to disbelieve its 
existence in the individual instance ; or, failing 
in this, they will bury its acknowledged turpi- 
tude in the seducing qualities of the agreeable 
delinquent. Talents of every kind are consider- 
ed as a commutation for a few vices ; and such 
talents are made a passport to introduce into 
honourable society, characters whom their pro- 
fligacy ought to exclude from it. 

But the great object to which rou, who are or 
may be mothers, are more especially called, is 
the education of your children. If we are re- 
sponsible for the use of influence in the case of 
those over whom we have no immediate control, 
in the case of our children we are responsible 
for the exercise of acknowledged power; a 
power wide in its extent, indefinite in its effects, 
and inestimable in its importance. On you de- 
pend in no small degree the principles of the 
whole rising generation. To your direction the 
daughters are almost exclusively committed ; 
and until a certain age, to you also is consigned 
the mighty privilege of forming the hearts and 
minds of your infant sons. To you is made over 
the awfully important trust of infusing the first 
principles of piety into the tender minds of those 
who may be one day called to instruct, not fa- 
milies merely, but districts; to influence, not 
individuals, but senates. Your private exertions 
may at this moment be contributing to the fu- 
ture happiness, your domestic neglect, to the 
future ruin of your country. And may you never 
forget, in this your early instruction of your off- 
spring, nor they, in their future application of 
it, that religion is the only sure ground of mo- 
rals ; that private principle is the only solid ba- 
sis of public virtue. O think that they both may 
be fixed or forfeited for ever according to the 
use you are now making of that power which 
God has delegated to you, and of which he will 
demand a strict account. By his blessing on 
your pious labours may both sons and daughters 
hereafter ' arise and call you blessed.' And in 
the great day of general account, may every 
Christian mother be enabled through divine • 



grace to say, with humble confidence, to her 
Maker and Redeemer, ' Behold the children 
whom thou hast given me !' 

Christianity, driven out from the rest of the 
world, has still, blessed be God ! a ' strong hold' 
in this country. And though it be the special 
duty of the appointed ' watchman now that he 
seeth the sword come upon the land, to blow 
the trumpet and warn the people, which if he 
neglect to do, their blood shall be required of the 
watchman's hand :'* yet, in this sacred garri- 
son, impregnable but by neglect, you too have an 
awful post, that of arming the minds of the 
rising race with the ' shield of faith, whereby 
they shall be able to quench ihe fiery darts of 
the wicked ;' ' that of girding them with that 
sword of the Spirit which is the word of God.' 
Let that very period which is desecrated in a 
neighbouring country, by a formal renunciation 
of religion, be solemnly marked by you to pur- 
poses diametrically opposite. Let that disho- 
noured asra in which they avowed their resolu- 
tion to exclude Christianity from the national 
education, be the precise moment seized upon 
by you for its more sedulous inculcation. And 
while their children are systematically trained 
to live without God in the world,' let yours, 
with a more decided emphasis, be consecrated 
to promote his glory in it. 

If you neglect this your bounden duty, you 
will have effectually contributed to expel Chris- 
tianity from her last citadel. And remember, 
that the dignity of the work to which you are 
called, is no less than that of ' preserving the 
ark of the Lord.' 



CHAP. II. 

On the education of women. — TJie prevailing sys- 
tem tends to establish the errors which it ought 
to correct. — Dangers arising from an exces- 
sive cultivation of the arts. 

It is far from being the object of this slight 
work to offer a regular plan of female education, 
a task which has been often more properly as- 
sumed by far abler writers ; but it is intended 
rather to suggest a few remarks on the reigning 
mode, which though it has had many panegy- 
rists, appears to be defective, not only in certain 
particulars, but as a general system. There are 
indeed numberless honourable exceptions to an 
observation which will be thought severe ; yet 
the author would ask, whether it be not the na- 
tural tendency of the prevailing and popular 
mode to excite and promote those very evils 
which it ought to be the main end and objects 
of christian instruction to remove ? whether the 
reigning system does not tend to weaken the 
principles it ought to strengthen, and to dissolve 
the heart it should fortify ? whether, instead of 
directing the grand and important engine of 
education to attack and destroy vanity, selfish- 
ness, and inconsidsration, that triple alliance in 
strict and constant league against female virtue; 
the combined powers of instruction are not 
sedulously confederated in confirming their 
strength and establishing their empire? 
• Ezekiel, xxxiii. 6. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



323 



If indeed the material substance ; if the body 
arid limbs, with the organs and senses, be really 
the more valuable objects of attention, then there 
is little room for animadversion and improve- 
ment : but if the immaterial and immortal mind ; 
if the heart, ' out of which are the issues of life,' 
be the main concern ; if the great business of 
education be to implant right ideas, to commu- 
nicate useful knowledge, to form a taste and a 
sound judgment, to resist evil propensities, and 
above all to seize the favourable season for in- 
fusing principles and confirming habits ; if 
education be a school to fit us for life, and life 
be a school to fit us for eternity ; if such, I re- 
peat it, be the chief work and grand ends of 
education, it may then be worth enquiring how 
far these ends are likely to be effected by the 
prevailing system. 

Is it not a fundamental error to consider chil- 
dren as innocent beings, whose little weaknesses 
may perhaps want some correction, rather than 
as beings who bring into the world a corrupt 
nature and evil dispositions, which it should be 
the great end of education to rectify ? This 
appears to be such a foundation-truth, that if I 
were asked what quality is most important in an 
instructor of youth, I should not hesitate to re- 
ply, such a strong impression of the corruption 
of our nature, as should insure a disposition to 
counteract it ; together with such a deep view 
and thorough knowledge of the human heart, 
as should be necessary for developing and con- 
trolling its most secret and complicated workings. 
And let us remember that to know the world, as 
it is called, that is to know its local manners, 
temporary usages and evanescent fashions, is 
not to know human nature : and that where this 
prime knowledge is wanting, those natural evils 
which ought to be counteracted will be fostered. 

Vanity, for instance, is reckoned among the 
light and venial errors of youth ; nay, so far 
from being treated as a dangerous enemy, it is 
often called in as an auxiliary. At worst, it is 
considered as a harmless weakness, which sub- 
tracts little from the value of a character ; as a 
natural effervescence, which will subside of it- 
self, when the first ferment of the youthful pas- 
sions shall have done working. But those per- 
sons know little of the conformation of the hu- 
man, and especially of the female heart, who 
fancy that vanity is ever exhausted, by the mere 
operation of time and events. Let those who 
maintain this opinion look into our places of 
public resort, and there behold if the ghost of 
departed beauty is not to its last flitting, fond 
of haunting the scenes of its past pleasures. 
The soul, unwilling (if I may borrow an allusion 
from the Platonic mythology) to quit the spot in 
which the body enjoyed its former delights, 
still continues to hover about the same place, 
though the same pleasures are no longer to be 
found there. Disappointments indeed may di- 
vert vanity into a new direction ; prudence may 
prevent it from breaking out into excesses, and 
age may prove that it is ' vexation of spirit ;' 
but neither disappointment, prudence, nor age 
can cure it : for they do not correct the princi- 
ple. Nay, the very disappointment itself serves 
as a painful evidence of its protracted existence. 

Since then there is a season when the youth- 



ful must cease to be young, and the beautiful to 
excite admiration, to learn how to grow old 
gracefully is perhaps one of the rarest and most 
valuable arts which can be taught to woman. 
And it must be confessed it is a most severe trial 
for those women to be called to lay down beauty, 
who have nothing else to take up. It is for 
this sober season of life that education should 
lay up its rich resources. However disregarded 
they may hitherto have been, they will be 
wanted now. When admirers fall away, and 
flatterers become mute, the mind will be driven 
to retire into itself, and if it find no entertain- 
ment at home, it will be driven back again upon 
the world with increased force. Yet forgetting 
this, do we not seem to educate our daughters 
exclusively for the transient period of youth, 
when it is to maturer life we ought to advert ? 
Do we not educate them for a crowd, forgetting 
that they are to live at home ? for the world, and 
not for themselves ? for show, and not for use? 
for time, and not for eternity ? 

Vanity (and the same may be said of self- 
ishness) is not to be resisted like any other vice, 
which is sometimes busy and sometimes quiet ; 
it is not to be attacked as a single fault which 
is indulged in opposition to a single virtue ; but 
it is uniformly to be controlled, as an active, a 
restless, a growing principle, at constant war 
with all the christian graces ; which not only 
mixes itself into all our faults, but insinuates 
into all our virtues too ; and will, if not check- 
ed effectually, rob our best actions of their 
rewards. Vanity, if I may use the analogy, 
is with respect to the other vices, what feel- 
ing is in regard to the other senses ; it is not 
confined in its operation to the eye, or the ear, 
or any single organ, but is diffused through the 
whole being, alive in every part, awakened and 
communicated by the slightest touch. 

Not a few of the evils of the present day arise 
from a new and perverted application of terms , 
among these, perhaps, there is not one more 
absurd, misunderstood, or misapplied, than the 
term accomplishments. This word in its original 
meaning signifies completeness, perfection. But 
I may safely appeal to the observation of man 
kind, whether they do not meet with swarms of 
youthful females, issuing from our boarding 
schools, as well as emerging from the more pri- 
vate scenes of domestic education, who are intry. 
duced into the world, under the broad and uni. 
versal title of accomplished young ladies, of ah 
of whom it cannot very truly and correctly be 
pronounced, that they illustrate the definition, 
by a completeness which leaves nothing to be 
added, and a perfection which leaves nothing tj 
be desired. 

This frenzy of accomplishments, unhappily, 
is no longer restricted within the usual limits 
of rank and fortune ; the middle orders have 
caught the contagion, and it rages downward 
with increasing and destructive violence, from 
the elegantly dressed but slenderly portioned 
curate's danghter to the equally fashioned 
daughter of the little tradesman, and of the 
more opulent but not more judicious farmer. 
And is it not obvious, that as far as this epidemi 
cal mania has spread, this very valuable part of 
society is declining in usefulness, as it rises in 



324 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



its ill-founded pretensions to elegance ? till this 
rapid revolution of the manners of the middle 
class has so far altered the character of the age, 
as to be in danger of rendering obsolete the 
heretofore common saying, ' that most worth 
and virtue are to be found in the middle station.' 
For I do not scruple to assert, that in general, 
as far as my little observation has extended, 
this class of females, in what relates both to 
religious knowledge and to practical industry, 
falls short both of the very high and the very 
low. Their new course of education, and the 
indolent habits of life and elegance of dress 
connected with it, peculiarly unfits them for the 
active duties of their own very important con- 
dition ; while, with frivolous eagerness, and se- 
cond-hand opportunities, they run to snatch a 
few of those showy acquirements which decorate 
the great. This is done apparently with one 
or other of these views ; either to make their 
fortunes by marriage, or if that fail, to qualify 
them to become teachers of others : hence the 
abundant multiplication of superficial wives, 
and of incompetent and illiterate governesses. 
The use of the pencil, the performance of ex- 
quisite but unnecessary worlds, the study of 
foreign languages and of music, require (with 
Borne exceptions which should always be madfe 
in favour of great natural genius) a degree 
of leisure which belongs exclusively to af- 
fluence.* One use of learning languages is, 
not that we may know what the terms which 
express the articles of our dress and our table 
are called in French or Italian; nor that we 
may think over a few ordinary phrases in 
English, and then translate them, without one 
foreign idiom; for he who cannot think in a 
language cannot be said to understand it : but 
the great use of acquiring any foreign language 
is, either that it enables us occasionally to con- 
verse with foreigners, unacquainted with any 
other, or that it is a key to the literature of the 
country to which it belongs. Now those hum- 
bler females, the chief part of whose time is re- 
quired for domestic offices, are little likely to fall 
in the way of foreigners ; and so far from enjoy- 
ing opportunities for the acquisition of foreign 
literature, they have seldom time to possess 
themselves of much of the valuable knowledge 
which the books of their own country so abun- 
dantly furnish; and the acquisition of which 
would be so much more. useful and honourable 
than the paltry accessions they make by ham- 
mering out the meaning of a few passages in a 
tongue they but imperfectly understand, and 
of which they are never likely to make any use. 
It would be well if the reflection, how eagerly 
this redundancy of accomplishments is seized 
on by their inferiors, were to operate as in the 
case of other absurd fashions ; the rich and great 
being seldom brought to renounce any mode of 
custom, from the mere consideration that it is 
preposterous, or that it is wrong ; while they are 
frightened into its immediate relinquishment, 
from the pressing consideration that the vulgar 
are beginning to adopt it. 

* Those among the class in question, whose own 
good sense leads them to avoid these mistaken pursuits, 



But to return to that more elevated, and on ac- 
count of their more extended influence only, 
that more important class of females, to whose 
use this little book is more immediately dedicat- 
ed. Some popular authors, on the subject of 
female instruction, had for a time established a 
fantastic code of artificial manners. They had 
refined elegance into insipidity, frittered down 
delicacy into frivolousness, and reduced manner 
•into minauderie. 'But to lisp, and to amble, 
and to nick-name God's creatures,' has nothing 
to do with true gentlenses of mind ; and to be 
silly makes no necessary part of softness. An- 
other class of contemporary authors turned all 
the force of their talents to excite emotions, to 
inspire sentiment, and to reduce all mental and 
moral excellence into sympathy and feeling. 
These softer qualities were elevated at the ex- 
pense of principle ; and young women were in- 
cessantly hearing unqualified sensibility extolled 
as the perfection of their nature ; till those who 
really possessed this amiable quality, instead of 
directing, and chastising, and restraining it, 
were in danger of fostering it to their hurt, and 
began to consider themselves as deriving their 
excellence from its excess ; while those less in- 
teresting damsels, who happened not to find any 
of this amiable sensibility in their hearts, but 
thought it creditable to have it somewhere, 
fancied its seat was in the nerves; and here in- 
deed it was easily found or feigned ; till afalse and 
excessive display of feeling became so predomi- 
nant, as to bring in question the actual existence 
of that true tenderness, without which, though a 
woman may be worthy, she can never be amiable. 
Fashion then, by one of her sudden and rapid 
turns, instantaneously struck out both real sen • 
sibility and the affectation of it from the stand- 
ing list of female perfections ; and, by a quick 
touch of her magic wand, shifted the scene, and 
at once produced the bold and independent 
beauty, the intrepid female, the hoyden, the 
huntress, and the archer ; the swinging arms, 
the confident address, the regimental, and the 
four-in-hand. Such self-complacent heroines 
made us ready to regret their softer predecessors, 
who had aimed only at pleasing the other sex, 
while these aspiring fair ones struggled for the 
bolder renown of rivalling them : the project 
failed ; for, whereas the former had sued for ad- 
miration, the latter challenged, seized, compelled 
it ; but the men, as was natural, continued to 
prefer the more modest claimant to the sturdy 
competitor. 

It would be well if we, who have the advan- 
tage of contemplating the errors of the two ex- 
tremes, were to seek for truth where she is 
commonly to be found, in the plain and obvious 
middle path, equally remote from each excess ; 
and while we bear in mind that helplessness is 
not delicacy, let us also remember that mascu- 
line manners do not necessarily include strength 
of character, nor vigour of intellect. Should we 
not reflect also, that we are neither to train up 
Amazons nor Circassians, but that it is our busi- 
ness to form Christians ? that we have to edu- 
cate not only rational, but accountable beings ? 
and, remembering this, should we not be soli- 



eannot te oKS £ ° av0,( ' tlie f? mis . taKen pursuits, u t , et daughters learn of the well- 

cannot be offended at a reproof which does not belong . ... , . * ... ., „ . , „ T 

to them. I taught, and associate with the well-bred ? In 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



325 



training them, should we not carefully cultivate 
intellect, implant religion, and cherish modesty ? 
Then, whatever is engaging in manners would 
be the natural result of whatever is just in sen- 
timent, and correct in principle ; softness would 
grow out of humility, and external delicacy 
would spring from purity of heart. Then the 
decorums, the proprieties, the elegances, and 
even the graces, as far as they are simple, pure, 
and honest, would follow as an almost inevitable 
consequence ; for to follow in the train of the 
christian virtues, and not to take the lead of 
them, is the proper place which religion assigns 
to the graces. 

Whether we have made the best use of the 
errors of our predecessors, and of our own num- 
berless advantages, and whether the prevailing 
system be really consistent with sound policy, 
true taste, or Christian principle, it may be worth 
our while to inquire. 

Would not a stranger be led to imagine by a 
view of the reigning mode of female education, 
that human life consisted of one universal holi- 
day, and that the grand contest between the 
several competitors was, who should be most 
eminently qualified to excel, and carry off the 
prize, in the various shows and games which 
were intended to be exhibited in it ? And to 
the exhibitors themselves, would he not be ready 
to apply sir Francis Bacon's observations on the 
Olympian victors, that they were so excellent 
in these unnecessary things, that their perfection 
must needs have been acquired by the neglect 
of whatever was necessary 7 

What would the polished Addison who thought 
that one great end of a lady's learning to dance 
was, that she might know how to sit still grace- 
fully ; what would even the pagan historian* of 
the great Roman conspirator, who could com- 
memorate it among the defects of this hero's ac- 
complished mistress, ' that she was too good a 
singer and dancer for a virtuous woman ;' — 
what would these refined critics have said, had 
they lived as we have done, to see the art of 
dancing lifted into such importance that it can- 
not with any degree of safety be confided to one 
instructor ; but a whole train cf successive mas- 
ters are considered as absolutely essential to its 
perfection ? What would these accurate judges 
of female manners have said, to see a modest 
young lady first delivered into the hands of a 
military sergeant to instruct her in the feminine 
art of marching ? and when this delicate acqui- 
sition is attained, to see her transferred to a pro- 
fessor, who is to teach her the Scotch steps ; 
which professor, having communicated his in- 
dispensable portion of this indispensable art, 
makes way for the professor of French dances : 
and all, perhaps, in their turn, either yield to, or 
have the honour to co-operate with, a finishing 
master; each probably receiving a stipend which 
would make the pious curate or the learned 
ohaplain rich and happy ? 

The science of music, which used to be com- 
municated in so competent a degree to a young 
lady by one able instructor, is now distributed 
6,mong a whole band. She now requires, not a 
master, but an orchestra. And my country 
fEaders would accuse me of exaggeration, were 
* Sallust. 



I to hazard enumerating the variety of musical 
teachers who attend at the same time in the 
same family ; the daughters of which are sum- 
moned by at least as many instruments as the 
subjects of Nebuchadnezzar, to worship the idol 
which fashion has set up. They would be in- 
credulous were I to produce real instances, in 
which the delighted mother has been heard to 
declare, that the visits of masters of every art, 
and the different masters for various gradations 
of the same art, followed each other in such 
close and rapid succession during the whole 
London residence, that her girls had not a mo- 
ment's interval to look into a book ; nor could 
she contrive any method to introduce one, till 
she happily devised the scheme of reading to 
them herself for half an hour while they wero 
drawing, by which means no time was lost.* 

Before the evil has past redress, it will be pru- 
dent to reflect that in all polished countries an 
entire devotedness to the fine arts has been one 
grand source of the corruption of the women , 
and so justly were these pernicious consequen- 
ces appreciated by the Greeks, among whom 
these arts were carried to the highest possible 
perfection, that they seldom allowed them to be 
cultivated to a very exquisite degree by women 
of great purity of character. And if the ambi- 
tion of an elegant British lady should be fired 
by the idea that the accomplished females of 
those polished states were the admired compa- 
nions of the philosophers, the poets, the wits, 
and the artists of Athens ; and their beauty or 
talents, so much the favourite subjects of the 
muse, the lyre, the pencil, and the chissel, that 
their pictures and statues furnished the most 
consummate models of Grecian art : if, I say, the 
accomplished females of our day are panting 
for similar renown, let their modesty chastise 
their ambition, by recollecting that these cele- 
brated women are not to be found among the 
chaste wives and the virtuous daughters of the 
Aristideses, the Agises, and the Phocions ; but 
that they are to be looked for among the Phrynes, 
the Laises, the Aspasias, and the Glyceras. I 
am persuaded the truly Christian female, what- 
ever be her taste or talents, will renounce the 
desire of any celebrity when attached to impu- 
rity of character, with the same noble indigna- 
tion with which the virtuous biographer of the 
above-named heroes renounced any kind of fame 
which might be dishonestly attained, by exclaim- 
ing, ' I had rather it should be said there never 
was a Plutarch, than that they should say Plu- 
tarch was malignant, unjust, or envious.'* 

* Since the first edition of this work appeared the au- 
thor has received from a person of great eminence the 
following statement, ascertaining the lime employed in 
the acquisition of music, in one instance. As a general 
calculation, it will perhaps he found to be so far from 
exaggerated, as to be below the truth. The statement 
concludes with remarking, that the individual who is the 
subject of it is now married to a man who dislikes music! 

Suppose your pupil to begin at six years of age, and to 
continue at the average of ("our hours a-day only, Sun- 
day excepted, and thirteen days allowed for travelling 
annually, till she is eighteen, the statement stands thus; 
300 days multiplied by four, the number of hours amount 
to 1200 ; that number multiplied by twelve, which is the 
number of years, amounts to 14,400 hours! 

f No censure is levelled at the exertions of real genius, 
which is as valuable as it is rare ; but at the absurdity 
nf that system which is erecting the whole aex into 
artists. 



326 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



And while this corruption brought on by an 
excessive cultivation of the arts, has contributed 
its full share to the decline of states, it has al- 
ways furnished an infallible symptom of their 
impending fall. The satires of the most pene- 
trating and judicious of the Roman poets, cor- 
roborating the testimonies of the most accurate 
of their historians, abound with invectives against 
the general depravity of manners introduced by 
the corrupt habits of female education. The 
bitterness and gross indelicacy of some of these 
satirists (too gross to be either quoted or refer- 
red to) make little against their authority in 
these points ; for how shocking must those cor- 
ruptions have been, and how obviously offensive 
their causes, which could have appeared so high- 
ly disgusting to minds so coarse as not likely to 
be scandalized by slight deviations from decen- 
cy ! The famous ode of Horace, attributing the 
vices and disasters of his degenerate country to 
the same cause, might, were it quite free from 
the above objections, be produced, I will not 
presume to say as an exact picture of the exist- 
ing manners of this country ; but may I not 
venture to say, as a prophecy, the fulfilment of 
which cannot be very remote 1 It may however 
be observed, that the modesty of the Roman 
matron, and the chaste demeanour of her virgin 
daughters, which amidst the stern virtues of the 
etate were as immaculate and pure as the honour 
of the Roman citizen, fell a sacrifice to the luxu- 
rious dissipation brought in by their Asiatic 
•conquests ; after which the females were soon 
taught a complete change of character. They 
were instructed to accommodate their talents of 
pleasing to the more vitiated tastes of the other 
sex ; and began to study every grace and every 
art, which might captivate the exhausted hearts 
and excite the wearied and capricious inclina- 
tions of the men ; till by a rapid and at length 
complete enervation, the Roman character lost 
its signature, and through a quick succession 
of slavery, effeminacy, and vice, sunk into that 
degeneracy of which some of the modern Italian 
states serve to furnish a too just specimen. 

It is of the essence of human things that the 
flame objects which are highly useful in their 
season, measure, and degree, become mischiev- 
ous in their excess, at other periods and under 
other circumstances. In a state of barbarism, 
the arts are among the best reformers ; and they 
go on to be improved themselves, and improving 
those who cultivate them, till having reached a 
certain point, those very arts which were the in- 
struments of civilization and refinement, become 
instruments of corruption and decay ; enervating 
and depraving in the second instance, by the ex- 
cess and universality of their cultivation, as cer- 
tainly as they refined in the first. They become 
agents of voluptuousness. — They excite the ima- 
gination ; and the imagination thus excited, and 
no longer under the government of stiict prin- 
ciple, becomes the most dangerous stimulant of 
the passions ; promotes a too keen relish for 
pleasure, teaching how to multiply its sources, 
and inventing new and pernicious modes of ar- 
tificial gratification. 

May we not rank among the present corrupt 
consequences of this unbounded cultivation, the 
unchaste costume, the impure style of dress, and i 



that indelicate statue-like exhibition of the fe- 
male figure, which by its artfully disposed folds, 
its seemingly wet and adhesive drapery, so de- 
fines the form as to prevent covering itself from 
becoming a veil ? This licentious mode, as the 
acute Montesquieu observed on the dances of 
the Spartan virgins, has taught us • to strip 
chastity itself of modesty.' 

May the author be allowed to address to our 
own country and our own circumstances, to 
both of which they seem peculiarly applicable, 
the spirit of that beautiful apostrophe of the 
most polished poet of antiquity to the most vic- 
torious nation ? ' Let us leave to the inhabitants 
of conquered countries the praise of carrying to 
the very highest degree of perfection, sculpture 
and the sister arts ; but let this country direct 
her own exertions to the art of governing man- 
kind in equity and peace, of showing mercy to 
the submissive, and of abasing the proud among 
surrounding nations.'* 



CHAP. III. 

External improvement. Children's balls. French 
governesses. 

Let me not however be misunderstood. — The 
customs which fashion has established, when 
they are not in opposition to what is right, when 
they are not hostile to virtue, should unquestion- 
ably be pursued in the education of ladies. Piety 
maintains no natural war with elegance, and 
Christianity would be no gainer by making her 
disciples unamiable. Religion does not forbid 
that the exterior be made to a certain degree 
the object of attention. But the admiration be- 
stowed, the sums expended, and the time lavish- 
ed on arts, which add little to the intrinsic value 
of life, should have limitations. While these 
arts should be admired, let them not be admired 
above their just value : while they are practised, 
let it not be to the exclusion of higher employ- 
ments : while they are cultivated, let it be to 
amuse leisure, not to engross life. 

But it happens unfortunately, that to ordinary 
observers, the girl who is really receiving the I 
worst instruction often makes the best figure ; 
while in the more correct but less ostensible edu- 
cation, the deep and sure foundations to which 
the edifice will owe its strength and stability lie 
out of sight. The outward accomplishments 
have the dangerous advantage of addressing 
themselves more immediately to the senses, and 

* Let me not be suspected of bringing into any sort of 
comparison the gentleness of British government with 
the rapacity of Roman conquests, or the tyrannical prin- 
ciples of Roman dominion. To spoil, to butcher, and to 
commit every kind of violence, they call, says one of the 
ablest of their historians, by the lying name of govern- 
ment, and when they have spread a general desolation, 
they call it peace. (1) 

With such dictatorial, or as we might now read, direc- 
torial, inquisitors, we can have no point of contact ; and 
if I have applied the servile flattery of a delightful poet 
to the purpose of English happiness, it was only to show 
wherein true national grandeur consists, and that every 
country pays too dear a price for those arts and embel- 
lishments of society which endanger the loss of its mo- 
rals and manners. 

(1) Tacitus' Life of Agricola, speech of Galgaous to 
his soidierst 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



327 



of course meet every where with those who can 
in some measure appreciate as well as admire 
them ; for all can see and hear, but all cannot 
scrutinize and discriminate, External acquire- 
ments too recommend themselves the more be- 
cause they are more rapidly, as well as more 
visibly progressive ; while the mind is led on to 
improvement by slow motions and impercepti- 
ble degrees ; while the heart must now be ad- 
monished by reproof, and now allured by kind- 
ness ; its liveliest advances being suddenly im- 
peded by obstinacy, and its brightest prospects 
often obscured by passion ; it is slow in its ac- 
quisitions of virtue, and reluctant in its ap- 
proaches to piety ; and its progress, when any 
progress is made, does not obtrude itself to vul- 
gar observation. — The unruly and turbulent 
propensities of the mind are not so obedient to 
the forming hand as defects of manner or awk- 
wardness of gait. Often when we fancy that a 
troublesome passion is completely crushed, we 
have the mortification to find that we have 
■ scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it.' One evil tem- 
per starts up before another is conquered. The 
subduing hand cannot cut off the ever-sprouting 
heads so fast as the prolific hydra can reproduce 
them, nor fell the stubborn Antasus so often as 
he can recruit his strength, and rise in vigorous 
and repeated opposition. 

Hired teachers are also under a disadvantage 
resembling tenants at rack-rent ; it is their in- 
terest to bring in an immediate revenue of praise 
and profit ; and, for the sake of a present rich 
crop, those who are not strictly conscientious, 
do not care how much the ground is impoverish- 
ed for future produce. But parents, who are the 
lords of the soil, must look to permanent value, 
and to continued fruitfulness. The best effects 
of a careful education are often very remote ; 
they are to be discovered in future scenes, and 
exhibited in as yet untried connexions. Every 
event of life will be putting the heart into fresh 
situations, and making new demands on its pru- 
dence, its firmness, its integrity, or its forbear- 
ance. Those whose business it is to form and 
model it, cannot foresee those contingent situa- 
tions specifically and distinctly : yet, as far as 
human wisdom will allow, they must enable it 
to prepare for them all by general principles, 
correct habits, and an unremitted sense of de- 
pendence on the Great Disposer of events. As 
the soldier must learn and practise all his evo- 
lutions, though he do not know on what service 
his leader may command him, by what particu- 
lar foe he shall be most assailed, nor what mode 
of attack the enemy may employ ; so must the 
young Christian militant be prepared by pre- 
vious discipline for actual duty. 

But the contrary of all this is the case with 
external acquisitions. The master, it is his in- 
terest, will industriously instruct his young pu- 
pil to set all her improvements in the most im- 
mediate and conspicuous point of view. To at- 
tract admiration is the great principle sedu- 
lously inculcated into her young heart ; and is 
considered as the fundamental maxim : and, 
perhaps, if we were required to condense the 
reigning system of the brilliant education of a 
lady into an aphorism, it might be comprised 
into this short sentence, To allure and to shine. 



This system however is the fruitful germ, from 
which a thousand yet unborn vanities, with all 
their multiplied ramifications, will spring. A 
tender mother cannot but feel an honest triumph 
in contemplating those talents in her daughter, 
which will necessarily excite admiration ; but 
she will also shudder at the vanity that admira- 
tion may excite, and at the new ideas it will 
awaken : and, startling as it may sound, the 
labours of a wise mother, anxious for her daugh- 
ter's best interests, will seem to be at variance 
with those of all her teachers. She will indeed 
rejoice at her progress, but she will rejoice with 
trembling; for she is fully aware that if all pos- 
sible accomplishments could be bought at the 
price of a single virtue, of a single principle, 
the purchase would be infinitely dear, and she 
would reject the dazzling but destructive acqui- 
sition. She knows that the superstructure of 
the accomplishments can be alone safely erected 
on the broad and solid basis of Christian hu- 
mility : nay more, that as the materials of which 
that superstructure is to be composed, are in 
themselves of 60 unstable and tottering a nature, 
the foundation must be deepened and enlarged 
with more abundant care, otherwise the fabric 
will be overloaded with its own ornaments, and 
what was intended only to embellish the build- 
ing, will prove the occasion of its fall. 

' To every thing there is a season, and a time 
for every purpose under heaven,' said the wise 
man ; but he said it before the invention of 
baby-balls ; an invention which has formed a 
kind of aera, and a most inauspicious one, in 
the annals of polished education. This modern 
device is a sort of triple conspiracy against the 
innocence, the health, and the happiness of 
children. Thus by factitious amusements, to 
rob them of a relish for the simple joys, the un- 
bought delights, which naturally belong to their 
blooming season, is like blotting out spring from 
the year. To sacrifice the true and proper en- 
joyments of sprightly and happy children, is to 
make them pay a dear and disproportionate 
price for their artificial pleasures. They step 
at once from the nursery to the ball-room ; and, 
by a change of habits as new as it is prepos- 
terous, are thinking of dressing themselves, at 
an age when they used to be dressing their 
dolls. Instead of bounding with the unrestrain- 
ed freedom of little wood-nymphs over hill and 
dale, their cheeks flushed with health, and their 
hearts overflowing with happiness, these gay 
little creatures are shut up all the morning, de- 
murely practising the pas grave, and transacting 
the serious business of acquiring a new step for 
the evening, with more cost of time and pains 
than it would have taken them to acquire twenty 
new ideas. 

Thus they lose the amusements which proper- 
ly belong to their smiling period, and unnatu- 
rally anticipate those pleasures (such as they 
are) which would come in, too much of course, 
on their introduction into fashionable life. The 
true pleasures of childhood are cheap and natu- 
ral : for every object teems with delight to eyes 
and hearts new to the enjoyment of life ; nay, 
the hearts of healthy children abound with a 
general disposition to mirth and joyfulness, even 
without a specific object to excite it : like our 



328 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



first parent, in the world's first spring, when all 
was new and fresh, and gay about hirn, 

tliey live and move, 
And feel that they are happie'r than they know. 
Only furnish them with a few simple and harm- 
Jess materials, and a little, but not too much, 
leisure, and they will manufacture their own 
pleasure with more skill and success, and satis- 
faction, than they will receive from all that your 
money can purchase. Their bodily recreations 
should be such as will promote their health, 
quicken their activity, enliven their spirits, whet 
their ingenuity, and qualify them for their men- 
tal work. But, if you begin thus early to create 
wants, to invent gratifications, to multiply de- 
sires, to waken dormant sensibilities, to stir up 
hidden fires, you are studiously laying up for 
your children a store of premature caprice and 
irritability, of impatience and discontent. 

While childhood preserves its native simpli- 
city, every little change is interesting, every 
gratification is a luxury. A ride or a walk, a 
garland of flowers of her own forming, a plant 
of her own cultivating, will be a delightful 
amusement to a child in her natural state ; but 
these harmless and interesting recreations will 
be dull and tasteless to a sophisticated little 
creature, nursed in such forced, and costly, and 
vapid pleasures. Alas ! that we should throw 
away this first grand opportunity of working 
into a practical habit the moral of this impor- 
tant truth, that the chief source of human dis- 
content is to be looked for, not in our real, but 
in our factitious wants ; not in the demands of 
nature, but in the insatiable cravings of artifi- 
cial desire ! 

When we see the growing zeal to crowd the 
midnight ball with these pretty fairies, we 
should be almost tempted to fancy it was a kind 
of pious emulation among the mothers to cure 
their infants of a fondness for vain and foolish 
pleasures, by tiring them out by this premature 
familiarity with them. And we should be so 
desirous to invent an excuse for a practice so 
inexcusable, that we should be ready to hope 
that they were actuated by something of the 
same principle which led the Spartans to intro- 
duce their sons to scenes of riot, that they might 
conceive an early disgust at vice ! or possibly, 
that they imitated those Scythian mothers who 
used to plunge their new-born infants into the 
flood, thinking none to be worth saving who 
could" not stand this early struggle for their lives; 
the greater part, indeed, as might have been ex- 
pected, perished ; but the parents took comfort, 
that if they were lost, the few who escaped 
would be the stronger for having been thus ex- 
posed ! 

To behold Lilliputian coquettes, projecting 
dresses, studying colours, assorting ribands, 
mixing flowers, and choosing feathers ; their 
little hearts beating with hopes about partners 
and fears about rivals ; to see their fresh cheeks 
pale after the midnight supper, their aching 
heads and unbraced nerves, disqualifying the 
little languid beings for the next day's task ; 
and to hear the grave apology, * that it is owing 
to the wine, the crowd, the heated room of the 
last night's ball ;' all this, I say, would really be 
&s ludicrous, if the mischief of the thing did not 



take off from the merriment of it, as any of the 
ridiculous and preposterous disproportions in the 
diverting travels of captain Lemuel Gulliver. 

Under a just impression of the evils which 
we are sustaining from the principles and the 
practices of modern France, we are apt to lose 
sight of those deep and lasting mischiefs which 
so long, so regularly, and so systematically we 
have been importing from the same country, 
though in another form, and under another go- 
vernment. In one respect, indeed, the first were 
the more formidable, because we embraced the 
ruin without suspecting it; while we defeat the 
malignity of the latter, by detecting the turpi- 
tude, and defending ourselves against its conta- 
gion. This is not the place to descant on that 
levity of manners, that contempt of the sabbath, 
that fatal familiarity with loose principles, and 
those relaxed notions of conjugal fidelity, which 
have ofteen been transplanted into this country 
by women of fashion, as a too common effect of 
a long residence in a neighbouring nation ; but 
it is peculiarly suitable to my subject to advert 
to another domestic mischief derived from the 
same foreign extraction ; I mean the risks that 
have been run, and the sacrifices which have 
been made, in order to furnish our young ladies 
with the means of acquiring the French lan- 
guage in the greatest possible purity. Perfec- 
tion in this accomplishment has been so long 
established as the supreme object ; so long con- 
sidered as the predominant excellence to which 
all other excellencies must bow down, that it 
would be hopelegs to attack a law which fashion 
has immutably decreed, and which has received 
the stamp of long prescription. We must, there- 
fore, be contented with expressing a wish, that 
this indispensable perfection could have been 
attained at the expense of sacrifices less impor- 
tant. It is with the greater regret I animad 
vert on this and some other prevailing practices 
as they are errors into which the wise and re- 
spectable have through want of consideration, 
or rather through want of firmness to resist the 
tyranny of fashion, sometimes fallen. It has 
not been unusual when mothers of rank and re- 
putation have been asked how they ventured to 
intrust their daughters to foreigners, of whose 
principles they knew nothing, except that they 
were Roman Catholics, to answer, ' That they 
had taken care to be secure on that subject ; for 
that it had been stipulated that the question of 
religion should never be agitated between the 
teacher and the pupil.' This, it must be con- 
fessed, is a most desperate remedy ; it is like 
starving to death to avoid being poisoned. And 
who can help trembling for the event of that 
education, from which religion, as far as the go- 
verness is concerned, is thus formally and sys- 
tematically excluded. Surely it would not be 
exacting too much, to suggest at least that an 
attention no less scrupulous should be exerted 
to insure the character of our children's in- 
structor, for piety and knowledge, than is 
thought necessary to ascertain that she has no- 
thing patois in ner dialect. 

I would rate a correct pronunciation and an 

elegant phraseology at their just price, and I 

would not rate them low ; but I would not offer 

] up piety and principle as victims to sounds and 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



329 



accents. And the matter is now made more 
easy ; for whatever disgrace it might once have 
brought on an English lady to have had it sus- 
pected from her accent that she had the misfor- 
tune not to be born in a neighbouring country ; 
some recent events may serve to reconcile her 
to the suspicion of having been bred in her own. 
A country, to which, (with all its sins, which 
are many !) the whole world is looking up with 
envy and admiration, as the seat of true glory 
and of comparative happiness ! A country, in 
which the exile, driven out by the crimes of his 
own, finds a home ! A country, to obtain the 
protection of which it was claim enough to be 
unfortunate ; and no impediment to have been 
the subject of her direst foe ! A country, which, 
in this respect, humbly imitating the Father of 
compassion, when it offered mercy to a suppli- 
ant enemy, never conditioned for merit, nor in- 
sisted on the virtues of the miserable as a pre- 
liminary to its own bounty ! 

'England! with all thy faults, I love thee still.' 



CHAP. IV. 

Comparison of the mode of female education in 
the last age with the present. 

To return, however, to the subject of general 
education. We admit that a young lady may 
excel in speaking French and Italian ; may re- 
peat a few passages from a volume of extracts ; 
play like a professor, and sing like a syren ; 
have her dressing-room decorated with her own 
drawings, tables, stands, flower-pots, screens 
and cabinets ; nay, she may dance like Sempro- 
nia* herself, and yet we shall insist that she 
may have been very badly educated. I am far 
from meaning to set no value whatever on these 
qualifications ; they are all of them elegant, and 
many of them properly tend to the perfecting 
of a polite education. These things in their 
measure and degree may be done, but there are 
others which should not be left nndone. Many 
things are becoming, but ' one thing is needful.' 
Besides, as the world seems to be fully apprised 
of the value of whatever tends to embellish life, 
there is less occasion here to insist on its impor- 
tance. 

But though a well-bred youug lady may law- 
fully learn most of the fashionable arts ; yet, let 
me ask, does it seem to be the true end of educa- 
tion to make women of fashion dancers, singers, 
players, painters, actresses, sculptors, gilders, 
vamishers, engravers, and embroiderers ? Most 
men are commonly destined to some profession, 
and their minds are consequently turned each 
to its respective object. Would it not be strange 
if they were called out to exercise their profes- 
sion, or to set up their trade, with only a little 
general knowledge of the trades and profes- 
sions of all other men, and without any previous 
definite application to their own peculiar call- 
ing ? The professions of ladies, to which the 
bent of their instruction should be turned, is 
that of daughters, wives, mothers, and mistresses 
of families. They should be therefore trained 
with a view to these several conditions, and be 
» See Cataline's Conspiracy, 



furnished with a stock of ideas, and principles, 
and qualifications and habits, ready to be applied 
and appropriated, as occasion may demand, to 
each of these respective situations. For though 
the arts which merely embellish life must claim 
admiration ; yet when a man of sense comes to 
marry, it is a companion whom he wants, and 
not an artist. It is not merely a creature who 
can paint, and play, and sing, and draw, and 
dress, and dance ; it is a being who can com- 
fort and counsel him ; one who can reason, and 
reflect, and feel and judge, and discourse and 
discriminate ; one who can assist him in his 
affairs, lighten his cares, sooth his sorrows, 
purify his joys, strengthen his principles, and 
educate his chidren. 

Almost any ornamental acquirement is a good 
thing, when it is not the best thing a woman 
has ; and talents are admirable when not made 
to stand proxy for virtues. The writer of these 
pages is intimately acquainted with several 
ladies who, excelling most of their sex in the art 
of music, but excelling them also in prudence 
and piety, find little leisure or temptation amidst 
the delights and duty of a large and lovely 
family, for the exercise of this charming talent ; 
they regret that so much of their own youth 
was wasted in acquiring an art which can be 
turned to so little account in married life, and are 
now conscientiously restricting their daughters 
in the portion of time allotted to its acquisition. 

Far be it from me to discourage the cultivation 
of any existing talent ; but may it not be ques 
tioned of the fond believing mother, whether 
talents like the spirits of Owen Glendower, 
though conjured by parental partiality with ever 
so loud a voice, 

Yet will they come when you do call for them 7 

That injudicious practice, therefore, cannot 
be too much discouraged of endeavouring to 
create talents which do not exist in nature. 
That their daughters shall learn every thing, is 
so general a maternal maxim, that even unborn 
daughters, of whose expected abilities and con- 
jectured faculties, it is presumed, no very ac- 
curate judgment can previously be formed, are 
yet predestined to this universality of accom- 
plishments. This comprehensive maxim, thus 
almost universally brought into practice, at once 
weakens the general powers of the mind, by 
drawing off its strength into too great a variety 
of directions ; and cuts up time into too many 
separate portions, by splitting it into such an 
endless multiplicity of employments. I know 
that I am treading on tender ground ; but I can- 
not help thinking that the restless pains we take 
to cram up every little vacuity of life, by crowd- 
ing one new thing upon another, rather creates 
a thirst for novelty than knowledge ; and is but 
a well disguised contrivance to anticipate tho 
keeping us in after-life more effectually from 
conversing with ourselves. The care taken to 
prevent ennui is but a creditable plan for pro- 
moting self-ignorance. We run from one occu- 
pation to another (I speak of those arts to which 
little intellect is applied) with a view to lighten 
the pressure of time ; above all we fly to them to 
save us from our own thoughts ; we fly to them 
to rescue us from ourselves ; whereas we were 



330 



THE WORK* OF HANNAH MORE. 



thrown a little more on our own hands, we 
might at last be driven, by way of something to 
do, to try to get acquainted with our own hearts. 
But it is only one part of the general inconsis- 
tency of the human character, that with the 
person of all others we best love, we least like 
to converse and to form an intimacy ; I mean 
ourselves. But though our being less absorbed 
by this busy trifling, which dignifies its inanity 
with the imposing name of occupation, might 
render us somewhat more sensible of the tedium 
of life ; yet might not this very sensation tend to 
quicken our pursuit of a better ? For an awful 
thought here suggests itself. If life be so long that 
we are driven to set at work every engine to pass 
away the tediousness of time ; how shall we do to 
getridofthe tediousness of eternity ? an eternity 
in which not one of the acquisitions which life 
has been exhausted in acquiring, will be of the 
least use ? Let not then the soul be starved by 
feeding it on such unsubstantial aliment, for the 
mind can be no more nourished by these empty 
husks than the body can be fed with ideas and 
principles. 

Among the boasted improvements of the pre- 
sent age, none affords more frequent matter of 
peculiar exultation, than the manifest superiority 
in the employment of the young ladies of our 
time over those of the good house-wives of the 
last century. It is matter of general triumph 
that they are at present employed in learning 
the polite arts, or in acquiring liberal accom- 
plishments ; while it is insisted that their forlorn 
predecessors wore out their joyless days in 
adorning the mansion-house with hideous hang- 
ings of sorrowful tapestry and disfiguring tent- 
stitch. Most cheerfully do I allow to the reign- 
ing modes their just claim of boasted superiority, 
for certainly there no piety in bad taste. Still, 
granting all the deformity of the exploded orna- 
ments, one advantage attended them, the walls 
and the floors were not vain of their decorations ; 
and it is to be feared, that the little person some- 
times is. The flattery bestowed on the obsolete 
employments, for probably even they had their 
flatterers, furnished less aliment to selfishness, 
and less gratification to vanity : and the occu- 
pation itself was less likely to impair the deli- 
cacy and modesty of the sex, than the exqui- 
site cultivation of personal accomplishments or 
personal decorations ; and every mode which 
keeps down vanity and keeps back self, has at 
least a moral use. For while we admire the 
rapid movement of the elegant fingers of a young 
lady busied in working or painting her ball 
dress, we cannot help suspecting that her alac- 
rity may be a little stimulated by the animating 
idea how very well she shall look in it. Nor 
was the industrious matron of Ithaca more 
soothed at her solitary loom with the sweet re- 
flection that by her labour she was gratifying 
her filial and conjugal feelings, than the in- 
dustrious but pleasure-loving damsel of Britain 
is gratified by the anticipated admiration which 
her ingenuity is procuring for her beauty. 

Might not this propensity be a little checked, 
and an interesting feeling combined with her 
industry, were the fair artist habituated to ex- 
ercise her skill in adorning some one else rather 
than herself? For it will add no lightness to the 



lightest head, nor vanity to the vainest heart,*o 
solace her labours in reflecting how exceedingly 
the gown she is working will become her mo- 
ther. This suggestion, trifling as it may seem, 
of habituating young ladies to exercise their 
taste and devote their leisure, not to the deco- 
ration of their own persons, but to the service 
of those to whom they are bound by every ten- 
der tie of love and duty, would not only help to 
repress vanity, but by thus associating the idea 
ofindustry with that of filial tenderness, would 
promote, while it gratified some of the best 
affections of the heart. The Romans (and it is 
mortifying on the subject of Christian educa- 
tion to be driven so often to refer to the superi- 
ority of pagans) were so well aware of the im- 
portance of keeping up a sense of family fond- 
ness and attachment by the very same means 
which promoted simple and domestic employ- 
ment, that no citizen of note ever appeared in 
public in any garb but what was spun by his 
wife and daughter ; and this virtuous passion 
was not confined to the early days of republican 
severity, but even in all the pomp and luxury 
of imperial power. Augustus preserved in his 
own family this simplicity of private manners. 
Let me be allowed to repeat, that I mean not 
with preposterous praise to descant on the igno- 
rance or the prejudicesof past times, nor absurdly 
to regret the vulgar system of education which 
rounded the little circle of female acquirements 
within the limits of the sampler and the receipt 
book. Yet if a preference almost exclusive was 
then given to what was merely useful, a pre- 
ference almost equally exclusive also is now 
assigned to what is merely ornamental. And it 
must be owned, that if the life of a young lady, 
formerly too much resembled the life of a con- 
fectioner, it now too much resembles that of an 
actress : the morning is all rehearsal, and the 
evening is all preformance. And those who 
are trained in this regular routine, who are in- 
structed in order to be exhibited, soon learn to 
feel a sort of impatience in those societies in 
which their kind of talents are not likely to be 
brought into play ; the task of an auditor be- 
comes dull to her who has been used to be a 
performer. Esteem and kindness become but 
cold substitutes to one who has been fed on 
plaudits and pampered with acclamations : and 
the excessive commendation which the visiter 
is expected to pay for his entertainment not 
only keeps alive the flame of vanity in the artist 
by constant fuel, but is not seldom exacted at a 
price which a veracity at all strict would grudge. 
The misfortune is, when a whole circle are ob- 
liged to be competitors who shall flatter most, 
it is not easy to be at once very sincere and 
very civil. And unfortunately, while the age is 
become so knowing and so fastidious, that if a 
young lady does not play like a public perfor- 
mer, no one thinks her worth attending; yet if 
she does so excel, some of the soberest of the 
admiring circle feel a strong alloy to their plea- 
sure, on reflecting at what a vast expense of 
time this perfection probably must have been 
acquired.* 

* That accurate judge of the human heart, madame 
de Maintenon, was so well aware of the danger result- 
ing from some kinds of excellence, that after tilt young 



TrtE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



331 



The study of the fine arts, indeed, is forced 
on young persons, with or without genius (fa- 
shion, as was said before, having swallowed up 
that distinction) to such excess, as to vex, fa- 
tigue, and disgust those who have no talents, 
and to determine them, as soon as they become 
free agents, to abandon all such tormenting ac- 
quirements. While by this incessant compul- 
sion still moflft pernicious effects are often pro- 
duced on those who actually possess genius ; for 
the natural constant reference in the mind to 
that public performance for which they are se- 
dulously cultivating this talent, excites the same 
passions of envy, vanity, and competition in the 
dilettanti performers, as might be supposed to 
stimulate professional candidates for fame and 
profit at public games and theatrical exhibitions. 
Is this emulation, is this spirit of rivalry, is this 
hunger after public praise the temper which 
prudent parents would wish to excite and foster ? 
Besides, in any event the issue is not favourable 
if the young performers are timid ; they disgrace 
themselves and distress their friends ; if courage- 
ous, their boldness offends still more than their 
bad performance. Shall they then be studiously 
brought into situations in which failure discre- 
dits and success disgusts ? 

May I venture, without being accused of pe- 
dantry, to conclude this chapter with another 
reference to pagan examples ? The Hebrews, 
Egyptians, and Greeks, believed that they could 
more effectually teach their youth maxims of 
virtue, by calling in the aid of music and poetry; 
these maxims, therefore, they put into verses, 
and these verses were set to the most popular 
and simple tunes, which the children sang ; thus 
was their love of goodness excited by the very 
instrument of their pleasure ; and the senses, the 
taste, and the imagination, as it were, pressed 
into the service of religion, and morals. Dare I 
appeal to christian parents, if these arts are 
commonly used by them, as subsidiary to reli- 
gion, and to a system of morals much more 
worthy of every ingenious aid and association, 
which might tend to recommend them to the 
youthful mind ? Dare I appeal to Christian pa- 
rents, whether music, which fills up no trifling 
portion of their daughter's time, does not fill it 
without any moral end, or even without any 
specific object ? Nay, whether some of the fa- 
vourite songs of polished societies are not ama- 
tory, are not Anacreontic, more than quite be- 
come the modest lips of innocent .youth and de- 
licate beauty? 



CHAP. V. 

On the religious employment of time. — On the 
manner in which holy days are passed. — Self- 
ishness and inconsideration considered. — Dan- 
gers arising from the world. 

There are many well-disposed parents, who, 
while they attend to these fashionable acquire- 

ladies of the court of Louis Quatorze had distinguished 
themselves by the performance of some dramatic pieces 
i)f Racine, when her friends told her how admirably 
they had played their parts ; ' Yes,' answered this wise 
woman, ' so admirably that they shall never play again.' 



ments, do not neglect to infuse religious know 
ledge into the minds of their children ; and 
having done this, are bu-t too apt. to conclude 
that they have done all, and have fully acquitted 
themselves of the important duties of education. 
For having, as they think, sufficiently grounded 
their daughters in religion, they do not scruple 
to allow them to spend almost the whole of their 
time exactly like the daughters of worldly peo- 
ple. Now, though it be one great point gained, 
to have imbued their young minds with the best 
knowledge, the work is not therefore by any 
means accomplished. ' What do ye more than 
others ?' is a question which in a more extend- 
ed sense, religious parents must be prepared to 
answer. 

Such parents should go on to teach children 
the religious use of time, the duty of consecra- 
ting to God every talent, every faculty, every 
possession, and of devoting their whole lives to 
his glory. People of piety should be more pe- 
culiarly on their guard against a spirit of idle- 
ness, and a slovenly habitual wasting of time, 
because this practice, by not assuming a palpa- 
ble shape of guilt, carries little alarm to the con- 
science. Even religious characters are in dan- 
ger on this side ; for not allowing themselves to 
follow the world in its excesses and diversions, 
they have consequently more time upon their 
hands ; and instead of dedicating the time so 
rescued to its true purposes, they sometimes 
make as it were compensation to themselves for 
their abstinence from dangerous places of pub- 
lic resort, by an habitual frivolousness at home; 
by a superabundance of unprofitable small-talk, 
idle reading, and a quiet and dull frittering 
away of time. Their day perhaps has been 
more free from actual evil : but it will often be 
discovered to have been as unproductive as that 
of more worldly characters ; and they w-ill be 
found to have traded to as little purpose with 
their master's talents. But a Christian must 
take care to keep his conscience peculiarly alive 
to the unapparent, though formidable perils of 
unprofitableness. 

To these, and to all, the author would ear- 
nestly recommend to accustom their children to 
pass at once from serious business to active and 
animated recreation ; they should carefully pre- 
serve them from those long and torpid intervals 
between both, that languid indolence and spirit- 
less trifling that merely getting rid of the day 
without stamping on it any characters of active 
goodness or of intellectual profit, that inane 
drowsiness which wears out such large portions 
of life in both young and old. It has, indeed, 
passed into an aphorism, that activity is neces- 
sary to virtue, even among those who are not 
apprised that it is also indispensable to happi- 
ness. So far are many parents from being sen- 
sible of this truth, that vacations from school are 
not merely allowed, but appointed to pass away 
in wearisome sauntering and indeterminate idle- 
ness, and this is done by erring tenderness, by 
way of converting the holydays into pleasure ! 
Nay the idleness is specifically made over to the 
child's mind, as the strongest expression of the 
fondness of the parent ! A dislike to learning 
is thus systematically excited by preposterously 
erecting indolence into a reward for applicatiou * 



332 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



And the promise of doing nothing is held out as 
the strongest temptation, as well as the best re- 
compence, for having done well ! 

These, and such like errors of conduct arise 
from the latent, but very operative, principle of 
selfishness. This principle is obviously promo- 
ted by many habits and practice seemingly of 
little importance ; and indeed selfiishness is so 
commonly interwoven with vanity and inconsi- 
deration that I have not always thought it ne- 
cessary to mark the distinction. They are al- 
ternately cause and effect ; and are produced 
and reproduced by reciprocal operation. They 
are a joint confederacy, who are mutually pro- 
moting each other's strength and interest ; they 
are united by almost inseparable ties, and the 
indulgence of either is the gratification of all. 
Ill-judging tenderness is in fact only a concealed 
self-love, which cannot bear to be a witness to 
the uneasiness which a present disappointment, 
or difficulty, or vexation, would cause to a dar- 
ling child ; but which yet does not scruple by 
improper gratification to store up for it future 
miseries, which the child will infallibly suffer, 
though it may be at a distant period, which the 
selfish mother does not disturb herself by anti- 
cipating, because she thinks she may be saved 
the pain of beholding. 

Another principle, something different from 
this, though it may probably fall under the head 
of selfishness, seems to actuate some parents in 
their conduct towards their children : I mean a 
certain slothfulness of mind, a love of ease which 
imposes a voluntary blindness, and makes them 
not chcose to see what will give them the trou- 
ble to combat. From the persons in question 
we frequently hear such expressions as these : 
• Children will be children.' — ' My children, I 
suppose are much like those of other people,' 
&c. Thus we may observe this dangerous and 
delusive principle frequently turning off with a 
smile from the first indications of those tempers, 
which from their fatal tendency ought to be very 
seriously taken up. I would be understood now 
as speaking to conscientious parents, who con- 
sider it as a general duty to correct the faults of 
their children, but who, from this indolence of 
mind, are extremely backward in discovering 
such faults, and are not very well pleased when 
they are pointed out by others. Such parents 
will do well to take notice, that whatever they 
consider it is a duty to correct, must be equally 
a duty to endeavour to find out. And this indo- 
lent love of ease is the more to be guarded 
against, as it not only leads parents into errone- 
ous conduct towards their children, but is pecu- 
liarly dangerous to themselves. It is a fault 
frequently cherished from ignorance of its real 
character ; for not bearing on it the strong fea- 
tures of deformity which mark many other vices, 
but on the contrary bearing some resemblance 
to virtue, it is frequently mistaken for Christian 
graces of patience, meekness, and forbearance, 
than which nothing can be more opposite ; these 
proceeding from that Christian principle of self- 
denial, the other from self-indulgence. 

In this connexion may I be permitted to re- 
mark on the practice at the tables of many fa- 
milies when the children are at home for the 
holydays 1 Every delicacy is forced upon them, 



with the tempting remark, • that they cannot 
have this or that dainty at school.' They are 
indulged in irregular hours for the same motive, 
I because they cannot have that indulgence at 
school.' Thus the natural seeds of idleness, 
sensuality, and sloth, are at once cherished, by 
converting the periodical visit at home into a 
season of intemperance, late hours, and exemp- 
tion from learning. So that chi^en are habi- 
tuated, at an age when lasting associations are 
formed in the mind, to connect the idea of study 
with thatof hardship.of happiness with gluttony, 
and of pleasure with loitering, feasting, or sleep- 
ing. Would it not be better, would it not be 
kinder, to make them combine the delightful idea 
of home, with the gratification of the social affec- 
tions, the fondness of maternal love, the kind- 
ness, and warmth, and confidence of the sweet 
domestic attachments, 

— And all the charities 
Of father, son and brother? 

I will venture to say, that those listless and 
vacant days, when the thoughts have no precise 
object; when the imagination* has nothing to 
shape ; when industry has no definitive pursuit ; 
when the mind and the body have no exercise : 
and the ingenuity has no acquisition either to 
anticipate or to enjoy, are the longest, the dullest, 
and the least happy, which children of spirit and 
genius ever pass. Yes ! it is a few short but 
keen and lively intervals of animated pleasure, 
snatched from between the successive labours 
and duties of a well-ordered, busy day, looked 
forward to with hope, enjoyed with taste, and 
recollected without remorse, which, both to men 
and to children, yield the truest portions of en- 
joyment. O snatch your offspring from adding 
to the number of those objects of supreme com- 
miseration, who seek their happiness in doing 
nothing ! The animal may be gratified by it, 
but the man is degraded. Life is but a short 
day ; but it is a working day. Activity may 
lead to evil ; but inactivity cannot be led to 
good. 

Young ladies should also be accustomed to set 
apart a fixed portion of their time, as sacred to 
to the poor,* whether in relieving, instructing, 
or working for them ; and the performance of 
this duty must not be left to the event of con- 
tingent circumstances, or operation of acciden- 
tal impressions ; but it must be established into 
a principle, and wrought into a habit. A specific 
portion of the day must be allotted to it, on which 
no common engagement must be allowed to in- 
trench. Those periods of time, which are not 
stated, are seldom turned to their proper use ; 
and nothing short of a regular plan (which must 
however be sometimes made to give way to cir- 

* It would be a noble employment, and well becoming 
the tenderness of their sex, if ladies were to consider the. 
superintendanee of the poor as their immediate office. 
The}' are peculiarly fitted for it, for from their own ha- 
bits of life they are more intimately acquainted with do- 
mestic wants than the other sex ; and in certain instan- 
ces of sickness and sufferings peculiar to themselves, 
they should be expected to have more sympathy ; and 
tlu-y have obviously more leisure. There is a certain 
religious society, distinguished by simplicity of dresB, 
manners, and language, whose poor are perhaps better 
taken care of than any other ; and one reason may be, 
that they are immediately under the inspection of tlw 
women. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



333 



cumstances) insures the conscientious discharge 
of any duty. This will help to furnish a powerful 
remedy for that selfishness, whose strong holds 
(the truth cannot be too often repeated) it is the 
grand business of Christian education perpe- 
tually to attack. If we were but aware how 
much better it makes ourselves to wish to see 
others better and to assist in making them so, 
we should find that the good done would be of 
as much importance by the habit of doing good, 
which it would induce in our own minds, as by 
its beneficial effects on the objects of our kind- 
ness.* 

In what relates to pecuniary bounty, it will 
be requiring of young persons a very small sa- 
crifice, if you teach them merely to give that 
money to the poor which properly belongs not 
to the child but to the parent ; this sort of charity 
commonly subtracts little from their own plea- 
sures, especially when what they have bestowed 
is immediately made up to them as a reward for 
their little fit of generosity. They will, on this 
plan, soon learn to give, not only for praise but 
for profit. The sacrifice of an orange to a little 
girl, or feather to a great one, given at the ex- 
pense of their own gratification, would be a bet- 
ter lesson of charity on its right ground, than a 
considerable sum of money to be presently re- 
placed by the parent. And it would be habi- 
tuating them early to combine two ideas, which 
ought never to be separated, charity and self- 
denial. 

As an antidote to selfishness, as well as to 
pride and indolence, they should also very early 
be taught to perform all the little offices in their 
power for themselves ; they should be accustom- 
ed not to be insolently exercising their supposed 
prerogative of rank and wealth, by calling for 
servants where there is no real occasion ; above 
all they should be accustomed to consider the 
domestics' hours of meals and rest as almost 
eacred, and the golden rule should be practicably 
and uniformly enforced, even on so trifling an 
occasion as ringing a bell, through mere wan- 
tonness, or self-love, or pride. 

To check the growth of inconsiderateness, 
young ladies should early be taught to discharge 
their little debts with punctuality. They should 
be made sensible of the cruelty of obliging 
trades-people to call often for the money due to 
them ; and of hindering and detaining those 
whose time is the source of their subsistence, 
under the pretence of some frivolous engage- 
ment, which ought to be made to bend to the 
comfort and advantage of others. They should 
conscientiously allow sufficient time for the exe- 
cution of their orders ; and with a Christian cir- 
cumspection be careful not to drive work-peo- 
ple, by needless hurry, into losing their rest, or 
breaking the Sabbath. I have known a lady 
give her gown to a mantua-rnaker on the Satur- 
day night, to whom she would not for the world 
say in so many words, ' You must work through 

* In addition to the instruction of the individual poor, 
and the superintendance of charity schools, ladies might 
be highly useful in assisting the parochial clergy in the 
adoption of that excellent plan for the instruction of the 
ignorant, suggested by the bishop of Durham in his last 
admirable charge to his clergy. It is with pleasure the 
author is enabled to add that the scheme has actually 
been adopted with good effect in that extensive diocese. 



the whole of Sunday,' while she was virtually 
compelling her to do so, by an injunction to 
bring the gown home finished on the Monday 
morning, on pain of her displeasure. To these 
hardships numbers are continually driven by 
good natured but inconsiderate employers. As 
these petty exactions of inconsideration furnish 
only a constant aliment to selfishness, let not a 
desire to counteract them be considered as lead- 
ing to too minute details ; nothing is too frivo- 
lous for animadversion, which tends to fix a bad 
habit in the superior, or to wound the feelings 
of the dependant. 

Would it not be turning those political doc- 
trines, which are now so warmly agitating, to 
a truly moral account, and give the best prac- 
tical answer to the popular declamations on the 
inequality of human conditions, were the rich 
carefully to instruct their children to soften that 
inevitable inequality by the mildness and ten- 
derness of their behaviour to their inferiors ? 
This dispensation of God, which excites so many 
sinful murmurs, would, were it thus practically 
improved, tend to establish the glory of that 
Being who is now so often charged with injus- 
tice; for God himself is covertly attacked in 
many of the invectives against laws, govern- ' 
ments, and the supposed arbitrary and unjust 
disproportion of ranks and riches. 

This dispensation, thus properly improved, 
would, at once call into exercise the generosity, 
kindness, and forbearance of the superior ; and 
the patience, resignation, and gratitude of the 
inferior; and thus, while we were vindicating 
the ways of Providence, we should be accom- 
plishing his plan, by bringing into action those 
virtues of both classes, which would have little 
exercise had there been no inequality in station 
and fortune. Those more exalted persons who 
are so zealously contending for the privileges of 
rank and power, should never lose sight of the 
religious duties and considerate virtues which 
the possession of rank and power imposes on 
themselves ; duties and virtues which should ever 
be inseparable from those privileges. As the 
inferior classes have little real right to complain 
of laws in this respect, let the great be watchful 
to give them as little cause to complain of man- 
ners. In order to this, let them carefully train 
up their children to supply by individual kind- 
ness those cases of hardship which laws cannot 
reach ; let them obviate, by an active and well- 
directed compassion, those imperfections of 
which the best constructed human institutions 
must unavoidably partake ; and, by the exercise 
of private bounty, early inculcated, soften those' 
distresses which can never come under the cog- 
nizance of even the best government. Let them 
teach their offspring, that the charity of the 
rich should ever be subsidiary to the public pro- 
vision in those numberless instances to which 
the most equal laws cannot apply. By such 
means every lesson of politics may be convert- 
ed into a lesson of piety ; and a spirit of con- 
descending love might win over some whom a 
spirit of invective will only inflame. 

Among the instances of negligence into which 
even religiously disposed parents and teachers 
are apt to fall, one is, that they are not suffi- 
ciently attentive in finding interesting employ- 



334 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



rrrent for the Sunday. They do not make a 
ecruple of sometimes allowing their children to 
fill up the intervals of public worship with 
their ordinary employments and common school 
exercises. They are not aware that they are 
training their offspring to an early and a sys- 
tematic profanation of the Sabbath by this cus- 
tom ; for to children, their tasks are their busi- 
ness ; to them a French or Latin exercise is as 
serious an occupation as the exercise of a trade 
or profession is to a man ; and if they are allowed 
to think the one right now, they will not be 
brought hereafter to think that the other is 
wrong : for the opinions and practices fixed at 
this important season are not easily altered : 
and an early habit becomes rooted into an in- 
veterate prejudice. By this oversight even the 
friends of religion may be contributing- even- 
tually to that abolition of the Lord's day, so 
devoutly wished and so indefatigably laboured 
after by its enemies, as the desired preliminary 
to the destruction of whatever is most dear to 
christians. What obstruction would it offer to 
the general progress of youth, if all their Sunday 
exercises (which, with reading, composing, 
transcribing and getting by heart, might be ex- 
tended to an entertaining variety) were adapted 
to the peculiar nature of the day ? 

Those whose own spirits and vigour of mind 
are exhausted by the amusements of the world, 
and who therefore grow faint and languid under 
the continuance of serious occupation, are not 
aware how different the case is with lively young 
people, whose spring of action has not been 
broken by habitual indulgence. They are not 
aware that a firm and well disciplined intellect 
wants, comparatively, little amusement. The 
mere change from one book to another, is a re- 
lief almost amounting to pleasure. But then 
the variation must be judiciously made, so that 
to novelty must be superadded comparative 
amusement; that is, the gradation should be 
made from the more to the less serious book. 
If care bo thus taken that greater exertion of 
the mental powers shaM not be required, when, 
through length of application, there is less ability 
or disposition to exert them ; such a well order- 
ed distinction, will produce on the mind nearly 
the same effect as a new employment. 

It is not meant to impose on them such rigor- 
ous study as shall convert the day they should 
be taught to love into a day of burdens and hard- 
ships, or to abridge them of such innocent en- 
joyments as are compatable with a season of 
holy rest. It is intended merely to suggest that 
there should be a marked distinction in the na- 
ture of their employments and studies ; for on 
the observance or neglect of this, as was before 
observed, their future notions and principles will 
in a good degree be formed. The Gospel, in 
rescuing the Lord's day from the rigorous bond- 
age of the Jewish sabbath, never lessened the 
obligation to keep it holy, nor meant to sanc- 
tion any secular occupation.* Christianity in 
lightening its austerities has not defeated the 
end of its institution ; in purifying its spirit, it 
has not abolished its object. 

* The strongest proof of this observation is the con- 
duct of the first christians who had their instructions 
immediately from the Apostles. 



Though the author, chiefly writing with a 
view to domestic instruction, has purposely 
avoided entering on the disputed question, 
whether a school or home education be best ; a 
question which perhaps must generally be de- 
cided by the state of the individual home, and 
the state of the individual school ; yet she 
begs leave to suggest one remark, which pecu- 
liarly belongs to a school education r namely, 
the general habit of converting the Sunday into 
a visitiug day, by way of gaining time ; as if the 
appropriate instructions of the Lord's day were 
the cheapest sacrifice which could be made to 
pleasure. Even in those schools in which re- 
ligion is considered as an indispensable part of 
instruction, this kind of instruction is almost ex- 
clusively limited to Sundays : how then are 
girls ever to make any progress in this most 
important article, if they are habituated to lose 
the religious advantages of the school, for the 
sake of having more dainties for dinner abroad ? 
This remark cannot be supposed to apply to the 
visits which children make to religious parents, 
and indeed it only applies to those cases where 
the school is a conscientious school, and the 
visit a trifling visit. 

Among other subjects which engross a good 
share of worldly conversation, one of the most 
attracting is beauty. Many ladies have often 
a random way of talking rapturously on the 
general importance and the fascinating power 
of beauty, who are yet prudent enough to be 
very unwilling to let their own daughters find 
out they are handsome. Perhaps the contrary 
course might be safer. If the little listener 
were not constantly hearing that beauty is the 
best gift, she would not be so vain from fancy- 
ing herself to be the best gifted. Be less soli- 
citous, therefore, to conceal from her a secret, 
which, with all your watchfulness, she will be 
sure to find out, without your telling ; but rather 
seek to lower the general value of beauty in her 
estimation. Use your daughter in all things to a 
different standard from that of the world. It is 
not by vulgar people and servants only that she 
will be told of her being pretty. She will be hear- 
ing it not only from gay ladies, but from grave 
men ; she will be hearing it from the whole world 
around her. The antidote to the present danger 
is not now to be searched for ; it must be already 
operating ; it must have been provided for in the 
foundation laid in the general principle she has 
been imbibing before this particular temptation 
of beauty came in question. And this general 
principle is an habitual indifference to flattery. 
She must have learnt not to be intoxicated by 
the praise of the world. She must have learnt 
to estimate things by their intrinsic worth, 
rather than by the world's estimation. Speak 
to her with particular kindness and commenda- 
tion of plain but amiable girls; mention with 
compassion such as are handsome but ill-edu- 
cated ; speak casually of some who were once 
thought pretty, but have ceased to be good ; 
make use of the arguments arising from the 
shortness and uncertainty of beauty, as strong 
additional reasons for making that which is 
little valuable in itself, still less valuable. As it 
is a new idea which is always dangerous, you 
may thus break the force of this danger bv al- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



335 



lowing her an early introduction to this inevi- 
table knowledge, which would become more in- 
teresting, and of course more perilous by every 
additional year ; and if you can guard against 
that fatal and almost universal error of letting 
her see that she is more loved on account of her 
beauty, her familiarity with the idea may be 
less dangerous than its novelty afterwards would 
prove. 

But the great and constant peril to which 
young persons in the higher walks of life are 
exposed, is the prevailing turn and spirit of ge- 
neral conversation. Even the children of better 
families, who are well-instructed when at their 
studies, are yet at other times continually be- 
holding the world set up in the highest and 
most advantageous point of view. Seeing the 
world ! knowing the world ! standing well with 
the world ! making a figure in the world ! is 
spoken of as including the whole sum and sub- 
stance of human advantages. They hear their 
education almost exclusively alluded to with re- 
ference to the figure it will enable them to make 
in the world. In almost all companies they hear 
all that the world admires spoken of with admi- 
ration ; rank flattered, fame coveted, power 
sought, beauty idolized, money considered as 
the one thing needful, and as the atoning sub- 
stitute for the want of all other things ; profit 
held up as the reward of virtue, and worldly es- 
timation as the just and highest prize of lauda- 
ble ambition ; and after the very spirit of the 
world has been thus habitually infused into them 
all the week, one cannot expect much effect 
from their being coldly and customarily told 
now and then on Sundays, that they must not 
' love the world, nor the things of the world.' 
To tell them once in seven days that it is a sin 
to gratify an appetite which you have been 
whetting and stimulating the preceding six, is 
to require from them a power of self-control, 
which our knowledge of the impetuosity of the 
passions, especially in early age, should have 
taught us is impossible. 

This is not the place to animadvert on the 
usual misapplication of the phrase, ' knowing 
the world ;' which term is commonly applied, in 
the way of panegyric, to keen, designing, sel- 
fish, ambitious men, who study mankind in or- 
der to turn them to their own* account. But in 
the true sense of the expression, the sense which 
christian parents would wish to impress on their 
children, to know the world is to know its emp- 
tiness, its vanity, its futility, and its wickedness. 
To know it is to despise it, to be on our guard 
against it, to labour to live above it ; and in this 
view an obscure Christian in a village may be 
said to know the world better than a hoary 
courtier or wily politician. For how can they 
be said to know it who go on to love it, to be led 
captive by its allurements, to give their soul in 
exchange for its lying promises ? 

But while so false an estimate is often made 
in fashionable society of the real value of things ; 
-hat is, while Christianity does not furnish the 
standard, and human opinion does ; while the 
multiplying our desires is considered as a symp- 
tom of elegance, though to subdue those desires 
is the grand criterion of religion ; while mode- 
lation is beheld as indicating a poorness of spi- 



rit, though to that very poverty of spirit the 
highest promise of the gospel is assigned ; while 
worldly wisdom is sedulously enjoined by world 
ly friends, in contradiction to that assertion, 
' that the wisdom of the world is foolishness with 
God ;' while the praise of man is to be anxiously 
sought in opposition to that assurance, that ' the 
fear of man worketh a snare ;' while they are 
taught all the week, that ' the friendship of the 
world' is the wisest pursuit ; and on Sundays 
that ' it is enmity with God ;' while these things 
are so (and that they are so in a good degree 
who will undertake to deny ?) may we not ven- 
ture to affirm that a Christian education, though 
it be not an impossible, is yet a very difficult 
work ? 



CHAP. VI. 

ON THE EARLY FORMING OF HABITS. 

On the necessity of forming the Judgment to di- 
rect those Habits. 

It can never be too often repeated, that one 
of the great objects of education is the forming 
of habits. I may be suspected of having recur 
red too often, though hitherto only incidentally, 
to this topic. It is, however, a topic of such im- 
portance, that it will be useful to consider it 
somewhat more in detail ; as the early forming 
of right habits on sound principles seems to be 
one of the grand secrets of virtue and happiness. 

The forming of any one good habit seems to 
be effected rather by avoiding the opposite bad 
habit, and resisting every temptation to the op- 
posite vice, than by the mere occasional prac- 
tice of the virtue required. — Humility, for in- 
stance, is less an act than a disposition of the 
mind. It is not so much a single performance 
of some detached humble deed, as an incessant 
watchfulness against every propensity to pride. 
Sobriety, is not a prominent ostensible thing ; it 
evidently consists in a series of negations, and 
not of actions. It is a conscientious habit of 
resisting every incentive to intemperance. — 
Meekness is best attained and exemplified by 
guarding against every tendency to anger, im- 
patience and resentment. A habit of attention 
and application is formed by early and constant 
vigilance against a trifling spirit and a wander- 
ing mind. A habit of industry, by watching 
against the blandishments of pleasure, the waste 
of small portions of time, and the enchroach- 
ment of small indulgences. 

Now, to stimulate us to an earnest desire of 
working any or all of these habits into the minds 
of children, it will be of importance to consider 
what a variety of uses each of them involves. 

To take, for example, the case of moderation 
and temperance. It would seem to a superficial 
observer of no very great importance to acquire 
a habit of self-denial in respect either to the ele 
gancies of decoration, or to the delicacies of the 
table, or to the common routine of pleasure ; 
that there can be no occasion for an indifference 
to luxuries harmless in themselves ; and no 
need of daily moderation in those persons who 
are possessed of affluence, and to whom there 



336 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



fore, as the expense is no object, so the forbear- 
ance is thought of no importance. Those acts 
of self-denial, I admit, when contemplated by 
themselves, appear to be of no great value, yet 
they assume high importance, if you consider 
what it is to have, as it were, dried up the spring 
of only one importunate passion ; if you reflect 
after any one such conquest is obtained, how 
easily, comparatively speaking, it is followed up 
by others. 

How much future virtue and self-government, 
in more important things, may a mother there- 
fore be securing to that child, who should al- 
ways remain in as high a situation as she is in 
when the first foundations of this quality are 
laying ; but should any reverse of fortune take 
place in the daughter, how much integrity and 
independence of mind also may he prepared for 
her, by the early excision of superfluous desires. 
She, who has been trained to subdue these pro- 
pensities, will, in all probability be preserved 
from running into worthless company, merely 
for the sake of the splendor which may be at- 
tached to it. She will be rescued from the temp- 
tation to do wrong things for the sake of enjoy- 
ments from which she cannot abstain. She is 
delivered from the danger of flattering those 
whom she despises ; because her moderate mind 
and well ordered desires do not solicit indul- 
gences which could only be procured by mean 
compliances. For she will have been habituated 
to consider the character as the leading circum- 
stance of attachment, and the splendor as an 
accident, which may or may not belong to it ; 
but which, when it does, as it is not a ground 
of merit in the possessor, so it is not to be the 
ground of her attachment. The habit of self- 
control, in small as well as in great things in- 
volves in the aggregate less loss of pleasure, than 
will be experienced by disappointments in the 
mind ever yielding itself to the love of present 
indulgences, whenever those indulgences should 
be abridged or withdrawn. 

She who has been accustomed to have an early 
habit of restraint exercised over all her appetites 
and temper ; she who has been used to set 
bounds to her desires as a general principle, 
will have learned to withstand a passion for 
dress and personal ornaments ; and the woman 
who has conquered this propensity has sur- 
mounted one of the most domineering tempta- 
tions which assail the sex. While this seemingly 
little circumstance, if neglected, and the oppo- 
site habit formed, may be the first step to every 
successive error, and every consequent distress. 
Those women who are ruined by seduction in 
the lower classes, and those who are made mi- 
serable by ambitious marriages in the higher, 
will be more frequently found to owe their mi- 
sery to an ungoverned passion for dress and 
show, than to motives more apparently bad. An 
habitual moderation in this article, growing out 
of a pure self-denying principle, and not arising 
from the affectation of a singularity, which may 
have more pride in it, than others feel in the in- 
dulgence of any of the things which this singu- 
larity renounces, includes many valuable ad- 
vantages. Modesty, simplicity, humility, econo- 
my, prudence, liberality, charity, are almost in- 
separably, and not very remotely, connected 



with an habitual victory over personal vanity 
and a turn to personal expense. The inferior 
and less striking virtues are the smaller pearls, 
which serve to string and connect the great ones. 
An early and unremitting zeal in forming the 
mind to a habit of attention not only produces 
the outward expression of good breeding, as one 
of its incidental advantages, but involves, or ra- 
ther creates, better qualities than itself; while 
vacancy and inattention not only produce vulgar 
manners, but are usually the indication, if not 
of an ordinary, yetof a neglected understanding. 
To the habitually inattentive, books offer little 
benefit; company affords little improvement; 
while a self-imposed attention sharpens observa- 
tion, and creates a spirit of inspection and in- 
quiry, which often lifts a common understand- 
ing to a degree of eminence in knowledge, sa- 
gacity, and usefulness, which indolent or negli- 
gent genius does not always reach. A habit of 
attention exercises intellect, quickens discern- 
ment, multiplies ideas, enlarges the power of 
combining images and comparing characters, 
and gives a faculty of picking up improvement 
from circumstances the least promising ; and 
gaining instruction from those slight but fre- 
quently recurring occasions, which the absent 
and the negligent turn to no account. Scarcely 
any thing or person is so unproductive as not 
to yield some fruit to the attentive and sedulous 
collector of ideas. But this is far from being 
the highest praise of such a person ; she, who 
early imposes on herself a habit of strict atten- 
tion to whatever she is engaged in, begins to 
wage early war with wandering thoughts, use- 
less reveries, and that disqualifying train of 
busy, but unprofitable imaginations, by which 
the idle are occupied, and the absent are ab- 
sorbed. She who keeps her intellectual powers 
in action, studies with advantage, herself, her 
books, and the world. Whereas they, in whose 
undisciplined minds vagrant thoughts have been, 
suffered to range without restriction on ordinary 
occasions, will find they cannot easily call them 
home, when wanted to assist in higher duties. 
Thoughts, which are indulged in habitual wan- 
dering, will not be readily restrained in the so- 
lemnities of public worship or of private devo- 
tion. 

But in speakihg of the necessary habits, it 
must be noticed that the habit of unremitting 
industry, which is indeed closely connected with 
those of which we have just made mention, can- 
not be too early or too sedulously formed. Let 
not the sprightly and the brilliant reject indus 
try as a plebian quality, as a quality to be exer- 
cised only by those who have their bread to earn, 
or their fortune to make. But let them respect 
it, and adopt it as an habit to which many ele- 
vated characters have, in a good measure, owed 
their distinction. The masters in science, the 
leaders in literature, legislators, and statesmen, 
even apostles and reformers would not, at least 
in so eminent a degree, have enlightened, con- 
verted, and astonished the world, had they not 
been eminent possessors of this sober and unos- 
tentatious quality. It is the quality to which 
the immortal Newton modestly ascribed his own 
vast attainments ; who, when he was asked by 
what means he had been enabled to make that 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



337 



successful progress which struck mankind with 
wonder, replied, that it was not so much owing 
to any superior strength of genius, as to an habit 
of patient thinking, laborious attention, and close 
application. We must, it is true, make some 
deductions for the humility of the speaker. Yet 
it is not overrating its value, to assert that in- 
dustry is the sturdy and hard working pioneer, 
who by persevering labour removes obstructions, 
overcomes difficulties, clears intricacies, and 
thus facilitates the march, and aids the victories 
of genius. 

An exact habit of economy is of the same fa- 
mily with the two foregoing qualities ; and like 
them is the prolific parent of a numerous off- 
spring of virtues. For want of the early ingraft- 
ing of this practice on its only legitimate stock 
— a sound principle of integrity — may we not, 
in too many instances in subsequent life, almost 
apply to the fatal effects of domestic profuseness, 
what Tacitus observes of a lavish profligacy in 
the expenditure of public money — that an ex- 
chequer which is exhausted by prodigality will 
probably be replenished by crimes. 

Those who are early trained to scrupulous 
punctuality in the division of time, and an ex- 
actness to the hours of their childish business, 
will have learnt how much the economy of time 
is promoted by habits of punctuality, when they 
shall enter on .the more important business of 
life. By getting one employment cleared away, 
exactly as the succeeding employment shall have 
a claim to be despatched, they will learn two 
things : that one business must not trench on 
the time which belongs to another business, and 
to set a value on those odd quarters of an hour, 
and even minutes which are so often lost between 
successive duties, for want of calculation, punctu- 
ality and arrangement. 

A habit of punctuality is perhaps one of the 
earliest which the youthful mind may be made 
capable of receiving ; and it is so connected with 
truth, with morale, and with the general good 
government of the mind, as to render it impor- 
tant that it should be brought into exercise on 
the smallest occasions. But I refrain from en- 
larging on this point as it will be discussed in 
another part of this work.* 

It requires perhaps still more sedulity to lay 
early the first foundation of those interior habits 
which are grounded on watchfulness against 
such faults as do not often betray themselves by 
breaking out into open excess ; and which there 
would therefore be less discredit in judging. It 
should more particularly make a part of the first 
elements of education, to try to infuse into the 
mind that particular principle which stands in 
opposition to those evil tempers, to which the 
individual pupil is more immediately addicted. 
As it cannot be followed up too closely, so it can 
hardly be set about too early. May we not bor- 
row an important illustration of this truth from 
the fabulous hero of the Grecian story? He who 
was one day to perform exploits, which should 
fill the earth with his renown, began by con- 
quering in his infancy ; and it was a prelimina- 
ry to his delivering the world from monsters in 
his riper years, that he should set out by strang- 
ling the serpents in his cradle. 

* See Chapter on Definitions. 

Vol. I. Y 



It must however be observod that diligent care 
is to be exercised, that, together with the gra- 
dual formation of these and other useful habits, 
an adequate attention be employed to the form- 
ing of the judgment ; to the framing such a 
sound constitution of mind, as shall supply the 
power of directing all the faculties of the under- 
standing, and all the qualities of the heart, to 
keep their proper places and due bounds, to ob- 
serve their just proportions, and maintain their 
right station, relation, order, and dependence. 

For instance, while the young person's mind 
is trained to those habits of attention and indus- 
try, which we have been recommending ; great 
care must be used that her judgment be so en- 
lightened as to enable her to form sound notions 
with regard to what is really worthy her attentive 
pursuit, without which discriminating power, 
application would only be actively misemploy- 
ed ; and ardour and industry would but serve 
to lead her more widely from the right road of, 
truth. Without a correct judgment she would 
be wasting her activity on what was frivolous, or 
exhausting it on what was mischievous. With- 
out that ardour and activity we have been re- 
commending she might only be ' weaving spi- 
ders' webs ;' with it, if destitute of judgment, 
she would be ' hatching cockatrices' eggs.' 

Again, if the judgment be not well informed 
as to the nature and true ends of temperance, 
the ill-instructed mind might be led into a su- 
perstitious reliance on the merits of self-denial ; 
and resting in the letter of a few outward ob- 
servances, without any consideration of the spirit 
of this christian virtue, might be led to inferthat 
the kingdom of heaven was the abstinence from 
' meat and drink,' and not ' peace, and righteous- 
ness, and joy in the Holy Ghost' 

The same well ordered judgment will also be 
required in superintending and regulating the 
habit of economy ; for extravagance being rather 
a relative than a positive term, the true art of 
regulating expense, is not to proportion it to the 
fashion, or to the opinion or practice of others, 
but to our own station and to our own circum- 
stances. Aristippus being accused of extrava- 
gance by one who was not rich, because he had 
given six crowns for a small fish, said to him, 
' Why what would you have given ?' — ' Twelve 
pence,' answered the other. 'Then,' replied 
Aristippus, • our economy is equal ; for six 
crowns are no more to me than twelve pence 
are to you.' 

It is the more important to enlighten the judg- 
ment in this point, because so predominant is 
the control of custom and fashion, that men of 
unfixed principle are driven to borrow other 
peoples' judgment of them, before they can ven- 
ture to determine whether they themselves are 
rich or happy. These vain slaves to human 
opinion do not so often say, How ought I to act? 
or, What ought I to spend ? as, What does the 
world think I ought to do ? What do others think 
I ought to spend ? 

There is also a perpetual call for the interfe- 
rence of the judgment in settling the true no- 
tion of what meekness is, before we can adopt 
the practice without falling into error. We must 
apprize those on whose minds we are inculca- 
ting this amiable virtue, of the bread line of dis- 



338 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



tinction between Christian meekness and that 
well-bred tone and gentle manner which passes 
current for it in the world. We must teach 
them also to distinguish between an humble opi- 
nion of our own ability to judge, and servile de- 
reliction of truth and principle, in order to pur- 
chase the poor praise of indiscriminate compli- 
ance and yielding softness. We must lead them 
to distinguish accurately between honesty and 
obstinacy, between perseverance and perverse- 
ness, between firmness and prejudice. We must 
convince them that it is not meekness, but base- 
ness, when through a dishonest dread of offend- 
ing the prosperous, or displeasing the powerful, 
we forbear to recommend, or refuse to support, 
those whom it is our duty to recommend or to 
support. That it is selfishness and not meek- 
ness, when through fear of forfeiting any portion 
of our reputation, or risking our own favour 
with others, we refuse to bear our testimony to 
$uspected worth or discredited virtue.* 



CHAP. VII. 

Filial obedience not the character of the age. — A 
comparison with the preceding age in this re- 
spect. — Those who cultivate the mind advised 
to study the nature of the soil. — Unpromising 
childrenoften make strong characters. — Teach- 
ers too apt to devote their pains almost exclu- 
sively to children of parts. 

Among the real improvements of modern 
times, and they are not a few, it is to be feared 
that the growth of filial obedience cannot be in- 
cluded. Who can forbear observing and regret- 
ting in a variety of instances, that not only sons 
but daughters have adopted something of that 
spirit of independence, and disdain of control, 
which characterize the times ? And is it not 
too generally obvious that domestic manners are 
not slightly tinctured with the prevailing hue 
of public principles ? The rights of man have 
been discussed, till we are somewhat wearied 
with the discussion. To these have been oppo- 
sed, as the next stage in the progress of illumi- 
nation, and with more presumption than pru- 
dence, the rights of women. It follows, accord- 
ing to the natural progression of human things, 
that the next influx of that irradiation which 
our enlighteners are pouring in upon us, will 
illuminate the world with grave descants on the 
rights of youth, the rights of children, the rights 
of babies ! 

This revolutionary spirit in families suggests 
the remark, that among the faults with which 
it had been too much the fashion of recent times 
to load the memory of the incomparable Milton, 
one of the charges brought against his private 

* To this criminal timidity, madame de Maintenon, a 
woman of parts and piety, sacrificed the ingenious and 
amiable Racine ; whom, while she had taste enough to 
admire,, she had not the generosity to defend, when the 
royal favour was withdrawn from him. A still darker 
cloud hangs over her fame, on account of the selfish neu- 
trality she maintained in not interposing her good offices 
between the resentments of the king and the sufferings 
of the Hugunots. It is a heavy aggravation of her fault, 
that she herself had been educated in the faith of these 
persecuted people 



character (for with his political character we 
have here nothing to do) has been, that he was 
so severe a father as to have compelled his 
daughters, after he was blind, to read aloud to 
him, for his sole pleasure, Greek and Latin au- 
thors, of which they did not understand a word. 
But this is in fact nothing more than an instance 
of the strict domestic regulations of the age in 
which Milton lived ; and should not be brought 
forward as a proof of the severity of his indivi- 
dual temper. Nor indeed in any case should it 
ever be considered as an hardship for an affec- 
tionate child to amuse an afflicted parent, even 
though it should be attended with a heavier sa- 
crifice of her own pleasure than that produced 
in the present instance.* 

Is the author then inculcating the harsh doc- 
trine of paternal austerity ? By no means. It 
drives the gentle spirit to artifice, and the rugged 
to despair. It generates deceit and cunning, 
the most hopeless and hateful in the whole cata- 
logue of female failings. Ungoverned anger in 
the teacher, and inability to discriminate be- 
tween venial errors and premeditated offence, 
though they may lead a timid creature to hide 
wrong tempers, or to conceal bad actions, will 
not help her to subdue the one or correct the 
other. The dread of severity will drive terrified 
children to seek, not for reformation, but for im- 
punity. A readiness to forgive them promotes 
frankness : and we should, above all things, en- 
courage them to be frank, in order to come at 
their faults. They have not more faults for be- 
ing open, they only discover more ; and to know 
the worst of the character we have to regulate 
will enable us to make it better. 

Discipline, however, is not cruelty, and re- 
straint is not severity. A discriminating teach- 
er will appreciate the individual character of 
each pupil, in order to appropriate her manage- 
ment. We must strengthen the feeble, while 
we repel the bold. We cannot educate by a re- 
ceipt ; for after studying the best rules, and 
after digesting them into the best system, much 
must depend on contingent circumstances, for 
that which is good may yet be inapplicable. 
The cultivator of the human mind must, like 
the gardener, study diversities of soil, or he may 
plant diligently and water faithfully with little 
fruit. The skilful labourer knows that even 
where the surface is not particularly promising, 
there is often a rough strong ground which will 
amply repay the trouble of breaking it up ; yet 
we are often most taken with a soft surface, 
though it conceal a shallow depth, because it 
promises present reward and little trouble. But 
strong and pertinacious tempers, of which per- 



* In spite of this too prevailing spirit, and at a time 
when, hy an inverted state of society, sacrifices of ease 
and pleasure are rather exacted by children from parents, 
than required by parents from children, numberless in- 
stances might be adduced of filial affection truly honour- 
able to the present period. And the author records with 
pleasure, that she has seen amiable young ladies of high 
rank conducting the steps of a blind but illustrious pa- 
rent with true filial fondness ; and has often contempla- 
ted, in another family, the interesting attentions of 
daughters who were both hands and eyes to an infirm 
and nearly blind father. It is but justice to repeat that 
these examples are not taken from that middle rank of 
life which Milton filled, but from the daughters of the 
liigbesi officers in the state. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



339 



haps obstinacy is the leading vice, under skilful 
management often turn out steady and sterling 
characters ; while from softer clay a firm and 
vigorous virtue is but seldom produced. Perti- 
nacity is often principle, which wants nothing 
but to be led to its true obj.ect ; while the uni- 
formly yielding, and universally accommodating 
spirit, is not seldom the result of a feeble tone 
of morals, of a temper eager for praise and act- 
ing for reward. 

But these revolutions in character cannot be 
effected by a mere education. Plutarch had ob- 
served that the medical science would never be 
brought to perfection till poisons should be con- 
verted into physic. What our late improvers in 
natural science have done in the medical world, 
by converting the most deadly ingredients into 
instruments of life and health, Christianity with 
a sort of divine alchymy has effected in the mo- 
ral world, by that transmutation which makes 
those passions which have been working for sin 
become active in the cause of religion. The 
violent temper of Saul of Tarsus, which was 
* exceedingly mad' against the saints of God, 
did God see fit to convert into that burning zeal 
which enabled Paul the apostle to labour so un- 
remittingly for the conversion of the gentile 
world. Christianity indeed does not so much 
give us new affections or faculties, as give a 
new direction to those we already have. She 
changes that sorrow of the world which worketh 
death into ' godly sorrow which worketh repent- 
ance.' She changes our anger against the per- 
sons we dislike into hatred of their sins. 'The 
fear of man which worketh a snare,' she trans- 
mutes into ' that fear of God which worketh 
salvation.' That religion does not extinguish 
the passions, but only alters their object, the 
animated expressions of the fervid apostle con- 
firm — ' Yea, what fearfulness ; yea, what clear- 
ing of yourselves ; yea, what indignation ; yea, 
what fear; yea, what vehement desire; yea, 
what zeal ; yea, what revenge.* 

Thus, by some of the most troublesome pas- 
sions of our nature being converted by the bless- 
ing of God on a religious education to the side 
of virtue, a double purpose is effected. Because 
it is the character of the passions never to ob- 
serve a neutrality. If they are no longer rebels, 
they become auxiliaries ; and the accession of 
Btrength is doubled, because a foe subdued is an 
ally obtained. For it is the effect of religion on 
the passions, that when she siezes the enemy's 
garrison, she does not content herself with de- 
feating its future mischiefs, she does not destroy 
the works, she does not burn the arsenal and 
spike the cannon ; but the artillery she seizes, 
she turns to her own use ; she attacks in her 
turn, and plants its whole force against an ene- 
my from whom she has taken it. 

But while I would deprecate harshness, I 
would enforce discipline ; and that not merely 
on the ground of religion, but of happiness also. 
One reason, not seldom brought forward by ten- 
der but mistaken mothers as an apology for an 
unbounded indulgence, especially to weakly 
children, is, that they probably will not live to 
enjoy the world when grown up, and that there- 
fore they would not abridge the little pleasure 
* 2 Corinthians, vii. 1. 



they may enjoy at the present, lest they should 
be taken out of the world without having tasted 
any of its delights. But a slight degree of 
observation would prove that this is an error in 
judgment as well as in principle. For omitting 
any considerations respecting their future wel- 
fare, and entering only into their immediate in- 
terests ; it is an indisputable fact that children 
who know no control, whose faults encounter 
no contradiction, and whose humours experience 
constant indulgence, grow more irritable and 
capricious, invent wants, create desires, lose all 
relish for the pleasures which they know they 
may reckon upon ; and become perhaps more 
miserable than even those unfortunate children 
who labour under the more obvious and more 
commiserated misfortune of suffering under the 
tyranny of unkind parents. 

An early habitual restraint is peculiarly im- 
portant to the future character and happiness of 
women. A judicious, unrelaxing, but steady 
and gentle curb on their tempers and passions 
can alone insure their peace and establish their 
principles. It is a habit which cannot be adopted 
too soon, nor persisted in too pertinaciously. 
They should when very young be inured to 
contradiction. Instead of hearing their bon 
mots treasured up and repeated till the guests 
are tired, and till the children begin to think it 
dull, when they themselves are not the little he- 
roines of the theme, they should be accustomed 
to receive but moderate praise for their vivacity 
or their wit, though they should receive just 
commendation for such qualities as have more 
worth than splendour. 

Patience, diligence, quiet, and unfatigued 
perseverance, industry, regularity, and economy 
of time, as these are the dispositions I would la- 
bour to excite, so these are the qualities I would 
warmly commend. So far from admiring ge- 
nius, or extolling its prompt effusions, I would 
rather intimate that excellence, to a certain de- 
gree, is in the power of every competitor : that 
it is the vanity of over-valuing herself for sup- 
posed original powers, and slackening exertion 
in consequence of that vanity, which often leave 
the lively ignorant, and the witty superficial. — 
A girl who overhears her mother tell the com- 
pany that she is a genius, and is so quick, that 
she never thinks of applying to her task till a 
few minutes before she is to be called to repeat 
it, will acquire such a confidence in her own 
abilities, that she will be advancing in conceit 
as she is falling short in knowledge. Whereas, 
if she were made to suspect that her want of 
application rather indicated a deficiency than a 
superiority in her understanding, she would be- 
come industrious in proportion as she became 
modest ; and by thus adding the diligence of the 
humble to the talents of the ingenious, she 
might reaiiy attain a degree of excellence, which 
mere quickness of parts, too lazy, because too 
proud to apply, seldom attains. 

Girls should be led to distrust their own judg- 
ment ; they should learn not to murmur at expos- 
tulation ; they should be accustomed to expect 
and to endure opposition. It is a lesson with 
which the world will not fail to furnish them ; 
and they will not practise it the worse for hav- 
ing learnt it the sooner. I* is of the last im- 



340 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



portance to their happiness, even in this life, 
that they should early acquire a submissive tem- 
per and a forbearing spirit. They must endure 
to be thought wrong sometimes, when they can- 
not but feel they are right. And while they 
should be anxiously aspiring to do well, they 
must not expect always to obtain tho praise of 
having done so. But while a gentle demeanour 
is inculcated, let them not be instructed to prac- 
tise gentleness merely on the low ground of its 
being decorous, and feminine, and pleasing, and 
calculated to attract human favour : but let 
them be carefully taught to cultivate it on the 
high principle of obedience to Christ ; on the 
practical ground of labouring after conformity 
to Him, who, when he proposed himself as a 
perfect pattern of imitation, did not say, learn 
of me, for I am great, or wise, or mighty, but 
* learn of me, for I am meek and lowly :' and 
who graciously promised that the reward should 
accompany the practice, by encouragingly add- 
ing, • and ye shall find rest to your souls.' Do 
not teach them humility on the ordinary ground 
that vanity is unamiable, and that no one will 
love them if they are proud; for that will only 
go to correct the exterior, and make them soft 
and smiling hypocrites. But inform them, that 
' God resisteth the proud,' while ' them that are 
meek he shall guide in judgment, and such as 
are gentle, them shall he teach his way.' In 
these as in all other cases, an habitual attention 
to the motives should be carefully substituted in 
their young hearts, in the place of too much 
anxiety about the event of actions. Principles, 
aims, and intentions should be invariably insist- 
ed on, as the only true ground of right practice, 
and they should be carefully guarded against 
too much solicitude for that human praise which 
attaches to appearances as much as to realities, 
to success more than to desert. 

Let me repeat, without incurring the censure 
of tautology, that it will be of vast importance 
not to let slip the earliest occasions of working 
gentle manners into an habit on their only true 
foundation, Christian meekness- For this pur- 
pose I would again urge your calling in the ex- 
ample of our Redeemer in aid of his precepts. 
Endeavour to make your pupil feel that all the 
wonders exhibited in his life do not so over- 
whelm the awakened heart with rapture, love, 
and astonishment, as the perpetual instances of 
his humility and meekness, with which the Gos- 
pel abounds. Stupendous miracles, exercises of 
infinite power prompted by infinite mercy, are 
actions which we should naturally enough con- 
ceive as growing out of omnipotence and divine 
perfection : but silence under cruel mockings, 
patience under reproach, gentleness of demeanor 
under unparalleled injuries ; these are perfec- 
tions of which unassisted nature not only has no 
conception in a Divine Being, but at which it 
would revolt, had not the reality been exempli- 
fied by our perfect pattern. Healing the sick, 
feeding the multitude, restoring the blind, rais- 
ing the dead, are deeds of which we could form 
some adequate idea, as necessarily flowing from 
Almighty goodness : but to wash his disciples' 
feet — to preach the Gospel to the poor — to re- 
nounce not only ease, for that heroes have done 
on human motives — but to renounce praise, to 



forgive his persecutors, to love his enemies, to 
pray for his murderers with his last breath ; — 
these are things which, while they compel us to 
cry out with the centurion, ' Truly this was the 
Son of God,' should remind us, that they are not 
only adorable but imitable parts of his character. 
These are not speculative and barren doctrines 
which he came to preach to Christians, but liv- 
ing 1 duties which he meant to entail on them ; 
symbols of their profession ; tests of their disci- 
pleship. These are perfections which we are 
not barely to contemplate with holy awe and dis- 
tant admiration, as if they were restricted to 
the divine nature of our Redeemer ; but we must 
consider them as suited to the human nature 
also, which he condescended to participate. In 
contemplating, we must imitate ; in admiring 
we must practise ; and in our measure and de- 
gree go and do likewise. Elevate your thoughts 
for one moment to this standard (and you should 
never allow yourself to be contented with a low- 
er) and then go, if you can, and teach your chil- 
dren to be mild, and soft, and gentle on worldly 
grounds, on human motives, as an external 
attraction, as a decoration to their sex, as an 
appendage to their rank, as an expression of 
their good breeding. 

There is a custom among teachers, which is 
not the more right for being common ; they are 
apt to bestow an undue proportion of pains on 
children of the best capacity, as if only geniuses 
were worthy of attention. They should reflect 
that in moderate talents, carefully cultivated, 
we are perhaps to look for the chief happiness 
and virtue of society. If superlative genius had 
been generally necessary, its existence would 
not have been so rare ; for Omnipotence could 
easily have made those talents common which 
we now consider as extraordinary, had they been 
necessary to the perfection of his plan. Besides, 
while we are conscientiously instructing chil- 
dren of moderate capacity, it is a comfort to re- 
flect, that if no labour will raise them to a high 
degree in the scale of intellectual distinction, 
yet they may be led on to perfection in that road 
in which ' a wayfaring man, though simple shall 
not err.' And when a mother feels disposed to 
repine that her family is not likely to exhibit a 
group of future wits and growing beauties, let 
her console herself by looking abroad into the 
world, where she will quickly perceive that the 
monopoly of happiness is not engrossed by 
beauty, nor that of virtue by genius. 

Perhaps mediocrity of parts was decreed to 
be the ordinary lot, by way of furnishing a sti- 
mulus to industry, and strengthening the mo- 
tives to virtuous application. For is it not ob- 
vious that moderate abilities, carefully carried 
to that measure of perfection of which they are 
capable, often enables their possessors to out- 
strip, in the race of knowledge and of usefulness, 
their more brilliant but less persevering com- 
petitors ? It is with mental endowments, as 
with other rich gifts of Providence ; the inha- 
bitant of the luxuriant southern clime, where 
nature has done every thing in the way of vege- 
tation, indolently lays hold on this very plea of 
fertility which should animate his exertions, as 
a reason for doing nothing himself; so that the 
soil which teems with such encouraging abun 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



341 



dance leaves the favoured possessor idle, and 
comparatively poor : whilst the native of the 
less genial region, supplying by his labours the 
deficiencies of his lot, overtakes his more fa- 
voured competitor ; by substituting industry for 
opulence, he improves the riches of his native 
land beyond that which is blessed with warmer 
suns, and thus vindicates Providence from the 
charge of partial distribution. 

A girl who has docility will seldom be found 
to want understanding sufficient for all the pur- 
poses of an useful, a happy, and a pious life. 
And it is a3 wrong for parents to set out with 
too sanguine a dependence on the figure their 
children are to make in life, as it is unreason- 
able to be discouraged at every disappointment. 
Want of success is so far from furnishing a mo- 
tive for relaxing their energy that it is a reason 
for redoubling it. Let them suspect their own 
plans, and reform them ; let them distrust their 
own principles, and correct them. The gene- 
rality of parents do too little ; some do much, 
and miss their reward, because they look not to 
any strength beyond their own : after much is 
done, much will remain undone : for the entire 
regulation of the heart and affections is not the 
work of education alone, but is effected by the 
operation of divine grace. "Will it be account- 
ed enthusiasm to suggest, ' that the fervent 
effectual prayer of a righteous parent availeth 
much V and to observe that perhaps the reason 
why so many anxious mothers fail of success is, 
because they repose with confidence in their own 
skill and labour, neglecting to look to Him with- 
out whose blessing they do but labour in vain ? 

On the other hand, is it not to be feared that 
some pious parents have fallen into an error of 
an opposite kind? From a full conviction that 
human endeavours are vain, and that it is God 
alone who can change the heart, they are 
earnest in their prayers, but not so earnest 
in their endeavours. — Such parents should be 
reminded, that if they do not add their exer- 
tions to their prayers, their children are not 
likely to be more benefited than the children 
of those who do not add their prayers to their 
exertions. What God has joined, let no man 
presume to separate. It is the, work of God, we 
readily acknowledge, to implant religion in the 
heart, and to maintain it there as a ruling prin- 
ciple of conduct. And is it not the same God 
which causes the corn to grow ? Are not our 
natural lives constantly preserved by His power ? 
/Who will deny that in Him we live, and move, 
and have our being ? But how are these works 
of God carried on? By means which he has ap- 
pointed. By the labour of the husbandman the 
corn is made to grow ; by food the body is sus- 
tained ; and by religious instruction God is 
pleased to work upon the human heart. But un- 
less we diligently plough, and sow, and weed, 
and manure, have we any right to depend on 
the refreshing showers and ripening suns of 
heaven for the blessing of an abundant harvest ? 
As far as we see the ways of God, all his works 
are carried on by means. It becomes, therefore, 
our duty to use the means, and trust in God ; to 
remember that God will not work without the 
means ; and that the means can effect nothing 
without his blessing. ' Paul may plant, and 



Apollos water, but it is God must give the in- 
crease. But to what does he give the increase ? 
To the exertions of Paul and Apollos. It is 
never said, because God only can give the in- 
crease, that Paul and Apollos may spare their 
labour. 

It is one grand object to give the young pro- 
bationer just and sober views of the world on 
which she is about to enter. Instead of making 
her bosom bound at the near prospect of eman- 
cipation from her instructors ; instead of teach- 
ing her young heart to dance with premature 
flutterings as the critical winter draws near in 
which she is to come out ; instead of raising & 
tumult in her busy imagination at the approach 
of her first grown up ball, an event held out as 
forming the first grand epocha of a female life, 
as the period from which a fresh computation, 
fixing the pleasures and independence of wo- 
manhood, is to be dated ; instead of this, endea- 
vour to convince her, the world will not turn out 
to be that scene of unvarying and never-ending 
delights which she has perhaps been led to ex- 
pect, not only from the sanguine temper and 
warm spirks natural to youth, but from the 
value she has seen put on those showy accom- 
plishments which have too probably been fitting 
her for her exhibition in life. Teach her that 
this world is not a stage for the display of super- 
ficial or even of shining talent, but for the strict 
and sober exercise of fortitude, temperance, 
meekness, faith, diligence, and self-denial ; of 
her due performance of which Christian graces, 
angels will be spectators, and God the judge. 
Teach her that human life is not a splendid ro- 
mance, spangled over with brilliant adventures, 
and enriched with extraordinary occurrences, 
and diversified with wonderful incidents ; lead 
her not to expect that it will abound with scenes 
which will call extraordinary qualities and won- 
derful powers into perpetual action ; and for 
which, if she acquit herself well, she will be 
rewarded with proportionate fame and certain 
commendation. But apprize her that human 
life is a true history, many passages of which 
will be dull, obscure, and uninteresting ; some 
perhaps tragical ; but that whatever gay inci- 
dents and pleasing scenes may be interspersed 
in the progress of the piece, yet, finally ' one 
event happeneth to all :' to all there is one awful 
and infallible catastrophe. Apprize her that 
the estimation which mankind forms of merit 
is not always just, nor is its praise very exactly 
proportioned to desert ; tell her that the world 
weighs actions in far different scales from ' the 
balance of the sanctuary,, and estimates worth 
by a far different standard from that of the Gos- 
pel. Apprize her that while her purest inten- 
tions may be sometimes calumniated, and her 
best actions misrepresented, she will on the 
other hand, be liable to receive commendation 
on occasions wherein her conscience will tell 
her she has not deserved it ; and that she may 
be extolled by others for actions for which, if 
she be honest, she will condemn herself. 

Do not, however, give her a gloomy and dis- 
couraging picture of the world, but rather seek 
to give her a just and sober view of the part she 
will have to act in it. And restrain the im- 
petuosity 01 hope, and cool the ardour of expec- 



342 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



tation, by explaining to her, that this part, even 
in her best estate, will probably consist in a 
succession of petty trials, and a round of quiet 
duties, which, if well performed, though they 
will make little or no figure in the book of fame, 
will prove of vast, importance to her in that day 
when another ' book is opened, and the judg- 
ment is set, and every one will be judged ac- 
cording to the deeds done in the body, whether 
they be good or bad.' 

Say not that these just and sober views will 
cruelly wither her young hopes, blast her bud- 
ding prospects, and deaden the innocent satis, 
factions of life. It is not true. There is, hap- 
pily, an active spring in the mind of youth 
which bounds with fresh vigour and uninjured 
elasticity from any such temporary depression. 
And though her feelings, tastes and passions, 
will all be against you, if you set before her a 
faithful delineation of life, yet it will be some- 
thing to get her judgment on your side. It is 
no unkind office to assist the short view of youth 
with the aids of long-sighted experience ; to 
enable them to discover spots in the brightness 
of that world which dazzles them in prospect, 
though it is probable they will after all choose 
to believe their own eyes, rather than the offer- 
ed glass. 



CHAP. VIII. 

On female study, and initiation into knowledge. 
— Error of cultivating the imagination to the 
neglect of the judgment. — Books of reasoning 
recommended. 

As this little work by no means assumes the 
character of a general scheme of education, the 
author has purposely avoided expatiating largely 
on any kind of instruction, but as it happens to 
be connected, either immediately or remotely 
with objects of a moral or religious nature. 
Of course she has been so far from thinking it 
necessary to enter into the enumeration of 
those popular books which are used in general 
instruction, that she has purposely forborn to 
mention any. With such books the rising 
generation is far more copiously and ably fur- 
nished than any that has preceded it ; and out 
of an excellent variety the judicious instructor 
can hardly fail to make such a selection as shall 
be beneficial to the pupil. 

But while due praise ought not to be withheld 
from the improved methods of communicating 
the elements of general knowledge ; yet is there 
not some danger that our very advantages may 
lead us into error, by causing us tc repose so 
confidently on the multiplied helps which facili- 
tate the entrance into learning, as to render our 
pupils superficial through the very facility of 
acquirement ? Where so much is done for them, 
may they not be led to do too little for them- 
selves ? and besides that exertion may slacken 
for want of a spur, may there not be a moral 
disadvantage in possessing young persons with 
the notion that learning may be acquired with- 
out diligence, and knowledge be attained with- 
out iabour ? Sound education nev^r can be made 



a ' primrose path of dalliance.' Do what we 
will we cannot cheat children into learning, or 
play them into knowledge, according to the 
conciliating smoothness of the modern creed, 
and the selfish indolence of the modern habits. 
There is no idle way to any acquisitions which 
really deserve the name. And as Euclid, in 
orc'er to repress the impetuous vanity of great 
ness, told his sovereign that there was no roya • 
way to geometry, so the fond mother may be 
assured that there is no short cut to any other 
kind of learning; no privileged by-path cleared 
from the thorns and briars of repulse and diffi- 
culty, for the accommodation of opulent inac- 
tivity or feminine weakness. The tree of 
knowledge, as a punishment, perhaps, for its 
having been at first unfairly tasted cannot now 
be claimed without difficulty; and this very 
circumstance serves afterwards to furnish not 
only literary pleasures, but moral advantages. 
For the knowledge which is acquired by un- 
wearied assiduity, is lasting in the possession, 
and sweet to the possessor ; both perhaps in pro- 
portion to the cost and labour of the acquisition. 
And though an able teacher ought to endeavour, 
by improving the communicating faculty in 
himself (for many know what they cannot teach) 
to soften every difficulty; yet in spite of the 
kindness and ability with which he will smooth 
every obstruction, it is probably among the wise 
institutions of Providence that great difficul- 
ties should still remain. For education is but 
an initiation into that life of trial to which we- 
are introduced on our entrance into this world 
It is the first breaking into that state of toil an<s 
labour to which we are born, and to which sin 
has made us liable ; and in this view of the sub- 
ject the pains taken in the acquisition of learn- 
ing may be converted to higher uses than such 
as are purely literary. 

Will it not be ascribed to a captious singu 
larity, if I venture to remark that real know 
ledge and real piety, though they may have 
gained in many instances, have suffered in, 
others from that profusion of little, amusing, 
sentimental books with which the youthful li- 
brary overflows ? Abundance has its dangers 
as well as scarcity. In the first place may not 
the multiplicity of these alluring little works 
increase the natural reluctance to those more 
dry and uninteresting studies of which, after all, 
the rudiments of every part of learning must 
consist? And secondly, is there not some dan- 
ger (though there are many honourable excep- 
tions) that some of those engaging narratives 
may serve to infuse into the youthful heart a 
sort of spurious goodness, a confidence of virtue, 
a parade of charity ? And that the benevolent 
actions with the recital of which they abound, 
when they are not made to flow from any source 
but feeling, may tend to inspire a self-com- 
placency, a self-gratulation, ' a stand by, for I 
am holier than thou !' May not the success with 
which the good deeds of the little heroes are 
uniformly crowned ; the invariable reward which 
is made the instant concomitant of well doing, 
furnish the young reader with false views of 
the condition of life, and the nature of the di- 
vine dealings with men ? May they not help to 
suggest a false standard of morals, to infill a 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



343 



love of popularity and an anxiety for praise, in 
the place of that simple and unostentatious rule 
of doing' whatever good we do, because it is the 
will of God ? The universal substitution of this 
principle would tend to purify the worldly mo- 
rality of many a popular little story. And there 
are few dangers which good parents will more 
carefully guard against than that of giving their 
children a mere political piety; that sort of reli- 
gion which just goes to make .people more re- 
spectable, and to stand well with the world ; a 
religion which is to save appearances without 
inculcating realities ; a religion which affects to 
' preach peace and good will to men,' but which 
forgets to give ' glory to God in the highest.'* 

There is a certain precocity of mind which is 
much helped on by these superficial modes of 
instruction ; for frivolous reading will produce 
its correspondent effect, in much less time than 
books of solid instruction; the imagination being 
liable to be worked upon, and the feelings to be 
set a-going, much faster than the understanding 
can be opened and the judgment enlightened. 
A talent for conversation should be the result of 
instruction, not its precursor ; it is a golden fruit 
when suffered to ripen gradually on the tree of 
knowledge ; but if forced in the hot-bed of a cir- 
culating library, it will turn out worthless and 
vapid in proportion- as it was artificial and pre- 
mature. Girls who have been accustomed to 
devour a multitude of frivolous books wiil con- 
verse and write with a far greater appearance 
of skill as to style and sentiment at twelve or 
fourteen years old, than those of a more advan- 
ced age, who are under the discipline of severer 
studies : but the former having early attained 
to that low standard which had been held out to 
them, become stationary ; while the latter, qui- 
etly progressive, are passing through just gra- 
dations to a higher strain of mind ; and those 
who early begin with talking and writing like 
women commonly end with thinking and acting 
like children. 

I would not however prohibit such works of 
imagination as suit this early period. When 
moderately used they serve to stretch the facul- 
ties and expand the mind : but I should prefer 
works of vigorous genius and pure unmixed fa- 
ble to many of those tame and more affected 
moral stories, which are not grounded on Chris- 
tian principle. I should suggest the use on the 
one hand of original and acknowledged fictions: 
and on the other, of accurate and simple facts ; 
so that truth and fable may ever be kept sepa- 
rate and distinct in the mind. There is some- 
thing that kindles fancy, awakens genius and 
excites new ideas in many of the bold fictions 
of the east. And there is one peculiar merit in 
the Arabian and some other Oriental tales, 
which is, that they exhibit striking, and in ma- 
ny respects faithful views of the manners, ha- 
bits, customs, and religion of their respective 

* An ingenious (and in many respects useful) French 
Treatise on Education, has too much encouraged this 
political piety, by considering religion as a thins of hu- 
man invention, rather than of divine institution ; as a 
thing creditable, rather than commanded; by erecting 
the doctrine of expediency in the room of Christian sim- 
plicity ; and wearing away the spirit of truth, by the 
substitution of occasional deceit, equivocation subter- 
fuge and mental reservation. 



countries ; so that some tincture of real local 
information is acquired by the perusal of the 
wildest fable, which will not be without its use 
in aiding the future associations of the mind in 
all that relates to eastern history and literature. 

The irregular fancy of women is not suffi- 
ciently subdued by early application, nor tamed 
by labour, and the kind of knowledge they com- 
monly do acquire is early attained ; and being 
chiefly some slight acquisition of the memory, 
something which is given them to get off by 
themselves, and not grounded in their minds by 
comment and conversation, it is easy lost. The 
superficial question-and-answer-w&y for instance, 
in which they often learn history, furnishes the 
mind with little to lean on : the events being 
detached and separated, the actions having no 
links to unite them with each other ; the cha- 
racters not being interwoven by mutual relation : 
the chronology being reduced to disconnected 
dates, instead of presenting an unbroken series; 
of course, neither events, actions, characters, 
nor chronology, fasten themselves on the under- 
standing, but rather float in the memory as so 
many detached episodes, than contribute to form 
the mind and to enrich the judgment cf the 
reader, in the important science of men and 
manners. 

The swarms of Abridgments, Beauties, and 
Compendiums, which form too considerable a 
part of a young lady's library, may be consider- 
ed in many instances as an infallible receipt for 
making a superficial mind. The names of the 
renowned characters in history thus become fa- 
miliar in the mouths of those who can neither 
attach to the ideas of the person, the series of 
his actions, nor the peculiarities of his character. 
A few fine passages from the poets (passages 
perhaps which derived their chief beauty from 
their position and connexion) are huddled to- 
gether by some extract-maker, whose brief and 
disconnected patches of broken and discordant 
materials, while they inflame young readers 
with the vanity of reciting, neither fill the mind 
nor form the taste, and it is not difficult to trace 
back to their shallow sources the hackneyed 
quotations of certain accomplished young ladies, 
who will be frequently found not to have come 
legitimately by any thing they know. I mean 
not to have drawn it from its true spring, the 
original works of the author from which some 
beauty-monger has severed it. Human inconsis- 
tency in this, as in other cases, wants to com- 
bine two irreconcileable things; it strives to 
unite the reputation of knowledge with the plea- 
sures of knowledge, forgetting that nothing that 
is valuable can be obtained without sacrifices, 
and that if we would purchase knowledge, we 
must pay for it the fair and lawful price of time 
and industry. For this extract-reading, while 
it accommodates itself to the convenience, illus- 
trates the character of the age in which we live. 
The appetite for pleasure, and that love of case 
and indolence which is generated by it, leave 
little time or taste for sound improvement; while 
the vanity, which is equally a characteristic of 
the existing period, puts in its claim also for in- 
dulgence, and contrives to figure away by thess 
little snatches of ornamental reading, caught in 
the short intervals of successive amusements 



344 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Besides, the taste, thus pampered with deli- 
cious morsels, is early vitiated. The young 
reader of these clustered beauties conceives a 
disrelish for every tiling which is plain, and 
grows impatient, if obliged to get through those 
equally necessary though less showy parts of a 
work, in which perhaps the author gives the 
best proof of his judgment by keeping under 
that occasional brilliancy and incidental orna- 
ment, of which these superficial students are in 
constant pursuit. In all well-written books, 
there is much that is good which is not dazzling ; 
and these shallow critics should be taught, that 
it is for the embellishment of the more tame and 
uninteresting parts of his work, that the judi- 
cious poet commonly reserves those flowers, 
whose beauty is defaced when they are plucked 
from the garland into which he had so skilfully 
woven them. 

The remark, however, as far as it relates to 
abridgments, is by no means of general appli- 
cation ; there are many valuable works which 
from their bulk would be almost inaccessible to 
a great number of readers, and a considerable 
part of which may not be generally useful. 
Even in the best written books there is often 
superfluous matter ; authors are apt to get ena- 
moured of their subject, and to dwell too long 
on it: every person cannot find time to read a 
longer work on any subject, and yet it may be 
well for them to know something on almost 
every subject ; those, therefore, who abridge vo- 
luminous works judiciously, render service to 
the community. But there seems, if I may 
venture the remark, to be a mistake in the use 
of abridgments. They are put systematically 
into the hands of youth, who have, or ought to 
have, leisure for the works at large ; while 
abridgments seem more immediately calculated 
for persons in more advanced life, who wish to 
recall something they had forgotten ; who want 
to restore old ideas rather than acquire new 
ones ; or they are useful for persons immersed 
in the business of the world ; who have little 
leisure for voluminous reading : they are excel- 
lent to refresh the mind, but not competent to 
form it ; they serve to bring back what had been 
formerly known, but do not supply a fund of 
knowledge. 

Perhaps there is some analogy between the 
mental and bodily conformation of women. The 
instructor therefore should imitate the physi- 
cian. If the latter prescribe bracing medicines 
for a body of which delicacy is the disease, the 
former would do well to prohibit relaxing read- 
ing for a mind which is already of too soft a 
texture, and s ould strengthen its feeble tone by 
invigorating reading. 

By softness, I cannot be supposed to mean, 
imbecility of understanding, but natural softness 
of heart, and pliancy of temper, together with 
that indolence of spirit which is fostered by in- 
dulging in seducing books, and in the general 
habits of fashionable life. 

I mean not here to recommend books which 
are immediately religious, but such as exercise 
the reasoning faculties, teach the mind to get 
acquainted with its own nature, and to stir up 
its own powers. Let not a timid young lady 
start if I should venture to recommend to her, 



after a proper course of preparatory reading, to 
swallow and digest such strong meat as Watts'a 
or Duncan's little book of Logic, some part of 
Mr. Locke's Essay on the Human Understand- 
ing, and bishop Butler's Analogy. Where there 
is leisure, and capacity, and an able friend to 
comment and to counsel, works of this nature 
might be profitably substituted in the place of 
so much English sentiment, French philosophy, 
Italian love-songs, and fantastic German image- 
ry and magic wonders. — While such enervating 
or absurd books sadly disqualify the reader for 
solid pursuit or vigorous thinking, the studies 
here recommended would act upon the constitu- 
tion of the mind as a kind of alterative, and, if 
I may be allowed the expression, would help to 
brace the intellectual stamina. 

This suggestion, is, however, by no means in 
tended to exclude works of taste and imagina- 
tion, which must always make the ornamental 
part, and of course a very considerable part, of 
female studies. It is only intimated, that they 
should not form them entirely and exclusively. 
For what is called dry, tough reading, indepen- 
dent of the knowledge it conveys, is useful as an 
habit, and wholesome as an exercise. Serious 
study serves to harden the mind for more trying 
conflicts ; it lifts the reader from sensation to 
intellect ; it abstracts her from the world and 
its vanities ; it fixes a wandering spirit, and for- 
tifies a weak one ; it divorces her from matter ; 
it corrects the spirit of trifling which she natu- 
rally contracts from the frivolous turn of female 
conversation and the petty nature of female em- 
ployments ; it concentrates her attention, assists 
her in a habit of excluding trivial thoughts, and 
thus even helps to qualify her for religious pur- 
suits. — Yes, I repeat it, there is to woman a 
Christian use to be made of sober studies; while 
books of an opposite cast, however unexception- 
able they may be sometimes found in point of 
expression, however free from evil in its more 
gross and palpable shapes, yet from their very 
nature and constitution they excite a spirit of 
relaxation, by exhibiting scenes and suggesting 
ideas which soften the mind and set the fancy 
at work ; they take off* wholesome restraints, di- 
minish sober-mindedness, impair the general 
powers of resistance, and at best feed habits of 
improper indulgence, and nourish a vain and 
visionary indolence, which lays the mind open 
to error and the heart to seduction. 

Women are little accustomed to close reason- 
ing on any subject ; still less do they inure their 
minds to consider particular parts of a subject ' K 
they are not habituated to turn a truth round, 
and view it in all its varied aspects and positions, 
and this perhaps is one cause (as will be obseN 
ved in another place*) of the too groat confidence 
they are disposed to place in their own opinions. 
Though their imagination is already too lively, 
and their judgment naturally incorrect ; in edu- 
cating them we go on to stimulate the imagina- 
tion, while we neglect the regulation of the 
judgment. They already want ballast, and wa 
make their education consist in continually 
crowding more sail than they can carry. Their 
intellectual powers being so little strengthened 
by exercise, makes every petty business appear 
* See Chapter on Conversations. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



345 



a hardship to them: whereas serious study 
would be useful, were it only that it leads the 
mind to the habit of conquering difficulties. But 
it is peculiarly hard to turn at once from the in- 
dolent repose of light reading, from the con- 
cerns of mere animal life, the objects of sense, 
or the frivolousness of female chit chat ; it is 
peculiarly hard, I say, to a mind so softened to 
rescue itself from the dominion of self-indul- 
gence, to resume its powers, to call home its 
scattered strength, to shut out every foreign in- 
trusion, to force back a spring so unnaturally 
bent, and to devote itself to religious reading, to 
active business, to sober reflection, to self-exa- 
mination. Whereas to an intellect accustomed 
to think at all, the difficulty of thinking seriously 
is obviously lessened. 

Far be it from me to desire to make scholastic 
ladies or female dialecticians ; but there is little 
faar that the kind of books here recommended, 
if thoroughly studied, and not superficially 
skimmed, will make them pedants or induce 
conceit; for by showing them the possible pow- 
ers of the human mind, you will bring them to 
seethe littleness of their own; and surely to 
get acquainted with the mind, to regulate, to in- 
form it ; to show it its own ignorance and Ms 
own nature, does not seem the way to puff it 
up.— But let her who is disposed to be elated 
with her literary acquisitions, check the rising 
vanity by calling to mind the just remark of 
Swift, ' that after all her boasted acquirements, 
a woman will, generally speaking, be found to 
possess less of what is called learning than a 
common school-boy.' 

Neither is there any fear that this sort of 
reading will convert ladies into authors.— The 
direct contrary effect will be likely to be pro- 
duced by the perusal of writers who throw the 
generality of readers at such an unapproachable 
distance as to check presumption, instead of ex- 
citing it. Who are those ever multiplying au- 
thors that with unparalleled fecundity are over- 
stocking the world with their quick succeeding 
progeny? They are novel-writers; the easi- 
ness of whose productions is at once the cause 
of their own friiiffulness, and of the almost infi- 
nitely numerous race of imitators to whom they 
give birth. Such is the frightful facility of this 
species of composition, that every raw girl, while 
she reads, is tempted to fancy that she can also 
write. And as Alexander, on perusing the Iliad, 
found by congenial sympathy the image of 
Achilles stamped on his own ardent soul, and 
felt himself the hero lie was studying ; and as 
Corregio, on first beholding a picture which ex- 
hibited the perfection of the graphic art, pro- 
phetically felt all his own future greatness, and 
cried out in rapture, ' And I too am a painter !' 
so a thorough-paced novel-reading miss, at the 
close of every tissue of hackneyed adventures, 
feels within herself the stirring impulse of cor- 
responding genius, and triumphantly exclaims, 
' And I too am an author !' The glutted imagi- 
nation soon overflows with the redundance of 
cheap sentiment and plentiful incident, and by 
a sort of arithmetical proportion, is enabled by 
the perusal of any three novels, to produce a 
fourth ; till every fresh production, like the pro- 
lific progeny of Banquo, is followed by — 
Vol. I. 



Another, and another, and another ! 



Is a lady, however destitute of talents, educa- 
tion, or knowledge of the world, whose studies 
have been completed by a circulating library, in 
any distress of mind ? the writing a novel sug- 
gests itself as the best soother of her sorrows i 
Does she labour under any depFession of cir- 
cumstances? writing a novel occurs, as the rea- 
diest receipt for mending them '. And she so- 
laces her imagination with the conviction that 
the subscription which has been extorted by her 
importunity, or given to her necessities, has 
been offered as an homage to her genius. And 
this confidence instantly levies a fresh contribu- 
tion for a succeeding work. Capacity and cul- 
tivation are so little taken into the account, that 
writing a book seems to be now considered as 
the only sure resource which the idle and the 
illiterate have always in their power. 

May the author be indulged in a short digres- 
sion while she remarks, though rather out of 
its place, that the corruption occasioned by these 
books has spread so wide, and descended so low, 
as to have become one of the most universal, as 
well as most pernicious sources of corruption 
among us. Not only among milliners, mantua- 
makers, and other trades where numbers work 
together, the labour of one girl is frequently sa- 
crificed, that she may be spared to read those 
mischievous books to the others ; but she has 
been assured by clergymen who have witnessed 
the fact, that they are procured and greedily 
read in the wards of our hospitals ! an awful 
hint, that those who teach the poor to read, 
should not only take care to furnish them with 
principles which will lead them to abhor corrupt 
books, but that they should also furnish them 
with such books as shall strengthen and confirm 
their principles.* And let every Christian re- 
member, that there is no other way of entering 
truly into the spirit of that divine prayer, which 
petitions that the name of God may be 'hallow- 
ed,' that his ' kingdom (of grace) may come,' 
and that ' his will may be done on earth as it is 
in heaven,' that by each individual contributing 
according to his measure to accomplish the 
work for which he prays ; for to pray that these 

* The above facts furnish no argument on the side of 
those who would keep the poor in ignorance. Those 
who cannot read can hear, and are likely to 1 ear to 
worse purpose than those who have been better taught. 
And that ignorance furnishes no security for integrity 
either in morals or politics, the late revolts in more than 
one country, remarkable for the >g n °X??, ^h« J£»I 
fully illustrate. It is earnestly hoped Jtat the above 
facts may tend to impress ladies with the importance of 
superintending the instruction of the poor, and of mak- 
ingTt an indispensable part of their charity to give them 
moral and religious books. 

The late celebrated Henry Fielding (a man not likely 
to be suspected of over-strictness) assured a particular 
friend of the author, that during ins long administration 
of justice in Bow-street, only six Scotchmen were 
brought before him. The remark did not proceed from 
any national partiality in the magistrate, but was pro- 
duced by him in proof of the effect of a sober and reli- 
gious education among the lower ranks, on their morals 
and conduct. „ .,, . . . - 

See farther the sentiments of a still more celebrated 
cotemporary on the duty of instructing tttf pooi\— ' We 
have been taught that the circumstance of the Gospels 
beins preached to the poor was one of the surest tests 
of its mission. We think, therefore, that those do not 
believe it who do not take care it should be preached to 
the poor.— Burke on the French Revolution. 



346 



THE WORKS OF HArtNAH MORE. 



great objects may be promoted, without contri- 
buting to their promotion by our exertions, our 
money, and our influence, is a palpable incon- 
sistency. 



CHAP. IX. 

On the religious and moral use of history and 
geography. 

While every sort of useful knowledge should 
be carefully imparted to young persons, it should 
be imparted not merely for its own sake, but 
also for the sake of its subserviency to higher 
things. All human learning should be taught, 
not as an end, but a means ; and in this view 
even a lesson of history or geography may be 
converted into a lesson of religion. In the study 
of history, the instructor will accustom the pu- 
pil not merely to store her memory with facts 
and anecdotes, and to ascertain dates and epochs: 
but she will accustom her also to trace effects 
to their causes, to examine the secret springs 
of action, and accurately to observe the opera- 
tions of the passions. It is only meant to notice 
here some few of the moral benefits which may 
be derived from judicious perusal of history ; 
and from among other points of instruction, I 
select the following r* 

The study of history may serve to give a 
clearer insight into the corruption of human 
nature : 

It may help to show the plan of Providence 
in the direction of events, and in the use of un- 
worthy instruments : 

It may assist in the vindication of Providence, 
in the common failure of virtue, and the frequent 
success of vice: 

It may lead to a distrust of our own judg- 
ment : 

It may contribute to our improvement in self- 
Knowledge. 

But to prove to the pupil the important doc- 
trine of human corruption from the study of 
nistory, will require a truly Christian commen- 
tator in the friend with whom the work is pe- 
rused. For, from the low standard of right esta- 
blished by the generality of historians, who 
erect so many persons into good characters who 
fall short of the true idea of Christian virtue, the 
unassisted reader will be liable to form very im- 
perfect views of what is real goodness ; and 
will conclude, as his author sometimes does, that 
the true idea of human nature is to be taken 

* It were to be wished that more historians resembled 
the excellent Rollin in the religious and moral turn 
given to his writings of this kind. — But here may I be 
permitted to observe incidentally (for it is not immedi- 
ately analogous to my subject) that there is one disad- 
vantage which attends the common practice of setting 
young ladies to read ancient history and geography in 
French or Italian, who have not been previously well 
grounded in the pronunciation of classical names of 
persons and places in our own language. The foreign 
termination of Greek and Roman names are often very 
different from the English, and where they are first ac- 
quired are frequently retained and adopted in their 
stead, so as to give an illiterate appearance to the con- 
versation of some women who are not really ignorant. 
And this defective pronunciation is the more to be 
guarded against in the education of ladies who are not 
taught quantity as boye are, i 



from the medium between his best and his worst 
characters ; without acquiring a just notion of 
that prevalence of evil; which, in spite of those 
few brighter luminaries that here and there just 
serve to gild the gloom of history, tends abun- 
dantly to establish the doctrine. It will indeed 
be continually establishing itself by those who, 
in perusing the history of mankind, carefully 
mark the rise and progress of sin, from the first 
timid irruption of an evil thought, to the fearless 
accomplishment of the abhorred crime in which 
that thought has ended : from the indignant 
question, ' Is thy servant a dog that he should 
do this great thing ?'* to the perpetration of that 
very enormity of which the self-acquitting de- 
linquent could not endure the slightest sugges- 
tion. 

In this connexion may it not be observed, 
that young persons should be put on their guard 
against a too implicit belief in the flattering ac- 
counts which many voyage writers are fond of 
exhibiting of the virtue, amiableness, and b&. 
nignity, of some of the countries newly disco- 
vered by our circumnavigators; that they should 
learn to suspect the superior goodness ascribed 
to the Hindoos, and particularly the account of 
the inhabitants of the Pelew Islands ? These 
last indeed have been represented as having al- 
most escaped the universal taint of our common 
nature, and would seem by their purity to have 
sprung from another ancestor than Adam. 

We cannot forbear suspecting that these pleas- 
ing, but somewhat overcharged portraits of man 
in his natural state, are drawn with the invidi- 
ous design, by counteracting the doctrine of hu- 
man corruption, to degrade the value and even 
destroy the necessity of the Christian sacrifice ; 
by insinuating that uncultivated man is so dis- 
posed to rectitude as to supersede the occasion 
for that redemption which is professedly design- 
ed for sinners- That in countries professing 
Christianity, very many are not Christians will 
be too readily granted. Yet to say nothing of 
the vast superiority of goodness in the lives of 
those who are really governed by Christianity, 
is there not something even in her reflex light 
which guides to greater purity many of those 
who do not profess to walk by it ; I doubt much, 
if numbers of the unbelievers of a Christian 
country, from the sounder views and better ha- 
bits derived incidentally and collaterally, as it 
were from the influence of a Gospel, the truth 
of which however they do not acknowledge, 
would not start at many of the actions which 
these heathen perfectionists daily commit with- 
out hesitation. 

The religious reader of general history will 
observe the controlling hand of Providence in 
the direction of events; in turning the most un- 
worthy actions and instruments to the accom- 
plishment of his own purposes. She will mark 
infinite Wisdom directing what appears to be 
casual occurrences, to the completion of his own 
plan. She will point out how causes seemingly 
the most unconnected, events seemingly the 
most unpromising, circumstances seemingly the 
most incongruous, are all working together for 
some final good. She will mark how national 

♦ 2 Kings, viii 13. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



347 



as well as individual crimes are often overruled 
to some hidden purpose far different from the 
intention of the actors : how Omnipotence can, 
and often does, bring about the best purposes 
by the worst instruments : how the bloody and 
unjust conqueror is but ' the rod of his wrath,' 
to punish or to purify his offending 1 children : 
how ' the fury of the oppressor,' and the suffer- 
ings of the oppressed, will one day, when the 
whole scheme shall be unfolded, vindicate his 
righteous dealings. She will explain to the less 
enlightened reader, how infinite Wisdom often 
mocks the insignificance of human greatness, 
and the shallowness of human ability, by set- 
ting aside instruments the most powerful and 
promising, while He works by agents compara- 
tively contemptible. But she will carefully 
guard this doctrine of Divine Providence, thus 
working out his own purposes through the sins 
of his creatures, and by the instrumentality of 
the wicked, by calling to mind, while the offend- 
er is but a tool in the hands of the great Arti- 
ficer, ' the wo denounced against him by whom 
the offence cometh ! She will explain how those 
mutations and revolutions in states which appear 
to us so unaccountable, and how those opera- 
tions of Providence which seem to us so entan- 
gled and complicated, all move harmoniousl) 7 
and in perfect order : that there is not an event 
but has its commission ; not a misfortune which 
breaks its allotted rank ; not a trial which moves 
out of its appointed track. While calamities 
and crimes seem to fly in casual confusion, all 
is commanded or permitted ; all is under the 
control of a wisdom which cannot err, of a good- 
ness which cannot do wrong. 

To explain my meaning by a few instances. 
When the spirit of the youthful reader rises in 
honest indignation at that hypocritical piety 
which divorced an unoffending queen to make 
way for the lawful crime of our eighth Henry's 
marriage with Ann Boleyn, and when that in- 
dignation is increased by the more open profli- 
gacy which brought about the execution of the 
latter ; the instructor will not lose so fair an oc- 
casion for unfolding how in the councils of the 
Most High the crimes of the king were over- 
ruled to the happiness of the country ; and how, 
to this inauspicious marriage, from which the 
heroic Elizabeth sprang, the protestant religion 
owed its firm stability. This view of the sub- 
ject will lead the reader to justify the Provi- 
dence of God without diminishing her abhor- 
rence of the vices of the tyrant. 

She will explain to her how even the conquest 
of ambition, after having deluged a land with 
blood, involved the perpetrator in guilt, and the 
innocent victim in ruin, may yet be made the 
instrument of opening to future generations the 
way to commerce, to civilization, to Christianity, 
She may remind her, as they are following 
Ceesar in his invasion of Britain, that whereas 
the conqueror fancied he was only gratifying 
his own inordinate ambition, extending the 
flight of the Roman Eagle, immortalizing his 
own name, and proving that ' this world was 
made for Caesar ;' he was in reality becoming 
the effectual though unconscious instrument of 
leading a land of barbarians to civilization and 
to science : and was in fact preparing an island 



of pagans to embrace the religion of Christ 
She will inform her, that when afterwards the 
victorious country of the same Coesar had made 
Judea a Roman province, and the Jews had be- 
come its tributaries, the Romans did not know, 
nor did the indignant Jews suspect, that this 
circumstance was operating to the confirmation 
of an event the most important the world ever 
witnessed. 

For when * Augustus sent forth a decree that 
all the world should be taxed ;' he vainly thought 
he was only enlarging his own imperial power, 
whereas he was acting in unconscious subser- 
vience to the decree of a higher Sovereign, and 
was helping to ascertain • by a public act the 
exact period of Christ's birth, and furnishing a 
record of his extraction from that family from 
which it was predicted by a long line of pro- 
phets that he should spring. Herod's atrocious 
murder of the innocents.has added an addition, 
al circumstance for the confirmation of our 
faith ; the incredulity of Thomas has strength- 
ened our belief ; nay, the treachery of Judas, and 
the injustice of Pilate, were the human instru- 
ments employed for the salvation of the world. 

The youth that is not thoroughly armed with 
Christian principles, will be tempted to mutiny 
not only against the justice, but the very exist- 
ence of a superintending Providence, in con- 
templating those frequent instances which occur 
in history of the ill success of the more virtuous 
cause, and the prosperity of the wicked. He 
will see with astonishment that it is Rome which 
triumphs, while Carthage, which had clearly 
the better cause, falls. Now and then indeed a 
Cicero prevails, and a Cataline is subdued : but 
often, it is Caesar successful against the some- 
what juster pretensions of Pompey, and against 
the still clearer cause of Cato. It is Octavius 
who triumphs, and it is over Brutus that he 
triumphs. It is Tiberius who is enthroned, 
while Germanicus falls ! 

Thus his faith in a righteous Providence at 
first view is staggered, and he is ready to say, 
' Surely it is not God that governs the earth ! 
But on a fuller consideration (and here sugges- 
tions of a Christian instructor are peculiarly 
wanted) there will appear great wisdom in this 
very confusion of vice and virtue ; for it is cal- 
culated to send our thoughts forward to a world 
of retribution, the principle of retribution being 
so imperfectly established in this. It is indeed 
so far common for virtue to have the advantage 
here, in point of happiness at least, though not 
of glory, that the course of Providence is still 
calculated to prove that God is on the side of 
virtue ; but still virtue is so often unsuccessful, 
that clearly the God of virtue, in order that his 
work may be perfect, must have in reserve a 
world of retribution. This confused state of 
things therefore is just that state which is most 
of all calculated to confirm the deeply conside- 
rate mind in the belief of a future state ; for if 
all here were even or very nearly so, should we 
not say, 'Justice is already satisfied, and there 
needs no other world.' On the other hand, if 
vice always triumphed, should we not then be 
ready to argue in favour of vice rather than vir- 
tue, and to wish for no other world. 

It seems so very important to ground young 



348 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



persons in the belief that they will not inevita- 
bly meet in this world with reward and success 
according to their merit, and to habituate them 
to expect even the most virtuous attempts to be 
often, though not always disappointed, that I 
am in danger of tautology on this point. This 
fact is precisely what history teaches. The truth 
should be plainly told to the young reader ; and 
the antidote to that evil, which mistaken and 
worldly people would expect to arise from di- 
vulging this discouraging doctrine is faith. 
The importance of faith therefore, and the ne- 
cessity of it to real, unbending, and persevering 
virtue, is surely made plain by profane history 
itself. For the same thing which happens to 
states and kings, happens to private life and 
to individuals. Thus there is scarcely a page, 
even of pagan history, which may not be made 
instrumental to the establishing of the truth of 
revelation ; and it is only by such a guarded 
mode of instruction that some of the evils attend- 
ing on the study of ancient literature can be ob- 
viated. 

Distrust and diffidence in our own judgment 
seems to be also an important instruction to be 
learnt from history. How contrary to all ex- 
pectation do the events therein recorded com- 
monly turn out ! How continually is the most 
sagacious conjecture of human penetration baffl- 
ed ! and yet we proceed to foretel this conse- 
quence, and to predict that event from the ap- 
pearances of things under our own observation, 
with the same arrogant certainty as if we had 
never been warned by the monitory annals of 
successive ages. 

There is scarcely one great event in history 
which does not in the issue, produce effects 
upon which human foresight could never have 
calculated. The success of Augustus against 
his country produced peace in many distant 
provinces, who thus ceased to be harassed and 
tormented by this oppressive republic. Could 
this effect have been foreseen, it might have 
sobered the despair of Cato, and checked the 
vehemence of Brutus. In politics, in short in 
every thing except in morals and religion, all 
is to a considerable degree uncertain. — This 
reasoning is not meant to show that Cato ought 
not to have fought, but that he ought not to 
have desponded even after the last battle ; and 
certainly, even upon his own principles, ought 
not to have killed himself. It would be de- 
parting too much from my object to apply this ar- 
gument, however obvious the application, against 
those who were driven to unreasonable distrust 
and despair by the late successes of a neighbour- 
ing nation. 

But all knowledge will be comparatively of 
little value, if we neglect self-knowledge ; and 
of self-knowledge history and biography may 
be made successful vehicles. It will be to little 
purpose that our pupils become accurate critics 
on the characters of others, while they remain 
ignorant of themselves; for while to those who 
exercise a habit of self-application a book of 
profane history may be made an instrument of 
improvement in this difficult science ; so with- 
out such an habit the Bible itself may, in this 
view, be read with little profit. 

It will be to no purpose that the reader weeps 



over the fortitude of the Christian hero, or the 
constancy of the martyr, if she do not bear in 
mind that she herself is called to endure her 
own common trials with something of the same 
temper : if she do not bear in mind that, to con- 
troul irregular humours, and to submit to the 
daily vexations of life, will require, though in a 
lower degree, the exertion of the same principle, 
and supplication for the aid of the same spirit 
which sustained the Christian hero in the try- 
ing conflicts of life ; or the martyr in his agony 
at the stake. 

May I be permitted to suggest a few in- 
stances, by way of specimen, how both sacred 
and common history may tend to promote self- 
knowledge? And let me again remind the warm 
admirer of suffering piety under extraordinary 
trials, that if she now fail in the petty occasions 
to which she is actually called out, she would 
not be likely to have stood in those more trying 
occasions which excite her admiration. 

While she is applauding the self-denying saint 
who renounced his ease, or chose to embrace 
death, rather than violate his duty, let her ask 
herself if she has never refused to submit to the 
paltry inconvenience of giving up her company, 
or even altering her dinner-hour on a Sunday, 
though by this trifling sacrifice her family might 
have been enabled to attend the pnblic worship 
in the afternoon. 

While she reads with horror that Belshazzar 
was rioting with his thousand nobles at the 
very moment when the Persian army was burst- 
ing through the brazen gates of Babylon ; is she 
very sure that she herself, in an almost equally 
imminent moment of public danger, has not been 
nightly indulging in every species of dissipation ? 

When she is deploring the inconsistency of 
the human heart, while she contrasts in Mark 
An-thony his bravery and contempt of ease at 
one period, with his licentious indulgences at 
another ; or while she laments over the intrepid 
soul of Caesar, whom she had been following 
in his painful marches, or admiring in his con- 
tempt of death, now dissolved in dissolute plea- 
sures with the ensnaring queen of Egypt : let 
her examine whether she herself has never, 
though in a much lower degree, evinced some- 
thing of the same inconsistency ? whether she 
who lives perhaps an orderly, sober, and reason- 
able life during her summer residence in the 
country, does not plunge with little scruple in 
the winter into all the most extravagant plea- 
sures of the capital ? whether she never carries 
about with her an accommodating kind of re- 
ligion, which can be made to bend to places and 
seasons, to climates and customs, to times and 
circumstances ; which takes its tincture from 
the fashion without, and not its habits from the 
principle within ; which is decent with the pious, 
sober with the orderly, and loose with the li- 
centious ? 

While she is admiring the generosity of Alex- 
ander in giving away kingdoms and provinces, 
let her, in order to ascertain whether she could 
imitate this magnanimity, take heed if she her- 
self is daily seizing all the little occasions of 
doing good, which every day presents to the 
affluent ? Her call is not to sacrifice a province ; 
but does she sacrifice an opera ticket ? She who 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



349 



is not doing all the good she can under her pre- 
aent circumstances, would not do all she fore- 
sees she should, in imaginary ones, were her 
power enlarged to the extent of her wishes. 

While she is inveighing with patriotic indig- 
nation, that in a neighbouring metropolis, thirty 
theatres were open every night in time of war 
and public calamity, is she very clear that in a 
metropolis which contains only three, she was 
not almost constantly at one of them in time of 
war and public calamity also ? For though in a 
national view it may make a wide difference 
whether there be in the capital three theatres or 
thirty, yet, as the same person can only go to 
one of them at once, it makes but little differ- 
ence as to the quantum of dissipation in the in- 
dividual. She who rejoices at successful virtue 
in a history, or at the prosperity of a person 
whose interests do not interfere with her own, 
may exercise her self-knowledge by examining 
whether she rejoices equally at the happiness 
of every one about her : and let her remember 
she does not rejoice at it in the true sense, if she 
does not labour to promote it. She who glows 
with rapture at a virtuous character in history, 
should ask her own heart, whether she is equally 
ready to do justice to the fine qualities of her 
acquaintance, though she may not particularly 
love them ; and whether she takes unfeigned 
pleasure in the superior talents, virtues, fame 
and fortune of those whom she professes to love, 
though she is eclipsed by them ? 

****** 

In like manner, in the study of geography and 
natural history, the attention should be habitu- 
ally turned to the goodness of Providence, who 
commonly adapts the various productions of cli- 
mates 10 the peculiar wants of the respective 
inhabitants. To illustrate my meaning by one 
or two instances out of a thousand. The reader 
may be led to admire the considerate goodness 
of Providence in having caused the spiry fir, 
whose slender foliage does not obstruct the beams 
of the sun, to grow in the dreary regions of the 
north, whose shivering inhabitants could spare 
none of its scanty rays ; while in the torrid zone, 
the palm-tree, the plantain, and the banana, 
spread their umbrella leaves to break the almost 
intolerable fervor of a vertical sun. How the 
camel, who is the sole carrier of all the merchan- 
dise of Turkey, Persia, Egypt, Arabia, and Bar- 
bary, who is obliged to transport his incredible 
burthens through countries in which pasture is 
so rare, can subsist twenty-four hours without 
food, and can travel loaded, many days without 
water, through dry and dusty deserts, which 
supply none ; and all this, not from the habit, 
but from the conformation of the animal : for 
naturalists make this conformity of powers to 
climates a rule of judgment in ascertaining the 
native countries of animals, and always deter- 
mine it to be that to which their powers and 
properties are most appropriate. 

Thus the writers of natural history are per- 
haps unintentionally magnifying the operations 
of Providence, when they insist that animals do 
not modify and give way to the influence of 
other climates ; but here they too commonly 
stop ; neglecting, or perhaps refusing, to ascribe 
to infinite goodness this wise and merciful ac- 



commodation. And here the pious instructor 
will come in, in aid of their deficiency : for phi- 
losophers too seldom trace up causes, and won- 
ders, and blessings to their Author. And it is 
peculiarly to be regretted that a late justly cele- 
brated French naturalist, who, though not fa- 
mous for his accuracy, possessed such diversified 
powers of description that he had the talent of 
making the driest subjects interesting ; together 
with such liveliness of delineation, that his cha- 
racters of animals are drawn with a spirit and 
variety rather to be looked for in an historian of 
men than of beasts : it is to be regretted, I say 
that this writer, with all his excellencies, is ab- 
solutely inadmissible into the library of a young 
lady, both on account of his immodesty and his 
impiety ; and if in wishing to exclude him, it 
may be thought wrong to have given him so 
much commendation, it is only meant to show 
that the author is not led to reprobate his p in- 
ciples from insensibility to his talents. Thfl "e- 
mark is rather made to put the reader on re- 
membering that no brilliancy of genius, no 
diversity of attainments, should ever be allowed 
as a commutation for defective principles and 
corrupt ideas.* 



CHAP. X. 

On the use of definitions, and the moial benefits 
of accuracy in langnage. 

Persons having been accustomed from their 
cradles to learn words before they knew the 
ideas for which they stand, usually continue to 
do so all their lives, never taking the pains to 
settle in their minds, the determined ideas which 
belong to them. This want of a precise signifi- 
cation of their words, when they come to reason, 
especially in moral matters, is the cause of very 
obscure and uncertain notions. They use these 
undetermined words confidently, without much 
troubling their heads about a certain fixed mean- 
ing, whereby, besides the ease of it, they obtain 
this advantage, that as in such discourse they 
are seldom in the right, so they are seldom to 
be convinced that they are in the wrong, it be- 
ing just the same to go about to draw those per- 
sons out of their mistakes, who have no settled 
notions, as to dispossess a vagrant of his habita- 
tion who has no settled abode. — The chief end 
of language being to be understood, words serve 
not for that end when they do not excite in the 
hearer the same idea which they stand for in 
the mind of the speaker.'t 

I have chosen to shelter myself under the 
broad sanction of the great author here quoted, 
with a view to apply this rule in philology to a 
moral purpose ; for it applies to the veracity of 
conversation as much as to its correctness ; and 
as strongly recommends unequivocal and simple 
truth, as accurate and just expression. Scarcely 
any one perhaps has an adequate conception 

* Goldsmith's History of Animated Nature has many 
references to a Divine Author. It is to be wished tha. 1 . 
some judicious person would publish a new edition ot 
this work, purified from the indelicate »nd offensive 
parts. 

t Locke. 



350 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



how much clear and correct expression favours 
the elucidation of truth ; and the side of truth 
is obviously the side of morals ; it is in fact one 
and the same cause ; and it is of course the same 
cause with that of true religion also. 

It is therefore no worthless part of education, 
even in a religious view, to study the precise 
meaning of words, and the appropriate signifi- 
cation of language. To this end I know no 
better method than to accustom young persons 
very early to a habit of defining common words 
and things ; for, as definition seems to lie at the 
root of correctness, to be accustomed to define 
English words in English, would improve the 
understanding more than barely to know what 
these words are called in French, Italian, or 



. misled by these trope and figure ladies, when 
they degrade as when they panegyrize ; for to a 
plain and sober judgment, a tradesman may not 
be ' the most good-for-nothing fellow that ever 
existed,' merely because it was impossible for 
him to execute in an hour, an order which re 
quired a week ; a lady may not be ' the most 
hideous fright the world ever saw,' though the 
make of her gown may have been obsolete for a 
month ; nor may one's young friend's father be 
a ' monster of cruelty,' though he may be a quiet 
gentleman who does not choose to live at water, 
ing-places, but likes to have his daughter stay 
at home with him in the country. 

Of all the parts of speech, the interjection is 
the most abundantly in use with the hyperboli- 



Latin. Or rather, one use of learning other cal fair ones. Would it could be added that 



languages is, because definition is often involved 
in etymology ; that is, since many English words 
take their derivation from foreign *or ancient 
languages, they cannot be so accurately under- 
stood without some knowledge of those lan- 
guages : but precision of any kind, either moral 
or philological, too seldom finds its way into the 
education of women. 

It is perhaps going out of my province to ob- 
serve, that it might be well if young men also 
before they entered on the world, were to be fur- 
nished with correct definitions of certain words. 
the use of which is become rather ambiguous ; 
or rather they should be instructed in the double 
sense of modern phraseology. For instance ; 
they should be provided with a good definition 
of the word honour in the fashionable sense ; 
showing what vices it includes, and what virtues 
it does not include ; the term good company, 
which even the courtly Petronius of our days 
has defined as sometimes including not a few 
immoral and disreputable characters : religion, 
which in the various senses assigned it by the 
world, sometimes means superstition, sometimes 
fanaticism, and sometimes a mere disposition to 
attend on any kind of form of worship : the word 
goodness, which is made to mean every thing \ 
that is not notoriously bad ; and sometimes even 
that too, if what is notoriously bad be accompa- 
nied by good hunlour, pleasing manners, and a 
little alms-giving. By these means they would 
go forth armed against many of the false opini- 
ons which, through the abuse or ambiguous 
meaning of words, pass so current in the world. 

But to return to the youthful part of that sex 
which is the more immediate object of this little 
woik. With correct definition they should also 
be taught to study the shades of words, and this 
not merely with a view to accuracy of expression, 
though even that involves both sense and ele- 
gance, but with a view to moral truth. 

It may be thought ridiculous to assert that 
morals have any connexion with the purity of 
language, or that the precision of truth may be 
violated through defect of critical exactness in 
the three degrees of comparison : yet how fre- 
quently do we hear from the dealers in superla- 
tives, of ■ most admirable, superexcellent, and 
quite perfect' people, who, to plain persons, not 
bred in the school of exaggeration, would appear 
mere common characters, not rising above the 
level of mediocrity ! By this negligence in the 
ust application o e words, we shall be as much 



these emphatical expletives (if I may make use 
of a contradictory term,) were not sometimes 
tinctured with profaneness ! Though I am per- 
suaded that idle habit is often more at the bot- 
tom of this deep offence than intended impiety, 
yet there is scarcely any error of youthful talk 
which merits severer castigation. And an habit 
of exclamation should be rejected by polished 
people as vulgar, even if it were not abhorred as 
profane. 

The habit of exaggerating trifles, together 
with the grand female failing of excessive mu- 
tual flattery, and elaborate general professions 
of fondness and attachment, is inconceivably 
cherished by the voluminous private correspon- 
dences in which some girls are indulged. In 
vindication of this practice it is pleaded that a 
facility of style, and an easy turn of expression, 
are acquisitions to be derived from an early in- 
terchange of sentiments by letter-writing ; but 
even if it were so, these would be dearly pur- 
chased by the sacrifice of that truth, and sobriety 
of sentiment, that correctness of language, and 
that ingenuous simplicity of character and man- 
ners so lovely in female youth. 

Next to pernicious reading, imprudent and 
violent friendships are the most dangerous snares 
to this simplicity. And boundless correspon- 
dences with different confidants, whether they 
live in a distant province, or, as it often happens, 
in the same street, are the fuel winch principally 
feeds this dangerous flame of youthful sentiment. 
In those correspondences the young friends often 
encourage each other in the falsest notions of 
human life, and the most erroneous views of 
each other's character. Family affairs are di- 
vulged, and family faults aggravated. Vows of 
everlasting attachment and exclusive fondness 
are in a pretty just proportion bestowed on every 
friend alike. These epistles overflow with quo- 
tations from the most passionate of the dramatic 
poets ; and passages wrested from their natural 
meaning, and pressed into the service of senti- 
ment, are, with all the violence of misapplica- 
tion, compelled to suit the case of the heroic 
transcriber. 

But antecedent to this epistolary period of life 
they should have been accustomed to the most 
scrupulous exactness in whatever they relate. 
They should maintain the most critical accuracy 
in facts, in dates, in numbering, in describing, 
in short, in whatever pertains, either directly or 
indirectly, closely or remotely, to the great run 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



351 



damental principle, truth. It is so very difficult 
for persons of great liveliness to restrain them- 
selves within the sober limits of strict veracity, 
either in their assertions or narrations, especi- 
ally when a little undue indulgence of fancy is 
apt to procure for them the praise of genius and 
spirit, that this restraint is one of the earliest 
principles which should be worked into the 
youthful mind. 

The conversation of young females is also in 
danger of being overloaded with epithets. As 
in the warm season of youth hardly any thing 
is seen in the true point of vision, so hardly any 
thing is named in naked simplicity ; and the 
very sensibility of the feelings is partly a cause 
of the extravagance of the expression. But here, 
as in other points, the sacred writers, particu- 
larly of the New Testament, present us with 
the purest models ; and its natural and unlabour- 
ed style of expression is perhaps not the mean- 
est evidence of the truth of the Gospel. There 
is throughout the whole narratives, no over- 
charged character, no elaborate description, no- 
thing studiously emphatical, as if truth of itself 
were weak, and wanted to be helped out. There 
is little panegyric, and less invective; none but 
on great, and awful, and justifiable occasions. 
The authors record their own faults with the 
same honesty as if they were the faults of other 
men, and the faults of other men with as little 
amplification as if they were their own. There 
is perhaps no book in which adjectives are so 
sparingly used. A modest statement of the fact, 
with no colouring and little comment, with little 
emphasis and no varnish, is the example held 
out to us for correcting the exuberances of pas- 
sion and of language, by that divine volume 
which furnishes us with the still more important 
rule of faith and standard of practice. Nor is 
the truth lowered by any feebleness, nor is the 
spirit diluted, nor the impression weakened by 
this soberness and moderation ; for with all this 
plainness there is so much force, with all this 
simplicity there is so much energy, that a few 
slight touches and artless strokes of Scripture 
characters convey a stronger outline of the per- 
son delineated, than is sometimes given by the 
most elaborate and finished portrait of more arti- 
ficial historians. 

If it be objected to this remark, that many 
parts of the sacred writings abound in a lofty, 
figurative, and even hyperbolical style; this ob- 
jection applies chiefly to the writings of the Old 
Testament, and to the prophetical and poetical 
parts of that. But the metaphorical and florid 
style of those writings is distinct from the inac- 
curate and overstrained expression we have been 
censuring; for that only is inaccuracy which 
leads to a false and inadequate conception in the 
reader or hearer. The lofty style of the eastern, 
and of other heroic poetry, does not so mislead ; 
for the metaphor is understood to be a metaphor, 
and the imagery is understood to be ornamental. 
The style of the Scriptures of the Old Testa- 
ment is not, it is true, plain in opposition to 
figurative ; nor simple in opposition to florid ; 
but it is plain and simple in the best sense, as 
opposed to false principles and false taste; it 



very tropes and figures, though bold, are never 
unnatural or affected : when it embellishes it 
does not mislead ; even when it exaggerates, _t 
does not misrepresent ; if it be hyperbolical, it 
is so either in compliance with the genius of 
oriental language, or in compliance with con- 
temporary customs, or because the subject is 
one which will be most forcibly impressed by a 
strong figure. The loftiness of the expression 
deducts nothing from the weight of the circum- 
stance ; the imagery animates the reader with- 
out misleading him ; the boldest illustration, 
while it dilates his conception of the subject, de- 
tracts nothing from its exactness ; and the di- 
vine Spirit, instead of suffering truth to be in. 
jured by the opulence of the figures, contrives to 
make them fresh and varied avenues to the 
heart and the understanding. 



CHAP. XI. 



raises no wrong idea ; it gives an exact impres- 



On religion. The necessity and duty of early 
instruction shown by analogy with human 
learning. 

It has been the fashion of our late innovators 
in philosophy, who have written some of the 
most brilliant and popular treatises on education, 
to decry the practice of early instilling religious 
knowledge into the minds of children. In vin- 
dication of this opinion it has been alleged, that 
it is of the utmost importance to the cause of 
truth, that the mind of man should be kept free 
from prepossessions ; and in particular, that 
every one should be left to form such judgment 
on religious subjects as may seem best to his 
own reason in maturer years. 

This sentiment has received some counte- 
nance from those better characters who have 
wished, on the fairest principle, to encourage 
free inquiry in religion ; but it has been pushed 
to the blameable excess here censured, chiefly 
by the new philosophers ; who, while they pro- 
fess only an ingenuous zeal for truth, are in 
fact 6lily endeavouring to destroy Christianity 
itself, by discountenancing, under the plausible 
pretence of free inquiry, ail attention whatever 
to the religious education of our youth. 

It is undoubtedly our duty, while we are in- 
stilling principles into the tender mind, to take 
peculiar care that those principles be sound and 
just ; that the religion we teach be the religion 
of the Bible, and not the inventions of human 
error or superstition: that the principles we in- 
fuse into others, be such as we ourselves have 
well scrutinized, and not the result of our cre- 
dulity or bigotry ; not the mere hereditary, un- 
examined prejudices of our own undiscerning 
childhood. It may also be granted, that it is 
the duty of every parent to inform the youth, 
that when his faculties shall have so unfolded 
themselves, as to enable him to examine for 
himself those principles which the parent is now 
instilling, it will be his duty so to examine 
them. 

But after making these concessions, I would 
most seriously insist that there are certain lead- 
ing and fundamental truths ; that there are cer- 



iaiacs no wrong iuea ; n gives an exaci nnpres- nig auu luuuairrauai uuuh , mai uicie arc cer- 

sion of the thing it means to convey ; and its J tain sentiments on the side of Christianity, as 



352 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



well as of virtue and benevolence, in favour of 
which every child ought to be prepossessed ; and 
may it not be also added, that to expect to keep 
the mind void of all prepossession, even upon 
any subject, appears to be altogether a vain and 
impracticable attempt; an attempt, the very 
suggestion of which argues much ignorance of 
human nature. 

Let it be observed here, that we are not com- 
bating the infidel ; that we are not producing 
evidences and arguments in favour of the truth 
of Christianity, or trying to win over the assent 
of the reader to that which he disputes, but that 
we are taking it for granted, not only that 
Christianity is true, but that we are addressing 
those who believe it to be true : an assumption 
which has been made throughout this work. 
Assuming, therefore, that there are religious 
principles which are "true, and which ought to 
be communicated in the most effectual manner, 
the next question which arises seems to be, at 
what age and in what manner these ought to be 
inculcated ; that it ought to be at an early period 
we have the command of Christ ; who encourag- 
ingly said, in answer to those who would have 
repelled their approach, ' Suffer little children 
to come unto me.' 

But here conceding, for the sake of argument, 
what yet cannot be conceded, that some good 
reasons may be brought in favour of delay ; al- 
lowing that such impressions as are communi- 
cated early may not be very deep ; allowing 
them even to become totally effaced by the sub- 
sequent corruptions of the heart and of the world; 
etill I would illustrate the importance of early 
infusing religious knowledge, by an allusion 
drawn from the power of early habit in human 
learning. Put the case, for instance, of a person 
who was betimes initiated in the rudiments of 
classical studies. Suppose him after quitting 
school to have fallen, either by a course of idle- 
ness or of vulgar pursuits, into a total neglect 
of study. Should this person at any future pe- 
riod happen to be called to some profession, 
which should oblige him, as we say, to rub up 
his Greek and Latin ; his memory still retain- 
ing the unobliterated though faint traces of his 
early pursuits, he will be able to recover his ne- 
glected learning with less difficulty than he 
could now begin to learn ; for he is not again 
obliged to set out with studying the simple ele- 
ments ; they come back on being pursued ; they 
are found on being searched for ; the decayed 
images assume shape, and strength, and colour ; 
he has in his mind first principles to which to 
recur; the rules of grammar which he has al- 
lowed himself to violate, he has not however 
forgotten ; he will recall neglected ideas, he will 
resume slighted habits far more easily than he 
could now begin to acquire new ones. I appeal 
to clergymen who are called to attend the dying 
beds of such as have been bred in gross and stu- 
pid ignorance of religion, for the justness of this 
comparison. Do they not find that these un- 
happy people have no ideas in common with 
them ? that they therefore possess no intelligible 
medium oy which to make themselves under- 
stood ? that the persons to whom they are ad- 
dressing themselves have no first principles to 
which they can be referred ? that they are ig- 



norant not only of the science, but the language 
of Christianity ? 

But at worst, whatever be the event of a pious 
education to the child, though in general we are 
encouraged from the tenor of Scripture and the 
course of experience to hope that the event will 
be favourable, and that ' when he is old he will 
not depart from it.' Is it nothing for the parent 
to have acquitted himself of this prime duty ? 
Is it nothing to him that he has obeyed the plain 
command of ' training his child in the way he 
should go ?' And will not the parent who so 
acquits himself, with better reason and more 
lively hope, supplicate the Father of mercies for 
the reclaiming of a prodigal, who has wandered 
out of that right path in which he has set him 
forward, than for the conversion of a neglected 
creature, to whose feet the Gospel had never 
been offered as a light ? And how different will 
be the dying reflections even of that parent 
whose earnest endeavours have been unhappily 
defeated by the subsequent and voluntary per- 
version of his child, from his who will reasona- 
bly aggravate his pangs, by transferring the sins 
of his neglected child to the number of his own 
transgressions. 

And to such well-intentioned but ill-judging 
parents as really wish their children to be here- 
after pious, but erroneously withhold instruction 
till the more advanced period prescribed by the 
great master of splendid paradoxes* shall arrive: 
who can assure them, that while they are with- 
holding the good seed, the great and ever vigi- 
lant enemy, who assiduously seizes hold on every 
opportunity which we slight, and cultivates 
every advantage which we neglect, may not be 
stocking the fallow ground with tares? Nay, 
who in this fluctuating state of things can be 
assured, even if this were not certainly to be the 
case, that to them the promised period ever shall 
arrive at all? Who shall ascertain to them that 
their now neglected child shall certainly live to 
receive the delayed instructions ? Who can as- 
sure them that they themselves will live to com- 
municate it ? 

It is almost needless to observe that parents 
who are indifferent about religion, much more 
those who treat it with scorn, are not likely to 
be anxious on this subject ; it is therefore the 
attention of religious parents which is here 
chiefly called upon ; and the more so, as there 
seems, on this point, an unaccountable negli- 
gence in many of these, whether it arises from 
indolence, false principles, or whatever other 
motive. 

But independent of knowledge, it is some- 
thing, nay, let philosophers say what they will, 
it is much to give youth prepossessions in favour 
of religion, to secure their prejudices on its side 
before you turn them adrift into the world ; a 
world in which, before they can be completely 
armed with arguments and reasons, they will be 
assailed by numbers whose prepossessions and 
prejudices, far more than their arguments and 
reasons, attach them to the other side. Why 
should not the Christian youth furnish himself 
in the best cause with the same natural armour 
which the enemies of religion wear in the worst? 
It is certain that to set out in life with sentfc 
* RosGcaiL 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



353 



ments in favour of the religion of our country is 
no more an error or a weakness, than to grow 
up with a fondness for our country itself. If the 
love of our country be judged a fair principle, 
surely a Christian who is 'a citizen of no mean 
city,' may lawfully have his attachments too. 
If patriotism be an honest prejudice, Christi- 
anity is not a servile one. Nay, let us teach the 
youth to hug his prejudices, to glory in his pre- 
possessions, rather than to acquire that versa- 
tile and accommodating citizenship of the world, 
by which he may be an infidel in Paris, a Papist 
at Rome, and a Mussulman at Cairo. 

Let me not be supposed so to elevate politics, 
or so to depress religion, as to make any com- 
parision of the value of the one with the other, 
when I observe, that between the true British 
patriot and the true Christian, there will be this 
common resemblance : the more deeply each of 
them inquires, the more will he be confirmed in 
his respective attachment, the one to his coun- 
try, the other to his religion. I speak with re- 
verence of the immeasurable distance; but the 
more the one presses on the firm arch of our 
constitution, and the other on that of Christi- 
anity, the stronger he will find them both. Each 
challenges scrutiny ; each has nothing to dread 
but from shallow politicians and shallow philo- 
sophers ; in each intimate knowledge justifies 
prepossession; in each investigation confirms 
attachment. 

If we divide the human being into three com- 
ponent parts, the bodily, the intellectual, and 
the spiritual, is it not reasonable that a portion 
of care and attention be assigned to each in 
some degree adequate to its importance ? Should 
I venture to say a due portion, a portion adapt- 
ed to the real comparative value of each, would 
not that condemn in one word the whole system 
of modern education ? The rational and intel- 
lectual part being avowedly more valuable than 
the bodily, while the spiritual and immortal 
part exceeds even the intellectual still more than 
that surpasses what is corporeal ; is it acting 
according to the common rules of proportion ; 
is it acting on the principles of distributive jus- 
tice ; is it acting with that good sense and right 
judgment with which the ordinary business of 
this world is usually transacted, to give the 
larger portion of time and care to that which is 
worth the least ? Is it fair that what relates to 
the body and the organs of the body, I mean 
those accomplishments which address them- 
selves to the eye and the ear, should occupy al- 
most the whole thoughts ; while the intellectual 
part should be robbed of its due proportion, and 
the spiritual part should have almost no propor- 
tion at all ? Is not this preparing your children 
for an awful disappointment in the tremendous 
day when they shall be stripped of that body, of 
those senses and organs, which have been made 
almost the sole objects of their attentions, and 
shall feel themselves left in possession of nothing 
but that spiritual part which in education was 
scarcely taken into the account of their exist- 
ence ? 

Surely it should be thought a reasonable com- 
promise (and I am in fact undervaluing the ob- 
ject for the importance of which I plead) to 
suggest, that at least two-thirds of that time 
Z 



which is now usurped by externals should bo 
restored to the rightful owners, the understand- 
ing and the heart ; and that the acquisition of 
religious knowledge in early youth should at 
least be no less an object of sedulous attention 
than the cultivation of human learning or of 
outward embellishments. It is also not un- 
reasonable to suggest, that we should in Christi 
anity, as in arts, sciences, or languages, begin 
with the beginning, set out with the simple 
elements, and thus 'go on unto perfection.' 

Why in teaching to draw do you begin with 
straight lines and curves, till by gentle steps 
the knowledge of outline and proportion be ob 
tained, and your picture be completed ; never 
losing sight, however, of the elementary lines 
and curves ? Why in music do you set out 
with the simple notes, and pursue the acquisi- 
tion through all its progress, still in every stage 
recurring to the notes ? Why in the science of 
numbers do you invent the simplest methods of 
conveying just ideas of computation, still refer- 
ring to the tables which involve the fundamen- 
tal rules ? Why in the science of quantity do 
men introduce the pupil at first to the plainest 
diagrams, and clear up one difficulty before they 
allow anotker to appear ? Why in teaching 
languages to the youth do you sedulously infuse 
into his mind the rudiments of your syntax ? 
Why in parsing is he led to refer every word 
to its part of speech, to resolve every sentence 
into its elements, to reduce every term to its 
original, and from the first case of nouns, and 
the first tense of verbs, to explain their forma 
tions, changes, and dependences, till the prin. 
ciples of language become so grounded, that, by 
continually recurring to the rules, speaking and 
writing correctly are fixed into a habit? Why 
all this, but because you uniformly wish him to 
be grounded in each of his acquirements ? Why, 
but because you are persuaded that a slight, 
and slovenly, and superficial, and irregular way 
of instruction will never train him to excellence 
in any thing ? 

Do young persons then become musicians, 
painters, linguists, and mathematicians by early 
study and regular labour ; and shall they become 
Christians by accident? or rather, is not this 
acting on that very principle of Dogberry, at 
which you probably have often laughed ? Is it 
not supposing that religion like reading and 
writing comes by nature ? Shall all those ac- 
complishments, ' which perish in the using,' 
be so assiduously, so systematically taught ? 
Shall all those habits, which are limited to the 
things of this world, be so carefully formed, so 
persisted in, as to be interwoven with our very 
make, so as to become as it were a part of our- 
selves ; and shall that knowledge which is to 
make us ' wise unto salvation'be picked up at 
random, cursorily, or perhaps not picked up at 
all ? Shall that difficult divine science which 
requires 'line upon line, and precept upon pre- 
cept,' here a little and there a little ; that know- 
ledge which parents, even under a darker dis- 
pensation, were required to teach their children 
diligently, and to talk of it when they sat in 
their house, and when they walked by the way, 
and when they lay down, and when they rose 
up,' shall this knowledge be by Christian parento 



354 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



omitted or deferred, or taught slightly ; or be 
superseded by things of comparatively little 
worth 1 

Shall the lively period of youth, the soft and 
impressible season when lasting habits are form- 
ed, when the seal cuts deep into the yielding wax, 
and the impression is more likely to he clear, 
and sharp, and strong, and lasting ; shall this 
warm and favourable season be suffered to 
slide by, without being turned to the great pur- 
pose for which not only youth, but life and 
breath, and being were bestowed ? Shall not 
that 'faith without which it is impossible to 
please God ;' shall not that ' holiness without 
which no man can see the Lord ;' shall not that 
knowledge which is the foundation of faith and 
practice ; shall not that charity without which 
all knowledge is ' sounding brass and a tinkling 
cymbal,' be impressed, be inculcated, be enforc- 
ed, as early, as constantly, as fundamentally, 
with the same earnest pushing on to continual 
progress, with the same constant reference to 
first principles, as are used in the case of those 
arts which merely adorn human life ? Shall we 
not seize the happy period when the memory is 
strong, the mind and all its powers vigorous and 
active, the imagination busy and all alive ; the 
heart flexible, the temper ductile, the conscience 
tender, curiosity awake, fear powerful, hope 
eager, love ardent ; shall we not seize this period 
for inculcating that knowledge, and impressing 
those principles which are to form the character, 
and fix the destination for eternity ? 

T would now address myself to another and a 
still more dilatory class, who are for procrasti- 
nating all concern about religion till they are 
driven to it by actual distress, and who do not 
think of praying till they are perishing like 
the sailor who said, ' he thought it was always 
time enough to begin to pray when the storm 
began.' Of these I would ask, shall we, with 
an unaccountable deliberation, defer our anxiety 
about religion till the busy man and the dissipa- 
ted woman are become so immersed in the cares 
of life, or so entangled in its pleasures, that they 
will have little heart or spirit to embrace a new 
principle ? a principle whose precise object it 
will be to condemn that very life in which they 
have already embarked: nay, to condemn almost 
all that they have been doing and thinking ever 
since they first began to actor think ? Shall we, 
I say, begin now ? or shall we suffer those in- 
structions, to receive which, requires all the con- 
centrated powers of a strong and healthy mind, 
to be put oft* till the day of excruciating pain, 
till the period of debility and stupefaction ? 
Shall we wait for that season, as if it were the 
most favourable for religious acquisitions, when 
the senses shall have been palled by excessive 
gratification, when the eye shall be tired with 
seeing, and the ear with hearing ? Shall we, 
when the whole man is breaking up by disease 
or decay, expect that the dim apprehension will 
discern a new science, or the obtuse feelings de- 
light themselves with a new pleasure? a plea- 
sure too, not only incompatible with many of the 
hitherto indulged pleasures, but one which car- 
ries with it a strong intimation that those plea- 
sures terminate in the death of the soul. 

But, mot to lose sight of the important analogy 



on which we have already dwelt so much ; hovr 
preposterous would it seem to you to hear any 
one propose to an illiterate dying man, to set 
about learning even' the plainest, and easiest 
rudiments of any new art; to study the musical 
notes ; to conjugate a verb ; to learn, not the firs* 
problem in Euclid, but even the numeration table 
and yet you do not think it absurd to postpone 
religious instruction, on principles, which, if 
admitted, at all, must terminate either in igno 
ranee or in your proposing too late to a dying 
man to begin to learn the totally unknown 
scheme of Christianity. You do not think it 
impossible that he should be brought to listen to 
' the voice of this charmer, when he can no 
longer listen to ' the voice of singing men and 
singing women.' You do not think it unreason 
able that immortal beings should delay to de- 
vote their days to heaven, till they have 'no 
pleasure in them' themselves. You will not 
bring them to offer up the first fruits of their 
lips, and hearts, and lives, to their Maker, be- 
cause you persuade yourselves that he who has 
called himself a 'jealous God,' may however be 
contented hereafter with the wretched sacrifice 
of decayed appetites, and the worthless leavings 
of almost extinguished affections. 

We can scarcely believe, even with all the 
melancholy procrastination we see around us 
that there is any one, except he be a decided in- 
fidel, who does not consider religion as at least 
a good reversionary thing ; as an object which 
ought always to occupy a little remote corner 
of his map of life ; the study of which, though 
it is always to be postponed, is however not to 
be finally rejected ; which, though it cannot con- 
veniently come into his present scheme of life, 
it is intended somehow or other to take up be- 
fore death. This awful deception, this defect 
in the intellectual vision, arises, partly from the 
bulk which the objects of time and sense acquire 
jn our eyes by their nearness; while the in- 
visible realities of eternity are but faintly dis- 
cerned by a feeble faith, through a dim and dis. 
tant medium. It arises also partly from a to- 
tally false idea of the nature of Christianity, 
from a fatal fancy that we can repent at any 
future period, and that as amendment is a thing 
which will always be in our power, it will be 
time enough to think of reforming our life, when 
we should think only of closing it. 

But depend upon it, that a heart long harden- 
ed, I do not mean by gross vices merely, but by 
a fondness for the world, by an habitual and ex- 
cessive indulgence in the pleasures of sense, 
will by no* means be in a favourable state to 
admit the light of divine truth, or to receive the 
impressions of divine grace. God indeed some- 
times shows us by an act of his sovereignty, that 
this wonderful change, the conversion of a sin- 
ner's heart, may be produced without the inter- 
vention of human means, to show that the work 
is His. But as this is not the way in which the 
Almighty usually deals with his creatures, it 
would be nearly as preposterous for men to act 
on this presumption, and sin on in hopes of a 
miraculous conversion, as it would be to take 
no means for the preservation of their lives, be- 
cause Jesus Christ raised Lazarus from the 
dead. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



355 



CHAP. XII. 

On the manner of instructing young persons in 
religion. — General remarks on the genius of 
Christianity. 

I would now with great deference address 
those respectable characters who are really con- 
cerned about the best interests of their children ; 
those to whom Christianity is indeed an impor- 
tant consideration, but whose habits of life have 
hitherto hindered them from giving it its due 
degree in. the scale of education. 

Begin then with considering that religion is a 
part, and the most prominent part, in your sys- 
tem of instruction. Do not communicate its 
principles in a random, desultory way ; nor 
scantily stint this business to only such scraps 
and remnants of time as may be casually picked 
up from the gleanings of other acquirements. 
' Will you bring to God for a sacrifice that which 
costs you nothing ?' Let the best part of the 
daj', which with most people is the earliest part, 
be steadily and invariably dedicated to this work 
by your children, before they are tired with their 
other studies, while the intellect is clear, the 
spirit light, and the attention sharp and unfa- 
tigued. 

Confine not your instructions to mere verbal 
rituals and dry systems, but communicate them 
in a way which shall interest their feelings, by 
lively images, and by a warm practical applica- 
tion of what they read to their own hearts and 
circumstances. If you do not study the great 
but too much slighted art of fixing, of command- 
ing, of chaining the attention, you may throw 
away much time and labour, with little other 
effect than that of disgusting your pupils and 
wearying yourself. There seems to be no good 
reason that while every other thing is to be made 
amusing, religion alone must be dry and unin- 
viting. Do not fancy that a thing is good merely 
because it is dull. Why should not the most 
entertaining powers of the human mind be su- 
premely consecrated to that subject which is 
most worthy of their full exercise ? The mis- 
fortune is, that religious learning is too often 
rather considered as an act of the memory than 
of the heart and affections ; as a dry duty, rather 
than a lively pleasure. The manner in which 
it is taught differs as much from their other 
learning as punishment from recreation. Chil- 
dren are turned over to the dull work of getting 
by rote as a task that which they should get 
from example, from animated conversation, from 
lively discussion, in which the pupil should 
learn to bear a part, instead of being merely a 
passive hearer. Teach them rather, as their 
blessed Saviour taught, by interesting parables, 
which, while they corrected the heart, left some 
exercise for the ingenuity in the solution, and 
for the feelings in their application. Teach, as 
He taught, by seizing on surrounding objects, 
passing events, local circumstances, peculiar 
characters, apt illusions, just analogy, appropri- 
ate illustration. Call in all creation, animate 
and inanimate, to your aid, and accustom your 
roung audience to 

Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks. 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing 

Even when the nature of your subject makes it 



necessary for you to be more plain and didactic* 
do not fail frequently to enliven these less en- 
gaging parts of your discourse with some inci« 
dental imagery which will captivate the fancy 
with some affecting story with which it shall ba 
associated in the memory. Relieve what would 
otherwise be too dry and preceptive, with soma 
striking exemplification in point, some touching 
instance to be imitated, some awful warning ta 
be avoided ; something which shall illustrate 
your instruction, which shall realize your posi- 
tion, which shall embody your idea, and give 
shape and form, colour and life, to your precept. 
Endeavour unremittingly to connect the reader 
with the subject by making her feel that what 
you teach is neither an abstract truth, nor a 
thing of mere general information, but that it is 
a business in which she herself is individually 
and immediately concerned ; in which not only 
her eternal salvation but her present happiness 
is involved. Do, according to your measure of 
ability, what the Holy Spirit which indited the 
Scriptures has done, always take the sensibility 
of the learner into your account of the faculties 
which are to be worked upon. 'For the doc- 
trines of the Bible,' as the profound and enlight- 
ened Bacon observes, ' are not proposed to us in 
a naked logic form, but arrayed in the most 
beautiful and striking colours which creation 
affords.' By those affecting illustrations used 
by Him ' who knew what was in man,' and 
therefore best knew how to address him, it was, 
that the unlettered audiences of Christ and his 
apostles were enabled both to comprehend and 
to relish doctrines, which would not readily have 
made their way to their understandings, had 
they not first touched their hearts ; and which 
would have found access to neither the one nor 
the other, had they been delivered in dry scho- 
lastic disquisitions. Now, those audiences not 
being learned, may be supposed to have been 
nearly in the state of children, as to their recep- 
tive faculties, and to have required nearly the 
same sort of instruction ; that is, they were more 
capable of being moved with what was simple 
and touching, and lively, than what was elabo- 
rate, abstruse, and unaffecting. Heaven and 
earth were made to furnish their contributions, 
when man was to be taught that science which 
was to make him wise unto salvation. Some- 
thing which might enforce or illustrate was 
drawn from every element. The appearances 
of the sky, the storms of the ocean, the birds of 
the air, the beasts of the field, the fruits of the 
earth, the seed and the harvest, the labours of 
the husbandmen, the traffic of the merchant, the 
season of the year ! all were laid hold of in turn. 
And the most important moral instruction, or 
religious truth, was deduced from some recent 
occurrence, some natural appearance, some or. 
dinary fact. 

If that be the purest eloquence which most 
persuades and which comes home to the heart 
with the fullest evidence and the most irresisti- 
ble force, then no eloquence is so powerful as 
that of Scripture ; and an intelligent Christian 
teacher will be admonished by the mode of 
Scripture itself, how to communicate its truths 
with life and spirit; 'while he is musing, the 
fire burns ;' that fire which will preserve him 



356 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



from an insipid and freezing mode of instruc- 
tion. He will morever, as was said above, al- 
ways carefully keep up a quick sense of the 
personal interest'the pupil has in every religious 
instruction which is impressed upon him. He 
will teach as Paul prayed, l with the spirit, and 
with the understanding also;' and in imitating 
this great model, he will necessarily avoid the 
opposite faults of two different sorts of instruc- 
tors ; for while some of our divines of the higher 
class have been too apt to preach as if mankind 
had only intellect, and the lower and more po- 
pular sort as if they had only passions, let him 
borrow what is good from both, and address his 
pupils as beings compounded of both under- 
standing and affections.* 

Fancy not that the Bible is too difficult and 
intricate to be presented in its own naked form, 
and that it puzzles and bewilders the youthful 
understanding. In all needful and indispensa- 
ble points of knowledge, the darkness of Scrip- 
ture, as a great Christian philosophert has ob- 
served, ' is but a partial darkness, like that of 
Egypt, which benighted only the enemies of 
God, while it left his children in clear day.' It 
is not pretended that the Bible will find in the 
young reader clear views of God and of Christ, 
of the soul and eternity, but that it will give 
th,em. And if it be really the appropriate cha- 
racter of Scripture, as it tells us itself that it is, 
' to enlighten the eyes of the blind,' and ' to 
make wise the simple,'' then it is as well calcu- 
lated for the youthful and uninformed as for any 
other class ; and as it was never expected that 
the greater part of Christians should be learned, 
so is learning, though of inestimable value in a 
teacher of theology, no essential qualification for 
a common Christian, for which reason Scripture 
truths are expressed with that clear and simple 
evidence adapted to the kind of assent which 
they require ; an assent materially different from 
that sort of demonstration which a mathematical 
theorem demands'. He who could bring an un- 
prejudiced heart and an unperverted will, would 
bring to the Scriptures the best qualification for 
understanding and receiving them. And though 
they contain things which the pupil cannot com- 
prehend (as what ancient poet, historian, or ora- 
tor does not) the teacher may address to him the 
words which Christ addressed to Peter, ' What 
I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know 
hereafter.' 

Histories of the Bible, and commentaries on 
the Bible, for the use of children, though valua- 
ble in their way, should never be used as sub- 
stitutes for the Bible itself. For historical or 
geographical information, for calling the atten- 
tion to, events and characters, they are very use- 
ful. But Scripture truths are best conveyed in 
its own sublime and simple phraseology ; its 

* The zeal and diligence with which the bishop of 
London's weekly lectures have been attended by persons 
of all ranks and descriptions, but more especially by that 
class to whom this little work is addressed, is a very 
promising circumstance for the ace. And while we con- 
sider with pleasure the advantages peculiarly to be de- 
rived by the young from so interesting and animated an 
exposition of the Gospel, we are further led to rejoice at 
the countenance given by such high authority to the re- 
vival of that excellent but too much neglected practice 
ol lectures, 
f Mr. Boyle. 



doctrines are best understood in its own appro- 
priate language ; its precepts are best retained 
in their own simple form. Paraphrases, in pro- 
fessing to explain, often dilute ; while the terse- 
ness and brevity of Scripture composition fills 
the mind, touches the heart, and fastens on the 
memory. While I would cause them to * read, 
the commentary for the improvement of the un- 
derstanding, they should mark, learn, and in- 
wardly digest' the Bible for the comfort and 
edification of the heart. 

Young people who have been taught religion 
in a formal and superficial way, who have had 
all its drudgeries and none of its pleasures, will 
probably have acquired so little relish for it, as 
to consider the continued prosecution of their 
religious studies as a badge of their tutelage, as 
a mark that they are still under subjection ; and 
will look forward with impatience to the hour of 
their emancipation from the lectures on Chris- 
tianity, as the era of their promised liberty ; the 
epoclia of independence. They will long for 
the period when its lessons shall cease to be de- 
livered ; will conclude that, having once attained 
such an age, and arrived at the required profi- 
ciency, the object will be accomplished, and the 
labour at an end. But let not your children ' so 
learn Christ.' Apprise them that no specific 
day will ever arise, on which they shall say, I 
have attained ; but inform them, that every ac- 
quisition must be followed up ; knowledge must 
be increased ; prejudices subdued ; good habits 
rooted ; evil ones eradicated ; amiable disposi- 
tions strengthened ; right principles confirmed ; 
till goingonfrom light tolight,and from strength 
to strength, they come to the measure of the 
stature of the fulness of Christ.' 

But though serious instruction will not only 
be uninteresting but irksome, if conveyed to 
youth in a cold didactic way; yet if their affec- 
tions be suitably engaged, while their under- 
standings are kept in exercise, their hearts so 
far from necessarily revolting, as some insist, 
will often receive the most solemn truths with 
alacrity. It is, as we have repeated, the manner 
which revolts them, and not the thing. Nor 
will they, as some assert, necessarily dislike the 
teacher, because the truths taught are of the 
most awful and solemn kind. It has happened 
to the writer to be a frequent witness of the gra- 
titude and affection expressed by young persons 
to those who had sedulously and seriously in- 
structed them in religious knowledge ; an affec- 
tion as lively, a gratitude as warm, as could 
have been excited by any indulgence to their 
persons, or any gratification of a worldly na- 
ture. 

As it is notorious that men of wit and spright- 
ly fancy have been the most formidable ene- 
mies to Christianity ; while men, in whom 
those talents have been consecrated to God, 
have been some of her most useful champi- 
ons, take particular care to press that ardent 
and over-active power, the imagination, into 
the service of religion. This bright and busy 
faculty will be leading its possessor into per- 
petual peril, and is an enemy of peculiar po- 
tency till it come to be employed in the cause 
of God. It is a lion, which though worldly pru 
dence indeed may chain so as to prevent out 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



357 



ward mischief, yet the malignity remains with- 
in ; but when sanctified by Christianity, the 
imagination is a lion tamed ; you have all yic 
benefit of its strength and its activity, divested 
of its mischief. God never bestowed that noble 
but restless faculty, without intending it to be 
an instrument of his own glory ; though it has 
been too often set up in rebellion against him; 
because, in its youthful stirrings, while all alive 
and full of action, it has not been seized upon to 
serve its rightful Sovereign, but was early en- 
listed with little opposition under the banners 
of the world, the flesh, and the devil ! Religion 
is the only subject in which, under the guidance 
of a severe and sober-minded prudence, this dis- 
cursive faculty can safely stretch its powers and 
expand its energies ! But let it be remembered, 
that it must be a sound and genuine Christian- 
ity which can alone so chastise and regulate the 
imagination, as to restrain it from those errors 
and excesses into which a false, a mistaken, an 
irregular religion, has too often led its injudi- 
cious and ill-instructed professor. Some of the 
most fatal extremes into which a wild enthu- 
siasm or a frightful superstition has plunged its 
unhappy votaries, have been owing to the want 
of a due direction, to the want of a strict and 
holy castigation of this ever-working faculty. 
To secure imagination, therefore, on the safe 
side, and, if I may change the metaphor, to put 
it under the direction of its true pilot, in the 
stormy voyage of life, is like engaging those 
potent elements, the wind and tide in your fa- 
vour. 

In your communications with young people, 
take care to convince them that as religion is 
not a business to be laid aside with the lesson, 
so neither is it a single branch of duty ; some 
detached thing, which like the acquisition of an 
art or a language, is to be practised separately, 
and to have its distinct periods and modes of 
operation. But let them understand, that com- 
mon acts, by the -spirit in which they are to be 
performed, are to be made acts of religion. Let 
them perceive that Christianity may be consi- 
dered as having something of that influence over 
the conduct, which external grace has over the 
manners; for as it is not the performance of 
some particular act which denominates any one 
to be graceful, grace being a spirit diffused 
through the whole system, which animates every 
sentiment, and informs every action ; as she 
who has true personal grace has it uniformly, 
and is not sometimes awkward and sometimes 
elegant ; does not sometimes lay it down and 
sometimes take it up ; so religion is not an oc- 
casional act, but an indwelling principle, an in- 
wrought habit, a pervading and informing spirit, 
from which indeed every act derives all its life, 
and energy, and beauty. 

Give them clear views of the broad discrimi- 
nation between practical religion and worldly 
morality ; in short, between the virtues of Chris- 
tians and of Pagans. Show them that no good 
qualities are genuine, but such as flow from the 
religion of Christ. Let them learn that the vir- 
tues which the better sort of people, who are yet 
destitute of true Christianity, inculcate and 
practise, resemble those virtues which have the 
love of God for their motive, just as counterfeit 



coin resembles sterling gold ; they may have, il 
is true, certain points of resemblance with the 
others ; they may be bright and shining ; they 
have perhaps the image and the superscription, 
but they ever want the true distinguishing pro 
perties; they want sterling value, purity, and 
weight. They may indeed pass current in the 
traffic of this world, but when brought to the 
touchstone, they will be found full of alloy ; 
when weighed in the balance of the sanctuary, 
' they will be found wanting,' they will not stand 
that final trial which is to separate ' the precious 
from the vile ;' they will not abide the day ' of 
his coming who is like a refiner's fire.' 

One error into which even some good people 
are apt to fall, is that endeavouring to deceive 
young minds by temporising expedients. In 
order to allure them to become religious, they 
exhibit false, or faint, or inadequate views of 
Christianity; and while they represent it as it 
really is', as a life of superior happiness and ad- 
vantage, they conceal its difficulties, and like 
the Jesuitical Chinese missionaries, extenuate, 
or sink, or deny, such parts of it as are least 
alluring to human pride. In attempting to dis- 
guise its principles, they destroy its efficacy. 
They deny the cross instead of making it the 
badge of a Christian. But besides that, the pro- 
ject fails with them as it did with the Jesuits ; 
all fraud is bad in itself; and a pious fraud is 
a contradiction in terms, which ought to be bu- 
ried in the rubbish of papal desolation. 

Instead of representing to the young Chris 
tian, that it may be possible by a prudent inge- 
nuity at once to pursue, with equal ardour and 
success, worldly fame and eternal glory, would 
it not be more honest to tell him fairly and un- 
ambiguously that, there are two distinct roads 
between which there is a broad boundary line? 
that there are two contending and irreconcilable 
interests? that he must forsake the one if he 
would cleave to the other? that 'there are two 
masters,' both of whom it is impossible to serve ? 
that there are two sorts of characters at eternal 
variance ? that he must renounce the one if he 
is in earnest for the other ? that nothing short 
of absolute decision can make a confirmed Chris- 
tian ? Point out the different sorts of promises 
annexed to these different sorts of characters. 
Confess in the language of Christ how the man 
of the world often obtains (and it is the natural 
course of human things) the recompence he se- 
dulously seeks. ' Verily I say unto you they have 
their reward.' Explain the beatitudes on the 
other hand, and unfold what kind of specific re- 
ward is there individually promised to its con- 
comitant virtue. Show your pupil that to that 
'poverty of spirit' to which 'the kingdom of 
heaven' is promised, it would be inconsistent to 
expect that the recompence of human commen- 
dation should be also attached ; that to that ' pu- 
rity of heart' to which the beatific vision is an- 
nexed, it would be unreasonable to suppose you 
can unite the praise of licentious wits, or the 
admiration of a catch-club. These will be be- 
stowed on their appropriate and corresponding 
merit. Do not enlist them under false colours , 
disappointment will produce a desertion. Dif- 
ferent sorts of rewards are attached to different 
sorts of services ; aod while you truly assert that 



353 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Religion's ways are ' ways of pleasantness, and 
all her paths are peace,' take care that you do 
not lead them to depend too exclusively on 
worldly happiness and earthly peace, for these 
make no part of the covenant ; they may be, 
and they often are, superadded, but they were 
never stipulated in the contract. 

But if, in order to attract the young to a re- 
ligious course, you disingenuously conceal its 
difficulties, while you are justly enlarging upon 
its pleasures, you will tempt them to distrust 
the truth of Scripture itself. — For what will 
they think, not only of a few detached texts, but 
of the general cast and colour of the Gospel 
when contrasted with your representation of it ? 
When you are describing to them' the insepara- 
ble human advantages which will follow a reli- 
gious course, what notion will they conceive of 
'the strait gate' and ' narrow way ?' of the am- 
putation of a ' right hand ?' of the excision of a 
' right eye ?' of the other strong metaphors by 
which the Christian warfare is shadowed out ? 
of' crucifying the flesh ?' of' mortifying the old 
man ?' of' dying unto sin ?' of' overcoming the 
world ?'.Do you not think their meek and com- 
passionate Saviour whodied for your children, 
loved them as well as you love them ? And if 
this were his language, ought it not to be yours? 
It is the language of true love ; of that love with 
which a merciful God loved the world, when he 
6pared not his own Son. Do not fear to tell 
your children what he told his disciples, that 
' in the world they shall have tribulation ;' but 
teach them to rise superior to it, on his principle, 
by 'overcoming the world.' Do not then try to 
conceal from them, that the life of a Christian 
is necessarily opposite to the life of the world ; 
and do not seek by a vain attempt at accommo- 
dation to reconcile that difference which Christ 
himself has pronounced to be irreconcilable. 

May it not be partly owing to the want of a 
due introduction to the knowledge of the real 
nature and spirit of religion, that so many young 
Christians, who set out in a fair and flourishing 
way, decline and wither when they come to 
perceive the requisitions of experimental Chris- 
tianity ? requisitions which they had not sus- 
pected of making any part of the plan ; and 
from which, when they afterwards discover 
them, they shrink back, as not prepared and 
hardened for the unexpected contest. 

People are no more to be cheated into religion 
than into learning. The same spirit which in- 
fluences your oath in a court of justice should 
influence your discourse in that court of equity 
— your family. Your children should be told 
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
truth. It is unnecessary to add, that it must be 
done gradually and discreetly. We know whose 
example we have for postponing that which the 
mind is not yet prepared to receive : ' I have 
many things yet, to say to you, but ye cannot 
bear them now." 1 Accustom them to reason by 
analogy. Explain to them that great worldly 
attainments are never made without great sa- 
crifices; that the merchant cannot become rich 
without industry; the statesman eminent with- 
out labour ; the scholar learned without study ; 
the hero renowned without danger : would it 
not then, on human principles, be unreasonable 



to think that the Christian alone should obtain 
a triumph without a warfare ? the highest prize 
M*kh the lowest exertion ? an eternal crown 
without a present cross ? and that heaven is the 
only reward which the idle may reckon upon 
No: though salvation 'be the gift of God,' yet 
it must be ' worked out.'' Convince your young 
friends, however, that in this case the difficulty 
of the battle bears no proportion to the prize of 
the victory. In one respect, indeed, the point 
of resemblance between worldly and Christian 
pursuits fails, and that most advantageously for 
the Christian ; for while, even by the most pro- 
bable means, which are the union of talents 
with diligence, no human prosperity can be in- 
sured to the worldly candidate ; while the most 
successful adventurer may fail by the fault of 
another ; while the best concerted project of the 
statesman may be crushed ; the bravest hero 
lose the battle ; the brightest genius fail of get- 
ting bread ; and while moreover, the pleasure 
arising even from success in these may be no 
sooner tasted than it is poisoned by a more pros- 
perous rival ; the persevering Christian is safe 
and certain of obtaining his object ; no misfor- 
tunes can defeat his hope ; no competition can 
endanger his success ; for though another gain, 
he will not lose ; nay, the success of another, so 
far from diminishing his gain, is an addition to 
it ; the more he diffuses, the richer he grows ■ 
his blessings are enlarged by communication ; 
and that mortal hour which cuts off for ever the 
hopes of worldly men, crowns and consummates 
his. 

Beware at the same time of setting up any act 
of seif-denial or mortification as the procuring 
cause of salvation. This would be a presump- 
tuous project to purchase that eternal life which 
is declared to be the 'free gift of God.' This 
would be to send your children, not to the Gos- 
pel to learn their Christianity, but to the monks 
and ascetics of the middle ages ; it would be 
sending them to Peter the hermit, and the holy 
fathers of the desert, and not to Peter the apos- 
tle and his Divine Master. Mortification is not 
the price ; it is nothing more than the discipline 
of a soul of which sin is the disease, the diet 
prescribed by the great Physician. Without 
this guard the young devout Christian would be 
led to fancy that abstinence, pilgrimage and pe- 
nance might be adopted as the cheap substitute 
for the subdued desire, the resisted temptation, 
the conquered corruption, and the obedient will; 
and would be almost in as much danger, on the 
one hand, of self-righteousness arising from aus- 
terities and mortification, as she would be, on 
the other, from self-gratification in the indul- 
gences of the world. And while you carefully 
impress on her the necessity of living a life of 
strict obedience if she would please God, do not 
neglect to remind her also that a complete re- 
nunciation of her own performances as a ground 
of merit, purchasing the favour of God by their 
own intrinsic worth, is included in that obe- 
dience. 

It is of the last importance in stamping on 
young minds a true impression of the genius of 
Christianity, to possess them with a conviction 
that it is the purity of the motive which not only 
gives worth and beauty, but which, in a Chris- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



359 



tian sense gives life and soul to the best action ; 
nay, that while a right intention will be ac- 
knowledged and accepted at the final judgment, 
even without the act, the act itself will be dis- 
owned which wanted the basis of a pure design. 

Thou didst well that it was in thy heart to 
build me a temple,' said the Almighty to that 
monarch, whom yet he permitted not to build it. 
How many splendid actions will be rejected in 
the great day of retribution, to which statues and 
monuments have been raised on earth, while 
their almost deified authors shall be as " much 
confounded at their own unexpected reprobation, 
as at the Divine acceptance of those ' whose life 
the world counted madness.' It is worthy of 
remark, that ' Depart from me, I never knew 
you,' is not the malediction denounced on the 
sceptic, or the scoffer, or the profligate, and the 
libertine, but on the high professor, on the un- 
fruitful worker of ' miracles,' on the unsancti- 
fied utterer of ' prophecies ;' for even acts of 
piety wanting the purifying- principle, however 
they may dazzle men, offend God. Cain sacri- 
ficed, Balaam prophesied, Rousseau wrote the 
most sublime panegyric on the Son of Mary, 
Voltaire built a church ! nay, so superior was 
his affectation of sanctity, that he ostentatiously 
declared, that while others were raising churches 
to saints, there was one man at least who would 
erect his church to God :* that God whose altars 
he was overthrowing, whose name he was villify- 
ing, whose gospel he was exterminating, and the 
very name of whose Son he had solemnly pledg- 
ed himself to blot from the face of the earth ! 

Though it be impossible here to enumerate 
all those Christian virtues which should be im- 
pressed in the progress of a Christian education, 
yet in this connexion I cannot forbear mention- 
ing one which more immediately grows out of 
the subject ; and to remark that the principle 
which should be the invariable concomitant of 
all instruction, and especially of religious in- 
struction, is humility. As this temper is incul- 
cated in every page of the Gospel, as it is de- 
ducible from every precept and every action of 
Christ ; that is a sufficient intimation that it 
should be made to grow out of every study, 
that it should be grafted on every acquisition. 
It is the turning point, the leading principle in- 
dicative of the very genius, of the very being 
of Christianity. The chastising quality should 
therefore be constantly made in education to 
operate as the only counteraction of that know- 
ledge which puffeth~up.' — Youth should be 
taught that as humility is the discriminating 
characteristic of our religion, therefore a proud 
Christian, a haughty disciple of a crucified 
Master, furnishes perhaps a stronger opposition 
in terms than the whole compass of language 
can exhibit. — They s-hould be taught that hu- 
mility being the appropriate grace of Christi- 
anity, is precisely the thing which makes Chris- 
tian and pagan virtues essentially different. 
The virtues of the Romans, for instance, were ob- 
viously founded in pride ; as a proof of this, they 
had not even a word in their copious language 
to express humility, but what was used in*a bad 
sense, and conveyed the idea of meanness or vile- 

* Deo erexit Voltaire, is the inscription affixed by 
himself on his chinch at Ferney. 



ness, of baseness and servility Christianity so 
stands on its own single ground, is so far from as- 
similating itself to the spirit of other religions, 
that, unlike the Roman emperor, who, though he 
would not become a Christian, yet ordered that 
the image of Christ should be set up in the pan- 
theon with those of the heathen gods, and be wor- 
shipped in common with them ; Christianity not 
only rejects all such partnerships with other reli- 
gions, but it pulls down their images, defaces 
their temples, tramples on their honours, founds 
its own existence on the ruins of spurious reli- 
gions and spurious virtues, and will be every 
thing when it is admitted to be any tiling. 

Will it be going too much out of the way to 
observe, that Christian Britain retaliates upon 
pagan Rome ? For if the former used humility 
in a bad sense, has not the latter learnt to use 
pride in a good'one ? May we without imperti- 
nence venture to remark, that in the delibera- 
tions of as honourable and upright political as- 
semblies as ever adorned, or, under Providence 
upheld a country ; in orations which leave us 
nothing to envy in Attic or Roman eloquence 
in their best days ; it were to be wished that we 
did not borrow from Rome an epithet which 
suited the genius of her religion as much as it 
militates against ours ? The panegyrist of the 
battle of Marathon, of Platea, or of Zama, might 
with propriety - speak of a ' proud day,' or a 
' proud event,' or a ' proud success.' But surely 
the Christian encomiasts of the battle of the 
Nile, might, from their abundance, select an 
epithet better appropriated to such a victory — 
a victory which, by preserving Europe, has per 
haps preserved that religion which sets its loot 
on the very neck of pride, and in which the 
conqueror himself, even in the first ardours of 
triumph, forgot not to ascribe the victory to 
Almightf God. Let us leave to the enemy both 
the terms and the thing ; arrogant words being 
the only weapons in which we must ever vail to 
their decided superiority. As we must despair 
of the victory, let us disdain the contest. 

Above all things then you should beware that 
your pupils do not take up with a vague, gene- 
ral, and undefined religion, bpt look to it that 
their Christianity be really the religion of 
Christ. Instead of slurring over the doctrines 
of the Cross, as disreputable appendages to our 
religion, which are to be disguised or got over 
as well as we can, but which are never to be 
dwelt upon, take care to make these your grand 
fundamental articles. Do not dilute or explain 
away these doctrines, and by some elegant peri- 
phrasis hint at a Saviour instead of making him 
the foundation-stone of your system. Do not 
convey primary, and plain, and awful, and in- 
dispensable truths elliptically, I mean as some- 
thing that is to be understood without being ex- 
pressed ; nor study fashionable circumlocutions 
to avoid names and things on which our salva- 
tion hangs, in order to prevent your discourse 
from being offensive. Persons who are thus 
instructed in religion with more good-breeding 
than seriousness and simplicity, imbibe a dis- 
taste for plain scriptural language : and the 
Scriptures themselves are so little in use with a 
certain fashionable class of readers, that when 
the doctrines and language of the Bible occa- 



360 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



sionally occur in other authors, or in conversa- 
tion, they present a sort of novelty and peculi- 
arity which offend ; and such readers as disuse 
the Bible, are apt from a supposed delicacy of 
taste, to call that precise and puritanical, which 
is in fact sound and scriptural. Nay, it has 

everal times happened to the author to hear 
persons of sense and learning ridicule insulated 
sentiments and expressions that have fallen in 
their way, which they would have treated with 
decent respect, had they known them to be, as 
they really were, texts of Scripture. This ob- 
servation is hazarded with a view to enforce the 
importance of early communicating religious 
knowledge, and of infusing an early taste for 
the venerable phraseology of Scripture. 

The persons in question thus possessing a 
kind of pagan Christianity, are apt to acquire a 
sort of a pagan expression also, which just en- 
ables them to speak with complacency of the 
'Deity,' of a 'first cause,' and of ' conscience.' 
Nay, some may even go so far as to talk of 
' the Founder of our religion,' of the 'Author of 
Christianity,' in the same general terms, as 
they would talk of the prophet of Arabia, or the 
lawgiver of China, of Athens, or of the Jews. 
But their refined ears revolt not a little at the 
unadorned name of Christ, and especially the 
naked and unqualified term of our Saviour, or 
Redeemer, carries with it a queerish, inelegant, 
not to say suspicious sound. — They will ex- 
press a serious disapprobation of what is wrong, 
under the moral term of vice, or the forensic 
term of crime ; but they are apt to think that the 
Scripture term of sin has something fanatical 
in it and, while they discover a respect for mo- 

ality, they do not much relish holiness, which 
is indeed the specific and only morality of a 
Christian. — They will speak readily of a man's 
reforming, or leaving off a vicious habit, or 
growing more correct in some individual prac- 
tice ; but the idea conveyed under any of the 
Scripture phrases signifying a total change of 
heart, they would stigmatize as the very shib- 
boleth of a sect, though it is the language of a 
Liturgy they affect to admire and of a Gospel 
which they profess to receive. 



CHAP. XIII. 

ffinfs suggested for furnishing young persons 
with a scheme of prayer. 

Those who are aware of the inestimable value 
of prayer themselves, will naturally be anxious 
not only that this duty should be earnestly in- 
culcated on their children, but that they should 
be taught it in the best manner ; and such pa- 
rents need little persuasion or counsel on the 
subject. Yet children of decent and orderly 
(I will not say of strictly religious) families are 
often so superficially instructed in this important 
business, that when they are asked what pray- 
ers they use, it is not unusual for them to an- 
swer, ' the Lord's Prayer and the Creed,? And 
even some who are better taught, are not always 
made to understand with sufficient clearness 
the specific distinction between the two ; that 



the one is the confession of their faith, and the 
other the model for their supplications. By 
this confused and indistinct beginning, they set 
out with a perplexity in their ideas which is not 
always completely disentangled in more ad- 
vanced life. 

An intelligent mother will seize the first occa- 
sion which the child's opening understanding 
shall allow, for making a little course of lec- 
tures on the Lord's Prayer, taking every divi- 
sion or short sentence separately ; for each fur- 
nishes valuable materials for a distinct lecture. 
The child should be led gradually through every 
part of this divine composition ; she should be 
taught to break it into all the regular divisions, 
into which indeed it so naturally resolves itselfi 
She should be made to comprehend one by one 
each of its short but weighty sentences ; to am- 
plify and spread them out for the purpose of 
better understanding them, not in their most 
extensive and critical sense, but in their most 
simple and obvious meaning. For in those con- 
densed and substantial expressions every word 
is an ingot and will bear beating out ; so that 
the teacher's difficulty will not so much be what 
she shall say as what she shall suppress ; so 
abundant is the expository matter which this 
succinct pattern suggests. 

When the child has a pretty good conception 
of the meaning of each division, she should then 
be made to observe the connexion, relation and 
dependance of the several parts of this prayer 
one upon another ; for there is a great method 
and connexion in it. — We pray that the ' king- 
dom of God may come,' as the best means to 
' hallow his name ;' and that by us, the obedient 
subjects of his kingdom, ' his will may be done.' 
A judicious interpreter will observe how logically 
and consequently one clause grows out of an- 
other, though she will use neither the word 
logical nor consequence ; for all explanations 
should be made in the most plain -and familiar 
terms, it being words, and not things, which 
commonly perplex children, if, as it sometimes 
happens, the teacher, though not wanting sense, 
wants perspicuity and simplicity.* 

The young person from being made a com- 
plete mistress of this short composition (which 
as it is to be her guide and model through life, 
too much pains cannot be bestowed on it) will 
have a clearer conception, not only of its indi- 
vidual contents, but of prayer in general, than 
many ever attain, though their memory has been 
perhaps loaded with long and unexplained forms, 
which they have been accustomed to swallow in 
the lump without scrutiny and without discri- 
mination. Prayer should not be so swallowed. 
It is a regular prescription which should stand 
analysis and examination : it is not a charm, 
the successful operation of which depends on 
your blindly taking it, without knowing what is 
in it, and in which the good you receive is pro- 
moted by your ignorance of its contents. 

* It might perhaps be a safe rule to establish for prayer 
in general, to suspect that any petition which cannot in 
some shape or other be accommodated to the spirit, of 
some part of this prayer may not be right to be adopted. 
Here, temporal things are kept, in their due subordina- 
tion ; they are asked for moderately, as an acknowledg- 
ment of our dependance and of God's power; 'for our 
heavenly Father kuoweth that we have need of these 
things,' 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



361 



I would have it understood that by these little 
comments, I do not mean that the child should 
be put to learn dry, and to her unintelligible ex- 
positions ; but that the exposition is to be col- 
loquial. And here I must remark in general, 
that the teacher is sometimes unreasonably apt 
to relieve herself at the child's expense, by load- 
ing the memory of a little creature on occasions 
in which far other faculties should be put in 
exercise. The child herself should be made to 
furnish a good part of this extemporaneous com- 
mentary by her answers ; in which answers she 
will be much assisted by the judgment the teach- 
er uses in her manner of questioning. And the 
youthful understanding, when its powers are 
properly set at work, will soon strengthen by 
exercise, so as to furnish reasonable if not very 
correct answers. 

Written forms of prayer are not only useful 
and proper, but indispensably necessary to begin 
with. But I will hazard the remark, that if 
children are thrown exclusively on the best forms, 
if they are made to commit them to memory 
like a copy of verses, and to repeat them in a 
dry, customary way, they will produce little ef- 
fect on their minds. They will not understand 
what they repeat, if we do not early open to 
them the important scheme of prayer. Without 
such an elementary introduction to this duty, 
they will afterwards be either ignorant or en- 
thusiasts, or both. We should give them know- 
ledge before we can expect them to make much 
progress in -piety, and as a due preparative to it : 
Christian instruction in this resembling the Sun, 
who, in the course of his communications, gives 
light before he gives heat. And to labour to 
excite a spirit of devotion without first infusing 
that knowledge out of which it is to grow, is 
practically reviving the popish maxim, that ig- 
norance is the mother of devotion, and virtually 
adopting the popish rule of praying in an un- 
known tongue. 

Children, let me again observe, will net attend 
to their prayers if they do not understand them ; 
and they will not understand them, if they are 
not taught to analyze, to dissect them, to know 
their component parts, and to methodise them. 

It is not enough to teach them to consider 
prayer under the general idea that it is an ap- 
plication to God for what they want, and an ac- 
knowledgment to Him for what they have. 
This, though true in the gross, is not sufficiently 
precise and correct. They should learn to de- 
fine and to arrange all the different parts of 
prayer. And as a preparative to prayer itself, 
they should be impressed with as clear an idea 
as their capacity and the nature of the subject 
will admit, of Him with whom they have to do.' 
His omnipresence is perhaps, of all his attri- 
butes, that of which we may make the first prac- 
tical use, Every head of prayer is founded on 
some great scriptural truths, which truths the 
little analysis here suggested will materially 
assist to fix in their minds. 

On the knowledge that ' God is,' that he is an 
infinitely Holy Being, and that ' he is the re- 
warder of all them that diligently seek him,' 
will be grounded the first part of prayer, which 
is adoration. The creature, devoting itself to 
the Creator, or self-dedication, next presents it- 

VOL. I. 



self. And if they are first taught that important 
truth, that as needy creatures they want help, 
which may be done by some easy analogy, they 
will easily be led to understand how naturally 
petition forms a most considerable branch of 
prayer : and divine grace being among the things 
for which they are to petition, this naturally 
suggests to the mind the doctrine of the influ- 
ences of the Holy Spirit. And when to this is 
added the conviction which will be readily work- 
ed into an ingenuous mind, that as offending 
creatures they want pardon, the necessity of 
confession will easily be made intelligible to 
them. But they should be brought to under- 
stand that it must not be such a general and 
vague confession as awakens no sense of per- 
sonal humiliation, as excites no recollection of 
their own more peculiar and individual faults. 
But it must be a confession founded on self- 
knowledge, which is itself to arise out of the 
practice of self-examination : for want of this 
sort of discriminating habit, a well-meaning but 
ill-instructed girl may be caught confessing the 
sins of some other person and omitting those 
which are more especially her own. On the 
gladness of heart natural to youth, it will be less 
difficult to impress the delightful duty of thanks- 
giving, which forms so considerable a branch of 
prayer. In this they should be habituated to 
recapitulate not only their general, but to enu- 
merate their peculiar, daily, and incidental mer- 
cies, in the same specific manner as they should 
have been taught to detail their individual and 
personal wants in the petitionary, and their faults 
in the confessional part. The same warmth of 
feeling which will more readily dispose them to 
express their gratitude to God in thanksgiving, 
will also lead them more gladly to express their 
love to their parents and friends, by adopting 
another indispensable, and, to an affectionate 
heart, pleasing part of prayer, which is inter- 
cesssion. 

When they had been made, by a plain and 
perspicuous mode of instruction, fully to under- 
stand the different nature of all these ; and 
when they clearly comprehend that adoration, 
self-dedication, confession, petition, thanksgiv- 
ing, and intercession, are distinct heads, which 
must not be involved in each other, you may 
exemplify the rules by pointing out to them 
these successive branches in any well written 
form. And they will easily discern, that ascrip- 
tion of glory to that God to whom we owe so 
much, and on whom we so entirely depend, is 
the conclusion into which a Christian's prayer 
will naturally resolve itself. It is hardly need- 
ful to remind the teacher that our truly Scriptu- 
ral Liturgy invariably furnishes the example or 
presenting every request in the name of the great 
Mediator. For there is no access to the Throne 
of grace but by that new and living way. In 
the liturgy too they will meet with the best ex- 
emplifications of prayers, exhibiting separate 
specimens of each of the distinct heads we have 
seen suggesting. 

But in order that the minds of young persons 
may, without labour or difficulty, be gradually 
brought into such a state of preparation as to 
be benefitted by such a little course of lectures 
as we have recommended ; they should, from 



362 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the time when they were first able to read, have 
been employing themselves at their leisure 
hours, in laying in a store of provisions for their 
present demands. And here the memory may 
be employed to good purpose ; for being the first 
faculty which is ripened, and which is indeed 
perfected when the others are only beginning 
to unfold themselves, this is an intimation of 
Providence that it should be the first seized on 
for the best uses. It should therefore be devoted 
to lay in a stock of the more easy and devotional 
parts of Scripture. The Psalms alone are an 
inexhaustible storehouse of rich materials.* 
Children, whose minds have been early well fur- 
nished from these, will be competent at nine or 
ten years old to produce from them, and to se- 
lect with no contemptible judgment, suitable 
examples of all the parts of prayer ; and will be 
able to extract and appropriate texts under each 
respective head, so as to exhibit, without help, 
complete specimens of every part of prayer. By 
confining them entirely to the sense, and nearly 
to the words of Scripture, they will be preserved 
from enthusiasm, from irregularity, and conceit. 
By being obliged continually to apply for them- 
selves, they will get a habit in all their difficul- 
ties of ' searching the Scriptures,' which may 
be hereafter useful to them on other and more 
trying occasions. But I would at first confine 
them to the Bible ; for were they allowed with 
equal freedom to ransack other books with a 
view to get helps to embellish their little com- 
positions, or rather compilations, they might be 
tempted to pass off for their own what they pick 
up from others, which might tend at once to 
make them both vain and deceitful. This is a 
temptation to which they are too much laid open 
when they find themselves extravagantly com- 
mended for any pilfered passage with which 
they decorate their little themes and letters. 
But in the present instance there is no danger 
of any similar deception, for there is such a sa- 
cred signature stamped on every Scripture 
phrase, that the owner's name can never be de- 
faced or torn off from the goods, either by fraud 
or violence. 

It would be well, if in those Psalms which 
children were first directed to get by heart, an 
eye were had to this their future application ; 
and that they were employed, but without any 
intimation of your subsequent design, in learn- 
ing such as may be best turned to this account. 
In the hundred and thirty-ninth, the first great 
truth to be imprinted on the young heart, the 
divine omnipresence, as was before observed, is 
unfolded with such a mixture of majestic gran- 
deur, and such an interesting variety of intimate 
and local circumstances, as is likely to seize on 
the quick and lively feelings of youth. The 
awful idea that that Being whom she is taught 
to reverence, is not only in general ' acquainted 
with all her ways,' but that ' he is about her 
path, and about her bed,' bestows such a sense 



* This will be so far from spoiling the cheerfulness, or 
impeding the pleasures of childhood, that the author 
knows a little girl who, before she was seven years old, 
had learnt the whole Psalter through a second time ; and 
that without any diminution of uncommon gayety of 
spirits or any interference with the elegant acquire- 
ments suited to her station. 



of real and present existence on him of whom 
she is apt to conceive as having his distant ha- 
bitation only in Heaven, as will greatly help her 
to realize the sense of his actual presence. 

The hundred and third Psalm will open to 
the mind rich and abundant sources of expres- 
sion for gratitude and thanksgiving, and it in- 
cludes the acknowledgment of spiritual as well 
as temporal favours. It illustrates the compas. 
sionate mercies of God by familiar and domestic 
images, of such peculiar tenderness and exqui- 
site endearment, as are calculated to strike upon 
every chord of filial fondness in the heart of an 
affectionate child. The fifty-first supplies an 
infinite variety of matter in whatever relates to 
confession of sin, or to supplication for the aids 
of the Spirit. The twenty-third abounds with 
captivating expressions of the protecting good- 
ness and tender love of their heavenly Father, 
conveyed by pastoral imagery of uncommon 
beauty and sweetness : in short, the greater 
part of these charming compositions overflows 
with materials for every head of prayer. 

The child who, while she was engaged in 
learning these scriptures, was not aware that 
there was any specific object in view, or any 
farther end to be answered by it, will afterwards 
feel an unexpected pleasure arising from the 
application of her petty labours, when she is 
called to draw out from her little treasury of 
knowledge the stores she has been insensibly 
collecting ; and will be pleased to find that with- 
out any fresh application to study, for she is now 
obliged to exercise a higher faculty than me. 
mory, she has lying ready in her mind the ma- 
terials with which she is at length called upon 
to work. Her judgment must be set about se- 
lecting one, or two, or more texts which shall 
contain the substance of every specific head of 
prayer before noticed ; and it will be a farther 
exercise to her understanding to concatenate the 
detached parts into one regular whole, occasion- 
ally varying the arrangement as she likes ; that 
is, changing the order, sometimes beginning 
with invocation, sometimes with confession ■ 
sometimes dwelling longer on one part, some 
times on another. As the hardships of a reli- 
gious Sunday are often so pathetically pleaded, 
as making one of the heavy burdens of religion ; 
and as the friends of religion are so often called 
upon to mitigate its intolerable rigours, by re- 
commending pleasant employment, might not 
such an exercise as has been here suggested 
help, by varying its occupations, to lighten its 
load. 

The habits of the pupil being thus early form- 
ed, her memory, attention and intellect being 
bent in a right direction, and the exercise in- 
variably maintained, may we not reasonably 
hope that her affections also, through divine 
grace, may become interested in the work, till 
she will be enabled ' to pray with the spirit and 
with the understanding also ?' She will now 
be qualified to use a well-composed form, if ne- 
cessary, with seriousness and advantage ; for 
she will now use it not mechanically, but ra- 
tionally. That which before appeared to her a 
mere mass of good words, will now appear a 
significant composition, exhibiting variety, and 
regularity, and beauty : and while she will have 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



363 



the farther advantage of being enabled by her dicious and more scriptural, it will also habitu- 
improved judgment to distinguish and select for i ate her to look for plan, and design, and lucid 
her own purpose such prayers as are more ju- | order, in other works. 



A VIEW 

OF THE PRINCIPLES AND CONDUCT 



PREVALENT AMONG WOMEN OF RANK AND FORTUNE. 



CHAP. XIV. 

The practical use of female knowledge, with a 
sketch of the female character, and a compara- 
tive view of the sexes. 

The chief end to be proposed in cultivating 
the understandings of women, is to qualify them 
for the practical purposes of life. Their know- 
ledge is not often like the learning of men, to be 
reproduced in some literary composition, nor 
ever in any learned profession ; but it is to come 
out in conduct. It is to be exhibited in life and 
manners. A lady studies, not that she may 
qualify herself to become an orator or a pleader ; 
not that she may learn to debate, but to act. 
She is to read the best books, not so much to 
enable her to talk of them, as to bring the im- 
provement which they furnish, to the rectifica- 
tion of her principles and the formation of her 
habits. The great uses of study to a woman are 
to enable her to regulate her own mind, and to 
be instrumental to the good of others. 

To woman, therefore, whatever be her rank, 
I would recommend a predominance of those 
more sober studies, which, not having display 
for their object, may make her wise without va- 
nity, happy without witnesses, and content with- 
out panegyrists ; the exercise of which will not 
bring celebrity, but improve usefulness. She 
should pursue every kind of study which will 
teach her to elicit truth ; which will lead her to 
be intent upon realities ; will give precision to 
her ideas ; will make an exact mind. She 
should cultivate every study which, instead of 
stimulating her sensibility, will chastise it ; 
which will neither create an excessive or a false 
refinement; which will give her definite notions; 
will bring the imagination under dominion ; will 
lead her to think, to compare, to combine, to 
methodise ; which will confer such a power of 
discrimination, that her judgment shall learn to 
reject what is dazzling, if it be not solid ; and 
to prefer, not what is striking, or bright, or new, 
but what is just. That kind of knowledge which 
is rather fitted for home consumption than fo- 
reign exportation, is peculiarly adapted to wo- 
men.* 

It is because the superficial nature of their 
education furnishes them with a false and low 
standard of intellectual excellence, that women 
have too often become ridiculous by the unfound- 

* May I be allowed to strengthen my own opinion 
with the authority of Dr. Johnson, that a woman cannot 
hare too much arithmetic ? It is a solid practical acquire- 
ment, in which there is much use and little display; it 
is a quiet sober kind of knowledge, which she acquiies 
for herself anj her family, and not for the world. ' 



ed pretensions of literary vanity ; for it is not 
the really learned, but the smatterers who have 
generally brought their sex into discredit, by an 
absurd affectation, which has set them on de- 
spising the duties of ordinary life. There have 
not indeed been wanting (but the character is 
not now common) precieuses ridicules, who as- 
suming a superiority to the sober cares which 
ought to occupy their sex, have claimed a lofty 
and supercilious exemption from the dull and 
plodding drudgeries 

Of this dim speck called earth! 

There have not been wanting ill-judging females 
who have affected to establish an unnatural se- 
paration between talents and usefulness, instead 
of bearing in mind that talents are the great ap- 
pointed instruments of usefulness, who have 
acted as if knowledge were to confer on woman 
a kind of fantastic sovereignty which should ex- 
onerate her from the discharge of female duties ; 
whereas it is only meant the more eminently to 
qualify her for the performance of them. A 
woman of real sense will never forget, that 
while the greater part of her proper duties are 
such as the most moderately gifted may fulfil 
with credit (since Providence never makes that 
to be very difficult, which is generally necessa- 
ry) yet that the most highly endowed are equally 
bound to fulfil them ; and let her remember that 
the humblest of these offices, performed on Chris- 
tian principles, are wholesome for the minds 
even of the most enlightened, as they tend to 
the casting down of those ' high imaginations' 
which women of genius are too much tempted 
to indulge. 

For instance ; ladies whose natural vanity has 
been aggravated by a false education, may look 
down on economy as a vulgar attainment ; un- 
worthy of the attention of an highly cultivated! 
intellect ; but this is the false estimate of a shal- 
low mind. Economy, such as a woman of for- 
tune is called on to practise, is not merely the 
potty detail of small daily expenses, the shabby 
curtailments and stinted parsimony of a little 
mind, operating on little concerns ; but it is the 
exercise of a sound judgment exerted in the 
comprehensive outline of order, of arrangements, 
of distribution ; of regulations by which alone 
well governed societies, great and small, sub- 
sist. She who has the best regulated mind will, 
other things being equal, have the best regulat- 
ed family. As in the superintendance of the 
universe, wisdom is seen in its effects ; and as 
in the visible works of Providence that which 
goes on with such beautiful regularity is the re- 
sult not of chance but of design, so that manage- 



364 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ment which seems the most easy is commonly 
the consequence of the best concerted plan : and 
a well concerted plan is seldom the offspring of 
an ordinary mind. A sound economy is a sound 
understanding- brought into action : it is calcu- 
lation realized ; it is the doctrine of proportion 
reduced to practice : it is foreseeing conse- 
quences, and guarding against them ; it is ex- 
pecting contingencies and being prepared for 
them. The difference is, that to a narrow 
minded vulgar economist, the details are conti- 
nually present ; she is overwhelmed by their 
weight, and is perpetually bespeaking your pity 
for her labours, and your praise for her exer- 
tions ; she is afraid you will not see how much 
she is harassed. She is not satisfied that the 
machine moves harmoniously, unless she is per- 
petually exposing every secret spring to obser- 
vation. Little events and trivial operations en- 
gross her whole soul ; while a woman of sense, 
having provided for their probable recurrence, 
guards against the inconveniences, without be- 
ing disconcerted by the casual obstructions 
which they offer to her general scheme. Sub- 
ordinate expenses and inconsiderable retrench- 
ments should not swallow up that attention 
which is better bestowed on regulating the ge- 
neral scale of expense ; correcting and reducing 
an overgrown establishment, and reforming ra- 
dical and growing excesses. 

Superior talents, however, are not so common, 
as, by their frequency, to offer much disturb- 
ance to the general course of human affairs : 
and many a lady, who tacitly accuses herself of 
neglecting her ordinary duties because she is a 
genius, will perhaps be found often to accuse 
herself as unjustly as good St. Jerome, when he 
laments that he was beaten by the angel for be- 
ing too Ciceronian in his style. 

The truth is, women who are so puffed up 
with the conceit of talents as to neglect the plain 
duties of life, will not frequently be found to be 
women of the best abilities. And here may the 
author be allowed the gratification of observing, 
that those women of real genius and extensive 
knowledge, whose friendship has conferred ho- 
nour and happiness on her own life, have been, 
in general, eminent for economy and the prac- 
tice of domestic virtues ; and have risen superior 
to the poor affectation of neglecting the duties 
and despising the knowledge of common life, 
with which literary women have been frequent- 
ly, and not always unjustly, accused. 

A romantic girl with a pretension to senti- 
ment, which her still more ignorant friends 
mistake for genius (for in the empire of the blind 
the one-eyed are kings) and possessing some- 
thing of a natural ear, has perhaps in her child- 
hood exhausted all the images of grief, and love, 
and fancy picked up in her desultory poetical 
reading, in an elegy on a sick linnet, or a son- 
net on a dead lap-dog; she begins thencefor- 
ward to be considered as a prodigy in her little 
circle- ; surrounded with fond and flattering 
friends, every avenue to truth is shut out ; she 
has no opportunity of learning that her fame is 
derived not from her powers, but her position ; 
and that when an impartial critic shall have 
made all the necessary deductions, such as — 
that she is a neighbour, that she is a relation, 



that she is a female, that she is young, that she 
has had no advantages, that she is pretty per- 
haps — when her verses come to be stripped of 
all their extraneous appendages, and the fair 
author is driven off her ' vantage ground' of 
partiality, sex, and favour, she will commonly 
sink to the level of ordinary capacities. While 
those more quiet women, who li3ve meekly sat 
down in the humble shades of prose and pru- 
dence, by a patient perseverance in rational stu- 
dies, rise afterwards much higher in the scale 
of intellect, and acquire a much larger stock of 
sound knowledge for far better purposes than 
mere display. And though it may seem a con- 
tradiction, yet it will generally be found true, 
that girls who take to scribble, are the least stu- 
dious, the least reflecting, and the least rational. 
They early acquire a false confidence in their 
own unassisted powers : it becomes more grati- 
fying to their natural vanity to be always pour- 
ing out their minds on paper, than to be draw- 
ing into them fresh ideas from richer sources. 
The original slock, small perhaps at first, is 
soon spent. The subsequent efforts grow more 
and more feeble, if the mind which is continu- 
ally exhausting itself, be not also continually 
replenished ; till the latter compositions become 
little more than reproductions of the same ideas, 
and fainter copies of the same images, a little 
varied and modified perhaps, and not a little di 
luted and enfeebled. 

It will be necessary to combat vigilantly that 
favourite plea of lively ignorance, that study is 
an enemy to originality. Correct the judgment, 
while you humble the vanity of the young un- 
taught pretender, by convincing her that those 
half- formed thoughts and undigested ideas wh.ch 
she considers as proofs of her invention, prove 
only, that she wants taste and knowledge. That 
while conversation must polish and reflection 
invigorate her ideas, she must improve and en- 
large them by the accession of various kinds of 
virtue and elegant literature ; and that the cul- 
tivated mind will repay with large interest the 
seeds sown in it by judicious study. Let it be 
observed, I am by no means encouraging young 
ladies to turn authors : I am only reminding 
them, that 

Authors before they write should read. 

I am only putting them in mind that to be ig- 
norant is not to be original. 

These self-taught, and self-dependant scrib- 
blers pant for the unmerited and unattainable 
praise of fancy and of genius, while they disdain 
the commendation of judgment, knowledge, and 
perseverance which would probably be within 
their reach. To extort admiration they are ac- 
customed to boast of an impossible rapidity in 
composing ; and while they insinuate how little 
time their performances cost them, they intend 
you should infer how perfect they might have 
made them had they condescended to the drudg 
ery of application : but application with them 
implies defect of genius. They take superfluous 
pains to convince you that there was neither 
learning nor labour employed in the work for 
which they solicit your praise : Alas ! the judi- 
cious eye too soon perceives it ! though it does 
not perceive that native strength and mother 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



365 



wit, which in works of real genius make some 
amends for the negligence, which yet they do 
not justify. But instead of extolling those effu- 
sions for their facility, it would be kind in 
friends rather to blame them for their crudeness : 
and when the young candidates for fame, are 
eager to prove in how short a time such a poem 
has been struck off, it would be well to regret 
that they had not either taken a longer time, or 
refrained from writing at all ; as in the former 
case the work would have been less defective, 
and in the latter the writer would have discover- 
ed more humility, and self-distrust. 

A general capacity for knowledge, and the 
cultivation of the understanding at large, will 
always put a woman into the best state of di- 
recting her pursuits into those particular chan- 
nels which her destination in life may after- 
wards require. But she should be carefully in- 
structed that her talents are only a means to a 
still higher attainment, and that she is not to 
rest in them as an end : that merely to exercise 
them as instruments for the acquisition of fame 
and the promotion of pleasure is subversive of 
her dclicay as a woman, and contrary to the 
spirit of a christian. 

Study, therefore, is to be considered as the 
means of strengthening the mind, and of fitting 
it for higher duties, just as exercise is to be con- 
sidered as an instrument for strengthening the 
bod)' for the same purpose ! And the valetudi- 
narian who is religiously punctual in the obser- 
vance of his daily rides to promote his health, and 
rests in that as an end, without so much as in- 
tending to make his improved health an instru- 
ment of increased usefulness, acts on the same 
low and selfish principle with her who reads 
merely for pleasure and for fame, without any 
design of devoting the more enlarged and invi- 
gorated mind to the glory of the Giver. . 

But there is one human consideration which 
would perhaps more effectually tend to damp in 
an aspiring woman the ardours of literary vanity 
(I speak not of real genius, though there the re- 
mark often applies) than any which she will de- 
rive from motives of humility, or propriety, or 
religion ; which is, that in the judgment passed 
on her performances, she will have to encounter 
the mortifying circumstance of having her sex 
always taken into account ; and her highest ex- 
ertions will probably be received with the quali- 
fied approbation that it is really extraordinary 
for a woman. Men of learning, who are natu- 
rally inclined to estimate works in proportion as 
they appear to be the result of art, study, and 
institution, are inclined to consider even the 
happier performances of the other sex as the 
spontaneous productions of a fruitful but shallow 
soil ; and to give them the same kind of praise 
which we bestow on certain sallads, which often 
draw from us a sort of wondering commenda- 
tion, not indeed as being worth much in them- 
selves, but because by the lightness of the earth, 
and a happy knack in the gardener, these in- 
different cresses spring up in a night, and there- 
fore we are ready to wonder they are no worse. 

As to men of sense, however, they need be 
the less hostile to the improvement of the other 
sex, as they themselves will be sure to be gainers 
by it; the enlargement of the female understand- 



ing being the most likely means to put an end 
to those petty and absurd contentions for equality 
which female smatterers so anxiously maintain. 
I say smatterers, for between the first class of 
both sexes the question is much more, rarely, and 
always more temperately agitated. Co-operation 
and not competition is indeed the clear principle 
we wish to see reciprocally adopted by those 
higher minds in each sex which readily approxi- 
mate the nearest to each other. The more a wo- 
man's understanding is improved, the more ob- 
viously she will discern that there can be no hap- 
piness in any society where there is a perpetual 
struggle for power ; and the more her judgment is 
rectified, the more accurate views will she take 
of the station she was born to fill, and the more 
readily will she accommodate herself to it ; 
while the most vulgar and ill informed women 
are ever most inclined to be tyrants, and those 
always struggle most vehemently for power, 
who feel themselves at the greatest distance from 
deserving it; and who would not fail to make 
the worst use of it when attained. Thus the 
weakest reasoners are always the most positive 
in debate ; and the cause is obvious, for they are 
unavoidably driven to maintain their pretensions 
by violence, who want arguments and reasons 
to prove that they are in the right. 

There is this singular difference between a 
woman vain of her wit, and a woman vain of 
her beauty ; that the beauty while she is an- 
xiously alive to her own fame, is often indiffer- 
ent enough about the beauty of other women , 
and provided she herself is sure of your admira- 
tion, she does not insist on your thinking that 
there is another handsome woman in the world ; 
while she who is vain of her genius, more liberal 
at least in her vanity, is jealous for the honour 
of her whole sex, and contends for the equality 
of their pretensions as a body, in which she feels 
that her own are involved as an individual. 
The beauty vindicates her own rights, the wit 
the rights of women ; the beauty fights for her- 
self; the wit for a party ; and while the more 
selfish though more moderate beauty 

would but be queen for life, 

the public spirited wit struggles to abrogate the 
Salique law of intellect, and to enthrone 

a whole sex of queens. 

At the revival of letters in the sixteenth ana 
the following century, the controversy about 
this equality was agitated with more warmth 
than wisdom ; and the process was instituted 
and carried on, on the part of the female com- 
plainant, with that sort of acrimony which al- 
ways raises a suspicion of the justice of any 
cause ; for violence commonly implies doubt, 
and invective indicates weakness rather than 
strength. The novelty of that knowledge that 
was then bursting out from the dawn of a long 
dark night, kindled all the ardours of a female 
mind, and the ladies fought zealously for a por- 
tion of that renown which the reputation of 
learning was beginning to bestow. Besides 
their own pens, they had for their advocates all 
those needy authors who had any thing to hope 
from their power, their riches or their influence ; 
and so giddy did some of these literary .adies 



366 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



become by the adulation of their numerous pane- 
gyrists, that through these repeated draughts 
ofinebriating praise, they even lost their former 
moderate measure of sober-mindedness, and 
grew to despise the equality for which they had 
before contended, as a state below their merit, 
and unworthy of their acceptance. They now 
scorned to litigate for what they had already 
thought they obviously possessed, and nothing 
6hort of the palm of superiority was at length 
considered as adequate to their growing claims. 
When court-ladies and princesses were the can- 
didates, they could not long want champions to 
support their cause ; by*these champions female 
authorities were produced as if paramount to 
facts ; quotations from these female authors 
were considered as proofs, and their point-blank 
assertions stood for solid and irrefragable argu- 
ments. In those parasites who offered this 
homage to female genius, the homage was the 
effect neither of truth, nor of justice, nor of con- 
viction. It arose rather out of gratitude, or it 
was a reciprocation of flattery ; it was sometimes 
vanity, it was often distress, which prompted 
the adulation ; it was the want of a patroness ; 
it was the want of a dinner. When a lady, and 
especially as it then often happened, when a 
lady who was noble or royal sat with gratifying 
docility at the foot of a professor's chair ; when 
she admired the philosopher, or took upon her to 
protect the theologian, whom his rivals among 
his own sex were tearing to pieces, what could 
the grateful professor or delighted theologian do 
less in return than make the apotheosis of her 
who had the penetration to discern his merit and 
the spirit to reward it ? Thus in fact it was not 
so much her vanity as his own, that he was often 
flattering, though she was the dupe of her more 
deep and designing panegyrist. 

But it is a little unfortunate for the perpetuity 
of that fame which the encomiast had made 
over to his patroness, in the never-dying records 
of his verses and orations, that in the revolution 
of a century or two the names of the flattered 
are now almost as little known as the works 
of the flatterers. Their memorial is perished 
with them.* An instructive lesson, reminding 
us that whoever bestows, or assumes a reputa- 
tion disproportioned to the merit of the claimant, 
will find that reputation as little durable as it is 
solid. For this literary warfare which engaged 
such troops of the second-hand authors of the 
age in question in such continual skirmishes, 
and not a few pitched battles ; which provoked 
so much rancour, so many volumes, and so little 
wit ; so much vanity, so much flattery, and so 
much invective, produced no useful nor lasting 
effect. Those who promised themselves that 
their names would outlive ' one half of round 
eternity,' did not reach the end of the century 
in which the boast was made ; and those who 
prodigally offered the incense, and those who 
greedily snuffed up the fumes, are buried in the 
same blank oblivion ! 

But when the temple of Janus seemed to have 
Deen closed ; or when at worst the peace was 
only occasionally broken by a slight and random 
shot from the hand of some single straggler ; 

* See Brantome, Pere le Moine, Mona. Thomas, &c. 



it appears that though open rebellion had ceased, 
yet the female claim had not been renounced; 
it had only (if we may change the metaphor) 
lain in abeyance. The contest has recently 
been revived with added fury, and with multi. 
plied exactions ; for whereas the ancient demand 
was merely a kind of imaginary prerogative, a 
speculative importance, a mere titular right, a 
shadowy claim to a few unreal acres of Parnas- 
sian territory ; the revived contention has taken 
a more serious turn, and brings forward poli- 
tical as well as intellectual pretensions ; and 
among the innovations of this innovating period, 
the imposing term of rights has been produced 
to sanctify the claim of our female pretenders, 
with a view not only to rekindle in the minds of 
women a presumptuous vanity dishonourable to 
their sex, but produced with a view to excite in 
their hearts an impious discontent with the post 
which God has assigned them in this world. 

But they little understand the true interests 
of woman who would lift her from the impor- 
tant duties of her allotted station, k» fill with 
fantastic dignity a loftier but less appropriate 
niche. Nor do they understand her true hap- 
piness, who seek to annihilate distinctions from 
which she derives advantages, and to attempt 
innovations which would depreciate her real 
value. Each sex has its proper excellencies 
which would be lost, were they melted down 
into the common character by the fusion of 
the new philosophy. Why should we do 
away distinctions which increase the mutual 
benefits and enhance the satisfactions of life ? 
Whence, but by carefully preserving the original 
marks of difference stamped by the hand of the 
Creator, would be derived the superior advan- 
tage of mixed society ? Is either sex so abound- 
ing in perfection as to be independent on the 
other for improvement ? Have men no need to 
have their rough angles filed off, and their harsh- 
ness and asperities smoothed and polished by 
assimilating with beings of more softness and 
refinement ! Are the ideas of women naturally 
so very judicious, are their principles soinvinci- 
My firm, are their views so perfectly correct, are 
their judgments so completely exact, that there 
is occasion for no additional weight, no super- 
added strength, no increased clearness, none of 
that enlargement of mind, none of that addi- 
tional invigoration which may be derived from 
the aids of the stronger sex ? What identity 
could advantageously supercede such an enliven- 
ing opposition, such an interesting variety of 
character? Is it not then more wise, as well as 
more honourable to move contentedly in the 
plain path which Providence has obviously 
marked out to the sex, and in which custom has 
for the most part rationally confirmed them, 
rather than to stray, awkwardly, unbecomingly, 
and unsuccessfully, in a forbidden road ? Is it 
not desirable to be the lawful possessors of a 
lesser domestic territory, rather than the turbu- 
lent usurpers of a wider foreign empire? to be 
good originals, than bad imitators? to be the 
best thing of one's own kind, rather than an infe- 
rior thing even if it were of an higher kind? to be 
excellent women rather than indifferent men ? 

Is the author then undervaluing her own sex ? 
— No. It is her zeal for their true interests 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



3G7 



which leads her to oppose their imaginary rights. 
It is her regard for their happiness which makes 
her endeavour to cure them of a feverish thirst 
for a fame as unattainable as inappropriate ; to 
guard them against an ambition as little becom- 
ing the delicacy of their female character as the 
meekness of their religious profession. A little 
Christian humility and sober-mindedness are 
worth all the empty renown which was ever at- 
tained by the misapplied energies of the sex ; 
it is worth all the wild metaphysical discussion 
which has ever been obtruded under the name 
of reason and philosophy ; which has unsettled 
the peace of vain women, and forfeited the re- 
spect of reasonable men. And the most elabo- 
rate definition of ideal rights, and the most hardy 
measures for obtaining them, are of less value 
in the eyes of a truly amiable woman, than ' that 
meek and quiet spirit which is in the sight of 
God of great price.' 

Natural propensities best mark the designa- 
tions of Providence as to their application. The 
fin was not more clearly bestowed on the fish 
that he should swim, nor the wing given to the 
bird that he should fly, than superior strength 
of body, and a firmer texture of mind was given 
to man, that he might preside in the deep and 
daring scenes of action and of council ; in the 
complicated arts of government, in the conten- 
tion of arms, in the intricacies and depths of 
science, in the bustle of commerce, and in those 
professions which demand a higher reach, and 
a wider range of powers. The true value of 
woman is not diminished by the imputation of 
inferiority in those talents which do not belong 
to her, of those qualities in which her claim to 
excellence does not consist. She has other re- 
quisites, better adapted to answer the end and 
purposes of her being, from ' Him who does all 
things well ;' who suits the agent to the ac- 
tion ; who accommodates the instrument to the 
work. 

Let not then aspiring, because ill-judging 
woman, view with pining envy the keen satirist, 
hunting vice through all the doublings and wind- 
ings of the heart; the sagacious politician, lead- 
ing senates and directing- the fate of empires ; 
the acute lawyer, detecting the obliquities of 
fraud ; and the skilful dramatist, exposing the 
pretensions of folly ; but let her atrrbition be 
consoled by reflecting, that those who thus ex- 
cel, to all that Nature bestows, and books can 
teach, must add besides, that consummate know- 
ledge of the world, -to which a delicate woman 
has no fair avenues, and which even if she could 
attain, she would never be supposed to have 
come honestly*by. 

In almost all that comes under the description 
of polite letters, in all that captivates by image- 
ry, or warms by just and affecting sentiment, 
women are excellent. They possess in a high 
degree that delicacy and quickness of perception, 
and that nice discernment between the beautiful 
and defective which comes under the denomina- 
ion of taste. Both in composition and action 
hey excel in details ; but they do not so much 
generalize their ideas as men, nor do their minds 
seize a great subject with so large a grasp. 
They are acute observers, and accurate judges 
of life and manners, as far as their own sphere 



of observation extends ; but they describe a 
smaller circle. A woman sees the world, as i» 
were, from a little elevation in her own garden, 
whence she makes an exact survey of home 
scenes, but takes not in that wider range of dis- 
tant prospects which he who stands on a loftier 
eminence commands. Women have a certain 
tact which often enables them to feel what is 
just, more instantaneously than they can define 
it. They have an intuitive penetration into 
character, bestowed on them by Providence, like 
the sensitive and tender organs of some timid 
animals, as a kind of natural guard to warn, of 
the approach of danger, beings who are often 
called to act defensively. 

In summing up the evidence, if I may so 
speak, of the different capacities of the sexes, 
one may venture, perhaps, to assert, that women 
have equal parts, but are inferior in wholeness 
of mind, in the integral understanding : that 
though a superior woman may possess single 
faculties in equal perfection, yet there is com- 
monly a juster proportion in the mind of a su- 
perior man : that if women have in an equal 
degree the faculty of fancy which creates images, 
and the faculty of memory which collects and 
stores ideas, they seem not to possess in equal 
measure the faculty of comparing, combining, 
analysing, and separating these ideas ; that deep 
and patient thinking which goes to the bottom 
of a subject; nor that pow.er of arrangement 
which knows how to link a thousand connected 
ideas in one dependant train, without losing 
sight of the original idea out of which the rest 
grow, and on which they all hang. The female 
too, wanting steadiness in her intellectual pur- 
suits, is perpetually turned aside by her charac- 
teristic tastes and feelings. Woman in the ca- 
reer of genius, is the Atalanta, who will risk 
losing the race by running out of her road to 
pick up the golden apple ; while her male com- 
petitor, without, perhaps, possessing greater na- 
tural strength or swiftness, will more certainly 
attain his object, by direct pursuit, by being 
less' exposed to the seductions of extraneous 
beauty, and will win the race, not by excelling 
in speed, but by despising the bait* 

Here it may be justly enough retorted, that 
as it is allowed the education of women is so de- 
fective, the alleged inferiority of their minds 
may be accounted for on that ground, more 
justly than by ascribing it to their natural make. 
And, indeed, there is so much truth in the re- 
mark, that till women shall be more reasonably 
educated, and till the native growth of their 
mind shall cease to be stinted and cramped, we 
have no juster ground for pronouncing that their 
understanding has already reached its highest 
attainable point, than the Chinese would have 
for affirming that their women have attained to 
thegreatest possible perfection in walking, whilst 
the first care is, during their infancy, to cripple 
their feet ! At least, till the female sex are more 
carefully instructed, this question will always 

* What indisposes even reasonable women to concede 
in these points is, that the weakest man instantly lays 
hold on the concession ; and on the mere ground of sex, 
plumes himself on his own individual superiority , in- 
ferring that the silliest man is superior to the first rate 
woman. 



363 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



remain as undecided as to the degree of differ- 
ence between the masculine and feminine un- 
derstanding, as the question between the under- 
standings of blacks and whites ; for until men 
and women, and until Africans and Europeans 
are put more nearly on a par in the cultivation 
of their minds, the shades of distinction, what- 
ever they be, between their native abilities, can 
never be fairly ascertained. 

And when we see (and who will deny that we 
see it frequently ?) so many women nobly rising 
from under all the pressure of a disadvantageous 
education, and a defective system of society, 
and exhibiting the most unambiguous marks of 
a vigorous understanding, a correct judgment, 
and a sterling piety, it reminds us of those shi- 
ning lights which have now and then burst out 
through all the ' darkness visible' of the Romish 
church, have disencumbered themselves from 
the gloom of ignorance, shaken off the fetters of 
prejudice, and with a noble energy risen supe- 
rior to all the errors of a corrupt theology. 

But whatever characteristical distinctions may 
exist ; whatever inferiority may be attached to 
woman from the slighter frame of her body, or 
the more circumscribed powers of her mind ; 
from a less systematic education, and from the 
subordinate station she is called to fill in life ; 
there is one great and leading circumstance 
which raises her importance, and even establishes 
her equality. Christianity has exalted women 
to true and undisputed dignity ; in Christ Jesus, 
as there is neither ' rich nor poor,' ' bond nor 
free,' so there is neither ' male nor female.' In 
the view of that immortality, which is brought 
to light by the Gospel, she has no superior. 
' Women" (to borrow the idea of an excellent 
prelate) ' make up one half of the human race ; 
equally with men redeemed by the blood of 
Christ.' In this their true dignity consists ; 
here their best pretensions rest ; here their high- 
est claims are allowed. 

All disputes then for pre-eminence between 
the sexes, have only for their object the poor 
precedence for a few short years, the attention 
of which would be better devoted to the duties 
of life and the interests of eternity. 

And as the final hope of the female sex is 
equal, so are their present means, perhaps, more 
favourable, and their opportunities, often, less 
obstructed than those of the other sex. In their 
Christian course, women have every superior 
advantage, whether wo consider the natural 
make of their minds, their leisure for acquisi- 
tion in youth, or their subsequently less exposed 
mode of life. Their hearts are naturally soft 
and flexible, open to impressions of love and gra- 
titude ; their feelings tender and lively ; all these 
are favourable to the cultivation of a devotional 
spirit. Yet while we remind them of these na- 
tive benefits, they will do well to be on their 
guard lest this very softness and ductility lay 
them more open to the seductions of temptation 
and error. 

They have in the native constitution of their 
minds, as well as from the relative situations 
they are called to fill, a certain sense of attach- 
ment and dependance, which is peculiarly fa- 
vourable to religion. They feel, perhaps, more 
intimately the want of a strength which is not 



their own. Christianity brings that superindu- 
ced strength ; it comes in aid of their conscious 
weakness, and offers the only true counterpoise 
to it. — ' Woman be thou healed of thine infirmi- 
ty,' is still the heart-cheering language of a gra- 
cious Saviour. 

Women also bring to the study of Christianity 
fewer of those prejudices which persons of the 
other sex too often early contract. Men, from 
their classical education, acquire a strong par- 
tiality for the manners of pagan antiquity, and 
the documents of pagan philosophy : this, to- 
gether with the impure taint caught from the 
loose descriptions of their poets, and the licen- 
tious language even of their historians (in whom 
we reasonably look for more gravity) often 
weakens the good impressions of young men, 
and at least confuses their ideas of piety, by 
mixing them with so much heterogeneous mat- 
ter. Their very spirits are imbued all the week 
with the impure follies of a depraved mytholo- 
gy ; and it is well if even on Sundays they can 
hear of the ' true God, and Jesus Christ whom 
he has sent.' While women, though struggling 
with the same natural corruptions, have com- 
monly less knowledge to unknow, and fewer 
schemes to unlearn ; they have not to shake off 
the pride of system, and to disencumber their 
minds from the shackles of favourite theories : 
they do not bring from the porch or the acade- 
my any ' oppositions of science' to obstruct their 
reception of those pure doctrines taught on the 
Mount: doctrines which ought to find a readier 
entrance into minds uninfected with the pride 
of the school of Zeno, or the libertinism of that 
of Epicurus. 

And as women are naturally more affectionate 
than fastidious, they are likely both to read and 
to hear with a less critical spirit than men : they 
will not be on the watch to detect errors, so 
much as to gather improvement ; they have sel- 
dom that hardness which is acquired by dealing 
deeply in books of controversy, but are more in- 
clined to the perusal of works which quicken 
the devotional feelings, than to such as awaken 
a spirit of doubt and scepticism. They are less 
disposed to consider the compositions they read, 
as materials on which to ground objections and 
answers, than as helps to faith and rules of life. 
With these advantages, however, they should 
also bear in mind that their more easily received 
impressions being often less abiding, and their 
reason less open to conviction by means of the 
strong evidences which exist in favour of the 
truth of Christianity, ' they ought, therefore, to 
give the more earnest heed to the things which 
they have heard, lest at any time they should 
let them slip.' Women are, also, from their do- 
mestic habits, in possession of more leisure and 
tranquility for religious pursuits, as well as se- 
cured from those difficulties and strong tempta- 
tions to which men are exposed in the tumult 
of a bustling world. Their lives are more re- 
gular and uniform, less agitated by the passions, 
the businesses, the contentions, the shock of opi- 
nions, and the opposition of interests which di- 
vide society and convulse the world. 

If we have denied them the possession of ta 
lents which might lead them to excel as lawyers, 
they are preserved from the peril of having their 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MOKE. 



369 



principles warped by that too indiscriminate de- 
fence of right and wrong, to which the profes- 
sors of the law are exposed. If we should ques- 
tion their title to eminence as mathematicians, 
they are happily exempt from the danger to 
which men devoted to that science are said to 
be liable : namely, that of looking for demon- 
stration on subjects, which by their very nature, 
are incapable of affording it. If they are less 
conversant in the powers of nature, the struc- 
ture of the human frame, and the knowledge of 
the heavenly bodies than philosophers, physi- 
cians, and astronomers ; they are, however, de- 
livered from the error into which many of each 
of these have sometimes fallen, I mean from the 
fatal habit of resting in second causes, instead 
of referring all to the first; instead of making 
1 the heavens declare the glory of God, and pro- 
claim his handy work ;' instead of concluding, 
when they observe ' how fearfully and wonder- 
fully we are made, marvellous are thy works 
O Lord, and that my soul knoweth right well.' 

And let the weaker sex take comfort, that in 
their very exemption from privileges, which 
they are sometimes foolishly disposed to envy, 
consists not only their security, but their hap- 
piness. If they enjoy not the distinctions of 
public life and high offices, do they not escape 
the responsibility attached to them, and the mor- 
tification of being dismissed from them ? If 
they have no voice in deliberative assemblies, do 
they not avoid the load of duty inseparably con- 
nected with such privileges ? Preposterous pains 
have been taken to excite in women an uneasy 
jealousy, that their talents are neither rewarded 
with public honours nor emoluments in life ; 
nor with inscriptions, statues, and mausoleums 
after death. It has been absurdly represented 
to them as an hardship, that while they are ex- 
pected to perform duties, they must yet be con- 
tent to relinquish honours, and must unjustly be 
compelled to renounce fame, while they must 
sedulously labour to deserve it. 

But for christian women to act on the low 
views suggested to them by their ill-judging 
panegyrists ; for christian women to look up 
with a giddy head and a throbbing heart, to 
honours and remunerations, so little suited to 
the wants and capacities of an immortal spirit, 
would be no less ridiculous than if christian 
heroes should look back with an envy on th6 
old pagan reward of ovations, oak garlands, 
parsley crowns, and laurel wreaths. The Chris- 
tian hope more than reconciles Christian wo- 
men to these petty privations, by substituting a 
nobler prize for their ambition, 'the prize of the 
high calling of God in Christ Jesus ;' by sub- 
stituting, for that popular and fluctuating voice, 
which may cry, ' Hosanna,' and ' crucify' in a 
breath, that ' favour of God which is eternal life.' 

If women should lament it as a disadvantage 
attached to their sex, that their character is of 
so delicate a texture as to be sullied by the 
slightest breath of calumny, and that the stain 
once received is indelible ; yet are they not led 
by that very circumstance as if indistinctively 
to shrink from all those irregularities to which 
the loss of character is so certainly expected to 
be attached ; and to shun with keener circum- 
spection the most distant approach towards the 

Vol. I. A 2 



confines of danger? Let them not lament it aa 
an hardship, but account it as a privilege, that 
the delicacy of their sex impels them more 
scrupulously to avoid the very ' appearance of 
evil ;' let them not regret that the conscious- 
ness of their danger serves to secure their purity 
by placing them at a greater distance, and in a 
more deep intrenchment from the evil itself. 

Though it be one main object of this little 
work, rather to lower than to raise any desire 
of celebrity in the female heart ; yet I would 
awaken it to a just sensibility to honest fame : 
I would call on women to reflect that our reli- 
gion has not only made them heirs to a blessed 
immortality hereafter, but has greatly raised 
them in the scale of being here, by lifting them 
to an importance in society unknown to the 
most polished ages of antiquity. The religion 
of Christ has even bestowed a degree of renown 
on the sex beyond what any other religion ever 
did. Perhaps there are hardly so many virtuouB 
women (for I reject the long catalogue whom 
their vices have transferred from oblivion to in- 
famy) named in all the pages of Greek or Roman 
history, as are handed down to eternal fame, in 
a few of those short chapters with which the 
great Apostle to the Gentiles has concluded his 
epistles to his converts. ' Of devout and hon- 
ourable women,' the sacred scriptures record 
' not a few.' Some of the most affecting scenes, 
the most interesting transactions, and the most 
touching conversations which are recorded of 
the Saviour of the world, passed with women. 
Their examples have supplied some of the most 
eminent inatances of faith and love. They ars 
the first remarked as having ' ministered to him 
of their substance.' Theirs was the praise of 
not abandoning their despised Redeemer when 
he was led to execution, and under all the hope- 
less circumstances of his ignominious death , 
they appear to have been the last attending at 
his tomb, and the first on the morning when ho 
arose from it. Theirs was the privilege of re- 
ceiving the earliest consolation from their risen 
Lord ; theirs was the honour of being first com- 
missioned to announce his glorious resurrection. 
And even to have furnished heroic confessors, 
devoted saints, and unshrinking martyrs to the 
Church of Christ, has not been the exclusive 
honour of the bolder sex. 



CHAP. XV. 

Co.wersation. — Hints suggested on the sulject. 
— On the tempers and dispositions to be intro- 
duced in it. — Errors to be avoided. Vanity 
under various shapes the cause of those errors. 

The sexes will naturally desire to appear to 
each other, such as each believes the other will 
best like ; their conversation will act recipro- 
cally ; and each sex will wish to appear more or 
less rational as they perceive it will more or 
less recommend them to the other. It is there- 
fore to be regretted, that many men, even of 
distinguished sense and learning, are too apt to 
consider the society of ladies as a scene in which 
they are rather to rest their understandings, 



370 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



than to exercise them ; while ladies, in return, 
are too much addicted to make their court by 
lending themselves to this spirit of trifling; 
they often avoid making use of what abilities 
they have ; and affect to talk below their natural 
and acquired powers of mind ; considering it as 
a tacit and welcome flattery to the understand- 
ing of men, to renounce the exercise of their 
own. 

Now since taste and principles thus mutually 
operate; men, by keeping up conversation to its 
proper standard, would not only call into exer- 
cise the powers of mind which women actually 
possess ; but would even awaken in them new 
energies which they do not know they possess ; 
and men of sense would find their account in 
doing this, for their own talents would be more 
highly rated by companions who were better 
able to appreciate them ; and they would be re- 
ceiving as well as imparting improvement. 
And on the other hand, if young women found 
it did not often recommend them in the eyes of 
those whom they most wish to please, to be 
frivolous and superficial, they would become 
more sedulous in correcting their own habits. 
Whenever fashionable women indicate a relish 
for instructive conversation, men will not be 
apt to hazard what is vain, or unprofitable ; much 
less will they ever presume to bring forward 
what is loose or corrupt, where some signal has 
not been previously given, that it will be accep- 
table, or at least that it will be pardoned. 

Ladies commonly bring into company minds 
already too much relaxed by petty pursuits, 
rather than overstrained by intense application. 
The littleness of the employments in which they 
are usually engaged, does not so exhaust their 
spirits as to make them stand in -need of that 
relaxation from company which severe applica- 
tion or overwhelming business makes requisite 
for studious or public men. The due conside- 
ration of this circumstance might serve to bring 
the sexes more nearly on a level in society ; and 
each might meet the other half way ; for that 
degree of lively and easy conversation, which is 
a necessary refreshment to the learned and the 
busy, would not decrease in pleasantness by 
being made of so rational a cast as would yet 
somewhat raise the minds of women, who com- 
monly seek society as a scene of pleasure, not as 
a refuge from intense thought or exhausting la- 
bour. 

It is a disadvantage even to those women who 
keep the best company, that it is unhappily 
almost established into a system, by the other 
sex, to postpone every thing like instructive 
discourse till the ladies are withdrawn ; their 
retreat serving as a kind of signal for the exer- 
cise of intellect. And in the few cases in which 
it happens that any important discussion takes 
place in their presence, they are for the most 
part considered as having little interest in 
serious subjects. Strong truths, whenever such 
happen to be addressed to them, are either di- 
luted with flattery, or kept back in part, or 
softened to their taste ; or if the ladies express a 
wish for information on any point, they are put 
off with a compliment, instead of a reason. 
They are reminded of their beauty when they 
are seeking to inform their understanding, and 



are considered as beings who must be contented 
to behold every thing through a false medium, 
and who are not expected to see and to judge of 
things as they really exist. 

Do we then wish to see, the ladies, whose 
want of opportunities leaves them so incompe 
tent on many points, and the modesty of whoas 
sex ought never to allow them even to be as 
shining as they are able; do we wish to see 
them take the lead in metaphysical disquisi- 
tions ? Do you wish them to plunge into the 
depths of theological polemics, 

And find no end in wand'ring mazes lost? 

Do we wish them to revive the animosities of 
the Bangorian controversy, or to decide the pro- 
cess between the Jesuits and the five proposi- 
tions of Janscnius ? Do we wish to enthrone 
them in the professor's chair, to deliver oracles, 
harangues, and dissertations ? to weigh the 
merits of every new production in the scales of 
Quintilian, or to regulate the unities of drama- 
tic composition by Aristotle's clock 1 Or re- 
nouncing those foreign aids, do we desire to 
behold them vain of a native independence of 
soul, inflated with their original powers, labour- 
ing to strike out sparks of wit, with a restless 
anxiety to shine, which generally fails, and with 
an anxious affectation to please, which never 
pleases ? 

Diseurs de bon mots, fades caracteresl 

All this be far from them ! — But we do wish 
to see the conversation of well-bred women 
rescued from vapid common place, from unin- 
teresting tattle, from trite and hackneyed com- 
munications, from frivolous earnestness, from 
false sensibility, from a warm interest about 
things of no moment, and an indifference to 
topics the most important ; from a cold vanity, 
from the ill concealed overflowings of self-love, 
exhibiting itself under the smiling mask of an 
engaging flattery, and from all the factitious 
manners of artificial intercourse. We do wish 
to see the time passed in polished and intelligent 
society, considered among the beneficial, as well 
as the pleasant portions of our existence, and 
not consigned over, as it too frequently is, to 
premeditated triflings, to empty dulness, to un- 
meaning levity, to systematic unprofitableness. 
Let me not however, be misunderstood : it is 
not meant to prescribe that ladies should affect 
to discuss lofty subjects, so much as to suggest 
that they should bring good sense, simplicity, 
precision, and truth to the discussion of those 
common subjects, of which, after all, both the 
business and conversation of mankind must be 
in a great measure made up. 

•It is too well known how much the dread of 
imputed pedantry keeps otf every thing that 
verges towards learned, and the terror of im- 
puted enthusiasm frightens away any thing that 
approaches to serious conversation ; so that the 
two topics which peculiarly distinguish us, as 
rational and immortal beings, are by general 
consent in a good degree banished from the 
society of rational and immortal creatures. But 
we might almost as consistently give up the 
comforts of fire, because a few persons have been 
burnt, and the benefit of water, because some 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



371 



others have been drowned, as relinquish the en- 
joyments of intellectual, and the blessings of 
religious intercourse, because the learned world 
has sometimes been infested with pedants, and 
the religious world with fanatics. 

As in the momentous times in which we live 
it is next to impossible to pass an evening in 
company but the talk will so inevitably revert 
to politics, that without any premeditated de- 
sign, every one present shall infallibly be able 
to find out to which side the other inclines ; 
why, in the far higher concern of eternal things, 
should we so carefully shun every offered op- 
portunity of bearing even a casual testimony to 
the part we espouse in religion ? Why, while 
we make it a sort of point of conscience to leave 
no doubt on the mind of a stranger, whether we 
adopt the party of Pitt or Fox, shall we choose 
to leave it very problematical whether we belong 
to God or Baal ? Why, in religion, as well as 
in politics, should we not act like people who, 
having their all at stake, cannot forbear now 
and then adverting for a moment to the object 
of their grand concern, and dropping, at least, 
an incidental intimation of the side to which 
they belong ? 

Even the news of the day, in such an eventful 
period as the present, may lend frequent occa- 
sions to a woman of principle to declare, without 
parade, her faith in a moral Governor of the 
world ; her trust in a particular Providence ; 
her belief in the Divine Omnipotence ; her con- 
fidence in the power of God, in educing good 
from evil, in his employing wicked nations, not 
as favourites, but instruments ; her persuasion 
that present success is no proof of the Divine 
favour ; in short, some intimation that she is 
not ashamed to declare that her mind is under 
the influence of Christian faith ; that she is stea- 
dily governed by an unalterable principle, of 
which no authority is too great to make her 
ashamed, which no occasion is too trivial to call 
into exercise. A general concurrence in habi- 
tually exhibiting this spirit of decided faith and 
holy trust, would inconceivably discourage that 
pert and wakeful infidelity which is ever on the 
watch to produce itself; and, as we have alrea- 
dy observed, if women, who derive authority 
from their rank or talents, did but reflect how 
their sentiments are repeated, and how their 
authority is quoted, they would be so on their 
guard, that general society might become a 
scene of profitable communication and common 
improvement ; and the young who are looking 
for models on which to fashion themselves, would 
become ashamed and afraid of exhibiting any 
thing like levity, or scepticism, or profaneness. 

Let it be understood, that it is not meant to 
intimate that serious subjects should make up 
the bulk of conversation ; this, as it is impossi- 
ble, would also often be improper. It is not in- 
tended to suggest that they should be abruptly 
introduced, or unsuitably prolonged ; but only 
that they should not be systematically shunned ; 
nor the brand of fanaticism be fixed on the per- 
son who, with whatever propriety hazards the 
introduction of such subjects. It is evident, 
however, that this general dread of serious to- 
pics arises a good deal from an ignorance of the 
true nature of Christianity ; people avoM it on 



the principle expressed by the vulgar phrase of 
the danger of playing with edge tools. They 
conceive of religion as something which involves 
controversy, and dispute; something either me- 
lancholy or mischievous ; something of an in- 
flammatory nature which is to stir up ill hu- 
mours and hatred ; they consider it as a question 
which has two sides; as of a sort of party-busi- 
ness which sets friends at variance. So much 
is this notion adopted, that I have seen announ- 
ced two works of considerable merit, in which 
it was stipulated as an attraction, that the sub- 
ject of religion, as being likely to excite anger 
and party distinctions, should be carefully ex- 
cluded. Such is. the worldly idea of the spirit 
of that religion whose direct object it was to 
bring ' peace and good will to men !' 

Women too little live or converse up to the 
standard of their understandings, and however 
we have deprecated affectation or pedantry, let it 
be remembered, that both in reading and conver- 
sing, the understanding gains more by stretch- 
ing than stooping. If by exerting itself it may 
not attain to all its desires, yet it will be sure to 
gain something. The mind by always applying 
itself to objects below its level, contracts its di- 
mensions, and shrinks itself to the size, and 
lowers itself to the level, of the object about 
which it is conversant : while the understanding 
which is active and aspiring, expands and raises 
itself, grows stronger by exercise, larger by dif- 
fusion, and richer by communication. 

But the taste of general society is not favour- 
able to improvement. The seriousness with 
which the most frivolous subjects are agitated, 
and the levity with which the most serious are 
despatched, bear a pretty exact proportion to 
each other. Society too is a sort of magic lan- 
tern ; the scene is perpetually shifting. In this 
incessant change we must 

Catch, e'er she fall, the Cynthia of the minute ; — 
and the fashion of the present minute, evanes- 
cent probably like its rapid precursors, while in 
many it leads to the cultivation of real know- 
ledge, has also not unfrequently led even the gay 
and idle to the affectation of mixing a sprinkling 
of science with the mass of dissipation. The 
ambition of appearing to be well informed breaks 
out even in those triflers who will not spare 
time from their pleasurable pursuits sufficient 
for acquiring that knowledge, of which, how- 
ever, the reputation is so desirable. A little 
smattering of philosophy often dignifies the pur- 
suits of their day, without rescuing them from, 
the vanities of the night. A course of lectures 
(that admirable assistant for enlightening the 
understanding) is not seldom resorted to as a 
means to substitute the appearance of knowledge 
for the fatigue of application. But where this 
valuable help is attended merely like any other 
public exhibition, as a fashionable pursuit, and 
is not furthered by correspondent reading at 
home it often serves to set off the reality of ig- 
norance with the affectation of skill. But in- 
stead of producing in conversation a few reign- 
ing scientific terms, with a familiarity and rea 
diness, which 

Amaze the unlearn'd, and make the learned smile, 
would it not be more modest even for those who 



' ' 



372 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



are better informed to avoid the use of technical 
terms whenever the idea can be as well conveyed 
without them ? For it argues no real ability to 
know the names of tools ; the ability lies in 
knowing their vse: and while it is in the thing, 
not in the term, that real knowledge consists, 
the charge of pedantry is attached to the use of 
the term, which would not attach to the know- 
ledge of the science. 

In the faculty of speaking well, ladies have 
such a happy promptitude of turning their slen- 
der advantages to account, that there are many 
who, though they have never been taught a rule 
of syntax, yet by a quick facility in profiting 
from the best books and the best company, hard- 
ly ever violate one ; and who often exhibit an 
elegant and perspicuous arrangement of style 
without having studied any of the laws of com- 
position. Every kind of knowledge which ap- 
pears to be the result of observation, reflection, 
and natural taste, sits gracefully on women. — 
Yet on the other hand it sometimes happens, 
that ladies of no contemptible natural parts are 
too ready to produce, not only pedantic expres- 
sions, but crude and unfounded notions; and 
still oftener to bring forward obvious and hack- 
neyed remarks; which float on the very surface 
of a subject, with the imposing air of recent in- 
vention, and all the vanity of conscious discove- 
ry. This is because their acquirements have 
not been worked into their minds by earl}' in- 
struction ; what knowledge they have gotten 
stands out as it were above the very surface of 
their minds, like the appliquee of the embroider- 
er, instead of having been interwoven with the 
growth of the piece, so as to have become a part 
of the stuff. They did npt, like men, acquire 
what t.iey know while the texture was forming. 
Perhaps no better preventive could be devised 
for this literary vanity, than early instruction : 
that woman would be less likely to be vain of 
her knowledge who did not remember the time 
when she was ignorant. Knowledge that is 
burnt in if I may so speak, is seldom obtrusive, 
rarely impertinent. 

Their reading also has probably consisted 
much in abridgments from larger works, as was 
observed in a former chapter ; this makes a rea- 
dier talker, but a shallower thinker, than the 
perusal of books of more bulk. By these scanty 
sketches, their critical powers have not been 
formed ; for in those crippled mutilations they 
have seen nothing of that just proportion of 
parts, that skilful arrangement of the plan, and 
that artful distribution of the subject, which, 
while they prove the master hand of the writer, 
seem also to form the taste of the reader, far 
more than a disjointed skeleton, or a beautiful 
feature or two, can do. The instruction of wo- 
men is also too much drawn from the scanty and 
penurious sources of short writings of the essay 
kind : this, when it comprises the best part of a 
person's reading, makes a smattcrer and spoils 
a scholar ; for though it supplies current talk, 
yet it does not make a full mind ; it does not 
furnish a storehouse of materials, to stock the 
understanding, neither does it accustom the 
mind to any trains of reflection : for the subjects, 
besides being each succinctly, and, on account 
of this brevity, superficially treated, are dislinct 



and disconnected; they arise out of no concate- 
nation of ideas, nor any dependent series of de- 
duction. Yet on this pleasant but desultory 
reading, the mind which has not been trained 
to severe exercise, loves to repose itself in a sort 
of creditable indolence, instead of stretching its 
energies in the wholesome labour of consecutive 
investigation.* 

I am not discouraging study at a late period 
of life, or even censuring slender knowledge ; 
information is good at whatever period and in 
whatever degree it be acquired. But in such 
cases it should be attended with peculiar humi- 
lity : and the new possessor should bear in mind, 
that what is fresh to her has been long known 
to others ; and she should therefore be aware of 
advancing as novel that which is common, and 
obtruding as rare that which every body pos- 
sesses. — Some ladies are eager to exhibit proofs 
of their reading, thougli at the expense of their 
judgment, and will introduce in conversation 
quotations quite irrelevant to the matter in hand, 
because they happen at the instant to recur to 
their recollection, or were, perhaps, found in the 
book they have just been reading, (inappro- 
priate quotations or strained analogy may show 
reading, but they do not show taste. That just 
and happy allusion which knows by a word 
how to awaken a corresponding image, or to 
excite in the hearer the idea which fills the 
mind of the speaker, shows less pedantry and 
more taste than bare citations ; and a mind im- 
bued with elegant knowledge will inevitably 
betray the opulence of its resources, even on to- 
pics which do not relate to science or literature. 
It is the union of parts and acquirements, of 
spirit and modesty, which produces the indefi- 
nable charm of conversation. Well-informed 
persons will easily be discovered to have read 
the best books, though they are not always de- 
tailing lists of authors ; for a muster-roll of 
names may be learnt from the catalogue as well 
as from the library. — Though honey owes its 
exquisite taste to the fragrance of the sweetest 
flowers, yet the skill of the little artificer appears 
in this, that the delicious stores are so admira- 
bly worked up, and there is such a due propor- 
tion observed in mixing them, that the perfection 
of the whole consists in its not tasting individu- 
ally of the rose, the jessamine, the carnation, or 
any of those sweets of the very essence of all 
which it is compounded. But true judgment 
will discover the infusion which true modesty 
will not display ; and even common subjects 
passing through a cultivated understanding, 
borrow a flavour of its richness. A power of 
apt selection is more valuable than any power 
of general retention ; and an apposite remark, 
which shoots straight to the point, demands a 
higher capacity of mind than an hundred simple 
acts of memory ; for the business of the memory 
is only to store up materials which the under- 
standing is to mix and work up with its native 



* The writer cannot be supposed desirous of depreci- 
ating the value of those many beautiful periodical essays 
which adorn our language. But, perhaps, it mieht be 
better to resale the mind with them singly, at different 
times, than to read, at the same sitting, a multitude of 
short pieces on dissimilar and unconnected topics, by 
way of getting through the book 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



373 



faculties, and which the judgment is to bring 
out and apply. But young- women who have 
more vivacity than sense, and more vanity than 
vivacity, often risk the charge of absurdity to 
escape that of ignorance, and will even compare 
two authors who are totally unlike, rather than 
miss the occasion to show that they have read 
both. 

Among the arts to spoil conversation some 
ladies possess that of suddenly diverting it from 
the channel in which it was beneficially flowing, 
because some word used by the person who was 
speaking has accidentally struck out a new train 
of thinking in their own minds, and not because 
the general idea expressed has struck out a cor- 
responding idea, which sort of collision is in- 
deed the way of eliciting the true fire. Young 
ladies, whose sprightliness has not been disci- 
plined by a correct education, consider how 
things may be prettily said, rather than how 
they may be prudently or seasonably spoken ; 
and willingly hazard being thought wrong, or 
rash, or vain, for the chance of being reckoned 
pleasant. The graces of rhetoric captivate them 
more than the justest deductions of reason; 
when they have no arms they use flowers, and 
to repel an argument, they arm themselves with 
a metaphor. — Those also who do not aim so 
high as eloquence, are often surprised that you 
refuse to accept of a prejudice instead of a rea- 
son ; they are apt to take up with a probability 
instead of a demonstration, and cheaply put you 
off with an assertion, when you are requiring a 
proof. The mode of education which renders 
them light in assumption, and superficial in 
reasoning, renders them also impatient of oppo- 
sition ; and if they happen to possess beauty, 
and to be vain of it, they may be tempted to 
consider that this is an additional proof of their 
being always in the right. In this case, they 
will not ask you to submit your judgment to the 
force of their argument, so much as to the au- 
thority of their charms. 

The same fault in the mind, strengthened by 
the same error (a neglected education) leads 
lively women often to pronounce on a question, 
without examining it: on any given point they 
seldomcr doubt than men ; not because they are 
more clear-sighted, but because they have not 
been accustomed to look into a subject long 
enough to discover its depths and its intricacies; 
and not discerning its difficulties, they conclude 
that it has none. Is it a contradiction to say, 
that they seem at once to be quick-sighted and 
short-sighted ? What they see at all, they com- 
monly see at once; a little difficulty discourages 
them ; and, having caught a hasty glimpse of a 
subject, they rush to this conclusion, that cither 
there is no more to be seen, or that what is be- 
hind will not pay them for the trouble of search- 
ing. They pursue their object eagerly, but not 
regularly ; rapidly, but not pertinaciously ; for 
they want that obstinate patience of investiga- 
tion which grows stouter by repulse. What 
they have not attained, they do not believe ex- 
ists : what they cannot seize at once, they per- 
suade themselves is not worth having. 

Is a subject of moment started in company ? 
While the more sagacious are deliberating on 
its difficulties, and viewing it under all its as- 



pects, in order to form a competent judgment 
before they decide ; you will often find the most 
superficial woman present determine the mat- 
ter, without hesitation. Not seeing the per- 
plexities in which the question is involved, she 
wonders at the want of penetration in the man 
whose very penetration keeps him silent. She 
secretly despises the dull perception and slow 
decision of him who is patiently untying the 
knot which she fancies she exhibits more dex- 
terity by cutting. By this shallow sprightliness, 
of which vanity is commonly the radical princi- 
ple, the most ignorant person in the company 
leads the conversation, while he whose opinion 
is best worth having is discouraged from deli- 
vering it, and an important subject is dismissed 
without discussion, by inconsequent flippancy 
and voluble rashness. It is this abundance of 
florid talk, from superficial matter, which has 
brought on so many of the sex the charge of in- 
verting the Apostle's precept, and being swift to 
speak, slow to hear. 

If the great Roman orator could observe, that 
silence was so important a part of conversation, 
that ' there was not only an art but an eloquence 
in it,' how peculiarly does the remark apply to 
the modesty of youthful females ! But the si- 
lence of listless and vapid ignorance, and the 
animated silence of sparkling intelligence, are 
two things almost as obviously distinct, as the 
wisdom and the folly of the tongue. An invio- 
lable and marked attention may show that a 
woman is pleased with a subject, and an illu- 
minated countenance may prove that she under- 
stands it almost as unequivocally as language 
itself could do ; and this, with a modest ques- 
tion, which indicates at once rational curiosity 
and becoming diffidence, is in many cases as 
large a share of the conversation as it is deco- 
rous for feminine delicacy to take. It is also 
as flattering an encouragement as men of sense 
and politeness require, for pursuing useful topics 
in the presence of women, which they would be 
more disposed to do, did they oftener gain by it 
the attention which it is natural to wish to ex- 
cite ; and did women themselves discover that 
desire of improvement which liberal-minded 
men are pleased with communicating. 

Yet do we not sometimes see an impatience 
to be heard (nor is it a feminine failing only) 
which good breeding can scarcely subdue ? And 
even when these incorrigible talkers are com- 
pelled to be quiet, is it not evident that they are 
not silent because they are listening to what is 
said, but because they are thinking of what they 
themselves shall say when they can seize the 
first lucky interval for which they are so nar- 
rowly watching? The very turn of their coun- 
tenance betrays that they do not take the slight- 
est degree of interest in any thing that is said 
by others, except with a view to lie in wait for 
any little chasm in the discourse, on which they 
may lay hold, and give vent to their own over- 
flowing vanity. 

But conversation must not be considered as a 
stage for the display of our talents, so much as 
a field for the exercise and improvement of our 
virtues ; as a means for promoting the glory of 
our Creator, and the good and happiness of our 
fellow creatures. Well-bred and intelligent 



374 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Christians are not, when they join in society, to 
consider themselves as entering- the lists like in- 
tellectual prize-fighters, in order to exhibit their 
own vigour and dexterity, to discomfit their ad- 
versary, and to bear away the palm of victory. 
Truth and not triumph should be the invariable 
object ; and there are few occasions in life, in 
which we are more unremittingly called upon 
to watch ourselves narrowly, and to resist the 
assaults of various temptations, than in conver- 
sation. Vanity, jealousy, envy, misrepresenta- 
tion, resentment, disdain, levity, impatience, in- 
sincerity, and pride, will in turn solicit to be 
gratified. Constantly to struggle against the 
desire of being- thought more wise, more witty, 
and more knowing, than those with, whom we 
associate, demands the incessant exertion of 
Christian vigilance ; a vigilance which the ge- 
nerality are far from suspecting to be at all ne- 
cessary in the intercourse of common society. 
On the contrary, cheerful conversation is rather 
considered as an exemption and release from 
watchfulness, than as an additional obligation to 
it. But a circumspect soldier of Christ will 
never be off his post ; even when he is not call- 
ed to public combat by the open assaults of his 
great spiritual enemy, he must still be acting as 
a sentinel, for the dangers of an ordinary Chris- 
tian will arise more from these little skirmishes 
which are daily happening in the warfare of 
human life, than from those pitched battles 
which more rarely occur, and for which he will 
probably think it sufficient to be armed. 

But society, as was observed before, is not 
a stage on which to throw down our gauntlet, 
and prove our own prowess by the number of 
falls we give to our adversary ; so far from it, 
true good-breeding as well as Christianity, con- 
siders as an indispensable requisite for conver- 
sation, the disposition to bring forward to no- 
tice any talent in others, which their own mo- 
desty, or conscious inferiority, would lead them 
to keep back. To do this with effect it requires 
a penetration exercised to discern merit, and a 
generous candour which delights in drawing it 
out. There are few who cannot converse tole- 
rably on some one topic : what that is, we 
should try to discover, and in general introduce 
that topic, though to the suppression of any one 
on which we ourselves are supposed to excel : 
and however superior we may be in other re- 
spects to the persons in question, we may, per- 
haps, in that particular point, improve by them ; 
or if we do not gain information, we shall at 
least gain a wholesome exercise to our humility 
and self-denial ; we shall be restraining our own 
impetuosity; we shall, if we take this course on 
just occasions only, and so as to beware lest we 
gratify the vanity of others, be giving confi- 
dence to a doubting, or cheerfulness to a de- 
pressed spirit. And to place a just remark, ha- 
zarded by the diffident, in the most advantage- 
ous point of view; to call the attention of the 
inattentive, the forward, and the self-sufficient, 
to the unobtrusive merit of some quiet person 
in the company, who, though of much worth, is 
perhaps of little note ; these are requisites for 
conversation, less brilliant, but far more valua- 
ble, than the power of exciting bursts of laugh- 



ter by the brightest wit, or of 1 exciting admira- 
tion by the most poignant sallies of ridicule. 

Wit is, of all Inequalities of the female mind, 
that which requires the severest castigation : yet 
the temperate exercise of this fascinating quality 
throws an additional lustre round the character 
of an amiable woman; for to manage with dis- 
creet modesty a dangerous talent, confers a 
higher praise than can be claimed by those from 
whom the absence of the talent removes the 
temptation to misemploy it. To women, wit is 
a peculiar perilous possession, which nothing 
short of the sober-mindedness of religion can 
keep in subjection ; and perhaps there is scarce- 
ly any one order of human beings that requires 
the powerful curb of Christian control more than 
women whose genius has this tendency. In- 
temperate wit craves admiration as its natural 
aliment : it lives on flattery as its daily bread ! 
The professed wit is a hungry beggar, subsist- 
ing on the extorted alms of perpetual panegyric;, 
and like the vulture in the Grecian fable, the 
appetite increases by indulgence. Simple truth 
and sober approbation become tasteless and in- 
sipid to the palate daily vitiated by the delicious 
poignancies of exaggerated commendation. Un- 
der the above restrictions, however, wit may be 
safely and pleasantly exercised ; for chastised 
wit is an elegant and well-bred, and not unfemi- 
nine quality. But humour, especially if it de- 
generates into imitation, or mimicry, is very 
sparingly to be ventured on ; for it is so difficult 
totally to detach it from the suspicion of buf- 
foonery, that a woman will be likely to loso 
more of the delicacy which is her appropriate 
grace, and without which every other quality 
loses its charm, than she will gain in another 
way in the eyes of the judicious, by the most 
successful display of humour. 

A woman of genius, if she have true humility, 
will not despise those lesser arts which she may 
not happen to possess, even though she be some- 
times put to the trial of having her superior 
mental endowments overlooked, while she is 
held cheap for being destitute of some mqre or- 
dinary accomplishment. Though the rebuke of 
Themistocles* was just to one who thought that 
so great a general and politician should employ 
his time like an effeminate lutinist, yet he would 
probably have made a different answer if he had 
happened to understand music. 

If it be true that some women are too apt to 
affect brilliancy and display in their own dis- 
course, and to undervalue the more humble pre- 
tensions of less showy characters ; it must be 
confessed also, that some of more ordinary abi- 
lities are now and then guilty of the opposite 
error and foolishly affect to value themselves on 
not making use of the understanding they real- 
ly possess ; and affect to be thought even more 
silly than they are. They exhibit no small sa- 
tisfaction in ridiculing women of high intellec- 
tual endowments, while they exclaim, with 
much affected humility, and much real envy, 
that ' they are thankful they are not geniuses. 
Now, though we are glad to hear gratitude ex- 

* ' Can you play on the lute V said a certain Athenian 
tsi Themistocles. ' No,' replied he, ' but I can make a 
little village a great city.' 






THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



375 



tressed on any occasion, yet the want of sense 
is really no such great mercy to be thankful for; 
and it would indicate a better spirit, were they 
to pray to be enabled to make a right use of the 
moderate understanding they possess, than to 
expose with a too visible pleasure, the imaginary 
or real defects of their more shining acquaint- 
ance. Women of the brightest faculties should 
not only 'bear those faculties meekly,' but 
should consider it as no derogation, cheerfully 
to fulfil those humbler offices which make up 
the business and the duties of common life, 
while they should always take into the account 
the nobler exertions as well as the higher re- 
sponsibilities attached to higher gifts. In the 
mean time women of lower attainments should 
exert to the utmost such abilities as Providence 
has assigned them ; and while they should not 
deride excellences which are above their reach, 
they should not despond at any inferiority which 
did not depend on themselves ; nor, because God 
has denied them ten talents, should they forget 
that they are equally responsible for the one he 
has allotted them, but set about devoting that 
one with humble diligence to the glory of the 
giver. 

Vanity, however, is not the monopoly of ta- 
lents. Let not a young lady, therefore, fancy 
that she is humble, merely because she is not 
ingenious, or consider the absence of talents as 
the criterion of worth. Humility is not the ex- 
clusive privilege of dulness. Folly is as con- 
ceited as wit, and ignoranco many a time out- 
strips knowledge in the race of vanity. Equally 
earnest competitions spring from causes less 
worthy to excite them than wit and genius. 
Vanity insinuates itself into the female heart 
under a variety of unsuspected forms, and is on 
the watch to enter it by seizing on many a little 
pass which was not thought worth guarding. 

Who has not seen as restless emotion agitate 
the features of an anxious matron, while peace 
and fame hung trembling in doubtful suspense 
on the success of a soup or sauce, on which sen- 
tence was about to be pronounced by some con- 
summate critic, as could have been excited by 
any competition for literary renown, or any 
struggle for contested wit 1 Anxiety for fame is 
by no means measured by the real value of the 
object pursued, but by the degree of estimation 
in which it is held by the pursuer. Nor was 
the illustrious hero of Greece more effectually 
hindered from sleeping by the trophies of Mil- 
tiades, than many a modish damsel by the 
eclipsing superiority of some newer decoration 
exhibited by her more successful friend. 

There is another species of vanity in some 
women which disguises itself under the thin veil 
of an affected humility; they will accuse them- 
selves of some fault from which they are re- 
markably exempt, and lament the want of some 
talent which they are rather notorious for pos- 
sessing. Now though the wisest are commonly 
the most humble, and those who are freest from 
faults are most forward in confessing error ; yet 
the practice we are censuring is not only a 
clumsy trap for praise, but a disingenuous inten- 
tion, by renouncing a quality they eminently 
possess, to gain credit for others in which they 
are really deficient. All affectation involves a 



species of deceit. The Apostle when he enjoins, 
' not to think of ourselves more highly than we 
ought,' does not exhort us to think falsely of our 
selves, but to think ' soberly ;' and it is worth 
observing that in this injunction he does not use 
the word speak, but think, inferring possibly, 
that it would be safer to speak little of ourselves 
or not at all ; for it is so far from being an un- 
equivocal proof of our humility to talk even of 
our defects, that while we make self the subject, 
in whatever way, self-love contrives to be grati- 
fied, and will even be content that our faults 
should be talked of, rather than that we should 
not be talked of at all. Some are also attacked 
with such proud fits of humility, that while 
they are ready to accuse themselves of almost 
every sin in the lump, they yet take fire at the 
imputation of the slightest individual fault; 
and instantly enter upon their own vindication 
as warmly as if you, and not themselves, had 
brought forward the charge. The truth is, they 
ventured to condemn themselves, in the full con- 
fidence that you would contradict the self-accu- 
sation ; the last thing they intended was that 
you should believe them, and they are never so 
much piqued and disappointed as when they are 
taken at their word. 

Of the various shapes and undefined forms 
into which vanity branches out in conversation, 
there is no end. Out of restless desire to please, 
grows the vain desire to astonish : for from 
vanity, as much as from credulity, arises that 
strong love of the marvellous, with which the 
conversation of the ill-educated abounds. Hence 
that fondness for dealing in narratives hardly 
within the compass of possibility. Here vanity 
has many shades of gratification ; those shades 
will be stronger or weaker, whether the relater 
chance to have been an eye-witness of the won- 
der she records ; or whether she claim only the 
second-hand renown of its having happened to 
her friend, or the still remoter celebrity of its 
having been witnessed only by her friend's 
friend : but even though that friend only knew 
the man, who remembered the woman, who con- 
versed with the person, who actually beheld the 
thing which is now causing admiration in the 
company, still self, though in a fainter degree, 
is brought into notice, and the relater contrives 
in some circuitous and distant way to be con- 
nected with the wonder. 

To correct this propensity, 'to elevate and 
surprise,'* it would be well in mixed society to 
abstain altogether from hazarding stories, which 
though they may not be absolutely false, yet 
lying without the verge of probability, are apt 
to impeach the credit of the narrator ; in whom 
the very consciousness that she is not believed, 
excites an increased eagerness to depart still 
farther from the soberness of truth, and induces 
a habit of vehement asseveration, which is too 
often called in to help out a questionable point.t 

* The Rehearsal. 

T This is also a good rule in composition. An event 
though it may actually have happened, yet if it be out 
of the reach of probability, or contrary to the common 
course of nature, will seldom be chosen as a subject by 
a writer of good taste : for he knows: that a probable 
fiction "ill interest the feeling more than an unlikely 
truth. Verisimilitude is indeed the poet's truth, but the 
truth of the moralist is of a more sturdy growth. 



376 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Or if the propensity be irresistible, I would re- 
commend to those persons who are much addict- 
ed to relate doubtful, or improbable, or wonder- 
Ail circumstances, :o imitate the example of the 
two great naturalists, Aristotle and Boyle, who 
not being willing to discredit their works with 
incredible realities threw all their improbabili- 
ties into a lump, under the general name of 
Strange Reports. May we not suspect that, in 
some instances, the chapter of strange reports 
would be a bulky one? 

There is another shape, and a very deformed 
shape it is, in which loquacious vanity shows 
itself: I mean the betraying of confidence. 
Though the act be treacherous, yet the fault, in 
the first instance, is not treachery, but vanity. 
It does not so often spring from the mischievous 
desire of divulging a secret, as from the pride 
of having been trusted with it. It is the secret 
inclination of mixing self with whatever is im- 
portant. The secret would be of little value, if 
the revealing it did not serve to intimate our 
connexion with it ; the pleasure of its having 
been deposited with us would be nothing, if 
others may not know that it has been so depo- 
sited. — When we continue to see the variety of 
serious evils which this principle involves, shall 
we persist in asserting that vanity is a slender 
mischief? 

There is one offence committed in conversa- 
tion of much too serious a nature to be over- 
looked, or to be animadverted on without sorrow 
and indignation : I mean, the habitual thought- 
less profaneness of those who are repeatedly in- 
voking their Maker's name on occasions the 
most trivial. It is offensive in all its variety of 
aspects ; — it is very pernicious in its effects ; — 
it is a growing evil ; — those who are most guilty 
of it, are from habit hardly conscious when they 
do it ; are not aware of the sin ; and for both 
these reasons without the admonitions of faithful 
friendship, are little likely to discontinue it. It 
is utterly inexcusable ; — it has none of the pal- 
liatives of temptation which other vices plead, 
and in that respect stands distinguished from all 
others both in its nature and degree of guilt. — 
Like many other sins, however, it is at once 
Cause and effect : it proceeds from want of love 
and reverence to the best of Beings, and causes 
the want of that love both in themselves and 
others. Yet with all these aggravations, there 
is perhaps, hardly any sin so frequently com- 
mitted, so slightly censured, so seldom repented 
of, and so little guarded against. On the score 
of impropriety too, it is additionally offensive, as 
to being utterly repugnant to female delicacy, 
which often does not see the turpitude of this 
sin, while it affects to be shocked at swearing 
in a man. Now this species of profaneness is 
not only swearing, but, perhaps, in some re- 
spects, swearing of the worst sort ; as it is a 
direct breach of an express command, and 
offends against the very letter of that law which 
says in so many words, thou shalt not take 

THE NAME OV THE LORD THY GoD IN VAIN. It 

offunds against politeness and good breeding; 
for those who commit it, little think of the pain 
they are inflicting on the sober mind, which is 
deeply wounded when it hears the holy name it 
wves dishonoured ; and it is as contrary to good 



breeding to give pain, as it is to true piety to be 
profane. It is astonishing that the refined and 
elegant should not reprobate this practice for its 
coarseness and vulgarity, as much as the pious 
abhor it for its sinfulness. 

1 would endeavour to give some faint idea of 
the grossness of this offence, by an analogy 
(oh ! how inadequate !) with which the feeling 
heart, even though not seasoned with religion, 
may yet be touched. To such I would earnestly 
say : — Suppose you had some beloved friend — 
to put the case still more strongly, a depart- 
ed friend — a revered parent, perhaps — whose 
image never occurs without awaking in your 
bosom sentiments of tender love and lively 
gratitude; how would you feel if you heard this 
honourable name bandied about with unfeeling 
familiarity and indecent levity ; or at best, thrust 
into every pause of speech as a vulgar expletive ? 
Does not your affectionate heart recoil at the 
thought ? And yet the hallowed name of your 
truest Benefactor, your heavenly Father, your 
best friend, to whom you are indebted for all 
you enjoy ; who gives you those very friends in 
whom you so much delight, those very talents 
with which you dishonour him, those very or- 
gans of speech with which you blaspheme him, 
is treated with an irreverence, a contempt, a 
wantonness, with which you cannot bear the 
very thought or mention of treating a human 
friend. His name is impiously, is unfeelingly, 
is ungratefully singled out as the object of de- 
cided irreverence, of systematic contempt, of 
thoughtless levity. His sacred name is used 
indiscriminately to express anger, joy, grief, 
surprise, impatience ; and what is almost still 
more unpardonable than all, it is wantonly used 
as a mere unmeaning expletive, which, being 
excited by no temptation, can have nothing to 
extenuate it ; which, causing no emotion, can 
have nothing to recommend it, unless it be the 
pleasure of the sin. 

Among the deep, but less obvious mischiefs 
of conversation, misrepresentation must not be 
overlooked. Self-love is continually at work, to 
give to all we say a bias in our own favour. 
The counteraction of this fault should be set 
about in the earliest stages of education. If 
young persons have not been discouraged in the 
natural, but evil, propensity to relate every dis- 
pute they have had with others to their own ad- 
vantage ; if they have not been trained to the 
bounden duty of doing justice even to those with 
whom they are at variance ; if they have not 
been led to aim at a complete impartiality in 
their little narratives, and instructed never to 
take advantage of the absence of the other party, 
in order to make the story lean to their own 
side more than the truth will admit : how shall 
we in advanced life look for correct habits, for 
unprejudiced representations, for fidelity, accu- 
racy, and unbiassed justice 1 

Yet, how often in society, otherwise respect- 
able, are we pained with narrations in which 
prejudice warps, and self-love binds ! How often 
do we see, that withholding part of a truth an- 
swers the worst ends of a falsehood ! How often 
regret the unfair turn given to a cause, by 
placing a sentiment in one point of view, which 
the speaker had used in another ! the letter of 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



377 



truth preserved where its spirit is violated ! a 
superstitious exactness scrupulously maintained 
jn the under parts of a detail, in order to impress 
such an idea of integrity as shall gain credit for 
the misrepresented while he is designedly mis- 
taking the leading principle. How may we ob- 
serve a new character given to a fact by a differ- 
ent look, tone, or emphasis, which alters it as 
much as words could have done ! the false im- 
pression of a sermon conveyed, when we do not 
like the preacher, or when through him we wish 
to make religion itself ridiculous ! the care to 
avoid literal untruths, while the mischief is bet- 
ter effected by the unfair quotation of a passage 
divested of its context ; the bringing together 
detached portions of a subject, and making those 
parts ludicrous, when connected, which were 
serious in their distinct position ! the insidious 
use made of a sentiment by representing it as 
the opinion of him who had only brought it for- 
ward in order to expose it! the relating opinions 
which had mere^ been put hypothetically, as if 
they were the aWved principles of him we would 
discredit ! that subtle falsehood which is so made 
to incorporate with a certain quantity of truth, 
that the most skilful moral chemists cannot ana- 
lyse or separate them ! for a good misreprcsenter 
knows that a successful lie must have a certain 
infusion of truth, or it will not go down- And 
this amalgamation is the test of his skill ; as too 
■much truth would defeat the end of his mischief; 
and too little would destroy the belief of the 
hearer. All that indefinable ambiguity and 
equivocation ; all that prudent deceit, which is 
rather implied than expressed ; those more deli- 
cate artifices of the school of Loyola and of 
Chesterfield, which allow us when we dare not 
deny a truth, yet so to disguise and discolour it, 
that the truth we relate shall not resemble the 
truth we heard ! These and all the thousand 
shades of simulation and dissimulation will be 
carefully guarded against in the conversation of 
vigilant Christians. 

Again, it is surprising to mark the common 
deviations from strict veracity which spring, not 
from enmity to truth, not from intentional de- 
ceit, not from malevolence or envy, not from the 
least design to injure ; but from mere levity, ha- 
bitual inattention, and a current notion that it 
is not worth while to be correct in small things. 
But here the doctrine of habits comes in with 
great force, and in that view no error is small. 
The cure of this disease in its more inveterate 
stages being next to impossible, its prevention 
ought to be one of the earliest objects of educa- 
tion.* 

Some women indulge themselves in sharp 
raillery, unfeeling wit, and cutting sarcasms, 
from the consciousness, it is to be feared, that 
they are secure from the danger of being called 
to account; this license of speech being encou- 
raged by the very circumstance which ought to 
suppress it. To be severe, because they can be 
so with impunity, is a most ungenerous reason. 
It is taking a base and dishonourable advantage 
of their sex, the weakness of which, instead of 
tempting them to commit offences because they 
can commit them with safety, ought rather to 
make them more scrupulously careful to avoid 
* See the chapter oo Uie use of definitions. 

Vol. I. 



indiscretions for which no reparation can be de. 
manded. What can be said for those who care- 
lessly involve the injured party in consequences 
from which they know themselves exempted, 
and whose very sense of their own security 
leads them to be indifferent to the security of 
others ! 

The grievous fault of gross and obvious detrac- 
tion which infects conversation, has been so 
heavily and so justly condemned by divines and 
moralists, that the subject, copious as it is, is 
exhausted. But there is an error of an opposite 
complexion, which we have before noticed, and 
against which the peculiar temper of the times 
requires that young ladies of a better cast should 
be guarded. From the narrowness of their own 
sphere of observation, they are sometimes ad- 
dicted to accuse of uncharitableness, that dis- 
tinguishing judgment which, resulting from a 
sound penetration and a zeal for truth, forbids 
persons of a very correct principle to be indis- 
criminately prodigal of commendation without 
inquiry and without distinction. There is an 
affectation of candour, which is almost as mis- 
chievous as calumny itself; nay, if it be less in- 
jurious in its individual application, it is per- 
haps, more alarming in its general principle, as 
it lays waste the strong fences which separate 
good from evil. They know, as a general prin- 
ciple (though they sometimes calumniate) that 
calumny is wrong ; but they have not been told 
that flattery is wrong also ; and youth, being apt 
to fancy that the direct contrary to wrong must 
necessarily be right, are apt to be driven into 
violent extremes. The dread of being only sus- 
pected of one fault, makes them actually guilty 
of the opposite ; and to avoid the charge of harsh- 
ness or of envy, they plunge into insincerity and 
falsehood. In this they are actuated either by 
an unsound judgment which does not see what 
is right, or an unsound principle which prefers 
what is wrong. Some also commend to conceal 
envy ; and others are compassionate to indulge 
superiority. 

In this age of high-minded independence when 
our youth are apt to set up for themselves, and 
every man is too much disposed to be his own 
legislator without looking to the established law 
of the land as his standard ; and to set up for 
his own divine, without looking tc the revealed 
will of God as his rule — by a candour equally 
vicious with our vanity, we are also complai- 
santly led to give the latitude we take : and it is 
become too frequent a practice in our tolerating 
young ladies, when speaking of their more 
erring and misled acquaintance, to offer for them 
this flimsy vindication, 'that what they do is 
right if it appear right to them ;' — ' if they see 
the thing in that light, and act up to it with sin- 
cerity, they cannot be materially wrong.' But 
the standard of truth, justice, and religion, must 
neither be elevated nor depressed, in order to 
accommodate it to actual circumstances; it must 
never be lowered to palliate error, to justify folly, 
or to vindicate vice. Good natured young peo- 
ple often speak favourably of unworthy, or extra 
vacantly of common characters, from one of 
these motives ; either their own views of excel 
lence are low, or they speak respectfully of the 
undeserving, to purchase for them««'"«s the re 



378 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



putation of tenderness and generosity ; or they 
lavish unsparing praise on almost all alike, in 
the usurious hope of buying back universal com- 
mendation in return ; or in those captivating 
characters in which the simple and masculine 
language of truth is sacrificed to the jargon of 
affected softness ; and in which smooth and pli- 
ant manners are substituted for intrinsic worth, 
the inexperienced are too apt to suppose virtues, 
and to forgive vices. But they should carefully 
guard against the error of making manner the 
criterion of merit, and of giving unlimited cre- 
dit to strangers for possessing every perfection, 
only because they bring into company the en- 
gaging exterior of urbanity and alluring gentle- 
ness. They should also remember that it is an 
easy, but not an honest way of obtaining the 
praise of candour, to get into the soft and popu- 
lar habit of saying of all their acquaintance, 
when speaking of them, that they are so good .' 
True Christian candour conceals faults, but it 
does not invent virtues. It tenderly forbears to 
expose the evil which may belong to a charac- 
ter, but it dares not ascribe to it the good which 
does not exist. To correct this propensity to 
false judgment and insincerity, it would be well 
to bear in mind, that while every good action, 
come from what source it may, and every good 
quality, be it found in whomsoever it will, de- 
serves its fair proportion of distinct and willing 
commendation ; yet no character is good, in the 
true sense of the word, which is not religious. 

In fine — to recapitulate what has been said, 
with some additional hints : — Study to promote 
both intellectual and moral improvement in con- 
versation ; labour to bring into it a disposition 
to bear with others, and to be watchful over 
yourself; keep out of sight any prominent ta- 
lent of your own, which, if indulged, might dis- 
courage or oppress the feeble minded ; and try 
to bring their modest virtues into notice. If 
you know any one present to possess any parti- 
cular weakness or infirmity, never exercise your 
wit by maliciously inventing occasions which 
may lead her to expose or betray it ; but give as 
favourable a turn as you can to the follies which 
appear, and kindly help her to keep the rest out 
of sight. Never gratify your own humour, by 
hazarding what you suspect may wound any 
one present in their persons, connexions, pro- 
fessions in life, or religious opinions ; and do not 
forget to examine whether the laugh your wit 
has raised be never bought at this expense. 
Give credit to those who, without your kindness, 
will get none ; do not talk at any one whom you 
dare not talk to, unless from motives in which 
the golden rule will bear you out. Seek neither 
to shine nor to triumph ; and if you seek to 
please, take care that it be in order to convert 
the influence you may gain by pleasing to the 
good of others. Cultivate true politeness, for it 
grows out of true principle, and is consistent 
with the Gospel of Christ ; but avoid those feign- 
ed attentions which are not stimulated by good 
will, and those stated professions of fondness 
which are not dictated by esteem. Remember 
that the pleasure of being thought amiable hy 
strangers may be too dearly purchased, if it he 
purchased at the expense of truth and simplici- 
ty , remember that simplicity is the first charm 



in manner as truth is in mind ; and could truth 
make herself visible, she would appear invested 
in simplicity. 

Remember also that true Christian good na- 
ture is the soul, of which politeness is only the 
garb. It is not that artificial quality which ia 
taken up by many when they go into society, in 
order to charm those whom it is not their par- 
ticular business to please ; and is Jaid down when 
they return home to those to whom to appear 
amiable is a real duty. It is not that fascinating 
but deceitful softness, which, after having acted 
over a hundred scenes of the most lively sympa- 
thy and tender interest with every slight ac- 
quaintance ; after having exhausted every phrase 
of feeling, for the trivial sicknesses or petty sor- 
rows of multitudes who are scarcely known, 
leaves it doubtful whether a grain of real feeling 
or genuine sympathy be reserved for the dearest 
connexions ; and which dismisses a woman to 
her immediate friends with little affection, and 
to her own family with little ^achment. 

True good-nature, that whiHr alone deserves 
the name, is not a holyday ornament, but an 
every-day habit. It does not consist in servile 
complaisance, or dishonest flattery, or affected 
sympathy, or unqualified assent, or unwarranta- 
ble compliance, or eternal smiles. Before it can 
be allowed to rank with the virtues, it must be 
wrought up from a humour into a principle, 
from an occasional disposition into a habit. It 
must be the result of an equal aud well-governed 
mind, not the start of casual gayety, the trick 
of designing vanity, or the whim of capricious 
fondness. It is compounded of kindness, for- 
bearance, forgiveness, and self-denial ; ' it seek- 
eth not its own,' but is capable of making con- 
tinual sacrifices of its own tastes, humours, and 
self-love ; yet knows that among the sacrifices 
it makes, it must never include its integrity. 
Politeness on the one hand, and insensibility on 
the other, assume its name, and wear its ho- 
nours ; but they assume the honours of a tri- 
umph, without the merit of a victory ; for po- 
liteness subdues nothing, and insensibility has 
nothing to subdue. Good-nature of the true cast, 
and under the foregoing regulations, is above 
all price in the common intercourse of domestic 
society ; for an ordinary quality, which is con- 
stantly brought into action by the perpetually 
recurring through minute events of daily life, is 
of higher value than more brilliant qualities 
which are less frequently called into use ; as 
small pieces of ordinary current coin are of 
more importance in the commerce of the world 
than the medals of the antiquary. And, indeed, 
Christianity has given that new turn to the cha- 
racter of all the virtues, that perhaps it is the 
best test of the excellence of many that they 
have little brilliancy in them. — The Christian 
religion has degraded some splendid qualities 
from the rank they held, and elevated those 
which were obscure into distinction. 



CHAP. XVI. 

On the danger of an ill-directed Sensibility. 
In considering the human mind with a view 



THri WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



379 



to its improvement, it is prudent to endeavour 
to discover the natural bent of the individual 
character : and having found it, to direct your 
Iprce against that side on which the warp lies, 
that you may lessen by counteraction the defect 
which you might be promoting, by applying 
your aid in a contrary direction. But the mis- 
fortune is, people who mean better than they 
judge are apt to take up a set of general rules, 
good perhaps in themselves, and originally 
gleaned from experience and observation on the 
nature of human things, but not applicable in 
all cases. These rules they keep by them as 
nostrums of universal efficacy, which they 
therefore often bring out for use in cases to 
which they do not apply. For to make any re- 
medy effectual, it is not enough to know the 
medicine, you must study the constitution also ; 
if there be not a congruity between the two, 
you may be injuring one patient by the means 
which are requisite to raise and restore another. 

In forming the female character it is of im- 
portance that those on whom the task devolves 
should possess so much penetration as accu- 
rately to discern the degree of sensibility, and 
so much judgment as to accommodate the treat- 
ment to the individual character. By constantly 
stimulating and extolling feelings naturally 
quick, those feelings will be rendered too acute 
and irritable. On the other hand, a calm and 
equable temper will become obtuse by the total 
want of excitement : the former treatment con- 
vorts the feelings into a source of error, agita- 
tion, and calamity ; the latter starves their na- 
tive energy, deadens the affections and produces 
a cold, dull, selfish spirit ; for the human mind 
is an instrument which will lose its sweetness 
if strained too high, and will be deprived of its 
tone and strength if not sufficiently raised. 

It is cruel to chill the precious sensibility of 
an ingenuous soul, by treating with supercilious 
coldness and unfeeling ridicule every indication 
of a warm, tender, disinterested, and enthusi- 
astic spirit, as if it exhibited symptoms of a de- 
ficiency in understanding or in prudence. How 
many are apt to intimate, with a smile of min- 
gled pity and contempt, in considering such a 
character, that when she knows the world, that 
is, in other words, when she shall be grown cun- 
ning, selfish, and suspicious, she will be ashamed 
of her present glow of honest warmth, and of 
her lovely susceptibility of heart. May she 
never know the world, if the knowledge of it 
must be acquired at such an expense ! But to 
sensible hearts, every indication of genuine feel- 
ing will be dear, for they well know that it is 
this temper which, by the guidance of the Di- 
vine Spirit, may make her one day become 
more enamoured of the beauty of holiness ; 
which, with the co-operation of principle, and 
under its direction will render her the lively 
agent of Providence in diminishing the misery 
that is in the world ; into which misery this 
temper will give her a quicker intuition than 
colder characters possess. It is this temper 
which, when it is touched and purified by a 
' live coal from the altar,'* will give her a keener 
taste for the spirit of religion, and a quicker 

* Isaiah, vi. 6. 



zeal in discharging its duties. But let it be re- 
membered likewise, that as there is no quality in 
the female character which more raises its tone, 
so there is none which will be so likely to en- 
danger the peace, and to expose the virtue of 
the possessor ; none which requires to have its 
luxuriances more carefully watched, and its 
wild shoots more closely lopped. 

For young women of affections naturally 
warm but not carefully disciplined, are in dan- 
ger of incurring an unnatural irritability ; and 
while their happiness falls a victim to the ex- 
cess of uncontrolled feelings, they are liable at 
the same time to indulge a vanity of all others 
the most preposterous, that of being vain of 
their very defect. They have heard sensibility 
highly commended, without having heard any 
thing of those bounds and fences which were 
intended to confine it, and without having been 
imbued with that principle which would have 
given it a beneficial direction. Conscious that 
they possess the quality itself in the extreme, 
and not aware that they want all that makes 
that quality safe and delightful, they plunge 
headlong into those sins and miseries from 
which they conceitedly and ignorantly imagine, 
that not principle, but coldness, has preserved 
the more sober-minded and well-instructed of 
their sex. 

As it would be foreign to the present design 
to expatiate on those criminal excesses which 
are some of the sad effects of ungoverned pas- 
sion, it is only intended here to hazard a few 
remarks on those lighter consequences of it 
which consist in the loss of comfort without ruin 
of character, and occasion the privation of much 
of the happiness of life without involving any 
very censurable degree of guilt or discredit. It 
may, however, be incidentally remarked, and 
let it be carefully remembered, that if no women 
have risen so high in the scale of moral excel- 
lence as those whose natural warmth has been 
conscientiously governed by its true guide, and 
directed to its true end ; so none have furnished 
such deplorable instances of extreme depravity 
as those who, through the ignorance or the de- 
reliction of principle, have been abandoned by 
the excess of this very temper to the violence of 
ungoverned passions and uncontrolled inclina- 
tions. Perhaps, if we were to inquire into the 
remote cause of some of the blackest crimes 
which stain the annals of mankind, profligacy, 
murder, and especially suicide, we might trace 
them back to this original principle, an ungo- 
verned sensibility. 

Notwithstanding all the fine theories in prose 
and verse to which this topic has given birth, it 
will be found that very exquisite sensibility con- 
tributes so little to happiness, and may yet be 
made to contribute so much to 7isefulness, that 
it may perhaps be generally considered as be- 
stowed for an exercise to the possessor's own 
virtue, and at the same time, as a keen instru- 
ment with which he may better work for the 
good of others. 

Women of this cast of mind are less careful 
to avoid the charge of unbounded extremes, than 
to escape at all events the imputation of insen- 
sibility. They are little alarmed at the danger 
of exceeding, though terrified at the suspicion 



380 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



of coming 1 shofi, of what they take to be the ex- 
treme point of feeling 1 . They will even resolve 
to prove the warmth of their sensibility, though 
at the expense of their judgment, and some- 
times also of their justice. Even when they 
earnestly desire to be and to do good, they are 
apt to employ the wrong instrument to accom- 
plish the right end. They employ the passions 
to do the work of the judgment; forgotting, or 
not knowing, that the passions were not given 
us to be used in the search and discovery of 
truth, which is the office of a cooler and more 
discriminating faculty; but to animate us to 
warmer zeal in the pursuit and practice of truth, 
when the judgment shall have pointed out what 
is truth. 

Through this natural warmth, which they 
have been justly told is so pleading, but which 
perhaps, they have not been told will be conti- 
nually exposing them to peril and to suffering, 
their joys and sorrows are excessive. Of this 
extreme irritability, as was before remarked, 
the ill-educated learn to boast as if it were a de- 
cided indication of superiority of soul, instead 
of labouring to restrain it as the excess of a tem- 
per which ceases to be amiable when it is no 
longer under the control of the governing facul- 
ty. It is misfortune enough to be born more 
liable to suffer and to sin, from this conformation 
of mind, it is too much to nourish the evil by 
unrestrained indulgence; it is still worse to be 
proud of so misleading a quality. 

Flippancy, impetuosity, resentment, and vio- 
lence of spirit, grow out of this disposition, which 
will be rather promoted than corrected, by the 
system of education, on which we have been 
animadverting; in which system emotions are 
too early and too much excited, and tastes and 
feelings are considered as too exclusively mak- 
ing up the whole of the female character ; in 
which the judgment is little exercised, the rea- 
soning powers are seldom brought into action, 
and self-knowledge and self-denial scarcely in- 
cluded. 

The propensity of mind which we are consi- 
dering, if unchecked, lays its possessors open to 
unjust prepossessions, and exposes them to all 
the danger of unfounded attachments. In early 
youth, not only love at first sight, but also friend- 
ship of the same instantaneous growth, springs 
up from an ill-directed sensibility, and in after- 
life, women under the powerful influence of this 
temper, conscious that they have much to be 
borne with, are too readily inclined to select for 
their confidential connexions, flexible and flat- 
tering companions, who will indulge and per- 
haps admire her faults, rather than firm and ho- 
nest friends, who will reprove and would assist 
in curing them. We may adopt it as a general 
maxim, that an obliging, weak, yielding, com- 
plaisant friend, full of small attentions, with lit- 
tle religion, little judgment, and much natural 
acquiescence and civility, is a most dangerous, 
though generally a too much desired confidante : 
she soothes the indolence, and gratifies the va- 
nity of her friend, by reconciling her to her 
faults, while she neither keeps the understand- 
ing nor the virtues of -that friend in exercise; 
but withholds from her every useful truth, which 
fry opening her eyes might give her pain. These 



obsequious qualities are the 'soft green,'* on 
which the soul loves to repose itself. — But it is 
not a refreshing or a wholesome repose ; we 
should not select, for the sake of present ease, a 
soothing flatterer, who will lull us into a pleas- 
ing oblivion of our failings, but a friend who, 
valuing our soul's health above our immediate 
comfort, will rouse us from torpid indulgence, 
to animation, vigilance, and virtue. 

An ill-directed sensibility also leads a woman 
to be injudicious and eccentric in her charities ; 
she will be in danger of proportioning her bounty 
to the immediate effect which the distressed ob- 
ject produces on her senses; and will therefore 
be more liberal to a small distress presenting 
itself to her own eyes, than to the more pressing 
wants and better claims of those miseries of 
which she onlj' hears the relation. There is a 
sort of stage effect which some people require 
for their charities ; and such a character as we 
are considering, will be apt also to desire, that 
the object of her compassion shall have some- 
thing interesting and amiable in it, such as 
shall furnish pleasing images and lively pic- 
tures to her imagination, that in her charities 
as well as in every thing else, and engaging 
subjects for description ; forgetting she is to be 
a ' follower of Him who pleased not himself:' 
forgetting that the most coarse and disgusting 
object may be as much the representative of 
Him, who said, ' Inasmuch as ye do it to one 
of the least of these ye do it unto me,' as the 
most interesting. Nay, the more uninviting 
and repulsive cases may be better tests of the 
principle on which we relieve, than those which 
abound in pathos and interest, as we can have 
less suspicion of our motive in the latter case 
than in the former. But while we ought to ne- 
glect neither of these supposed cases, yet the 
less our feelings are caught by pleasing circum- 
stances, the less will be the danger of our in- 
dulging self-complacency, and the more likely 
shall we be to do what we do for the sake of 
Him who has taught us, that no deeds but what 
are performed on that principle ' shall be recom- 
pensed at the resurrection of the just.' 

But through the want of that governing prin- 
ciple which should direct her sensibility, a ten- 
der-hearted woman, whose hand, if she be actu- 
ally surrounded with scenes and circumstances 
to call it into action, is 

Open as day to melting charity ; 

nevertheless may utterly fail in the great and 
comprehensive duty of Christian love, for she 
has feelings which are acted upon solely by lo- 
cal circumstances and present events. Only re- 
move her into another scene, distant from the 
wants she has been relieving ; place her in the 
lap of indulgence, so entrenched with ease and 
pleasure, so immersed in the softness of life, 
that distress no longer finds any access to her 
presence, but through the faint and dull medium 
of a distant representation ; remove her from the 
sight and sound of that misery, which, when 
present, so tenderly affected her — she now for- 
gets that misery exists ; as she hears but little, 
and sees nothing of want and sorrow, she is 

* Burke's ' Sublime and Beautiful.' 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



381 



ready to fancy that the world is grown happier 
than it was : in the meantime, with a quiet con- 
science and a thoughtless vanity, she has been 
lavishing on superfluities that money, which she 
would cheerfully have given to a charitable case, 
had she not forgotten that any such were in ex- 
istence, because pleasure had blocked up the 
avenues through which misery used to find its 
way to her heart ; and now, when again such a 
case enforces itself into her presence, she la- 
ments with real sincerity that the money is gone 
which should have relieved it. 

In the mean time, perhaps, other women of 
less natural sympathy, but whose sympathies 
are under better regulation, or who act from a 
principle which requires little stimulus, have, 
by an habitual course of self-denial, by a con- 
stant determination to refuse themselves un- 
necessary indulgences, and by guarding against 
that dissolving pleasure which melts down the 
firmest virtue that allows itself to bask in its 
beams, have been quietly furnishing a regular 
provision for miseries, which their knowledge 
of the stale of the world teaches them are every 
where to be found, and which their obedience 
to the will of God tells them it is their duty both 
to find out and relieve ; a general expectation of 
being liable to be called upon for acts of charity, 
will lead the conscientiously charitable always 
to be prepared. 

On such a mind as we have been describing, 
Novelty also will operate with peculiar force, and 
in nothing more than in the article of charity. 
Old established institutiqns, whose continued ex- 
istence must depend on the continued bounty of 
that affluence to which tbey owed their origin, 
will be sometimes neglected, as presenting no 
variety to the imagination, as having by their 
uniformity ceased to be interesting; theie is 
now a total failure of those springs of more sen- 
sitive feeling which set the charity a-going, and 
those sudden emotions of tenderness and gusts 
of pity, which once were felt, must now be ex- 
cited by newer forms of distress. As age comes 
on, that charity which has been the effect of 
mere feeling, grows cold and rigid : this hard- 
ness is also increased by the frequent disap- 
pointments charity has experienced in its too 
high expectations of the gratitude and subse- 
quent merit of those it has relieved ; and by 
withdrawing its bounty, because some of its ob- 
jects have been*undeserving, it gives clear proof 
that what it bestowed was for its own gratifica- 
tion ; and now finding that self-complacency at 
an end, it bestows no longer. Probably too the 
cause of so much disappointment may have 
been, that ill choice of the objects to which feel- 
ing, rather than a discriminating judgment, has 
led. The summer showers of mere sensibility 
soon dry up, while the living spring of Christian 
charity flows alike in all seasons. 

The impatience, levity, and fickleness, of 
which women have been somewhat too gene- 
rally accused, are perhaps in no small degree 
aggravated by the littleness and frivolousness 
of female pursuits. The sort of education they 
commonly receive, teaches girls to set a great 
price on small things. — Besides this, they do not 
always learn to keep a very correct scale of de- 
grees for rating the value of the objects of their 



admiration and attachment ; but by a kind of 
unconscious idolatry, they rather make a merit 
of loving supremely things and persons which 
ought to be loved with moderation and in a sub- 
ordinate degree the one to the other. Unfor- 
tunately, they consider moderation as so neces- 
sarily indicating a cold heart, and narrow soul, 
and they look upon a state of indifference with 
so much horror, that either to love or hate with 
energy is supposed by them to proceed from a 
higher state of mind than is possessed by more 
steady and equable characters. Whereas it is 
in fact the criterion of a warm but well-directed 
sensibility, that while it is capable of loving with 
energy, it must be enabled, by the judgment 
which governs it, to suit and adjust its degree of 
interest to the nature and excellence of the ob- 
ject about which it is interested ; for unreason- 
able prepossession, disproportionate attachment, 
and capricious or precarious fondness, is not 
sensibility. 

Excessive but unintentional flattery is another 
fault into which a strong sensibility is in danger 
of leading its possessor. A tender heart and a 
warm imagination conspire to throw a sort 
of radiance round the object of their love, till 
they are dazzled by a brightness of their own 
creating. The worldly and fashionable borrow 
the warm language of sensibility without having 
the really warm feeling ; and young ladies get 
such a habit of saying, and especially of writing 
such over-obliging and flattering things to each 
other, that this mutual politeness, aided by the 
self-love so natural to us all, and by an unwilling- 
ness to search into our own hearts, keeps up the 
illusion, and we acquire a habit of taking our 
character from the good we hear of ourselves, 
which others assume, but do not very well 
know, rather than from the evil we feel in our- 
selves, and which we therefore ought to be too 
thoroughly acquainted with to take our opinion 
of ourselves from what we hear from others. 

Ungoverned sensibility is apt to give a wrong 
direction to its anxieties ; and its affection often 
falls short of the true end of friendship. If the 
object of its regard happen to be sick, what 
inquiries ! what prescription ! what an accumu- 
lation is made of cases in which the remedy its 
fondness suggests has been successful! What 
an unaffected tenderness for the perishing body ! 
Yet is this sensibility equally alive to the im- 
mortal interests of the sufferer 1 Is it not silent 
and at ease when it contemplates the dearest 
friend persisting in opinions essentially dan- 
gerous ; in practices unquestionably wrong ? 
Does it not view all this, not only without a 
generous ardour to point out the peril, and rescue 
the friend ; but if that friend be supposed to be 
dying, does it not even make it the criterion of 
kindness to let her die, undeceived as to her true 
state ? What a want of real sensibility, to feel 
for the pain but not for the danger of those we 
love ? Now see what sort of sensibility the 
Bible teaches ? ' Thou shalt not hate thy brother 
in thine heart, but thou shalt in any wise rebuke 
him, and shalt not suffer sin upon him.'* But 
let that tenderness which shrinks from the idea 
of exposing what it loves to a momentary pang, 

* Leviticus, xix. 17. 



382 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



figure to itself the bare possibibility, that the 
object of its own fond affection may not be the 
object of Divine favour ! Let it shrink from the 
bare conjecturo, that ' the familiar friend with 
whom it has taken sweet counsel,' is going 
down to the gates of death, unrepenting, unpre- 
pared and yet unwarned ! 

But mere human sensibility goes a shorter 
way to work. Not being able to give its friend 
the pain of hearing her faults or of knowing her 
danger, it works itself up into the quieting de- 
lusion that no danger exists, at least not for the 
objects of its own affection ; it gratifies itself by 
inventing a salvation so comprehensive as shall 
take in all itself loves with all their faults ; it 
creates to its own fond heart an ideal and exag- 
gerated divine mercy, which shall pardon and 
receive all in whom this blind sensibility has 
an interest, whether the}' be good or whether 
they be evil. 

In regard to its application to religious pur- 
poses, it is a test that sensibility has received 
its true direction when it is supremely turned 
to the love of God : for to possess an overflowing 
fondness for our fellow-creatures and fellow- 
sinners, and to be cold and insensible to the 
essence of goodness and perfection, is an incon- 
sistency to which the feeling heart is awfully 
liable. God has himself the first claim to the 
sensibility he bestowed. ' He first loved us :' 
this is a natural cause of love. 'He loved us 
while we were sinners :' this is a supernatural 
cause. He continues to love us though we ne- 
glect his favours and slight his mercies : this 
would wear out any earthly kindness. He 
forgives us, not petty neglects, not occasional 
slights, but grievous sins, repeated offences, 
broken vows, and unrequited love. What hu- 
man friendship performs offices so calculated to 
touch the soul of sensibility ? 

Those young women in whom feeling is in- 
dulged to the exclusion of reason and examina- 
tion, are peculiarly liable to be the dupes of preju- 
dice, rash decisions, and false judgment. The 
understanding having but little power over the 
will, their affections are not well poised, and 
their minds are kept in a state ready to be acted 
upon by the fluctuations of alternate impulses ; 
by sudden and varying impressions; by casual 
and contradictory circumstances; and by emo- 
tions excited by every accident. Instead of 
being guided by the broad views of general 
truth, instead of having one fixed principle, they 
are driven on by the impetuosity of the moment. 
And this impetuosity blinds the judgment as 
much as it misleads the conduct ; so that for 
want of a habit of cool investigation and inquiry, 
they meet every event without any previously 
formed opinion or settled rule of action. And 
as they do not accustom themselves to appre- 
ciate the real value of thing3, their attention is 
as likely to be led away by the under parts of a 
subject, as to seize on the leading feature. The 
same eagerness of mind which hinders the ope- 
ration of the discriminating faculty leads also to 
the error of determining on the rectitude of an 
action by its success, and to that of making the 
event of an undertaking decide on its justice 
or propriety : it also leads to that superficial and 
erroneous way of judging which fastens on ex- 



ceptions, if they make in our own favour, as 
grounds of reasoning, while they lead us to over- 
look received and general rules which tend to 
establish a doctrine contrary to our wishes. 

Open-hearted, indiscreet girls, often pick up 
a few strong notions, which are as false in them- 
selves as they are popular among the class in 
question : such as ' that warm friends must make 
warm enemies ;' — that ' the generous love and 
hate with all their heart ;' that ' a reformed rake 
makes the best husband ;' — that ' there is no 
medium in marriage, but that it is a state of 
exquisite happiness or exquisite misery;' with 
many other doctrines of equal currency and 
equal soundness! These they consider as axioms, 
and adopt them as rules of life. From the two 
first of these oracular sayings, girls are in no 
small danger of becoming unjust through the 
very warmth of their hearts: for they will ac- 
quire a habit of making their estimate of the 
good or ill quality of others merely in propor- 
tion to the greater or less degree of kindness 
which they themselves have received from them. 
Their estimation of general character is thus 
formed on insulated and partial grounds ; on the 
accidental circumstance of personal predilection 
or personal pique. Kindness to themselves or 
their friends involves all possible excellence ; 
neglect, all imaginable defects. Friendship and 
gratitude can and should go a great way ; but as 
they cannot convert vice into virtue, so they 
ought never to convert truth into falsehood. 
And it may be the more necessary to be upon 
our guard in this instance, because the very 
idea of gratitude may mislead us, by converting 
injustice into the semblance of a virtue. Warm 
expressions should therefore be limited to the con- 
veying a sense of our own individual obligations 
which are real, rather than employed to give an 
impression of general excellence in the person 
who has obliged us, which may be imaginary. 
A good man is still good, though it may not have- 
fallen in his way to oblige or serve us, nay, 
though he may have neglected, or even unin- 
tentionally hurt us : and sin is still sin, though 
committed by the person in the world to whom 
we are the most obliged, and whom we best love. 

There is danger lest our excessive commen- 
dation of our friends, merely as such, may be 
derived from vanity as well as gratitude. While 
we only appear to be triumphing in the virtues 
of our friend, we may be guilty of self-com- 
placency ; the person so excellent is the person 
who distinguishes us, and we are too apt to in- 
sert into the general eulogium the distinction 
we ourselves have received from him who is 
himself so much distinguished by others. 

With respect to that fatal and most indelicate, 
nay gross maxim, that a 'reformed rake makes 
the best husband,' (an aphorism to which the 
principles and happiness of so many young wo- 
men have been sacrificed) — it goes upon the 
preposterous supposition, not only that effects do 
not follow causes, but that they oppose them ; 
on the supposition, that habitual vice creates 
rectitude of character, and that sin produces 
happiness : thus flatly contradicting what the 
moral government of God uniformly exhibits in 
the course of human events ; and what revela 
tion so evidently and universally teaches. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



383 



For it should be observed that the reformation 
is generally, if not always supposed to be brought 
*bout by the all-conquering force of female 
charms. Let but a profligate young man have a 
point to carry by winning the affections of a vain 
and thoughtless girl ; he will begin his attack 
upon her heart by undermining her religious 
principles, and artfully removing every impedi- 
ment which might have obstructed her receiving 
the addresses of a man without character. And 
while he will lead her not to hear without ridi- 
cule the mention of that change of heart which 
Scripture teaches and experience proves, that 
the power of Divine grace can work on a vicious 
character ;* while he will teach her to sneer at a 
change which he would treat with contempt, be- 
cause he denies the possibility of so strange and 
miraculous a conversion ; yet he will not scru- 
ple to swear that the power of her beauty has 
worked a revolution in his own loose practices 
which is equally complete and instantaneous. 

But supposing his reformation to be genuine, 
it would even then by no means involve the 
truth of her proposition, that past libertinism in- 
sures future felicity ; yet many a weak girl, 
confirmed in this palatable doctrine by examples 
she has frequently admired of those surprising 
reformations so conveniently effected in the last 
scene of most of our comedies, has not scrupled 
to risk her earthly and eternal happiness with a 
man, who is not ashamed tc ascribe to the in- 
fluence of her beauty that power of changing 
the heart which he impiously denies to Omni- 
potence itself. 

As to the last of these practical aphorisms, 
that ' there is no medium in marriage, but that 
it is a state of exquisite happiness or exquisite 
misery ;' this, though not equally sinful, is equal- 
ly delusive ; for marriage is only one modifica- 
tion of human life, and human life is not com- 
monly in itself a state of exquisite extremes ; 
but is for the most part that mixed and mode- 
rate state, so naturally dreaded by those who set 
out with fancying this world a state of rapture ; 
and so naturally expected by those who know it 
to be a state of probation and discipline. Mar- 
riage, therefore, is only one condition, and often 
the best condition, of that imperfect state of be- 
ing which, though seldom very exquisite, is often 
very tolerable ; and which may yield much com- 
fort to those who do not look for constant trans- 
port. But unfortunately, those who find them- 
selves disappointed of the unceasing raptures 
they had anticipated in marriage disdaining to 
sit down with so poor a provision as comfort, 
and scorning the acceptance of that moderate 
lot which Providence commonly, bestows with a 
view to check despondency and to repress pre- 
sumption, give themselves up to the other alter- 
native ; and, by abandoning their hearts to dis- 
content, make to themselves that misery with 
which their fervid imagination had filled the op- 
posite scale. 

The truth is, these young ladies are very apt 
to pick up their opinions, less from the divines 
than the poets ; and the poets, though it must be 
confessed they are some of the best embellishers 
of life, are not quite the safest conductors through 
it. In travelling through a wilderness, though 
we avail ourselves of the harmony of singing 



birds to render the grove delightful, yet we neve^ 
think of following them as guides to conduct us 
through its labyrinths. 

Those women in whom the natural defects of 
a warm temper have been strengthened by an 
education which fosters their faults, are very 
dexterous in availing themselves of a hint, when 
it favours a ruling inclination, sooths vanity, in- 
dulges indolence, or gratifies their love of power. 
They have heard so often from their favourite 
sentimental authors, and their more flattering 
male friends, ' that when nature denied them 
strength, she gave them fascinating graces in 
compensation ; that their strength consists in 
their weakness ;' and that ' they are endowed 
with arts of persuasion which supply the absence 
of force, and the place of reason ;' that they may 
learn, in time, to pride themselves on that very 
weakness, and to become vain of their imperfec- 
tions ; till at length they begin to claim for their 
defects not only pardon, but admiration. Henco 
they acquire a habit of cherishing a species of 
feeling which, if not checked, terminates in ex- 
cessive selfishness ; they learn to produce their 
inability to bear contradiction as a proof of their 
tenderness ; and to indulge in that sort of irrita- 
bility in all that relates to themselves, which in- 
evitably leads to the utter exclusion of all interest 
in the sufferings of others. Instead of exercising 
their sensibility in the wholesome duty of re- 
lieving distress and visiting scenes of sorrow 
that sensibility itself is pleaded as a reason for 
their not being able to endure sights of wo, and 
for shunning the distress it should be exerted in 
removing. That exquisite sense of feeling which 
God implanted in the heart as a stimulus to 
quicken us in relieving the miseries of others, is 
thus introverted, and learns to consider self not 
as the agent, but the object of compassion. Ten- 
derness is made an excuse for being hard-heart- 
ed ; and instead of drying the weeping eyes of 
others, this false delicacy reserves its selfish and 
ready tears for the more elegant and less expen- 
sive sorrows of the melting novel, or the pathetic 
tragedy. 

When feeling stimulates only to self-indul- 
gence ; when the more exquisite affections of 
sympathy and pity evaporate in sentiment, in- 
stead of flowing out in active charity, and afford, 
ing assistance, protection, or consolation to every 
species of distress within its reach, it is an evi- 
dence that the feeling is of a spurious kind ; and 
instead of being nourished as an amiable tender- 
ness, it should be subdued as a fond and base 
self-love. 

That idleness, to whose cruel inroads many 
women of fortune are unhappily exposed, from 
not having been trained to consider wholesome 
occupation, vigorous exertion, and systematic 
employment, as making part of the indispensable 
duties and pleasures of life, lays them open to a 
thousand evils of this kind, from which the use- 
ful and the busy are exempted ; and, perhaps, it 
would not be easy to find a more pitiable object 
than a woman with a great deal of time, and a 
<rreat deal of money on her hands, who, never 
having been taught the conscientious use of 
either squanders both at random, or rather moul- 
ders both away, without plan, without principle, 
and without pleasure : all whose projects begin 



384 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



and terminate in self; who considers the rest of 
the world only as they may be subservient to 
her gratification ; and to whom it never occurred, 
that both her time and money were given for the 
gratification and good of others. 

It is not much to the credit of the other sex, 
that they now and then lend themselves to the 
indulgence of this selfish spirit in their wives, 
and cherish by a kind of false fondness those 
faults which should be combatted by good sense 
and a reasonable counteraction ; slothfully pre- 
ferring a little false peace, the purchase of pre- 
carious quiet, and the popular reputation of good 
nature, to the higher duty of forming the mind, 
fixing the principles, and strengthening the cha- 
racter of her with whom they are connected. 
Perhaps too, a little vanity in the husband helps 
out his good nature ; he secretly rewards him- 
self for his sacrifice by the consciousness of his 
superiority ; he feels a self-complacency in his 
patient condescension to her weakness, which 
tacitly flatters his own strength : and he is, as 
it were, paid for stooping, by the increased sense 
of his own tallness. Seeing also, perhaps, but 
little of other women, he is taught to believe that 
they are all pretty much alike, and that, as a 
man of sense, he must content himself with what 
he takes to be the common lot. Whereas, in 
truth, by his misplaced indulgence, he has ra- 
ther made his own lot than drawn it ; and thus, 
through an indolent despair in the husband of 
being able to effect any amendment by opposi- 
tion, and through the want of that sound affection 
which labours to improve and exalt the character 
of its object; it happens, that many a helpless, 
fretful, and daudling wife acquires a more pow- 
erful ascendancy than the most discreet and 
amiable woman ; and that the most absolute fe- 
male tyranny is established by these sickly and 
capricious humours. 

The poets again, who, to do them justice, are 
always ready to lend a helping hand when any 
mischief is to be done, have contributed their 
full share towards confirming these feminine 
follies : they have strengthened by adulatory 
maxims, sung in seducing strains, those faults 
which their talents and their influence should 
have been employed in correcting. By fair and 
youthful females, an argument, drawn from 
sound experience and real life, is commonly re- 
pelled by a stanza or a sonnet ; and a couplet is 
considered as nearly of the same validity with 
a text. When ladies are complimented with 
being 

Fine by-defect, and delicately weak 

is not a standard of feebleness held out to them, 
to which vanity will gladly resort, and to which 
softness and indolence can easily act up, or ra- 
ther act down, if I may be allowed the expres- 
sion ? 

When ladies are told by the same misleading, 
but to them, high authority, that « smiles and 
tears are the irresistible arms with which nature 
nas furnished the weak for conquering the 
strong,' will they not eagerly fly to this cheap 
and ready artillery, instead of labouring to fur- 
nish themselves with a reasonable mind, an equa- 
ble temper, and a meek and quiet spirit ? 



Every animal is endowed by Providence with 
the peculiar powers adapted to its nature and 
its wants ; while none, except the human, by 
grafting art on natural sagacity, injures or mars 
the gift. Spoilt women, who fancy there is 
something more picquant and alluring in the 
mutable graces of caprice, than in the monoto- 
nous smoothness of an even temper ; and who 
also having heard much, as was observed be- 
fore, about their ' amiable weakness,' learn to 
look about them for the best succedaneum to 
strength, the supposed absence of which, they 
sometimes endeavour to supply by artifice. By 
this engine the weakest woman frequently fur- 
nishes the converse to the famous reply of the 
French minister, who, when he was accused of 
governing the mind of that feeble queen, Mary 
de Medicis, by sorcery, replied, ' that the only 
sorcery he had used, was that influence which 
strong minds naturally have over weak ones.' 

But though it be fair so to study the tempers, ' 
defects, and weaknesses of others, as to convert 
our knowledge of them to the promotion of their 
benefit and our own ; and though it be making 
a lawful use of our penetration to avail ourselves 
of the faults of others for ' their good to edifica- 
tion ;' yet all deviations from the straight line 
of truth and simplicity ; every plot insidiously 
to turn influence to unfair account ; all contri- 
vances to extort from a bribed complaisance 
what reason and justice would refuse to our 
wishes; these are some of the operations of that 
lowest and most despicable engine, selfish cun- 
ning, by which little minds sometimes govern 
great ones. 

And, unfortunately, women from their natural 
desire to please, and from their sometimes doubt- 
ing by what means this grand end may be best 
effected, are in more danger of being led into 
dissimulation than men ; for dissimulation is 
the result of weakness ; it is the refuge of doubt 
and distrust, rather than of conscious strength, 
the dangers of which lie another way. Frank- 
ness, truth, and simplicity, therefore, as they 
are inexpressibly charming, so are they pecu- 
liarly commendable in women ; and nobly evince 
that while the possessors of them wish to please 
(and why should they not wish it ?) they dis- 
dain to have recourse to any thing but what is 
fair, and just, and honourable to effect it; that 
they scorn to attain the most desired end by any 
but the most lawful means. The beauty of 
simplicity is indeed so intimately felt and gene- 
rally acknowledged by all who have a true taste 
for personal, moral, or intellectual beauty, that 
women of the deepest dissimulation often find 
their account in assuming an exterior the most 
foreign to their character, and exhibiting the 
most engaging naivete. It is curious to see how 
much art they put in practice in order to appear 
natural; and the deep design which is set at 
work to display simplicity. And, indeed, this 
feigned simplicity is the most mischievous, be- 
cause the most engaging of all the Proteus forms 
which artifice can put on. For the most free 
and bold sentiments have been sometimes ha- 
zarded with fatal success under this unsuspect- 
ed mask. And an innocent, quiet, indolent, art- 
less manner, has been adopted as the most. re. 
fined and unsuccessful accompaniment of seuti 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



385 



ments, ideas, and designs, neither artless, quiet, 
nor innocent. 



CHAP. XVII. 

On dissipation, and the modern habits of fashion- 
able life. 

Perhaps the interests of true friendship, ele- 
gant conversation, mental improvement, social 
pleasure, maternal duty, and conjugal comfort, 
never received such a blow as when Fashion 
issued out that arbitrary and universal decree, 
that every body ?nust be acquainted with every 
body ; together with that consequent, authori- 
tative, but rather inconvenient clause that every 
body must also go every where every night. The 
implicit and devout obedience paid to this law, 
is incompatible with the very being of friend- 
ship ; for as the circle of acquaintance expands, 
and it will be continually expanding, the affec- 
tions will be beaten out into such thin lamina, 
as to leave little solidity remaining. The heart 
which is continually exhausting itself in profes- 
sions, grows cold and hard. The feelings of 
kindness diminish in proportion as the expres- 
sion of it becomes more diffuse and indiscrimi- 
nate. The very traces of ' simplicity and Godly 
sincerity,' in a delicate female, wear away im- 
perceptibly by constant collision with the world 
at large. And perhaps no woman takes so little 
interest in the happiness of her real friends, as 
she whose affections are incessantly evaporat- 
ing in universal civilities ; as she who is saying 
fond und nattering things at random, to a circle 
of five hundred people every night. 

The decline and fall of animated and instruc- 
tive conversation, has been in a good measure 
effected by this barbarous project of assembling 
en masse. An excellent prelate,* with whose 
friendship the author was long honoured, and 
who himself excelled in the art of conversation, 
used to remark, that a few years had brought 
about a great revolution in the manners of so- 
ciety ; that it used to be the custom, previously 
to going into company, to think that something 
was to be communicated or received, taught or 
learnt ; that the powers of the understanding 
were expected to he brought into exercise, and 
that it was therefore necessary to quicken the 
mind, by reading and thinking, for the share 
the individual might be expected to take in the 
general discourse ; but that now, knowledge and 
taste, and wit, and erudition, seemed to be 
scarcely considered as necessary materials to 
be brought into the pleasurable commerce of the 
world ; because now there was little chance of 
turning them to much account; and therefore, 
he who possessed them, and he who possessed 
them not, were nearly on a footing. 

It is obvious also that multitudinous assem- 
blies are so little favourable to that cheerfulness 
which it should seem to be their very end to 
promote, that if there were any chemical pro- 
cess by which the quantum of spirits, animal or 
intellectual, could be ascertained, the diminu- 
tion would be found to have been inconceivably 



Vol. I. 



* The late Bishop Home, 
B2 



great, since the transformation of man and wo- 
man from a social to a gregarious animal. 

But if it be true that friendship, society, and 
cheerfulness, have sustained so much injury by 
this change of manners, how much more point- 
edly does the remark apply to family happiness. 

Notwithstanding the known fluctuation of 
manners, and the mutability of language, could 
it be foreseen when the apostle Paul exhorted 
' married women to be keepers at home, 1 that 
the time would arrive when that very phrase 
would be selected to designate one of the most 
decided acts of dissipation ? Could it be foreseen 
that when a fine lady should send out a notifi- 
cation that on such a night she shall be at home, 
these two significant words (besides imitating 
the rarity of the thing) would present to the 
mind an image the most undomestic which lan- 
guage can convey ? Could it be anticipated that 
the event of one lady's being at home could only 
be effected by the universal concurrence of all 
her acquaintance to be abroad ? That so simple 
an act should require such complicated co-ope- 
ration ? And that the report that one person 
would be found in her own house, should ope- 
rate with such an electric force as to empty the 
houses of all her friends ? 

My country readers, who may require to have 
it explained that these two magnetic words at 
home, now possess the powerful influence of 
drawing together every thing fine within the 
sphere of their attraction, may need also to be 
apprized, that the guests afterwards are not ask- 
ed what was said by the company, but whether 
the crowd was prodigious ; the rule for deciding 
on the merit of a fashionable society, not being 
by the taste or the spirit, but by the score and 
the hundred. The question of pleasure, like a 
parliamentary question, is now carried by num- 
bers. And when two parties modish, like two 
parties political, are run one against another on 
the same night, the same kind of mortification 
attends the leader of a defeated minority, the 
same triumph attends the exulting carrier of 
superior nambers, in the one case as in the other. 
The scale of enjoyment is rated by the measure 
of fatigue, and the quantity of inconvenience 
furnishes the standard of -gratification : the 
smallness of the dimensions to which each per- 
son is limited on account of the multitudes 
which must divide among them a certain given 
space, adds to the sum total of general delight ; 
the aggregate of pleasure is produced by the 
proportion of individual suffering ; and not till 
every guest feels herself in the state of a cat in 
an exhausted receiver, does the delighted host- 
ess attain the consummation of that renown 
which is derived from such overflowing rooms 
as shall throw all her competitors at a disgrace- 
ful distance. 

An eminent divine has said, that either ' per- 
severance in prayer will make a man leave off 
sinning, or a continuance in sin will make him 
leave off prayer.' This remark may be accom- 
modated to those ladies who, while they are de- 
voted to the enjoyments of the world, yet retain 
considerable solicitude for the instruction of 
their daughters. But if they are really in earnest 
to give them a christian education, they must 
themselves renounce a dissipated life. Or if 



386 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



they resolve to pursue the chase of pleasure, they 
must renounce this prime duty. Contraries can- 
not unite. The moral nurture of a tall daughter 
can no more be administered by a mother whose 
time is absorbed by crowds abroad, than the 
physical nurture of her infant offspring- can be 
supplied by her in a perpetual absence from 
home. And is not that a preposterous affection, 
which, after leading a mother to devote a few 
months to the inferior duty of furnishing ali- 
ment to the mere animal life, allows her to de- 
sert her post when the more important moral 
and intellectual cravings require sustenance ? 
This great object is not to be effected with the 
shreds and parings rounded off from the circle 
of a dissipated life ; but in order to its adequate 
execution, the mother should carry it on with 
the same spirit and perseverance at home, which 
the father thinks it necessary to be exerting 
abroad in his public duty or professional en- 
gagement. 

The usual vindication (and in theory it has a 
plausible sound) which has been offered for the 
large portion of time spent by women in ac- 
quiring ornamental talents is, that they are cal- 
culated to make the possessor love home, and 
that they innocently fill up the hours of leisure. 
The plea has indeed so promising an appear- 
ance, that it is worth inquiring whether it be in 
fact true. Do we then, on fairly pursuing the 
inquiry, discover that those who have spent most 
time in such light acquisitions, are really re- 
markable for loving home, or staying quietly 
there ? or that when there, they are sedulous in 
turning time to the best account 1 I speak not 
of that rational and respectable class of women, 
who, applying (as many of them do) these ele- 
gant talents to their true purpose, employ them 
to fill up the vacancies of better occupations, 
and to embellish the leisure of a life actively 
good. But do we generally see that even the 
most valuable and sober part of the reigning fe- 
male acquisitions leads their possessor to scenes 
most favourable to the enjoyment of them ? to 
scenes which we should naturally suppose she 
would seek, in order to the more effectual culti- 
vation of such rational pleasures ? To learn to 
endure, to enjoy, and to adorn solitude, seems 
to be one great end for bestowing accomplish- 
ments, instead of making them the motive for 
hurrying those who have acquired them into 
crowds, in order for their most effectual dis- 
play. 

Would not those delightful pursuits, botany 
and drawing, for instance, seem likely to court 
the fields, the woods, and gardens of the pater- 
nal seat, as more congenial to their nature, and 
more appropriate to their exercise, than barren 
watering places, destitute of a tree, or an herb, 
or a flower, and not affording an hour's interval 
from successive pleasures, to profit by the scene, 
even it abounded with the whole vegetable world, 
from the ' cedar of Lebanon to the hyssop on 
the wall.' 

From the mention of watering places, may 
the author be allowed to suggest a few remarks 
on the evils which have arisen from the general 
conspiracy of the gay to usurp the regions of 
the sick ; and from their converting the health- 
restoring fountains, meant as a refuge for dis- 



ease, into the resorts of vanity for those who 
have no disease but idleness ? 

This inability of staying at home, as it is one 
of the most infallible, so it is one of the most 
dangerous symptoms of the reigning mania. It 
would be more tolerable, did this epidemic ma- 
lady break out only as formerly during the win- 
ter, or some one season. — Heretofore, the tenan- 
try and the poor, the natural dependants on the 
rural mansions of the opulent, had some definite 
period to which they might joyfully look for- 
ward for the approach of those patrons, part of 
whose business in life it is to influence by their 
presence, to instruct by their example, to sooth 
by their kinkness, and to assist by their liberal- 
ity, those whom Providence, in the distribution 
of human lots, has placed under their more im- 
mediate protection. Though it would be far 
from truth to assert, that dissipated people are 
never charitable, yet I will venture to say that 
dissipation is inconsistent with the spirit of 
charity. That affecting precept followod by so 
gracious a promise, ' Never turn away thy face 
from any poor man, and then the face of the 
Lord shall never be turned away from thee,' 
cannot literally mean that we should give to all, 
as then we should soon have nothing left to give: 
but it seems to intimate the habitual attention, 
the duty of inquiring out all cases of distress, 
in order to judge which are fit to be relieved , 
now for this inquiry, for this attention, for this 
sympathy, the dissipated have little taste, and 
less leisure. 

Let a reasonable conjecture (for calculation 
would fail !) be made of how large a diminution 
of the general good has been effected in this 
single respect by causes which, though they do 
not seem important in themselves, yet make no 
inconsiderable part of the mischief arising from 
modern manners : and I speak now to persona 
who intend to be charitable : what a deduction 
will be made from the aggregate of charity by 
a circumstance apparently trifling, when we 
consider what would be the beneficial effects of 
that regular bounty which must almost unavoid- 
ably result from the evening walks of a great 
and benevolent family among the cottages of 
their own domain : the thousand little acts of 
comparatively unexpensive kindness which the 
sight of petty wants and difficulties would ex- 
cite ; wants, which will scarcely be felt in the 
relation ; and which will probably be neither 
seen, nor felt, nor fairly represented, in their 
long absences, by an agent. And what is even 
almost more than the good done, is the habit of 
mind kept up in those who do it. Would not 
this habit, exercised on the Christian principle, 
that ' even a cup of cold water,' given upon right 
motives, shall not lose its reward ; while the giv- 
ing ' all their goods to feed the poor,' without 
the true principle of charity, shall profit them 
nothing ; would not this habit, I say, and the 
inculcation of the spirit which produces it, be 
almost the best part of the education of daugh- 
ters.* 

* It would he a pleasant summer amusement for our 
young ladies of fortune, if they were to preside at such 
spinning feasts as are instituted at Nuneham for the 
promotion of virtue and industry in their own sex. 
Pleasurable anniversaries of this kind would serve to 
combine in the minds of the poor two ideas which ought 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



387 



Transplant this wealthy and bountiful family 
periodically, to the .frivolous and uninteresting 
bustle of the watering place ; there it is not de- 
nied that frequent public and fashionable acts 
of charity may make a part (and it is well they 
do) of the business and amusement of the day ; 
with this latter, indeed, they are sometimes 
good naturedly mixed up. But how shall we 
compare the regular systematical good these 
persons would be doing at their own home, with 
the light, and amusing, and bustling bounties 
of the public place ? The illegal raffle at the toy- 
shop, may relieve, it is true, some distress ; but 
this distress, though it may be real, and if real 
it ought to be relieved, is far less easily ascer- 
tained than the wants of the poor round a per- 
son's own neighbourhood, or the debts of a dis- 
tressed tenant. How shall we compare the broad 
stream of bounty which should be flowing 
through, and refreshing whole districts ; with 
the penurious current of the subscription break- 
fast for the needy musician, in which the price 
af, the gift is taken out in the diversion, and in 
which pleasure dignifies itself with the name of 
bounty ? How shall we compare the attention, 
and time, and zeal, which would otherwise, per- 
haps, be devoted to the village school, spent in 
hawking about benefit tickets for a broken play- 
er, while the kindness of the benefactress, per- 
haps, is rewarded by scenes in which her cha- 
rity is not always repaid by the purity of the 
exhibition. 

Far be it from the author to wish to check 
the full tide of charity wherever it is disposed to 
flow ! Would she could multiply the already 
abundant streams, and behold every source pu- 
rified ! But in the public resorts there are many 
who are able and willing to give. In the seques- 
tered, though populous village, there is, perhaps, 
only one affluent family : the distress which 
they do not behold will probably not be attended 
to : the distress which they do not relieve will 
probably not be relieved at all : the wrongs 
which they do not redress will go unredressed : 
the oppressed whom tftey do not rescue will sink 
under the tyranny of the oppressor. — Through 
their own rural domains too, charity runs in a 
clearer current, and is under less suspicion of 
being polluted by that muddy tincture which it 
is sometimes apt to contract in passing through 
the impure soil of the world. 

But to return from this too long digression. 
The old standing objection formerly brought 
forward by the prejudices of the other sex, and 
too eagerly laid hold on as a shelter for indo- 
lence and ignorance by ours, was, that intellec- 
tual accomplishments too much absorbed the 
thoughts and affections, took women off from 
the necessary attention to domestic duties, and 
superinduced a contempt or neglect of whatever 
was useful. It is peculiarly the character of the 
present day to detect absurd opinions, and ex- 

never to be separated, but which they are not very for- 
iva'd to unite-that the great wish is to make them happy 
'as .veil as good. Occasional approximations of the rich 
and poor, for the purposes of relief and instruction, and 
annual meetings for the purpose of innocent pleasure, 
would do much towards wearing away discontent, and 
the conviction that the rich really take an interest in 
their comfort, would contribute to reconcile the lower 
claes to that state in which it has pleased God to place 
iem. 



pose plausible theories by the simple and deci- 
sive answer of experiment ; and it is presumed 
that this popular error, as well as others, is daily 
receiving the refutation of actual experience. 
For it cannot surely be maintained on ground 
that is any longer tenable, that acquirements 
truly rational are celculated to draw off the 
mind from real duties. Whatever removes pre- 
judices, whatever stimulates industry, whatever 
rectifies the judgment, whatever corrects self, 
conceit, whatever purifies the taste, and raises 
the understanding, will be likely to contribute 
to moral excellence : to woman moral excellence 
is the grand object of education : and of moral 
excellence, domestic life is to woman the proper 
sphere. 

Count over the list of females who have made 
shipwreck of their fame and virtue, and have 
furnished the most lamentable examples of the 
dereliction of family duties ; and the number 
will not be found considerable who have been 
led astray by the pursuit of knowledge. And 
if a few deplorable instances of this kind be pro- 
duced, it will commonly be found that there was 
little infusion in the minds of such women of 
that correcting principle without which all other 
knowledge only ' puffeth up.' 

The time nightly expended in late female vi- 
gils is expended by the light of far other lamps 
than those which are fed by the student's oil • 
and if families are to be found who are neglect- 
ed through too much study in the mistress, it 
will probably be proved to be Hoyle and not 
Homer, who has robbed her children of her 
time and affections. For one family which has 
been neglected by the mother's passion for 
books, an hundred have been deserted through 
her passion for play. The husband of a fashion- 
able woman will not often find that the library 
is the apartment the expenses of which involve 
him in debt or disgrace. And for one literary 
slattern, who now manifests her indifference to 
her husband by the neglect of her person, there 
are scores of elegant spendthrifts who ruin theirs 
by excess of decoration. 

May I digress a little while I remark, that I 
am far from asserting that literature has never 
filled women with vanity and self-conceit : the 
contrary is too obvious : and it happens in this 
as in other cases, that a few characters conspi- 
cuously absurd, have served to bring a whole 
order into ridicule. But I will assert, that in 
general those whom books are supposed to have 
spoiled, would have been spoiled in another way 
without them. She who is a vain pedant be- 
cause she has read much, has probably that de- 
fect in her mind which would have made her a 
vain fool if 6he had read nothing. It is not her 
having more knowledge, but less 6ense, which 
makes her insufferable: and ignorance would 
have added little to her value, for it is not what 
she has, but what she wants, which makes her 
unpleasant. The truth, however, probably lies 
here, that while her understanding was improv- 
ed, the tempers of her heart were neglected, and 
that in cultivating the fame of a savante, she 
lost the humility of a Christian. But these in- 
stances too furnish only a fresh argument for 
the general cultivation of the female mind. The 
wider diffusion of sound knowledge, would re 



383 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



move that temptation to be vain which may be 
excited by its rarity. 

From the union of an unfurnished mind and 
a cold heart there results a kind of necessity for 
dissipation. The very term gives an idea of 
mental imbecility. That which a working and 
fatigued mind requires is relaxation; it requires 
something to unbend itself; to slacken its efforts, 
to relieve it from its exertions; while amusement 
is the business of feeble minds, and is carried on 
with a length and seriousness incompatible with 
the refreshing idea of relaxation. There is 
scarcely any one thing which comes under the 
description of public amusement, which does not 
fill the space of three or four hours nightly. Is 
not that a large proportion of refreshment for a 
mind, which, generally speaking, has been kept 
60 many hours together on the stretch in the 
morning, by business, by study, by devotion ? 

But while we would assert that a woman of a 
cultivated intellect is not driven by the same ne- 
cessity as others into the giddy whirl of public 
resort ; who but regrets that real cultivation does 
not inevitably preserve her from it ? No wonder 
that inanity of character, that vacuity of mind, 
that torpid ignorance, should plunge into dissi- 
pation as their natural refuge ; should seek to 
bury their insignificance in the crowd of pressing 
multitudes, and hope to escape analysis and de- 
tection in the undistinguished mass of mixed as- 
semblies ! There attrition rubs all bodies smooth, 
and makes all surfaces alike ! thither superficial 
and external accomplishments naturally fly as 
to their proper scene of action ; as to a field 
where competition in such perfections is in per- 
petual exercise ; where the laurels of admiration 
are to be won ; whence the trophies of vanity 
may be carried off triumphantly. 

It would indeed be matter of little comparative 
regret, if this corrupt air were breathed only by 
those whose natural element it seems to be ; but 
who can forbear lamenting that the power of 
fashion attracts into this impure and unwhole- 
some atmosphere, minds also of a better make, 
of higher aims and ends, of more ethereal tem- 
per ? that it attracts even those who, renouncing 
enjoyments for which they have a genuine taste, 
and which would make them really happy, ne- 
glect society they love and pursuits they admire, 
in order that they may seem happy and be fa- 
shionable in the chase of pleasures they despise, 
and in company they disapprove ! But no cor- 
rectness of taste, no depth of knowledge, will in- 
fallibly preserve a woman from this contagion, 
unless her heart be impressed with a deep Chris- 
tian conviction that she is accountable for the 
application of time. Perhaps if there be any one 
principle which should more sedulously than 
another be worked into the youthful mind, it 
is the doctrine of particular as well as general 
responsibility. 

The contagion of dissipated manners is so deep, 
eo wide, and fatal, that if I were called upon to 
assign the predominant cause of the greater part 
of the misfortunes and corruptions of the great 
and gay in our days, I should not look for it 
principally in any obviously great or striking 
circumstance : not in the practice of notorious 
vices, not originally in the dereliction of Chris- 
tian principle ; but I should without hesitation 



ascribe it to a growing, regular, systematic series 
of amusements : <" an incessant, boundless, an4 
not very disreputable dissipation. Other cor 
ruptions, though more formidable in appearance, 
are yet less fatal in some respects, because they 
leave us intervals to reflect on their turpitude 
and spirit to lament their excesses : but dissipa. 
tion is the more hopeless, as by engrossing al 
most the entire life, and enervating the whole 
moral and intellectual system, it leaves neither 
time for reflection, nor space for self-examina 
tion, nor temper for the cherishing of right affec- 
tions, nor leisure for the operation on sound 
principles, nor interval for regret, nor vigour to 
resist temptation, nor energy to struggle for 
amendment. 

The great master of the science of pleasure 
among the ancients, who reduced it into a sys- 
tem which he called the chief good of man, di- 
rected that there should be interval enough be- 
tween the succession of delights to sharpen in- 
clination ; and accordingly instituted periodical 
days of abstinence ; well knowing that gratifiet- 
tion was best promoted by previous self-denial. 
But 60 little do our votaries of fashion understand 
the true nature of pleasure, that one amusement 
is allowed to overtake another without any in- 
terval, either for recollection of the past or pre- * 
paration for the future. Even on their own selfish 
principle, therefore, nothing can be worse under- 
stood than this continuity of enjoyment : for to 
such a degree of labour is the pursuit carried, 
that the pleasures exhaust instead of exhilara- 
ting, and the recreations require to bo rested 
from. 

For, not to argue the question on the ground 
of religion, but merely on that of present enjoy- 
ment look abroad and eoe who are the people that 
complain of weariness, listlessness and dejection. 
You will not find them among the class of such 
as are overdone with work, but with pleasure. 
The natural and healthful fatigues of business 
may be recruited by simple and cheap gratifica- 
tions : but a spirit worn down with the toils of 
amusement, requires pleasures, of poignancy, 
varied, multiplied, stimulating. 

It has been observed by medical writers, that 
that sober excess in which many indulge, by 
eating and drinking a little too much at every 
day's dinner and every night's supper, more ef- 
fectually undermines the health, than those more 
rare excesses by which others now and then 
break in upon a life of general sobriety. This 
illustration is not introduced with a design to re- 
commend occasional deviations into gross vice, 
by way of a pious receipt for mending the mo- 
rals ; but merely to suggest that there is a pro- 
bability that those who are sometimes driven by 
unresisted passion into irregularities which shock 
their cooler reason, are more liable to be roused 
to a sense of their danger, than persons whose 
perceptions of evil are blunted through a round 
of systematical unceasing and yet not scandalous 
dissipation. And when I affirm that this system 
of regular indulgence relaxes the soul, enslaves 
the heart, bewitches the senses, and thus dis- 
qualifies for pious thought or useful action, with- 
out having any thing in it so gross as to shock 
the conscience ; and when I hazard an opinion 
that this state is more formidable, because less 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



389 



alarming, than that which bears upon it a more 
determined character of evil, I no more mean to 
speak of the latter in slight and palliating terms, 
than I would intimate, because the sick some- 
times recover from a fever, but seldom from a 
palsy, that a fever is therefore a safe or a healthy 
state. 

But there seems to be an error in the first con- 
coction, out of which the subsequent errors suc- 
cessively grow. First then, as has been obser- 
ved before, the showy education of women tends 
chiefly to qualify them for the glare of public 
assemblies : secondly, they seem in many in- 
stances to be so educated, with a view to the 
greater probability of their being splendidly mar- 
ried ; thirdly, it is alleged in vindication of those 
dissipated practices, that daughters can only be 
seen, and admirers, procured at balls, operas, 
and assemblies : and that therefore by a natural 
and necessary consequence, balls, operas, and 
assemblies must be followed up without inter- 
mission till the object be effected. For the ac- 
complishment of this object it is that all this com- 
plicated machinery had been previously set a 
going, and kept in motion with an activity not 
at all slackened by the disordered state of the 
system ; for some machines, instead of being 
stopped, go faster because the main spring is out 
of order ; the only difference being that they go 
wrong, and so the increased rapidity adds only 
to the quantity of error. 

It is also, as we have already remarked, an 
error to fancy that the love of pleasure exhausts 
itself by indulgence, and that the very young 
are chiefly addicted to it. The contrary appears 
to be true. The desire often grows with the 
pursuit in the same degree as motion is quick- 
ened by the continuance of the gravitating force. 

First then it cannot be thought unfair to trace 
back the excessive fondness for amusement to 
that mode of education we have elsewhere repro- 
bated. Few of the accomplishments, falsely so 
called, assist the developement of the faculties : 
tbey do not exercise the judgment, nor bring in- 
to action those powers which fit the heart and 
mind for the occupations of life ; they do not pre- 
pare women to love home, to understand its oc- 
cupations, to enliven its uniformity, to fulfil its 
duties, to multiply its comforts : they do not 
lead to that sort of experimental logic, if I may 
so speak, compounded of observation and reflec- 
tion, which makes up the moral science of life 
and manners. Talents which have display for 
their object despise the narrow stage of home ! 
they demand mankind for their spectators, and 
the world for their theatre. 

While we cannot help shrinking a little from 
the idea of a delicate young creature, lovely in 
person, and engaging in mind and manners, sa- 
crificing nightly at the public shrine of Fashion, 
at once the votary and the victim ; we cannot 
help figuring to ourselves how much more in- 
teresting she would appear in the eyes of a man 
of sense and feeling, did he behold her in the 
more endearing situation of domestic life. And 
who can forbear wishing, that the good sense, 
good taste, and delicacy of the men had rather 
led them to prefer seeking companions for life 
in the almost sacred quiet of a virtuous home ? 
There they might havo had the means of seeing 



and admiring those amiable beings in the best 
point of view ; there they might have been ena- 
bled to form a juster estimate of female worth, 
than is likely to be obtained in the scenes where 
such qualities and talents as might be expected 
to add to the stock of domestic comfort must ne- 
cessarily be kept in the back ground, and where 
such only can be brought into view as are not 
particularly calculated to insure the certainty of 
home delights. 

O! did they keep their persons fresh and new, 
How would they pluck allegiance from men's heart*, 
And win by rareness! 

But by what unaccountable infatuation is it 
that men too, even men of understanding, join 
in the confederacy against their own happiness, 
by looking for their home companions in the re- 
sorts of vanity ? Why do not such men rise su- 
perior to the illusions of fashion ? Why do they 
not uniformly seek her who is to preside in their 
families in the bosom of her own ? in the prac- 
tice of every domestic duty, in the exercise of 
every amiable virtue, in the exertion of every 
elegant accomplishment? those accomplishments 
of which we have been reprobating, not the pos- 
session, but the application ? there they would 
find her exerting them to their true end ; to en 
liven business, to animate retirement, to embel- 
lish the charming scene of family delights, to 
heighten the interesting pleasures of social in- 
tercourse, and rising in just gradation to then 
noblest object, to adorn the doctrine of God hei 
Saviour. 

If, indeed, women were mere outside, form 
and face only, and if mind made up no part of 
her composition, it would follow that a ball-room 
was quite as appropriate a place for choosing a 
wife, as an exhibition room for choosing a pic- 
ture. But, inasmuch as women are not mere 
portraits, their value not being determinable by a 
glance of the eye, it follows that a different mode 
of appreciating their value, and a different place 
for viewing them antecedent to their being in- 
dividually selected, is desirable. The two cases 
differ also in this, that if a man select a picture 
for himself from among all its exhibited compe- 
titors, and bring it to his own house, the picture 
being passive, he is able to fix it there : while 
the wife, picked up at a public place, and accus- 
tomed to incessant display, will not, it is proba- 
ble, when brought home, stick so quietly to the 
spot where he fixes her, but will escape to the 
exhibition-room again, and continue to be dis- 
played at every subsequent exhibition, just as if 
she were not become private property, and had 
never been definitely disposed of. 

It is the novelty of a thing which astonishes 
%s, and not its absurdity ; objects may be so long 
kept before the eye that it begins no longer to 
observe them ; or may be brought into such 
close contact with it, that it does not discern 
them. Long habit so reconciles us to almost any 
thing, that the grossest improprieties cease to 
strike us when they once make a part of the 
common course of action. This, by the way, is 
a strong reason for carefully sifting every opi- 
nion and every practice before we let them in- 
corporate into the mass of our habits, for after 
that time they will be no more examined. — Would 
it not be accounted preposterous for a young 



390 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



man to say he had fancied such a lady would 
dance a better minuet because he had seen her 
behave devoutly at church, and therefore had 
chosen her for his partner ? and yet he is not 
thought at all absurd when he intimates that he 
chose a partner for life because he was pleased 
with her at a ball. Surely the place of choosing 
and the motives of choice, would be just as ap- 
propriate in one case as in the other, and the mis- 
take, if the judgment failed, not quite so serious. 

There is among the more elevated classes of 
society, a certain set of persons who are pleased 
exclusively to call themselves, and whom others 
by a sort of compelled courtesy are pleased to 
call, the fine world. This small detachment 
consider their situation with respect to the rest 
of mankind, just as the ancient Grecians did 
theirs, that is as the Grecians thought there 
were but two sorts of beings, and that all who 
were not Grecians were barbarians ; so this 
certain set conceives of society as resolving it- 
self into two distinct classes, the fine world and 
the people ; to which last class they turn over 
all who do not belong to their little coterie, how- 
ever high their rank, or fortune, or merit. 
Celebrity, in their estimation, is not bestowed by 
birth or talents, but by being connected with 
them. They have laws, immunities, privileges, 
and almost a language of their own ; they form 
a kind of distinct cast, and with a sort of esprit 
du corps detach themselves from others, even in 
general society, by an affectation of distance 
and coldness ; and only whisper and smile in 
their own little groups of the initiated : their 
confines are jealously guarded, and their privi- 
leges are incommunicable. 

In this society a young man loses his natural 
character, which, whatever, it might have been 
originally, is melted down and cast into the one 
prevailing mould of fashion : all the strong, na- 
tive, discriminating qualities of his mind being 
made to take one shape, one stamp, one super- 
scription ! However varied and distinct might 
have been the materials which nature threw into 
the crucible, plastic fashion takes care that they 
shall all be the same, or at least appear the same, 
when they come out of the mould. A young 
man in such an artificial state of society, accus- 
tomed to the voluptuous ease, refined luxuries, 
soft accommodations, obsequious attendance, 
and all the unrestrained indulgencies of a fash- 
able club, is not to be expected after marriage 
to take very cordially to a home, unless very 
extraordinary exertions are made to amuse, 
to attach, and to interest him : and he is not 
likely to lend a very helping hand to the 
union, whose most laborious exertions have 
hitherto been little more than a selfish stratagem* 
to reconcile health with pleasure. Excess of 
gratification has only served to make him irrita- 
ble and exacting ; it will of course be no part of 
his project to make sacrifices, he will expect to 
receive them : and what would appear incredi- 
ble to the Paladins of gallant times, and the 
Chevaliers Preux of more heroic days, even in 
the necessary business of establishing himself 
for life, he sometimes is more disposed to expect 
attentions than to make advances. 

Thus the indolent son of fashion, with a thou- 
sand fine, but dormant qualities., which a bad 



tone of manners forbids him to bring into exer- 
cise : with real energies which that tone does 
not allow him to discover, and an unreal apathy 
which it commands him to feign ; with the heart 
of a hero, perhaps, if called into the field, affects 
at home the manners of a Sybarite ; and he who, 
with a Roman, or what is more, with a British 
valour, would leap into the gulf at the call of 
public duty, 

Yet in the soft and piping time of peace, 

when fashion has resumed her rights, would 
murmur if a rose leaf lay double under him. 

The clubs above alluded to, as has been said, 
generate and cherish luxurious habits, from 
their perfect ease, undress, liberty, and inatten- 
tion to the distinctions of rank; they promote a 
love of play, and in short, every temper and spirit 
which tends to undomesticate ; and what adds 
to the mischief is, all this is attained at a cheap 
rate compared with what may be procured at 
home in the same style. 

These indulgences, and this habit of mind, 
gratify so many passions, that a woman can 
never hope successfully to counteract the evil by 
supplying at home gratifications which are of 
the same kind, or which gratify the same habits. 
Now a passion for gratifying vanity, and a spirit 
of dissipation is a passion of the same kind ; and 
therefore, though for a few weeks, a man who 
has chosen his wife in the public haunts, and 
this wife a woman made up of accomplishments, 
may, from the novelty of the connexion and 
of the scene, continue domestic; yet in a little 
time she will find that those passions, to which 
she has trusted for making pleasant the married 
life of her husband, will crave the still higher 
pleasures of the club ; and while these are pur- 
sued, she will be consigned over to solitary 
evenings at home, or driven back to the old 
dissipations. 

To conquer the passions for club gratifica- 
tions, a woman must not strive to feed it with 
sufficient aliment of the same kind in her so- 
ciety, either at home or abroad ; she must sup- 
plant and overcome it by a passion of a different 
nature, which Providence has kindly planted 
within us ; I mean by inspiring him with the 
love of fire-side enjoyments. But to qualify 
herself for administering these she must cul- 
tivate her understanding, and her heart, and her 
temper, acquiring at the same time that modicum 
of accomplishments suited to his taste, which 
may qualify her for possessing, both for him and 
for herself, greater varieties of safe recreation. 

One great cause of the want of attachment in 
these modish couples is, that by living in the 
World at large, they are not driven to depend on 
each other as the chief source of comfort. Now 
it is pretty clear, in spite of modern theories, 
that the very frame and being of societies, 
whether great or small, public or private, is 
jointed and glued together by dependence. 
Those attachments, which arise from, and are 
compacted by, a sense of mutual wants, mutual 
affection, mutual benefit, and mutual obligation, 
are the cement, which secure the union of the 
family as well as of the state. 

Unfortunately, when two young persons of 
the above description marry, the union is somo 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



3l>1 



times considered rather as the end than the 
beginning of an engagement ; the attachment of 
each to the other is rather viewed as an object 
already completed, than as one which marriage 
is to confirm more closety. But the companion 
for life is not always chosen from the purest 
motive ; she is selected, perhaps, because she is 
admired by other men, rather than because she 
possesses in an emiment degree those peculiar 
qualties which are likely to constitute the indi- 
vidual happiness of the man who chooses her. 
Vanity usurps the place of affection; and indo- 
lence swallows up the judgment. Not happi- 
ness, but some easy substitute for happiness is 
pursued ; and a choice which may excite envy, 
rather than produce satisfaction, is adopted as 
the means of effecting it. 

The pair, not matched but joined, set out sepa- 
rately with their independent and individual 
pursuits. Whether it made a part of their origi- 
nal plan or not, that they should be indispensa- 
bly necessary to each other's comfort, the sense 
of this necessity, probably not very strong at 
first, rather diminishes than increases by time ; 
they live so much in the world, and so little 
together, that to stand well with their own set 
continues the favourite project of each ; while 
to stand well with each other is considered as 
an under part of the plot in the drama of life. 
Whereas, did they start in the conjugal race 
with the fixed idea that they were to look to 
each other for their chief worldly happiness, not 
only principle, but prudence, and even selfish- 
ness, would convince them of the necessity of 
sedulously cultivating each other's- esteem and 
affection as the grand means of promoting that 
happiness. But vanity, and the desire of flattery 
and applause, still continue to operate. Even 
after the husband is brought to feel a perfect in- 
difference for his wife, he still likes to see her 
decorated in a style which may serve to justify 
his choice. He encourages her to set off her 
person, not so much for his own gratification, as 
that his self-love may be flattered, by her con- 
tinuing to attract the admiration of those whose 
opinion is the standard by which he measures 
his fame, and which fame is to stand him in the 
stead of happiness. Thus is she necessarily 
exposed to the two-fold temptation of being at 
once neglected by her husband, and exhibited as 
an object of attraction to other men. If she 
escape this complicated danger, she will be in- 
debted for her preservation not to his prudence, 
but to her own principles. 

In some of these modish marriages, instead 
of the decorous neatness, the pleasant inter- 
course, and the mutual warmth of communica- 
tion of the once social dinner ; the late and un- 
interesting meal is commonly hurried over by 
the languid and slovenly pair, that the one may 
have time to dress for his club, and the other 
for her party. And in these cold abstracted 
tetes-a-tetcs, they often take as little pains to 
entertain each other, as if the one was precisely 
the only human being in the world in whose 
eyes the other did not feel it necessary to appear 
agreeable. 

Now if these young, and perhaps really 
amiable persons could struggle against the im- 
perious tyranny of fashion, and contrive to pass 



a little time together, so as to get acquainted 
with each other; and if each would live in the 
lively and conscientious exercise of those talents 
and attractions which they sometimes know how 
to produce on occasions not quite so justifiable ; 
they would, I am persuaded, often find out each 
other to be very agreeable people. And both 
of them, delighted and delighting, receiving and 
bestowing happiness, would no longer be driven 
to the necessity of perpetually escaping fiom 
home as from the only scene which offers no 
possible materials for pleasure. The steady 
and growing attachment, improved by unbound- 
ed confidence and mutual interchange of senti- 
ments ; judgment ripening, and experience 
strengthening that esteem which taste and in- 
clination first inspired ; each party studying to 
promote the eternal as well as temporal happi- 
ness of the other; each correcting the errors, 
improving the principles and confirming the 
faith of the beloved object; this would enrich the 
feeling heart with gratifications which the in- 
solvent world has not to bestow : such an heart 
would compare its interesting domestic scenes 
with the vapid pleasures of public resort, till it 
would fly to its own home, not from necessity 
but from taste ; not from custom, but choice ; 
not from duty, but delight. 

It may seem a contradiction to have asserted, 
that beings of all ages, tempers and talents, 
should with such unremitting industry follow 
up any way of life, if they did not find some 
enjoyment in it : yet I appeal to the bosoms of 
these incessant hunters in the chase of pleasure, 
whether they are really happy. No: — in the 
full tide and torrent of diversion, in the full 
blaze of gayety and splendor, 

The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy ? 

But there is an anxious restlessness excited by 
the pursuit, which, if not interesting, is bust- 
ling. .There is the dread, and partly the dis- 
credit, of being suspected of having one hour 
unmortgaged, not only to successive, but con- 
tending engagements; this it is, and not the 
pleasure of the engagement itself, which is the 
object — There is an agitation in the arrange, 
ments which imposes itself on the vacant heart 
for happiness. There is a tumult kept tip in 
the spirits which is a busy though treacherous 
substitute for comfort. — The multiplicity of 
solicitations sooths vanity. The very regret 
that they cannot be all accepted has its charms ; 
for dignity is flattered because refusal implies 
importance, and pre-engagement intimates cele- 
brity. Then there is the joy of being invited 
when others are neglected ; the triumph of show- 
ing our less modish friend that we are going 
where she cannot come ; and the feigned regret 
at being obliged to go, assumed before her who is 
half wild at being obliged to stay away. — There 
is the secret art of exciting envy in the very act 
of bespeaking compassion ; and of challenging 
respect by representing their engagements as 
duties, oppressive indeed but indispensable. — 
These are some of the supplemental shifts for 
happiness with which Vanity contrives to feed 
Iter hungry followers, too eager to be nice.* 

* The precaution which is taken against the possibi 
lity of being unengaged by the long interval between 



392 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



In the succession of open houses, in which 
pleasure is to be started and pursued on any 
given night, the actual place is never taken into 
the account of enjoyment: the scene of which 
is always supposed to lie in any place where 
her votaries happen not to be. Pleasure has no 
present tense : but in the house which her pur- 
suers have just quitted, and in the house to 
which they are just hastening, a stranger might 
conclude the slippery goddess had really fixed 
her throne, and that her worshippers considered 
the existing scene, which they seem compelled 
to suffer, but from which they are eager to es- 
cape, as really detaining them from some posi- 
tive joy to which they are flying in the next 
crowd ; till, if he met them there, he would find 
the component parts of each precisely the same. 
He would hear the same stated phrases inter- 
rupted, not answered, by the same stated replies, 
the unfinished sentence ' driven adverse to the 
winds,' by pressing multitudes ; the same warm 
regret mutually exchanged by two friends (who 
had expressly denied to each other all the win- 
ter) that they had not met before ; the same soft 
and smiling sorrow at being torn away from 
each other now ; the same avowed anxiety to 
renew the meeting, with perhaps the same se- 
cret resolution to avoid it. He would hear de- 
scribed with the same pathetic earnestness the 
difficulties of getting into this house, and the 
dangers of getting out of the last ! the perilous 
retreat of former nights, effected amidst the 
shock of chariots, and the clang of contending 
coachmen ! a retreat indeed effected with a skill 
and peril little inferior to that of the ten thousand, 
and detailed with far juster triumph: for that 
which happened only once in a life to the Gre- 
cian hero, occurs to these British heroines every 
night. There is one point of resemblance, in- 
deed, between them, in which the comparison 
fails ; for the commander with a mauvaise honte 
at which a true female veteran would blush, is 
remarkable for never naming himself. 

With ' mysterious reverence' I forbear to des- 
cant on those serious and interesting rites, for 
the more august and solemn celebration of 
which, Fashion nightly convenes these splendid 
myriads to her more sumptuous temples. Rites ! 
which, when engaged in with due devotion, ab- 
sorb the whole soul, and call every passion into 
exercise, except indeed those of love, and peace, 
and kindness, and gentleness. Inspiring rites ! 
which stimulate fear, rouse hope, kindle zeal, 
quicken dulness, sharpen discernment, exercise 
memory, inflame curiosity ! Rites ! in short, in 
the due performance of which all the energies 
and attentions, all the powers and abilities, all 
the abstraction and exertion, all the diligence 
and devotedness, all the sacrifice of time, all the 
contempt of ease, all the neglect of sleep, all the 
oblivion of care, all the risks of fortune (half of 
which, if directed to their true objects, would 
change the very face of the world) all these are 
concentrated to one point ; a point in which the 
wise and the weak, the learned and the igno- 



the invitation and the period of its accomplishment, re- 
minds us of what historians remark of the citizens of 
ancient Crotona, who used to send their invitations 
a year before the time, that the guests might prepare 
.both their dress and their appetite for the visit 



rant, the fair and the frightful, the sprightly and 
the dull, the rich and the poor, the patrician and 
the plebian, meet in one common and uniform 
equality ; an equality as religiously respected 
in these solemnities, in which all distinctions 
are levelled at a blow (and of which the very 
spirit therefore is democratical) as it is combat- 
ted in all other instances. 

Behold four kings, in majesty rever'd. 
With hoary whiskers and a forked beard 
And four fair queens, whose hands sustain a flow'r. 
The expressive emblem of their softer pow'r: 
Four knaves in garbs succint, a trusty band, 
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand ; 
And party-colour'd troops, a shining train, 
Drawn forth to combat on the velvet plain.* 



CHAP. XVIII. 

On public amusements. 

It is not proposed to enter the long contested 
field of controversy as to the individual amuse- 
ments which may be considered as safe and 
lawful for those women of the higher class who 
make a strict profession of Christianity. The 
judgment they will be likely to form for them- 
selves on the subject, and the plan they will 
consequently adopt, will depend much on the 
clearness or obscurity of their religious views, 
and on the greater or less progress they have 
made in their Christian course. It is in their 
choice of amusements that you are able, in some 
measure to get acquainted with the real disposi- 
tions of mankind. In their business, in the 
leading employments of life, their path is in a 
good degree chalked out for them : there is in 
this respect a sort of general character ; wherein 
the greater part, more or less, must coincide. 
But in their pleasures the choice is voluntary, 
the taste is self-directed, the propensity is inde- 
pendent ; and of course the habitual state, the 
genuine bent and bias of the temper, are most 
likely to be seen in those pursuits which every 
person is at liberty to choose for himself. 

When a truly religious principle shall have 
acquired such a degree of force as to produce 
that conscientious and habitual improvement of 
time before recommended, it will discover itself 
by an increasing indifference and even deadness 
to those pleasures which are interesting to the 
world at large. A woman under the predomi- 
nating influence of such a principle, will begin 
to discover that the same thing which in itself 
is innocent may yet be comparatively wrong. 
She will begin to feel that there are many 
amusements and employments which, though 
they have nothing censurable in themselves, yet 
if they be allowed to intrench on hours which 
ought to be dedicated to still better purposes ; 
or if they are protracted to an undue length ; or 
above all, if by softening and relaxing her mind 
and dissipating her spirits, they so indispose her 
for better pursuits as to render subsequent duties 
a burden, they become in that ease clearly wrong 
for her, whatever they may be for others. Now 
as temptations of this sort are the peculiar dan- 
gers of better kind of characters, the sacrifice of 
such little gratifications as may have no great 
* Rape of the Lock 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



393 



harm in them, come in among the daily calls to 
self-denial in a Christian. 

The fine arts, for instance, polite literature, 
elegant society, these are among the lawful, and 
liberal, and becoming recreations of higher life ; 
yet if even these be cultivated to the neglect or 
exclusion of severer duties ; if they interfere 
with serious studies, or disqualify the mind for 
religious exercises, it is an intimation that they 
have been too much indulged, and under such 
circumstances, it might be the part of Christian 
circumspection to inquire if the time devoted to 
them ought not to be abridged. Above all, a 
tender conscience will never lose sight of one 
6afe rule of determining in all doubtful cases : 
if the point be so nice that though we hope upon 
the whole there may be no harm in engaging in 
it, we may at least be always quite sure that 
there can be no harm in letting it alone. The 
adoption of this simple rule would put a period 
to much unprofitable casuistry. 

The principle of being responsible for the use 
of time once fixed in the mind, the conscientious 
Christian will be making a continual progress 
in the great art of turning time to account. In 
the first stages of her religion she will have ab- 
stained from pleasures which began a little to 
wound the conscience, or which assumed a ques- 
tionable shape ; but she will probably have ab- 
stained with regret, and with a secret wish that 
conscience could have permitted her to keep 
well with pleasure and religion too. But you 
may discern in her subsequent course that she 
has reached a more advanced stage, by her be- 
ginning to neglect even such pleasures or em- 
ployments as have no moral turpitude in them, 
but are merely what are called innocent. This 
relinquishment arises, not so much from her 
feeling still more the restraints of religion, as 
from the improvement in her religious taste. 
Pleasures cannot now attach her merely from 
being innocent, unless they are likewise inte- 
resting, and to be interesting they must be con- 
sonant to her superinduced views. She is not 
contented to spend a large portion of her time 
harmlessly, it must be spent profitably also. 
Nay, if she be indeed earnestly 'pressing to- 
wards the mark,' it will not be even enough for 
her that her present pursuit be good if she be 
convinced that it might be still better. Her 
contempt of ordinary enjoyments will increase 
in a direct proportion to her increased relish for 
those pleasures which religion enjoins and be- 
stows. So that at length if it were possible to 
suppose that an angel could come down to take 
off as it were the interdict, and to invite her to 
resume all the pleasures she had renounced, and 
to resume them with complete impunity ; she 
would reject the invitation, because, from an 
improvement in her spiritual taste, she would 
despise those delights from which she had at 
first abstained through fear. Till her will and 
affections come heartily to be engaged in the 
service of God, the progress will not be com- 
fortable ; but when once they are so engaged, 
the attachment to this service will be cordial, 
and her heart will not desire to go back and toil 
again in the drudgery of the world. For her 
religion has not so much given her a new creed, 
as a new heart, and a new Life, 
Vol. L 



As her views are become new, so her tempers, 
dispositions, tastes, actions, pursuits, choice of 
company, choice of amusements, are new also ; 
her employment of time is changed, her turn of 
conversation is altered ; ' old things are passed 
away, all things are become new.' In dissipated 
and worldly society, she will seldom fail to feel 
a sort of uneasiness, which will produce one of 
these two effects ; she will either, as proper sea- 
sons present themselves, struggle hard to intro- 
duce such subjects as may be useful to others, 
or, supposing that she finds herself unable to 
effect this, she will as far as she prudently can, 
absent herself from all unprofitable kind of so- 
ciety. Indeed her manner of conducting her- 
self under these circumstances may serve to 
furnish her with a test of her own sincerity 
For while people are contending for a little more 
of this amusement, and pleading for a little ex- 
tension of that gratification, and fighting in or- 
der that they may hedge in a little more terri- 
tory to their pleasure ground, they are exhibit- 
ing a kind of evidence against themselves, that 
they are not yet ' renewed in the spirit of their 
mind.' 

It has been warmly urged as an objection to 
certain religious books, and particularly against 
a recent work of high worth and celebrity, by a 
distinguished layman,* that they have set the 
standard of self-denial higher than reason or 
even than Christianity requires. The works do 
indeed elevate the general tone of religion to a 
higher pitch than is quite convenient to those 
who are at infinite pains to construct a comfort- 
able and comprehensive plan which shall unite 
the questionable pleasures of this world with the 
promised happiness of the next. I say it has 
been sometimes objected, even by those readers 
who, on the whole, greatly admire the particular 
work alluded to, that it is unreasonably strict in 
the preceptive and prohibitory parts ; and espe. 
cially that it individually and specifically for- 
bids certain fashionable amusements, with a se- 
verity not to be found in the Scriptures ; and is 
scrupulously rigid in condemning diversions 
against which nothing is said in the New Tes- 
tament. Each objector, however, is so far rea- 
sonable, as only to beg quarter for her own fa- 
vourite diversion, and generously abandons the 
defence of those in which she herself has no 
particular pleasure. 

But these objectors do not seem to understand 
the true genius of Christianity. They do not 
consider that it is the character of the gospel to 
exhibit a scheme of principles, of which it is 
the tendency to infuse such a spirit of holiness 
as must be utterly incompatible, not only with 
customs decidedly vicious, but with the very 
spirit of worldly pleasure. They do not consider 
that Christianity is neither a table of ethics, nor 
a system of opinions, nor a bundle of rods to 
punish, nor an exhibition of rewards to allure, 
nor a scheme of restraints to terrify, nor merely 
a code of laws to restrict ; but it is a new prin- 
ciple infused into the heart by the word and the 
Spirit of God ; out of which principle will in- 
evitably grow right opinions, renewed affections, 
correct morals, pure desires, heavenly tempers, 
and holy habits, with an invariable desire of 
♦ Practical View, &c. by Mr Wilberfbrce. 



394 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



pleasing God, and a constant fear of offending 
hirn. A real Christian whose heart is thorough- 
ly imbued with this principle, can no more re- 
turn to the amusements of the world, than a 
philosopher can be refreshed with the diversions 
of the vulgar, or a man be amused with the re- 
creations of a child. The New Testament is 
not a mere statute book : it is not a table where 
every offence is detailed, and its corresponding 
penalty annexed : it is not so much a compila- 
tion, as a spirit of laws : it does not so much 
prohibit every individual wrong practice, as 
suggest a temper and implant a general princi- 
ple with which every wrong practice is incom- 
patible. It did not, for instance, so much attack 
the then reigning and corrupt fashions, which 
•were probably like the fashions of other coun- 
tries, temporary and local, as it struck at the 
worldliness, which is the root and stock from 
which all corrupt fashions proceed. 

The prophet Isaiah, who addressed himself 
more particularly to the Israelitish women, in- 
veighed not only against vanity, luxury, and 
immodesty, in general ; but with great propriety 
censured even those precise instances of each, 
to which the women of rank, in the particular 
country he was addressing, were especially ad- 
dicted ; nay, he enters into the minute detail* 
of their very personal decorations, and brings 
specific charges against several instances of 
their levity and extravagance of apparel ; mean- 
ing, however, chiefly to censure the turn of cha- 
racter which these indicated. But the gospel 
of Christ, which was to be addressed to all ages, 
stations, and countries, seldom contains any such 
detailed animadversions ; for though many of 
the censurable modes which the prophet so se- 
verely reprobated, continued probably to be still 
prevalent in Jerusalem in the days of our Sa- 
viour, yet how little would it have suited the 
universality of his mission, to have confined his 
preaching to such local, limited and fluctuating 
customs ! not but there are many texts which 
actually do define the Christian conduct as well 
as temper, with sufficient particularity to serve 
as a condemnation of many practices which are 
pleaded for, and often to point pretty directly at 
them. 

It would be well for those modish Christians 
who vindicate excessive vanity in dress, expense, 
and decoration, on the principle of their being 
mere matters of indifference, and no where pro- 
hibited in the gospel, to consider that such prac- 
tices strongly mark the temper and spirit with 
which they are connected, and in that view are 
so little creditable to the Christian profession, 
as to furnish a just subject of suspicion against 
the piety of those who indulge in them. 

Had Peter, on that memorable day when he 
added three thousand converts to the church by 
a single sermon, narrowed his subject to a re- 
monstrance against this diversion, or that pub- 
lic place, or the other vain amusement, it might 
indeed have suited the case of some of the fe- 
male Jewish converts who were present, but 
such restrictions as might have been appropri- 
ate to them, would probably not have applied to 
the cases of the Parthians and the Medes, of 
which his audience was partly composed" or such 
* Isaiah, chap. iii. 



as might have belonged to them, would hava 
been totally inapplicable to the Cretes and Ara- 
bians ; or again, those which suited these would 
not have applied to the Elamites and Mesapota- 
mians. By such partial and circumscribed ad- 
dresses, his multifarious audience, composed of 
all nations and countries, would not have been, 
as we are told they were, ' pricked to the heart.' 
But when he preached on the broad ground of 
general ' repentance and remission of sins in 
the name of Jesus Christ,' it was no wonder 
that they all cried out, 'What shall we do?' 
These collected foreigners, at their return home, 
must have found very different usages to be cor- 
rected in their different countries ; of course a 
detailed restriction of the popular abuses at Je- 
rusalem, would have been of little use to stran- 
gers returning to their respective nations. The 
ardent apostle, therefore, acted more consistent- 
ly in communicating to them the large and 
comprehensive spirit of the gospel which should 
at once involve all their scattered and separate 
duties, as well as reprove all their scattered and 
separate corruptions, for the whole always in- 
cludes a part, and the greater involves the less. 
Christ and his disciples, instead of limiting their 
condemnation to the peculiar vanities reprehend- 
ed by Isaiah, embraced the very soul and prin- 
ciple of them all, in such exhortations as the 
following : ' Be ye not conformed to the world :' 
— ' If a man love the world, the love of the 
Father is not in him :' — ' The fashion of this 
world passeth away.' Our Lord and his apos- 
tles, whose future unselected audience was 
to be made up out of the various inhabitants of 
the whole world, attacked the evil heart, out of 
which all those incidental, local, peculiar, and 
popular corruptions proceeded. 

In the time of Christ and his immediate fol- 
lowers, the luxury and intemperance of the Ro- 
mans had arisen to a pitch before unknown in 
the world ; but as the same gospel, which its 
Divine Author and his disciples were then 
preaching to the hungry and necessitous, was 
aftei wards to be preached to high and low, not 
excepting the Roman emperors themselves; the 
large precept, ' Whether ye eat or drink, or 
whatever you do, do all to the glory of God,' 
was likely to be of more general use, than any 
separate exhortation to temperance, to thank- 
fulness, to moderation, as to quantity or expense; 
which last indeed must always be left in some 
degree to the judgment and circumstances of 
the individual. 

When the apostle of the Gentiles visited khe 
'Saints of Cassar's household,' he could hardly 
fail to have heard, nor could he have heard 
without abhorrence, of some of the fashionable 
amusements in the court of Nero. He must 
have reflected with peculiar indignation on 
many things which were practised in the Cir- 
censian games; yet, instead of pruning this cor- 
rupt tree, and singling out even the inhuman 
gladiatorial sports for the object of his condem- 
nation, he laid his axe to the root of all corrup- 
tion, by preaching to them that Gospel of Christ 
of which ' he was not ashamed,' and showing to 
them that believed, that 'it was the power of 
God and the wisdom of God.' Of this gospel 
the great object was, to attack not one popular 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



395 



evil, but the whole body of sin. Now the doc- 
trine of Christ crucified, was the most appropri- 
ate means for destroying 1 this ; for by what 
other means could the fervid imagination of the 
apostle have so powerfully enforced the heinous- 
ness of sin, as by insisting on the costliness of 
the sacrifice which was offered for its expiation? 
It is somewhat remarkable, that about the very 
time of his preaching to the Romans, the public 
taste had sunk to such an excess of depravity, 
that the very women engaged in those shocking 
encounters with the gladiators. 

But in the first place, it was better that the 
right practice of his hearers should grow out of 
the right principle; and next, his specifically 
reprobating these diversions might have had this 
ill-effect, that succeeding ages, seeing that they 
in their amusements came somewhat short of 
those dreadful excesses of the polished Romans, 
would only have plumed themselves on their 
own comparative superiority ; and on this prin- 
ciple, even the bull fights of Madrid might in 
time have had their panegyrists. The truth is, 
the apostle knew that such abominable corrup- 
tions could never subsist together with Chris- 
tianity, and in fact the honour of abolishing 
these barbarous diversions, was reserved for 
Constantine, the first Christian emperor. 

Besides, the apostles, by inveighing against 
some particular diversions might have seemed 
to sanction all which they did not actually cen- 
sure: and as, in the lapse of time, and the revo- 
lution of governments, customs change and man- 
ners fluctuate, had a minute reprehension of the 
fashions of the then existing age been published 
in the New Testament, that portion of scrip- 
ture must in time have become obsolete, even in 
that very same country, when the fashions 
themselves should have changed. Paul and his 
brother apostles knew that their epistles would 
be the oracles of the Christian world, when these 
temporary diversions would be forgotten. In 
consequence of this knowledge, by the universal 
precept to avoid ' the lust of the flesh, the lust 
of the eye, and the pride of life ;' they have pre- 
pared a lasting antidote against the principle of 
all corrupt pleasures, which will ever remain 
equally applicable to the loose fashions of all 
ages, and of every country, to the end of the 
world. 

Therefore, to vindicate diversions which are 
in themselves unchristian, on the pretended 
ground that they are not specifically condemned 
in the gospel, would be little less absurd than if 
the heroes of Newmarket should bring it as a 
proof that their periodical meetings are not con- 
demned in scripture, because St. Paul, when 
writing to the Corinthians, did not speak against 
these diversions; and that in availing himself 
of the isthmian games, as a happy illustration 
of the Christian race, he did not drop any cen- 
sure on the practice itself: a practice which 
was indeed as much more pure than the races 
of Christian Britain, as the moderation of being 
contented with the triumph of a crown of leaves, 
is superior to that criminal spirit of gambling 
which iniquitously enriches the victor by beg- 
garing the competitor. 

Local abuses, as we have said, were not the 
object of a book whose instructions were to be 



of universal and lasting application. As a proof 
of this, little is said in the gospel of the then 
prevailing corruption of polygamy ; nothing 
against the savage custom of exposing children, 
or even against slavery ; nothing expressly 
against suicide or duelling ; the last Gothic cus 
torn, indeed, did not exist among the crimes of 
Paganism. But is there not implied a prohibi- 
tion against polygamy, in the general denunci- 
ation against adultery? Is not exposing of chil- 
dren condemned in that chargo against the Ro 
mans, that ' they were without natural affection?' 
Is there not a strong censure against slavery 
conveyed in the command, to ' do unto others 
as you would have them do unto you ?' and 
against suicide and duelling, in the general pro- 
hibition against murder, which is strongly en- 
forced and affectingly amplified by the solemn 
manner in which murder is traced back to its 
first seed of anger in the sermon on the mount? 

Thus it is clear, that when Christ sent the 
gospel to all nations, he meant that that gospel 
should proclaim those prime truths, general 
laws, and fundamental doctrines, which must 
necessarily involve the prohibition of all indi- 
vidual, local, and inferior errors ; errors which 
could not have been specifically guarded against, 
without having a distinct gospel for every coun- 
try, or without swelling the divine volume into 
such inconvenient length as would have defeat- 
ed one great end of its promulgation.* And 
while its leading principles are of universal ap- 
plication, it must always, in some measure, be 
left to the discretion of the preacher, and to the 
conscience of the hearer, to examine whether 
the life and habits of those who profess it, are 
conformable to its main spirit and design. 

The same Divine Spirit which indited the 
Holy Scriptures, is promised to purify the hearts 
and renew the natures of repenting and believ- 
ing Christians ; and the compositions it inspired, 
are in some degree analogous to the workman- 
ship it effects. It prohibited the vicious prac- 
tices of the apostolical days, by prohibiting the 
passions and principles which render them gra- 
tifying ; and still working in like manner on the 
hearts of real Christians, it corrects the taste 
which was accustomed to find its proper grati- 
fication in the resorts of vanity ; and thus effec- 
tually provides for the reformation of the habits, 
and infuses a relish for rational and domestic 
enjoyments, and for whatever can administer 
pleasure to that spirit of peace, and love, and 
hope, and joy, which animates and rules the re- 
newed heart of the true Christian. 

But there is a portion of scripture which, 
though to a superficial reader it may seem but 
very lemotely connected with the present sub. 
ject, yet to readers of another cast, seems to set- 
tle the matter beyond controversy. In the pa- 
rable of the great supper, this important truth is 
held out to us, that even things good in themselves, 
may be the means of our eternal ruin; by drawing 
our hearts from God, and causing us to make 
light of the offers of the gospel. One invited guest 
had bought an estate, another had made a pur- 
chase,equally blameless, of oxen; a third had mar- 
ried a wife, an act not illaudable in itself. They 

• ' To the poor the gospel is preached,'— Luke vii. 22. 



396 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



had all different reasons, none of which appeared 
to have any moral turpitude; but they all agree in 
this, to decline the invitation to the supper. The 
worldly possessions of one, the worldly business 
of another, and what should be particularly at- 
tended to, the love to his dearest relative, of a 
third, (a love by the way, not only allowed, but 
commanded in Scripture) were brought forward 
as excuses for not attending to the important 
business of religion. The consequence, how- 
ever, was the same to all. ' None of those which 
were bidden shall taste of my supper.' If then 
things innocent, things necessary, things lauda- 
ble, things commanded, become sinful, when by 
unseasonable or excessive indulgence, they de- 
tain the heart and affections from God, how vain 
will all those arguments necessarily be render- 
ed, which are urged by the advocates for certain 
amusements, on the ground of their harmless- 
ness ; if those amusements serve (not to men- 
tion any positive evil which may belong to them) 
in like manner to draw away the thoughts and 
affections from all spiritual objects ! 

To conclude ; when this topic happens to be- 
come the subject of conversation, instead of ad- 
dressing severe and pointed attacks to young 
ladies on the sin of attending places of diversion, 
would it not be better first to endeavour to ex- 
cite in them that principle of Christianity, with 
which such diversions seem not quite compati- 
ble ; as the physician, who visits a patient in an 
eruptive fever, pays little attention to those spots 
which to the ignorant appear to be the disease, 
except indeed so far as they serve as indications 
to let him into its nature, but goes straight to 
the root of the malady ? He attacks the fever, he 
lowers the pulse, he changes the system, he cor- 
rects the general habit ; well knowing that if 
he can but restore the vital principle of health, 
the spots, which were nothing but symptoms, 
will die away of themselves. 

In instructing others, we should imitate our 
Lord and his apostles, and not always aim our 
blow at each particular corruption ; but making 
it our business to convince our pupil that what 
brings forth the evil fruit she exhibits, cannot 
be a branch of the true vine ; we should thus 
avail ourselves of individual corruptions, for im- 
pressing her with a sense of the necessity of 
purifying the common source from whence they 
flow — a corrupt nature. Thus making it our 
grand business to rectify the heart, we pursue 
the true, the compendious, the only method of 
producing universal holiness. 

I would, however, take leave of those amiable 
and not ill-disposed young persons, who com- 
plain of the rigour of human prohibitions, and 
declare, ' they meet with no such strictness in 
the Gospel,' by asking them with the most 
affectiouate earnestness, if they can conscien- 
tiously reconcile their nightly attendance, at 
every public place which they frequent, with 
such precepts as the following : ' Redeeming the 
time ;' — ' Watch and pray :' — ' Watch, for ye 
know not at what time your Lord cometh :' — 
'Abstain from all appearance of evil :' — 'Set 
your affections on things above :' — ' Be ye 
spiritually minded:' — 'Crucify the flesh with 
its affections and lusts !' And I would venture 
to offer one criterion, by which the persons in 



question may be enabled to decide on the posi- 
tive innocence and safety of such diversions ; I 
mean, provided they are sincere in their scru- 
tiny and honest in their avowal. If, on their 
return at night from those places, they find they 
can retire, and ' communo with their own 
hearts ;' if they find the love of God operating 
with undiminished force on their minds ; if they 
can ' bring every thought into subjection,' and 
concentrate every wandering imagination ; if 
they can soberly examine into their own state 
of mind — : — I do not say if they can do all 
this perfectly and without distraction : (for who 
almost can do this at any time 1) but if they can 
do it with the same degree of seriousness, pray 
with the same degree of fervour, and renounce 
the world in as great a measure as at other 
times ; and if they can lie down with a peaceful 
consciousness of having avoided in the evening, 
' that temptation' which they had prayed not to 
be ' led into' in the morning, they may then 
more reasonably hope that all is well, and that 
they are not speaking false peace to their hearts. 
— Again, if we cannot beg the blessing of our 
Maker on whatever we are going to do or to 
enjoy, is it not an unequivocal proof that the 
thing ought not to be done or enjoyed ? On all 
the rational enjoyments of society, on all health, 
ful and temperate exercise, on the delights of 
friendship, arts, and polished letters, on the 
exquisite pleasures resulting from the enjoy- 
ment of rural scenery; and the beauties of na- 
ture ; on the innocent participation of these we 
may ask the divine favour — for the sober enjoy- 
ment of these we may thank the divine benefi- 
cence : but do we feel equally disposed to invoke 
blessings or return praises for gratifications 
found (to say no worse) in levity, in vanity, and 
waste of time ? — If these tests were fairly used ; 
if these experiments were honestly tried ; if 
these examinations were conscientiously made, 
may we not, without offence, presume to ask 
— Could our numerous places of public resort, 
could our ever-multiplying scenes of more select 
but not less dangerous diversion, nightly over- 
flow with an excess hitherto unparalleled in the 
annals of pleasure ?* 

* If I might presume to recommend a book which of 
all others exposes the insignificance, vanity, littleness 
and emptiness of the world, I should not hesitate to 
name Mr. Law's Serious call to a devout and holy life.' 
Few writers except Pascal, have directed so much acute- 
ness of reasoning and so much pointed wit to this object. 
He not only makes the reader afraid of a worldly life 
on account of its sinfulness, but ashamed of it on ac- 
count of its folly. Few men perhaps have had a deeper 
insight into the human heart, or have more skilfully 
probed its corruptions : yet on points of doctrine his 
views do not seem to he just ; and his disquisitions are 
often unsound and fanciful, so that a general perusal of 
his works would neither be profitable nor intelligible. To 
a fashionable woman immersed in the vanities of life, 
or to a busy man overwhelmed with its cares, I know 
no book so applicable, or likely to exhibit with equal 
force the vanity of the shadows they are pursuing. But 
even in this work. Law is not a safe guide to evangeli- 
cal light ; and in many of his others he is highly vision- 
ary and whimsical: and I have known some excellent 
persons who were first led by this admirable genius to 
see the wants of their own hearts, and the utter in- 
sufficiency of the world to fill up the craving void, who, 
though they became eminent for piety and self-denial, 
have had their usefulness abridged ; and whose minds 
have contracted something of a monastic severity by an 
unqualified perusal of Mr. Law. True Christianity "does 
not call on us to starve our bodies, but our corruptions 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



397 



CHAP. XIX. 

A worldly spirit incompatible with the spirit of 
Christianity. 

Is it not whimsical to hear such complaints 
against the strictness of religion as we are fre- 
quently hearing, from the beings who are volun- 
tarily pursuing, as has been shown in the pre- 
ceding chapters, a course of life which fashion 
makes infinitely more severe. How really 
burdensome would Christianity be if she enjoin- 
ed such sedulous application, such unremitting 
labours, such a succession of fatigues ! If re- 
ligion commanded such hardships and self- 
denial, such days of hurry, such evenings of 
exertion, such nights of broken rest, such per- 
petual sacrifices of quiet, such exile from family 
delights, as fashion imposes, then indeed the 
service of Christianity would no longer merit its 
present appellation of being a ' reasonable ser- 
vice :' then the name of perfect slavery might 
be justly applied to that which we are told 
in the beautiful language of our church, is 
' a service of perfect freedom ;' a service the 
great object of which is ' to deliver us from the 
bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty 
of the children of God-' 

A worldly temper, by which I mean a dispo- 
sition to prefer worldly pleasures, worldly satis- 
factions, and worldly advantages, to the immor- 
tal interests of the soul; and to let worldly con- 
siderations actuate us instead of the dictates of 
religion in the concerns of ordinary life ; a 
worldly temper, I say, is not, like almost any 
other fault, the effect of passion or the conse- 
quence of surprise, when the heart is off its 
guard. It is not excited incidentally by the 
operation of external circumstances on the in- 
firmity of nature : but it is the vital spirit, the 
essential soul, the living principle of evil. It is 
not so much an act, as a state of being ; not so 
much an occasional complaint, as a tainted con- 
stitution of mind. It does not always show 
itself in extraordinary excesses, it has no perfect 
intermission. Even when it is not immediately 
tempted to break out into overt and specific 
acts, it is at work within, stirring up the heart 
to disaffection against holiness, and infusing a 
kind of moral disability to whatever is intrinsi- 
cally right. It infects and depraves all the 
powers and faculties of the soul ; for it operates 
on the understanding, by blinding it to what- 
ever is spiritually good ; on the will, by making 
it averse from God ; on the affections, by dis- 
ordering and sensualizing them ; so that one 
may almost say to those who are under the su- 
preme dominion of this spirit, what was said to 
the hosts of Joshua, ' Ye cannot serve the Lord.' 

The worldliness of mind is not at all common- 
ly understood, and for the following reason : — 
People suppose that in this world, our chief 
business is with the things of this world, and that 
to conduct the business of this world well, that is 
conformably to moral principles, is the chief 
Bubstance of moral and true goodness. Religion, 

As the mortified apostle of the holy and self-denying 
Baptist, preaching repentance because the kingdom of 
Heaven is at hand, Mr. Law has no superior. As a 
preacher of salvation on spiritual grounds I would fol- 
low other guideB. 



if introduced at all into the system, only makes 
it occasional, and if I may so speak its holyday 
appearance. To bring religion into every thing, 
is thought incompatible with the due attention 
to the things of this life. And so it would be, 
if by religion were meant talking about reli- 
gion. The phrase, therefore, is : ■ We cannot 
always be praying ; we must mind our business 
and our social duties as well as our devotion.' 
Worldly business being thus subjected to world 
ly, though in some degree moral, maxims, the 
mind during the conduct of business grows 
worldly ; and a continually increasing worldly 
spirit dims the sight and relaxes the moral prin- 
ciple on which the affairs of the world are con- 
ducted, as well as indisposes the mind for all the 
exercises of devotion. 

But this temper as far as relates to business, 
so much assumes the semblance of goodness, 
that those who have not the right views are apt 
to mistake the carrying on the affairs of life on 
a tolerable moral principle, for religion. They 
do not see that the evil lies not in their so carry- 
ing on business, but in their not carrying on 
the things of this life in subserviency to the 
things of eternity ; in their not carrying them 
on with the unintermitting idea of responsibi- 
lity. The evil does not lie in their not being 
always on their knees, but in their not bringing 
their religion from the closet into the world : in 
their not bringing the spirit of Sunday's devo- 
tions into the transactions of the week : in not 
transforming their religion from a dry, and 
speculative, and imperative system, into a lively, 
and influential, and unceasing principle of ac- 
tion. 

Though there are, blessed be God ! in the 
most exalted stations, women who adorn their 
Christian profession by a consistent conduct ; 
yet are there not others who are labouring hard 
to unite theirreconcileable interests of earth and 
heaven ? who, while they will not relinquish one 
jot of what this world has to bestow, yet by no 
means renounce their hopes of a better ? who do 
not think it unreasonable that their indulging in 
the fullest possession of present pleasure should 
interfere with the most certain reversion of fu- 
ture glory? who, after living in the most un- 
bounded gratification of e%se, vanity, and luxury, 
fancy that heaven must be attached of course to 
a life of which Christianity is the outward pro- 
fession and which has not been stained by any 
flagrant or dishonourable act of guilt. 

Are there not many who, while they enter- 
tain a respect for Religion (for I address not the 
unbelieving or the licentious) while they believe 
its truths, observe its forms, and would be 
shocked not to be thought religious are yet im- 
mersed in this life of disqualifying worldliness? 
who, though they make a conscience of going 
to the public worship once on a Sunday ; and 
are scrupulously observant of the other rites 
of the church, yet hesitate not to give up all 
the rest of their time to the very same pur- 
suits and pleasures which occupy the hearts 
and engross the lives of those looser charac- 
ters whose enjoyment is not obstructed by 
any dread of a future account ? and who are 
acting on the wise principle of the 'children of 
the world,' in making the most of the present 



398 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



state of being from the conviction that there is 
no other to be expected. 

It must be owned, indeed, that faith in unseen 
things is at limes lamentably weak and defec- 
tive even in the truly pious ; and that it is so, is 
the subject of their grief and humiliation. O ! 
how does the real Christian take shame in the 
coldness of his belief, in the lowness of his at- 
tainments ! How deeply does he lament that 
' when he would do good, evil is present with 
him!' — 'that the life he now lives in the flesh, 
is' not, in the degree it ought to be, ' by faith in 
the Son of God !' Yet one thing is clear ; how- 
ever weak his belief may seem to be, it is evi- 
dent that his actions are principally governed 
by it; he evinces his sincerity to others by a life 
in some good degree analogous to the doctrines 
he professes ; while to himself he has at least 
this conviction, that faint as his confidence may 
be at times, low as may be his hope, and feeble 
as his faith may seem, yet at the worst of times 
he would not exchange that faint measure of 
trust and hope for all the actual pleasures and 
possessions of his most splendid acquaintance ; 
and what is a proof of his sincerity he never 
Beeks the cure of his dejection, where they seek 
theirs, in this world, but in God. 

But as to the faith of worldly persons, how- 
ever strong it may be in speculation, however 
orthodox their creed, however stout their pro- 
fession, we cannot help fearing that it is a little 
defective in sincerity : for if there were in their 
minds a full persuasion of the truth of Revela- 
tion, and of the eternal bliss it promises, would 
it not be obvious to them that there must be 
more diligence for its attainment ? We disco- 
ver great ardour in carrying on worldly pro- 
jects, because we believe the good which we are 
pursuing is real, and will reward the trouble of 
the pursuit ; we believe that good is to be at- 
tained by diligence, and we prudently proportion 
our earnestness to this conviction ; when there- 
fore we see persons professing a lively faith in 
a better world, yet labouring little to obtain an 
interest in it, can we forbear suspecting that 
their belief, not only of their own title to eternal 
happiness but of eternal happiness itself, is not 
well grounded ; and th^at, if they were to ' exa- 
mine themselves truly,' and to produce the 
principle of such a relaxed morality, the faith 
would be found to be much of a piece with the 
practice ? 

The objections which disincline the world to 
make present sacrifices of pleasure, with a view 
to obtaining eternal happiness, are such as ap- 
ply to all the ordinary concerns of life. That 
is, men object chiefly to a religious course as 
tending to rob them of that actual pleasure 
which is within their reach, for the sake of a 
remote enjoyment. They object to giving up 
the seen good for the unseen. But do not almost 
all the transactions of life come under the same 
description ? — Do we not give up present ease 
and renounce much indulgence in order to ac- 
quire a future ? Do we not part with our cur- 
rent money for the reversion of an estate, which 
we know it will be a long time before we can 
possess ? Nay, do not the most worldly often 
submit to an immediate inconvenience, by re- 
ccing their present income, in order to insure 



to themselves a larger capital for their future 
subsistence ? 

Now, ' Faith, which is the substance of things 
hoped for,' is meant to furnish the soul with 
present support, while it satisfies it as to the 
security on which it has lent itself; just as a 
man's bonds and mortgages assure him that he 
is really rich, though he has not all the money 
in hand ready to spend at the moment. Those 
who truly believe the Bible, must in the same 
manner be content to live on its promises, by 
which God has as it were pledged himself for 
their future blessedness. 

Even that very spirit of enjoyment which 
leads the persons in question so studiously to 
possess themselves of the qualifications necessa- 
ry for the pleasures of the present scene, that 
understanding and good sense, which leads them 
to acquire such talents as may enable them to 
relish the resorts of gayety here ; that very spi- 
rit should induce those who are really looking 
for a future state of happiness, to wish to acquire 
something of the taste, and temper, and talents, 
which may be considered as qualifications for 
the enjoyment of that happiness. The neglect 
of doing this must proceed from one of these 
two causes; either they must think their pre- 
sent course a safe and proper course ; or they 
must think that death is to produce some sudden 
and surprising alteration in the human charac- 
ter. But the office of death is to transport us to 
a new state, not to transform us to a new na- 
ture ; the stroke of death is intended to effect 
our deliverance out of this world, and our intro- 
duction into another ; but it is not likely to effect 
any sudden and wonderful, much less a total 
change in our hearts or our tastes ; so far from 
this that we are assured in Scripture, ' that he 
that is filthy will be filthy still, and he that is 
holy will be holy still.' Though we believe that 
death will completely cleanse the holy soul from 
its remaining pollutions, that it will exchange 
defective sanctification into perfect purity, en- 
tangling temptation into complete freedom; suf- 
fering and affliction into health and joy ; doubts 
and fears into perfect security, and oppressive 
weariness into everlasting rest ; yet there is no 
magic in the wand of death which will convert 
an unholy soul into a holy one. And it is aw- 
ful to reflect, that such tempers as have the al- 
lowed predominance here will maintain it for- 
ever ; that such a3 the will is when we close our 
eyes upon the things of time, such it will be 
when we open them on those of eternity. The 
mere act of death no more fits us for heaven, 
than the mere act of the mason who pulls down 
our old house fits us for a new one. If we die 
with our hearts running over with the love of 
the world, thero is no promise to lead us to ex- 
pect that we shall rise with them full of the love 
of God. Death indeed will show us to ourselves 
such as we are, but will not make us such as we 
are not : and it will be too late to be acquiring 
self-knowledge when we can no longer turn it 
to any account, but that of tormenting ourselves. 
To illustrate this truth still farther by an allu- 
sion familiar to the persons I address : the draw- 
ing up the curtain at the theatre, though it serve 
to introduce us to the entertainments behind it* 
does not create in us any new faculties to ur 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



399 



derstand or to relish those entertainments : these 
must have been already acquired ; they must 
have been provided beforehand, and brought with 
as to the place, if we would relish the pleasure 
of the place ; for the entertainment can only 
operate on that taste we carry to it. It is too 
late to be acquiring when we ought to be en- 
joying. 

That spirit of prayer and praise, those dispo- 
sitions of love, meekness, ' peace, quietness, and 
assurance;' that indifFcrence to the fashion of a 
world which is passing away ; that longing after 
deliverance from sin ; that desire of holiness, 
together with all ' the fruits of the Spirit' here, 
must surely make some part of our qualification 
for the enjoyment of a world, the pleasures of 
which are all spiritual. And who can conceive 
any thing comparable to the awful surprise of a 
soul long immersed in the indulgences of vanity 
and pleasure, yet all the while lulled by the self- 
complacency of a religion of mere forms; who, 
while it counted upon heaven as a thing of 
course ; had made no preparation for it! Who 
can conceive any surprise comparable to that of 
such a soul on shutting its eyes on a world of 
sense, of which all the objects and delights were 
so congenial to its nature, and opening them on 
a world of spirits of which all the characters of 
enjoyment are of a nature new, unknown, sur- 
prising, and specifically different? pleasures 
more inconceivable to its apprehension and more 
unsuitable to its taste, than the gratifications of 
one sense are to the organs of another, or than 
the most exquisite works of art and genius to 
absolute imbecility of mind. 

While we would with deep humility confess 
that we cannot purchase heaven by any works 
or right dispositions of our own ; while we grate- 
fully acknowledge that it must be purchased for 
us by ' Him who loved us and washed us from 
our sins in his blood ;' yet let us remember that 
we have no reason to expect we could be capable 
of enjoying the pleasures of a heaven so pur- 
chased without heavenly mindedness. 

When those persons who are apt to expect 
as much comfort from religion as if their hearts 
were not full of the world, now and then in a fit 
of honesty or low spirits, complain that Chris- 
tianity does not make them as good and happy 
as they were led to expect from that assurance, 
that ' great peace have they who love the law of 
God,' and that ' they who wait on him shall want 
no manner of thing that is good ;' when they 
lament that the paths of religion are not those 
' paths of pleasantness' which they were led to 
expect ; their case reminds one of a celebrated 
physician, who used to say that the reason why 
his prescriptions, which commonly cured the 
poor and the temperate, did so little good among 
his rich and luxurious patients, was, that while 
he was labouring to remove the disease by me- 
dicines, of which they only took drams, grains, 
and scruples, they were inflaming it by a mul- 
tiplicity of injurious aliments, which they swal- 
lowed by ounces, pounds, and pints. 

These fashionable Christians should be re- 
minded, that there was no half engagement 
made for them at their baptism ; that they are 
net partly their own, and partly their Redeem- 
er's. ' He that is bought with a price,' is the 



sole property of the purchaser. Faith does not 
consist merely in submitting the opinions of the 
understanding, but the dispositions of the heart 
religion is not a sacrifice of sentiments, but of 
affections ; it is not the tribute of fear extorted 
from a slave, but the voluntary homage of love 
paid by a child. 

Neither' does a Christian's piety consist in 
living in retreat, and railing at the practices of 
the world, while perhaps her heart is full of the 
spirit of that world at which she is railing : but 
it consists in subduing the spirit of the world 
resisting its temptations, and opposing its prac- 
tices, even while her duty obliges her to live 
in it. 

Nor is the spirit or the love of the world con 
fined to those only who are making a figure in 
it ; nor are its operations bounded by the pre- 
cincts of the metropolis nor by the limited re- 
gions of first-rate rank and splendour. She who 
inveighs against the luxury and excesses of 
London, and solaces herself in her own compa- 
rative sobriety, because her more circumscribed 
fortune compels her to take up with the second- 
hand pleasures of successive watering-places, if 
she pursue these pleasures with avidity, is go- 
verned by the same spirit ; and she whose still 
narrower opportunities stint her to the petty di- 
versions of her provincial town, if she be busied 
in swelling and enlarging her smaller sphere of 
vanity and idleness, however she may comfort 
herself with her own comparative goodness, by 
railing at the unattainable pleasures of the wa- 
tering place, or the still more unapproachable 
joys of the capital, is governed by the same spi- 
rit ; for she who is as vain as dissipated, and as 
extravagant as actual circumstances admit, 
would be as vain, as dissipated, and as extrava- 
gant as the gayest objects of her invective ac- 
tually are, if she could change places with them. 
It is not merely by what we do that we can be 
sure the spirit of the world has no dominion 
over us, but by fairly considering what we should 
probably do if more were in our power. 

The worldly Christian, if I may be allowed 
such a palpable contradiction in terms, must not 
imagine that she acquits herself of her religious 
obligations by paying in her mere weekly obla- 
tion of prayer. There is no covenant by which 
communion with God is restricted to an hour or 
two on the Sunday : she must not imagine she 
acquits herself by setting apart a few particular 
days in the year for the exercise of a periodical 
devotion, and then flying back to the world as 
eagerly a3 if she were resolved to repay herself 
with a large interest for her short fit of self-de- 
nial; the stream of pleasure running with a 
more rapid current, from having been interrupt- 
ed by this forced obstruction. And the avidity 
with which we have seen certain persons of a 
still less correct character than the class we have 
been considering, return to a whole year's car- 
nival, after the self imposed penance of a passion 
week, gives a shrewd intimation that they con- 
sidered the temporary abstraction less as an act 
of penitence for the past, than as a purchase of 
indemnity for the future. Such bareweight 
Protestants prudently condition for retaining the 
Popish doctrine of indulgences, which they buy 
not indeed of the late spiritual court of Rome 



400 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



but of that secret self-acquitting judge, which 
ignorance of its own turpitude, and of the strict 
requirements of the divine law, has established 
supreme in the tribunal of every unrenewed 
heart. 

But the practice o& self-examination is im- 
peded by one clog, which renders it peculiarly 
inconvenient to the gay and worldly : for the 
royal prophet (who was, however, himself as 
likely as any one to be acquainted with the diffi- 
culties peculiar to greatness) has annexed as a 
concomitant to ' communing with our own 
heart,' that we should ' be still. 1 Now this clause 
of the injunction annihilates the other, by ren- 
dering it incompatible with the present habits 
of fashionable life, of which stillness is clearly 
not one of the constituents. It would, however, 
greatly assist those who do not altogether de- 
cline the practice, if they were to establish into 
a rule the habit of detecting certain suspicious 
practices, by realizing them, as it were, to their 
own minds, through the means of drawing them 
out in detail, and of placing them before their 
eyes clothed in language ; for there is nothing 
that' so effectually exposes an absurdity which 
has hitherto passed muster for want of 6uch an 
inquisition, as giving it shape, and form, and 
body. How many things which now silently 
work themselves into the habit, and pass current 
without inquiry, would then shock us by their 
palpable inconsistency ! Who, for instance, could 
stand the sight of such a debtor and creditor ac- 
count as this : — Item ; so many card-parties, 
balls, and operas due to me in the following 
year, for so many manuals, prayers, and medi- 
tations paid beforehand during the last 6ix days 
in lent? With how much indignation soever 
this suggestion may be treated ; whatever of- 
fence may be taken at such a combination of the 
serious and the ludicrous ; however we may re- 
volt at the idea of such a composition with our 
Maker, when put into so many words ; does not 
the habitual course of some go near to realize 
such a statement ? 

But ' a Christian's race, 1 as a venerable pre- 
late* observes, ' is not to run at so many heats, 1 
but is a constant course, a regular progress by 
which we are continually gaining ground upon 
sin, and approaching nearer to the kingdom of 
God. 

Am I then ridiculing this pious seclusion of 
contrite sinners ? Am I then jesting at that 
' troubled spirit' which God has declared is his 
' acceptable sacrifice ?' God forbid ! Such rea- 
sonable retirements have been the practice, and 
continue to be the comfort of some of the sin- 
cerest Christians ; and will continue to be re- 
sorted to as long as Christianity, that is, as long 
as the world shall last. It is well to call off the 
thoughts, even for a short time, not only from 
sin and vanity, but even from the lawful pursuits 
of business and the laudable concerns of life ; 
and at times, to annihilate, as it were, the space 
which divides us from eternity : 

"Tis grnatly wise to talk with our past hours, 
And ask them what report they bore to heaven, 
And how they might have borne more welcome news. 

Yet to those who seek a short annual retreat 

* Bishop Hopkins. 



as a mere form ; who dignify with the idea a 
religious retirement, a week in which it is ra- 
ther unfashionable to be seen in town ; who re- 
tire with unabated resolution to return to the 
maxims, the pleasures, and the spirit of that 
world which they do but mechanically renounce; 
is it not to be feared that this short secession, 
which does not even pretend to subdue the prin- 
ciple, but merely suspends the act, may only 
serve to set a keener edge on the appetite for 
the pleasures they are quitting ? Is it not to be 
feared that the bow may fly back with redoubled 
violence from having been unnaturally bent? 
that by varnishing over a life of vanity with the 
transient externals of a formal and temporary 
piety they may the more dangerously skin over 
the troublesome soreness of a tender conscience, 
by laying 

This flattering unction to the soul? 

And is it not awfully to be apprehended that 
such devotions come in among those vain obla- 
tions which the Almighty has declared he will 
not accept? For, is it not among the delusions 
of a worldly piety, to consider Christianity as a 
thing which cannot, indeed, safely be omitted, 
but which is to be got over ; a certain quantity 
of which is, as it were, to be taken in the lump, 
with long intervals between the repetitions ? Is 
it not among its delusions to consider religion 
as imposing a set of hardships, which must be 
occasionally encountered, in order to procure a 
peaceable enjoyment of the long respite ? — a 
short penalty for a long pleasure ? that these se- 
verer conditions thus fulfilled, the acquitted 
Christian having paid the annual demand of a 
rigorous requisition, she may now lawfully re- 
turn to her natural state ; the old reckoning be- 
ing adjusted, she may begin a new -score, and 
receive the reward of her punctual obedience, 
in the resumed indulgence of those gratifications 
which she had for a short time laid aside as a 
hard task to please a hard master ; but this task 
performed and the master appeased, the mind 
may discover its natural bent, in joyfully return- 
ing to the objects of its real choice ? Whereas, 
it is not clear on the other hand, that if the re- 
ligious exercises had produced the effect which 
it is the nature of true religion to produce, the 
penitent could not return with her own genuine 
alacrity to those habits of the world, from which 
the pious weekly manuals through which she 
has been labouring with the punctuality of an 
almanac as to the day, and the accuracy of a 
bead-roll as to the number, were intended by the 
devout authors to rescue their reader ? 

I am far from insinuating, that this literal se- 
questration ought to be prolonged throughout 
the year, or that all the days of business are to 
be made equally days of solemnity and conti- 
nued meditation. This earth is a place in which 
a much larger portion of a common Christian's 
time must be assigned to action than to contem- 
plation. Women of the higher class were not 
sent into the world to shun society, but to im- 
prove it. They were not designed for the cold 
and visionary virtues of solitudes and monaste- 
ries, but for the amiable, and endearing, and use- 
ful offices of social life : they are of a religion 
which does not impose idle austerities, bat en- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



401 



joins active duties ; a religion which demands 
the most benevolent actions, and which requires 
them to be sanctified by the purest motives ; a 
religion which does not condemn its followers 
to the comparatively easy task of seclusion from 
the world, but assigns them the more difficult 
province of living uncorrupted in it; a religion 
which, while it forbids them ' to follow a multi- 
tude to do evil,' includes in that prohibition the 
sin of doing nothing, and which moreover en- 
joins them to be followers of Him ' who went 
about doing good.'' 

But may we not reasonably contend, that 
though the same sequestration is not required, 
yet that the same spirit and temper which we 
would hope is thought necessary even by those 
on whom we are animadverting, during the oc- 
casional humiliation, must by every real Chris- 
tian be extended throughout all the periods of 
the year ? And when that is roally the case, 
when once the spirit of religion shall indeed 
govern the heart, it will not only animate her 
religious actions and employments, but will 
gradually exte'nd itself to the chastising her 
conversation, will discipline her thoughts, influ- 
ence her common business, restrain her indul- 
gences, and sanctify her very pleasures. 

But it seems that many, who entertain a ge- 
neral notion of Christian duty, do not consider 
it as of universal and unremitting obligation, 
but rather as a duty binding at times on all, and 
at all times on some. To the attention of such 
we would recommend that very explicit address 
of our Lord on the subject of self-denial, the 
temper directly opposed to a worldly spirit : 
'And he said unto them all, if any man will 
come after me, let him deny himself, and take 
up his cross daily.' Those who think self-de- 
nial not of universal obligation will observe the 
word all ; and those who think the obligation not 
constant, will attend to the term daily. These 
two little words cut up by the root all the occa- 
sional religious observances grafted on a worldly 
life ; all transient, periodical, and temporary 
acts of piety, which some seem willing to com- 
mute for a life of habitual thoughtlessness and 
vanity. 

There is, indeed, scarcely a more pitiable be- 
ing than one who, instead of making her religion 
the informing principle of all she does has only 
just enough to keep her in continual fear; who 
drudges through her stinted exercises with a 
superstitious kind of terror, while her general 
life shows that the love of holiness is not the 
governing principle in her heart; who seems to 
suffer all the pains and penalties of Christianity, 
but is a stranger to ' that liberty wherewith 
Christ has made us free.' Let it not be thought 
a ludicrous invention, if the author hazard the 
producing a real illustration of these remarks, 
in the instance of a lady of this stamp, who re- 
turning from church on a very cold day, and re- 
marking with a good deal of self-complacency 
how much she had suffered in the performance 
of her duty, comforted herself with emphatically 
adding, ' that she hoped it would answer.'' 

There is this striking difference between the 
real and the worldly Christian, the latter does 
not complain of the strictness of the divine law, 
but of the deficiencies of his own performance ; 

Vol. I. C 2 



while the worldly Christian is little troubled at 
his own failures, but deplores the strictness ot 
the divine requisitions. The one wishes that 
God would expect less, the other prays for 
strength to do more. When the worldly person 
hears real Christians speak of their own low 
state, and acknowledge their extreme unworthi- 
ness, he really believes them to be worse than 
those who make no such humiliating confes- 
sions. He does not know that a mind which is 
at once deeply convinced of its own corruptions, 
and of the purity of the divine law, is so keenly 
alive to the perception of all sin, as to be hum 
bled by the commission of such as is compara- 
tively small, and which those who have less cor- 
rect views of gospel truth, hardly allow to be 
sin at all. Such an one, with Job, says, ' Now 
mine eye seeth Thee.' 

But there is no permanent comfort in any re- 
ligion, short of that by which the diligent Chris- 
tian strives that all his actions shall have the 
love of God for their motive, and the glory of 
God, as well as his own salvation, for their end; 
while we go about to balance our good and bad 
actions, one against the other, and to take com- 
fort in the occasional predominance of the for- 
mer while the cultivation of the principle from 
which they should spring is neglected, is not 
the road to all those peaceful fruits of the Spirit 
to which true Christianity conducts the humble 
and penitent believer. For, after all we can do, 
Christian tempers and a Christian spirit are the 
true criterion of a Christian character, and serve 
to furnish the most unequivocal test of our at- 
tainments in religion. Our doctrines may be 
sound, but they may not be influential ; our ac- 
tions may be correct, but they may want the 
sanctifying principle ; our frames and feelings 
may seem, nay they may be devout, but they 
may be heightened by mere animal fervour; 
even if genuine, they are seldom lasting ; and 
to many pious persons they are not given : it is 
therefore the Christian tempers which most in- 
fallibly indicate the sincere Christian, and best 
prepare him for the heavenly state. 

I am aware that a better cast of characters 
than those we have been contemplating ; that 
even the amiable and the well-disposed, who, 
while they want courage to resist what they 
have too much principle to think right, ar.d too 
much sense to justify, will yet plead for the pal. 
Hating system, and accuse these remarks of un- 
necessary rigour. They will declare ' That 
really they are as religious as they can be ; they 
wish they were better : they have little satisfac- 
tion in the life they are leading, yet they cannot 
break with the world ; they cannot fly in the 
face of custom ; it does not become individuals 
like them to oppose the torrent of fashion.' Be 
ings so interesting, abounding with engaging 
qualities; who not only feel the beauty of good- 
ness, but reverence the truths of Christianity, 
and are awfully looking for a general judgment, 
we are grieved to hear lament ' that they only 
do as others do,' when they are perhaps them- 
selves of such rank and importance that if they 
would begin to do right, others would be brought 
to do as they did. We are grieved to hear them 
indolently assert, that, ' they wish it were other- 
wise,' when they possess the power to mak* it 



402 



THiS WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



otherwise, by setting an example which they 
know would be followed. Wo are sorry to hear 
them content themselves with declaring-, ' that 
they have not the courage to be singular,' when 
they must feel, by seeing the influence of their 
example in worse things, that there would be 
no such great singularity in piety itself, if once 
they become sincerely pious. Besides, this diffi- 
dence does not break out on other occasions. 
They do not blush to be quoted as the opposers 
of an old mode, or the inventors of a new one : 
nor are they equally backward in being the 
first to appear in a strange fashion, such an one 
as often excites wonder, and sometimes even 
offends against delicacy. Let not then diffidence 
be pleaded as an excuse only on occasions where- 
in courage would be virtue. 

Will it be thought too harsh a question if we 
venture to ask these gentle characters who are 
thus entrenching themselves in the imaginary 
safety of surrounding multitudes, and who say, 
4 We only do as others do,' whether they are 
willing to run the tremendous risk of conse- 
quences, and to fare as others fare ? 

But while these plead the authority of fashion 
as a sufficient reason for their conformity to the 
world, one who has spoken with a paramount 
authority has positively said, ' Be ye not con- 
formed to the world.' Nay, it is urged as the 
very badge and distinction by which the cha- 
racter opposite to the Christian is to be marked, 
' that the friendship of the world is enmity with 
God.' 

Temptation to conform to the world was 
never perhaps more irresistible than in the days 
which immediately preceded the Deluge ; and 
no man could ever have pleaded the fashion in 
order tojustify a criminal assimilation with the 
reigning manners, with more propriety than the 
patriarch Noah. He had the two grand and 
contending objects of terror to encounter which 
we have; the fear of ridicule, and the fear of de- 
struction ; the dread of sin, and the dread of 
singularity. Our cause of alarm is at least 
equally pressing with his ; for it does not appear, 
even while he was actually obeying the Divine 
command in providing the means of his future 
safety, that he saw any actual symptoms of the 
impending ruin. So that in one sense he might 
have truly pleaded as an excuse for ' slackness 
of preparation, ' that all things continued as they 
were from the beginning ;' while many of us, 
though the storm is actually begun, never 
think of providing the refuge : it is true he was 
' warned of God,' and he provided ' by faith.' 
But are not we also warned of God? have we 
not had a fuller revelation ? have we not seen 
Scripture illustrated, prophecy fulfilling, with 
every awful circumstance that can either 
quicken the most sluggish remissness, or con- 
firm the feeblest faith ? 

Besides, the patriarch's plea for following the 
fashion was stronger than you can produce. 
While you must see that many are going wrong, 
he saw that none were going right. 'All flesh 
had corrupted his way before God ;' whilst, 
blessed be God ! you have still instances enough 
of piety to keep you in countenance. While you 
lament that the world seduces you (for every one 
has a little world of his own) your world per- 



haps is only a petty neighbourhood, a few 
streets and squares ; but the patriarch had really 
the contagion of a whole united world to resist; 
he had literally the example of the whole face of 
the earth to oppose. The ' fear of man also 
would have been a more pardonable fault, when 
the lives of the same individuals who were 
likely to excite respect or fear was prolonged 
many ages, than it can be in the short period 
now assigned to human life. How lamentable 
then that human opinion should operate so pow- 
erfully, when it is but the breath of a being so 
frail and so short-lived, 

That he doth cease to be, 
Ere one can say he is 1 

You who find it so difficult to withstand the in- 
dividual allurement of modish acquaintance, 
would, if you had been in the patriach's case 
have concluded the struggle to be quite ineffec- 
tual, and sunk under the supposed fruitlessness 
of resistance. ' Myself,' would you not have 
said ? ' or at most my little family of eight per- 
sons can never hope to stop this' torrent of cor- 
ruption ; I lament the fruitlessness of opposi- 
tion ; I deplore the necessity of conformity with 
the prevailing system: but it would be a foolish 
presumption to hope that one family can effect 
a change in the state of the world.' In your 
own case, however, is it not certain to how wide 
an extent the hearty union of even fewer per- 
sons in such a cause might reach : at least is it 
nothing to what the patriarch did ? was it no- 
thing to preserve himself from the general de- 
struction ; was it nothing to deliver his own 
soul ? was it nothing to rescue the souls of h.a 
whole family ? 

A wise man will never differ from the world 
in trifles. It is certainly a mark of a sound 
judgment to comply with custom whenever we 
safely can ; such compliance strengthens our 
influence by reserving to ourselves the greater 
weight of authority on those occasions, when 
our conscience obliges us to differ. Those who 
are prudent will cheerfully conform to all the 
innocent usages of the world ; but those who are 
Christians will be scrupulous in defining which 
are really innocent previous to their conformity 
to them. Not what the world, but what the 
Gospel calls innocent will be found at the grand 
scrutiny to have been really so. A discreet 
Christian will take due pains to be convinced 
he is right before he will presume to be singular: 
but from the instant he is persuaded the Gospel 
is true, and the world of course wrong, he will 
no longer risk his safety by following multitudes, 
or hazard his soul by staking it on human 
opinion. All our most dangerous mistakes 
arise from our not constantly referring our prac- 
tice to the standard of Scripture, instead of the 
mutable standard of human estimation by which 
it is impossible to fix the real value of characters. 
For this latter standard in some cases deter- 
mines those to be good who do not run all the 
lengths in which the notoriously bad allow 
themselves. The Gospel has an universal, the 
world has a local standard of goodness; in cer- 
tain societies certain vices alone are dishonour 
able, such as covetousness and cowardice ; while 
those sins of which our Saviour has said, that 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



403 



they which commit them 'shall not inherit the 
kingdom of God,' detract nothing from the re- 
spect some persons receive. Nay, those very 
characters whom the Almighty has expressly 
and awfully declared ' He will judge,'* are re- 
ceived, are admired, are caressed, in that which 
calls itself the best company. 

But to weigh our actions by one standard 
now, when we know they will be judged by an- 
other hereafter, would be reckoned the height 
of absurdity in any transctions but those which 
involve the interests of eternity. ' How readest 
thou V \a a more specific direction than any com- 
parative view of our own habits with the habits 
of others : and at the final bar it will be of little 
avail that our actions have risen above those of 
bad men, if our views and principles shall be 
found to have been in opposition the Gospel of 
Christ. 

Nor is their practice more commendable, who 
are ever on the watch to pick out the worst ac- 
tions of good men, by way of justifying their 
own conduct on the comparison. The faults of 
the best men, ' for there is not a just man upon 
earth who sinneth not,' can in no wise justify 
the errors of the worst : and it is not invariably 
the example of even good men that we must take 
for our unerring rule of conduct : nor is it by a 
single action that either they or we shall be 
judged ; for in that case who could be saved ? 
but it is by the general prevalence of right prin- 
ciples and good habits and Christian tempers ; 
by the predominance of holiness and righteous- 
ness, and temperance in the life, and by the 
power of humility, faith and love in the heart. 



CHAP. XX. 

On the leading doctrines of Christianity. — Thii 
corruption of human nature. The doctrine of 
redemption. The necessity of a change of 
heart and of the divine influences to produce 
that change. With a sketch of the Christian 
character. 

Tfie author having in this little work taken a 
view of the false notions often imbibed in early 
life from a bad education, and of their pernicious 
effects ; and having attempted to point out the 
respective remedies to these ; she would now 
draw all that has been said to a point, and de- 
clare plainly what she humbly conceives to be 
the source whence all these false notions and 
this wrong conduct really proceed : the prophet 
Jeremiah shall answer : ' It is because they 
have forsaken the fountain of living waters, 
and have hewn out to themselves cisterns, 
broken cisterns that can hold no water.' It is 
an ignorance past belief of what true Christi- 
anity really is : the remedy, therefore, and the 
only remedy that can be applied with any pros- 
pect of success, is religion, and by Religion she 
would be understood to mean the Gospel of 
Jesus Christ. 

It has been before hinted, that religion should 
be taught at an early period of life ; that children 
should be brought up ' in the nurture and admo- 

* Hebrew, xiii. 4. 



nition of the Lord.' The manner in which they 
should be taught has likewise with great plain- 
ness been suggested; that it should be done in 
so lively and familiar a manner as to make re- 
ligion amiable, and her ways to appear, what 
they really are, ' ways of pleasantness.' And a 
slight sketch has been given of the genius of 
Christianity, by which her amiableness would 
more clearly appear. But this, being a subject 
of such vast importance compared with which 
every other subject sinks into nothing ; it seems 
not sufficient to speak on the doctrines and 
duties of Christianity in detached parts, but it 
is of importance to point out, though in a brief 
and imperfect manner, the mutual dependence 
of one doctrine upon another, and the influence 
which these doctrines have upon the heart and 
life, so that the duties of Christianity may be 
seen to grow out of its doctrines : by which it 
will appear that Christian virtue differs essen 
tially from pagan : it is of a quite different kind, 
the plant itself is different, it comes from a dif- 
ferent root, and grows in a different soil. 

It will be seen how the humbling doctrine of 
the corruption of human nature, which was fol- 
lowed from the corruption of our first parents, 
makes way for the bright display of redeeming 
love. How from the abasing thought that ' we 
are all as sheep going astray, every one in his 
own way ;' that none can return to the Shep 
herd of our souls, 'except the Farther draw 
him :' that ' the natural man cannot receive the 
things of the Spirit, because they are spiritually 
discerned :' how from this humiliating view of 
the helplessness, as well as the corruption of hu- 
man nature, we are to turn to that animating 
doctrine, the offer of divine assistance. So that, 
though human nature will appear from this view 
in a deeply degraded state, and consequently 
all have cause for humility, yet not one has 
cause for despair : the disease indeed is dread- 
ful, but a physician is at hand, both able and 
willing to save us : though we are naturally 
without ' strength, our help is laid upon one 
that is mighty.' If the gospel discover to ua 
our lapsed state, it discovers also the means of 
our restoration to the divine image and favour. 
It not only discovers but impresses this image ; 
it not only gives us the description, but the at. 
tainment of this favour ; and while the word of 
God suggests the remedy, his Spirit applies it. 

We should observe then, that the doctrines 
of oar Saviour are, if I may so speak, with a. 
beautiful consistency, all woven into one piece. 
We should get such a view of their reciprocal 
dependence as to be persuaded that without a 
deep sense of our own corruptions we can never 
seriously believe in a Saviour, because the sub- 
stantial and acceptable belief in Him must 
always arise from the conviction of our want of 
Him ; that without a firm persuasion that the 
Holy Spirit can alone restore our fallen nature, 
repair the ruins of sin, and renew the image of 
God upon the heart, we never shall be brought 
to serious humble prayer for repentance and 
restoration; and that, without this repentance, 
there is no salvation: for though Christ has died 
for us, and consequently to him alone we must 
look as a Saviour, yet he has himself declared 
that he will save none but true penitents. 



404 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



On the doctrine of human corruption. 

To come now to a more particular statement 
of these doctrines. When an important edifice 
is about to be erected, a wise builder will dig 
deep, and look well to the foundations : know- 
ing that without this the fabric will not be likely 
to stand. The foundation of the Christian reli- 
gion, out of which the whole structure may be 
said to arise, appears to be the doctrine of the 
fall of man from his original state of righteous- 
ness; and the corruption and helplessness of 
human nature, which are the consequences of 
this fall, and which is the natural state of every 
one born into the world. To this doctrine it is 
important to conciliate the minds, more especi- 
ally of young persons, who are peculiarly dis- 
posed to turn away from it as a morose, unami- 
able and gloomy idea. They are apt to accuse 
those who are more strict, and serious of unne- 
cessary severity, and to suspect them of think- 
ing unjustly ill of mankind. Some of the reasons 
which prejudice the inexperienced against the 
doctrine in question appear to be the following : 

Young persons themselves have seen little of 
the world. In pleasurable society the world 
puts on its most amiable appearance ; and that 
softness and urbanity which prevail, particularly 
amongst persons of fashion, are liable to be mis- 
taken for more than they are really worth. The 
opposition to this doctrine in the young, arises 
partly from ingenuousness of heart, partly from 
a habit of indulging themselves in favourable 
suppositions respecting the world, rather than 
of pursuing truth, which is always the grand 
thing to be pursued ; and partly from the popu- 
larity of the tenet, that every body is so wonder- 
fully good ! 

This error in youth has however a still deeper 
foundation, which is their not having a right 
standard of moral good and evil themselves, in 
consequence of their already partaking of the 
very corruption which is spoken of, and which, 
in perverting the will, darkens the understand- 
ing also ; they are therefore apt to have no very 
strict sense of duty, or of the necessity of aright 
and religious motive to every act. 

Moreover, young people usually do not know 
themselves. Not having yet been much exposed 
to temptation, owing to the prudent restraints 
in which they have been kept, they little sus- 
pect to what lengths in vice they are liable to be 
transported, nor how far others are actually car- 
ried who are set free from those restraints. 

Having laid down these as some of the causes 
of error on this point, I proceed to observe on 
what strong grounds the doctrine itself stands. 

Profane history abundantly confirms this truth: 
the history of the world being in fact but little 
else than the history of the crimes of the human 
race. Even though the annals of remote ages 
lie so involved in obscurity, that some degree of 
uncertainty attaches itself to many of the events 
ecorded, yet this one melancholy truth is always 
clear, that most of the miseries which have been 
brought upon mankind, have proceeded from 
thisi general depravity. 

The world we now live in furnishes abundant 
proof of this truth. In a world formed on the 
deceitful theory of those who assert the inno- 



cence and dignity of man, almost all the profes. 
sions, since they would have been rendered use. 
less by such a state of innocence, would not 
have existed. Without sin we may fairly pre- 
sume there would have been no sickness ; so 
that every medical professor is a standing evi- 
dence of this sad truth. Sin not only brought 
sickness but death into the world ; consequently 
every funeral presents a more irrefragable ar- 
gument than a thousand sermons. Had man 
persevered in his original integrity, there could 
have been no litigation, for there would be no 
contests about property in a world where none 
would be inclined to attack it. Professors of 
law, therefore, from the attorney who prosecutes 
for a trespass, to the pleader who defends a cri- 
minal, or the judge who condemns him, loudly 
confirm the doctrine. Every victory by sea or 
land should teach us to rejoice with humilia- 
tion, for conquest itself brings a terrible, though 
splendid attestation to the truth of the fall of 
man. 

Even those who deny the doctrine, act univer- 
sally more or less on the principle. Why do we 
all secure our houses with bolts, and bars, and 
locks ? Do we take those steps to defend our 
lives or property from any particular fear ; from 
any suspicion o?this neighbour, or that servant, 
or the other invader ? No — It is from a practical 
conviction of the common depravity ; from a 
constant, pervading, but undefined dread of im- 
pending evil arising from the sense of general 
corruption. Are not prisons built, and laws en- 
acted on the same practical principle ? 

But not to descend to the more degraded part 
of our species. Why in the fairest transaction 
of business is nothing executed without bonds, 
receipts, and notes of hand ? why does not a 
perfect confidence in the dignity of human na. 
ture abolish all these securities ; if not between 
enemies, or people indifferent to each other, yet 
at least between friends and kindred, and the 
most honourable connexions ? why, but because 
of that universal suspicion between man and 
man, which, by all we see, and hear, and feel, 
is become interwoven with our very make ? 
Though we do not entertain any individual sus 
picion, nay, though we have the strongest per 
sonal confidence, yet the acknowledged princi- 
ple of conduct has this doctrine for its basis. ' I 
will take a receipt, though it were from my bro 
ther,' is the established voice of mankind ; or as 
I have heard it more artfully put, by a fallacy 
of which the very disguise discovers the princi- 
ple, 'Think every man honest, but deal with 
him as if you knew him to be otherwise.' And 
as in a state of innocence, the beasts, it is pre- 
sumed, would not have bled for the sustenance 
of man, so their parchments would not have been 
wanted as instruments of his security against 
his fellow man.* 

But the grand arguments for this doctrine 
must be drawn from the Holy Scriptures ; and 
these, besides implying it almost continually 



* Bishop Butler distinctly declares this truth to be evi- 
dent from experience as well as Revelation, ' that this 
world exhibits an idea of a Ruin ;' and he will hazard 
much who ventures to assert that Butler defended Chris- 
tianity upon principles unconsonant to reason, philoso- 
phy, or sound experience. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



405 



expressly assert it; and that in instances too nu- 
merous to be all of them brought forward here. 
Of these may I be allowed to produce a few ; 
'God saw that the wickedness of man was great, 
and that every imagination of the thoughts of 
his heart was only evil continually. — ' God look- 
ed upon the earth, and behold, it was corrupt ; 
for all flesh had corrupted his way upon the 
earth. And it repented the Lord that he had 
made man on the earth, and it grieved him at 
his heart. 1 * This is a picture of mankind he fare 
the flood, and the doctrine receives additional 
confirmation in Scripture, when it speaks of the 
times which followed after that tremendous 
iudgment had taken place. The Psalms abound 
in lamentations on the depravity of man. ' They 
are all gone aside ; there is none that doeth 
good, no not one.' — ' In thy sight,' says David, 
addressing the Most High, ' shall no man living 
be justified.' Job, in his usual lofty strain of in- 
terrogation, asks, ' What is man that he should 
be clean, and he that is born of a woman that he 
should be righteous ? Behold the heavens are 
not clean in His sight, how much more abomi- 
nable and filthy is man, who drinketh iniquity 
like water. 't 

Nor do the Scriptures speak of this corruption 
as arising only from occasional temptation, or 
from mere extrinsic causes. The wise man tells 
us, that ' foolishness is bound up in the heart of 
a child ,' the prophet Jeremiah assures us, 'the 
heart is deceitful above all things, and despe- 
rately wicked :' and David plainly states the 
doctrine : ' Behold, I was shapen in iniquity, 
and in sin did my mother conceive me.' Can 
language be more explicit ? 

The New Testament corroborates the Old. 
Our Lord's reproof of Peter seems to take the 
doctrine for granted : ' Thou savourest not the 
things that be of God, but those that be of man;' 
clearly intimating, that the ways of man are 
opposite to the ways of God. And our Saviour, 
in that affecting discourse to his disciples, ob- 
serves to them that, as they were by his grace 
made different from others, therefore they must 
expect to be hated by those who were so unlike 
them. And it should be particularly observed, 
as another proof that the world is wicked, that 
our Lord considered ' the world 1 as opposed to 
him and to his disciples. ' If ye were of the 
world, the world would love its own ; but I have 
chosen you out of the world, therefore the world 
hateth you.'t St. John, writing to his Christian 
church, states the same truth : ' We know that 
we are of God, and the whole world lieth in 
wickedness.' 

Man in his natural and unbelieving state, is 
likewise represented as in a state of guilt, and 
under the displeasure of Almighty God. ' He 
that believeth not the Son shall not see life ; but 
the wrath of God abideth on him.' 

Here, however, if it be objected, that the hea- 
then who never heard of the Gospel will not as- 
suredly be judged by it, the Saviour's answer to 

* Genesis vi. 

t Perhaps one reeson why the faults of the most emi- 
nent saints are recorded in Scripture, is to add fresh 
confirmation to thisdoctrine. If Abraham, Moses, Noah, 
Elijah, David, and Peter sinned, who shall we presume 
to say has escaped the universal taint ? 

t John, xv. 19. 



such curious inquirers concerning the state of 
others is, ' Strive to enter in at the strait gate.' 
It is enough for us to believe that God, who will 
'judge the world in righteousness,' will judge 
all men according to their opportunities. The 
heathen to whom he has not seat the light of 
the Gospel will probably not be judged by the 
Gospel. But with whatever mercy he may 
judge those who, living in a land of darkness, 
are without knowledge of his revealed law, our - 
business is not with them, but with ourselves. 
It is our business to consider what mercy he 
will extend to those who, living in a Christian 
country, abounding with means and ordinances, 
where the Gospel is preached in its purity ; it is 
our business to inquire how he will deal with 
those who shut their eyes to its beams, and who 
close their ears to its truths. For an unbeliever 
who has passed his life in the meredian of Scrip- 
ture light, or for an outward but unfruitful pro- 
fessor of Christianity, I know not what hope the 
Gospel holds out. 

The natural state of man is again thus de- 
scribed : — 'The carnal mind is enmity against 
God ! (awful thought !) for it is not subject to 
the law of God, neither indeed can be. So then 
they that are in the flesh cannot please God.' 
What the apostle means by being in the flesh, is 
evident by what follows ; for speaking of those 
whose hearts were changed by divine grace, he 
says, ' But ye are not in the flesh, but in the spi- 
rit, if so be that the Spirit of God dwell in you ;' 
that is, you are not now in your natural state : 
the change that has passed on your minds by 
the influence of the Spirit of God, is so great 
that your state may properly be called, ' being 
in the spirit.' It may be further observed that 
the same apostle, writing to the churches of 
Galatia, tells them, that the natural corruption 
of the human heart is continually opposing the 
Spirit of holiness which influences the regene- 
rate. The flesh lusteth against the Spirit, and 
the Spirit against the flesh ; and these are con- 
trary to each other :' which passage by the way, 
at the same time that it proves the corruption of 
the heart, proves the necessity of divine influ- 
ences. And the apostle, with respect to him- 
self, freely confesses and deeply laments the 
workings of this corrupt principle : ' O wretch- 
ed man that I am, who shall deliver me from 
the body of this death V 

It has been objected by some who have oppo- 
sed this doctrine, that the same Scriptures which 
speak of mankind as being sinners, speak of 
some as being righteous ; and hence they would 
argue that though this depravity of human na- 
ture may be general, yet it cannot be universal. 
This objection, when examined, serves only like 
all other objections against the trutli to. establish 
that which it was intended to destroy. For 
what do the Scriptures assert respecting the 
righteous ? That there are some whose princi- 
ples, views and conduct, are so different from 
the rest of the world, and from what theirs them- 
selves once were, that these persons are honoured 
with the peculiar title of the ' sons of God.' But 
no where do the Scriptures assert, that even 
these are sinless ; on the contrary their faults 
are frequently mentioned ; and persons of this 
class are moreover represented as those on whom 



406 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE, 



a great change has passed : as having been for- 
merly ' dead in trespasses and sins ;' but as 
1 being now called out of darkness into light ;' 
as ' translated into the kingdom of God's dear 
Son;' as 'having passed from death to life.' 
And St. Paul put this matter past all doubt, by 
expressly asserting, that Hhey were all by nature 
the children of wrath even as others.' 

It might be well to ask certain persons, who 
oppose the doctrine in question, and who also 
seem to talk as if they thought there were many 
sinless people in the world, how they expect 
that such sinless people will be saved ? (though 
indeed to talk of an innocent person being saved 
involves a palpable contradiction in terms, of 
which those who use the expression do not seem 
to be aware; it is talking of curing a man al- 
ready in health.) 'Undoubtedly,' such will say, 
' they will be received into those abodes of bliss 
prepared for the righteous.' But be it remem- 
bered, there is but one way to these blissful 
abodes, and that is, through Jesus Christ : ' For 
there is none other name given among men 
whereby we must be saved.' If we ask whom 
did Christ come to save 7 the Scripture directly 
answers, ' He came into the world to save sin- 
ners : — ' His name was called Jesus, because he 
came to save his people from their sins. 1 When 
St. John was favoured with a heavenly vision, 
he tells us, that he beheld 'a great multitude 
which no man could number, of all nations, and 
kindred, and people, and tongues, standing be- 
fore the throne, and before the Lamb, clothed 
with white robes :' that one of the heavenly in- 
habitants informed him who they were : — These 
are they who came out of great tribulation, and 
have washed their robes, and made them white 
in the blood of the Lamb; therefore are they 
before the throne of God, and serve Him day and 
night in his Temple; and He that sitteth on the 
throne shall dwell among them ; they shall hun- 
ger no more, neither thirst any more, neither 
shall the sun light on them, nor any heat ; for 
the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne 
shall feed them, and shall lead them to living 
fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away 
all tears from their eyes.' 

We may gather from this description what 
these glorious and happy beings once were : 
they were sinful creatures : their robes were 
not spotless : ' They had washed them, and made 
them white in the blood of the Lamb.' They 
are likewise generally represented as having 
been once a suffering people : they came out of 
great tribulation. They are described as hav 
ing overcome the great tempter of mankind, 
' by the blood of the Lamb :'* as they who ' fol- 
low the Lamb whithersoever he goeth :' as ' re- 
deemed from among men.'t And their employ- 
ment in the regions of bliss is a farther confirma- 
tion of the doctrine of which we are treating. 
— ' The great multitude' &c. &c. we are told, 
stood and cried with a loud voice, Salvation to 
our God, who sitteth upon the throne, and to the 
Lamb !' Hve we see they ascribe their salva- 
ion to Christ, and consequently their present 
happiness to his atoning blood. And in another 
of their celestial anthems, they say in like man- 
ner : ' Thou wast slainj and hast redeemed us 
* Rev xii. 14. j Rev - xiv ' 4 



to God by Thy blood, out of every kindred, and 
tongue, and people, and nation.'* 

By all this it is evident that men of any other 
description than redeemed sinners must gain ad- 
mittance to heaven some other way than that 
which the Scriptures point out; and also that 
when they shall arrive there, so diiFerent will' 
be their employment, that they must have an 
anthem peculiar to themselves. 

Nothing is more adapted to ' the casting down 
of high imaginations,' and to promote humility, 
than this reflection, that heaven is always in 
Scripture pointed out not -as the reward of the 
innocent, but as the hope of the penitent. This, 
while it is calculated to ' exclude boasting,' the 
temper the most opposite to the Gospel, is yet 
the most suited to afford comfort ; for were hea- 
ven promised as the reward of innocence, who 
could attain to it ? but being as it is the pro- 
mised portion of faith and repentance, purchased 
for us by the blood of Christ, and offered to 
every penitent believer, who is compelled to 
miss it ? 

It is urged that the belief of this doctrine of 
our corruption produces many ill effects, and 
therefore it should be discouraged. — That it does 
not produce those ill effects, when not misun- 
derstood or partially represented, we shall at- 
tempt to show : at the same time let it be ob- 
served, if it be really true we must not reject it 
on account of any of these supposed ill conse- 
quences. Truth may often be attended with 
disagreeable effects, but if it be truth it must 
still be pursued. If, for instance, treason should 
exist in a country, every one knows the disa- 
greeable effects which will follow such a convic- 
tion ; but our not believing such treason to exist, 
will not prevent such effect following it : on the 
contrary, our believing it may prevent the fatal 
consequences. 

It is objected, that this doctrine debases and 
degrades human nature, and that finding fault 
with the building is only another way of finding 
fault with the architect. To the first part of 
this objection it may be remarked, that if man 
be really a corrupt, fallen being, it is proper to 
represent him as such : the fault then lies in the 
man, and not in the doctrine, which only states 
the truth. As to the inference which is sup- 
posed to follow, namely, that it throws the fault 
upon the Creator, it proceeds upon the false sup- 
position that man's present corrupt state is the 
state in which he was originally created : the 
contrary of which is the truth. ' God made man 
upright, but he hath sought out many inven- 
tions.' 

It is likewise objected, that as this doctrine 
must give us such a bad opinion of mankind, it 
must consequently produce ill-will, hatred, and 
suspicion- But it should be remembered, that 
it gives us no worse an opinion of other men 
than it gives us of ourselves ; and such views 
of ourselves have a very salutary effect, inas- 
much as they have a tendency to produce humi- 
lity ; and hnmility is not likely to produce ill- 
will to others, ' for only from pride cometh con- 
tention :' and as to the views it gives us of man- 
kind, it represents us as fellow-sufferers ; and 
surely the consideration that we are companions 
* Rev. v. 9. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



407 



tn misery is not calculated to produce hatred. 
The truth is, these effects, where they have ac- 
tually followed, have followed from a false and 
partial view of the subject. 

Old persons who have seen much of the world, 
and who have little religion, are apt to be strong 
in their belief of man's actual corruption ; but 
not taking it up on Christian grounds, this be- 
lief in them shows itself in a narrow and ma- 
lignant temper j in uncharitable judgment and 
harsh opinions, in individual suspicion, and in 
too general a disposition to hatred. 

Suspicion and hatred also are the uses to 
which Rochefaucault and the other French phi- 
losophers have converted this doctrine : their 
acute minds intuitively found the corruption of 
man, and they saw it without its concomitant 
and correcting doctrine ; they allowed man to 
be a depraved creature, but disallowed his high 
original : they found him in a low state, but did 
not conceive of him as having fallen from a bet- 
ter. They represent him rather as a brute than 
as an apostate ; not taking into the account that 
his present degraded nature and depraved fa- 
culties are not his original state : that he is not 
such as he came out of the hands of his Creator, 
but such as he has been made by sin. Nor do 
they know that he has not even now lost all re- 
mains of his primitive dignity, all traces of his 
divine original, but is still capable of a restora- 
tion more glorious 

Than is dreamt of in their philosophy. 

Perhaps, too, they know from what they feel all 
the evil to which man is inclined ; but they do 
not know, for they have not felt, all the good of 
which he is capable by the superinduction of the 
divine principle : thus they asperse human na- 
ture instead of representing it fairly, and in so 
doing it is they who calumniate the great Cre- 
ator. 

The doctrine of corruption, is likewise ac- 
cused of being a gloomy, discouraging doctrine, 
and an enemy to joy and comfort. — Now sup. 
pose this objection true in its fullest extent, is 
it any way unreasonable that a being fallen into 
a slate of sin, under the displeasure of Almighty 
God, should feel seriously alarmed at being in 
such a state ? Is the condemned criminal blamed 
because he is not merry ? And would it be es- 
teemed a kind action to persuade him that he is 
not condemned in order to make him so ? 

But this charge is not true in the sense in- 
tended by those who bring it forward. — Those 
who believe this doctrine are not the most 
gloomy people. When, indeed, any one by the 
influence of the Holy Spirit is brought to view 
his state as it really is, a state of guilt and dan- 
ger, it is natural that fear should be excited in 
his mind, but it is such a fear as impels him to 
' flee from the wrath to come ;' it is such a fear 
as moved Noah to ' prepare an ark to the saving 
of his house.' Such an one will likewise feel 
sorrow ; not however ' the sorrow of the world 
which worketh death,' but that godly sorrow 
which worketh repentance. Such an one is said 
to be driven to despair by this doctrine ; but it 
is the despair of his Qwn ability to save himself; 
it is that wholesome despair of his own merits 
produced by conviction and humility which 



drives him to seek a better refuge ; and such an 
one is in a proper state to receive the glorious 
doctrine we are next about to contemplate, 
namely, 

That god so loved the world, that he gave 

HIS ONLY BEGOTTEN SON, THAT WHOSOEVER BE- 
LIEVED ON HIM SHOULD NOT PERISH, BUT HAVE 
EVERLASTING LIFE. 

Of this doctrine it is of the last importance 
to form just views, for as it is the only doctrine 
which can keep the humble penitent from de- 
spair, so, on the other hand, great care must be 
taken that false views of it do not lead us to pre- 
sumption. In order to understand it rightly, 
we must not fill our minds with our own rea- 
sonings upon it, which is the way in which 
some good people have been misled, but we must 
betake ourselves to the Scriptures, wherein we 
shall find the doctrine stated so plainly as to 
show that the mistakes have not arisen from a 
want of clearness in the Scriptures, but from a 
desire to make it bend to some favourite notions. 
While it has been totally rejected by some, it 
has been so mutilated by others, as hardly to 
retain any resemblance to the Scripture doctrine 
of redemption. We are told in the beautiful 
passage last quoted the source — the love of God 
to a lost world ; — who the Redeemer was — the 
Son of God ; — the end for which this plan was 
formed and executed — • that whosoever believed 
in him should not perish, but have everlasting 
life. '-As I live, saith the Lord, I have no pleasure 
in the death of the wicked.' — ' He would have 
all men to be saved and come to the knowledge 
of the truth.' — ' He would not have any perish, 
but that all should come to repentance.' There 
is nothing surely in all this to promote gloomi. 
ness. On the contrary, if kindness and mercy 
have a tendency to win and warm the heart, 
here is every incentive to joy and cheerfulness. 
Christianity looks kindly towards all, and with 
peculiar tenderness on such as, from humbling 
views of their own unworthiness, might be led 
to fancy themselves excluded: — we are expressly 
told, that 'Christ died for all :' — that ' he tasted 
death for every man ;' — that ' he died for the sins 
of the whole world.' Accordingly he has com- 
manded that his gospel should be ' preached to 
every creature ;' which is in effect declaring, 
that not a single human being is excluded : for 
to preach the gospel is to offer a Saviour : — and 
the Saviour in the plainest language offers him- 
self to all, — declaring to ' all the ends of the 
earth,' — ' Look unto me and be saved.' It is 
therefore an undeniable truth, that no one will 
perish for the want of a Saviour, but for reject- 
ing him. That none are excluded who do not 
exclude themselves, as many unhappily do, who 
' reject the counsel of God against themselves, 
and so receive the grace of God in vain.' 

But to suppose that because Christ has died 
for the ' sins of the whole world,' the wholu 
world will therefore be saved, is a most fatal 
mistake. In the same book which tells us that 
' Christ died for all,' we have likewise this awful 
admonition ; ' Strait is the gate, and few there 
be that find it ;' which, whether it be understood 
of the immediate reception of the gospel, or of 



408 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the final use which was too likely to be made 
of it, gives no encouragement to hope that all 
will be qualified to partake of its promises. And 
whilst it declares that ' there is no other name 
whereby we may be saved but the name of Je- 
sus ;' it likewise declares 

THAT ' WITHOUT HOLINESS NO MAN SHALL SEE THE 
LORD.' 

It is much to be feared that some, in their 
zeal to defend the gospel doctrines of free grace, 
have materially injured the gospel doctrine of 
holiness : stating that Christ has done all in 
such a sense, as that there is nothing left for us 
to do. — But do the Scriptures hold out this Ian- 
guage ? — 'Come, for all things are ready,' is the 
gospel call ; in which we may observe," that at 
the same time that it fells us that ' all things are 
ready,' it nevertheless tells us that we must 

* come ' Food being provided for us will not 
benefit us except we partake of it. It will not 
avail us that ' Christ our passover is sacrificed 
for us,' unless ' we keep the feast.' — We must 
make use of ' the fountain which is opened for 
sin and uncleanness,' if we would be purified. 

* All, indeed, who are athirst are invited to take 
of the waters of life freely ;' but if we feel no 
' thirst ;' if we do not drink, their saving quali- 
ties are of no avail. 

It is the more necessary to insist on this in 
the present day, as there is a worldly and 
fashionable, as well as a low and sectarian An- 
tinomianism : there lamentably prevails in the 
world an unwarranted assurance of salvation, 
founded on a slight, vague, and general confi- 
dence in what Christ has done and suffered for 
us, as if the great object of his doing and suffer- 
ing had been to emancipate us from all obliga- 
tions to duty and obedience ; and as if, because 
he died for sinners, we might therefore safely 
and comfortably go on to live in sin, contenting 
ourselves with now and then a transient, formal, 
and unmeaning avowal of our unworthiness, our 
obligation, and the all-sufficiency of his atone- 
ment. By the discharge of this quit-rent, of 
which all the cost consists in acknowledgment, 
the sensual, the worldly, and the vain hope to 
find a refuge in heaven, when driven from the 
enjoyment of this world. But this cheap and 
indolent Christianity is no where taught in the 
Bible. The faith inculcated there is not a lazy, 
professional faith, but that faith which ' pro- 
duceth obedience,' that faith which ' worketh by 
ove,' that faith of which the practical language 
is — ' Strive that you may ' enter in ;' ' So run 
that you may obtain ;' — ' So fight that you may 
lay hold on eternal life :' — that faith which di- 
rects us ' not to be weary in well-doing ;' — 
which says, ' work out your own salvation :' — 
never forgetting at the same time, 'that it is 
God which worketh in us both to will and to do.' 
The contrary doctrine is implied in the very 
name of the Redeemer ; ' And his name shall 
be called ' Jesus, for he shall save his people 
from their sins,' not in their sins. — Are those 
rich supplies of grace which the gospel offers ; 
are those abundant aids of the Spirit which it 
promises, tendered to the slothful ? — No. God 
will have all his gifts improved. Grace must 



be used, or it will be withdrawn. The Almighty 
thinks it not derogatory to his free grace to de- 
clare, that 'those only who do his command- 
ments have right to the tree of life.' And the 
scriptures represent it as not derogatory to the 
sacrifice of Christ, to follow his example in well- 
doing. The only caution is, that we must not 
work in our own strength, nor bring in our con- 
tribution of works as if in aid of the supposed 
deficiency of His merits. 

For we must not in our over-caution fancy, 
that because Christ has ' redeemed us from the 
curse of the law,' we are therefore without a 
law. In acknowledging Christ as a deliverer, 
we must not forget that he is a law-giver too, 
and that we are expressly commanded ' to fulfil 
the law of Christ :' if we wish to know what his 
laws are, we must ' search the Scriptures,' espe 
cially the New Testament ; there we shall find 
him declaring 

THE ABSOLUTE NECESSITY OF A CHANGE OF HEART 
AND LIFE. 

Our Saviour says, that ' except a man be born 
again, he cannot see the kingdom of God :' that 
it is not a mere acknowledging His authority, 
calling him ' Lord, Lord,' that will avail any 
thing, except we do what He commands ; that 
any thing short of this is like a man building 
his house upon the sand, which when the storms 
come on, will certainly fall. In like manner 
the apostles are continually enforcing the neces- 
sity of this change, which they describe under 
the various names of ' the new man ;'* — ' the 
new creature ;'t — ' a transformation into the 
image of God ;'t — ' a participation of the divine 
naturc.'§ Nor is this change represented as 
consisting merely in a change of religious opi- 
nions, not even in being delivered over from a 
worse to a better system of doctrines, nor in ex- 
changing gross sins for those which are more 
sober and reputable : nor in renouncing the sins 
of youth, and assuming those of a quieter period 
of life; nor in leaving off evil practices because 
men are grown tired of them, or find they in- 
jure their credit, health, or fortune; nor does it 
consist in inoffensiveness and obliging manners, 
nor indeed in any merely outward reformation. 

But the change consists in ' being renewed 
in the spirit of our minds ;' in being ' conformed 
to the image of the Son of God :' in being ' call- 
ed out of darkness into his marvellous light.' 
And the whole of this great change, its begin- 
ning, progress, and final accomplishment (for it is 
represented as a gradual change) is ascribed to 

THE INFLUENCES OF THE HOLY SPIRIT. 

We are perpetually reminded of our utter in- 
ability to help ourselves, that we may set the 
higher value on those gracious aids which are 
held out to us. We are taught that ' we are 
not sufficient to think any thing as of ourselves, 
but our sufficiency is of God.' And when we are 
told that ' if we live after the flesh, we shall die, 
we are at the same time reminded, that it is 
4 through the Spirit that * we must mortify the 



* Ephesians, iv. 24. 
I 2 Corinthians, xii. 



t Galatians, vi. 15 
j 2 Peter, i. 4. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



409 



deeds of the body.' We are likewise cautioned 
that we ' grieve not the Holy Spirit of God,' 
' that we quench not the Spirit.' By all which 
expressions, and many others of like import, we 
are taught that, while we are to ascribe with 
humble gratitude every good thought, word, and 
work, to the influence of 'the Holy Spirit, we are 
not to look on such influence as superseding our 
own exertions ; and it is too plain that we may 
reject the gracious offers of assistance, since 
otherwise there would be no occasion to caution 
us not to do it. The scriptures have illustrated 
this in terms which are familiar indeed, but 
which are therefore only the more condescend- 
ing and endearing. ' Behold, I stand at the door 
and knock. If any man hear my voice and 
open the door, I will come in to him, and will 
sup with him, and he with me.' Observe, it is 
not said, if any man will not listen to me, I will 
force open the door. But if we refuse admit- 
tance to such a guest, we must abide by the 
consequences. 

The sublime doctrine of divine assistance is 
the more to be prized not only on account of 
our own helplessness, but from the additional 
consideration of the powerful adversary with 
whom the Christian has to contend : an article 
of our faith by the way, which is growing into 
general disrepute among the politer class of so- 
ciety. Nay, there is a kind of ridicule attached 
to the very suggestion of the subject, as if it 
were exploded by general agreement, on full 
proof of its being an absolute absurdity, utterly 
repugnant to the liberal spirit of an enlightened 
age. And it requires no small neatness of ex- 
pression and periphrastic ingenuity to get the 
very mention tolerated ; — I mean 

THE SCRIPTURE DOCTRINE OF THE EXISTENCE AND 
POWER OF OUR GREAT SPIRITUAL ENEMY. 

This is considered by the fashionable sceptic 
as a vulgar invention, which ought to be banish- 
ed with the belief in dreams, and ghosts and 
witchcraft : — by the fashionable Christian, as an 
ingenious allegory, but not as a literal truth ; 
and by almost all, as a doctrine which, when it 
happens to be introduced at church, has at least 
nothing to do with the pews, but is by common 
consent made over to the aisles, if indeed it must 
be retained at all. 

May I, with great humility and respect, pre- 
sume to suggest to our divines that they would 
do well not to lend their countenance to the mo- 
dish curtailments of the Christian faith : nor to 
shun the introduction of this doctrine whenever 
it consists with their subject to bring it forward ! 
A truth which is seldom brought before the eye, 
imperceptibly grows less and less important ; 
and if it be an unpleasing truth, we grow more 
and more reconciled to its absence, till at length 
its intrusion becomes offensive, and we learn in 
the end to renounce what we at first only ne- 
glected. Because some coarse and ranting en- 
thusiasts have been fond of using tremendous 
terms and awful denunciations with a violence 
and frequency, which might make it seem to be 
a gratification to them to denounce judgments 
and anticipate torments, can their coarseness or 
vulgarity make a true doctrine false, or an im- 



portant one trifling ? If such preachers have 
given offence by their uncouth manner of ma- 
naging an awful doctrine, that indeed furnishes 
a caution to treat the subject more discreetly, 
but it is no just reason for avoiding the doctrine. 
For to keep a truth out of sight because it has 
been absurdly handled or ill-defended, might in 
time be assigned as a reason for keeping back, 
one by one, every doctrine of our holy church ; 
for which of them has not occasionally had im- 
prudent advocates or weak champions? 

Be it remembered that the doctrine in question 
is not only interwoven by allusion, implication, 
or direct assertion throughout the whole scrip- 
ture, but that it stands prominently personified 
at the opening of the New as well as the Old 
Testament. The devil's temptation of our Lord, 
in which he is not represented figuratively, but 
visibly and palpably, stands exactly on the same 
ground of authority with other events which are 
received without repugnance. And it may not 
be an unuseful observation to remark, that the 
very refusing to believe in an evil spirit, may be 
considered as one of his own suggestions ; for 
there is not a more dangerous illusion than to 
believe ourselves ou>. of tne reacn of li.asions, 
nor a more alarming temptation than to fancy 
that we are not liable to be tempted. 

But the dark cloud raised by this doctrine 
will be dispelled by the cheering certainty that 
our blessed Saviour having himself ' been tempt- 
ed like as we are, is able to deliver those who are 
tempted.' 

To return. — From this imperfect sketch we 
may see how suitable the religion of Christ is to 
fallen man ! How exactly it meets every want ! 
No one needs now perish because he is a sinner, 
provided he be willing to forsake his sins ; for 
1 Jesus Christ came into the world to save sin- 
ners ;' and ' He is now exalted to be a Prince 
and a Saviour, to give repentance and forgive- 
ness of sin.' Which passage, be it observed, 
may be considered as pointing out to us the or 
der in which he bestows his blessings ; he gives 
first repentance and then forgiveness. 

We may likewise see how much the character 
of a true Christian rises above every other ; that 
there is a wholeness, an integrity, a complete- 
ness in the Christian character, that a few natu- 
ral, pleasing qualities, not cast in the mould of 
the Gospel, are but as beautiful fragments, or 
well-turned single limbs, which for want of that 
beauty, which arises from the proportion of 
parts, for want of that connexion of the members 
with the living head, are of little comparative 
excellence. There may be amiable qualities 
which are not Christian graces ; and the apostle, 
after enumerating every separate article of at- 
tack or defence with which a Christian warrior 
is to be accoutred, sums up the matter by di- 
recting that we put on 'the whole armour of 
God.' And this completeness is insisted on by 
all the apostles. One prays that his converts 
may ' stand perfect and complete in the whole 
will of God ;' another enjoins that they ' be per- 
fect and entire, wanting nothing.' 

Now we are not to suppose that they expected 
any convert to be without faults ; they knew 
too well the constitution of the human heart to 
form so unfounded an expectation. But Chri&- 



410 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



tians must have no fault in their principle ; their 
views must be correct, their proposed scheme 
must be faultless ; their intention must be sin- 
gle : their standard must be lofty ; their object 
must be right ; their mark must be the high call- 
ing of God in Christ Jesus.' — There must be no 
allowed evil, no warranted defection, no tolerated 
impurity, nohabitual irregularity. Though they 
do not rise as high as they ought, nor as they 
wish, in the scale of perfection, yet the scale it- 
self must be correct, and the desire of ascending 
perpetual ; counting nothing done while any 
thing remains undone. Every grace must be 
kept in exercise ; conquests once made over an 
evil propensity must not only be maintained but 
extended. And in truth Christianity so com- 
prizes contrary, and as it may be thought irre- 
concilable excellences, that those which seem 
bo incompatible as to be incapable by nature of 
being inmates of the same breast are almost ne- 
cessarily involved in the Christian character. 

For instance ; Christianity requires that our 
faith be at once fervent and sober ; that our love 
be both ardent and lasting ; that our patience be 
not only heroic but gentle ; she demands daunt- 
less zeal and genuine humility ; active services 
and complete self-renunciation; high attain- 
ments in goodness, with deep consciousness of 
defect ; courage in reproving, and meekness in 
bearing reproof; a quick perception of what is 
sinful ; with a willingness to forgive the offender; 
active virtue ready to do all, and passive virtue 
ready to bear all. We must stretch every fa- 
culty in the service of our Lord, and yet bring 
every thought into obedience to Him : while we 
aim to live in the exercise of every Christian 
grace, we must account ourselves unprofitable 
servants : we must strive for the crown, yet re- 
ceive it as a gift, and then lay it at our Master's 
feet: while we are busily trading in the world 
with our Lord's talents, we must 'commune 
with our hearts, and be still :' while we strive 
to practise the purest disinterestedness, we must 
be contented though we meet with selfishness in 
return ; and while laying out our lives for the 
good of mankind, we must submit to reproach 
without murmuring, and to ingratitude without 
resentment. And to render us equal to all these 
services, Christianity bestows not only the pre- 
cepts, but the power ; she does what the great 
poet of Ethics lamented that reason could not do, 
'she lends us arms as well as rules.' 

For here, if not only the worldly and the ti- 
mid, but the humble and the well-disposed, should 
demand with fear and trembling, ' Who is suffi- 
cient for these things ?' Revelation makes its 
own reviving answer, ' My grace is sufficient for 
thee.' 

It will be well here to distinguish that there 
are two sorts of Christian professors, one of 
which affect to speak of Christianity as if it were 
a mere system of doctrines, with little reference 
to their influence on life and manners ; while 
the other consider it as exhibiting a scene of 
human duties independent of its doctrines. For 
though the latter sort ma}' admit the doctrines, 
yet they contemplate them as a separate and 
disconnected set of opinions, rather than as an 
influential principle of action. In violation of 
that beautiful harmony which subsists in every 



part of Scripture between practice and belief 
the religious world furnishes two sorts of people 
who seem to enlist themselves, as if in opposi- 
tion, under the banner of Saint Paul and Saint 
James; as if those two great champions of the 
Christian cause had fought for two masters. 
Those who affect respectively to be the disciples 
of each, treat faith and works as if they were 
opposite interests, instead of inseparable points. 
Nay, they go farther, and set Saint Paul at va- 
riance with himself. 

Now instead of reasoning on the point, let us 
refer to the apostle in question, who himself de- 
finitely settles the dispute. The apostolic order 
and method in this respect deserves notice and 
imitation : for it is observable that the earlier 
parts of most of the epistles abound in the doc- 
trines of Christianity, while those latter chap- 
ters, which wind up the subject, exhibit all the 
duties which grow out of them, as the natural 
and necessary productions of such a living root.* 
But this alternate mention of doctrine and prac- 
tice, which seemed likely to unite, has on the 
contrary formed a sort of line of separation be- 
tween these two orders of believers, and intro- 
duced a broken and mutilated system. Those 
who would make Christianity consist of doc- 
trines only, dwell for instance, on the first eleven 
chapters of the Epistle to the Romans, as con- 
taining exclusively the sum and substance of 
the Gospel. While the mere moralists, who 
wish to strip Christianity of her lofty and appro- 
priate attributes, delight to dwell on the twelfth 
chapter, which is a table of duties, as exclusive- 
ly as if the preceding chapters made no part of 
the sacred Canon. But Saint Paul himself, who 
was at least as sound a theologian as any of his 
commentators, settles the matter another way, 
by making the duties of the twelfth grow out 
of the doctrines of the antecedent eleven, just as 
any other consequence grows out of its cause. 
And as if he suspected that the indivisible union 
between them might possibly be overlooked, he 
links the two distinct divisions together by a lo- 
gical ' therefore,' with which the twelfth begins: 
— ' I beseech you therefore,' (that is, as the effect 
of all I have been inculcating,) ' that you pre- 
sent your bodies a living sacrifice, acceptable to 
God,' &c. and then goes on to enforce on them, 
as a consequence of what he had been preach- 
ing, the practice of every Christian virtue. This 
combined view of the subject seems on the one 
hand, to be the only means of preventing the 
substitution of Pagan morality for Christian ho- 
liness : and, on the other, of securing the leading 
doctrine of justification by faith, from the dread- 
ful danger of Antinomian licentiousness; every 
human obligation being thus grafted on the liv- 
ing stock of a divine principle. 



CHAP. XXI. 

On the duty and efficacy of prayer. 
It is not proposed to enter largely on a topic 

* This is the language of our church, as may be seen 
in her 12th article ; viz. 

Good works do spring out necessarily of a true and 
lively faith; insomuch that by them a lively faith may 
be as evidently known, as a tree discerned by its fruit 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



411 



which has been exhausted by the ablest pens. 
But as a work of this nature seems to require 
that so important a subject should not be over- 
looked, it is intended to notice in a slight man- 
ner a few of those many difficulties and popular 
objections which are brought forward against 
the use and efficacy of prayer, even by those 
who would be unwilling to be suspected of im- 
piety and unbelief. 

There is a class of objectors who strangely 
profess to withhold homage from the Most High, 
not out of contempt but reverence. They affect 
to consider the use of prayer as derogatory from 
the omniscience of God, asserting that it looks 
as if we thought he stood in need of being in- 
formed of our wants ; and as derogatory from 
his goodness, as implying that he needs to be 
put in mind of them. 

But is it not enough for such poor frail beings 
as we are to know, that God himself does not 
consider prayer as derogatory either to his wis- 
dom or goodness? And shall we erect ourselves 
into judges of what is consistent with the attri- 
butes of Him before whom angels fall prostrate 
with self-abasement ? Will he thank such de- 
fenders of his attributes, who, while they profess 
to reverence, scruple not to disobey him ? It 
ought rather to be viewed as a great encourage- 
ment to prayer, that we are addressing a Being, 
who knows our wants better than we can ex- 
press them, and whose preventing goodness is 
always ready to relieve them. Prayer seems to 
unite the different attributes of the Almighty : 
for if he is indeed the God that heareth prayer, 
that is the best reason why ' to him all flesh 
should come.' 

It is objected by another class, and on the spe- 
cious ground of humility too, though we do not 
always find the objector himself quite as humble 
as his plea would be thought, that it is arrogant 
in such insignificant beings as we are to pre- 
sume to lay our petty necessities before the Great 
and Glorious God, who cannot be expected to 
condescend to the multitude of trifling and even 
interfering requests which are brought before 
him by his creatures. These and such like ob- 
jections arise from mean and unworthy thoughts 
of the Great Creator. It seems as if those who 
make them considered the Most High as ' such 
an one as themselves ;' a Being, who can per- 
form a certain given quantity of business, but 
who would be overpowered with an additional 
quantity. Or, at best, is it not considering the 
Almighty in the light, not of an infinite God, 
but of a great man, of a minister, or a king, 
who, while he superintends public and national 
concerns, is obliged to neglect small and indivi- 
dual petitions, because his hands being full he 
cannot spare that leisure and attention which 
suffice for every thing ? They do not consider 
him as that infinitely glorious Being, who while 
he beholds at once all that is doing in heaven 
and in earth, is at the same time as attentive to 
the prayer of the poor destitute, as present to 
the sorrowful sighing of the prisoner, as if each 
of these forlorn creatures were individually the 
object of his undivided attention. 

These critics, who are for sparing the Su- 
preme Being the trouble of our prayers, and, if 
I may so speak without profaneness, would re- 



lieve Omnipotence of part of his burden, by as- 
signing to his care only such a portion as may 
be more easily managed, seem to have no ade- 
quate conception of his attributes. 

They forget that infinite wisdom puts him as 
easily within reach of all knowledge, as infinite 
power does of all performance ; that he is a Be 
ing in whose plans complexity makes no diffi- 
culty, variety no obstruction, and multiplicity 
no confusion ; that to ubiquity distance does not 
exist ; that to infinity space is annihilated ; that 
past, present, and future, are discerned more 
accurately at one glance of his eye, to whom a 
thousand years are as one day, than a single 
moment of time or a single point of space can 
be by ours. 

To the other part of the objection, founded on 
the supposed interference (that is irreconcilable- 
ness) of one man's petitions with those of an- 
other, this answer seems to suggest itself: first, 
that we must take care that when we ask, we 
do not ' ask amiss ;' that for instance, we ask 
chiefly, and in an unqualified manner, only for 
spiritual blessings to ourselves and others ; and 
in doing this the prayer of one man cannot in- 
terfere with that of another, because no propor- 
tion of sanctity or virtue implored by one ob- 
structs the same attainments in another. Next 
in asking for temporal and inferior blessings, 
we must qualify our petition, even though it 
should extend to deliverance from the severest 
pains, or to our very life itself, according to that 
example of our Saviour : ' Father if it be possi- 
ble, let this cup pass from me. Nevertheless, 
not my will, but thine, be done.' By thus qua- 
lifying our prayer, we exercise ourselves in an 
act of resignation to God : we profess not to wish 
what will interfere with his benevolent plan, and 
yet we may hope by prayer to secure the bless- 
ing so far as it is consistent with it. Perhaps 
the reason why this objection to prayer is so 
strongly felt, is the too great disposition to pray 
for merely temporal and worldly blessings, and 
to desire them in the most unqualified manner, 
not submitting to be without them, even though 
the granting them should be inconsistent with 
the general plan of Providence. 

Another class continue to bring forward, as 
pertinaciously as if it had never been answered, 
the exhausted argument, that seeing God is im- 
mutable, no petitions of ours can ever change 
Him : that events themselves being settled in a 
fixed and unalterable course, and bound in a fa- 
tal necessity, it is folly to think that we can dis- 
turb the established laws of the universe, or in- 
terrupt the course of Providence by our prayers : 
and that it is absurd to suppose these firm de- 
crees can be reversed by any requests of ours. 

Without entering into the wide and trackless 
field of fate and free will, from which pursuit I 
am kept back equally by the most profound ig- 
norance and the most invincible dislike, I would 
only observe, that these objections apply equally 
to all human action as well as to prayer. It 
may therefore with the same propriety be urged, 
that seeing God is immutable and his decrees 
unalterable, therefore our actions can produce 
no change in Him or in our own state. Weak 
as well as impious reasoning ! It may be ques- 
tioned whether even the modern French and 



412 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



German philosophers may not be prevailed upon 
to acknowledge the existence of God, if they 
might make such a use of his attributes. The 
truth is (and it is a truth discoverable without 
any depth of learning) all these objections are 
the offspring of pride. Poor short-sighted man 
cannot reconcile the omniscience and decrees 
of God with the efficacy of prayer; and because 
he cannot reconcile them, he modestly concludes 
they are irreconcilable. How much more wis- 
dom, as well as happiness, results from an hum- 
ble Christian spirit ! Such a plain practical text 
as, ' Draw near unto God, and he will draw near 
unto you,' carries more consolation, more true 
knowledge of his wants and their remedy to the 
heart of a penitent sinner, than all the 'tomes 
of casuistry,' which have puzzled the world ever 
since the question was first set afloat by its 
original propounders- 

And as the plain man only got up and walked, 
to prove there was such a thing as motion, 
in answer to the philosopher who in an elabo- 
rate theory denied it : so the plain Christian, 
when he is borne down with the assurance that 
there is no efficacy in prayer, requires no better 
argument to repel the assertion, than the good 
he finds in prayer itself. 

All the doubts proposed to him respecting 
God, do not so much affect him, as this one 
doubt respecting himself: ' If I regard iniquity 
n my heart, the Lord will not hear me.' For 
.he chief doubt and difficulty of a real Christian 
consists, not so much of a distrust of God's 
ability and willingness to answer the prayer of 
the upright, as in a distrust of his own upright- 
ness, as in a doubt whether he himself belongs 
to that description of persons to whom the pro- 
mises are made, and of the quality of the prayer 
which he offers up. 

Let the subjects of a dark fate maintain a 
sullen, or the slaves of a blind chance a hopeless 
silence, but let the child of a compassionate Al- 
mighty Father supplicate His mercies with a 
humble confidence, inspired by the assurance, 
that ' the very hairs of his head are numbered.' 
Let him take comfort in that individual and 
minute attention, without which not a sparrow 
falls to the ground, as well as in that heart- 
cheering promise ; that, as ' the eyes of the 
Lord are over the righteous,' so are ' his ears 
open to their prayers.' And as a pious bishop 
has observed, ' Our Saviour has as it were 
hedged in and inclosed the Lord's prayer with 
these two great fences of our faith, God's willing- 
ness and his power to help us ;' the preface to it 
assures us of the one, which by calling God by 
the tender name of ' Our Father,' intimates his 
readiness to help his children : and the animat- 
ing conclusion, 'Thine is the power,'' rescues 
us from every unbelieving doubt of his ability to 
help us. 

A Christian knows, because he feels, that 
prayer is, though in a way to him inscrutable, the 
medium of connexion between God and his ra- 
tional creatures : the means appointed by him to 
draw down his blessings upon us. The Christian 
knovvs that prayer is the appointed meansof unit- 
ing two ideas, one of the highest magnificence, 
the other of the most profound lowliness, within 
the compass of imagination ; namely, that it is the 



! link of communication between 'the high and 
lofty One who inhabiteth eternity, and that 
heart of the ' contrite in which he delights to 
dwell.' He knows that this inexplicable union 
between beings so unspeakably, so essentially 
different, can only be maintained by prayer : 
that this is the strong but secret chain which 
unites time with eternity, earth with heaven, 
man with God. 

The plain Christian, as was before observed, 
cannot explain why it is so; but while he feels 
the efficacy, he is content to let the learnod de- 
fine it ; and he will no more postpone prayer till 
lie can produce a chain of reasoning on the 
manner in which he derives benefit from it, 
than he will postpone eating till he can give a 
scientific lecture on the nature of digestion ; he 
is contented with knowing that his meat has 
nourished him ; and he leaves to the philosopher, 
who may choose to defer his meal till he has 
elaborated his treatise, to starve in the interim. 
The Christian feels better than he is able to ex- 
plain, that the functions of his spiritual life can 
no more be carried on without habitual prayer, 
than those of his natural life without frequent 
bodily nourishment. He feels renovation and 
strength grow out of the use of the appointed 
means, as necessarily in the one case as in the 
other. He feels that the health of his soul can 
no more be sustained, and its powers kept in 
continued vigour, by the prayers of a distant 
day, than his body by the aliment of a distant 
day. 

But there is one motive to the duty in ques- 
tion, far more constraining to the true believer 
than all others that can be named ; more im- 
perious than any argument on its utility, than 
any convictions of its efficacy, even than any 
experience of its consolations. Prayer is the 
command of God ; the plain, positive, repeated 
injunction of the Most High, who declares, 
' He will be inquired of.' This is enough to 
secure the obedience of the Christian, even 
though a promise were not, as it always is, at- 
tached to the command. But in this case, to 
our unspeakable comfort, the promise is as clear 
as the precept : ' Ask, and ye shall receive — 
seek, and ye shall find — Knock, and it shall be 
opened unto you.' This is encouragement 
enough for the plain Christian. As to the man- 
ner in which prayer is made to coincide with 
the general scheme of God's plan in the govern- 
ment of human affairs; how God has left him- 
self at liberty to reconcil-e our prayer with his 
own predetermined will, the Christian does not 
very critically examine, his precise and imme- 
diate duty being to pray, and not to examine ; 
and probably this being among the ' secret 
things which belong to God,' and not to us, it 
will lie hidden among those numberless myste- 
ries which we shall not fully understand till 
faith be lost in sight. 

In the meantime it is enough for the humble 
believer to be assured, that the Judge of all the 
earth is doing right ; it is enough for him to be 
assured in that word of God ' which cannot lie,' 
of numberless actual instances of the efficacy 
of prayer in obtaining blessings and averting 
calamities, both national and individual : it is 

j enough for him to be convinced experimentally. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



413 



by that internal evidence, which is perhaps 
paramount to all other evidence, the comfort he 
himself has received from prayer when all other 
comforts have failed : — and above all to end with 
the same motive with which we began, the only 
motive indeed which he requires for the perfor- 
mance of any duty — it is motive enough for 
him — that thus saith Ihe Lord. For when a 
serious Christian has once got a plain unequivo- 
cal command from his Maker on any point, he 
never suspends his obedience while he is amus- 
ing- himself with looking about for subordinate 
motives of action. Instead of curiously ana- 
lysing the nature of the duty, he considers 
how he shall best fulfil it : for on these points 
at least it may be said without controversy 
that ' the ignorant (and here who is not igno- 
rant ?) have nothing to do with the law but to 
obey it ? 

Others there are, who, perhaps not contro- 
verting any of the premises, yet neglect to build 
practical consequences on the admisssion of 
them, who neither denying the duty nor the 
efficacy of prayer, yet go on to live either in the 
irregular observance or the total neglect of it, 
as appetite, or pleasure, or business, or humour, 
may happen to predominate ; and who by living 
almost without prayer, may be said ' to live 
almost without God in the world.' To such we 
can only say, that they little know what they 
lose. — The time is hastening on when they will 
look upon those blessings as invaluable, which 
now they think not worth asking for; when 
they will bitterly regret the absence of those 
means and opportunities which now they either 
neglect or despise. ' O that they were wise ! 
that they understood this ! that they would con- 
sider their latter end !' 

There are again others, who it is to be feared 
having once lived in the habit of prayer, yet not 
having been well grounded in those principles 
of faith and repentance on which genuine prayer 
is built, have by degrees totally discontinued it. 
' Thej T do not find,' say they, ' that their affairs 
prosper the better or the worse ; or perhaps they 
were unsuccessful in their affairs even before 
they dropped the practice, and so had no en- 
couragement to go on.' They do not know that 
they had no encouragement; they do not know 
how much worse their affairs might have gone 
on, had they discontinued it sooner, or how their 
prayers helped to retard their ruin; Or they 
do not know that perhaps ' they asked amiss,' 
or that if they had obtained what they asked, 
they might have been far more unhappy. For 
a true believer never 'restrains prayer' because 
he is not certain he obtains every individual re- 
quest; for he is persuaded that God, in com- 
passion to our ignorance, sometimes in great 
mercy withholds what we desire, and often dis- 
appoints his most favoured children by giving 
them, not what they ask, but what he knows is 
really good for them. The froward child, as a 
pious prelate* observes, cries for the shining 
blade, which the tender parent withholds, know- 
ing it would cut his fingers. 

Thus to persevere when we have not the en- 
cquragement of visible success, is an evidence 

♦ Bishop Hali 



of tried faith. Of this holy perseverance Job 
was a noble instance. Defeat and disappoint- 
ment rather stimulated than stopped his prayers- 
Though in a vehement strain of passionate elo- 
quence he exclaims, ' I cry out of wrong, but I 
am not heard ; I cry aloud, but there is no 
judgment,' yet so persuaded was he, notwith- 
standing, of the duty of continuing this holy 
importunity, that he persisted against all human 
hope, till he attained to that exalted pitch of 
unshaken faith, by which he was enabled to 
break out into that sublime apostrophe, ' Though 
he slay me, yet I will trust in him.' 

But may we not say that there is a consider- 
able class, who not only bring none of the ob- 
jections which we have stated against the use 
of prayer ; who are so far from rejecting, that 
they are exact and regular in the performance 
of it; who yet take it up on as low ground as is 
consistent with their ideas of their own safety ; 
who while they considsr prayer as an indispen- 
sable form, believe nothing of that change of 
heart and of those holy tempers which it is in- 
tended to produce ? Many who yet adhere 
scrupulously to the letter, are so far from enter- 
ing into the spirit of this duty, that they are 
strongly inclined to suspect those of hypocrisy 
who adopt the true scriptural views of prayer. 
Nay, as even the Bible may be so wrested as to 
be made to speak almost any language in support 
of almost any opinion, these persons lay hold on 
Scripture itself to bear them out in their own 
slight views of this duty ; and they profess to 
borrow from thence the ground of that censure 
which they cast on the more serious Christians. 
Among the many passages which have been 
made to convey a meaning foreign to their 
original design, none have been seized upon 
with more avidity by such persons than the 
pointed censures of our Saviour on those ' who 
for a pretence make long prayers;' as well as 
on those ' who use vain repetitions, and think 
they shall be heard for much speaking.' Now 
the things here intended to be reproved, were 
the hypocrisy of the Pharisees and the igno- 
rance of the heathen, together with the error of 
all those who depended on the success of their 
prayers, while they imitated the deceit of the 
one or the folly of the other. But our Saviour 
never meant those severe reprehensions should 
cool or abridge the devotion of pious Christians, 
to which they do not at all apply. 

More or fewer words, however, so little con- 
stitute the true value of prayer, that there is no 
doubt but one of the most affecting specimens 
on record is the short petition of the publican , 
full fraught as it is with that spirit of contrition 
and self-abasement which is the very principle 
and soul of prayer. And this specimen perhaps 
is the best model for that sudden lifting up of 
the heart which we call ejaculation. But I 
doubt, in general, whether those few hasty 
words to which these frugal petitioners would 
stint the scanty devotions of others and them- 
selves, will be always found ample enough to 
satisfy the humble penitent, who, being a sinner, , 

has much to confess; who, hoping he is a par- 
doned sinner, has much to acknowledge. Such 
an one perhaps cannot always pour out the ful. 
ne99 of his soul within the prescribed abridg 



414 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ments. Even the sincerest Christian, when he 
wishes to find his heart warm, has often to la- 
ment its coldness. Though he feel that he has 
received much, and has therefore much to be 
thankful for, yet he is not able at once to bring 
his wayward spirit into such a posture as shall 
fit it for the solemn business ; for such an one 
has not merely his form to repeat ; but he has 
his tempers to reduce to order ; his affections to 
excite, and his peace to make. His thoughts 
may be realizing the sarcasm of the prophet on 
the idol Baal, ' they may be gone a journey,' 
and must be recalled ; his heart perhaps • sleep- 
eth and must be awaked. 1 A devout supplicant 
too will labour to affect and warm his mind 
with a sense of the great and gracious attributes 
of God, in imitation of the holy men of old. 
Like Jehosaphat, he will sometimes enumerate 
' the power, and the might, and the mercies of 
the Most High,' in order to stir up the senti- 
ments of awe, and gratitude, and love, and hu- 
mility in his own soul.* He will labour to imi- 
tate the example of his Saviour, whose heart di- 
lated with the expression of the same holy 
affections. ' I thank thee, O Father, Lord of 
heaven and earth.' A heart thus animated, thus 
warmed with divine love, cannot always scru- 
pulously limit itself to the mere business of 
prayer, if I may so speak. It cannot content 
itself with merely spreading out its own neces- 
cities, but expands in contemplating the perfec- 
tions of Him to whom he is addressing them. 
The humble supplicant, though he be no longer 
governed by a lcve of the world, yet grieves to 
find that he cannot totally exclude it from his 
thoughts. Though he has on the whole a deep 
sense of his own wants, and of the abundant pro- 
vision which is made for them in the Gospel ; 
yet when he most wishes to be rejoicing in those 
strong motives for love and gratitude, alas! even 
then he has to mourn his worldliness, his insen- 
sibility, his deadness. He has to deplore the 
littleness and vanity of the objects which are 
even then drawing away his heart from his Re- 
deemer. The best Christian is but too liable, 
during the temptations of the day, to be ensnared 
by ' the lust of the eye, and the pride of life,' 
and is not always brought without effort to re- 
flect that he rs but dust and ashes. How can 
even good persons who are just come perhaps 
from listening to the flattery of their fellow- 
worms, acknowledge before God, without any 
preparation of the heart, that they are miserable 
sinners ? They require a little time to impress 
on their own souls the truth of that solemn con- 
fession of sin they are making to Him, without 
which brevity and not length might constitute 
hypocrisy. Even the sincerely pious have in 
prayer grievous wanderings to lament, from 
which others mistakingly suppose the advanced 
Christian to be exempt. Such wanderings that, 
as an old divine has observed, it would exceed- 
ingly humble a good man, could he, after he 
had prayed, be made to see his prayers written 
down, with exact interlineations of all the vain 
and impertinent thoughts which had thrust 
themselves in amongst them. So that such an 
one will indeed, from a strong sense of these 
distractions, feel deep occasion with the prophet 
* 2 Chron. xv. 5, 6. 



to ask forgiveness for ' the iniquity of his holy 
things:' and would find cause enough for humi- 
liation every night, had he to lament the sins of 
his prayers only. 

We know that such a brief petition as ' Lord 
help my unbelief,' if the supplicant be in so hap- 
py a frame, and the prayer be darted up with 
such strong faith that his very soul mounts with 
the petition, may suftice to draw down a blessing 
which may be withheld from the more prolix 
petitioner : yet, if by prayer we do not mean a 
mere form of words, whether they be long or 
short; if the true definition of prayer be, that it 
is the desire of the heart : if it be that secret 
communion between God and the soul, which is 
the very breath and being of religion ; then is 
the Scripture so far from suggesting that short 
measure of which it is accused, that it expressly 
says, ' Pray without ceasing' — ' Pray evermore 
— ' I will that men pray every where' — ' conti- 
nue instant in prayer.' 

If such 'repetitions' as these objectors re- 
probate, stir up desires as yet unawakehed, or 
protract affections already excited (for ' vain re- 
petitions' are'such as awaken or express no new 
desire, and serve no religious purpose) then are 
1 repetitions not to be condemned. And that 
our Saviour did not give the warning against 
' long prayers and repetitions' in the sense these 
objections allege, is evident from his own prac- 
tice ; for once we are told 'he continued all 
night in prayer to God.' And again, in the 
most awful crisis of his life, it is expressly said, 
' He prayed the third time, using the same 
words.''* 

All habits gain by exercise ; of course the 
Christian graces gain force and vigour by being 
called out, and, as it were, mustered in prayer. 
Love, faith, and trust in the divine promises, if 
they were not kept alive by this stated inter- 
course with God, would wither and die. Prayer 
is also one great source and chief encourager of 
holiness. ' If I regard iniquity in my heart the 
Lord will not hear me.' 

Prayer possesses the two-fold property of 
fighting and preparing the heart to receive the 
blessings we pray for, in case we should attain 
them ; and of fortifying and disposing it to sub- 
mit to the will of God, in case it should be his 
pleasure to withhold them. 

A sense of sin should be so far from keeping 
us from prayer, through a false plea of unwor- 
thiness, that the humility growing on this very 
consciousness is the truest and strongest incen- 
tive to prayer. There is, for our example and 
encouragement, a beautiful union of faith and 
humility in the prodigal — ' I have sinned against 
heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy 
to be called thy son.' This as it might seem to 
imply hopelessness of pardon, might be supposed 
to promote unwillingness to ask it ; but the 
heart-broken penitent drew the direct contrary 
conclusion — ' I will arise and go to my father !' 
Prayer, to make it accepted, requires neither 
genius, eloquence, nor language ; but sorrow for 
sin, faith, and humility. It is the cry of dis- 
tress, the sense of want, the abasement of con- 
trition, the energy of gratitude. It is not an 
elaborate string of well arranged periods nor an 
* Matt. ixvi. 44. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



415 



exercise of ingenuity, nor an effort of the me- 
mory ; but the devout breathing of a soul struck 
with a sense of its own misery, and of the infi- 
nite holiness of Him whom it is addressing ; ex- 
perimentally convinced of its own emptiness, 
and of the abundant fulness of God. It is the 
complete renunciation of self, and the entire de- 
pendence on another. It is the voice of a beg- 
gar who would be relieved ; of the sinner who 
would be pardoned. It has nothing to offer but 
sin and sorrow; nothing to ask but forgiveness 
and acceptance ; nothing to plead but the pro- 
mises of the Gospel in the death of Christ. It 
never seeks to obtain its object by diminishing 
the guilt of sin, but by exalting the merits of the 
Saviour. 

But as it is the effect of prayer to expand the 
affections as well as to sanctify them ; the bene- 
volent Christian is not satisfied to commend 
himself alone to the divine favour. The heart 
which is full of the love of God will overflow 
with love to its neighbour. All that are near to 
himself he wishes to bring near to God. He 
will present the whole human race as objects of 
divine compassion ; but especially the faithful 
followers of Jesus Christ. Religion makes a 
man so liberal of soul, that he cannot endure to 
restrict any thing, much less divine mercies, to 
himself: he therefore spiritualizes the social af- 
fections, by adding intercessory to personal 
prayer ; for he knows that petitioning for others 
is one of the best methods of exercising and en- 
larging our own love and charity, even if it were 
not to draw down those blessings which are pro- 
mised to those for whom we ask them. It is 
unnecessary to produce any of the numberless 
instances with which Scripture abounds, on the 
efficacy of intercession : in which God has pro- 
ved the truth of his own assurance, that ' his ear 
was open to their cry.' I shall confine myself 
to a few observations on the benefits it brings to 
him who offers it. When we pray for the object 
of our dearest regard, it purifies passion, and 
exalts love into religion ; when we pray for those 
with whom we have worldly intercourse, it 
smooths down the swellings of envy, and bids 
the tumults of anger and ambition subside : 
when we pray for our country, it sanctifies pa- 
triotism : when we pray for those in authority, 



it adds a divine motive to human obedience : 
when we pray for our enemies, it softens the 
savageness of war and molifies hatred into ten- 
derness, and resentment into sorrow. And we 
can only learn the duty so difficult to human 
nature, of forgiving those who have offended us, 
when we bring ourselves to pray for them to 
Him whom we ourselves daily offend. When 
those who are the faithful followers of the same 
Divine Master pray for each other, the recipro- 
cal intercession delightfully realizes that beauti- 
ful idea of 'the communion of saints.' There is 
scarcely any thing which more enriches the 
Christian than the circulation of this holy com- 
merce ; than the comfort of believing, while he 
is praying for his Christian friends, that he is 
also reaping the benefit of their prayers for him. 

Some are for confining their intercessions on- 
ly to the good, as if none but persons of merit 
were entitled to our prayers. Merit ! who has 
it? Desert ! who can plead it ? in the sight of 
God, I mean. Who shall bring his own piety, 
or the piety of others, in the way of claim, be- 
fore a Being of such transcendant holiness, that 
' the heavens are not clean in his sight ?' And 
if we wait for perfect holiness as a preliminary 
to prayer, when shall such erring creatures pray 
at all to Him ' who chargeth the angels with 
folly !' 

In closing this little work with the subject of 
intercessory prayer, may the author be allowed 
to avail herself of the feeling it suggests to her 
own heart ? And while she earnestly implores 
that Being, who can make the meanest of his 
creatures instrumental to his glory, to bless this 
humble attempt to those for whom it was written, 
may she, without presumption, entreat that this 
work of Christian charity may be reciprocal ; 
and that those who peruse these pages may put 
up a petition for her, that in the great day to 
which we are all hastening, she may not be 
found to have suggested to others what she her- 
self did not believe, or to have recommended 
what she did not desire to practice ? In that 
awful day of everlasting decision, may both the 
reader and the writer be pardoned and accepted, 
' not for any works of righteousness which they 
have done,' but through the merits of the Great 
Intercessor. 



PRACTICAL PIETY, 

OR THE INFLUENCE OF 

THE RELIGION OF THE HEART 

ON THE CONDUCT OF THE LIFE. 

The fear of God begins with the Heart, and purifies and rectifies it ; and from the Heart, thus 
rectified, grows a conformity in the Life, the Words, and the Actions. — Sir Matthew Hale's 
Contemplations. 



PREFACE. 

An eminent professor of our own time modestly declared that he taught chemistry in order 
that he might learn it. The writer of the following pages might, with far more justice, offer a 



416 THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 

similar declaration, as an apology for so repeatedly treating on th-3 important topics of religion 
and morals 

Abashed by the equitable precept, 

Let those teach others who themselves excel — ♦ 

she is aware, how fairly she is putting it in the power of the reader, to ask, in the searching 
words of an eminent old prelate, ■ They that speak thus, and advise thus, do they do thus ?' She 
can defend herself in no other way, than by adopting for a reply the words of the same venerable 
divine, which immediately follow : — 'O that it were not too true. Yet although it be but little 
that is attained, the very aim is right, and something there is that is done by it. It is better to 
have such thoughts and desires, than altogether to give them up ; and the very desire, if it be 
serious and sincere, may so much change the habitude of the soul and life, that it is not to bo 
despised.' 

The world does not require so much to be informed as reminded. A remembrancer may be 
almost as useful as an instructor; if his office be more humble, if is scarcely less necessary. The 
man whose employment it was, statedly to proclaim in the ear of Philip, remember that thou 
art mortal, had his plain admonition been allowed to make its due impression, might have 
produced a more salutary effect on the royal usurper, than the imoassioned orations of his im 
mortal assailant — 

whose resistless eloquence 
Shook th' arsenal and fulmined over Greece 
To Macedon and Artaserxes' throne. 

While the orator boldly strove to check the ambition, and arrest the injustice oNhe king, the 
simple herald barely reminded him, how short would be the reign of injustice, how inevitable 
and how near was the final period of ambition. Let it be remembered to the credit of the mo- 
narch, that while the thunders of the politician wore intolerable, the monitor was of his own ap- 
pointment. 

This slight sketch, for it pretends to no higher name, aims only at being plain and practical. 
Contending solely for those indispensable points, which by involving present duty, involve future 
happiness, the writer has avoided, as far as Christian sincerity permits, all controverted topics ; 
has shunned whatever might lead to disputation rather than to profit. 

We live in an age, when, as Mr. Pope observed of that in which he wrote, it is criminal to be mo- 
derate. Would it could not be said that Religion has her parties as well as politics ! Those who 
endeavour to steer clear of all extremes in either, are in danger of being reprobated by both. It 
is rather a hardship for persons, who have considered it as a Christian duty to cultivate a spirit 
of moderation in thinking, and of candour in judging, that, when these dispositions are brought 
into action, they frequently incur a harsher censure than the errors which it was their chief aim 
to avoid. 

Perhaps, therefore, to that human wisdom whose leading object is human applause, it might 
answer best to be exclusively attached to some one party. On the protection of that party at least, 
it might in that case reckon ; and it would then have this dislike of the opposite class alone to 
contend against ; while those who cannot go all lengths with either, can hardly escape the dis- 
approbation of both. 

To apply the remark to the present case : — The author is apprehensive that she may at onco 
be censured by opposite classes of readers, as being too strict and too relaxed : — too much attach- 
ed to opinions, and too indifferent about them ; — as having narrowed the broad field of Christian- 
ity by labouring to establish its peculiar doctrines ; — as having broken down its enclosures by 
not confining herself to doctrines exclusively; — as having considered morality of too little impor- 
tance ; — as having raised it to an undue elevation ; — as having made practice every thing ; — as 
having made it nothing. 

While a catholic spirit is accused of being latitudinarian in one party, it really is so in another. 
In one it exhibits the character of Christianity on her own grand but correct scale ; in the other, 
it is the offspring of that indifference, which, considering all opinions as nearly of the same value, 
indemnifies itself for tolerating all, by not attaching itself to any, which, establishing a self-com- 
placent notion of general benevolence, with a view to discredit the narrow spirit of Christianity, 
and adopting a display of that cheap material, liberal sentiment, as opposed to religious strictness, 
sacrifices true piety to false candour. 

Christianity may be said to suffer between two criminals, but it is difficult to determine by 
which she suffers most ; — whether by that uncharitable bigotry which disguises her divine cha- 
racter, and speculatively adopts the faggot and the flames of inquisitorial intolerance ; or by that 
indiscriminate candour, that conceding slackness, which, by stripping her of her appropriate at- 
tributes, reduces her to something scarcely worth contending for ; to something which, instead 
of making her the religion of Christ, generalizes her into any religion which may choose to adopt 
her. — The one distorts her lovely lineaments into caricature, and throws her graceful figure into 
gloomy shadow ; the other, by daubing her over with colours not her own, renders her form in- 
distinct, and obliterates her features. In the first instance, she excites little affection ; in the lat- 
ter she is not recognized. 

The writer has endeavoured to address herself as a Christian who must die soon, to Christians 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



417 



who must die certainly. She trusts that she shall not be accused of erecting herself into a cen 
sor, but be considered as one who writes with a real consciousness that she is far from having 
reached the attainments she suggests ; with a heartfelt conviction of the danger of holding out a 
standard too likely to discredit her own practice. She writes not with the assumption of superi- 
ority, but with a deep practical sense of the infirmities against which she has presumed to cau- 
tion others. She wishes to be understood as speaking the language of sympathy, rather than of 
dictation ; of feeling rather than of document. So far from fancying herself exempt from the 
evils on which she has animadverted, her very feeling of those evils has assisted her in their de- 
lineation. Thus this interior sentiment of her own deficiencies, which might be urged as a dis- 
qualification, has, she trusts, enabled her to point out dangers to others. — If the patient cannot 
lay down rules for the cure of a reigning disease, much less effect the cure ; yet from the symp- 
toms common to the same malady, he who labours under it may suggest the necessity of attend- 
ing to it. He may treat the case feelingly, if not scientifically. He may substitute experience, 
in default of skill : he may insist on the value of the remedy he has neglected, as well as recom- 
mend that from which he has found benefit. 

The subjects considered in this treatise have been animadverted on, have been in a manner ex- 
hausted, by persons before whose names the author bows down with the deepest humility; byable 
professional instructors, by piety adorned with all the graces of style, and invigorated with all 
the powers of argument. 

VVhy, then, it may be asked, multiply books which may rather incumber the reader than 
strengthen the cause ? — ' That the older is better,' cannot be disputed. But is not the being « old' 
sometimes the reason why the ' better' is not regarded ? Novelty itself is an attraction which but 
loo often supersedes merit. A slighter drapery, if it be a new one, may excite a degree of at- 
tention to an object, not paid to it when clad in a richer garb to which the eye has been accus- 
tomed. 

The author may begin to ask with one of her earliest and most ealightened friends* — ' Where 
is the world into which we were born ?' Death has broken most of those connexions which made 
the honour and happiness of her youthful days. Fresh links however have continued to attach 
her to society. She is singularly happy in the affectionate regard of a great number of amiable 
young persons, who may peruse with additional attention, sentiments which come recommended 
to them by the warmth of their own attachment, more than by any claim of merit in the writer. 
Is there not something in personal knowledge, something in the feelings of endeared acquaint- 
ance, which by that hidden association, whence so much of our undefined pleasure is derived, if 
it does not impart new force to old truths, may excite a new interest in considering truths which 
are known ? Her concern for these engaging persons extends beyond the transient period of 
present intercourse. It would shed a ray of brightness on her parting hour, if she could hope 
that any caution here held out, any principle here suggested, any habit here recommended, might 
be of use to any one of them ; when the hand which now guides the pen, can be no longer ex- 
erted in their service. This would be remembering their friend in a way which would evince 
the highest affection in them, which would confer the truest honour on herself. 

Barley Wood, March 1st, 1811. 



PRACTICAL PIETY, 



OR THE INFLUENCE OF THE RELIGION OF THE HEART ON THE CONDUCT OF THE LIFE. 



CHAP. I. 

Christianity an internal principle. 

Christianity bears all tha marks of a divine 
original. It came down from heaven, and its 
gracious purpose is to carry us up thither. Its 
Author is God. It was foretold from the begin- 
ning, by prophecies which grew clearer and 
brighter as they approached the period of their 
accomplishment. It was confirmed by miracles 
which continued till the religion they illustrated 
was established. It was ratified by the blood of 
its author. Its doctrines are pure, sublime, con- 
sistent. Its precepts just and holy. Its worship 
is spiritual. Its services reasonable, and render- 
ed practicable by offers of divine aid to human 
weakness. It is sanctioned by the eternal hap- 
piness of the faithful, and the everlasting mise- 
ry to the disobedient It had no collusion with 



power, for power sought to crush it. It could 
not be in any league with the world, for it set 
out by declaring itself the enemy of the world. 
It reprobated its maxims, it showed the vanity 
of its glories, the danger of its riches, the emp-' 
tiness of its pleasures. 

Christianity though the most perfect rule of 
life that ever was devised, is far from being 
barely a rule of life. A religion consisting of a 
mere code of laws, might have sufficed for a 
man in a state of innocence. But man who 
has broken these laws cannot be saved by a rulo 
which he has violated. What consolation could 
he find in the perusal of statutes, every one of 
which, bringing a fresh conviction of his guilt, 
brings a fresh assurance of his condemnation- 
The chief object of the Gospel is not to furnish 
rules for the preservation of innocence, but to 
hold out the means of salvation to the guilty. It 



7ol. I- 



D2 



• Dr. Jotinson. 



418 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



does not proceed from a supposition but a fact ; 
not upon what might have suited man in a state 
of purity, but upon what is suitable to him in 
the exigences of his fallen state. 

This religion does not consist in an external 
conformity to practices, which, though right in 
themselves, may be adopted from human mo- 
tives, and to answer secular purposes. It is not 
a religion of forms, and modes, and decencies. 
It is being transformed into the image of 
God. It is being like-minded with Christ. It 
is considering him as our sanctification, as 
well as our redemption. It is endeavouring to 
live to him here that we may live with him 
hereafter. It is desiring earnestly to surrender 
our will to his, our heart to the conduct of his 
Spirit, our life to the guidance of his word. 

The change in the human heart, which the 
Scriptures declare to be necessary, they repre- 
sent to be not so much an old principle improved, 
as a new one created ; not educed out of the 
former character, but infused into the new one. 
This change is there expressed in great varieties 
of language, and under different figures of 
speech. Its being so frequently described, or 
figuratively intimated in almost every part of 
the volume of inspiration, entitles the doctrine 
itself to reverence, and ought to shield from ob- 
loquy the obnoxious terms in which it is some- 
times conveyed. 

The sacred writings frequently point out the 
analogy between natural and spiritual things. 
The same Spirit which in the creation of the 
world moved upon the face of the waters, 
operates on the human character to produce a 
new heart and a, new life. By this operation 
the affections and faculties of the man receive a 
new impulse — his dark understanding is illu- 
minated, his rebellious will is subdued, his 
irregular desires are rectified, his judgment is 
informed, his imagination is chastised, his in- 
clinations are sanctified ; his hopes and fears 
are directed to their true and adequate end. 
Heaven becomes the object of his hopes, an 
eternal separation from God the object of his 
fears. His love of the world is transmuted 
into the love of God. The lower faculties 
are pressed into the new service. The senses 
have a higher direction. The whole inter- 
nal frame and constitution receive a nobler 
bent ; the intents and purposes of the mind a 
sublimer aim ; his aspirations a loftier flight ; 
his vacillating desires find a fixed object; his 
vagrant purposes a settled home ; his disappoint- 
ed heart a certain refuge. The heart, no longer 
a worshipper of the world, is struggling to be- 
come its conqueror. Our blessed Redeemer, 
In overcoming the world, bequeathed us his com- 
mand to overcome it also: but as he did not 
give the command without the example, so he 
did not give the example without the offer of a 
power to obey the command. 

Genuine religion demands not merely an ex- 
ternal profession of our allegiance to God, but 
an inward devotedness of ourselves to his ser- 
vice. It is not a recognition, but a dedication. 
It puts the Christian into a new state of things, 
a new condition of being. It raises him above 
the world while he lives in it. It disperses the 
illusion of sense, by opening his eyes to realities 



in the place of those shadows which he has been 
pursuing. It presents this world as a scene of 
whose original beauty Sin has darkened and 
disordered, Man as a dependant creature, Jesua 
Christ as the repairer of all the evils which sin 
has caused, and as our restorer to holiness and 
happiness. Any religion short of this, any at 
least, which has not this for its end and object, 
is not that religion, which the Gospel has pre- 
sented to us, which our Redeemer came down 
on earth to teach us by his precepts, to illus- 
trate by his example, to confirm by his death, 
and to consummate by his resurrection. 

If Christianity do not always produce these 
happy effects to the extent here represented, it 
has always a tendency to produce them. If we 
do not see the progress to be such as the Gospel 
annexes to the transforming power of true re- 
ligion, it is not owing to any defect in the prin- 
ciple, but to the remains of sin in the heart ; to 
the imperfectly subdued corruptions of the Chris- 
tian. Those who are very sincere are still very 
imperfect. They evidence their sincerity by 
acknowledging the lowness of their attainments, 
by lamenting the remainder of their corruptions. 
Many an humble Christian whom the world 
reproaches with being extravagant in his zeal, 
whom it ridicules for being enthusiastic in his 
aims, and rigid in his practice, is inwardly 
mourning on the very contrary ground. He 
would bear their censure more cheerfully, but 
that he feels his danger lies in the opposite di- 
rection. He is secretly abasing himself before 
his Maker for not carrying far enough that 
principle which he is accused of carrying too 
far. The fault which others find in him is ex- 
cess. The fault he finds in himself is deficiency. 
He is, alas ! too commonly right. His enemies 
speak of him as they hear. He judges of him- 
self as he feels. But though humbled to the 
dust by the deep sense of his own unworthiness, 
he is, 'strong in the Lord, and in the power of 
his might.' ' He has,' says the venerable 
Hooker, ' a Shepherd fidl of kindness, full of 
care, and full of power.' His prayer is not for 
reward but pardon. His plea is not merit but 
mercy ; but then it is mercy made sure to him by 
the promise of the Almighty to penitent believers. 
The mistake of many in religion appears to 
be, that they do not begin with the beginning. 
They do not lay their foundation in the persua- 
sion that man is by nature in a state of aliena- 
tion from God. They consider him rather as 
an imperfect than a fallen creature. They al- 
low that he requires to be improved, but deny 
that he requires a thorough renovation of 
heart. 

But genuine Christianity can never be graft- 
ed on any other stock than the apostacy of man. 
The design to reinstate beings who have not 
fallen ; to propose a restoration without a pre- 
vious loss, a cure where there was no radical 
disease, is altogether an incongruity which 
would seem too palpable to require confutation, 
did we not so frequently see the doctrine of re- 
demption maintained by those who deny that 
man was in a state to require such a redemption^ 
But would Christ have been sent ' to preach de- 
liverence to the captive,' if there had been no 
captivity ; and ' the opening of the prison to 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



41D 



them that were bound,' had there been no prison, 
nad man been in no bondage? 

We are aware that many consider the doc- 
trine in question as a bold charge against our 
Creator. But may we not venture to ask, Is it 
not a bolder charge against God's goodness to 
presume that he had made beings originally 
wicked ; and against God's veracity to believe, 
that having made such beings he pronounced 
them ' good ?' Is not that doctrine more reason- 
able which Is expressed or implied in every part 
of Scripture, that the moral corruption of our 
first parent has been entailed on his whole pos- 
terity ; that from this corruption (though only 
punishable for their actual offences) they are no 
more exempt than from natural death ? 

We must not, however, think falsely of our 
nature; we must humble but not degrade it. 
Our original brightness is obscured, but not ex- 
tinguished. If we consider ourselves in our 
natural state, our estimation cannot be too low : 
when we reflect at what a price we have been 
bought, we can hardly overrate ourselves in 
the view of immortality. 

If, indeed, the Almighty had left us to the 
consequences of our natural state, we might, 
with more colour of reason, have mutinied 
against his justice. But when we see how 
graciously he has turned our very lapse into an 
occasion of improving our condition ; how from 
this evil he was pleased to advance us to a 
greater good than we had lost ; how that life 
which was forfeited may be restored ; how by 
grafting the redemption of man on the very cir- 
cumstance of his fall, he has raised him to the 
capacity of a higher condition than that which 
he has forfeited, and to a happiness superior to 
that from which he fell — What an impression 
does this give us of the immeasurable wisdom 
and goodness of God, of the unsearchable riches 
of Christ 

The religion which it is the object of these 
pages to recommend, has been sometimes mis- 
understood, and not seldom misrepresented. It 
has been described as an unproductive theory, 
and ridiculed as a fanciful extravagance. For 
the sake of distinction it is here called, The re- 
ligion of the Heart. — There it subsists as the 
fountain of spiritual life ; thence it sends forth, 
as from the central seat of its existence, supplies 
of life and warmth through the whole frame; 
there is the soul of virtue ; there is the vital princi- 
ple which animates the whole being of a Christian. 

This religion has been the support and con- 
solation of the pious believer in all ages of the 
church. That it has been perverted both by the 
cloistered and the uncloistered mystic, not 
merely to promote abstraction of mind, but in- 
activity of life, makes nothing against the prin- 
ciple itself. What doctrine of the New Testa- 
ment has not been made to speak the language 
of its injudicious advocate, and turned into arms 
against some other doctrines which it was never 
meant to oppose ? 

But if it has been carried to a blameable excess 
by the pious error of holy men, it has also been 
adopted by the less innocent fanatic, and abused 
to the most pernicious purposes. His extrava- 
gance has furnished to the enemies of internal 
Religion, arguments or rather invectives, against 



the sound and sober exercises of genuine piety 
They seize every occasion to represent it as if 
it were criminal, as the foe of morality ; ridicu- 
lous as the infallible test of an unsound mind , 
mischievous, as hostile to active virtue, and de- 
structive as the bane of public utility. 

But if these charges be really well founded, 
then were the brightest luminaries of the Chris- 
tian church — then were Home, and Porteus, 
and Beveridge ; then were Hooker, and Taylor, 
and Herbert ; Hopkins, Leighton, and Usher ; 
Howe, and Baxter ; Ridley, Jewel, and Hooper ; 
then were Chrysostome and Augustine, the re- 
formers and the fathers ; then were the goodly 
fellowship of the prophets ; then were the noble 
army of martyrs ; then were the glorious com- 
pany of the apostles ;■ then was the disciple 
whom Jesus loved ; then was Jesus himself — 
I shudder at the amplification — dry speculatists, 
frantic enthusiasts, enemies to virtue, and sub- 
verters of the public weal. 

Those who disbelieve, or deride, or reject 
this inward religion, are much to be compas- 
sionated. Their belief that no such principle 
exists, will, it is to be feared, effectually prevent 
its existing in themselves, at least, while they 
make their own state the measure of their gene- 
ral judgment. Not being sensible of their re- 
quired dispositions in their own hearts, they 
establish this as a proof of its impossibility in all 
cases. This persuasion, as long as they main- 
tain it, will assuredly exclude the reception of 
divine truth. What they assert can be true in 
no case, cannot be true in their own. Their 
hearts will be barred against any influence in 
the power of which they do not believe. They 
will not desire it, they will not pray for it, ex 
cept in the Liturgy, where it is the decided lan- 
guage : They will not addict themselves to 
those pious exercises to which it invites them, ex- 
ercises which it ever loves and cherishes. Thus 
they expect the end, but avoid the way which 
leads to it; they indulge the hope of glory, 
while they neglect or pervert the means of 
grace. But let not the formal religionist, who 
has probably never sought, and therefore never 
obtained, any sense of the spiritual mercies of 
God, conclude that there is, therefore, no such 
state. His having no conception of it is no more 
proof that no such state exists, than it is a proof, 
that the cheering beams of a genial climate 
have no existence, because the inhabitants of 
the frozen zone never felt them. 

Where our own heart and experience do not 
illustrate these truths practically, so as to afford 
us some evidence of their reality, let us examine 
our minds, and faithfully follow up our convic- 
tions ; let us inquire whether God has really 
been wanting in the accomplishment of his pro- 
mises, or whether we have not been sadly de- 
ficient in yielding to those suggestions of con- 
science which are the motions of his Spirit ? 
Whether we have not neglected to implore the 
aids of that Spirit ; whether we have not, in 
various instances, resisted them ? Let us ask 
ourselves — have we looked up to our heavenly 
Father with humble dependence for the supplies 
of his grace ? or have we prayed for these bless- 
ings only as a form, and having acquitted our 
selves of the form, do we continue to live as »f 

t 



420 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



we had not so prayed ? Having repeatedly im- 
plored his direction, do we endeavour to submit 
ourselves to its guidance? Having prayed that 
his will may be done, do we never stoutly set up 
our own will in contradiction to his? 

If, then, we receive not the promised support 
and comfort, the failure must rest somewhere : 
it lies between him who has promised, and him 
to whom the promise was made. There is no 
other alternative ; would it not be blasphemy to 
transfer the failure to God ? Let us not, then, 
rest till we have cleared up the difficulty. The 
spirits sink and the faith fails, if, after a conti- 
nued round of reading and prayer : after hav- 
ing for years conformed to the letter of the com- 
mand ; after having scrupulously brought in our 
tale of outward duties, we find ourselves just 
where we were at setting; out. 

We complain justly of our own weakness, and 
truly plead our inability as a reason why we 
cannot serve God as we ought. This infirmity, 
its nature, and its measure, God knows far more 
exactly than we know it ; yet he knows that, 
wi'.h the help which he offers us, we can both 
love and obey him, or he never would have made 
it the qualification of our obtaining his favour. 
He never would have said, ' give me thy heart' 
— ' seek ye my face' — ' add to your faith, virtue' 
— ' have a right heart and a right spirit,' — 
'strengthen the things that remain' — ' ye will 
not come to me that ye might have life' — had 
not all these precepts a definite meaning, had 
not all these been practicable duties. 

Can we suppose that the omniscient God 
would have given these unqualified commands 
to powerless, incapable, unimpressible beings ? 
Can we suppose that he would paralyse his crea- 
tures, and then condemn them for not being 
able to move? He knows, it is true, our natural 
impotence, but he knows, because he confers, 
our superinduced strength. There is scarcely 
a command in the whole Scripture which has 
not either immediately, or in some other part a 
corresponding prayer, and a corresponding pro- 
mise. If it says in one place '■get thee a new heart,' 
— it says in another ' a new heart will I give 
thee ; — and in a third ' make me a clean heart !' 
For it is worth observing that a diligent inquirer 
may trace every where this threefold union. If 
God commands by Saint Paul, ' let not sin reign 
in your mortal body,' he promises by the same 
apostle, ■ sin shall not have dominion over you ;' 
— while to complete the tripartate agreement, 
he makes David pray that his ' sins may not 
have dominion over him.' 

The saints of old, so far from setting up on 
the stock of their own independent virtue, seem 
to have had no idea of any light but what was 
imparted, of any strength but what was commu- 
nicated to them from above. Hear their impor- 
tunate petitions ! — ' O send forth thy light and 
thy truth.'— Mark their grateful declarations ! 
— ' The Lord is my strength and my salvation!' 
— Observe their cordial acknowledgments! — 
• Bless the Lord, O my soul ! and all that is 
within me bless his holy name !' 

Though we must be careful not to mistake 
for the divine Agency those impulses which 
pretend to operate independently of external re- 
velation ; which have little reference to it ; which 



set themselves above it ; it is however that pow- 
erful agency which sanctifies all means, renders 
all external revelation effectual. Notwithstand- 
ing that all the truths of religion, all the doc- 
trincs of salvation are contained in the holy 
Scriptures, these very scriptures require the in- 
fluence of that Spirit which dictated them to pro- 
duce an influential faith. This Spirit, by en- 
lightening the mind, converts the rational per- 
suasion, brings the intellectual conviction of 
divine truth conveyed in the New Testament, 
into an operative principle. A man from read- 
ing, examining, and inquiring, may attain to 
such a reasonable assurance of the truth of re- 
velation as will remove all doubts from his own 
mind, and even enable him to refute the objec- 
tions of others ; but this bare intellectual faith 
alone will not operate against his corrupt affec- 
tions, will not cure his besetting sin, will not 
conquer his rebellious will, and may not there- 
fore be an efficacious principle. A mere histo- 
rical faith, the mere evidence of facts with the 
soundest reasonings and deductions from them, 
may not be that faith which will fill him with 
all joy and peace in believing. 

An habitual reference to that Spirit which 
animates the real Christian is so far from ex- 
cluding, that it strengthens the truth of revela- 
tion, but never contradicts it. The word of God 
is always in unison with his Spirit; his Spirit is 
never in opposition to his word. Indeed that 
this influence is not an imaginary thing, is con- 
firmed by the whole tenor of Scripture. We are 
aware that we are treading on dangerous, be- 
cause disputed ground ; for among the fashion- 
able curtailments of Scripture doctrines, there 
is not one truth which has been lopped from the 
modern creed with a more unsparing hand; not 
one, the defence of which excites more suspi- 
cion against its advocates. But if it had been 
a mere phantom, should we with such jealous 
iteration have been cautioned against neglecting 
or opposing it ? If the Holy Spirit could not be 
1 grieved,' might it not be ' quenched ;' were it 
not likely to be ' resisted,' that very Spirit which 
proclaimed the prohibitions would never have 
said ' grieve not,' ' quench not,' ' resist not.' The 
Bible never warns us against imaginary evil, 
nor courts us to imaginary good. If then we 
refuse to yield to its guidance, if we reject its 
directions ; if we submit not to its gentle per- 
suasions, for such they are, and not arbitrary 
compulsions, we shall never attain to that peace 
and liberty which are the privilege, the promised 
reward of sincere Christians. 

In speaking of that peace which passeth un- 
derstanding, we allude not to those illuminations 
and raptures, which, if God has in some in- 
stances bestowed them, he has no where pledged 
himself to bestow; but of that rational yet ele 
vated hope which flows from an assured persua- 
sion of the paternal love of our heavenly Father ; 
of that 'secret of the Lord,' which he himself 
assured us 'is with them that fear him ;' of that 
lite and power of religion which are the privi- 
lege of those ' who abide under the shadow of 
the Almighty ;' of those who ' know in whom 
they have believed ;' of those ' who walk not 
after the flesh but after the Spirit;' of those 
' who endure as seeing him who is invisible.' 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



421 



Many faults may be committed where there 
is nevertheless a sincere desire to please God. 
Many infirmities are consistent with a cordial 
love of our Redeemer. Faith may be sincere 
where it is not strong. But he who can con- 
scientiously say that he seeks the favour of God 
above every earthly good ; that he delights in 
his service incomparably more than in any other 
gratification ; that to obey him here and to en- 
joy his presence hereafter is the prevailing de- 
sire of his heart; that his chief sorrow is that 
he loves him no more and serves him no better, 
such a man requires no evidence that his heart 
in changed, and his sins forgiven. 

For the happiness of the Christian does not 
consist in mere feeling which may deceive, nor 
in frames which can be only occasional ; but in 
a settled, calm conviction that God and eternal 
things have the predominance in his heart; in 
a clear perception that they have, though with 
much alloy of infirmity, the supreme, if not un- 
disturbed possession of his mind ; in an experi- 
mental persuasion that his chief remaining sor- 
row is, that he does not surrender himself with 
so complete an acquiescence as he ought to his 
convictions. These abatements, though sufficient 
to keep us humble, are not powerful enough to 
make us happy. 

The true measure then to be taken of our 
state is from a perceptible change in our desires, 
tastes, and pleasures ; from a sense of progress, 
however small, in holiness of heart and life. 
This seems to be the safest rule of judging, for 
if mere feeling were allowed to be the criterion, 
the presumptuous world would be inflated with 
spiritual pride from the persuasion of enjoying 
them ; while the humble from their very humi- 
lity, might be as unreasonably depressed at 
wanting such evidences. 

The recognition of this divine aid then, in- 
volves no presumption, raises no illusion, causes 
no inflation : it is sober in its principle and ra- 
tional in its exercise. In establishing the law 
of God it does not reverse the law of nature, for 
it leaves us in full possession of those natural 
faculties which it improves and sanctifies; and 
so far from inflaming the imagination, its pro- 
per tendency is to subdue and regulate it. 

A security which outruns our attainments is 
a most dangerous state, yet it is a state most un- 
wisely coveted. The probable way to be safe 
hereafter, is not to be presumptuous now. If 
God graciously vouchsafe us inward consolation, 
it is only to animate us to farther progress. It 
is given us for support in our way, and not for 
settled maintenance in our present condition. 
If the promises are our aliment, the command- 
ments are our works ; and a temperate Chris- 
tian ought to desire nourishment only in order 
to carry him through his business. If he so 
supinely rest on the one as to grow sensual and 
indolent, he might become not only unwilling, 
but incapacitated for the performance of the 
other. We must not expect to live upon cordials, 
which only serve to inflame without strengthen- 
ing. Even without these supports, which we 
are more ready to desire than to put ourselves 
in the way to obtain, there is an inward peace 
in an humble trust in God, and in a simple re- 
liance on his word ; there is a repose of spirit, a 



freedom from solicitude in a lowly confidence 
in him, for which the world has nothing to give 
in exchange. 

On the whole then, the state which we have 
been describing is not the dream of tho enthu- 
siast; it is not the revery of the visionary, who 
renounces prescribed duties for fanciful specu- 
lations, and embraces shadows for realities ; but 
it is that sober earnest of Heaven, that reasona- 
ble anticipation of eternal felicity which God is 
graciously pleased to grant, not partially, nor 
arbitrarily, but to all who diligently seek his 
face, to all to whom his service is freedom, his 
will a law, his word a delight, his Spirit a guide ; 
to all who love him unfeignedly, to all who de- 
vote themselves to him unreservedly, to all who 
with deep self-abasement, yet with filial confi- 
dence, prostrate themselves at the foot of his 
throne, saying, Lord, lift thou up the light of 
thy countenance upon us and we shall be safe. 



CHAP. II. 

Christianity a practical principle. 

If God be the author of our spiritual life, the 
root from which we derive the vital principle, 
with daily supplies to maintain this vitality ; 
then the best evidence we can give that we have 
received something of this principle, is an unre- 
served dedication of ourselves to the actual pro- 
motion of his glory. No man ought to flatter 
himself that he is in the favour of God, whose 
life is not consecrated to the service of God. 
Will it not be the only unequivocal proof of such 
a consecration, that he be more zealous of good 
works than those who, disallowing the principle, 
on which he performs them, do not even pretend 
to be actuated by any such motive ? 

The finest theory never yet carried any man 
to heaven. A religion of notions which occupies 
the mind, without filling the heart, may obstruct, 
but cannot advance the salvation of men. If 
these notions are false, they are most pernicious; 
if true and not operative, they aggravate guilt ; 
if unimportant though not unjust, they occupy 
the place which belongs to nobler objects, and 
sink the mind below its proper level ; substitut- 
ing the things which only ought not to be left 
undone, in the place of those which ought to be 
done ; and causing the grand essentials not to 
be done at all. Such a religion is not that which 
Christ came to teach mankind. 

All the doctrines of the gospel are practical 
principles. The word of God was not written, 
the Son of God was not incarnate, the Spirit of 
God was not given, only that Christians might 
obtain right views, and possess just notions. 
Religion is something more than mere correct- 
ness of intellect, justness of conception, and ex- 
actness of judgment. It is a life-giving princi- 
ple. It must be infused into the habit, as well 
as govern the understanding ; it must regulate 
the will as well as direct the creed. It must not 
only cast the opinions into a new frame, but the 
heart into a new mould. It is a transforming as 
well as a penetrating principle. It changes the 
taste, gives activity to the inclinations, and U- 
gether with a new heart produces a new life 



422 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Christianity enjoins the same temper, the same 
spirit, the same dispositions, on all its real pro- 
fessors. The act, the performance, must depend 
on circumstances which do not depend on us. 
The power of doing good is Withheld from ma- 
ny, from whom, however, the reward will not 
be withheld. If the external act constituted the 
whole value of Christian virtue, then must the 
author of all good be himself the author of in- 
justice, by putting it out of the power of multi- 
tudes to fulfil his own commands. In principles, 
in tempers, in fervent desires, in holy endea- 
vours, consist the very essence of Christian 
duty. 

Nor must we fondly attach ourselves to the 
practice of some particular virtue, or value our- 
selves exclusively on some favourite quality ; 
nor must we wrap ourselves up in the perform- 
ance of some individual actions, as if they form- 
ed the sum of Christian duty. But we must 
embrace the whole law of God in all its aspects, 
bearings and relations. We must bring no fan- 
cies, no partialities, no prejudices, no exclusive 
choice or rejection into our religion, but take it 
as we find it, and obey it as we receive it, as it 
is exhibited in the Bible without addition, cur- 
tailment, or adulteration. 

Nor must we pronounce on a character by a 
single action really bad, or apparently good ; if 
so, Peter's denial would render him the object 
of our execration, while we should have judged 
favourably of the prudent economy of Judas. 
The catastrophe of the latter, who does not 
know ? while the other became a glorious mar- 
tyr to that master, whom, in a moment of infir- 
mity he had denied. 

A piety altogether spiritual, disconnected with 
all outward circumstances ; a religion of pure 
meditation and abstracted devotion, was not 
made for so compound, so imperfect a creature 
as man. There have, indeed, been a few sub- 
lime spirits, not ' touched but rapt,' who totally 
cut off from the world, seem almost to have lite- 
rally soare*d above this terrene region, who al- 
most appear to have stolen the fire of the Se- 
raphim, and to have had no business on earth, 
but to keep alive the celestial flame. They 
would, however, have approximated more nearly 
to the example of their divine master, the great 
standard and only perfect model, had they com- 
bined a more diligent discharge of the active 
duties and benefices of life with their high devo- 
tional attainments. 

But while we are in little danger of imitating, 
let us not too harshly censure the pious error of 
these sublimated spirits. Their number is small. 
Their example is not catching. Their ethereal 
fire is not likely, by spreading, to inflame the 
world. The world will take due care not to 
come in contact with it, while its distant light 
and warmth may cast, accidentally, a not un- 
useful ray on the cold-hearted and the worldly. 

But from this small number of refined but in- 
operative beings, we do not intend to draw our 
notions of practical piety. God did not make a 
religion for these few exceptions to the general 
state of the world, but for the world at large ; 
for beings active, busy, restless ; whose activity, 
he, by his word, diverts into its proper channels; 
whose busy spirit is there directed to the com- 



mon good ; whose restlessness, indicating the 
unsatisfactoriness of all they find on earth, he 
points to a higher destination. Were total se- 
clusion and abstraction designed to have been 
the general state of the world, God would have 
given man other laws, other rules, other facul- 
ties, and other employments. 

There is a class of visionary but pious writers 
who seem to shoot as far beyond the mark, as 
mere moralists fall short of it. — Men of low 
views and gross minds may bo said to be wise 
below what is written, while those of too subtle 
refinement are wise above it. The one grovel 
in the dust from the inertness of their intellectual 
faculties ; while the others are lost in the clouds 
by stretching them beyond their appointed li 
mits. The one build spiritual castles in the air, 
instead of erecting them on the ' holy ground' 
of Scripture ; the other lay their foundation in 
the sand instead of resting it on the Rock of 
Ages. Thus, the superstructure of both is equal- 
ly unsound. - 

God is the fountain from which all the streams 
of goodness flow ; the centre from which all the 
rays of blessedness diverge. — All our actions 
are, therefore, only good, as they have a refer- 
ence to Him : the streams must revert back to 
their fountain, the rays must converge again to 
their centre. 

If love of God be the governing principle, this 
powerful spring will actuate all the movements 
of the rational machine. The essence of reli- 
gion does not so much consist in actions as af- 
fections. Though right actions, therefore, aa 
from an excess of courtesy they are commonly 
termed, may be performed where there are no 
right affections ; yet are they a mere carcass ; 
utterly destitute of the soul, and, therefore, of 
the substance of virtue. But neither can affec- 
tions substantially and truly subsist without pro- 
ducing right actions ; for never let it be forgot- 
ten that a pious inclination which has not life 
and vigour sufficient to ripen into act when the 
occasion presents itself, and a right action which 
does not grow out of a sound principle, will 
neither of them have any place in the account 
of real goodness. A good inclination will be 
contrary to sin, but a mere inclination will not 
subdue. sin. 

The love of God, as it is the source of every 
right action and feeling, so it is the only princi- 
ple which necessarily involves the love of our 
fellow creatuies. As man we do not love man. 
There is a love of partiality but not of benevo- 
lence ; of sensibility but not of philanthropy ; of 
friends and favourites, of parties and societies, 
but not of man collectively. It is true we may, 
and do, without this principle, relieve his dis- 
tresses, but we do not bear with his faults. We 
may promote his fortune, but we do not forgive 
his offences ; above all, we are not anxious for 
his immortal interests. We could not see him 
want without pain, but we can see him sin with- 
out emotion. We could not hear of a beggar 
perishing at our door without horror, but we 
can, without concern, witness an acquaintance 
dying without repentance. Is it not strange 
that we must participate something of the divine 
nature, before we can really love the human ? 
It seems, indeed, to be an insensibility to sin, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



423 



rather than want of benevolence to mankind, 
that makes us naturally pity their temporal, and 
oe careless of their spiritual wants ; but does 
not this very insensibility proceed from the want 
of love to God ? 

As it is the habitual frame, and predominating 
disposition, which are the true measure of vir- 
tue, incidental good actions are no certain crite- 
rion of the state of the heart ; for who is there, 
who does not occasionally do them ? Having 
made some progress in attaining this disposition, 
we must not sit down satisfied with propensities 
and inclinations to virtuous actions, while we 
rest short of their actual exercise. If the prin- 
ciple he that of sound Christianity, it will never 
be inert. While we shall never do good with 
any great effect, till we labour to be conformed, 
in some measure, to the image of God ; we shall 
best evince our having obtained something of 
that conformity, by a course of steady and ac- 
tive obedience to God. 

Every individual should bear in mind, that he 
is sent into this world to act a part in it. And 
though one may have a more splendid, and an- 
other a more obscure part assigned him, yet the 
actor of each is equally, is awfully accountable. 
Though God is not a hard, he is an exact mas- 
ter. His service, though not a severe, is a rea- 
sonable service. He accurately proportions his 
requisitions to his gifts. If he does not expect 
that one talent should be as productive as five, 
yet to a single talent a proportionable responsi- 
bility is annexed. 

Ho who has said ' Give me thy heart,' will 
not be satisfied with less ; he will not accept the 
praying lips, nor the mere hand of chaiity as 
substitutes. 

A real Christian will be more just, sober, and 
charitable than other men, though he will not 
rest for salvation on justice, sobriety, or charity. 
He will perform the duties they enjoin, in the 
spirit of Christianity, as instances of devout 
obedience, as evidences of a heart devoted to 
God. 

All virtues, it cannot be too often repeated, 
are sanctified or unhallowed according to the 
principle, which dictates them ; and will be ac- 
cepted or rejected accordingly. This principle 
kept in due exercise, becomes a habit, and 
every act strengthens the inclination, adding 
vigour to the principle and pleasure to the per- 
formance. 

We cannot be said to be real Christians, till 
religion become our animating motive, our pre- 
dominating principle and pursuit, as much as 
worldly things are the predominating motive, 
principle and pursuit, of worldly men. 

New converts, it is said, are most zealous, but 
they are not always the most persevering. If 
their tempers are warm ; and they have only 
been touched on the side of their passions, they 
start eagerly, march rapidly, and are full of 
confidence in their own strength. They too 
often judge others with little charity, and them- 
selves with little humility. While they accuse 
those who move steadily of standing still, they 
fancy their own course will never be slackened. 
If their conversion be not solid, religion, in losing 
its novelty, loses its power. Their speed de- 
clines. Nay, it will be happy if their motion 



become not retrograde. Those who are truly 
sincere, will commonly be persevering. If their 
speed is less eager, it is more steady. As they 
know their own heart more, they discover its 
deceitfulness, and learn to distrust themselves. 
As they become more humble in spirit, they be- 
come more charitable in judging. As they 
grow more firm in principle they grow more 
exact in conduct. 

The rooted habits of a religious life may in 
deed lose their prominence because they are be- 
come more indented. If they are not embossed 
it is because they are burnt in. Where there 
is uniformity and consistency in the whole cha- 
racter, there will be little relief in an individual 
action. A good deed will be less striking in an 
established Christian than a deed less good in 
one who has been previously careless ; good ac- 
tions being his expected duty and his ordinary 
practice. Such a Christian indeed, when his 
right habits cease to be new and striking, may 
fear that he is declining : but his quiet and con- 
firmed course is a surer evidence than the more 
early starts of charity, or fits of piety, which 
may have drawn more attention, and obtained 
more appla'tse. 

Again ; — We should cultivate most assiduous- 
ly, because the work is so difficult, those graces 
which are most opposite to our natural temper ; 
the value of our good qualities depending much 
on their being produced by the victory over 
some natural wrong propensity. The implanta- 
tion of a virtue is the eradication of a vice. It 
would cost one man more to keep down a rising 
passion than to do a brilliant deed. It will try 
another more to keep back a spark ling but cor- 
rupt thought, which his wit had suggested but 
which religion checks, than it would to give a 
large sum in charity. A real Christian being 
deeply sensible of the worthlessness of any ac- 
tions which do not spring from the genuine 
fountain, will aim at such an habitual conformi- 
ty to the divine image, that to perform all acts, 
of justice, charity, kindness, temperance, and 
every kindred virtue, may become the temper, 
the habitual, the abiding state of his heart; that 
like natural streams they may flow spontaneously 
from the living source. 

Practical Christianity then, is the actual ope- 
ration of Christian principles. It is lying on 
the watch for occasions to exemplify them. It 
is ' exercising ourselves unto godliness.' A 
Christian cannot tell in the morning, what op- 
portunities he may have of doing good during 
the day ; but if he be a real Christian, he can 
tell that he will try to keep his heart open, his 
mind prepared, his affections alive to do what- 
ever may occur in the way of duty. He will, 
as it were, stand in the way to receive the orders 
of Providence. Doing good is his vocation. Nor 
does the young artisan bind himself by firmer 
articles to the rigid performance of his master s 
work, than the indentured Christian to the ac- 
tive service of that Divine Master, who himself 
1 went about doing good.' He rejects no duty 
which comes within the sphere of his calling, 
nor does he think the work he is employed in a 
good one, if he might be doing a better. His 
having well acquitted himself of a good action, 
is so far from furnishing biin with an excuse 



434 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



for avoiding the next, that it is a new reason 
for his embarking in it. He looks not at the 
work which he has accomplished ; but on that 
which he has to do. His views are always 
prospective. His charities are scarcely limited 
by his power. His will knows no limits. His 
fortune may have bounds : His benevolence has 
none. He is, in mind and desire, the benefactor 
of every miserable man. His heart is open to 
all the distressed ; to the household of faith it 
overflows. Where the heart is large, however 
small the ability, a thousand ways of doing good 
will be invented. Christian charity is a great 
enlarger of means. Christian self-denial nega- 
tively accomplishes the purpose of the favourites 
of fortune in the fables of the nursery — if it can- 
not fill the purse by a wish, it will not empty it 
by a vanity. It provides for others by abridg- 
ing from itself. Having carefully defined what 
is necessary and becoming, it allows of no en- 
croachment on its definition. Superfluities it 
will lop, vanities it will cut off. The deviser 
of liberal things will find means of effecting 
them, which to the indolent appear incredible, 
to the covetous impossible. Christian bene- 
ficence takes a large sweep. That circumfer- 
ence cannot be small of which God is the centre. 
Nor does religious charity in a Christian stand 
still because not kept in motion by the main 
spring of the world. Money may fail, but benevo- 
lence will be going on. If he cannot relieve want, 
he may mitigate sorrow. He may warn the inex- 
perienced, he may instruct the ignorant, he may 
confirm the doubting. The Christian will find 
out the cheapest way of being good as well as of 
doing good. If ho cannot give money, he may 
exercise a more difficult virtue ; he may forgive 
injuries. Forgiveness is the economy of the 
heart. A Christian will find it cheaper to par- 
don than to resent. Forgiveness saves expense 
of anger, the cost of hatred, the waste of spirits. 
It also puts the soul into a frame, which makes 
the practice of other virtues easy. The achieve- 
ment of a hard duty is a great abolisher of diffi- 
culties. If great occasions do not arise, he will 
thankfully seize on small ones. If he cannot 
glorify God by serving others, he knows that 
he has always something to do at home ; some 
evil temper to correct, some wrong propensity 
to reform, some crooked practice to straighten. 
He will never be at a loss for employment, 
while there is a sin or misery in the world ; he 
will never be idle, while there is a distress to be 
relieved in another, or a corruption to be cured 
in his own heart. We have employment assign- 
ed to us for every circumstance in life. When 
we arc alone, we have our thoughts to watch : 
in the family, our tempers ; in company, our 
tongues. 

What an example of disinterested goodness 
and unbounded kindness have we in our 
heavenly Father, who is merciful over all his 
works ; who distributes common blessings with- 
out distinction ; who bestows the necessary re- 
freshments of life, the shining sun and the re- 
freshing shower, without waiting, as we are ap*. 
to do for personal merit, or attachment or gra- 
titude ; who does not look out for desert, but 
want as a qualification for his favours ; who 
does not afflict willingly, who delights in the 



happiness and desires the salvation of all his chil- 
dren; who dispenses his daily munificence and 
bears with our daily offences ; who in return for 
our violation of his laws, supplies our necessities . 
who waits patiently for our repentance, and even 
solicits us to have mercy on our own souls ? 

What a model for our humble imitation 19 
that Divine person who was clothed with our 
humanity ; who dwelt among us that the pattern 
being brought near might be rendered more 
engaging, the conformity be made more practi- 
cable ; whose whole life was one unbroken 
series of universal charity ; who in his com- 
plicated bounties never forgot that man is com- 
pounded both of soul and body ; who after teach- 
ing the multitude, fed them ; who repulsed none 
for being ignorant ; was impatient with none 
for being dull ; despised none for being contemn- 
ed by the world ; rejected none for being sin- 
ners ; who encouraged those whose importunity 
others censured ; who in healing sickness con- 
verted souls ; who gave bread and forgave in- 
juries ! 

It will be the endeavour of the sincere Chris- 
tian, to illustrate his devotions in the morning 
by his actions during the day. He will try to 
make his conduct a practical exposition of the 
divine prayer which made a part of them. He 
will desire to hallow the name of God, to pro- 
mote the enlargement and the ' coming' of the 
'kingdom' of Christ. He will endeavour to do 
and to suffer his whole will ; ' to forgive' as he 
himself trusts that he is forgiven. Ho will re- 
solve to avoid that ' temptation' into which he 
had been praying ' not to be led ;' and he will 
labour to shun the ' evil' from which he had been 
begging to be ' delivered.' He thus makes his 
prayers as practical as the other parts of his 
religion ; and labours to render his conduct as 
spiritual as his prayers. The commentary and 
the text are of reciprocal application. 

If this gracious Saviour has left us a perfect 
model for our devotion in his prayer, he has left 
a model no less perfect for our practice in his 
sermon. This Divine exposition has been some- 
times misunderstood. It was not so much a 
supplement to a defective law, at the restoration 
of the purity of a perfect law from the corrupt 
interpretations of its blind expounders. These 
persons had ceased to consider it as forbidding 
the principle of sin, and as only forbidding the act. 
Christ restores it to its original meaning, spreads 
it out on its due extent, shows the largeness of its 
dimensions and the spirit of its institution. He 
unfolds all its motions, tendencies and relations. 
Not contenting himself, as human legislators, 
are obliged to do, to prohibit a man the act 
which is injurious to others, but the inward 
temper which is prejudicial to himself. 

There cannot be a more striking instance, 
how emphatically every doctrine of the gospel 
has a reference to practical goodness, than is 
exhibited by 'St. Paul in that magnificent pic- 
ture of the resurrection, in his epistle to the 
Corinthians, which our church has happily 
selected, for the consolation of survivors at the 
Inst closing scene of mortality. After an inter- 
ference as triumphant as it is logical, that be- 
cause ' Christ is risen, we shall rise also ;' after 
the most philosophical illustration of the raioing 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



425 



of the body from the dust, by the process of 
grain sown in the earth, and by the springing 
up into a new mode of existence; after describ- 
ing the subjugation of all things to the Re- 
deemer, and his laying down the mediatorial 
kingdom ; after sketching with a seraph's pen- 
cil, the relative glories of the celestial and ter- 
restrial bodies ; after exhausting the grandest 
images of created nature, and the dissolution of 
nature itself; — after such a display of the 
solemnities of the great day, as makes this 
world, and all its concerns shrink into nothing: 
in such a moment, when, if ever, the rapt spirit 
might be supposed too highly wrought for pre- 
cept and admonition, the apostle, wound up as 
he was by the energies of inspiration, to the im- 
mediate view of the glorified state — the last 
trumpet sounding — the change from mortal to 
immortality effected in the twinkling of an eye 
— the sting of death drawn out — victory snatch- 
ed from the grave — then, by a turn as surprising 
as it is beautiful, he draws a conclusion as un- 
expectedly practical as his premises were grand 
and awful : ' Therefore, my beloved brethren, be 
ye steadfast, unmoveable ; always abounding in 
the work of the Lord.' Then at once, by an- 
other quick transition, resorting from the duty 
to the reward, and winding up the whole with 
an argument as powerful, as his rhetoric had 
been sublime, he adds — ' Forasmuch as ye know 
that vour labour is not in vain in the Lord.' 



CHAP. III. 

Mistakes in Religion 

To point out with precision all the mistakes 
which exist in the present day, on the awful 
subject of religion, would far exceed the limits 
of this small work. No mention therefore is 
intended to be made of the opinions or the prac- 
tice of any particular body of people ; nor will 
any notice be taken of any of the peculiarities 
of the numerous sects and parties which have 
risen up among us. It will be sufficient for the 
present purpose, to hazard some slight remarks 
on a few of those common classes of characters, 
which belong more or less to most general bodies. 

There are, among many others, three differ- 
ent sorts of religious professors. The religion 
of one consists in a sturdy defence of what they 
themselves call orthodoxy, an attendance on 
public worship, and a general decency of beha- 
viour. In their views of religion, they are not 
a little apprehensive of excess, not perceiving 
that their danger lies on the other side. They 
are far from rejecting faith or morals, but are 
somewhat afraid of believing too much, and a 
little scrupulous about doing too much, lest the 
former be suspected of fanaticism, and the latter 
of singularity. These Christians consider re- 
ligion as a point, which they, by their regular 
observances, having attained, there is nothing 
further required but to maintain the point they 
have reached, by a repetition of the same obser- 
vances. They are therefore satisfied to remain 
stationary, considering that whoever has obtain- 
ed his end, is of course saved the labour of pur- 



suit; he is to keep his ground without troubling 
himself in searching after imaginary perfection. 

These frugal Christians are afraid of nothing 
so much as superfluity in their love, and supere- 
rogation in their obedience. This kind of fear 
however is always superfluous, but most espe- 
cially in those who are troubled with the appre- 
hension. They are apt to weigh in the nicely 
poised scales of scrupulous exactness, the duties 
which must of hard necessity be done, and 
those which without much risk may be left 
undone ; compounding for a larger indulgence 
by the relinquishment of a smaller ; giving up, 
through fear, a trivial gratification to which they 
are less inclined, and snatching doubtingly, as 
an equivalent, at one they like better. The 
gratification in both cases being perhaps such 
as a manly mind would hardly think worth 
contending for, even were religion out of the 
question. Nothing»but love to God can conquer 
love of the world. One grain of that divine 
principle would make the scale of self-indul- 
gence kick the beam. 

These persons dread nothing so much as en- 
thusiasm. Yet if to look for effects without their 
predisposing causes; to depend for heaven on 
that to which heaven was never promised, be 
features of enthusiasm, then are they themselves 
enthusiasts. 

The religion of a second class, we have al- 
ready described in the two preceding chapters. 
It consists in a heart devoted to its Maker ; in- 
wardly changed in its temper and disposition, 
yet deeply sensible of its remaining infirmities ; 
continually aspiring however to higher improve- 
ments in faith, hope and charity, and thinking 
that ' the greatest of these is charity.' 1 These, 
by the former class, are reckoned enthusiasts, 
but they are in fact, if Christianity be true, 
acting on the only rational principles. If the 
doctrines of the gospel have any solidity, if its 
promises have any meaning, these Christians 
are building on no false ground. They hope 
that submission to the power of God, obedience 
to his laws, compliance with his will, trust in 
his word, are through the efficacy of the eternal 
Spirit, real evidences, because they are vital 
acts of genuine faith in Jesus Christ. If they 
profess not to place their reliance on works, 
they are however more zealous in performing 
them than the others, who professing to depend 
on their good deeds for salvation, are not always 
diligent in securing it by the very means which 
they themselves establish to be alone effectual. 

There is a third class — the high flown pro- 
fessor, who looks down from the giddy heights 
of antinomian delusion on the other two, abhors 
the one, and despises the other, concludes that 
the one is lost, and the other in a fair way to be 
so. Though perhaps not living himself in any 
course of immorality, which requires the sanc- 
tion of such doctrines, he does not hesitate to 
imply in his discourse, that virtue is heathenish, 
and good works superfluous if not dangerous. 
He does not consider that though t>e Gospe< is 
an act of oblivion to penitent sinners, yet it no 
where promises pardon to those who continue 
to live in a state of rebellion against God, and 
of disobedience to his laws. He forgets to in>- 
sist to others that it is of little importance even 



426 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



to believe that sin is an evil (which however 
they do not always believe) while they persist 
to live in it ; that to know every thing of duty 
except the doing it, is to offend God with an ag- 
gravation from which ignorance itself is exempt. 
It is not giving ourselves up to Christ in a name- 
less, inexplicable way, which will avail us. God 
loves an humble, not an audacious faith. To 
suppose that the blood of Christ redeems us from 
sin, while sin continues to pollute the soul, is to 
suppose an impossibility ; to maintain that it is 
effectual for the salvation, and not for the sanc- 
tification of the sinner, is to suppose that it acts 
like an amulet, an incantation, a^talisman, which 
is to produce its effect by operating on the ima- 
gination, and not on the disease. 

The religion which mixes with human pas- 
sions, and is set on fire by them, will make a 
stronger blaze than that light which is from 
above, which sheds a steady and lasting bright- 
ness on the path, and communicates a sober but 
desirable warmth to the heart. It is equable 
and constant; while the other, like culinary 
fire, fed by gross materials, is extinguished the 
sooner from the fierceness of the flame. 

That religion which is merely seated in the 
passions, is not only liable to wear itself out by 
its own impetuosity, but to be driven out by 
some other passion. The dominion of violent 
passions is short. They dispossess each other. 
When religion has had its day, it gives way to 
the next usurper. Its empire is no more solid 
than it is lasting, when principle and reason do 
not fix it on the throne. 

The first of the above classes consider pru- 
dence as the paramount virtue in religion. Their 
antipodes, the flaming professors, believe a burn- 
ing zeal to be the exclusive grace. They revere 
saint Paul's collocation of the three Christian 
graces, and think that the greatest of these is 
faith. Though even in respect of this grace, 
their conduct and conversation too often give us 
reason to lament that they do not bear in mind 
its genuine and distinctive properties. Their 
faith instead of working by love, seems to be 
adopted from a notion that it leaves the Chris- 
tian nothing to do, rather than because it is its 
nature to lead him to do more and better than 
other men. 

In this case, as in many others, that which is 
directly contrary to what is wrong, is wrong 
also. If each opponent would only barter half 
his favourite quality with the favourite quality 
of the other, both parties would approach nearer 
to the truth. They might even furnish a com- 
plete Christian between them, that is, provided 
the zeal of the one was sincere, and the prudence 
of the other honest. But the misfortune is, each 
is as proud of. not possessing the quality he 
wants, because his adversary has it, as he is 
proud of possessing that of which the other is 
destitute, and because he is destitute of it. 

Among the many mistakes in religion, it is 
commonly thought that there is something so 
unintelligible, absurd, and fanatical in the term 
conversion, that those who employ it, run no 
small hazard of being involved in the ridicule it 
excites. It is seldom used but ludicrously, or 
in contempt. This arises partly from the levity 
and ignorance of the censurer, but perhaps as 



much from the imprudence and enthusiasm of 
those, who have absurdly confined it to real or 
supposed instances of sudden or miraculous 
changes from profligacy to piety. But surely, 
with reasonable people, we run no risk in as- 
serting that he, who being awakened by any of 
those various methods which the Almighty uses 
to bring his creatures to the knowledge of him- 
self; who seeing the corruptions that are in the 
world, and feeling those with which his heart 
abounds, is brought, whether gradually or rapid- 
ly from an evil heart of unbelief, to a lively faith 
in the Redeemer ; from a life, not only of gross 
vice, but of worldliness and vanity, to a life of 
progressive piety ; whose humility keeps pace 
with his progress ; who, though his attainments 
are advancing, is so far from counting himself 
to have attained, that he presses onward with 
unabated zeal, and evinces, by the change in his 
conduct, the change that has taken place in his 
heart — such a one is surely as sincerely con- 
verted, and the effect is as much produced by 
the same divine energy, as if some instantaneous 
revolution in his character had given it a mira- 
culous appearance. The doctrines of Scripture 
are the same now as when David called them, 
' a law converting the soul, and giving light to 
the eyes.' This is perhaps the most accurate 
and comprehensive definition of the change for 
which we are contending, for it includes both 
the illumination of the understanding, and the 
alteration in the disposition. 

If then this obnoxious expression signify no- 
thing more nor less than that change of charac- 
ter which consists in turning from the world to 
God, however the term may offend, there is no- 
thing ridiculous in the thing. Now, as it is not 
for the term which we contend, but for the prin- 
ciple conveyed by it ; so it is the principle and 
not the term which is the real ground of objec- 
tion ; though it is a little inconsistent that many 
who would sneer at the idea of conversion, would 
yet take it extremely ill if it were suspected that 
their hearts were not turned to God. 

Reformation, a term against which rJo objec- 
tion is ever made, would, if words continued to 
retain their primitive signification, convey the 
same idea. For it is plain that to reform means 
to make anew. In the present use, however, it 
does not convey the same meaning in the same 
extent, nor indeed does it imply the operation 
of the same principle. Many are reformed on 
human motives, many are partially reformed ; 
but only those who, as our great poet says, are 
1 reformed altogether,' are converted. There is 
no complete reformation in the conduct effected 
without a revolution in the heart. Ceasing from 
some sins ; retaining others in a less degree ; or 
adopting such as are merely creditable ; or fly- 
ing from one sin to another ; or ceasing from 
the external act without any internal change of 
disposition, is not Christian reformation. The 
new principle must abolish the old habit; the 
rooted inclination must be subdued by the sub- 
stitution of an opposite one. The natural biaB 
must be changed. The actual offence will no 
more be pardoned than cured, if the inward cor- 
ruption be not eradicated. To be ' alive unto 
God through Jesus Christ' must follow 'the 
death unto sin.' There cannot be new aims and 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



427 



ends where there is not a new principle to pro- 
duce them. We shall not choose a new path 
until a light from heaven direct our choice and 
* guide our feet.' We shall not ' run the way of 
God's commandments,' till God himself enlarge 
our heart. 

We do not, however, insist that the change 
required is such as precludes the possibility of 
falling into sin ; but it is a change which fixes 
in the soul such a disposition as shall make sin 
a burden, as shall make the desire of pleasing 
God the governing desire of a man's heart ; as 
shall make him hate the evil which he does ; as 
shall make the lowncss of his attainments the 
subject of his deepest sorrow. A Christian has 
hopes and fears, cares and temptations, inclina- 
tions and desires, as well as other men. God in 
changing the heart does not extinguish the pas- 
sions. Were that the case the Christian life 
would ceas'e to be a warfare. 

We are often deceived by that partial improve- 
ment which appears in the victory over some 
one bad quality. But we must not mistake the 
removal of a symptom for a radical cure of the 
disease. An occasional remedy might remove 
an accidental sickness, but it requires a general 
regimen to renovate the diseased constitution. 

It is the natural but melancholy history of the 
unchanged heart, that from youth to advanced 
years, there is no other revolution in the cha- 
racter but such as increase both the number and 
quality of its defects : that the levity, vanity, 
and self-sufficiency of the young man is carried 
into advanced life, and only meet, and mix with 
the defects of a mature period : that, instead of 
crying out with the rpyal prophet, ' O remember 
net my old sins,' he is inflaming his reckoning 
by new ones : that age, protracting all the faults 
of youth, furnishes its own contingent of vices : 
that sloth, suspicion, and covetousness, swell 
the account which religion has not been called 
in to cancel : that the world, though it has lost 
the power to delight, has yet lost nothing of its 
power to enslave. Instead of improving in can- 
dour by the inward sense of its own defects, that 
very consciousness makes him less tolerant of 
the defects of others, and more suspicious of 
their apparent virtues. His charity in a warmer 
season having failed to bring him in that return 
of gratitude for which it was partly performed, 
and having never flowed from the genuine spring, 
is dried up. His friendships having been form- 
ed on worldly principles, or interest, or ambi- 
tion, or convivial hilarity, fail him. One must 
make some sacrifices to the world, is the pre- 
vailing language of the nominal Christian. 
4 What will the world pay you for your sacri- 
fices ?' replies the real Christian. Though he 
finds that the world is insolvent, that it pays no- 
thing of what is promised, for it cannot bestow 
what it does not possess — happiness : yet he 
continues to cling to it almost as confidently as 
if it had never disappointed him. Were we 
called upon to name the object under the sun 
which excites the deepest commiseration in the 
heart of Christian sensibility, which includes in 
itself the most affecting eongruities, which con- 
tains the sum and substance of real human mi- 
sery, we should not hesitate to say an irreligi- 
ous old, age. The mere debility of declining 



years, even the hopelessness of decrepitude, in 
the pious, though they excite sympathy, yet it 
is the sympathy of tenderness unmixed with 
distress. We take and give comfort, from the 
cheering persuasion that the exhausted body 
will soon cease to clog its immortal companion ; 
that the dim and failing eyes will soon open on 
a world of glory. Dare we paint the reverse of 
the picture ? Dare we suffer the imagination 
to dwell on the opening prospects of hoary im- 
piety ? Dare we figure to ourselves that the 
weakness, the miseries, the terrors, we are now 
commiserating, are ease, are peace, are happi- 
ness compared with the unutterable perspec- 
tive? 

There is a fatal way of lulling the conscience 
by entertaining diminishing thoughts of sins 
long since committed. We persuade ourselves 
to forget them, and we therefore persuade our- 
selves that they are not remembered by God. 
But though distance diminishes objects to the 
eye of the beholder, it does not actually lessen 
them. Their real magnitude remains the same. 
Deliver us, merciful God ! from the delusion of 
believing that secret sins, of which the world 
has no cognizance, early sins, which the world 
has forgotten, but which are known to ' Him 
with whom we have to do,' become by secrecy 
and distance as if they had never been. ' Are 
not these things noted in thy book ?' Perhaps 
if we remember them, God may forget them, 
especially if our remembrance be such as to in- 
duce a sound repentance. If we remember 
them not, He assuredly will. The holy contri- 
tion which should accompany this remembrance, 
while it will not abate our humble trust in our 
compassionate Redeemer, will keep our con- 
science tender, and our heart watchful. 

We do not deny that there is frequently much 
kindness and urbanity, much benevolence and 
generosity, in men who do not even pretend to 
be religious. These qualities often flow from 
constitutional feeling, natural softness of temper, 
and warm affections : often from an elegant edu- 
cation, that best human sweetener, and polisher 
of social life. We feel a tender regret as we 
exclaim ' what a fine soil would such dispositions 
afford to plant religion in V Well bred persons 
are accustomed to respect all the decorums of 
society, to connect inseparably the ideas of per- 
sonal comfort with public esteem, of generosity 
with credit, of order with respectability. They 
have a keen sense of dishonour, and are careful 
to avoid every thing that may bring the shadow 
of discredit on their name. Public opinion is 
the breath by which they live, the standard by 
which they act; of course they would not lower 
by gross misconduct, that standard on which 
their happiness depends. They have been taught 
to respect themselves ; this they can do with 
more security while they can retain, on this 
half-way principle the respect of others. 

In some who make further advances towards 
religion, we continue to see it in that same low 
degree which we have always observed. It is 
dwarfish and stunted, it makes no shoots. 
Though it gives some signs of life, it does not 
jrro.v. By a tame and spiritless round, or rather 
by this fixed and immoveable position, we rob 
ourselves of that fair reward of peace and joy 



428 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



which attends on an humble consciousness of 
progress : on the feeling of difficulties conquered; 
on a sense of the divine favour. That religion 
which is profitable, is commonly perceptible. 
Nothing supports a traveller in his Christian 
course like the conviction that he is getting on ; 
like looking back on the country he has passed ; 
and, above all, like the sense of that protection 
which has hitherto carried him on, and of that 
grace which has promised to support him to the 
end. 

The proper motion of the renewed heart is 
Btill directed upward. True religion is of an 
aspiring nature, continually tending towards 
that heaven from whence it was transplanted. 
Its top is high because its root is deep. It is 
watered by a perennial fountain ; in its most 
flourishing state it is always capable of further 
growth. Real goodness proves itself to be such 
by a continual desire to be better. No virtue 
on earth is ever in a complete state. Whatever 
stage of religion any man has attained, if he be 
satisfied to rest in that stage, we would not call 
that man religious. The Gospel seems to con- 
sider the highest degree of goodness as the low- 
est with which a Christian ought to sit down 
satisfied. We cannot be said to be finished in 
any Christian grace, because there is not one 
which may not be carried further than we have 
carried it. This promotes the double purpose 
of keeping us humble as to our present stage, 
and of stimulating us to something higher which 
we may hope to attain. 

That superficial thing, which by mere people 
of the world is dignified by the appellation of 
religion, though it brings just that degree of 
credit which makes part of the system of world- 
ly Christians; neither brings comfort for this 
world, nor security for the next. Outward ob- 
servances, indispensable as they are, are not re- 
ligion. They are the accessory, but not the 
principal ; they are important aids and adjuncts, 
but not the thing itself; they are its aliment 
but not its life, the fuel but not the flame, the 
scaffolding but not the edifice. Religion can no 
more subsist merely by them. They are di- 
vinely appointed, and must be conscientiously 
observed ; but observed as a means to promote 
an end, and not as an end in themselves. 

The heartless homage of formal worship, 
where the living power does not give life to the 
form, the cold compliment of ceremonial attend- 
ance, without the animating principle, as it will 
not bring peace to our own mind, so neither will 
it satisfy a jealous God. That God whose eye 
is on the heart, ' who trieth the reins and search- 
eth the spirits,' will not be satisfied that we make 
him little more than a nominal deity, while the 
world is the real object of our worship. Such 
persons seem to have almost the whole body of 
performance ; all they want is the soul. They 
are constant in their devotions, but the heart, 
which even the heathens esteemed the best part 
of the sacrifice, they keep away. They read 
the Scriptures, but rest in the letter, instead of 
trying themselves by its spirit. — They consider 
it as an enjoined task, but not as the quick and 
powerful instrument put into their hands for the 
critical dissection of 'piercing and dividing 
asunder the soul and spirit ;' not as the pene- 



trating ' discerner of the thoughts and intents 
of the heart.' These well-intentioned persons 
seem to spend no inconsiderable portion of time 
in religious exercises, and vet complain that 
they make little progress. They almost seem 
to insinuate as if the Almighty did not keep his 
word with them, and manifest that religion to 
them is not ' pleasantness," nor her ' paths peace.' 
Of such may we not ask, would you not do 
better to examine than to complain ? to inquire 
whether you do, indeed, possess a heart which 
notwithstanding its imperfections, is sincerely 
devoted to God ? He who does not desire to be 
perfect, is not sincere. Would you not do well 
to convince yourselves that God is not unfaithful? 
that his promises do not fail ? that his goodness 
is not slackened ? May you not be entertaining 
some secret infidelity, practising some latent 
disobedience, withholding some part of your 
heart, neglecting to exercise that faith, subtract- 
ing something from that devotedness, to which 
a Christian should engage himself, and to which 
the promises of God are annexed ? Do you in- 
dulge no propensities contrary to his will ? Do 
you never resist the dictates of his Spirit ? never 
shut your eyes to its illumination, nor your 
heart to its influences ? Do )-ou not indulge 
some cherished sin which obscures the light of 
grace, some practice which obstructs the growth 
of virtue, some distrust which chills the warmth 
of love ? The discovery will repay the search, 
and if you succeed in this scrutiny, let not the 
detection discourage but stimulate. 

If, then, you resolve to take up religion in 
earnest, especially if you have actually adopted 
its customary forms, rest not in such low attain- 
ment as will afford neither present peace nor 
future happiness. To know Christianity only 
in its external forms, and its internal dissatis- 
faction, its superficial appearances without, and 
its disquieting apprehensions within ; to be de- 
sirous of standing well with the world as a 
Christian, yet to be unsupported by a well- 
founded Christian hope ; to depend for happi- 
ness on the opinion of men, instead of the favour 
of God ; to go on dragging through the mere 
exercises of piety, without deriving from them 
real strength or solid peace ; to live in the dread 
of being called an enthusiast, by outwardly ex- 
ceeding in religion, and in secret consciousness 
of falling short of it ; to be conformed to the 
world's view of Christianity, rather than to as- 
pire to be transformed by the renewing of your 
mind, is a state, not of pleasure but of penalty, 
not of conquest but of hopeless conflict, not of 
ingenuous love but of tormenting fear. It is 
knowing religion only as the captive in a foreign 
land knows the country in which he is a pri- 
soner. He hears from the cheerful natives of 
its beauties, but is himself ignorant of every 
thing beyond his own gloomy limits. He hears 
of others as free and happy, yet feels nothing 
himself but the rigours of incarceration. 

The Christian character is little understood 
by the votaries of the world ; if it were, they 
would be struck with its grandeur. It is the 
very reverse of that meanness and pusillanimity, 
that abject spirit and those narrow views, which 
those who know it not ascribe to it. 

A Christian lives at the height of his being ; 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



429 



not only at the top of his spiritual, but of his 
intellectual life. He alone lives in the full ex- 
ercise of his rational powers. Religion ennobles 
his reason while it enlarges it. 

Let then your soul act up to its high destina- 
tion ; let not that which was made to soar to 
heaven, grovel in the dust. Let it not live so 
much below itself. You wonder it is not more 
fixed, when it is perpetually resting on things 
which are not fixed themselves. In the rest of 
a Christian there is stability, Nothing can 
shake his confidence but sin. Outward attack 
and troubles rather fix than unsettle him, as 
tempests from without only serve to root the oak 
faster, while an inward canker will gradually rot 
and decay it. 

These are only a few of the mistakes among 
the multitude which might have been pointed 
out; but these are noticed as being of common 
and every day occurrence. The ineffectiveness 
of such a religion will be obvious. 

That religion which sinks Christianity into a 
mere conformity to religious usages, must al- 
ways fail of substantial effects. If sin be seated 
in the heart, if that be its home, that is the place 
in which it must be combatted. It is in vain to 
attack it in the suburbs, when it is lodged in 
the centre. Mere forms can never expel that 
enemy which they can never reach. By a re- 
ligion of decencies, our corruptions may perhaps 
be driven out of sight, but they will never 
be driven out of possession. If they are expelled 
from their outworks, they will retreat to their 
citadel. If they do not appear in grosser forms, 
prohibited by the decalogue, still they will exist. 
The shape may be altered, but the principle will 
remain. They will exist in the spiritual modi- 
fication of the same sins, equally forbidden by 
the divine expositor. He who dares not be re- 
vengeful, will be unforgiving. He who ventures 
not to break the letter of the seventh command- 
ment in act, will violate it in the spirit. He who 
has not courage to forfeit heaven by profligacy, 
will scale it by pride, or forfeit it by unprofita- 
bleness. 

It is not any vain hope, built on some external 
privilege or performance on the one hand, nor a 
presumptuous confidence that our names are 
written in the book of life, on the other, which 
can afford a reasonable ground of safety, but it 
is endeavouring to keep all the commandments 
of God ; it is living to him who died for us ; it 
is being conformed to his image, as well as re- 
deemed by his blood. This is Christian virtue ; 
this is the holiness of a believer. A lower mo- 
tive will produce a lower morality, but such an 
unsanctified morality God will not accept. 

For it will little avail us that Christ has died 
for us, that he has conquered sin, triumphed 
over the powers of darkness, and overcome the 
world, while any sin retains its unresisted do- 
minion in our hearts, while the world is our 
idol, while our fostered corruptions cause us to 
prefer darkness to light. We must not persuade 
ourselves that we are reconciled to God while 
our rebellious hearts are not reconciled to good- 
ness. 

It is not casting a set of opinions intoa mould, 
and a set of duties into a system, which consti- 
tutes the Christian religion. The circumfer- 



ence must have a centre, the body must have a 
soul, the performances must have a principle. 
Outward observances were wisely constituted 
to rouse our forgetfulness, to awaken our secu- 
lar spirits, to call back our negligent hearts ; 
but it was never intended that we should stop 
short in the use of them. They were designed 
to excite holy thoughts, to quicken us to holy 
deeds, but not to be used as equivalents for either. 
But we find it cheaper to serve God in a multi- 
tude of exterior acts, than to starve on interior 
corruption. 

Nothing short of that uniform stable principle, 
that fixedness in religion which directs a man 
in all his actions, aims, and pursuits, to God as 
his ultimate end, can give consistency to his 
conduct or tranquillity to his soul. This slate 
once attained, he will not waste all his thoughts 
and designs upon the world ; he will not lavish 
all his affections on so poor a thing as his own 
advancement. He will desire to devote all to the 
only object worthy of them, to God. Our Sa- 
viour has taken care to provide that our ideas 
of glorifying him may not run out into fanci- 
ful chimeras or subtle inventions, by simply 
stating — ' herein is my father glorified, that 
ye bear much fruit.' This, he goes on to in- 
form us, is the true evidence of our being of the 
number of his people, by adding — ' so shall ye 
be my disciples.' 



CHAP. IV. 

Periodical Religion. 

We deceive ourselves not a little when we 
fancy that what is emphatically called the world, 
is only to be found in this or that situation. The 
world is every where. It is a nature as well as 
a place ; a principle as well as a ' local habitation 
and a name.' Though the principle and the na- 
ture flourish most in those haunts which are 
their congenial soil, yet we are too ready, when 
we withdraw from the world abroad, to bring it 
home, to lodge it in our own bosom. The natu- 
ral heart is both its temple and its worshipper. 

But the most devoted idolater of the world, 
with all the capacity and industry which he may 
have applied to the subject, has never yet been 
able to accomplish the grand design of uniting 
the interests of heaven and earth. This ex- 
periment, which has been more assiduously and 
more frequently tried than that of the philoso- 
pher for the grand hermetic secret, has been 
tried with about the same degree of success. 
The most laborious process of the spiritual 
chemist to reconcile religion with the world, 
has never yet been competent to make the con- 
tending principles coalesce. 

But to drop metaphor. — Religion was never 
yet thoroughly relinquished by a heart full of 
the world. The world in return cannot be com- 
pletely enjoyed where there is just religion 
enough to disturb its false peace. In such 
minds heaven and earth ruin each other's en- 
joyments. 

There is a religion which is too sincere for 
hypocrisy, but too transient to be profitable ; too 



430 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



superficial to reach the heart, too unproductive 
to proceed from it. It is slight, but not false. 
It has discernment enough to distinguish sin, 
but not firmness enough to oppose it ; compunc- 
tion sufficient to soften the heart, but not vigour 
sufficient to reform it. It laments when it does 
wrong, and performs all the functions of re- 
pentance of sin except forsaking it It has 
every thing of devotion except the stability, and 
gives every thing to religion except the heart. 
This is a religion of times, events, and circum- 
stances ; it is brought into play by accidents, 
and dwindles away with the occasion which 
called it out. Festivals and fasts which occur 
but seldom, are much observed, and it is to be 
feared because they occur but seldom ; while the 
great festival which comes every week, comes 
too often to be so respectfully treated. The 
piety of these people comes out much in sick- 
ness, but is apt to retreat again as recovery ap- 
proaches. If they die, they are placed by their 
admirers in the Saints' calender ; if they re- 
cover, they go back into the world they had re- 
nounced, and again suspend their amendment 
as often as Death suspends his blow. 

There is another class whose views are still 
lower, who cannot so far shake off religion as to 
be easy without retaining its brief and stated 
forms, and who contrive to mix up these forms 
with a faith of a piece with their practice. 
They blend their inconsistent works with a 
vague and unwarranted reliance on what the 
Saviour has done for them, and thus patch up 
a merit, and a propitiatiou of their own — run- 
ning the hazard of incurring the danger of 
punishment by their lives, and inventing a 
scheme to avert it by their creed. Religion 
never interferes with their pleasures except by 
the compliment of a short and occasional sus- 
pension. Having got through these periodical 
acts of devotion, they return to the same scenes 
of vanity and idleness which they had quitted 
for the temporary duty : forgetting that it was 
the very end of those acts of devotion to cure the 
vanity and to correct the idleness. Had the 
periodical observance answered its true design, 
it would have disinclined them to the pleasure 
instead of giving them a disposition for its in- 
dulgence. Had they used the devout exercise 
in a right spirit, and improved it to the true end, 
it would have set the heart and life at work on 
all those pursuits which it was calculated to 
promote. But their project has more ingenuity. 
By the stated minutes they give to religion, 
they cheaply purchase a protection for the mis- 
employment of the rest of their time. They 
make these periodical devotions a kind of spiri- 
tual insurance office, which is to make up to the 
adventurers in pleasure, any loss or damage 
which they may sustain in its voyage. 

It is of these shallow devotions, these pre- 
sumed equivalents for a new heart and a new 
life, that God declares by the prophet, that he is 
weary.' Though of his own express appoint- 
ment, they become ' an abomination' to him as 
soon as the sign comes to be rested in for the 
thing signified. We Christians have our 'new 
moons and our sacrifices' under other names 
and other shapes ; of which sacrifices, that is, 
of the spirit in which they are offered, the Al- 



mighty has said, ' I cannot away with them, 
they are iniquity.' 

Now is this superficial devotion that ' giving 
up ourselves not with our lips only, but with 
our lives,' to our Maker, to which we solemnly 
pledge ourselves, at least once a week ? Is con 
secrating an hour or two to public worship on 
the Sunday morning, making the Sabbatli ' a 
delight?' Is desecrating the rest of the day, by 
' doing our own ways, finding our own pleasure, 
speaking our own words,' making it ' honour- 
able V 

Sometimes in an awakening sermon, these 
periodical religionists hear, with awe and terror, 
of the hour of death and the day of judgment. 
Their hearts are penetrated with the solemn 
sounds. They confess the awful realities by 
the impression they make on their own feelings. 
The sermon ends, and with it the serious re- 
flections it excited. While they listen to these 
things especially if the preacher be alarming, 
they are all in all to them. They return to the 
world — and these things are as if they were 
not; as if they had never been ; as if their re- 
ality lasted only while they were preached ; as 
if their existence depended only on their being 
heard ; as if truth were no longer truth than 
while it solicited their notice ; as if there were 
as little stability in religion itself as in their at- 
tention to it. As soon as their minds are dis- 
engaged from the question, one would think 
that death and judgment were an invention, 
that heaven and hell were blotted from existence, 
that eternity ceased to be eternity, in the long 
intervals in which they cease to be the object 
of their consideration. 

This is the natural effect of what we venture 
to denominate periodical religion. It is a tran- 
sient homage kept totally distinct and separate 
from the rest of our lives, instead of its being 
made the prelude and the principle of a course 
of pious practice ; instead of our weaving our 
devotions and our actions into one uniform tissue 
by doing all in one spirit and to one end. When 
worshippers of this description pray for ' a clean 
heart and a right spirit ;' when they beg of God 
to ' turn away their eyes from beholding vanity,' 
is it not to be feared that they pray to be made 
what they resolve never to become, that they 
would be very unwilling to become as good, as 
they pray to be made, and would be sorry to be 
as penitent as they profess to desire ? But alas ! 
they are in little danger of being taken at their 
word ; there is too much reason to fear their pe- 
titions will not be heard or answered, for prayer 
for the pardon of sin will obtain no pardon, 
while we retain the sin in hope that the prayer 
will be accepted without the renunciation. 

The most solemn office of our Religion, the sa- 
cred memorial of the death of its Author, the 
blessed injunction and tender testimony of his 
dying love, the consolation of the humble be- 
liever, the gracious appoinment for strengthen- 
ing his faith, quickening his repentance, awaken- 
ing his gratitude and kindling his charity, is too 
o r ten resorted to on the same erroneous princi- 
ple. He who ventures to live without the use 
of this holy institution, lives in a state of dis- 
obedience to the last appointment of his Re- 
deemer. He who rests in it as a means for sup- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



431 



piying the place of habitual piety, totally mis- 
takes its design, and is fatally deceiving his own 
soul. 

This awful solemnity is, it is to be hoped, 
rarely frequented even by this class of Chris- 
tians without a desire of approaching it with the 
pious feelings above described. But if they 
carry them to the altar, are they equally anxious 
to carry them away from it ; are they anxious 
to maintain them after it? Does the rite so 
seriously approached commonly leave any ves- 
tige of seriousness behind it? Are they careful 
to perpetuate the feelings they were so desirous 
to excite ? Do they strive to make them pro- 
duce solid and substantial effects ? Would that 
this inconstancy of mind were to be found only 
in the class of characters under consideration ! 
Let the reader, however sincere in his desires, 
let the writer, however ready to lament the 
levity of others, seriously ask their own hearts 
if they can entirely acquit themselves of the in- 
consistency they are so forward to blame. If 
they do not find the charge brought against 
others but too applicable to themselves. 

Irreverence antecedent to, or during this 
sacred solemnity, is far more rare than durable 
improvement after it. If there are, as we are 
willing to believe, none so profane as to violate 
the act, except those who impiously use it only 
as ' a pick-lock to a place," there are too few who 
make it lastingly beneficial. Few so thought- 
less as not to approach it with resolution of 
amendment ; few comparatively who carry those 
resolutions into effect. Fear operates in the 
previous instance. Why should not love ope- 
rate in that which is subsequent? 

A periodical religion is accompanied with a 
periodical repentance. This species of repen- 
tance is adopted with ao small mental reserva- 
tion. It is partial and disconnected. These 
fragments of contrition, these broken parcels of 
penitence — while a succession of worldly pur- 
suits is not only resorted to, but is intended to 
be resorted to, during the whole of the interven- 
ing spaces, is not that sorrow which the Al- 
mighty hath promised to accept. To render it 
pleasing to God and efficacious to ourselves, 
there must be an agreement in the parts, an 
entireness in the whole web of life. There 
must be an integral repentance. A quarterly 
contrition in the four weeks preceding the sa- 
cred seasons will not wipe out the daily offences, 
the hourly negligences of the whole sinful year. 
Sins half forsaken through fear, and half retain- 
ed through partially resisted temptation and 
partially adopted resolution, make up but an un- 
profitable piety. 

In the bosom of these professors there is a per- 
petual conflict between fear and inclination. 
In conversation you will generally find them 
very warm in the cause of religion ; but it is re- 
religion as opposed to infidelify, not as opposed 
to worldly-mindedness. They defend the worship 
of God, but desire to be excused from his service. 
Their heart is the slave of the world, but their 
blindness hides from them the turpitude of that 
world. They commend piety but dread its requi- 
sitions. They allow that repentance is necessary, 
hut then how easy is it to find reasons for defer- 
ring a necessary evil ? Who will hastily adopt a 



painful measure which he can find a creditable 
pretence for evading ? They censure whatever is 
ostensibly wrong, but avoiding only part of it, 
the part they retain robs them of the benefits 
of their partial renunciation. 

We cannot sufficiently admire the wisdom of 
the church, in enjoining extraordinary acts of 
devotion at the return of those festivals so hap- 
pily calculated to excite devotional feelings. 
Extraordinary repentance of sin is peculiarly 
suitable to the seasons that record those grand 
events which sin occasioned. But the church 
never intended that these more stated and strict 
self-examinations should preclude our habitual 
self-inspection. It never intended its holy of- 
fices to supply the place of general holiness, but 
to promote it. It intended that these solemn 
occasions should animate the flame of piety, but 
it never meant to furnish a reason for neglect- 
ing to keep the flame alive till the next return 
should again kindle the dying embers. It 
meant that every such season should gladden 
the heart of the Christian at its approach, and 
not discharge him from duty at its departure. 
It meant to lighten his conscience of the burden 
of sin, not to encourage him to begin a new score, 
again to be wiped off at the succeeding festival. 
It intended to quicken the vigilance of the be- 
liever and not to dismiss the sentinel from his 
post. If we are not the better for these divinely 
appointed helps, we are the worse If we use 
them as a discharge from that diligence which 
they were intended to promote, we convert 
our blessings into snares. 

This abuse of our advantages arises from our 
not incorporating our devotions into the general 
habit of our lives. Till our religion become an 
inward principle, and not an external act, we 
shall not receive that benefit from her forms, 
however excellent, which they are calculated to 
convey. It is to those who possess the spirit of 
Christianity that her forms are so valuable. 
To them, the form excites the spirit, as the 
spirit animates the form. Till religion become 
the desire of our hearts, it will not become the 
business of our lives. We are far from mean- 
ing that it is to be its actual occupation ; but 
that every portion, every habit, every act of life 
is to be animated by its spirit, influenced by its 
principle, governed by its power. 

The very mark of our nature and our neces- 
sary commerce with the world, naturally fill 
our hearts and minds with thoughts and ideas, 
over which we have unhappily too little control. 
We find this to be the case when in our better 
hours we attempt to give ourselves up to serious 
reflection. How many intrusions of worldly 
thoughts, how many impertinent imaginations, 
not only irrelevant, but uncalled and unwel- 
come, crowd in upon the mind so forcibly as 
scarcely to be repelled by our sincerest efforts. 
How impotent then to repel such images must 
that mind be, which is devoted to worldly pur- 
suits, which yields itself up to them, whose 
opinions, habits, and conduct are under their 
allowed influence ! 

If, as we have before observed, religion con- 
sists in a new heart and a new spirit, it will be- 
come not our occasional act, but our abiding 
disposition, proving its settled existence in the 



432 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



mind by its habitually disposing our thoughts 
and actions, our devotions and our practice to a 
conformity to each other and to itself. 

Let us not consider a spirit of worldliness as 
a little infirmity, as a natural, and therefore a 
pardonable weakness ; as a trifling error which 
will be overlooked for the sake of our many good 
qualities. It is in fact the essence of our other 
faults ; the temper that stands between us and 
our salvation ; the spirit which is in direct op- 
position to the Spirit of God. Individual sins 
may more easily be cured, but this is the prin- 
ciple of all spiritual disease. A worldly spirit 
where it is rooted and cherished, runs through 
the whole character, insinuates itself in all we 
say and think and do. It is this which makes 
us so dead in religion, so averse from spiritual 
things, so forgetful of God, so unmindful of eter- 
nity, so satisfied with ourselves, so impatient of 
serious discourse, and so alive to that vain and 
frivolous intercourse, which excludes intellect 
almost as much as piety from our general con- 
versation. 

It is not therefore our more considerable ac- 
tions alone which require watching, for they 
seldom occur. They do not form the habit of 
life in ourselves, nor the chief importance of our 
example to others. It is to our ordinary beha- 
viour ; it is to our deportment in common life ; 
it is to our prevailing turn of mind in general 
intercourse, by which we shall profit or corrupt 
those with whom we associate. It is our con- 
duct in social life which will help to diffuse a 
spirit of piety, or a distaste to it. If we have 
much influence, this is the placo in which par- 
ticularly to exert it. If we have little we have 
still enough to infect the temper and lower the 
tone of our narrow society. 

If we really believe that it is the design of 
Christianity to raise us to a participation of the 
divine nature, the slightest reflection on this 
elevation of our character would lead us to main- 
tain its dignity in the ordinary intercourse of 
life. We should not so much inquire whether 
we are transgressing any actual prohibition; 
whether any standing law is pointed against us ; 
as whether we are supporting the dignity of the 
Christian character ; whether we are acting 
suitably to our profession ; whether more exact- 
ness in the common occurrences of the day, 
more correctness in our conversation, would not 
be such evidences of our religion, as by being 
obvious and intelligible, mi<rht not almost insen- 
sibly produce important effects. 

The most insignificant people must not through 
indolence and selfishness undervalue their own 
influence. Most persons have a little circle of 
which they are a sort of centre. Its smallness 
may lessen their quantity of good, but does not 
diminish the duty of using that little influence 
wisely. Where is the human being so inconsi- 
derable but that he may in some shape benefit 
others, either by calling their virtues into ex- 
ercise, or by setting them an example of virtue 
himself? But we are humble just in the wrong 
place. When the exhibition of our talents or 
splendid qualities is in question, we are not back- 
ward in the display. When a little self-denial 
is to be exercised, when a little good might be 
effected by our example, by our discreet ma- 



nagement in company, by giving a better turn 
to conversation, then at once we grow wickedly 
modest — 'Such an insignificant creature as I 
am can do no good.' — ' Had I higher rank or 
brighter talents, then indeed my influence might 
be exerted to some purpose.' — Thus under the 
mask of diffidence, we justify our indolence ; 
and let slip those lesser occasions of promoting 
religion which if we all improved, how much 
might the condition of society be raised. 

The hackneyed interrogation, ' What — must 
we be always talking about religion ?' must 
have the hackneyed answer — Far from it. Talk- 
ing about religion is not being religious. But 
we may bring the spirit of religion into compa- 
ny, and keep it in perpetual operation when we 
do not professedly make it our subject. We 
may be constantly advancing its interests, we 
may without effort or affectation be giving an 
example of candour, of moderation, of humility, 
of forbearance. We may employ our influence 
by correcting falsehood, by checking levity, by 
discouraging calumny, by vindicating misre- 
presented meiit, by countenancing every thing 
which has a good tendency — in short, by throw- 
ing our whole weight, be it great or small, into 
the right scale. 



CHAP. V. 

Prayer. 

Prayer is the application of want to him who 
only can relieve it ; the voice of sin to him who 
alone can pardon it. It is the urgency of po- 
verty, the prostration of humility, the fervency 
of penitence, the confidence of trust. It is not 
eloquence, but earnestnf^s : not the definition 
of helplessness, but the Reeling of it ; not figures 
of speech, but compunction of soul. It is the 
1 Lord save us or we perish' of drowning Peter 
the cry of faith to the ear of mercy. 

Adoration is the noblest employment of cre- 
ated beings; confession the natural language 
of guilty creatures ; gratitude the spontaneous 
expression of pardoned sinners. 

Prayer is desire. It is not a conception of 
the mind nor a mere effort of the intellect, nor 
an act of the memory ; but an elevation of the 
soul towards its Maker 1 ; a pressing sense of 
our own ignorance and infirmity, a conscious- 
ness of the perfections of God, of his readiness 
to hear, of his power to help, of his willingness 
to save. 

It is not an emotion produced in the senses ; 
nor an effect wrought by the imagination ; but 
a determination of the will, an effusion of the 
heart. 

Prayer is the guide to self-knowledge by 
prompting us to look after our sins in order to 
pray against them ; a motive to vigilance, by 
teaching us to guard against those sins which, 
through self-examination, we have been enabled 
to detect. 

Prayer is an act both of the understanding 
and of the heart. The understanding must ap- 
ply itself to the knowledge of the divine perfec- 
tions, or the heart will not be led to the adora- 
tion of them. It would not be a reasonable 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



433 



service if the' mind was excluded. It must be 
rational worship, or the human worshipper would 
not bring to the service the distinguished faculty 
of his nature, which is reason. It must be spi- 
ritual worship ; or it would want the distinctive 
quality to make it acceptable to Him, who has 
declared that He will be worshipped ' in spirit 
and in truth.' 

Prayer is right in itself as the most powerful 
means of resisting sin and advancing in holi- 
ness. It is above all right, as every thing is, 
which has the authority of Scripture, the com- 
mand of God, and the example of Christ. 

There is a perfect consistency in all the or- 
dinations of God ; a perfect congruity in the 
whole scheme of his dispensations. If man 
were not a corrupt creature, such prayer as the 
gospel enjoins would not have been necessary. 
Had not prayer been an important means for 
curing those corruptions, a God of perfect wis- 
dom would not have ordered it. He would not 
have prohibited every thing which tends to in- 
flame and promote them, had they not existed, 
nor would he have commanded every thing that 
has a tendency to diminish and remove them, 
had not their existence been fatal. Prayer, 
therefore, is an indispensable part of his econo- 
my and of our obedience. 

It is a hackneyed objection to the use of pray- 
er that it is offending the omniscience of God to 
suppose he requires information of our wants. 
But no objection can be more futile. We do 
not pray to inform God of our wants, but to ex- 
press our sense of the wants which he already 
knows. As he has not so much made his pro- 
mise to our necessities, as to our requests, it is 
reasonable that our requests should be made be- 
fore we can hope that our necessities will be re- 
lieved. God does not promise to those who want 
that they shall 'have,' but to those who 'ask ;' 
nor to those who need that they shall ' find,' but 
to those who ' seek.' So far therefore from his 
previous knowledge of our wants being a ground 
of objection to prayer, it is in fact the true ground 
for our application. Were he not knowledge it- 
self, our information would be of as little use as 
our application would be, were he not goodness 
itself. 

We cannot attain to a just notion of prayer 
while we remain ignorant of our own nature, 
of the nature of God as revealed in Scripture, of 
our relation to him and dependence on him. If 
therefore we do not live in the daily study of 
the holy scriptures, we shall want the highest 
motives to this duty and the best helps for per- 
forming it ; if we do, the cogency of these mo- 
tives, and the inestimable value of these helps, 
will render argument unnecessary and exhorta- 
tion superfluous. 

One cause therefore of the dulness of many 
Christians in prayer, is, their slight acquaint- 
ance with the sacred volume. They hear it pe- 
riodically, they read it occasionally, they are 
contented to know it historically, to consider it 
superficially, but they do not endeavour to get 
their minds imbued with its spirit. If they 
store their memory with its facts, they do not 
impress their hearts with its truths. They do 
not regard it as the nutriment on which their 
«piritual life and growth depend. They do not 

Vol. I. E 2 



pray over it ; they do not consider all its doc- 
trines as of practical application ; they do not 
cultivate that spiritual discernment which alone 
can enable them judiciously to appropriate its 
promises and its denunciations to their own 
actual case. They do not apply it as an un- 
erring line to ascertain their own rectitude or 
obliquity. 

In our retirements, we too often fritter away 
our precious moments, moments rescued from 
the world, in trivial, sometimes it is to be feared, 
in corrupt thoughts. But if we must give the 
reins to our imagination, let us send this excur- 
sive faculty to range among great and noble ob- 
jects. Let it stretch forward under the sanction 
of faith and the anticipation of prophecy, to the 
accomplishment of those glorious promises and 
tremendous threatenings which will soon be re- 
alized in the eternal world. These are topics 
which under the safe and sober guidance of 
Scripture, will fix its largest speculations and 
sustain its loftiest flights. The same Scripture 
while it expands and elevates the mind, will 
keep it subject to the dominion of truth ; while 
at the same time it will teach it that its boldest 
excursions must fall infinitely short of the asto- 
nishing realities of a future state. 

Though we cannot pray with a too deep sense 
of sin, we may make our sins too exclusively the 
object of our prayers. While we keep, with a 
self-abasing eye, our own corruptions in view, 
let us look with equal intenseness on that mer- 
cy, which cleanseth from all sin. Let our pray- 
ers be all humiliation, but let them not be all 
complaint — When men indulge noother thought 
but that they are rebels, the hopelessness of par- 
don hardens them into disloyalty. Let them 
look to the mercy of the king, as well as to the 
rebellion of the subject. If we contemplate his 
grace as displayed in the gospel, then, though 
our humility will increase, our despair will va- 
nish. Gratitude in this as in human instances 
will create affection. ' We love him because he 
first loved us.' 

Let us then always keep our unworthiness in 
view as a reason why we stand in need of the 
mercy of God in Christ ; but never plead it as a 
reason why we should not draw nigh to him to 
implore that mercy. The best men are unwor- 
thy for their own sakes ; the worst on repent- 
ance will be accepted for his sake and through 
his merits. 

In prayer then, the perfections of God, and 
especially his mercy in our redemption, should 
occupy our thoughts as much as our sins ; our 
obligation to him as much as our departures 
from him. We should keep up in our hearts a 
constant sense of our own weakness, not with a 
design to discourage the mind and depress the 
spirits ; but with a view to drive us out of our- 
selves, in search of the divine assistance. We 
should contemplate our infirmity in order to 
draw us to look for his strength, and to seek 
that power from God which we vainly look for 
in ourselves. We do not tell a sick friend of 
his danger in order to grieve or terrify him, but 
to induce him to apply to his physician, and to 
have recourse to his remedy. 

Among the charges which have been brough 
against serious piety, one is, that it teaches men 



434 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



to despair. The charge is just in one sense as 
to the fact, but false in the sense intended. It 
teaches us to despair indeed of ourselves, while 
it inculcates that faith in a Redeemer, which is 
the true antidote to despair. Faith quickens the 
doubting spirit, while it humbles the presump- 
tuous. The lowly Christian takes comfort in 
the blessed promise, that God will never forsake 
them that are his. The presumptuous man is 
equally right in the doctrine, but wrong in ap- 
plying it. He takes that comfort to himself 
which was meant for another class of characters. 
The mal-appropriation of Scripture promises 
and threatenings, is the cause of much error 
and delusion. 

Though some devout enthusiasts have fallen 
into error by an unnatural and impracticable 
disinterestedness, asserting that God is to be 
loved exclusively for himself, with an absolute 
renunciation of any view of advantage to our- 
selves ; yet that prayer cannot be mercenary, 
which involves God's glory with our own happi- 
ness, and makes his will the law of our requests. 
Though we are to desire the glory of God su- 
premely ; though this ought to be our grand ac- 
tuating principle, yet he has graciously permit- 
ted, commanded, invited us, to attach our own 
happiness to this primary object. The Bible 
exhibits not only a beautiful, but an inseparable 
combination of both, which delivers us from the 
danger of unnaturally renouncing our own be- 
nefit for the promotion of God's glory, on the 
one hand ; and on the other, from seeking any 
happiness independent of him, and underived 
from him. In enjoining us to love him supreme- 
ly, he has connected an unspeakable blessing 
with a paramount duty, the highest privilege 
with the most positive command. 

What a triumph for the humble Christian to 
be assured, that ' the high and lofty One which 
inhabiteth eternity,' condescends at the same 
time to dwell in the heart of the contrite ; — in 
his heart! To know that God is the God of his 
life, to know that he is even invited to take the 
Lord for his God. To close with God's offers, 
to accept his invitations, to receive God as his 
portion, must, surely be more pleasing to our 
heavenly Father, than separating our happiness 
from his glory. To disconnect our interests 
from his goodness, is at once to detract from his 
perfections, and to obscure the brightness of our 
own hopes. The declarations of inspired writers 
are confirmed by the authority of the heavenly 
hosts. They proclaim that the glory of God 
and the happiness of his creatures, so far from 
interfering, are connected with each other. We 
know but of one anthem composed and sung by 
angels, and this most harmoniously combines 
'the glory of God in the highest with peace on 
earth and good will to men.' 

'The beauty of Scripture,' says the great 
Saxon reformer, 'consists in pronouns.' This 
God is our God — God, even our own God, shall 
bless us. How delightful the appropriation ! 
To glorify him as being in himself consummate 
excellence, and to love him from the feeling that 
this excellence is directed to our felicity ! Here 
modesty would be ingratitude ; disinterestedness 
rebellion. It would be severing ourselves from 
Him, in whom we live, and move, and are ; it 



would be dissolving the connexion which he haa 
condescended to establish between himself and 
his creatures. 

It has been justly observed, that the Scripture 
saints make this union the chief ground of their 
grateful exultation — ' My strength' — ' my rock' 
— ' my fortress' — ' my deliverer !' Again — ' Let 
the God of my salvation be exalted !' Now take 
away the pronoun and substitute the article the, 
how comparatively cold is the impression ! The 
consummation of the joy arises from the peculi- 
arity, the intimacy, the endearment of the rela- 
tion. 

Nor to the liberal Christian is the grateful joy 
diminished, when he blesses his God as 'the 
God of all them that trust in him.' All general 
blessings, will he say, all providential mercies, 
are mine individually, are mine as completely 
as if no other shared in the enjoyment. Life, 
light, the earth and heavens, the sun and stars, 
whatever sustains the body, and recreates the 
spirits ! My obligation is as great as if the mer- 
cy had been made purely for me. As great ? 
nay, it is greater — it is augmented by a sense 
of the millions who participate in the blessing. 
The same enlargement of the personal obliga- 
tion holds good, nay rises higher, in the mercies 
of redemption. The Lord is my Saviour as com- 
pletely as if he had redeemed only me. That 
he has redeemed ' a great multitude which no 
man can number, of all nations, and kindreds, 
and people, and tongues,' is diffusion without 
abatement ; it is general participation without 
individual diminution — Each has all. 

In adoring the providence of God, we are apt 
to be struck with what is new and out of course, 
while we too much overlook long, habitual, and 
uninterrupted mercies. But common mercies, 
if less striking, are more valuable, both because 
we have them always, and for the reason above 
assigned, because others share them. The or- 
dinary blessings of life are overlooked for the 
very reason that they ought to be most prized — 
because they are most uniformly bestowed. 
They are most essential to our support, and 
when once they are withdrawn we begin to find 
that they are also most essential to our comfort. 
Nothing raises the price of a blessing like its 
removal ; whereas it was its continuance which 
should have taught us its value. We require 
novelties to awaken our gratitude, not consider- 
ing that it is the duration of mercies which en- 
hances their value. We want fresh excitements. 
We consider mercies long enjoyed as things of 
course, as things to which we have a sort of 
presumptive claim ; as if God had no right to 
withdraw what he had once bestowed ; as if he 
were obliged to continue what he has once been 
pleased to confer. 

But that the sun has shone unremittingly 
from the day that God created him, is not a less 
stupendous exertion of power than that the hand 
which fixed him in the heavens, and marked 
out his progress through them, once said by his 
servant, ' Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon.' 
That he has gone on in his strength, driving his 
uninterrupted career, and ' rejoicing as a giant 
to run his course,' for six thousand years, is a 
more astonishing exhibition of Omnipotence 
than that he should have been once suspended 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



43d 



by the hand which set him in motion. That 
tho ordinances of heaven, that the established 
laws of nature, should have been for one day in- 
terrupted to serve a particular occasion, is a less 
real wonder, and certainly a less substantial 
blessing, than that in such a multitude of ages 
they should have pursued their appointed course, 
for the comfort of the whole system : 

For ever singing as they shine 
The hand that made us is divine. 

As the affections of the Christian ought to be 
set on things above, so it is for them that his 
prayers will be chiefly addressed. God in pro- 
mising to 'give those who delight in him the 
desire of their heart,' could never mean tempo- 
ral things; for these they might desire impro- 
perly as to the object, and inordinately as to the 
degree. The promise relates principally to spi- 
ritual blessings. He not only gives us these 
mercies, but the very desire to obtain them is 
also his gift. Here our prayer requires no qua- 
lifying, no conditioning, no limitation. We 
cannot err in our choice, for God himself is the 
object of it ; we cannot exceed in the degree, 
unless it were possible to love him too well, or 
to please him too much. 

We should pray for worldly comforts, and for 
a blessing on our earthly plans, though lawful 
in themselves, conditionally, and with a reser- 
vation : because after having been earnest in 
our requests for them, it may happen that when 
we come to the petition ' thy will be done, 1 we 
may in these very words be praying that our 
previous petitions may not be granted. In this 
brief request consists the vital principle, the es- 
sential spirit of prayer. God shows his munifi- 
cence in encouraging us to ask most earnestly 
for the greatest things, by promising that the 
smaller ' shall be added unto us.' We therefore 
acknowledge his liberality most when we re- 
quest the highest favours. He manifests his in- 
finite superiority to earthly fathers by chiefly 
delighting to confer those spiritual gifts, which 
they less solicitously desire for their children 
than those worldly advantages on which God 
sets so little value. 

Nothing short of a sincere devotedness to God, 
can enable us to maintain an equality of mind, 
under unequal circumstances. We murmur 
that we have not the things we ask amiss, not 
knowing that they are withheld by the same 
mercy by which the things that are good for us 
are granted. Things good in themselves may 
not be good for us. A resigned spirit is the 
proper disposition to prepare us for receiving 
mercies, or for having them denied. Resigna- 
tion of soul, like the allegiance of a good sub- 
ject, is always in readiness, though not in ac- 
tion : whereas an impatient mind is a spirit of 
disaffection always prepared to revolt, when the 
will of the sovereign is in opposition to that of 
the subject. This seditious principle is the in- 
fallible characteristic of an unrenewed mind. 

A sincere love of God will make us thankful 
when our supplications are granted, and patient 
and cheerful when they are denied. He who 
feels his heart rise against any divine dispensa- 
tion, ought not to rest till by serious meditation 
and earnest prayer it be moulded into submis- 



sion. A habit of acquiescence in the will of 
God, will so operate on the faculties of his mind, 
that even his judgment will embrace the con- 
viction, that what he once so ardently desired, 
would not have been that good thing, which his 
blindness had conspired with his wishes to maka 
him believe it to be. He will recollect the many 
instances in which if his importunity had pre- 
vailed, the thing which ignorance requested, and 
wisdom denied, would have insured his misery. 
Every fresh disappointment will teach him to 
distrust himself, and to confide in God. Expe- 
rience will instruct him that there may be a 
better way of hearing our requests than that of 
granting them. Happy for us that he to whom 
they are addressed knows which is best, and 
acts upon that knowledge. 

Still lift for good the supplicating voice, 

But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice; 

Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, 

Secure vvhate'er he gives, he gives the best. 

We should endeavour to render our private 
devotions effectual remedies for our own parti- 
cular sins. Prayer against sin in general is too 
indefinite to reach the individual case. We must 
bring it home to our own heart, else we may be 
confessing another man's sins and overlooking 
our own. If we have any predominant fault, 
we should pray more especially against that 
fault. If we pray for any virtue of which we 
particularly stand in need, we should dwell on 
our own deficiencies in that virtue, till our souls 
become deeply affected with our want of it. Our 
prayers should be circumstantial, not, as was 
before observed, for the information of infinite 
wisdom, but for the stirring up of our own dull 
affections. And as the recapitulation of our 
wants tends to keep up a sense of our depen- 
dence, the enlarging on our especial mercies 
will tend to keep alive a sense of gratitude. 
While indiscriminate petitions, confessions, and 
thanksgivings leave the mind to wander in in- 
definite devotion and unaffecting generalities, 
without personality and without appropriation. 
It must be obvious that we except those grand 
universal points in which all have an equal in- 
terest, and which must always form the essence 
of public prayer. 

On the blessing attending importunity in 
prayer, the Gospel is abundantly explicit. God 
perhaps delays to give that we may persevere 
in asking. He may require importunity for our 
own sakes, that the frequency and urgency of 
the petition may bring our hearts into that frama 
to which he will be favourable. 

As we ought to live in a spirit of obedience to 
his commands, so we should live in a frame of 
waiting for his blessings on our prayers, and in 
a spirit of gratitude when we have obtained it. 
This is that ' preparation of the heart' which 
would always keep us in a posture for duty. If 
we desert the duty because an immediate bless- 
ing does not visibly attend it, it shows that we 
do not serve God out of conscience, but selfish- 
ness : that we grudge expending on him that 
service which brings us in no immediate inte- 
rest. Though he grant not our petition, let us 
never be tempted to withdraw our application. 

Our reluctant devotions may remind us of 



436 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the remark of a certain political wit, who apolo- 
gized for his late attendance in parliament, 
by his being detained while a party of soldiers 
were dragging a volunteer to his duty. How 
many excuses do we find for not being in time ! 
How many apologies for brevity ! How many 
evasions for neglect ! How unwilling, too often, 
are we to come into the divine presence, how 
reluctant to remain in it ! Those hours which 
are least valuable for business, which are least 
seasonable for pleasure, we commonly give to 
religion. Our energies which were so exerted 
in the society we have just quitted, are sunk as 
we approach the divine presence. Our hearts, 
which were all alacrity in some frivolous con- 
versation, become cold and inanimate, as if it 
were the natural property of devotion to freeze 
the afTections. Our animal spirits, which so 
readily performed their functions before, now 
slacken their vigour and lose their vivacity. 
The sluggish body sympathizes with the un- 
willing mind, and each promotes the deadness 
of the other ; both are slow in listening to the 
call of duty ; both are soon weary in performing 
it. As prayer requires all the energies of the 
compound being of man, so we too often feel as 
if there were a conspiracy of body, soul and 
spirit, to disincline and disqualify us for it. 

When the heart is once sincerely turned to 
religion, we need not, every time we pray, ex- 
amine into every truth, and seek for conviction 
over and over again ; but assume that those doc- 
trines are true, the truth of which we have al- 
ready proved. From a general and fixed im- 
pression of these principles, will result a taste, 
a disposedness, a love, so intimate, that the con- 
victions of the understanding will become the 
affections of the heart. 

To be deeply impressed with a few funda- 
mental truths, to digest them thoroughly, to 
meditate on them seriously, to pray over them 
fervently, to get them deeply rooted in the heart, 
will be more productive of faith and holiness, 
than to labour after variety, ingenuity or ele- 
gance. The indulgence of imagination will 
rather distract than edify. Searching after in- 
genious thoughts will rather divert the atten- 
tion from God to ourselves, than promote fixed- 
ness of thought, singleness of intention, and de- 
votedness of spirit. Whatever is subtil and re- 
fined, is in danger of being unscriptural. If we 
do not guard the mind it will learn to wander in 
quest of novelties. It will learn to set more 
value on original thoughts than devout affec- 
tions. It is the business of prayer to cast down 
imaginations which gratify the natural activity 
of the mind, while they leave the heart un- 
humbled. 

We should confine ourselves to the present 
business of the present moment; we should keep 
the mind in a state of perpetual dependence ; 
we should entertain no long views. ' Now is 
the accepted time.' — ' To day we must hear his 
voice.' — 'Give us this day our daily bread.' The 
manna will not keep till to-morrow : to-morrow 
will have its own wants, and must have its own 
petitions. To-morrow we must seek the bread of 
heaven afresh. 

We should, however, avoid coming to our de- 
votions with unfurnished minds. We should 



be always laying in materials for prayer, by a 
diligent course of serious reading, by treasur- 
ing up in our minds the most important truths. 
If we rush into the divine presence with a va- 
cant, or ignorant, or unprepared mind, with a 
heart full of the world ; as we shall feel no dis- 
position or qualification for the work we are 
about to engage in, so we cannot expect that our 
petitions will be heard or granted. There must 
be some congruity between the heart and the 
object, some affinity between the state of our 
minds and the business in which they are em 
ployed, if we would expect success in the work. 
We are often deceived, both as to the princi- 
ple and the effect of our prayers. When from 
some external cause the heart is glad, the 
spirits light, the thoughts ready, the tongue volu- 
able, a kind of spontaneous eloquence is the re- 
sult ; with this we are pleased, and this ready flow 
we are willing to impose on ourselves for piety. 
On the other hand when the mind is dejected ; 
the animal spirits low ; the thoughts confused ; 
when apposite words do not readily present 
themselves, we are apt to accuse our hearts of 
want of fervour, to lament our weakness, and 
to monrn that because we have had no pleasure 
in praying, our prayers have, therefore, not as- 
cended to the throne of mercy. In both cases 
we perhaps judge ourselves unfairly. These 
unready accents, these faltering praises, these 
ill expressed petitions, may find more accept- 
ance than the florid talk with which we were 
so well satisfied : the latter consisted, it may be, 
of shining thoughts floating on the fancy, elo- 
quent words dwelling only on the lips : the for- 
mer was the sighing of a contrite heart, abased 
by the feeling of its own unworthiness, and 
awed by the perfections of a holy and heart- 
searching God. The heart is dissatisfied with 
its own dull and tasteless repetitions, which, 
with all their imperfections, infinite goodness 
may perhaps hear with favour.* We may not 
only be elated with the fluency, but even with 
the fervency of our prayers- Vanity may grow 
out of the very act of renouncing it, and we may 
begin to feel proud at having humbled ourselves 
so eloquently. 

There is, however, a strain and spirit of 
prayer equally distinct from that facility and 
copiousness for which we certainly are never 
the better in the sight of God, and from that 
constraint and dryness for which we may be 
never the worse. There is a simple, solid, 
pious strain of prayer, in which the supplicant 
is so filled and occupied with a sense of his own 
dependence, and of the importance of the things 
for which he asks, and so persuaded of the 
power and grace of God through Christ to give 
him those things, that while he is engaged in 
it, he does not merely imagine, but feels assured 
that God is nigh to him as a reconciled Father, 
so that every burden and doubt are taken off 

* Of this sort of repetitions, our admirable church 
liturgy has been accused as a fault ; hut this defect, if 
it be one, happily accommodates itself to our infirmities. 
Where is the favoured being whose attention nevei 
wanders, whose heart accompanies his lips in every 
sentence? Is there no absence of mind in the petitioner, 
no wandering of the thoughts, no inconstancy of the 
heart? which these repetitions are wisely calculated to 
correct, to rouse the dead attention, to brins; ^ack the 
strayed affbetions. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



437 



From his mind. ' He knows,' as Saint John ex- 
presses it, ' that he has the petitions he desired 
of God,' and feels the truth of that promise, 
• while they are yet speaking I will hear.' 
This is the perfection of prayer. 



CHAP. VI. 

Cultivation of a Devotional Spirit. 

To maintain a devotional spirit, two things are 
especially necessary — habitually to cultivate the 
disposition, and habitually to avoid whatever is 
unfavourable to it. Frequent retirement and 
recollection are indispensable, together with 
such a general course of reading, as if it do not 
actually promote the spirit we are endeavour- 
ing to maintain, shall never be hostile to it. 
We should avoid as much as in us lies all such 
society, all such amusements, as excite tempers 
which it is the daily business of a Christian to 
subdue, and all those feelings which it is his 
constant duty to suppress. 

And here may we venture to observe, that 
if some things which are apparently innocent, 
and do not assume an alarming aspect, or bear 
a dangerous character ; things which the gene- 
rality of decorous people affirm, (how truly we 
know not) to be safe for them ; yet if we find 
that these things stir up in us improper propen- 
sities ; if they awaken thoughts which ought 
not to be excited ; if they abate our love for re- 
ligious exercises, or infringe on our time for 
performing them ; if they make spiritual con- 
cerns appear insipid ; if they wind our heart a 
little more about the world : in short, if we have 
formerly found them injurious to our own souls, 
then let no example or persuasion, no belief of 
their alleged innocence, no plea of their perfect 
safety, tempt us to indulge in them. It mat- 
ters little to our security what they are to others. 
Our business is with ourselves. Our respon- 
sibility is on our own heads. — Others cannot 
know the side on which we are assailable. 
Lei our own unbiassed judgment determine our 
pinion ; let our own experience decide for our 
own conduct 

In speaking of books, we cannot forbear notic- 
ing that very prevalent sort of reading, which 
is little less productive of evil, little less preju- 
dicial to moral and mental improvement, than 
that which carries a more formidable appear- 
ance. We cannot confine our censure to those 
more corrupt writings which deprave the heart, 
debauch the imagination, and poison the prin- 
ciples. Of these the turpitude is so obvious, 
that no caution on this head, it is presumed, can 
be necessary. But if justice forbids us to con- 
found the insipid with the mischievous, the idle 
with the vicious, and the frivolous with the pro- 
fligate, still we can only admit of shades, deep 
shades we allow, of difference. These works, 
if comparatively harmless, yet debase the taste, 
slacken the intellectual nerve, let down the un- 
derstanding, set the fancy loose, and send it 
gadding among low and mean objects. They 
not only run away with the time which should 



be given to better things, but gradually destroy 
all taste for better things. They sink the mind 
to their own standard, and give it a sluggish 
reluctance, we had almost said, a moral incapa- 
city for every thing above their level. The 
mind, by long habit of stooping, loses its erect 
ness, and yields to its degradation. It become* 
so low and narrow by the littleness of the things 
which engage it, that it requires a painful effort 
to lift itself high enough, or to open itself wide 
enough to embrace great and noble objects. 
The appetite is vitiated. Excess, instead of 
producing a surfeit, by weakening the digestion, 
only induces a loathing for stronger nourish- 
ment. The faculties which might have been 
expanding in works of science, or soaring in 
the contemplation of genius, become satisfied 
with the impertinences of the most ordinary 
fiction, lose their relish for the severity of truth, 
the elegance of taste, and the soberness of reli- 
gion. Lulled in the torpor of repose, the intel- 
lect doses, and enjoys in its waking dream, 

All the wild trash of sleep, without the rest. 

In avoiding books which excite the passions, 
it would seem strange to include even some de- 
votional works. Yet such as merely kindle 
warm feelings, are not always the safest. Let 
us rather prefer those, which, while they tend 
to raise a devotional spirit, awaken the affections 
without disordering them ; which while they 
elevate the desires, purify them, which show us 
our own nature, and lay open its corruptions. 
Such as show us the malignity of sin, the de- 
ceitfulness of our hearts, the feebleness of our 
best resolutions ; such as teach us to pull off" 
the mask from the fairest appearances, and dis- 
cover every hiding place, where some lurking 
evil would conceal itself; such as show us not 
what we appear to others, but what we really 
are ; such as co-operating with our interior feel- 
ing, and showing us our natural state, point out 
our absolute need of a Redeemer, lead us to seek 
to him for pardom from a conviction that there 
is no other refuge, no other salvation. Let us 
be conversant witli such writings as teach us 
that while we long to obtain the remission of 
our transgressions, we must not desire the re- 
mission of our duties. Let us seek for such a 
Saviour as will not only deliver us from the 
punishment of sin, but from its dominion also. 

And let us ever bear in mind that the end of 
prayer is not answered when the prayer is 
finished. We should regard prayer as a means 
to a farther end. The act of prayer is not suf- 
ficient, we must cultivate a spirit of prayer. 
And though when the actual devotion is over, 
we cannot, amid the distractions of company 
and business, always be thinking of heavenly 
things ; yet the desire, the frame, the propen- 
sity, the willingness to return, to them we must, 
however difficult, endeavour to maintain. 

The proper temper for prayer should precede 
the act. The disposition should be wrought in 
the mind before the exercise is begun. To bring 
a proud temper to an humble prayer, a luxurious 
habit to a>self-denying prayer, or a worldly dis- 
position to a spiritually-minded prayer, is a po- 
sitive anomaly. A habit is more powerful than 
an act, and a previously indulged temper during 



438 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the day will not, it is to be feared, be fully coun- 
teracted by the exercise of a few minutes devo- 
tion at night. 

Prayer is designed for a perpetual renovation 
of the motives to virtue ; if therefore the cause 
is not followed by its consequence, a consequence 
inevitable but for the impediments we bring to 
it, we rob our nature of its highest privilege, and 
run the danger of incurring a penalty where we 
are looking for a blessing. 

That the habitual tendency of the life should 
be the preparation for the stated prayer, is na- 
turally suggested to us by our blessed Redeemer 
in his sermon on the Mount. He announced 
the precepts of holiness, and their corresponding 
beatitudes ; he gave the spiritual exposition of 
the law, the direction for alms-giving, the ex- 
hortation to love our enemies, nay the essence 
and spirit of the whole Decalogue, previous to 
his delivering his own divine prayer as a pattern 
for ours. Let us learn from this that the prepa- 
ration of prayer is therefore to live in all those 
pursuits which we may safely beg of God to 
bless, and in a conflict with all those temptations 
into which we pray not to be led. 

If God be the centre to which our hearts are 
tending, every line in our lives must meet in 
him. With this point in view there will be a 
harmony between our prayers and our practice, 
a consistency between .devotion and conduct, 
which will make every part turn to this one end, 
bear upon this one point. For the beauty of 
the Christian scheme consists not in parts (how- 
ever good in themselves) which tend to separate 
views, and lead to different ends ; but it arises 
from its being one entire, uniform, connected 
plan, ' compacted of that which every joint, sup- 
plieth,' and of which all the parts terminate in 
th ; s one grand ultimate point. 

The design of prayer therefore as we before 
observed, is not merely to make us devout while 
we are engaged in it, but that its odour may be 
diffused through all the intermediate spaces of 
the day, enter into all its occupations, duties and 
tempers. Nor must its results be partial, or li- 
mited to easy and pleasant duties, but extend to 
euch as are less alluring. When we pray, for 
instance, for our enemies, the prayer must be 
••endered practical, must be made a means of 
softening our spirit, and cooling our resentment 
toward them. If we deserve their enmity, the 
true spirit of prayer will put us upon endeavour- 
ing to cure the fault which has excited it. If 
we do not deserve it, it will put us on striving 
for a placable temper, and we shall endeavour 
not to let slip so favourable an occasion of culti- 
vating it. There is no such softener of animo- 
sity, no such soother of resentment, no such al- 
layer of hatred, as sincere, cordial prayer. 

It is obvious, that the precept to pray without 
ceasing can never mean to enjoin a continual 
course of actual prayer. But while it more di- 
rectly enjoins us to embrace all proper occasions 
of performing this sacred duty, or rather of 
claiming this valuable privilege, so it plainly 
implies that we should try to keep up constantly 
that sense of the divine presence which shall 
maintain the disposition. In order to this, we 
should inure our minds to reflection ; we should 
encourage serious thoughts. A good thought 



barely passing through the mind will maKe lit- 
tle impression on it. We must arrest it, con- 
strain it to remain with us, expand, amplify, and 
as it were, take it to pieces. It must be dis- 
tinctly unfolded, and carefully examined, or it 
will leave no precise idea : it must be fixed and 
incorporated, or it will produce no practical ef- 
fect. We must not dismiss it till it has left 
some trace on the mind, till it has made some 
impression on the heart. 

On the other hand, if we give the reins to a 
loose ungoverned fancy, at other times ; if we 
abandon our minds to frivolous thoughts; if we 
fill them with corrupt images ; if we cherish 
sensual ideas during the rest of the day, can 
they expect that none of these images will in 
trude, that none of these impressions will be re- 
vived, but that ' the temple into which foul 
things' have been invited, will be cleansed at a 
given moment ; that worldly thoughts will re 
cede and give place at once to pure and holy 
thoughts ? Will that Spirit grieved by impurity, 
or resisted by levity, return with his warm 
beams and cheering influences, to the contami- 
nated mansion from which he has been driven 
out? Is it wonderful if finding no entrance in- 
to a heart filled with vanity he should withdraw 
himself ? We cannot, in retiring into our clo- 
sets, change our natures as we do our clothes. 
The disposition we carry thither will be likely 
to remain with us. We have no right to expect 
that a new temper will meet us at the door. 
We can only hope that the spirit we bring thither 
will be cherished and improved. It is not easy, 
rather it is not possible, to graft genuine devo- 
tion on a life of an opposite tendency ; nor can 
we delight ourselves regularly for a few stated 
moments, in that God whom we have not been 
serving during the day. We may indeed to 
quiet our conscience, take up the employment 
of prayer, but cannot take up the state of mind 
which will make the employment beneficial to 
ourselves, or the prayer acceptable to God, if 
all the previous day we have been careless of 
ourselves, and unmindful of our Maker. Tliexf 
will not pray differently from the rest of the 
world, who do not live differently. 

What a contradiction is it to lament the weak, 
ness, the misery, and the corruption of our na- 
ture, in our devotions, and then to rush into a 
life, though not perhaps of vice, yet of indul- 
gence, calculated to increase that weakness, to 
inflame those corruptions, and to lead to that 
misery ! There is either no meaning to our 
prayers, or no sense in our conduct. In the one 
we mock God, in the other we deceive ourselves. 

Will not he who keeps up an habitual inter- 
course with his Maker, who is vigilant in 
thought, self-denying in action, who strives to 
keep his heart from wrong desires, his mind 
from vain imaginations, and his lips from idle 
words, bring a more prepared spirit, a more 
collected mind, be more engaged, more pene- 
trated, more present to the occasion ? Will he 
not feel more delight in this devout exercise, 
reap more benefit from it, than he who lives at 
random, prays from custom, and who, though 
he dares not intermit the form, is a stranger to 
its spirit ? ' O God my heart is ready,' cannot be 
lawfully uttered by him who is no more prepared. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



439 



We speak not here to the self-sufficient form- 
alist, or the careless profligate. Among those 
whom we now take the liberty to address, are 
to be found, especially in the higher class of fe- 
males, the amiable and the interesting, and in 
many respects the virtuous and correct; charac- 
ters so engaging, so evidently made for better 
things, so capable of reaching high degrees of 
excellence, so formed to give the tone to Chris- 
tian practice, as well as to fashion ; so calculated 
to give a beautiful impression on that religion 
which they profess without sufficiently adoring; 
which they believe without fairly exemplifying; 
that we cannot forbear taking a tender interest 
in their welfare ; we cannot forbear breathing a 
fervent prayer that they may yet reach the 
elevation for which they were intended ; that 
they may hold out a uniform and consistent pat- 
tern, of 'whatsoever things are pure, honest, 
just, lovely, and of good report !' This the Apos- 
tle goes on to intimate can only be done by 
thinking on these things. Things can only 
influence our practice as they engage our atten- 
tion. Would not then a confirmed habit of se- 
rious thought tend to correct that inconsidera- 
tion, which we are willing to hope, more than 
want of principle, lies at the bottom of the in- 
consistency we are lamenting. 

If, as is generally allowed, the great difficulty 
of our spiritual life is to make the future pre- 
dominate over the present, do we not by the 
conduct we are regretting, aggravate what it is 
in our power to diminish ? Miscalculation of 
the relative value of things is one of the greatest 
errors of our moral life. We estimate them in 
an inverse proportion to their value, as well as 
to their duration : we lavish earnest and dura- 
ble thoughts on things so trifling, that they de- 
serve little regard, so brief, that they ' perish 
with the using,' while we bestow only slight 
attention on things of infinite worth, only tran- 
sient thoughts on things of eternal duration. 

Those who are so far conscientious as not to 
intermit a regular course of devotion, and who 
yet allow themselves at the same time to go on 
in a course of amusements, which excite a di- 
rectly opposite spirit, are inconceivably aug- 
menting their own difficulties. — They are eager- 
ly heaping up fuel in the day, on the fire which 
they intend to extinguish in the evening ; they 
are voluntarily adding to the temptations, 
against which they mean to request grace to 
struggle. To acknowledge at the same time, 
that we find it hard to serve God as we ought, 
and yet to be systematically indulging habits, 
which must naturally increase the difficulty, 
makes our characters almost ridiculous, while 
it renders our duty almost impracticable. 

While we make our way more difficult by 
those very indulgences with which we think to 
cheer and refresh it, the determined Christian 
becomes his own pioneer : he makes his path 
easy by voluntarily clearing it of the obstacles 
whicli impede his progress. 

These habitual indulgences seem a contradic- 
tion to that obvious law, that one virtue always 
involves another ; for we cannot labour after any 
grace, that of prayer for instance, without re- 
sisting whatever is opposite to it. If then we 
lament, that it is so hard to serve God, let us 



not by our conduct furnish arguments against 
ourselves ; for, as if the difficulty were not great 
enough in itself, we are continually heaping up 
mountains in our way, by indulging in such 
pursuits and passions, as make a small labour 
an insurmountable one. 

But we may often judge better of our state by 
the result, than by the act of prayer. Our very 
defects, our coldness, deadness, wanderings, may 
leave more contrition on the soul than the hap- 
piest turn of thought. The feeling of our wants, 
the confession of our sins, the acknowledgment 
of our dependence, the renunciation of ourselves, 
the supplication for mercy, the application to 
' the fountain opened for sin,' the cordial entrea- 
ty for the aid of the Spirit, the relinquishment of 
our own will, resolutions of better obedience, 
petitions that these resolutions may be directed 
and sanctified ; these are the subjects in which 
the suppliant should be engaged, by which his 
thoughts should be absorbed. Can they be so 
absorbed, if many of the intervening hours are 
passed in pursuits of a totally different com- 
plexion ; pursuits which raise the passions which 
we are seeking to allay 1 Will the cherished va- 
nities goat our bidding? Will the required dis. 
positions come at our calling ? Do we find our 
tempers so obedient, our passions so obsequious 
in the other concerns of life ? If not, what rea- 
son have we to expect their obsequiousness in 
this grand concern. We should therefore en- 
deavour to believe as we pray, to think as we 
pray, to feel as we pray, and to act as we pray. 
Prayer must not be a solitary, independent ex- 
ercise ; but an exercise interwoven with many, 
and inseparably connected with that golden 
chain of Christian duties, of which, when so 
connected, it forms one of the most important 
links. 

Business however must have its period as 
well as devotion. We were sent into this world 
to act as well as to pray ; active duties must be 
performed as well as devout exercises. Even 
relaxation must have its interval, only let us be 
careful that the indulgence of the one do not de- 
stroy the effect of the other ; that our pleasures 
do not encroach on the time or deaden the spi- 
rit of our devotions : let us be careful that our 
cares, occupations, and amusements may be 
always such that we may not be afraid to im. 
plore the divine blessing on them ; this is the 
criterion of their safety and of our duty. Let 
us endeavour that in each, in all, one continu- 
ally growing sentiment and feeling, of loving, 
serving, and pleasing God, maintain its predo- 
minant station in the heart. 

An additional reason why we should live in 
the perpetual use of prayer, seems to be, that 
our blessed Redeemer after having given both 
the example and the command, while on earth, 
condescends still to be our unceasing interces. 
sor in heaven. Can we ever cease petitioning 
for ourselves, when we believe that he never 
ceases interceding for us ? 

If we are so unhappy as now to find little 
pleasure in this holy exercise, that however is 
so far from being a reason for discontinuing it, 
that it affords the strongest argument for per- 
severance. That which was at first a form, will 
become a pleasure ; that which was a. burden 



440 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



will become a privilege ; that which we impose 
upon ourselves as a medicine, will become ne- 
cessary as an aliment, and desirable as a grati- 
fication. That which is now short and super- 
ficial, will become copious and solid. The cha- 
riot wheel is warmed by its own motion. Use 
■will make that easy which was at first painful. 
That which is once become easy will soon be 
rendered pleasant ; instead of repining at the 
performance, we shall be unhappy at the omis- 
sion. When a man recovering from sickness at- 
tempts to walk, he does not discontinue the ex- 
ercise because he feels himself weak, nor even 
because the effort is painful. He rather redou- 
bles his exertion. It is from his perseverance 
that he looks for strength. An additional turn 
every day diminishes his repugnance, augments 
his vigour, improves his spirits. That effort 
which was submitted to because it was salutary, 
is continued because the feeling of renovated 
strength renders it delightful. 



CHAP. VII. 

The Love of God. 

Our love to God arises out of want. God's 
love to us out of fulness. Our indigence draws 
us to that power which can relieve, and to that 
goodness which can bless us. — His overflowing 
love delights to make us partakers of the boun- 
ties he graciously imparts, not only in the gifts 
of his Providence, but in the richer communica- 
tions of his grace. We can only be said to love 
God when we endeavour to glorify him, when 
we desire a participation of his nature, when we 
study to imitate his perfections. 

We are sometimes inclined to suspect the love 
of God to us. We are too little suspicious of our 
want of love to him. Yet if we examine the 
case by evidenc , as we should examine any 
common question, what real instances can we 
produce of our love to him ?' What imaginable 
instance can we not produce of his love to us ? 
If neglect, forgetfulness, ingratitude, disobedi- 
ence, coldness in our affections, deadness in our 
duty, be evidences of our love to him, such evi- 
dences, but such only, we can abundantly allege. 
If life and all the countless catalogue of mercies 
that make life pleasant, be proofs of his love to 
us, these he has given us in hand ; if life eter- 
nal, if blessedness that knows no measure and 
no end, be proofs of love, these he has given us 
in promise — to the Christian we had almost 
said, he has given them in possession. 

It must be an irksome thing to serve a master 
whom we do not love ; a master whom we are 
compelled to obey, though we think his requisi- 
tions hard, and his commands unreasonable ; 
under whose eye we know that we continually 
live, though his presence is not only undelight- 
ful but formidable. 

Now every Christian must obey God whether 
he love him or not ; he must act always in his 
sight, whether he delight him or not; and to a 
heart of any feeling, to a spirit of any liberality, 
nothing is so grating as constrained obedience. 
To love God, to serve him because we love him, 



is therefore no less our highest happiness, than 
our most bounden duty. Love makes all labour 
light. We serve with alacrity, where we love 
with cordiality. 

When the heart is devoted to an object, we 
require not to be perpetually reminded of our 
obligations to obey him ; they present themselves 
spontaneously, we fulfil them readily, I had al- 
most said, involuntarily ; we think not so much 
of the service as of the object. The principle 
which suggests the work inspires the pleasure ; 
to neglect it would be an injury to our feelings. 
The performance is the gratification. The 
omission is not more a pain to the conscience, 
than a wound to the affections. The implanta- 
tion of this vital root perpetuates virtuous prac- 
tice, and secures internal peace. 

Though we cannot be always thinking of God, 
we may be always employed in his service. 
There must be intervals of our communion with 
him, but there must be no intermission of our 
attachment to him. The tender father who la- 
bours for his children, does not always employ 
his thoughts about them ; he cannot be always 
conversing with them, or concerning them, yet 
he is always engaged in promoting their inter- 
ests. His affection for them is an inwoven 
principle, of which he gives the most unequivo- 
cal evidence, by the assiduousness of his appli- 
cation in their service. 

4 Thou shouldst love the Lord thy God with 
all thy heart,' is the primary law of our religion. 
Yet how apt are we to complain that we cannot 
love God, that we cannot maintain a devout in- 
tercourse with him. But would God, who is all 
justice, have commanded that of which he knew 
we were incapable ? Would he who is all mercy 
have made our eternal happiness to depend on 
something which he knew was out of our power 
to perform, capriciously disqualifying us for the 
duty he had prescribed? Would he have given 
the exhortation, and withheld the capacity ? 
This would be to charge Omniscience with folly, 
and infinite goodness with injustice ; — no, when 
he made duty and happiness inseparable, he nei- 
ther made our duty impracticable, nor our hap- 
piness unattainable. But we are continually 
flying to false refuges, clinging to false holds, 
resting on false supports ; as they are uncertain 
they disappoint us, as they are weak they fail 
us; but as they are numerous, when one fails 
another presents itself. Till they "slip from un- 
der us, we never suspect how much we rested 
upon them. Life glides away in a perpetual 
succession of these false dependences and suc- 
cessive privations. 

There is, as we have elsewhere observed, a 
striking analogy between the natural and spi- 
ritual life ; the weakness and helplessness of the 
Christian resemble those of the infant ; neither 
of them becomes strong, vigorous, and full 
grown at once, but through a long and often 
painful course. This keeps up a sense of de- 
pendance, and accustoms us to lean on the hand 
which fosters us. There is in both conditions, 
an imperceptible chain of depending events, by 
which we are carried on insensibly to the vigour 
of maturity. The operation which is not always 
obvious, is always progressive. By attempting 
to walk alone we discover our weakness, the ex- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



441 



perience of that weakness humbles us, and every 
fail drives us back to the sustaining hand, whose 
assistance we vainly flattered ourselves we no 
longer needed. 

In some halcyon moments we are willing to 
persuade ourselves that religion has made an 
entire conquest over our heart ; that we have 
renounced the dominion of the world, have con- 
quered our attachment to earthly things. We 
flatter ourselves that nothing can now again ob- 
struct our entire submission. But we know not 
what spirit we are of. We say this in the calm 
of repose and in the stillness of the passions : 
when our path is smooth, our prospect smiling, 
danger distant, temptation absent, when we have 
many comforts and no trials. Suddenly, some 
loss, some disappointment, some privation tears 
off" the mask, reveals us to ourselves. We at 
once discover that though the smaller fibres and 
lesser roots which fasten us down to earth may 
have been loosened by preceding storms, yet our 
substantial hold on earth is not shaken, the tap- 
root is not cut, we are yet fast rooted to the 
soil, and still stronger tempests must be sent to 
make us let go our hold. 

It might be useful to cultivate the habit of 
stating our own case as strongly to ourselves as 
if it were the case of another ; to express in so 
many words, thoughts which are not apt to as- 
sume any specific or palpable form ; thoughts 
which we avoid shaping into language, but 
slur over, generalize, soften, and do away. How 
indignant, for instance, should we feel, though 
we ourselves make the complaint, to be told by 
others, that we do not love our Maker and Pre- 
server. But let us put the question fairly to 
ourselves. Do we really love him ? Do we love 
him with a supreme, nay even with an equal 
affection ? Is there no friend, no child, no re- 
putation, no pleasure, no society, no possession 
which we do not prefer to him ? It is easy to 
affirm in a general way that there is not. But 
let us particularize, individualize the question — 
bring it home to our own hearts in some actual 
instance, in some tangible shape. Let us com- 
mune with our own consciences, with our own 
feelings, with our own experience ; let us ques- 
tion pointedly and answer honestly. Let us not 
be more ashamed to detect the fault, than to have 
been guilty of it. 

This then will commonly be the result. Let 
the friend, child, reputation, possession, pleasure 
be endangered, but especially let it be taken 
away by some stroke of Providence. The scales 
fall from our eyes ; we see, we feel, we acknow- 
ledge, with brokenness of heart, not only for our 
loss but for our sin, that though we did love 
God, yet we loved him not superlatively, and 
that we loved the blessing, threatened or re- 
sumed, still more. But this is one of the cases 
in which the goodness of God bringeth us to re- 
pentance. By the operation of his grace the re- 
sumption of the gift brings back the heart to 
the giver. The Almighty by his Spirit takes 
possession of the temple from which the idol is 
driven out. God is re-instatcd in his rights, and 
becomes the supreme and undisputed Lord of 
our reverential affection. 

There are three requisites to our proper en- 
joyment of every earthly blessing which God 

Vol. I 



bestows on us; — a thankful reflection on the 
goodness of the giver, a deep sense of the un- 
worthiness of the receiver, and a sober recollec- 
tion of the precarious tenure by which we hold 
it. The first would make us grateful, the second 
humble, the last moderate. 

But how seldom do we receive his favours in 
this spirit! As if religious gratitude were to be 
confined to the appointed days of public thanks- 
giving, how rarely in common society do we 
hear any recognition of Omnipotence even on 
those striking and heart-rejoicing occasions, 
when, ' with his own right hand, and with his 
glorious arm he has gotten himself the victory!' 
Let us never detract from the merit of our va- 
liant leaders, but rather honour them the more 
for this manifestation of divine power in their 
favour ; but let us never lose sight of him 'who 
teacheth their hands to war, and their fingers 
to fight.' Let us never forget that ' He is the 
Rock, that his work is perfect, and all his ways 
are judgment.' 

How many seem to show not only their want 
of affiance in God, but that ' he is not in all 
their thoughts,' by their appearing to leave him 
entirely out of their concerns, by projecting 
their affairs without any reference to him, by 
setting out on the stock of their own unassisted 
wisdom, contriving and acting independently of 
God ; expecting prosperity in the event, without 
seeking his direction in the outset, and taking 
to themselves the whole honour of the success 
without any recognition of his hand ! do they 
not thus virtually imitate what Sophocles makes 
his blustering Atheist* boast : ' Let other men 
expect to conquer with the assistance of the 
gods, I intend to gain honour without them.' 

The Christian will rather rejoice to ascribe 
the glory of his prosperity to the same hand 
to which our own manly queen gladly ascribed 
her signal victory. When after the defeat of 
the Armada, impiously termed invincible, her 
enemies, in order to lower the value of her 
agency, alleged that the victory was not owing 
to her, but to God who had raised the storm, she 
heroically declared that the visible interference 
of God in her favour was that part of the sue 
cess from which she derived the truest honour. 

Incidents and occasions every day arise, which 
not only call on us to trust in God, but which 
furnish us with suitable occasion of vindicating, 
if I may presume to use the expression, the 
character and conduct of the Almighty in the 
government of human affairs; yet there is no 
duty which we perform with less alacrity 
Strange, that we should treat the Lord of hea- 
ven and earth with less confidence than we ex- 
ercise towards each other ! That we should vin- 
dicate the honour of a common acquaintance 
with more zeal than that of our insulted Maker 
and Preserver ! 

If we hear a friend accused of any act of in- 
justice, though we cannot bring any positive 
proof why he should be acquitted of this specific 
charge, yet we resent the injury offered to hia 
character ; we clear him of the individual alle- 
gation on the ground of his general conduct, in- 
ferring that from the numerous instances we 

♦Ajax. 



442 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



can produce of liis rectitude on other occasions, 
he cannot be guilty of the alleged injustice. We 
reason from analogy, and in general we reason 
fairly. But when we presume to judge of the 
Most High, instead of vindicating his rectitude 
on the same grounds, under a providence seem- 
ingly severe ; instead of reverting, as in the case 
of our friend, to the thousand instances we have 
formerly tasted of his kindness; instead of giving 
God the same credit we give to his erring crea- 
ture, and inferring from his past goodness, that 
the present inexplicable dispensation must be 
consistent, though we cannot explain how, with 
his general character, we mutinously accuse 
him of inconsistency, nay of injustice. We ad- 
mit virtually the most monstrous anomaly in the 
character of the perfect God. 

But what a ciue has revelation furnished to 
the intricate labyrinth which seems to involve 
the conduct which we impiously question ! It 
unrols the volume of divine Providence, lays 
open the mysterious map of infinite wisdom, 
throws a bright light on the darkest dispensa- 
tions, vindicates the inequality of appearances, 
and points to that blessed region, where to all 
who have truly loved and served God, every ap- 
parent wrong shall be approved to have been un- 
impeachably right, every affliction a mere}', and 
the severest trials the shortest blessings. 

So blind has sin made us, that the glory of 
God is concealed from us, by the very means 
which, could we discern aright, would display 
it. That train of second causes, which he has 
so marvellously disposed, obstructs our view of 
himself. We are so filled with wonder at the 
immediate effect, that our short sight penetrates 
not to the first cause. To see him as he is, is 
reserved to be the happiness of a better world. 
We shall then indeed ' admire him in his saints, 
and in all them that believe ;' we shall see how 
necessary it was for those whose bliss is now so 
perfect, to have been poor, and despised, and op- 
pressed. We shall see why the ' ungodly were 
in such prosperity.' Let us give God credit 
here for what we shall then fully know ; let us 
adore now, what we shall understand hereafter. 

They who take up religion on a false ground 
will never adhere to it. If they adopt it merely 
for the peace and pleasantness it brings, they 
will desert it as soon as they find their adherence 
to it will bring them into difficulty, distress, or 
discredit. It seldom answers therefore to at- 
tempt making proselytes by hanging out false 
colours. The Christian ' endures as seeing him 
who is invisible.' He who adopts religion for 
the sake of immediate enjoyment, will not do a 
virtuous action that is disagreeable to himself; 
nor resist a temptation that is alluring, present 
pleasure being his motive. There is no sure 
basis for virtue but the love of God in Christ 
Jesus, and the bright reversion for which that 
love is pledged. Without this, as soon as the 
paths of piety become rough and thorny, we 
ehall stray into pleasant pastures. 

Religion, however, has her own peculiar ad- 
vantages. In the transaction of all worldly af- 
fairs, there are many and great difficulties. 
There may be several ways out of which to 
choose. Men of the first understanding are not 
always certain which of these ways is the best. 



Persons of the deepest penetration are full of 
doubt and perplexity ; their minds are undecided 
how to act, lest while they pursue one road, 
they may be neglecting another which might 
better have conducted thorn to their proposed 
end. 

In religion the case is different, and, in this 
respect, easy. As a Christian can have but one 
object in view, he is also certain there is but one 
way of attaining it. Where there is but ono 
end, it prevents all possibility of choosing wrong 
— where there is but one road, it takes away all 
perplexity as to the course of pursuit. That we 
so often wander wide of the mark, is not from 
any want of plainness in the path, but from the 
perverseness of our will in not choosing it, 
from the indolence of our mind in not following 
it up. 

In our attachments to earthly things, even the 
most innocent, there is always a danger of ex- 
cess ; but from this danger we are here perfectly 
exempt, for there is no possibility of excess in 
our love to that Being who has demanded the 
whole heart. This peremptory requisition cuts 
off all debate. Had God required only a portion, 
even were it a large portion, we might be puzzled 
in settling the quantum. We might be plotting 
how large a part we might venture to keep back 
without absolutely forfeiting our safety ; we 
might be haggling for deductions, bargaining 
for abatements, and be perpetually compromising 
with our Maker. But the injunction is entire, 
the command is definitive, the portion is unequi- 
vocal. Though it is so compressed in the ex- 
pression, yet it is so expansive and ample in the 
measure : it is so distinct a claim, so imperative 
a requisition of all the faculties of the mind and 
strength; all the affections of the heart and 
soul : that there is not the least opening left for 
litigation ; no place for any thing but absolute 
unreserved compliance. 

Every thing which relates to God is infinite. 
We must therefore while we keep our hearts 
humble, keep our aims high. Our highest ser- 
vices indeed are but finite, imperfect. But as 
God is unlimited in goodness, he should have 
our unlimited love. The best we can offer is 
poor, but let us not withhold that best. He de- 
serves incomparably more than we have to give. 
Let us not give him less than all. If he has en- 
nobled our corrupt nature with spiritual affec- 
tions, let us not refuse their noblest aspirations, 
to their noblest object. Let him not behold us 
so prodigally lavishing our affections on the 
meanest of his bounties, as to have nothing left 
for himself. As the standard of every thing in ' 
religion is high, let us endeavour to act in it with 
the highest intention of mind, with the largest 
use of our faculties. Let us obey him with tho 
most intense love, adore him with the most fer- 
vent gratitude. Let us ' praise him according 
to his excellent greatness.' Let us serve him 
with all the strength of our capacity, with all 
the devotion of our will. 

Grace being a new principle added to our na- 
tural powers, as it determines the desires to a 
higher object, so it adds vigour to their activity. 
We shall best prove its dominion over us by de- 
siring to exert ourselves in the cause of heaven 
with the same energy with which wo once ex 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



443 



erted ourselves in the cause of the world. The 
world was too little to fill our whole capacity. 
Scaliger lamented how much was lost because 
so fine a poet as Claudian, in his choice of a sub- 
ject, wanted matter worthy of his talent; but it 
is the felicity of the Christian to have chosen a 
theme to which all the powers of his heart and 
of his understanding will be found inadequate. 
It is the glory of religion to supply an object 
worthy of the entire consecration of every power, 
faculty and affection of an immaterial, immortal 
being. 



CHAP. VIII. 

The Hand of God to be acknowledged in the 
daily circumstances of life. 

If we would indeed love God, let us ' acquaint 
ourselves with him.' The word of inspiration 
has assured us that there is no other way to ' be 
at peace.' As we cannot love an unknown God, 
so neither can we know him, or even approach 
toward that knowledge, but on the terms which 
he himself holds out to us; neither will he save 
us but in the method which he himself has pre- 
scribed. His very perfections, the just objects 
of our adoration, all stand in the way of crea- 
tures so guilty. His justice is the flaming 
sword which excludes us from the Paradise we 
have forfeited. His purity is so opposed to our 
corruptions, his omnipotence to our infirmity, 
his wisdom to our folly, that had we not to plead 
the great propitiation, those very attributes which 
are now our trust, would be our terror. The 
most opposite images of human conception, the 
widest extremes of human language, are used 
for the purpose of showing what God is to us in 
our natural state, and what he is under the 
Christian dispensation. The 'consuming fire' 
is transformed into essential love. 

But as we cannot find out the Almighty to 
perfection, so we cannot love him with that pure 
flame, which animates glorified spirits. But 
there is a preliminary acquaintance with him, 
an initial love of him, for which he has furnish- 
ed us with means by his works, by his word, 
and by his Spirit. Even in this weak and bar- 
ren soil some germs will shoot, some blossoms 
will open, of that celestial plant, which, watered 
by the dews of heaven, and ripened by the Sun 
of righteousness, will, in a more genial clime, 
expand into the fulness of perfection, and bear 
immortal fruits in the Paradise of God. 

A person of a cold phlegmatic temper, who 
laments that he wants that fervor in his love of 
the Supreme Being, which is apparent in more 
ardent characters, may take comfort, if he find 
the same indifference respecting his worldly at- 
tachments. But if his affections are intense to- 
wards the perishable things of earth, while they 
are dead to such as are spiritual, it does not 
prove that he is destitute of passions, but only 
that they are not directed to the proper object. 
If, however, he love God with that measure of 
feeling with which God has endowed him, he 
will r.ot be punished or rewarded because the 
stock is greater or smaller than that of some 
other of his fellow creatures. 



In those intervals when our sense of divine 
things is weak and low, we must not give way 
to distrust, but warm our hearts with the recol- 
lection of our best moments. Our motives to 
love and gratitude are not now diminished, but 
our spiritual frame is lower, our natural spirits 
are weaker. Where there is languor there will 
be discouragements. But we must not desist. 
1 Faint yet pursuing,' must be the Christian's 
motto. 

There is more merit (if ever we dare apply so 
arrogant a word to our worthless efforts) in per- 
severing under depression and discomfort, than 
in the happiest flow of devotion, when the tide 
of health and spirits runs high. Where there 
is less gratification there is more disinterested- 
ness. We ought to consider it as a cheering 
evidence, that our love may be equally pure 
though it is not equally fervent, when we persist 
in serving our heavenly Father with the same 
constancy, though it may please him to with- 
draw from us the same consolations. Perse- 
verance may bring us to the very dispositions 
the absence of which we are lamenting — 'O 
tarry thou the Lord's leisure, be strong and he 
shall comfort thy heart.' 

We are too ready to imagine that we are reli- 
gious, because we know something of religion. 
We appropriate to ourselves the pious sentiments 
we read, and we talk as if the thoughts of other 
men's heads were really the feelings of our own 
hearts. But piety has not its seat in the memo- 
ry, but in the affections, for which however the 
memory is an excellent purveyor, though a bad 
substitute. Instead of an undue elation of heart 
when we peruse some of the psalmist's beautiful 
effusions, we should feel a deep self-abasement 
at the reflection, that however our case may 
sometimes resemble his, yet how inapplicable to 
our hearts are the ardent expressions of his re- 
pentance, the overflowing of his gratitude, the 
depth of his submission, the entireness of his 
self-dedication, the fervour of his love. But he 
who indeed can once say with him, 'Thou art 
my portion,' will, like him, surrender himself 
unreservedly to his service. 

It is important that we never suffer our faith, 
any more than our love, to be depressed or ele- 
vated, by mistaking for its own operations, the 
ramblings of a busy imagination. The steady 
principle of faith must not look for its character 
to the vagaries of a mutable and fantastic fancy 
—La folle de la Maison, as she has been well 
denominated. Faith which has once fixed her 
foot on the immutable Rock of Ages, fastened 
her firm eye on the Cross, and stretched out her 
triumphant hand to seize the promised crown, 
will not suffer her stability to depend on this 
ever-shifting faculty ; she will not be driven to 
despair by the blackest shades of its pencil, nor 
be betrayed into a careless security, by its most 
flattering and vivid colours. 

One cause of the fluctuations of our faith is, 
that we are too ready to judge the Almighty by 
our own low standard. We judge him not by 
his own declarations of what he is, and what he 
will do, but by our own feelings and practices. 
We ourselves are too little disposed to forgive 
those who have offended us. We thereibre 
conclude that God cannot pardon our offences 



444 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



We suspect him to be implacable, because we 
are apt to be so, and we are unwilling' to believe 
that he can pass by injuries, because we find 
it so hard to do it. When we do forgive, it is 
grudgingly and superficially ; we therefore infer 
that God cannot forgive freely and fully. We 
make a hypocritical distinction between for- 
giving and forgetting injuries. God clears away 
the score when he grants the pardon. He does 
not only say, ' thy sins and thy iniquities will 
I forgive,' but ' I will remember them no more.' 

We are disposed to urge the smallness of our 
offences, as a plea for their forgiveness ; whereas 
God to exhibit the boundlessness of his own 
mercy, has taught us to allege a plea directly 
contrary — 'Lord, pardon my iniquity, for it is 
great.'' To natural reason this argument of 
David is most extraordinary. But while he 
felt that the greatness of his own iniquity left 
him no resource, but in the mercy of God, he 
felt that God's mercy was greater even than his 
own sin. What a large, what a magnificent 
idea does it give us of the divine power and good- 
ness, that the believer, instead of pleading the 
smallness of his own offences as a motive for 
pardon, pleads only the abundance of the divine 
compassion ! 

We are told that it is the duty of the Christian 
to ' seek God.' We assent to the truth of the 
proposition. Yet it would be less irksome to 
corrupt nature, in pursuit of this knowledge, to 
go a pilgrimage to distant lands, than to seek 
him within our own hearts. Our own heart is 
the true terra incognitia : a land more foreign 
and unknown to us, then the regions of the polar 
circle. Yet that heart is the place, in which an 
acquaintance with God must be sought. It is 
there we must worship him, if we would wor- 
ship him in spirit and in truth. 

But, alas ! the heart is not the home of a 
worldly man, it is scarcely the home of a Chris- 
tian. If business and pleasure are the natural 
element of the generality — a dreary vacuity, 
sloth and insensibility, too often worse than both, 
disincline, disqualify too many Christians for 
the pursuit. 

I have observed, and I think I have heard 
others observe, that a common beggar had 
rather screen himself under the wall of a church- 
yard, if overtaken by a shower of rain, though 
the church door stand invitingly open, than take 
shelter within it, while divine service is per- 
forming. It is a less annoyance to him to be 
drenched with the storm, than to enjoy the con- 
venience of a shelter and a seat, if he must en- 
joy them at the heavy price of listening to the 
sermon. 

While we condemn the beggar, let us look 
into our own hearts ; happy if we cannot there 
detect somewhat of the same indolence, indis- 
posedness, and distaste to serious things ! Hap- 
py, if we do not find, that we prefer not only 
our pleasures and enjoyments, but, I had almost 
said, our very pains, and vexations, and incon- 
veniences, to communing with our Maker ! 
Happy, if we had not rather be absorbed in our 
petty cares, and little disturbances, provided we 
can contrive to make them the means of occupy- 
ing our thoughts, filling up our minds, and 
drawing them away from that devout inter- 



course, which demands the liveliest exercise of 
our rational powers, the highest elevation of our 
spiritual affections ! Is it not to be apprehended, 
that the dread of being driven to this sacred in- 
tercourse is one grand cause of that activity and 
restlessness, which sets the world in such per- 
petual motion ? 

Though we are ready to express a general 
sense of our confidence in Almighty goodness, 
yet what definite meaning do we annex to the 
expression ? What practical evidences have we 
to produce, that we really do trust him ? Does 
this trust deliver us from worldly anxiety ? Does 
it exonerate us from the same perturbation of 
spirits, which those endure who make no such 
profession ? Does it relieve the mind from doubt 
and distrust ? Does it tranquillize the troubled 
heart, does it regulate its disorders, and com- 
pose its fluctuations ? Does it sooth us under 
irritation ? Does it support under trials ? Does 
it fortify us against temptations ? Does it lead 
us to repose a full confidence in that Being 
whom we profess to trust ? Does it produce in 
us, ' that work of righteousness, which is peace,' 
that effect of righteousness, which is 'quietness 
and assurance for ever V Do we commit our- 
selves and our concerns to God in word, or in 
reality ? Does this implicit reliance simplify 
our desires ? Does it induce us to credit the 
testimony of his word and the promises of his 
Gospel ? Do we not even entertain some secret 
suspicions of his faithfulness and truth in our 
hearts, when we persuade others and try to per- 
suade ourselves that we unreservedly trust him. 

In the preceding chapter we endeavoured to 
illustrate our want of love to God, by our not 
being as forward to vindicate the divine conduct 
as to justify that of an acquaintance. The same 
illustration may express our reluctance to trust 
in God. If a tried friend engage to do us a 
kindness, though he may not think it necesssary 
to explain the particular manner in which he 
intends to do it, we repose on his word. Assur- 
ed of the result, we are neither very inquisitive 
about the mode nor the detail. But do we treat 
our Almighty friend with the same liberal con- 
fidence ? Are we not murmuring because we 
cannot see all the process of his administration, 
and follow his movements step by step ? Do we 
wait the development of his plan, in full assur- 
ance that the issue will be ultimately good ? 
Do we trust that he is as abundantly willing as 
able, to do more for us than we can ask or think, 
if by our suspicions we do not offend him, if by 
our infidelity we do not provoke him 1 In short, 
do we not think ourselves utterly undone, when 
we have only but Providence to trust to ? 

We are perhaps ready enough to acknowledge 
God in our mercies, nay, we confess him in the 
ordinary enjoyments of life. In some of these 
common mercies, as in a bright day, a refresh- 
ing shower, a delightful scenery, a kind of sen- 
sitive pleasure, an hilarity of spirits, a sort of 
animal enjoyment, though of a refined nature, 
mixes itself with our devotional feelings ; and 
though we confess and adore the bountiful 
Giver, we do it with a little mixture of self-com- 
placency, and of human gratification, which he 
pardons and accepts. 

But we must look for hirn in scenes less ani 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



445 



mating, we must acknowledge him on occa- 
sions less exhilarating, less sensibly gratifying. 
It is not only in his promises that God manifests 
his mercy. His threatenings are proofs of the 
same compassionate love. He threatens, not to 
punish, but by the warning, to snatch from the 
punishment. 

We may also trace marks of his hand, not 
only in the awful visitations of life, not only in 
the severer dispensations of his providence, but 
in vexations so trivial that we should hesitate to 
suspect that they are providential appointments, 
did we not know that our daily life is made up 
of unimportant circumstances rather than of 
great events. As they are, however, of suffi- 
cient importance to exercise the Christian tem- 
pers and affections, we may trace the hand of 
our heavenly Father in those daily little disap- 
pointments and hourly vexations, which occur 
even in the most prosperous state, and which 
are inseparable from the condition of humanity. 
— We must trace that same beneficent hand, 
secretly at work for our purification, our cor- 
rection, our weaning from life ; in the imper- 
fections and disagreeableness of those who may 
be about us ; in the perverseness of those with 
whom we transact business, and in those inter- 
ruptions which break in upon our favourite en- 
gagements. 

We are perhaps too much addicted to our in- 
nocent delights, or we are too fond of our leisure, 
of our learned, even of our religious leisure. 
But while we say it is good for us to be here, 
the divine vision is withdrawn, and we are com- 
pelled to come down from the mount. Or, per- 
haps, we do not improve our retirement to the 
purposes for which it was granted, and to which 
we had resolved to devote it, and our time is 
broken in upon to make us more sensible of its 
value. Or we feel a complacency in our leisure, 
a pride in our books ; perhaps we feel proud of 
the good things we are intending to say, or me- 
ditating to write, or preparing to do. A check 
is necessary, yet it is given in a way almost im- 
perceptible. The hand that gives it is unseen, 
is unsuspected, yet it is the same gracious hand 
which directs the more important events of life. 
An importunate application, a disqualifying, 
though not severe indisposition, a family avoca- 
tion, a letter important to the writer, but un- 
seasonable to us, breaks in on our projected 
privacy ; calls us to a sacrifice of our inclination, 
to a renunciation of our own will. These inces- 
sant trials of temper, if well improved, may be 
more salutary to the mind, than the finest pas- 
sage we had intended to read, or the sublimest 
sentiment we had fancied we should write. 

Instead then of going in search of great mor- 
tifications, as a certain class of, pious writers 
recommend, let us cheerfully bear and diligently 
improve these inferior trials which God pre- 
pares for us. Submission to a cross which he 
inflicts, to a disappointment which he sends, to a 
contradiction of our self-love, which he appoints, 
is a far better exercise than great penances of 
our own choosing. Perpetual conquests over im- 
patience, ill-temper, and self-will, indicate a bet- 
ter spirit than any self-imposed mortification. 
We may traverse oceans, and scale mountains 
on uncommanded pilgrimages, without pleasing 



God ; we may please him without any other ex- 
ertion than by crossing our own will. 

Perhaps you had been busying your imagina- 
tion with some projected scheme, not only law- 
ful, but laudable. The design was radically 
good, but the supposed value of your own 
agency, might too much interfere, might a little 
taint the purity of your best intentions. The 
motives were so mixed that it was difficult to 
separate them. Sudden sickness obstructed the 
design. You naturally lament the failure, not 
perceiving that, however good the work might 
be for others, the sickness was better for your- 
self. An act of charity was in your intention, 
but God saw that your soul required the exercise 
of a more difficult virtue ; that humility and re- 
signation, that the patience, acquiescence, and 
contrition of a sick bed, were more necessary 
for you. He accepts the meditated work as far 
as it was designed for his glory, but he calls 
his servant to other duties, which were more 
salutary for him, and of which the master was 
the better judge. He sets aside his work, and 
orders him to wait, the more difficult part of 
his task. As far as your motive was pure, you 
will receive the reward of your unperformed 
charity, though not the gratification of the per- 
formance. If it was not pure, you are rescued 
from the danger attending a right action per- 
formed on a worldly principle. You may be 
the better Christian though one good deed is 
subtracted from your catalogue. 

By a life of activity and usefulness, you had 
perhaps attracted the public esteem. — An ani- 
mal activity had partly stimulated your exer- 
tions. The love of reputation begins to mix 
itself with your better motives. You do not, it 
is presumed, act entirely or chiefly for human 
applause ; but you are too sensible to it. It is a 
delicious poison which begins to infuse itself 
into your purest cup. You acknowledge indeed 
the sublimity of higher motives, but do you 
never feel that, separated from this accompani- 
ment of self, they would be too abstracted, too 
speculative, and might become too little produc- 
tive both of activity and of sensible gratifica- 
tion ? You begin to feel the human incentive 
necessary, and your spirits would flag if it were 
withdrawn. 

This sensibility to praise would gradually 
tarnish the purity of your best actions. Ho 
who sees your heart, as well as your works, 
mercifully snatches you from the perils of pros- 
perity. Malice is awakened. Your most meri- 
torious actions are ascribed to the most corrupt 
motives. You are attacked just where your 
character is least vulnerable. The enemies 
whom your success raised up, are raised up by 
God, less to punish than to save you. We are 
far from meaning that he can ever be the author 
of evil; he does not excite or approve the ca- 
lumny, but he uses your calumniators as instru 
ments of your purification. Your fame was too 
dear to you. It is a costly sacrifice, but God 
requires it. It must be offered up. You would 
gladly compound for any, for every other offer- 
ing, but this is the offering he chooses : and 
while ho graciously continues to employ you 
for his glory, he thus teaches you to renounce 
your own. Ho sends this trial as a test, by 



446 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



which you are to try yourself. He thus instructs 
you not to abandon your Christian exertions, but 
to elevate the principle which inspired them, to 
defecate it from all impure admixtures. 

By thus stripping the most engaging employ- 
ments of this dangerous delight, by infusing 
some drops of salutary bitterness into our sweet- 
est draught, by some of these ill-tasted but whole- 
some mercies, he graciously compels us to re- 
turn to himself. By taking away the stays by 
which we are perpetually propping up our frail 
delights, they fall to the ground. We are as it 
were driven back to Him, who condescends to 
receive us, after we have tried every thing else, 
and after every thing else has failed us, and 
though he knows we should not have returned 
to Him if every thing else had not failed us. He 
makes us feel our weakness, that we may have 
recourse to his strength ; he makes us sensible 
of our hitherto unperceived sins, that we may 
take refuge in his everlasting compassion 



CHAP. IX. 

Christianity Universal in its Requisitions. 

It is not unusual to see people get rid of some 
of the most awful injunctions, and emancipate 
themselves from some of the most solemn re- 
quisitions of Scripture, by affecting to believe 
that they do not apply to them. They consider 
them as belonging exclusively to the first age 
of the Gospel, and to the individuals to whom 
they were immediately addressed ; consequently 
the necessity to observe them does not extend to 
persons under an established Christianity, to 
hereditary Christians. 

These exceptions are particularly applied to 
some of the leading doctrines, so forcibly and 
repeatedly pressed in the Epistles. The reason- 
ers endeavour to persuade themselves that it was 
only the Ephesians, ' who are dead in trespasses 
and sins' — that it was only the Galatians who 
are enjoined ' not to fulfil the lusts of the flesh' — 
that it was only the Philippians who were ' ene- 
mies to the cross of Christ.' They shelter them- 
selves under the comfortable assurances of a 
geographical security. As they know that they 
are neither Ephesians, Galatians, nor Philippi- 
ans, they have of course little or nothing to do 
with the reproofs, expostulations, or threatenings 
which were originally directed to the converts 
among those people. They console themselves 
with the belief that it was only these pagans 
who ' walked according to the course of this 
world' — who were 'strangers from the covenants 
of promise' — and who were ' without God in the 
world.' 

But these self-satisfied critics would do well 
to learn that not only ' circumcision or uncir- 
cumcision,' — but baptism or no baptism ' avail- 
eth nothing,' (I mean as a mere form) ' but a 
new creature.' An irreligious professor of Chris- 
tianity is as much • a stranger and foreigner, as 
a heathen ; he is no more ' a fellow citizen of 
the saints,' and of the household of God than a 
Colosian or Galatian was, before the Christian 
dispensation had reached them. 

But the persons to whom the Apostles preach- 



ed had, before their conversion no vices to wlncli 
we are not liable, they had certainly difficulties 
afterwards from which we are happily exempt 
There were indeed differences between them 
and us in external situation, in local circum- 
stances, references which we ought certainly to 
take into the account in perusing the epistles 
We allow that they were Immediately, but we 
do not allow that they were exclusively, appli- 
cable to them. It would have been too limited 
an object for inspiration to have confined its in- 
structions to any one period, when its purpose 
was the conversion and instruction of the whole 
unborn world. That these converts were mira- 
culously 'called out of darkness into the mavel- 
lous light of the gospel' — that they were changed 
from gross blindness to a rapid illumination — 
that the embracing the new faith exposed them 
to persecution, reproach and ignominy — that the 
few had to struggle against the world — that 
laws, principalities and powers which support 
our faith opposed theirs — these are distinctions 
of which we ought not to lose sight: nor should 
we forget that not only all the disadvantages lay 
on their side in this antecedent condition, but 
that also all the superiority lies on ours in that 
which is subsequent. 

But however the condition of the external 
state of the Church might differ, there can be no 
necessity for any difference in the interior state 
of the individual Christian. On whatever high 
principles of devotedness to God and love to man 
they were called to act, we are called to act on 
precisely the same. If their faith was called to 
more painful exertions, if their self-denial to 

[ harder sacrifices, if their renunciation of earthly 
things to severer trials, let us thankfully remem- 
ber this would naturally be the case at the first 
introduction of a religion which had to combat 
with the pride, prejudices and enmity of corrupt 
nature, invested with temporal power : — That 

I the hostile party would not fail to perceive how 
much the new religion opposed itself to their 

J corruptions, and that it was introducing a spirit 
which was in direct and avowed hostility to the 

I spirit of the world. 

But while we are deeply thankful for the di- 
minished difficulties of an established faith, let 
us never forget that Christianity allows of no di- 
minution in the temper, of no abatement in the 
spirit, which constituted a Christian in the first 
ages of the church. 

Christianity is precisely the same religion 
now as it was when our Saviour was upon earth. 
The spirit of the world is exactly the same now 
as it was then. And if the most eminent of the 
apostles, under the immediate guidance of in- 
spiration were driven to lament their conflicts 
with their own corrupt nature, the power of 
temptation, combining with their natural pro- 
pensities to evil, how can we expect that a lower 
faith, a slackened zeal, an abated diligence, and 
an inferior holiness will be accepted in us ? Be- 
lievers then were not called to higher degress of 
purity, to a more elevated devotion, to a deeper 
humility, to greater rectitude, patience and sin- 
cerity, than they are called to in the age in 
which we live. The promises are not limited 
to the period in which they were made, the aid 
of the Spirit is not confined to those on whom it 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



447 



was first poured out. It was expressly declared 
by St. Peter on its first effusion, to be promised 
not only ' to them and their children, but to all 
who were afar off, even to as many as the Lord 
their God should call.' 

If then the same salvation be now offered as 
was offered at first, is it not obvious that it must 
be worked out in the same way ? And as the 
same Gospel retains the same authority in all 
ages, so does it maintain the same universality 
among all ranks. Christianity has no by-laws, 
no particular exemptions, no individual immu- 
nities. That there is no appropriate way of at- 
taining salvation for a prince or a philosopher, 
is probably one reason why greatness and wis- 
dom have so often rejected it. But if rank can- 
not plead its privileges, genius cannot claim its 
distinctions. That Christianity does not owe 
its success to the arts of rhetoric or the sophistry 
of the schools, but that God intended by it ' to 
make foolish the wisdom of this world,' actually 
explains why ' the disputers of this world' have 
always been its enemies. 

It would have been unworthy of the infinite 
God to have imparted a partial religion. There 
is but one ' gate,' and that a ' strait' one ; but 
one ' way,' and that a ' narrow' one ; there is 
but one salvation and that a common one. The 
Gospel enjoins the same principles of love and 
obedience on all of every condition ; offers the 
same aids under the same exigencies ; the same 
supports under all trials ; the same pardon to all 
penitents ; the same Saviour to all believers ; 
the same rewards to all who ' endure to the end.' 
The temptations of one condition and the trials 
of another may call for the exercise of different 
qualities, for the performance of different duties, 
but the same personal holiness is enjoined on 
all. External acts of virtue may be promoted 
by some circumstances, and impeded by others, 
but the graces of inward piety are of universal 
force, are of eternal obligation. 

The universality of its requisitions is one of 
its most distinguishing characteristics. In the 
pagan world it seemed sufficient that a few ex- 
alted spirits, a few fine geniuses should soar to 
a vast superiority above the mass ; but it was 
never expected that the mob of Rome or Athens, 
should aspire to any religious sentiments or feel- 
ings in common with Socrates or Epictetus. I 
6ay religious sentiments, because in matters of 
taste the distinctions were less striking, for the 
mob of Athens were competent critics in the 
dramatic art, while they were sunk in the most 
stupid and degrading idolatry. As to those of a 
higher class, while no subject in science, arts or 
learning was too lofty or too abstruse for their 
acquisition, no object in nature was too low, no 
conception of a depraved imagination was too 
impure for their worship. While the civil and 
political wisdom of the Romans was carried to 
such perfection that their code of laws has still 
a place in the most enlightened countries, their 
deplorably gross superstitions, rank them in 
point of religion with the savages of Africa. It 
shows how little a way that reason, which ma- 
nifested itself with such unrivalled vigour in 
their poets, orators and historians, as to make 
them still models to ours, could go in what re- 
lated to religion, when these polished people, in 



the objects of their worship, are only on a par 
with the inhabitants of Otaheite. 

It furnishes the most incontrovertible proof 
that the world by wisdom knew not God, that it 
was at the very time, and in the very country, 
in which knowledge and taste has attained their 
utmost perfection, when the porch and the aca- 
demy had given laws to human intellect, that 
atheism first assumed a shape, and established 
itself into a school of philosophy. It was at the 
moment when the mental powers were carried 
to the highest pitch in Greece, that it was settled 
as an infallible truth in this philosophy, that the 
senses were the highest natural light of mankind. 
It was in the most enlightened age of Rome that 
this atheistical philosophy was transplanted 
thither, and that one of her most elegant poets 
adopted it, and rendered popular by the bewitch- 
ing graces of his verse. 

It seems as if the most accomplished nations 
stood in the most pressing need of the light of 
Revelation ; for it was not to the dark and stupid 
corners of the earth that the apostles had their 
earliest missions. One of St. Paul's first and 
noblest expositions of Christian truth was made 
before the most august deliberative assembly in 
the world, though, by the way, it does not ap- 
pear that more than one member of the Areopa- 
gus was converted. In Rome, some of the apos- 
tle's earliest converts belonged to the imperial 
palace. It was to the metropolis of cultivated 
Italy, it was to the ' regions of Achaia,' to the 
opulent and luxurious city of Corinth, in pre- 
ference to the barbarous countries of the unci- 
vilized world, that some of his first epistles were 
addressed. 

Even natural religion was little understood by 
those who professed it ; it was full of obscurity 
till viewed by the clear light of the Gospel. Not 
only natural religion remained to be clearly 
comprehended, but reason itself remained to be 
carried to its highest pitch in the countries 
where Revelation is professed. Natural Reli- 
gion could not see itself by its own light, Reason 
could not extricate itself from the labyrinth of 
error and ignorance in which false religion had 
involved the world. Grace has raised Nature. 
Revelation has given a lift to Reason, and taught 
her to despise the follies and corruptions which 
obscured her brightness. If nature is now deli- 
vered from darkness, it was the helping hand 
of Revelation which raised her from the rubbish 
in which she lay buried. 

Christianity has not only given us right con- 
ceptions of God, of his holiness, of the way in 
which he will be worshipped ; it has not only 
given us principles to promote our happiness 
here, and to insure it hereafter ; but it has really 
taught us what a proud philosophy arrogates to 
itself, the right use of reason. It has given us 
those principles of examining and judging, by 
which we are enabled to determine on the ab- 
surdity of false religions. ' For to what else 
can it be ascribed,' says the sagacious bishop 
Sherlock, ' that in every nation that names the 
name of Christ, even reason and nature see and 
condemn the follies, to which others are still, 
for \v;int of the same help, held in subjection ?' 

Allowing however that Plato and Antonius 
seemed to have been taught of heaven, yet the 



448 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



object for which we contend is, that no provi- 
sion was made for the vulgar. While a feint 
ray shone on the page of philosophy, the people 
were involved in darkness which might be felt. 
The million were left to live without knowledge, 
and to die without hope- For what knowledge 
or what hope would be acquired from the pre- 
posterous, though amusing, and in many re- 
spects elegant mythology, which they might 
pick up in their poets, the belief of which seem- 
ed to be confined to the populace. 

But there was no common principle of hope 
or fear, of faith or practice ; no motive of conso- 
lation, no bond of charity, no communion of 
everlasting interest, no reversionary equality 
between the wise and the ignorant, the master 
and the slave, the Greek and the barbarian. 

A religion was wanted which should be of 
general application. Christianity happily ac- 
commodated itself to the common exigencies. It 
furnished an adequate supply to the universal 
want. Instead of perpetual but unexpiating sa- 
crifices to appease imaginary deities, 

Gods, such as guilt makes welcome, 

it presents 'one oblation once offered, a full, 
perfect, and sufficient sacrifice, oblation, and 
satisfaction for the sins of the whole world.' It 
presents one consistent scheme of morals grow- 
ing out of one uniform system of doctrines; one 
perfect rule of practice, depending on one prin- 
ciple of faith; it offers grace to direct the one 
and to assist the other. It encircles the whole 
sphere of duty with the broad and golden zone 
of coalescing charity, stamped with the inscrip- 
tion ' a new commandment give I unto you, 
that you love one another.' Christianity instead 
of destroying the distinctions of rank, or break- 
ing in on the regulations of society, by this uni- 
versal precept, furnishes new fences to its order, 
additional security to its repose, and fresh 
strength to its subordinations. 

Were this command, so inevitably productive 
of that peculiarly Christian injunction of doing 
to others as we would they should do unto us,' 
uniformly observed, the whole frame of society 
would be cemented and consolidated into one 
indissoluble bond of universal brotherhood. This 
divinely enacted law is the seminal principle of 
justice, charity, patience, forbearance, in short, 
of all social virtue. That it does not produce 
these excellent effects, is not owing to any de- 
fect in the principle, but in our corrupt nature, 
which so reluctantly, so imperfectly obeys it. 
If it were conscientiously adopted, and substan- 
tially acted upon, received in its very spirit, and 
obeyed from the ground of the heart, human 
laws might be abrogated, courts of justice abo- 
lished, and treaties of morality burnt ; war 
would be no longer an art, nor military tactics 
a science. We should suffer long and be kind, 
and so far from 'seeking that which is ano- 
ther's.' we should not even ' seek our own.' 

But let not the soldier or the lawyer be alarm- 
ed. — Their craft is in no danger. The world 
does not intend to act upon the divine principle 
which would injure their professions ; and till 
this only revolution which good men desire ac- 
tually takes place, our fortunes will not be se- 



cure without the exertions of the one, nor our 
lives without the protection of the other. 

All the virtues have their appropriate place 
and rank in Scripture. They are introduced as 
individually, beautifully, and as reciprocally con- 
nected, like the graces in the mythologic dance. 
But perhaps no Christian grace ever sat to the 
hand of a more consummate master than Cha- 
rity. Her incomparable painter, St. Paul, has 
drawn her at full length in all her fair propor- 
tions. Every attitude is full of grace, every line- 
ament of beauty. The whole delineation is per- 
fect and entire, wanting nothing. 

Who can look at this finished piece without 
blushing at his own want of likeness to it ? Yet 
if this conscious dissimilitude induce a cordial 
desire of resemblance, the humiliation will be 
salutary. Perhaps a more frequent contempla 
tion of this exquisite figure, accompanied with 
earnest endeavours for a growing resemblance, 
would gradually lead us, not barely to admire 
the portrait, but would at length assimilate us 
to the divine original. 



CHAP. X. 

Christian Holiness. 

Christianity then, as we have attempted to 
show in the preceding chapter, exhibits no dif- 
ferent standards of goodness applicable to dif- 
ferent stations or characters. No one can be 
allowed to rest in a low degree, and plead his 
exemption for aiming no higher. No one can 
be secure in any state of piety below that state 
which would not have been enjoined on all, had 
not all been entitled to the means of attaining it. 

Those who keep their pattern in their eye, 
though they may fail of the highest attainments, 
will not be satisfied with such as are low. The 
striking inferiority will excite compunction ; 
compunction will stimulate them to press on, 
which those never do, who losing sight of their 
standard, are satisfied with the height they have 
reached 

He is not likely to be the object of God's fa- 
vour, who takes his determined stand on the 
very lowest step in the scale of perfection ; who 
does not even aspire above it ; whose aim seems 
to be, not so much to please God as to escape 
punishment. Many however will doubtless be 
accepted, though their progress has been small. - 
their difficulties may have been great, their na- 
tural capacity weak, their temptation strong, 
and their instruction defective. 

Revelation has not only furnished injunctions 
but motives to holiness; not only motives, but 
examples and authorities. ' Be ye therelbre 
perfect' (according to your measure and degree,) 
' as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.' 
And what says the Old Testament ? It accords 
with the New — ' Be ye holy, for I the Lord your 
God am holy.' 

This was the injunction of God himself, not 
given exclusively to Moses, to the leader and 
legislator, or to a few distinguished officers, or 
to a selection of eminent men, but to an im- 
mense body of people even to the whole assem- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



441) 



bled host of Israel; to men of all ranks, profes- 
sions, capacities, and characters, to the minister 
of religion, and to the uninstructed, to enlight- 
ened rulers, and to feeble women. 'God,' says 
an excellent writer,* 'had antecedently given to 
his people particular laws, suited to their several 
exigencies and various conditions ; but the com- 
mand to be holy was a general (might he not 
have said a universal) law.' 

' Who is like unto thee, O Lord, among the 
gods ? Who is like unto thee, glorious in holi- 
ness, fearful in praises, doing wonders ?' This 
is perhaps the sublimest apostrophe of the 
praise (rendered more striking by its inter- 
rogatory form,) which the Scriptures have re- 
corded. It makes a part of the first song of 
gratulation which is to be found in the treasury 
of sacred poetry. The epithet of holy is more 
frequently affixed to the name of God than any 
other. His mighty name is less often invoked, 
than his holy name. To offend against this at- 
tribute is represented as more heinous than to 
oppose any other. It has been remarked that 
the impiety of the Assyrian monarch is not de- 
scribed by his hostility against the great, the 
Almighty God, but it is made an aggravation 
of his crime that he had, committed it against 
the Holy One of Israel. 

When God condescended to give a pledge for 
the performance of his promise, he swears by 
his holiness, as if it were the distinguishing qua- 
lity which was more especiajly binding. It 
seems connected and interwoven with all the 
divine perfections. Which of his excellences 
can we contemplate as separated from this ? Is 
not his justice stamped with sanctity! It is free 
from any tincture of vindictiveness, and is there- 
fore a holy justice. His mercy has none of the 
partiality of favouritism, or capricious fondness 
of human kindness, but is a holy mercy. His 
holiness is not more the source of his mercies 
than of his punishments. If his holiness in his 
severities to us wanted a justification, there can- 
not be at once a more substantial and more 
splendid illustration of it than the noble passage 
already quoted, for he is called ' glorious in ho- 
liness' immediately after he had vindicated the 
honour of his name, by the miraculous destruc- 
tion of the army of Pharaoh. 

Is it not then a necessary consequence grow- 
ing out of his perfections, ' that a righteous God 
lovcth righteousness,' that he will of course re- 
quire in his creatures a desire to imitate as well 
a& lo adore that attribute by which He himself 
loves to be distinguished? We cannot indeed, 
like God, be essentially holy. In an infinite be- 
ing it is a substance, in a created being it is 
only an accident : God is the essence of holiness, 
but we can have no holiness, nor any other good 
thing, but what we derive from him — It is his 
prerogative, but our privilege. 

If God loves holiness because it is his image, 
he must consequently hate sin because it de- 
faces his image. If he glorifies his own mercy 
and goodness in rewarding virtue, he no less 
vindicates the honour of his holiness in the 
punishment of vice. A perfect God can no more 
approve of s:n in his creatures than he can com- 



VOL. I. 



Saurin. 
F2 



mit it himself. He may forgive sin on his own 
conditions, but there are no conditions on which 
he can be reconciled to it. The infinite good- 
ness of God may delight in the beneficial pur- 
poses to which his infinite wisdom has made 
the sins of his creatures subservient, but sin it- 
self will always be abhorrent to his nature. His 
wisdom may turn it to a merciful end, but his 
indignation at the offence cannot be diminished. 
He loves man, for he cannot but love his own 
work ; he hates sin, for that was man's own in- 
vention, and no part of the work which God had 
made. Even in the imperfect administration 
of human laws impunity of crimes would be 
construed into approbation of them.* 

The law of holiness then, is a law binding on 
all persons without distinction, not limited to 
the period nor to the people to whom it was 
given. It reaches through the whole Jewish 
dispensation, and extends with wider demands 
and higher sanctions to every Christian, of 
every denomination, of every age, and every 
country. 

A more sublime motive cannot be assigned 
why we should be holy, than because 'the Lord 
our God is holy.' Men of the world have no ob- 
jection to the terms virtue, morality, integrity, 
rectitude ; but they associate something over- 
acted, not to say hypocritical, with the term 
holiness, and neither use it in a good sense when 
applied to others, nor would wish to have it ap- 
plied to themselves ; but make it over, with a 
little suspicion, "and not a little derision, to puri- 
tans and enthusiasts. 

This suspected epithet, however, is surely 
rescued from every injurious association, if we 
consider it as the chosen attribute of the Most 
High. We do not presume to apply the terms 
virtue, probity, morality, to God ; but we ascribe 
holiness to him because he first ascribed it to 
himself as the aggregate and consummation of 
all his perfections. 

Shall so imperfect a being as man then, ridi- 
cule the application of this term to others, or be 
ashamed of it himself? There is a cause indeed 
which should make him ashamed of the appro- 
priation ; that of not deserving it. This com- 
prehensive appellation includes all the Christian 
graces; all the virtues in their just proportion, 
order, and harmony ; in all their bearings, rela- 
tions, and dependences. And as in God glory 
and holiness are united, so the apostle combines 
' sanctification and honour' as the glory of man. 

Traces more or less of the holiness of God 
may be found in his works, to those who view 
them with the eye of faith. They are more 
plainly visible in his providences ; but it is hi 
his word that we must chiefly look for the ma- 
nifestations of his holiness. He is every where 
described as perfectly holy in himself, as a mo- 
del to be imitated by his creatures, and, though 
with an interval immeasurable, as imitable by 
them. 

The great doctrine of redemption is insepara- 
bly connected with the doctrine of sanctification. 
As an admirable writer has observed, ' If the 
blood of Christ reconcile us to the justice of 
God, the Spirit of Christ is to reconcile us to the 
• See Charnock on the Attributes. 



450 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



nolincss of God.' — When we are told therefore 
that Christ is made unto us ' righteousness,' we 
are in the same place taught that he is made 
unto us sanctification ; that is, he is both justi- 
fier and sanctifier. In vain shall we deceive 
ourselves by resting on his sacrifice, while we 
neglect to imitate his example. 

The glorious spirits which surrounded the 
throne of God are not represented as singing 
hallelujahs to his omnipotence, nor even to his 
mercy, but to that attribute which, as with a 
glory, encircles all the rest. They perpetually 
cry, holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts; and 
it is observable, that the angels which adore him 
for his holiness are the ministeis of his justice. 
Those pure intelligences perceive, no doubt, that 
this union of attributes constitutes the divine 
perfection. 

This infinitely blessed Being then, to whom 
angels and archangels, and all the hosts of 
heaven are continually ascribing holiness, has 
commanded us to be holy. To be holy because 
God is holy, is both an argument and a com- 
mand. An argument founded on the perfec- 
tions of God, arid a command to imitate him. 
This command is given to creatures, fallen in- 
deed, but to whom God graciously promises 
strength for the imitation. If in God holiness 
implies an aggregate of perfections ; in man, 
even in his low degree, it is an incorporation of 
the Christian graces. 

The holiness of God indeed is confined by no 
limitation ; ours is bounded, finite, imperfect. 
Yet let us be sedulous to extend our little sphere. 
Let our desires be large, though our capacities 
are contracted. Let our aims be lofty, though 
our attainments are low. ^et us be solicitous 
that no day pass without some augmentation of 
our holiness, some added height in our aspira- 
tions, some wider expansion in the compass of 
our virtues. Let us strive every day for some 
superiority to the preceding day ; something 
that shall distinctly mark the passing scene with 
progress; something that shall inspire an hum- 
ble hope that we are rather less unfit for heaven 
to-day than we were yesterday. 

The celebrated artist who has recorded that 
he passed no day without drawing a line, drew 
it, not for repetition, but for progress ; not to 
produce a given number of strokes, but to for- 
ward his work, to complete his design. The 
Christian, like the painter, does not draw his 
lines at random ; he has a model to imitate, as 
well as an outline to fill Every touch conforms 
him more and more to the great original. He 
who has transfused most of the life of God into 
his soul, has copied it most successfully. 

'To seek happiness,' says one of the fathers, 
' is to desire God, and to find him is that hap- 
piness.' Our very happiness therefore is not 
our independent property; it flows from that 
eternal mind which is the source and sum of 
happiness. In vain we look for felicity in all 
around us. It can only be found in that origi- 
nal fountain, whence we, and all we are and 
have, are derived. — Where then is the imagi- 
nary wise man of the school of Zeno ? what is 
the perfection of virtue supposed by Aristotle ? 
They have no existence but in the romance of 
philosophy. Happiness must be imperfect in 



an imperfect state. Religion, it is true, is ini- 
tial happiness, and points to its perfection : but 
as the best men possess it but imperfectly, they 
cannot be perfectly happy. Nothing can con- 
fer completeness which is itself incomplete. 
'With Thee, O Lord, is the fountain of life, and 
in Thy light only we shall see light.'* 

Whatever shall still remain wanting in our 
attainments, and much will still remain, let 
this last, greatest, highest consideration stimu- 
late our languid exertions, that God has nega- 
tively promised the beatific vision, the enjoy- 
ment of his presence, to this attainment, by 
specifically proclaiming, that without holiness 
no man shall see his face. To know God is the 
rudiments of that eternal life which will here- 
after be perfected by seeing him. As there is 
no stronger reason why we must not look for 
perfect happiness in this life, than because there 
is no perfect holiness, so the nearer advances we 
make to the or.e, the greater progress we shall 
make towards the other ; we must cultivate 
here those tendencies and tempers which must 
be carried to perfection in a happier clime. — 
But as holiness is the concomitant of happiness, 
so must it be its precursor. As sin has destroy- 
ed our happiness, so sin must be destroyed be- 
fore our happiness can be restored. Our na- 
ture must be renovated before our felicity can 
be established. This is according to the nature 
of thing-, as well as agreeaDle to the law and 
will of God. Let us then carefully look to the 
subduing in our inmost hearts all those dispo- 
sitions that are unlike God ; all those actions, 
thoughts, and tendencies that are contrary to 
God. 

Independently therefore of all the other mo- 
tives to holiness which religion suggests, inde- 
pendently of the fear of punishment ; indepen- 
dently even of the hope of glory, let us be holy 
from this ennobling, elevating motive, because 
the Lord our God is holy. And when our virtue 
flags, let it be renovated by this imperative in- 
junction, backed by this irresistible argument. 
The motive for imitation, and the Being to be 
imitated, seem almost to identify us with in- 
finity. It is a connexion which endtars, an as- 
similation which dignifies, a resemblance which 
elevates. The apostle has added to the prophet 
an assurance which makes the crown and con- 
summation of the promise, ' that though we 
know not yet what we shall be, yet we know 
that when he shall appear, we shall be like 
him, for we shall see him as he is.' 

In what a beautiful variety of glowing ex- 
pressions, and admiring strains, do the Scrip- 
ture worthies delight to represent God ; not 
only in relation to what he is to them, but to 
the supreme excellence of his own transcendent 
perfections ! They expatiate, they amplify, they 
dwell with unwearied iteration on the adorable 
theme : they ransack language, they exhaust 
all the expressions of praise, and wonder, and 
admiration; all the images of astonishment and 
delight, to laud and magnify his glorious name. 
They praise him, they bless him, they worship 
him, they glorify him, they give thanks to him 
for his great glory, saying ' Holy, holy, holy, 

* See Leighton on Happiness.J 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



451 



Lord God of hosts, heaven and earth are full of 
the majesty of thy glory.' 

They glorify him relatively to themselves 
1 1 will magnify Thee, O Lord my strength — 
My help cometh of God — The Lord himself is 
the portion of my inheritance.' At another 
time soaring with a noble disinterestedness, and 
quite losing sight of self and all created glories, 
they adore him for his own incommunicable ex- 
cellences. '•'■Be thou exalted, O God, in thine 
own strength.' — ' Oh the depth of the riches, 
both of the wisdom and knowledge of God.' 
Then bursting to a rapture of adoration, and burn- 
ing with a more intense flame, they cluster his 
attributes — 'To the King eternal, immortal, in- 
visible, be honour and glory for ever and ever.' 
One is lost in admiration of his wisdom — -his 
ascription is ' to the only wise God.' Another in 
triumphant strains overflows with transport at 
the consideration of the attribute on which we 
have been descanting : ' O Lord, who is like 
unto Thee, there is none holy as the Lord.' — 
* Sing praises unto the Lord, oh ye saints of his, 
and give thanks unto him for a remembrance of 
his holiness.' 

The prophets and apostles were not deterred 
from pouring out the overflowings of their fer- 
vent spirits, they were not restrained from cele- 
brating the perfections of their Creator, through 
the cold-hearted fear of being reckoned enthu- 
siasts. The saints of old were not prevented 
from breathing out their rapturous hosannahs to 
the King of Saints, through the coward dread 
of being branded as fanatical. The conceptions 
of their minds dilating with the view of the 
glorious constellation of the Divine attributes ; 
and the affections of their hearts warming with 
the thought, that those attributes were all con- 
centrated in mercy — they display a sublime 
oblivion of themselves — they forget every thing 
but God. Their own wants dwindled to a point. 
Their own concerns, nay the universe itself, 
shrinks into nothing. They seem absorbed in 
the effulgence of Deity, lost in the radient beams 
of infinite glory. 



CHAP. XL 

On the comparatively small faults and virtues. 

The ' Fishers of men, as if exclusively bent 
on catching the greater sinners, often make the 
interstices of the moral net so wide, that it can- 
not retain those of more ordinary size, which 
every where abound. Their draught might be 
more abundant, were not the. meshes so large 
that the smaller sort, aided by their own lubri- 
city, escape the toils and slip through. Happy 
to find themselves not bulky enough to be en- 
tangled, they plunge back again into their na- 
tive element, enjoy their escape, and hope they 
may safely wait to grow bigger before they are 
in danger of being caught. 

It is of more importance than we are aware, 
or are willing to allow, that we take care dili- 
gently to practice the smaller virtues, avoid 
scrupulously the lesser sins, and bear patiently 



inferior trials ; for the sin of habitually yielding, 
or the grace of habitually resisting in compa 
ratively small points, tends in no inconsiderable 
degree to produce that vigour or that debility of 
mind on which hangs victory or defeat. 

Conscience is moral sensation. It is the hasty 
perception of good and evil, the peremptory de- 
cision of the mind to adopt the one or avoid the 
other. Providence has furnished the body with 
senses, and the soul with conscience, as a tact 
by which to shrink from the approach of danger ; 
as a prompt feeling to supply the deductions of 
reasoning ; as a spontaneous impulse to precede 
a train of reflections for which the suddenness 
and surprise of the attack allow no time. An 
enlightened conscience if kept tenderly alive by 
a continual attention to its admonitions, would 
especially preserve us from those smaller sins, 
and stimulate us to those lesser duties which 
we are falsely apt to think are too insignificant 
to be brought to the bar of religion, too trivial 
to be weighed by the standard of Scripture. 

By cherishing this quick feeling of rectitude, 
light and sudden as the flash from heaven, and 
which Is in fact the motion of the spirit, we 
intuitively reject what is wrong before we have 
time to examine why it is wrong, and seize on 
what is right before we have time to examine 
why it is right. Should we not then be careful 
how we extinguish this sacred spark ? Will any 
thing be more likely to extinguish it than to ne- 
glect its hourly momentoes to perform the 
smaller duties, and to avoid the lesser faults, 
which, as they in a good measure make up the 
sum of human life, will naturally fix and deter- 
mine our character, that creature of habits ? 
Will not our neglect or observance of it, incline 
or indispose us for those more important duties 
of which these smaller ones are connecting 
links? 

The vices derive their existence from wild- 
ness, confusion, disorganization. The discord 
of the passions isowing to their having different 
views, conflicting aims, and opposite ends. The 
rebellious vices have no common head ; each is 
all to itself. They promote their own operations 
by disturbing those of others, but in disturb, 
ing they do not destroy them. Though they 
are all of one family, they live on no friendly 
terms. Profligacy hates covetousness as much 
as if it were a virtue. The life of every sin 
is a life of conflict, which occasions the torment, 
but not the death of its opposite. Like the fa. 
bled brood of the serpent, the passions spring 
up, armed against each other, but they fail to 
complete the resemblance, for they do not effect 
their mutual destruction. 

But without union the Christian graces could 
not be perfected, and the smaller virtues are the 
threads and filaments which gently but firmly 
tie them together. There is an attractive power 
in goodness which draws each part to the other. 
This concord of the virtues is derived from their 
having one common centre in which all meet. 
In vice there is a strong repulsion. Though 
bad men seek each other, they do not love each 
other. Each seeks the other in order to promote 
his own purposes, while he hates him by whom 
his purposes are promoted. 
The lesser qualities of the human character 



452 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



are like the lower people in a country ; they are 
numerically, if not individually important. If 
well regulated they become valuable from that 
verv circumstance of numbers, which, under a 
negligent administration, renders them formi- 
dable. The peace of the individual mind and 
of the nation, is materially aiTected by the disci- 
pline in which these inferior orders are main- 
tained. Laxity and neglect in both cases are 
subversive of all good government. 

But if we may be allowed to glance from earth 
to heaven, perhaps the beauty of the lesser virtues 
may be still better illustrated by that long and 
luminous track made up of minute and almost 
imperceptible stars, which though separately 
too inconsiderable to attract attention, yet from 
their number and confluence, form that soft and 
shining stream of light every where discernable, 
and which always corresponds to the same fixed 
stars, as the smaller virtues do to their concomi- 
tant great ones. — Without pursuing the meta- 
phor to the classic fiction that the Galaxy was 
the road through which the ancient heroes went 
to heaven, may we not venture to say that Chris- 
tians will make their way thither more pleasant 
by the consistent practice of the minuter vir- 
tues ? 

Every Christian should consider religion as 
a fort which he is called to defend. The mean- 
est soldier in the army if he add patriotism to 
valour, will fight as earnestly as if the glory of 
the contest depended on his single arm. But 
he brings his watchfulness as well as his cou- 
rage into action. He strenuously defends every 
pass he is appointed to guard, without inquiring 
whether it be great or small. There is not any 
defect in religion or morals so little as to be of 
no consequence. Worldly things may be little 
because their aim and end may be little. Things 
are great or small, not according to their osten- 
sible importance, but according to the magni- 
tude of their object, and the importance of their 
consequences. 

The acquisition of even the smallest virtue 
being, as has been before observed, an actual 
conquest over the opposite vice, doubles our mo- 
ral strength. The spiritual enemy has one ob- 
ject less, and the conqueror one virtue more. 

By allowed negligence in small things, we 
are not aware how much we injure religion in 
the eye of the world. How can we expect peo- 
ple to believe that we are in earnest in great 
points, when they see that we cannot withstand 
a trivial temptation, against which resistance 
would have been comparatively easy ? At a 
distance they hear with respect our general cha- 
racters. They become domesticated with us, 
and discover the same failings, littleness, and 
bad tempers, as they have been accustomed to 
meet with in the most ordinary persons. 

If Milton, in one of his letters to a learned 
foreigner who had visited him, could congratu- 
late himself on the consciousness that in that 
visit he had been found equal to his reputation, 
and had supported in private conversation his 
high character as an author ; shall not the 
Christian be equally anxious to support the cre- 
dit of holy profession, by not betraying in fa- 
miliar life any temper inconsistent with reli- 
gion? 



It is not difficult to attract respect on great 
occasions, where we are kept in order by know- 
ing that the public eye is fixed upon us. It is 
easy to maintain a regard to our dignity in a 
' Symposiack, or an academical dinner ;' but to 
labour to maintain it in the recesses of domestic 
privacy requires more watchfulness, and is no 
less the duty, than it will be the habitual prac- 
tice, of the consistent Christian. 

Our neglect of inferior duties is particularly 
injurious to the mind of our dependants and ser- 
vants. If they see us ' weak and infirm of pur- 
pose,' peevish, irresolute, capricious, passionate, 
or inconsistent, in our daily conduct, which 
comes under their immediate observation, and 
which comes also within their power of judging, 
they will not give us credit for those higher 
qualities which we may possess, and those su- 
perior duties which we may be more careful to 
fulfil. Neither their capacity nor their opportu- 
nities, may enable them to judge of the ortho- 
doxy of the head ; but there will be obvious and 
decisive proofs to the meanest capacity, of the 
state and temper of the heart. Our greater 
qualities will do them little good, while our les- 
ser but incessant faults do them much injury. 
Seeing us so defective in the daily course of do- 
mestic conduct, though they will obey us be- 
cause they are obliged to it, they will neither 
love nor esteem us enough to be influenced by 
our advice, nor to be governed by our instruc- 
tions, on those great points which every con- 
scientious head of a family will be carefui to in- 
culcate on all about him. It demands no less 
circumspection to be a Christian than to be a 
' hero, to one's valet de chambre.' 

In all that relates to God and to himself the 
Christian knows of no small faults. He consi- 
ders all allowed and wilful sins, whatever be 
their magnitude, as an offence againr-t his Ma- 
ker. Nothing that offends him can be insignifi- 
cant. Nothing that contributes to fasten on 
ourselves a wrong habit can be trifling. Faults 
which we are accustomed to consider as small 
are repeated without compunction. The habit 
of committing them is confirmed by the repeti- 
tion. Frequency renders us at first indifferent, 
then insensible'. The hopelessness attending a 
long indulged custom generates carelessness, 
till for want of exercise the power of resistance 
is first weakened, then destroyed. 

But there is a still more serious point of view 
in which the subject may be considered. Do 
small faults, continually repeated, always retain 
their original diminutiveness ? Is any axiom 
more established than that all evil is of a pro- 
gressive nature ? Is a bad temper which is ne- 
ver repressed, no worse after years of indul- 
gence, than when we at first gave the reins to 
it ? Does that which we first allowed ourselves 
under the name of harmless levity on serious 
subjects, never proceed to profaneness / Does 
what was once admired as proper spirit, never 
grow into pride, never swell into insolence ? 
Dues the habit of incorrect narrative, or loose 
talking, or allowed hyperbole, never lead to 
falsehood ; never settle in deceit ? Before we 
positively determine that small faults are inno- 
cent, we must undertake to prove that they shall 
never outgrow their primitive dimensions ; wo 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



453 



must ascertain that the infant shall never be- 
come a giant. 

Procrastination is reckoned among- the most 
venial of our faults, and sits so lightly on our 
minds that we scarcely apologize for it. But 
who can assure us, that had not the assistance 
we had resolved to give to one friend under dis- 
tress, or the advice to another under temptation, 
to-day, been delayed, and from mere sloth and 
indolence been put off till to-morrow, it might 
not have preserved the fortunes of the one, or 
saved the soul of the other ? 

It is not enough that we perform duties ; we 
must perform them at the right time. — We must 
do the duty of every day in its own season. 
Every day has its own imperious duties ; we 
must not depend upon to-day for fulfilling those 
which we neglected yesterday, for to-day might 
not have been granted us. To-morrow will be 
equally peremptory in its demands ; and the 
succeeding day, if we live to see it, will be ready 
with its proper claims. 

Indecision, though it is not so often caused 
by reflection as by the want of it, yet may be 
as mischievous; for if we spend too much time 
in balancing probabilities, the period for action 
is lost. While we are ruminating on difficulties 
which may never occur, reconciling differences 
which perhaps do not exist, and poising in op- 
posite scales things of nearly the same weight, 
the opportunity is lost of producing that good 
which a firm and manly decision would have 
effected. 

Idleness, though itself ' the most unperform- 
ingof all the vices,' is however the pass through 
which they all enter, the stage on which they 
all act. Though supremely passive itself, it lends 
a willing hand to all evil, practical as well as 
speculative. It is the abettor of every sin who- 
ever commits it, the receiver of all booty, who- 
ever is the thief. If it does nothing itself, it con- 
nives at all the mischief that is done by others. 

Vanity is exceedingly misplaced when ranked 
as she commonly is, in the catalogue of small 
faults. It is under her character of harmless- 
ness that she does all her mischief. She is in- 
deed often found in the society of great virtues. 
She does not follow in the train, but mixes her- 
self with the company, and by mixing mars it. 
The use our spiritual enemy makes of her is a 
master stroke. When he cannot prevent us from 
doing right actions, he can accomplish his pur- 
pose almost as well ' by making us vain of 
them.' When he cannot deprive the public of 
our benevolence, he can defeat the effect to our- 
selves by poisoning the principle. When he 
cannot rob others of the good effect of the deed, 
he can gain his point by robbing the doer of his 
reward. 

Peevishness is another of the minor miseries. 
Human life, though sufficiently unhappy, can- 
not contrive to furnish misfortunes so often as 
the passionate and the peevish can supply im- 
patience. To commit our reason and temper 
to the mercy of every acquaintance, and of every 
servant, is not making the wisest use of them. 
If we recollect that violence and peevishness are 
the common resource of those whose knowledge 
is small, and whose arguments are weak, our 
very pride might lead us to subdue our passion, 



if we had not a better principle to resort to. 
Anger is the common refuge of insignificance. 
People who feel their character to be slight, hope 
to give it weight by inflation : but the blown 
bladder at its fullest distention is still empty 
Sluggish characters, above all, have no right to 
be passionate. They should be contented with 
their own congenial faults. Dullness however 
has its impetuosities and its fluctuations as well 
as genius. It is on the coast of heavy Bosotia 
that the Euripus exhibits its unparalleled rest- 
lessness and agitation. 

Trifling is ranked among the venial faults. 
But if time be one grand talent given us in or- 
der to our securing eternal life ; if we trifle 
away that time so as to lose that eternal life, on 
which by not trifling we might have laid hold, 
then will it answer the end of sin. A life de- 
voted to trifles not only takes away the inclina- 
tion, but the capacity for higher pursuits. The 
truths of Christianity have scarcely more influ- 
ence on a frivolous than on a profligate charac- 
ter. If the mind be so absorbed, not merely 
with what is vicious, but with what is useless, 
as to be thoroughly disinclined to the activities 
of a life of piety, it matters little what the cause 
is which so disinclines it. If these hab'ts can- 
not be accused of great moral evil, yet it argues 
a low state of mind ; that a being who has an 
eternity at stake can abandon itself to trivial 
pursuits. If the great concern of life cannot be 
secured without habitual watchfulness, how is it 
to be secured by habitual carelessness ? It will 
afford little comfort to the trifler, when at the 
last reckoning he gives in his long negative ca- 
talogue, that the more ostensible offender was 
worse employed. The trifler will not be weigh- 
ed in the scale with the profligate, but in the 
balance of the sanctuary. 

Some men make for themselves a sort of code 
of the lesser morals, of which they settle both 
the laws and the chronology. 'They fix 'the 
climacterics of the mind;'* determine at what 
period such a vice may be adopted without dis- 
credit, at what age one bad habit may give way 
to another more in character. Having settled 
it as a matter of course, that to a certain age 
certain faults are natural, they proceed to act as 
if they thought them necessary. 

But let us not practice on ourselves the gross 
imposition to believe that any failing, much less 
any vice, is necessarily appended to any state or 
any age, or that it is irresistible at any. We 
may accustom ourselves to talk of vanity and 
extravagance as belonging to the young ; and 
avarice and peevishness to the old, till the next 
step will be that we shall think ourselves justi- 
fied in adopting them. Whoever is eager to 
find excuses for vice and folly, will feel his 
own backwardness to practise them much di- 
minished. 

C est le premier pas qui coute. It is only to 
make out an imaginary necessity, and then we 
easily fall into the necessity we have imagined. 
Providence has established no such association. 
There is, it is true, more danger of certain faults 
under certain circumstances ; and some tempta- 
tions are stronger at some periods : but it is a 

* Dr. Johnson. 



454 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



proof that they are not irresistible because all 
do not fall into them. The evil is in ourselves, 
who mitigate the discredit by the supposed ne- 
cessity. The prediction, like the dream of 
the astrologer, creates the event instead of fore- 
telling it. But there is no supposition can be 
made of a bad case which will justify the ma- 
king it our own : Nor will general positions ever 
serve for individual apologies. — Who has not 
known persons who, though they retain the 
sound health and vigour of active life, sink pre- 
maturely into sloth and inactivity, solely on the 
ground that these dispositions are fancied to 
be unavoidably incident to advancing years. 
They demand the indulgence before they feel 
the infirmity. Indolence thus forges a dismis- 
sion from duty before the discharge is issued 
out by Providence. No. — Let us endeavour to 
meet the evils of the several conditions and pe- 
riods of life with submission, but it is an offence 
to their divine dispenser to forestall them. 

But we have still a saving clause for ourselves, 
whether the evil be of greater or lesser magni- 
tude. If the fault be great, we lament the in- 
ability to resist it; if small, we deny the impor- 
tance of so doing, we plead that we cannot with- 
stand a great temptation, and that a small one 
is not worth withstanding. But if (he tempta- 
tion or the fault be great, we should resist it on 
account of that very magnitude ; if small, the 
giving it up can cost but little ; and the con- 
scientious habit of conquering the less will con- 
fer considerable strength towards subduing the 
greater. 

There is again, a sort of splendid character, 
which, winding itself up occasionally to certain 
shining actions, thinks itself fully justified in 
breaking loose from the shackles of restraint in 
smaller things : it makes no scruple to indem- 
nify itself for these popular deeds by indulgences 
which, though allowed, are far from innocent. 
It thus secures to itself praise and popularity by 
what is sure to gain it, and immunity from cen- 
sure in indulging the favourite fault, practically 
exclaiming, ' Is it not a little one ?' 

Vanity is at the bottom of almost all, may we 
not say, of all our sins ? We think more of 
signalizing than of saving ourselves. We over- 
look the hourly occasions which occur of serving, 
of obliging, of comforting those around us, while 
we sometimes, not unwillingly perform an act 
of notorious generosity. The habit, however, in 
the former case, better indicates the disposition 
and bent of the mind, than the solitary act of 
splendor. The apostle does not say whatsoever 
great things ye do, but ' whatsoever things .ye 
do, do'all to the glory of God.' Actions are less 
weighed by their bulk than their motive. Vir- 
tues are less measured by their splendor than 
their principle. The racer proceeds in his 
course more effectually by a steady unslackened 
pace, than by starts of violent but unequal ex- 
ertion. 

That great abstract of moral law, of which 
we have elsewhere spoken,* that rule of the 
highest court of appeal, set up in his own bosom, 
to which every man can always resort, ' all 
things that ye would that men should do unto 

* Chapter ix. 



you, do ye also unto them :'— This law, if faith 
fully obeyed, operating as an infallible remedy 
for all the disorders of self-love, would, by throw 
ing its partiality into the right scale, establish 
the right exercise of all the smaller virtues. Its 
strict observance would not only put a stop to 
all injustice, but to all unkindness: not only to 
oppressive acts, but to unfeeling language. Even 
haughty looks and supercilious gestures would 
be banished from the face of society, did we ask 
ourselves how we should like to receive what 
we are not ashamed to give. 

Till we thus morally transmute place, person, 
and circumstance with those of our brother, we 
shall never treat him with the tenderness this 
gracious law enjoins. Small virtues and small 
offences are only so by comparison. To treat a 
fellow-creature with harsh language, is not in- 
deed a crime like robbing hirn of his estate or 
destroying his reputation. They are, however, 
all the offspring of the same family. — They are 
the same in quality though not in degree. All 
flow, though in streams of different magnitude, 
from the same fountain; all are indications of a 
departure from that principle which is included 
in the law of love. The consequences they in. 
volve are not less certain ; though they are less 
important. 

The reason why what are called religious peo- 
ple often differ so little from others in small 
trials is, that instead of bringing religion to 
their aid in their lesser vexations, they either 
leave the disturbance to prey upon their minds, 
or apply to false reliefs for its removal. Those 
who are rendered unhappy by frivolous troubles, 
seek comfort in frivolous enjoyments. But we 
should apply the same remedy to ordinary trials, 
as to great ones ; for as small disquietudes spring 
from the same cause as great trials, namely, the 
uncertain and imperfect condition of human lite, 
so they require the same remedy. Meeting 
common cares with a right spirit would impart 
a smoothness to the temper, a spirit of cheerful- 
ness to the heart, which would mightily break 
the force of heavier trials. 

You apply to the power of religion in great 
evils. — Why does it not occur to you to apply 
to it in the less ? Is it that you think the in- 
strument greater than the occasion demands ? 
It is not too great if the lesser one will not pro- 
duce the effect, or if it produce it in the wrong 
way ; for there is such a thing as putting an 
evil out of sight without curing it. You would 
apply to religion on the loss of your child — ap- 
ply to it on the loss of your temper. Throw in 
this wholesome tree to sweeten the bitter waters. 
As no calamity is too great for the power of 
Christianity to mitigate, so none is too small to 
experience its beneficial results. Our behaviour 
under the ordinary accidents of life forms a cha- 
racteristic distinction between different classes 
of Christians. The least advanced, resort to re- 
ligion on great occasions ; the deeper proficient 
resorts to it on all. What makes it appear of 
so little comparative value is, that the medicine 
prepared by the Great Physician is thrown by 
instead of being taken. The patient thinks not 
of it but in extreme cases. A remedy, however 
potent, not applied, can produce no effect. But 
ke who has adopted one fixed principle for thu 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



455 



government of his life, will try to keep it in per- 
petual exercise. An acquaintance with the na- 
ture of human evils and of their remedy, would 
check that spirit of complaint which so much 
abounds, and which often makes so little differ- 
ence between people professing religion and 
those who profess it not. 

If the duties in question are not great they 
become important by the constant demand that 
is made for them. They have been called ' the 
small coin of human life,' and on their perpetual 
and unobstructed circulation depends much of 
the comfort, as well as convenience of its transac- 
tions. They make up in frequency what they 
want in magnitude. How few of us are called 
to carry the doctrines of Christianity into dis- 
tant lands ! But which of us is not called every 
day to adorn those doctrines, by gentleness in 
our own carriage, by kindness and forbearance 
to all about us ? 

In performing the unostensible duties, there 
is no incentive from vanity. No love of fame 
inspires that virtue, of which fame will never 
hear. There can be but one motive, and that 
the purest, for the exercise of virtues, the report 
of which will never reach beyond the little cir- 
cle whose happiness they promote. They do 
not fill the world with our renown, but they fill 
our own family with comfort, and if they have' 
the love of God for their principle, they will have 
his favour for their reward. 

In this enumeration of faults, we include not 
sins of infirmity, inadvertency, and surprise, to 
which even the most sincere Christians are but 
too liable. What are here adverted to are allow- 
ed, habitual, and unresisted faults : Habitual, 
because unresisted, and allowed from the notion 
that they are too inconsiderable to call for re- 
sistance. Faults into which we are betrayed 
through surprise and inadvertency, though that 
is no reason for committing them, may not be 
without their uses ; they renew the salutary 
conviction of our sinful nature, make us little in 
our own eyes, increase our sense of dependence, 
promote watchfulness, deepen humility, and 
quicken repentance. 

We must however be careful not to entangle 
the conscience or embarrass the spirit by ground- 
less apprehensions. We have a merciful Father, 
not a hard master to deal with. We must not 
harass our minds with a suspicious dread, as if 
by a needless rigour the Almighty were laying 
snares to entrap us, nor be terrified with imagi- 
nary fears, as if he were on the watch to punish 
every casual error '. — To be immutable and im- 
peccable belongs not to humanity. He, who 
made us, best knows of what we are made. Our 
compassionate High Friest will bear with much 
infirmity, will pardon much involuntary weak- 
ness. 

But knowing, as every man must know, who 
looks into his own heart, the difficulties he has 
from the intervention of his evil tempers, in 
serving God faithfully, and still however earn- 
estly desirous of serving him, is it not to be la- 
mented that he is not more solicitous to remove 
his hindrances by trying to avoid those inferior 
sins, and resisting those lesser temptations, and 
practising those smaller virtues, the neglect of 
which obstructs his way, and keeps him back 



in the performance of higher duties Instead 
of little renunciations being grievous, and petty 
self-denials a hardship, they in reality soften 
grievances, diminish hardships. They are the 
private drill which trains for public service. 

If, as we have repeatedly observed, the prin 
ciple is the test of the action, we are hourly fur- 
nished with occasions of showing our piety by 
the spirit in which the quiet unobserved actions 
of life are performed. The sacrifices may be 
too little to be observed, except by Him to whom 
they are offered. But small solicitudes, and de- 
monstrations of attachment, scarcely perceptible 
to any eye but his for whom they were made, 
bear the true character of love to God, as they 
are the infallible marks of affection to our fellow 
creatures. 

By enjoining small duties, the spirit of which 
is every where implied in the gospel, God, as it 
were, seems contriving to render the great ones 
easy to us. He makes the light yoke of Christ 
still lighter, not by abridging duty, but by in- 
creasing its facility through its familiarity. 
These little habits at once indicate the senti- 
ment of the soul and improve it. 

It is an awful consideration and one which 
every Christian should bring home to his own 
bosom, whether small faults wilfully persisted 
in, may not in time, not only dim the light of 
conscience, but extinguish the Spirit of grace ; 
whether the power of resistance against great 
sins may not be finally withdrawn as a just 
punishment for having neglected to exert it 
against small ones. 

Let us endeavour to maintain in our minds 
the awful impression that perhaps among the 
first objects which may meet our eyes when we 
open them on the eternal world, may be that 
tremendous book, in which, together with our 
great and actual sins, may be recorded in no less 
prominent characters, the ample page of omis- 
sions, of neglected opportunities, and even of 
fruitless good intentions, of which indolence, in- 
decision, thoughtlessness, vanity, trifling, and 
procrastination concurred to frustrate the exe- 
cution. 



CHAP. XII. 

Self -Examination. 

Tn this stage of general inquiry, every kind 
of ignorance is esteemed dishonourable. In al- 
most every sort of knowledge there is a compe- 
tion for superiority. Intellectual attainments 
are never to be undervalued. Learning is the 
best human thing. All knowledge is excellent 
as far as it goes, and as long as it lasts. But 
how short is the period before ' tongues shall 
cease, and knowledge shall vanish away !' 

Shall we then C6teem it dishonourable to be 
ignorant in any thing which relates to Hfe and 
literature, to taste and science, and not feel 
ashamed to live in ignorance of our own hearts? 

To have a flourishing estate and a mind in 
disorder ; to keep exact accounts with a steward 
and no reckoning with our Maker ; to have an 
accurate knowledge of loss or gain in our busi 



456 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ness, and to remain utterly ignorant whether 
our spiritual concerns are improving or declin- 
ing ; to be cautious in ascertaining at the end 
of every year, how much we have increased or 
diminished our fortune, and to be careless 
whether we have incurred profit or loss in faith 
and holiness, is a wretched miscalculation of 
the comparative value of things. To bestow 
our attention on objects in an inverse proportion 
to their importance, is surely no proof that our 
learning has improved our judgment. 

That deep thinker and acute reasoner, Dr. 
Barrow, has remarked that 'it is a peculiar ex- 
cellency of human nature, and which distin- 
guishes i.>an from the inferior creatures more 
than bare reason itself, that he can reflect upon 
all that is done within him, can discern the ten- 
dencies of his soul, and is acquainted with his 
own purposes.' 

This distinguishing faculty of self-inspection 
would not have been conferred on man, if it had 
not been intended that it should be in habitual 
operation. It is surely, as we before observed, 
as much a common law of prudence, to look 
well to our spiritual as to our worldly posses- 
sions. We have appetites to control, imagina- 
tions to restrain, tempers to regulate, passions to 
subdue ; and how can this internal work be 
effected, how can our thoughts be kept within 
due bounds, how can a proper bias be given to 
the affections, ho-v can ■ the little state of man' 
be preserved from continual insurrection, how 
can this restraining power be maintained if 
this capacity of discerning, if this faculty of 
inspecting be not kept in regular exercise? 
Without constant discipline, imagination will 
become an outlaw, conscience an attainted rebel. 
This inward eye, this power of introversion, 
is given us for a continual watch upon the soul. 
On an unremitted vigilance over its interior 
motions, those fruitful seeds of action, those 
prolific principles of vice and virtue, will de- 
pend both the formation and the growth of our 
moral and religious character. A superficial 
glance is not enough for a thing so deep, an 
unsteady view will not suffice for a thing so 
wavering, nor a casual look for a thing so de- 
ceitful as the human heart. A partial inspec- 
tion on any one side, will not be enough for an 
object which must be observed under a variety 
of aspects, because it is always shifting its po- 
sitions, alway-6 changing its appearances. 

We should examine not only our conduct but 
our opinions ; not only our faults but our preju- 
dices ; not only our propensities but our judg- 
ments. Our actions themselves will be obvious 
enough ; it is our intentions which require the 
scrutiny. These we should follow up to their 
remotest springs, scrutinize to their deepest 
recesses, trace through their most perplex- 
ing windings. And lest we should, in our 
pursuit, wander in uncertainty and blindness, 
let us make use of that guiding clue which the 
Almighty has furnished by his word and by his 
Spirit, for conducting us through the intrica- 
cies of this labyrinth. ' What I know not, 
leach thou me,' should be our constant petition 
in all our researches. 

Did we turn our tnoughts inward, it would 
abate much of the self-complacency with which 



we swallow the flattery of others. Flattery 
hurts not him who flatters not himself. If we 
examined our motives keenly, we should fre- 
quently blush at the praises our actions receive. 
Let us then conscientiously inquire not only 
what we do, but whence and why we do it, from 
what motive and to what end. 

Self-inspection is the only means to preserve 
us from self-conceit. We could not surely so 
very extravagantly value a being whom we our- 
selves should not only see, but feel to be so full 
of faults. Self-acquaintance will give us a far 
more deep and intimate knowledge of our own 
errors than we can possibly have, with all the 
inquisitiveness of an idle curiosity, of the errors 
of others. We are eager enough to blame them 
without knowing their motives. We are no 
less eager to vindicate ourselves, though we can- 
not be entirely ignorant of our own. Thus two 
virtues will be acquired by the same act, humi- 
lity and candour; an impartial review of our 
own infirmities, being the likeliest way to make 
us tender and compassionate to those of others. 

Nor shall we be liable so to overrate our own 
judgment when we perceive that it often forms 
such false estimates, is so captivated with trifles, 
so elated with petty successes, so dejected with 
little disappointments. When we hear others 
commend our charity which we know is so cold ; 
when others extol our piety which we feel to 
be so dead ; when they applaud the energies of 
our faith, which we must know to be so faint 
and feeble, we cannot possibly be so intoxicated 
with the applause which never would have 
been given, had the applauder known us as we 
know, or ought to know ourselves. If we con- 
tradict him, it may be only to draw on ourselves 
the imputation of a fresh virtue, humility, which 
perhaps we as little deserve to have ascribed to 
us as that which we have been renouncing. If 
we keep a sharp look out, we should not be 
proud of praises which cannot apply to us, but 
should rather grieve at the involuntary fraud of 
imposing on others, by tacitly accepting a cha- 
racter to which we have so little real pretension. 
To be delighted at finding that people think so 
much better of us than we are conscious of de- 
serving, is in effect to rejoice in the success of 
our own deceit. 

We shall also become more patient, more for- 
bearing and forgiving, shall better endure the 
harsh judgment of others respecting us, when 
we perceive that their opinion of us nearly coin- 
cides with our own real though unacknowledg- 
ed sentiments. There is much less injury in- 
curred by others thinking too ill of us, than in 
our thinking to well of ourselves. 

It is evident then, that to live at random, is 
not the life of a rational, much less of an im- 
mortal, least of all, of an accountable being. To 
pray occasionally, without deliberate course of 
prayer; to be generous without proportioning 
our means to our expenditure; to be liberal 
without a principle ; to let the mind float on the 
current of public opinion ; lie at the mercy of 
events, for the probable occurrence of which 
we have made no provision ; to be every hour 
liable to death without any habitual preparation 
for it; to carry within us a principle which we 
believe will exist through all the countless ages 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



457 



of eternity, and yet to make little inquiry 
whether that eternity is likely to be happy or 
miserable — all this is an inconsiderateness which, 
if adopted in the ordinary concerns of life, would 
bid fair to ruin a man's reputation for common 
sense : yet of this infatuation he who dives with- 
out self-examination is absolutely guilty. 

Nothing more plainly shows us what weak 
vacillating creatures we are, than the difficulty 
we find in fixing ourselves down to the very 
self-scrutiny we had deliberately resolved on. 
Like the worthless Roman emperor we retire to 
our closet under the appearance of serious oc- 
cupation, but might now and then be surprised, 
if not in catching flies, yet in pursuits nearly 
as contemptible. Some trifle which we should 
be ashamed to dwell upon at any time, intrudes 
itself on the moments dedicated to serious 
thought ; recollection is interrupted ; the whole 
chain of reflection broken, so that the scattered 
links cannot again be united. And so incon- 
sistent are we that we are sometimes not sorry 
to have a plausible pretence for interrupting the 
very employment in which we had just before 
ma,de it a duty to engage. For want of this 
home acquaintance, we remain in utter igno- 
rance of'our inability to meet even in ordinary 
trials of life with cheerfulness ; indeed by this 
neglect we confirm that inability. Nursed in 
the lap of luxury, we have an indelnite notion 
that we have but a loose hold on the things of 
this world, and of the world itself. But let 
some accident take away, not the world, but 
some trifle on which we thought we set no value 
while we possessed it, and we find to our aston- 
ishment that we hold, not the world only, but 
even this trivial possession with a pretty tight 
grasp. — Such detections of our self-ignorance, 
if they do not serve to wean, ought at least to 
humble us. 

There is a spurious sort of self-examination 
which does not serve to enlighten but to blind. 
A person who has left off* some notorious vice, 
who has softened some shades of a glaring sin, 
or substituted some outward forms in the place 
of open irreligion, looks on this change of cha- 
racter with pleasure. — He compares himself 
with what he was, and views the alteration with 
self-complacency. He deceives himself by tak- 
ing his standard from his former conduct, or 
from the character of still worse men, instead 
of taking it from the unerring rule of Scrip- 
ture. He looks rather at the discredit than 
the sinfulness of his former life, and being 
more ashamed of what is disreputable than 
grieved at what is vicious, he is, in this state 
of shallow reformation, more in danger in pro- 
portion as he is more in credit. He is not 
aware that it is not having a fault or two less 
that will carry him to heaven, while his heart 
is still glued to the' world and estranged from 
God. 

If we ever look into our hearts at all, we are 
naturally most inclined to it when we think we 
have been acting right. Here inspection grati- 
fies self-love. We have no great difficulty in 
directing our attention to an object, when that 
object persents us with pleasing images. But 
it is a painful effort to compel the mind to turn 
in on itself, when the view only presents sub- 

Vol. I. 



jecls for regret and remorse. This painful 
duty however must be performed, and will be 
more salutary in proportion as it is less plea 
sant. — Let us establish it into a habit to rumi- 
nate on our faults. With the recollection of 
our virtues we need not feed our vanity. They 
will, if that vanity does not obliterate them, be 
recorded elsewhere. 

We are almost disposed to look at those parts 
of our character which will best bear it, and 
which consequently least need it : at those parts 
which afford most self-gratulation. If a cove- 
tous man, for instance, examines himself, instead 
of turning his attention to the peccant part, he 
applies the probe where he knows it will not go 
very deep ; he turns from his avarice to that so- 
briety of which his very avarice is perhaps the 
source. Another, who is the slave of passion, 
fondly rests upon some act of generosity, which 
he considers as a fair commutation for some 
favourite vice, that would cost him more to re- 
nounce than he is willing to part with. We 
are all too much disposed to dwell on that 
smiling side of the prospect which pleases and 
deceives us, and to shut our eyes upon that part 
which we do not choose to see, because we are 
resolved not to quit. Self-love always holds a 
screen between the superficial self-examiner 
and his faults. The nominal Christian wraps 
himself up in forms which he makes himself be- 
lieve are Religion. He exults in what he does, 
overlooks what he ought to do, nor ever suspects 
that what is done at all can be done amiss. 

As we are so indolent that we seldom ex- 
amine a truth on more than one side, so we 
generally take care that it shall be that side 
which shall contain some old prejudices. While 
we will not take pains to correct those preju- 
dices and to rectify our judgment, lest it should 
oblige us to discard a favourite opinion, we are 
yet as eager to judge, and as forward to decide, 
as if we were fully possessed of the grounds on 
which a sound judgment may be made, and a 
just decision formed. 

We should watch ourselves whether we ob- 
serve a simple rule of truth and justice, as well 
in our conversation, as in our ordinary transac- 
tions; whether we are exact in our measures 
of commendation and censure ; whether we do 
not bestow extravagant praise where simple ap- 
probation alone is due ; whether we do not with- 
hold commendation, where, if given, it would 
support modesty and encourge merit ; whether 
what deserves only a slight censure as impru- 
dent, we do not reprobate as immoral ; whether 
we do not sometimes affect to overrate ordinary 
merit, in the hope of securing to ourselves the 
reputation of candour, that we may on other oc- 
casions, with less suspicion, depreciate estab- 
lished excellence. We extol the first because 
we fancy that it can come into no competition 
with us, and we derogate from the last because 
it obviously eclipses us. 

Let us ask ourselves if we are conscientiously 
upright in our estimation of benefits ; whether 
when we have a favour to ask, we do not depre- 
ciate its value, when we have one to grant we 
do not aggravate it. 

It is only by scrutinizing the heart that we 
can know it. It is only by knowing the heart 



458 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



that we can reform the life. Any careless ob- 
server, indeed, when his watch goes wrong, may 
see that it does so, by casting an eye on the dial 
plate ; but it is only the artist who takes it to 
pieces and examines every spring and every 
wheel separately, and who, by ascertaining the 
precise causes of the irregularity, can set the 
machine right, and restore the obstructed move- 
ments. 

The illusions of intellectual vision would be 
materially corrected by a close habit of culti- 
vating an acquaintance with our hearts. We 
fill much too large a space in our own imagina- 
tions ; we fancy we take up more room in the 
world than Providence assigns to an individual 
who has to divide his allotment with so many 
millions, who are all of equal importance in 
their own eyes; and who, like us, are elbowing 
others to make room for themselves. Just as in 
the natural world, where every particle of mat- 
ter would stretch itself, and move out of its 
place, if it were not kept in order by surround- 
ing particles ; the pressure of other parts reduces 
this to remain in a confinement from which it 
would escape, if it were not thus pressed and 
acted upon on all sides. The conscientious 
practice we have been recommending, would 
greatly assist in reducing us to our proper di- 
mensions, and in limiting us to our proper place. 
We should be astonished if we could see our 
real diminutiveness, and the speck we actually 
occupy. When shall we learn from our own 
feelings of how much consequence every man is 
to himself? 

Nor must the examination be occasional, but 
regular. Let us not run into long arrears, but 
settle our accounts frequently. Little articles 
will run up to a large amount, if they are not 
clearod off. Even our innocent days, as we may 
choose to call them, will not have passed without 
furnishing their contingent — our deadness in 
devotion — our eagerness for human applause — 
our care to conceal our faults rather than to 
correct them — our negligent performance of 
some relative duty — our imprudence in conver- 
sation, especially at table — our inconsideration — 
our driving to the very edge of permitted in- 
dulgences — let us keep these — let us keep all 
our numerous items in small sums. Let us ex- 
amine them while the particulars are fresh in 
our memory ; otherwise, however we may flatter 
ourselves that lesser evils will be swallowed up 
by the greater, we may find when we come to 
settle the grand account that they will not be 
the less remembered for not having been re- 
corded. 

And let it be one subject of our frequent in- 
quiry, whether since we last scrutinized our 
hearts, our secular affairs, or our eternal con- 
cerns have had the predominance there. We 
do not mean which of them has occupied most 
of our time, the largest portion of which must, 
necessarily, to the generality, be absorbed in 
the cares of the present life ; but on which our 
affections have been most bent ; and especially 
how we have conducted ourselves when there 
has arisen a competition between the interests 
of both. 

That general burst of sins which so frequently 
rushes in on the consciences of the dying, would 



be much moderated by previous habitual self* 
examination. It will not do to repent in the 
lump. The sorrow must be as circumstantial 
as the sin. Indefinite repentance is no repen- 
tance. And it is one grand use of self-inquiry, 
to remind us, that all unforsaken sins are unre 
pented sins. 

To a Christian there is this substantial com- 
fort attending a minute self-inspection, that when 
he finds fewer sins to be noted, and more victo- 
ries over temptation obtained, he has a solid evi- 
dence of his advancement, which well repays his 
trouble. 

The faithful searcher into his own heart, that 
' chamber of imagery,' feels himself in the situ- 
ation of the prophet,* who being conducted in 
vision from one idol to another, the spirit at sight 
of each, repeatedly exclaims, 'here is another 
abomination !' The prophet being commanded 
to dig deeper, the further he penetrated the 
more evils he found, while the spirit continued 
to cry out, ' I will show thee yet more abomi- 
nation.' 

Self-examination by detecting self-love, self- 
denial by weakening its power, self-government 
by reducing its despotism, turns the temper of 
the soul from its natural bias, controls the dis- 
orderly appetite, and, under the influence of 
Divine Grace, in a good measure restores to the 
man that dominion over himself which God at 
first gave him over the inferior creatures. De- 
sires, passions, and appetites, are brought to 
move somewhat more in their appointed order ; 
subjects not tyrants. What the stoics, vainly 
pretended to, Christianity effects. It restores 
man to a dominion ever his own will, and in a 
good measure enthrones him in that empire 
which he had forfeited by sin. 

He now begins to survey his interior, the aw- 
ful world within ; not indeed with self-compla- 
cency, but with the control of a sovereign ; he 
still finds too much rebellion to indulge security, 
he therefore continues his inspection with vigi- 
lance, but without perturbation. He continues 
to experience a remainder of insubordination 
and disorder, but this rather solicits to a stricter 
government than drives him to relax his dis- 
cipline. 

This self-inspection somewhat resembles the 
correction of a literary performance. After ma- 
ny and careful revisals, though some grosser 
faults may be done away ; though the errors are 
neither quite so numerous, nor so glaring as at 
first, yet the critic perpetually perceives faults 
which he had not perceived before; negligences 
appear which he had overlooked, and even de- 
fects start up which had passed on him for beau- 
ties. He finds much to amend, and even to ex- 
punge, in what he had before admired. When 
by rigorous castigation the most acknowledged 
faults are corrected, his critical acumen, im- 
proved by exercise, and a more habitual ac- 
quaintance with his subjects, still detect, and 
will forever detect, new imperfections. But he 
neither throws aside his work, nor remits his 
criticism, which if it do not make the work per- 
fect, will at least make the author humble. 
Conscious that if it is not quite so bad as it was, 

* Ezekiel. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



459 



it is still at an immeasurable distance from the 
required excellence. 

Is it not astonishing that we should go on re- 
peating periodically, ' Try me, O God,' while 
we are yet neglecting to try ourselves 1 Is there 
not something more like defiance than devotion 
to invite the inspection of Omniscience to that 
heart which we ourselves neglect to inspect ? 
How can a Christian solemnly cry out to the 
Almighty, ' seek the ground of my heart, prove 
me and examine my thoughts, and see if there 
be any ways of wickedness in me,' while he 
himself neglects to ' examine his heart,' is afraid 
of 'proving his thoughts,' and dreads to inquire 
if there ' be any way of wickedness' in himself, 
knowing that the inquiry ought to lead to the 
expulsion. 

In our self-inquisition let us fortify our virtue 
by a rigorous exactness in calling things by their 
proper names. Self-love is particularly ingeni- 
ous in inventing disguises of this kind. Let us 
lay them open, strip them bare, face them, and 
give them as little quarter as if they were the 
faults of another. — Let us not call wounded 
pride delicacy. — Self-love is made up of soft and 
sickly sensibilities. Not that sensibility which 
melts at the sorrows of others, but that which 
cannot endure the least suffering itself. It is 
alive in every pore where self is concerned. A 
touch is a wound. It is careless in inflicting 
pain, but exquisitely awake in feeling it. It 
defends itself before it is attacked, revenges 
affronts before they are offered, and resents 
as an insult the very suspicion of an imperfec- 
tion. 

In order then to unmask our hearts, let us 
not be contented to examine our vices, let us 
examine our virtues also, ' those smaller faults.' 
Let us scrutinize to the bottom those qualities 
and actions which have more particularly ob- 
tained public estimation. — Let us inquire if they 
were genuine in the principle, simple in the in- 
tention, honest in the prosecution. Let us ask 
ourselves if in some admired instances our ge- 
nerosity had no tincture of vanity, our charity 
no taint of ostentation ? Whether when we did 
such a right action which brought us credit, we 
should have persisted in doing it, had we fore- 
seen that it would incur censure. Do we never 
deceive ourselves by mistaking a constitutional 
indifference of temper for Christian moderation? 
Do we never construe our love of ease into dead- 
ness of the world ? Our animal activity into 
Christian zeal ? Do we never mistake our ob- 
stinacy for firmness, our pride for fortitude, our 
selfishness for feeling, our love of controversy 
for the love of God, our indolence of temper for 
superiority to human applause? — When we have 
stripped our good qualities bare; when we have 
made all due deductions for natural temper, easi- 
ness of disposition, self-interest ; desire of admi- 
ration ; of every extrinsic appendage, every ille- 
gitimate motive, let us fairly cast up the account, 
and we shall be mortified to see how little there 
will remain. Pride may impose itse.f upon us, 
oven in the shape of repentance. Theliumble 
Christian is grieved at his faults, the proud man 
is angry at them. — He is indignant when he 
discovers he has done wrong, not so much be- 
cause his sin offends God, as because it has let . 



him see that he is not quite so good as he had 
tried to make himself believe. 

It is more necessary to- excite us to the hum- 
bling of our pride, than to the performance of 
certain good actions : the former is more diffi- 
cult as it is less pleasant. That very pride will 
of itself stimulate to the performance of many 
things that are laudable. These performances 
will reproduce pride, as they were produced by 
it; whereas humility has no outward stimulus. 
Divine grace alone produces it. It is so far 
from being actuated by the love of fame, that it 
is not humility, till it has laid the desire of fame 
in the dust. 

If an actual virtue consists, as we have fre 
quently had occasion to observe, in the dominion 
over the contrary vice, humility is the conquest 
oyer pride, charity over selfishness : not only a 
victory over the natural temper, but a substitu- 
tion of the opposite quality. This proves that 
all virtue is founded in self-denial, self-denial in 
self-knowledge, and self-knowledge in self-ex- 
animation. Pride so insinuates itself in all we 
do, and say, and think, that our apparent humi- 
lity has not seldom its origin in pride. That 
very impatience which we feel at the perception 
of our faults is produced by the astonishment at 
finding that we are not perfect. — This sense of 
our sins should make us humble but not despe- 
rate. It should teach us to distrust every thing 
in ourselves, and to hope for every thing from 
God. The more we lay open the wounds which 
sin has made, the more earnestly shall we seek 
the remedy which Christianity has provided. 

But instead of seeking for self-knowledge, we 
are glancing about us for grounds of self-exulta- 
tion ! We almost resemble the Pharisee, who 
with so much self-complacency delivered in the 
catalogue of his own virtues and other men's 
sins, and, like the Tartars, who think they pos- 
sess the qualities of those they murder, fancied 
that the sins of which he accused the publican 
would swell the amount of his own good deeds. 
Like him we take a few items from memory, 
and a few more from imagination. Instead of 
pulling down the edifice which pride has raised, 
we are looking round on our good works for 
buttresses to prop it up. We excuse ourselves 
from the imputation of many faults by alleging 
that they are common, and by no means peculiar 
to ourselves. This is one of the weakest of our 
deceits. Faults are not less personally ours be- 
cause others commit them. There is divisibili- 
ty in sin as well as in matter. Is it any dimi- 
nution of our error that others are guilty of the 
same 1 

Self-love being a very industrious principle, 
has generally two concerns in hand at the same 
time. It is as busy in concealing our own de- 
fects, as in detecting those of others, especially 
those of the wise and good. We might indeed 
direct its activity in the latter instance to our 
own advantage, for if the faults of good men are 
injurious to themselves, they might be rendered 
profitable to us, if we were careful to convert 
them to their true use. But instead of turning 
them into a means of promoting our own watch- 
fulness, we employ them mischievously in two 
ways. We lessen our respect for pious charac- 
ters when we see the infirmities which are 



«G0 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



blended with their fine qualities, and we turn 
their failings into a justification of our own, 
which are not like theirs overshadowed with 
virtues. To admire the excellences of others 
without imitating them is fruitless admiration ; 
to condemn their errors without avoiding is un- 
profitable censoriousncss. 

When we are compelled by our conscience to 
acknowledge and regret any fault we have re- 
cently committed, this fault so presses upon our 
recollection, that we seem to forget that we have 
any other. This single error fills our mind, and 
we look at it as through a telescope, which, 
while it shows an object, confines the sight to 
that one object exclusively. Others indeed are 
more effectually shut out, than if we were not 
examining this. Thus while the object in ques- 
tion is magnified, the others are as if they did 
not exist. 

It seems to be established into a kind of sys- 
tem not to profit by any thing without us, and 
not to cultivate an acquaintance with any thing 
wiihin us. Though we are perpetually remark- 
ing on the defects of others, yet when does the 
remark lead us to study and to root out the 
same defects in our own hearts ? We are almost 
every day hearing of the death of others, but 
does it induce us to reflect on death as a thing 
in which we have an individual concern ? We 
consider the death of a friend as a loss, but sel- 
dom apply it as a warning. The death of others 
we lament, the faults of others we censure, but 
how seldom do we make use of the one for our 
own amendment, or of the other for our own pre- 
paration.* 

It is the fashion of the times to try experi- 
ments in the arts, in agriculture, in philosophy. 
In every science the diligent professor is always 
afraid there may be some secret which he has 
not yet attained, some occult principle which 
would reward the labour of discovery, something 
even which the assiduous and intelligent have 
actually found out, but which has hitherto 
eluded his pursuit. And shall the Christian stop 
short in his scrutiny, shall he not examine and 
inquire till he lays hold on the very heart and 
core of religion ? 

Why should experimental philosophy be the 
prevailing study, and experimental religion be 
branded as the badge of enthusiasm, the cant of 
a hollow profession ? Shall we never labour to 
establish the distinction between appearance 
and reality, between studying religion critically, 
and embracing it practically, between having 
our conduct creditable and our hearts sanctified? 
Shall we not aspire to do the best things from 
the highest motives, and elevate our aims with 
our attainments? Why should we remain in the 
vestibule when the sanctuary is open? Why 
should we he contented to dwell in the outer 
courts when we are invited to enter into the ho- 
liest by the blood of Jesus? 

Natural reason is not likely to furnish argu- 
ments sufficiently cogent, nor motives sufficient- 
ly powerful to drive us to a close self-inspection. 
Our corruptions foster this ignorance. To this 
they owe their undisputed possession of our 



hearts. No principle short of Christianity is 
strong enough to impel us to a study so disa- 
greeable as that of our faults. Of Christianity 
humility is the prime grace, and this grace can 
never take root and flourish in a heart that lives 
in ignorance of itself. If we do not know the 
greatness and extent of our sins, if we do not 
know the imperfections of our virtues, the falli- 
bility of our best resolutions, the infirmity of 
our purest purposes, we cannot be humble; if 
we are not humble, we cannot be Christians. 

But it may be asked, is there to be no end to 
this vigilance ? Is there no assigned period when 
this self-denial may become unnecessary ? No 
given point when we may be emancipated from 
the vexatious self-inspection ? Is the matured 
Christian to be a slave to the same drudgery as 
the novice? The true answer is— we may cease to 
watch when our spiritual enemy ceases to asail. 
We may be off our guard when there is no longer 
any temptation without. We may cease our self, 
denial when there is no more corruption within. 
We may give the reins to our imagination when 
we are sute its tendencies will be towards hea- 
ven. We may dismiss repentance when sin is 
abolished. We may indulge selfishness when 
we can do it without danger to our souls. We 
may neglect prayer when we no longer need 
the favour of God. We may cease to praise 
him when he ceases to be gracious to us. — Tc 
discontinue our vigilance at any period short of 
this, will be to defeat all the virtues we hav 
practised on earth, to put to hazaid all our hopes 
of happiness in heaven. 



CHAP. XIII. 

Self- Love. 



* For this hint, and a few others on the same subject, 
the author is indebted to that excellent christian mo- 
ralist, M. Nicole. 



' The idol Self,' says an excellent old divine,* 
' has made more desolation among men than 
ever was made in those places where idols were 
served by human sacrifices. It has preyed more 
fiercely on human lives, than Moloch or the 
Minotaur.' 

To worship images is a more obvious, but it 
is scarcely a more degrading idolatry, than to 
set up self in opposition to God. To devote our- 
selves to this service is as perfect slavery as the 
service of God is perfect freedom. If we cannot 
imitate the sacrifice of Christ in his death, we 
are called upon to imitate the sacrifice of him- 
self in his will. Even the Son of God declared 
1 I came not to do my own will, but the will of 
Him who sent me.' This was his grand lesson, 
this was his distinguishing character. 

Self-will is the ever flowing fountain of all 
the evil tempers which deform our hearts, of 
all the boiling passions which inflame and dis- 
order society ; the root of bitterness on which 
all its corrupt fruits grow. We set up our own 
understanding against the wisdom of God, and 
our own passions against the will of God. If 
we could ascertain the precise period when sen- 
suality ceased to govern in the animal part of 

* Howe. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



461 



our naturo, and pride in the intellectual, that 
period would form the most memorable era of 
the Christian life ; from that moment he bee ins 
a new date of liberty and happiness ; from that 
stage he sets out on a new career of peace, li- 
berty, and virtue. 

Self-love is a Proteus of all shapes, shades, 
and complexions. It has the power of dilation 
and contraction as best serves the occasion. 
There is no crevice so small through which its 
subtle essence cannot force its way, no space so 
ample that it cannot stretch itself to fill. — It is 
of all degrees of refinement, so coarse and hun- 
gry as to gorge itself with the grossest adula- 
tion ; so fastidious as to require a homage as re- 
fined as itself; so artful as to elude the detection 
of ordinary observers; so specious as to escape 
the observation of the very heart in which it 
reigns paramount : yet, though so extravagant 
in its appetites, it can adopt a moderation which 
imposes, a delicacy which veils its deformity, an 
artificial character which keeps its real one out 
of sight. 

We are apt to speak of self-love as if it were 
only a symptom, whereas it is the distemper it- 
self; a malignant distemper which has posses- 
sion of the moral constitution, of which malady 
every part of the system participates. In direct 
opposition to the effect produced by the touch 
of the fabled king, which converted the basest 
materials into gold, this corrupting principle 
pollutes, by coming in contact with it, whatever 
is in itself great and noble. 

Self-love is the centre of the unrenewed heart. 
This stirring principle, as has been observed, 
serves indeed 

The virtuous mind to wake ; 

but it disturbs it from its slumbers to ends and 
purposes directly opposite to those assigned to 
it by our incomparable bard.* Self-love is by 
no means 'the small pebble which stirs the 
peaceful lake.' It is rather the pent up wind 
within, which causes the earthquake ; it is the 
tempest which agitates the sleeping ocean. Had 
the image been as just as its clothing is beau- 
tiful ; or rather had Mr. Pope been as sound a 
theologian as he was an exquisite poet, the allu- 
sion in his hands might have conveyed a sounder 
meaning without losing a particle of its elegance. 
This might have been effected by only substi- 
tuting the effect for the cause ; that is, by mak- 
ing benevolence the principle instead of the con- 
sequence, and by discarding self-love from its 
central situation in the construction of the meta- 
phor. 

But by arraying a beggarly idea in princely 
robes, he knew that his own splendid powers 
could at any time transform meanness into ma- 
jesty, and deformity into beauty. 

After all however, le vrai est le seul beau. Had 
he not blindly adopted the misleading system 
of the noble sceptic, ' his guide, philosopher, and 
friend,' he might have transferred the shining 
attributes of the base-born thing which he has 
dressed out with so many graces, to the legiti- 
mate claimant — benevolence; — of which self- 
love is so far from being, as he represents, the 
moving spring, that they are both working in a 
* Essay on Man, 1, 302. 



course of incessant counteraction, the spirit 
striving against the flesh, and the flesh against 
the spirit. 

To Christian benevolence all the happy effecta 
attributed to self-love might have been fairly 
traced. It was only to dislodge the idol and 
make the love of God the centre, and the poet's 
delightful numbers might have conveyed truths 
worthy of so perfect a vehicle. 'This centre 
moved,' does indeed extend its pervading influ 
ence in the very manner ascribed to the oppo. 
site principle ; does indeed spread from its throne 
in the individual breast, to all those successive 
circles, ' wide and more wide,' of which the 
poet makes self-love the first mover.* 

The apostle James appears to have been of a 
different opinion from the ethic bard; he speaks 
as if he suspected that the pebble stirred the 
lake a little too roughly. He traces this mis- 
chievous principle from its birth to the largest 
extent of its malign influence. — The question, 
' whence come wars and fightings among you, 1 
he answers by another question ; — ' Come they 
not hence, even of your lusts that war in your 
members?' 

The same pervading spirit which creates hos- 
tility between nations, creates animosity among 
neighbours, and discord in families. It is the 
same principle which, having in the beginning 
made 'Cain the first male child,' a murderer in 
his father's house, has been ever since in per- 
petual operation ; has been transmitted in one 
unbroken line of succession, through that long 
chain of crimes of which history is composed 
to the present triumphant spoiler of Europe. — 
In cultivated societies, laws repress, by punish- 
ing, the oVert act in private individuals, but no 
one thing but the Christian religion has ever 
been devised to cleanse the spring. 

'The heart is deceitful above all things and 
desperately wicked, who can know it ?' This 
proposition, this interrogation, we read with 
complacency, and both the aphorism and the 
question being a portion of Scripture, we think 
it would not be decent to controvert it. We 
read it however with a secret reservation, that 
it is only the heart of all the rest of the world 
that is meant, and we rarely make the applica- 
tion which the Scripture intended. Each hopes 
that there is one heart which may escape the 
charge, and he makes the single exception in 
favour of his own. But if the exception which 
every one makes were true, there would not be 
a deceitful or wicked heart in the world. 

As a theory we are ready enough to admire 
self-knowledge, yet when the practice conies in 
question we are as blindfolded as if our happi- 
ness depended on our ignorance. To lay hold 

* Self-love thus pushed to social, to divine. 
Gives thee to make thy neighbour's blessing thine: 
Self-love but serves th>' virtuous mind to wake, 
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake ; 
The centre mov'd, a circle straight succeeds, 
Another still, and still another spreads; 
Fripnd, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace, 
His country next, and next all human race. 

The author hopes to be forgiven for these remarks: 
she has hazarded them for the sake of her more youth- 
ful readers —She has. not forgotten the time when, in 
the admiration of youthful enthusiasm, she never sus- 
pected that the principle of these finished verses was less 
excellent than the poetry. 



462 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



on a religious truth, and to maintain our hold, 
is no easy matter. Our understandings are 
not more ready to receive than our affections to 
lose it. We like to have an intellectual know- 
ledge of divine things, but to cultivate a spiritual 
acquaintance with them cannot be effected at so 
cheap a rate. We can even more readily force 
ourselves to believe that which has no affinity 
with our understanding, than we can bring our- 
selves to choose that which has no interest in 
our will, no correspondence with our passions. 
One of the first duties of a Christian is to 
endeavour to conquer this antipathy to the self- 
denying doctrines against which the human 
heart so sturdily holds out. The learned take 
incredible pains for the acquisition of knowledge. 
The philosopher cheerfully consumes the mid- 
night oil in his laborious pursuits; he willingly 
sacrifices food and rest to conquer a difficulty 
in science. Here the labour is pleasant, the fa- 
tigue is grateful, the very difficulty is not with- 
out its charms. Why do we feel so differently 
in our religious pursuits ? Because in the most 
operose human studies, there is no contradic- 
tion of self, there is no opposition to the will, 
there is no combat of the affections. If the pas- 
sions are at all implicated, if self-love is at all 
concerned, it is rather in the way of gratifica- 
tion than of opposition. 

There is such a thing as a mechanical Chris- 
tianity. There are good imitations of religion, 
bo well executed and so resembling, as not only 
to deceive the spectator, but the artist. Self- 
love in its various artifices to deceive us to our 
ruin, sometimes makes use of a means, which, 
if properly used, is one of the most beneficial 
that can be devised to preserve us from its in- 
fluence — the perusal of pious books. 

But these books in the hands of the ignorant, 
the indolent, and the self-satisfied, produce an 
effect directly contrary to that which they were 
intended to produce, and which they actually do 
produce on minds prepared for the perusal. 
They inflate where they were intended to 
humble. As some hypochondriacs, who amuse 
their melancholy hours with consulting indis- 
criminately every medical book which falls in 
their way, fancy they find their own case in 
every page, their own ailment in the ailment 
of every patient, till they believe they actually 
feci every pain of which they read, though the 
work treats of cases diametrically opposite to 
their own : — so the religious valetudinarian, as 
unreasonably elated as the others are depressed, 
reads books descriptive of a highly religious 
state, with the same unhappy self-application. 
He feels his spiritual pulse by a watch that has 
no movements in common with it, yet he fancies 
that they go exactly alike. He dwells with de- 
light on symptom^, not one of which belongs to 
him, and flatters himself with their supposed 
agreement. He observes in those books what 
are the signs of grace, and he observes them 
with complete self-application ; he traces what 
are the evidences of being in God's favour, and 
those evidences he finds in himself. 

Self-ignorance appropriates truths faithfully 
stated but wholly inapplicable. The presump- 
tion of the novice arrogates to itself the experi- 
ence of the advanced Christian. He is persuad- 



ed that it is his own case, and seizes on the con- 
solations which belong only to the most elevated 
piety. Self-knowledge would correct the judg- 
ment. It would teach us to use the pattern 
held out as an original to copy, instead of lead- 
ing us to fancy that we are already wrought 
into the assimilation. It would teach us when 
we read the history of an established Christian, 
to labour after a conformity to it, instead of 
mistaking it for the delineation of our own 
character. 

Human prudence, daily experience, self-love, 
all teach us to distrust others, but all motives 
combined do not teach us to distrust ourselves ; 
we confide unreservedly in our own heart, though 
as a guide it misleads, as a counsellor it betrays. 
It is both party and judge. As the one, it blinds 
through ignorance, as the other, it acquits 
through partiality. 

Though we value ourselves upon our discre. 
tion in not confiding too implicitly in others 
yet it would be difficult to find any friend, any 
neighbour, or even any enemy who has deceivec 
us so often as we have deceived ourselves. If 
any acquaintance betray us, we take warning 
are on the watch, and are careful not to trus; 
him again. But however frequently the bosom 
traitor deceive and misled, no such determined 
stand is made against his treachery : we lie as 
open to his next assault as if he had never be- 
trayed us. We do not profit by the remem- 
brance of the past delusion to guard against the 
future. 

Yet if another deceive us, it is only in matters 
respecting this world ; but we deceive ourselves 
in things of eternal moment. The treachery 
of others can only affect our fortune or our fame, 
or at worst our peace ; but the internal traitor 
may mislead us to our everlasting destruction. 
We are too much disposed to suspect others 
who probably have neither the inclination nor 
the power to injure hs, but we seldom suspect 
our own heart though it possesses and employs 
both. We ought however fairly to distinguish 
between the simple vanity and the hypocrisy 
of self-love. Those who content themselves 
with talking as if the praise of virtue implied 
the practice, and who expect to be thought 
good, because they commend goodness, only 
propagate the deceit which has misled them- 
selves, whereas hypocrisy does not even believe 
herself. She has deeper motives ; she has de- 
signs to answer, competitions to promote, pro- 
jects to effect. But mere vanity can subsist 
on the thin air ofi the admiration she soli- 
cits, without intending to get any thing by it. 
She is gratuitous in her loquacity ; for she is 
ready to display her own merit to those who have 
nothing to give in return, whose applause brings 
no profit, and whose censure no disgrace. 

It is not strange that we should judge of 
things not according to the opinion of others in 
cases foreign to ourselves ; cases on which we 
have no correct means of determining; but we 
do it in things which relate immediately to 
ourselves, thus making not truth but the opinion 
of others our standard in points which others 
cannot know, and of which we ought not to be 
ignorant. We are as fond of the applauses even 
of the upper gallery as the dramatic poet. Like 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



463 



him we affect to despise the mob considered as 
individual judges, yet as a mass, we covet their 
applause. Like him we feel strengthened by 
the number of voices in our favour, and are less 
anxious about the goodness of the work, than 
the loudness of the acclamation. Success is 
merit in the eye of both. 

But even though we may put more refinement 
into our self-love, it is self-love still. No sub- 
tlety of reasoning, no elegance of taste, though 
it may disguise the radical principle, can destroy 
it. We are still too much in love with flattery, 
even though we may profess to despise that 
praise which depends on the acclamations of 
the vulgar. But if we are over anxious for the 
admiration of the better born and the better 
bred, this by no means proves that we are not 
vain ; it only proves that our vanity has a better 
taste. Our appetite is not coarse enougli per- 
haps to relish that popularity which ordinary 
ambition covets, but do we never feed in secret 
upon the applauses of more distinguished 
judges ? Is not their having extolled our merit 
a confirmation of our discernment, and the chief 
ground of our high opinion of theirs '! 

But if any circumstance arise to induce 
them to change the too favourable opinion 
which they had formed of us, though their 
general character remain unimpeachable, and 
their general conduct as meritorious as when 
We most admired them, do we not begin to judge 
Vhem unfavourably ? Do we not begin to ques- 
tion their claim to that discernment which we 
had ascribed to them, to suspect the soundness 
of their judgment which we had so loudly com- 
mended ? It is well if we do not entertain some 
doubt of the rectitude of their principles, as we 
probably do of the reality of their friendship. 
We do not candidly allow for the effect which 
prejudice, which misrepresentation, which party 
may produce even on an upright mind. Still 
less does it enter into our calculation that we 
may actually have deserved their disapproba- 
tion, that something in our conduct may have 
incurred the change in theirs. 

It is no low attainment to detect this lurking 
injustice in our hearts, to strive against it, to 
pray against it, and especially to conquer it. 
We may reckon that we have acquired a sound 
principle of integrity when prejudice no longer 
blinds our judgment, nor resentment biases our 
justice; when we do not make our opinion of 
another depend on the opinion which we con- 
ceive he entertains of us. We must keep a just 
mearsure, and hold an even balance in judging 
of ourselves as well as of others. We must have 
no false estimate which shall incline to con- 
demnation without, or to partiality within. 
The examining principle must be kept sound, 
or our deteimination will not be exact. It must 
be at once a testimony of our rectitude, and an 
incentive to it. 

In order to improve this principle, we should 
make it a test of our sincerity to search out and 
So commend the good qualities of those who do 
not like us. But this must be done without 
affectation, and without insincerity. We must 
practice no false candour. If we are not on our 
guard we may be laying out for the praise of 
generosity, while we are only exercising a sim- 



ple act of justice. These refinements of self 
love are the dangers only of spirits of the higher 
order, but to such they are dangers. 

The ingenuity of self-deceit is inexhaustible. 
If people extol us, we feel our good opinion of 
ourselves confer med. If they dislike us, we do 
not think the worse of ourselves, but of them ; 
it is not we who want merit but they who want 
penetration. If we cannot refuse them discern- 
ment, we persuade ourselves that they are not 
so much insensible to our worth as envious of 
it. There is no shift, stratagem, or device 
which we do not employ to make us stand well 
with ourselves. 

We are too apt to calculate our own character 
unfairly in two ways; by referring to some one 
signal act of generosity, as if such acts were 
the common habit of our lives, and by treating 
our habitual faults, not as common habits, but 
occasional failures. There is scarcely any fault 
in another which offends us more than vanity, 
though perhaps there is none that really injures 
us so little. We have no patience that another 
should be as full of self-love as we allow our- 
selves to be ; so full of himself as to have little 
leisure to attend to us. We are particularly 
quick sighted to the smallest of his imperfec- 
tions which interferes with our self-esteem, 
while we are lenient to his more grave offences, 
which by not coming in contact with our vanity, 
do not shock onr self-love. 

Is it not strange that though we love our 
seives so much better than we love any other 
person, yet there is hardly one, however little 
we value him, that we had not rather be alone 
with, tiiat we had not rather converse with, 
that we had not rather come to close quarters 
with, than ourselves ? Scarcely one whose pri- 
vate history, whose thoughts, feelings, actions, 
and motives we had not rather pry into than 
our own. Do we not use every art and con- 
trivance to avoid getting at the truth of our own 
character ? Do we not endeavour to keep our- 
selves ignorant of what every one else knows 
respecting our faults, and do we not account 
that man our enemy, who takes on himself the 
best office of a friend, that of opening to us our 
real state and condition ? 

The little satisfaction people find when they 
faithfully look within, makes them fly more 
eagerly to things without. Early practice and 
long habit might conquer the repugnance to 
look at home, and the fondness for looking 
abroad. Familiarity often makes us pleased 
with the society which, while strangers we 
dreaded. Intimacy with ourselves might pro- 
duce a similar effect. 

We might perhaps collect a tolerably just 
knowledge of our own character, could we 
ascertain the real opinion of others respecting 
us ; but that opinion being, except in a moment 
of resentment, carefully kept from us by our 
own precautions, profits us nothing. We do 
not choose to know their secret sentiments, 
because we do not choose to be cured of our 
error ; because we ' love darkness rather than 
light;' because we conceive that in parting 
with our vanity, we should part with the only 
comfort we have, that of being ignorant of our 
own faults. 



464 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Self-knowledge would materially contribute 
to our happiness, by curing us of that self-suffi- 
ciency which is continually exposing us to mor- 
tifications. The hourly rubs and vexations which 
pride undergoes, is far more than an equivalent 
for the short intoxication of pleasure which it 
snatches. 

The enemy within is always in a confederacy 
with the enemy without, whether that enemy 
be the world or the devil. The domestic foe ac- 
commodates itself to their allurements, flatters 
our weaknesses, throws a veil over our vices, 
tarnishes our good deeds, gilds our bad ones, 
hoodwinks our judgment, and works hard to 
conceal our internal springs of action. 

Self-love has the talent of imitating whatever 
the world admires, even though it should be the 
Christian virtues. It leads us from our regard 
to reputation to avoid all vices, not only which 
would bring punishment but discredit by the 
commission. It can even assume the zeal and 
copy the activity of Christian charity. It com- 
municates to our conduct those properties and 
graces, manifested in the conduct of those who 
are actuated by a sounder motive. The differ- 
ence lies in the ends proposed. The object of 
the one is to please God, of the other to obtain 
the praise of man. 

Self-love judging of the feelings of others by 
its own, is aware that nothing excites so much 
odium as its own character would do, if nakedly 
exhibited. We feel, by our own disgust at ils 
exhibition in others, how much disgust we our- 
selves should excite did we not invest it with 
the soft garb of gentle manners and polished ad- 
dress. When therefore we would not conde- 
scend ' to take the lowest place, to think others 
better than ourselves, to be courteous and pitiful,' 
on the true scripture ground, politeness steps in 
as the accidental substitute of humility, and the 
counterfeit brilliant is willingly worn by those 
who will not be at the expense of the jewel. 

There is a certain elegance of mind which 
will often restrain a well-bred man from sordid 
pleasures and gross voluptuousness. He will be 
led by his good taste perhaps not only to abhor 
the excesses of vice, but to admire the theory of 
virtue. But it is only the trapule of vice which 
he will abhor. Exquisite gratifications, sober 
luxury, incessant but not unmeasured enjoy- 
ment, form the principle of his plan of life, and 
if lie observe a temperance in his pleasures, it 
is only because excess would take off the edge, 
destroy the zest, and abridge the gratification. 
By resisting gross vices he flatters himself that 
he is a temperate man, and that he has made 
all tiie sacrifices which self-denial imposes. In- 
wardly satisfied, he compares himself with those 
who have sunk into coarser indulgences, enjoys 
his own superiority*in health, credit, and unim- 
paired faculties, and triumphs in the dignity of 
his own character. 

There is, if the expression may be allowed, 
a sort of religious self-deceit, an affection of hu- 
mility which is in reality full of life, which re- 
solves all importance into what concerns self, 
which only looks at things as they refer to life. 
This religious vanity operates in two ways: — 
We not only fly out at the imputation of the 
smallest individual fault, while at the same time 



we affect to charge ourselves with more corrup- 
tion than is attributed to us ; but on the other 
hand, while we are lamenting our general want 
of all goodness, we fight for every particle that 
is disputed. The one quality that is in question 
always happens to be the very one to which we 
must lay claim, however deficient in others. — 
Thus, while renouncing the pretensions to every 
virtue, ' we depreciate ourselves into all.' We 
had rather talk even of our faults than not oc- 
cupy the foreground of the canvass. 

Humility does not consist in telling our faults, 
but in bearing to be told of them ; in hearing 
them patiently and even thankfully ; in correct- 
ing ourselves when told ; in not hating those 
who tell us of them. If we were little in our 
own eyes, and felt our real insignificance, we 
should avoid false humility as much as mere 
obvious vanity; but we seldom dwell on our 
faults except in a general way, and rarely on 
those of which we are really guilty. We do it 
in the hope of being contradicted, and thus of 
being confirmed in the secret good opinion we 
entertain of ourselves. It is not enough that we 
inveigh against ourselves, we must in a manner 
forget ourselves. This oblivion of self from a 
pure principle, would go further towards our 
advancement in christian virtue, than the most 
splendid actions performed on the opposite 
ground. 

That self-knowledge which teaches us humi- 
lity, teaches us compassion also. The sick pity 
the sink. They sympathize with the disorder 
of which they feel the symptoms in themselves. 
Self-knowledge also checks injustice by esta- 
blishing the equitable principle of showing the 
kindness we expect to receive ; it represses am- 
bition by convincing us how little we are entitled 
to superiority ; it renders adversity profitable 
by letting us see how much we deserve it ; it 
makes prosperity safe, by directing our hearts 
to him who confers it, instead of receiving it as 
the consequence of our own desert. 

We even carry our self-importance to the foot 
of the throne of God. When prostrate there we 
are not required, it is true, to forget ourselves, 
but we are required to remember him. We have 
indeed much sin to lament, but we have also 
much mercy to adore. We have much to ask, 
but we have likewise much to acknowledge. 
Yet our infinite obligations to God do not fill 
our hearts half as much as a petty uneasiness 
of our own ; nor his infinite perfections as much 
as our own smallest want. 

The great, the only effectual antidote to self- 
love, is to get the love of God and of our neigh- 
bour firmly rooted in the heart. Yet let us ever 
bear in mind that dependance on our fellow crea- 
tures is as carefully to be avoided as love of them 
is to be cultivated, There is none but God on 
whom the principles of love and dependance 
form but one duty. 



CHAP. XIV. 

On the conduct of Christians in their intercourse 
with the irreligious. 

The combination of integrity with discretion 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



465 



is the precise point at which a serious Christian 
must aim in his intercourse, and especially in 
his debates on religion, with men of the oppo- 
site description. He must consider himself as 
not only having his own reputation but the ho- 
nour of religion in his keeping. While he must 
on the one hand 'set his face as a flint' against 
any thing that may be construed into compro- 
mise or evasion, into denying or concealing any 
christian truth, or shrinking from any com- 
manded duty, in order to conciliate favour ; he 
must, on the other hand, be scrupulously care- 
ful never to maintain a christian doctrine with 
an unchristian temper. In endeavouring to con- 
vince he must be cautious not needlessly to irri- 
tate. He must distinguish between the honour 
of God and the pride of his own character, and 
never be pertinaciously supporting the one, un- 
der the pretence that he is only maintaining the 
other. The dislike thus excited against the dis- 
putant is at once transferred to the principle, 
and the adversary's unfavourable opinion of re- 
ligion is augmented by the faults of its cham- 
pion. At the same time, the intemperate cham- 
pion puts it out of his power to be of any fur- 
ther service to the man whom his offensive man- 
ners have disgusted. 

A serious Christian, it is true, feels an honest 
indignation at hearing those truths on which 
his everlasting hopes depend, lightly treated. 
He cannot but feel his heart rise at the affront 
offered to his Maker. But instead of calling 
down fire from heaven on the reviler's head, he 
will raise a secret supplication to the God of 
heaven in his favour, which, if it change not the 
heart of his opponent, will not only tranquilize 
his own, but soften it towards his adversary ; 
for we cannot easily hate the man for whom we 
pray. 

He who advocates the sacred cause of Chris- 
tianity, should be particularly aware of fancying 
that his being religious will atone for his being 
disagreeable ; that his orthodoxy will justify his 
uncharitableness, or his zeal make up for his in- 
discretion. He must not persuade himself that 
he has been serving God, when he has only been 
gratifying his own resentment, when he has 
actually by a fiery defence prejudiced the cause 
which he might perhaps have advanced by tem- 
perate argument and persuasive mildness. Even 
a judicious silence under great provocation is, in 
a warm temper, real forbearance. And though 
* to keep silence from good words' may' be pain 
and grief, yet the pain and grief must bo borne, 
and the silence must be observed. 

We sometimes see imprudent religionists 
glory in the attacks which their own indiscre- 
tion has invited. With more vanity than truth 
they apply the strong and ill-chosen term of 
persecution, to the sneers and ridicule which 
some impropriety of manner or some inadvert- 
ency of their own has occasioned. Now and then 
it is to be feared the censure may be deserved, 
and the high professor may possibly be but an 
indifferent moralist. Even a good man, a point 
we are not sufficiently ready to concede, may 
have been blameable in some instance on which 
his censures will naturally have kept a keen eye. 
On these occasions how forcibly does the point- 
ed caution recur, which was implied by the di- 

Vol. I. G 2 



vine moralist on the mount, and enforced by the 
apostle Peter, to distinguish for whose sake we 
are calumniated. 

By the way, this sharp look-out of worldly 
men on the professors of religion, is not without 
very important uses. While it serves to promote 
circumspection in the real Christian, the detec- 
tion to which it leads in the case of the hollow 
professor, forms a broad and useful line of dis- 
tinction between two classes of characters so 
essentially distinct, and yet so frequently, so un- 
justly, and so malevolently confounded. 

The world believes, or at least affects to be- 
lieve, that the correct and elegant minded reli- 
gious man is blind to those errors and infirmi- 
ties, that eccentricity and bad taste, that pro- 
pensity to diverge from the straight line of pru- 
dence, which is discernible in some pious but 
ill-judging men, and which delight and gratify 
the enemies of true piety, as furnishing them 
with so plausible a ground for censure. But if 
the more judicious and better informed Chris- 
tian bears with these infirmities, it is not that 
he does not clearly perceive and entirely con- 
demn them. But he bears with what he disap- 
proves for the sake of the zeal, the sincerity, the 
general usefulness of these defective characters: 
these good qualities are totally overlooked by 
the censurer, who is ever on the watch to aggra 
vate the failings which Christian charity la 
ments without extenuating. It bears with them 
from the belief that impropriety is less mis- 
chievous than carelessness, a bad judgment than 
a bad heart, and some little excesses of zeal than 
gross immorality or total indifference. 

We are not ignorant how much truth itself 
offends, though unassociated with any thing that 
is displeasing. This furnishes an important 
rule not to add to the unavoidable offence, by 
mixing the faults of our own character with the 
cause we support ; because we may be certain 
that the enemy will take care never to separate 
them. He will always voluntarily maintain the 
pernicious association in his own mind. He will 
never think or speak of religion without connect- 
ing with it the real or imputed bad qualities of 
all the religious men he knows or has heard of. 

Let not then the friends of truth unnecessarily 
increase the number of her enemies. Let her 
not have at once to sustain the assaults to which 
her divine character inevitably subjects her, and 
the obloquy to which the infirmities and foibles 
of her injudicious, and if there are any such, 
her unworthy champions expose her. 

But we sometimes justify our rash violence 
under colour that our correct piety cannot en- 
dure the faults of others. The Pharisees, over- 
flowing with wickedness themselves, made the 
exactness of their own virtue a pretence for 
looking with horror on the publicans whom our 
Saviour regarded with compassionate tender- 
ness, while he reprobated with keen .severity 
the sins, and especially the censoriousness of 
their accusers. 'Charity,' says an admirable 
French writer, 'is that law which Jesus Christ 
came down to bring into the world, to repair 
the div sions which sin has introduced into it : 
to be the proof of the reconciliation of man with 
God, by bringing him into obedience to the di- 
vine law ; to reconcile him to himself by subju 



466 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



gating his passions to his reason ; and in fine to 
reconcile him to all mankind, by curing him of 
the desire to domineer over them.' 

But we put it out of our power to become the 
instruments of God in promoting the spiritual 
good of any one, if we stop up the avenue to his 
heart by violence or imprudence. We not only 
put it out of our power to do good to all whom 
we disgust, but are we not liable to some respon- 
sibility for the failure of all the good we might 
have done them, had we not forfeited our influ- 
ence by our indiscretion ? What we do not to 
others, in relieving their spiritual as well as 
bodily wants, Christ will punish as not having 
been done to himself This is one of the cases 
in which our own reputation is so inseparably 
connected with that of religion, that we should 
be tender of one for the sake of the other. 

The modes of doing good in society are vari- 
ous. We should sharpen our discernment to 
discover them ; and our zeal to put them in 
practice. If we cannot open man's eyes to the 
truth of religion by our arguments, we may 
perhaps open them to its beauty by our modera- 
tion. Though he may dislike Christianity in 
itself, he may, from admiring the forbearance of 
the Christian, be at last led to admire the prin- 
ciple from which it flowed. If he have hitherto 
refused to listen to the written evidences of re- 
ligion, the temper of her advocate may be a new 
evidence of so engaging a kind, that his heart 
may be opened by the sweetness of the one to 
the varieties of the other. He will at least be 
brought to allow that that religion cannot be 
very bad, the fruits of which are so amiable. 
The conduct of the disciple may in time bring 
im to the feet of the Master. A new combina- 
tion may be formed in his mind. He may be- 
gin to see what he had supposed antipathies re- 
conciled, to unite two things which he thought 
as impossible to be brought together as the two 
poles — he may begin to couple candour with 
Christianity. 

But if the mild advocate fail to convince, he 
may persuade ; even if he fail to persuade, he 
will at least leave on the mind of the adversary 
such favourable impressions, as may induce him 
to inquire farther. He may be able to employ 
on some future occasion, to more effectual pur- 
pose, the credit which his forbearance will have 
obtained for him : whereas uncharitable vehe- 
mence would probably have forever shut the ears 
and closed the heart of his opponent against any 
further intercourse. 

But if the temperate pleader should not be so 
happy as to produce any considerable effect on 
the mind of his antagonist, he is in any case 
promoting the interests of his own soul ; he is 
at least imitating the faith and patience of the 
saints ; he is cultivating that ' meek and quiet 
spirit' of which his blessed Master gave at once 
the rule, the injunction, and the praise. 

If ' all bitterness, and clamour, and malice, 
and evil speaking,' are expressly forbidden in 
ordinary cases, surely the prohibition must more 
peculiarly apply to the case of religious contro- 
versialists. Suppose Voltaire and Hume had 
been left to take their measure of our religion 
(as one would really suppose they had) from the 
defences of Christianity by their very able con- 



temporary, bishop Warburton. — When they saw 
this Goliah in talents and learning, dealing about 
his ponderous blows, attacking with the same 
powerful weapons, not the enemies only, but the 
friends of Christianity, who happened to see 
some points in a different light from himself; 
not meeting them as his opponents, but pouncing 
on them as his prey ; not seeking to defend 
himself, but tearing them to pieces ; waging of- 
fensive war ; delighting in unprovoked hostility 
— when they saw him thus advocate the Chris- 
tian cause, with a spirit diametrically opposite 
to Christianity, would they not exultingly ex- 
claim, in different opposition to the exclamation 
of the apostolic age, ' See how these Christians 
hate one another !' Whereas had his vast pow- 
ers of mind and astonishing compass of know- 
ledge been sanctified by the angelic meekness 
of archbishop Leighton, they would have been 
compelled to acknowledge, if Christianity be 
false, it is after all so amiable that it deserves 
to be true. Might they not have applied to 
these two prelates what was said of Bo6suet and 
Fenelon, ' Vun provve la Religion, Vautre la fait 
aimer.'' 

If we studiously contrive how to furnish the 
most complete triumph to infidels, contentious 
theology would be our best contrivance. They 
enjoy the wounds the combatants inflict on each 
other, not so much from the personal injury 
which either might sustain, as from the convic- 
tion that every attack, however it may termi- 
nate, weakens the common cause. In all en- 
gagements with a foreign foe, they know that 
Christianity must come off triumphantly. All 
their hopes are founded on a civil war. 

If a forbearing temper should be maintained 
towards the irreligious, how much more by the 
professors of religion towards each other. As it 
is a lamentable instance of human infirmity that 
there is often much hostility carried on by good 
men, who profess the same faith ; so it is a 
striking proof of the litigious nature of man 
that this spirit is less excited by broad distinc- 
tions, (such as conscience ought not to reconcile) 
than by shades of opinion, shades so few and 
light, that the world would not know they ex- 
isted at all, if by their animosities the disputants 
were not so impatient to inform it. 

While we should never withhold a clear and 
honest avowal of the great principles of our re 
ligion, let us discreetly avoid dwelling on incon 
siderable distinctions, on which, as they do not 
affect the essentials either of faith or practice, 
we may allow another to maintain his opinion 
while we steadily hold fast our own. But in 
religious as in military warfare, it almost seems 
as if the hostility were great in proportion to the 
littleness of the point contested. We all re- 
member when two great nations were on the 
point of being involved in war for a spot of 
ground* in another hemisphere, so little known 
that the very name had scarcely reached us ; so 
inconsiderable that its possession would have 
added nothing to the strength of either. In ci- 
vil too, as well as in national and theological 
disputes, there is often most stress laid on the 
most indifferent things. Why would the Spanish 

,* Nootka Sound. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



467 



government some years ago so little consult the 
prejudices of the people, as nearly to produce an 
insurrection, by issuing an edict for them to re- 
liuquish the ancient national dress? Why was 
the security of the state, and the lives of the sub- 
jects put to hazard for a cloak and a jerkin ? 
For the obstinate people made as firm a stand 
against this trifling requisition, as they could 
have made for the preservation of their civil or 
religious liberty, if they had been so happy as 
to possess either — a stand as firm as they are 
now nobly making in defence of their country 
and their independence. 

Without invidiously enumerating any of the 
narrowing names which split Christianity in 
pieces, and which so unhappily drive the sub- 
jects of the Prince of Peace into interminable 
war, and range them into so many hostile bands, 
not against the common enemy, but against 
each other ; we cannot forbear regretting that 
less temper is preserved among these near 
neighbours in local situation and in Christian 
truth, than if the attack of either were levelled 
at Jews, Turks, or Infidels. 

Is this that catholic spirit which embraces 
with the love of charity, though not of approba- 
tion, the whole offspring of our common Father 
— which in the arms of its large affection, with- 
out vindicating their faults or adopting their 
opinions, ' takes every creature in of every kind,' 
and which like its gracious Author, ' would not 
that any thing should perish ?' 

The preference of remote to approximating 
opinion is, however, by no means confined to 
the religious world. The Author of the Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire, though so pas- 
sionate an admirer of the prophet of Arabia as 
to raise a suspicion of his own Islamism ; though 
so rapturous an eulogist of the apostate Julian 
as to raise a suspicion of his own polytheism, 
yet with an inconsistency not uncommon to un- 
belief, he treats the stout orthodoxy of the vehe- 
ment Athanasius, with more respect than he 
shows to the ' scanty creed' of a contemporary 
philosopher and theologian, whose cold and com- 
fortless doctrines were much less removed from 
his own. 

Might not the twelve monsters which even 
the incredible strength and labour of Hercules 
found so hard to subdue, be interpreted as an 
ingenious allegory, by which were meant twelve 
popular prejudices ? But though the hero went 
forth armed preternaturally, the goddess of 
Wisdom herself furnishing- him with his helmet, 
and the god of eloquence with his arrows, yet it 
is not certain that he conquered the religious 
prejudices, not of the world, but even of Argos 
and Mycenae ; at least they were not among his 
earlier conquests ; they were not serpents which 
an infant hand could strangle. They were more 
probably the fruitful hydra, which lost nothing 
by losing a head, a new head always starting 
up to supply the incessant decapitation. But 
though he slew the animal at last, might not its 
envenomed gore in which his arrows were dip- 
ped be the perennial fountain in which perse- 
cuting bigotry, harsh intolerance, and polemical 
acrimony, have continued to dip their pens ! 

It is a delicate point to hit upon, neither to 
vindicate the truth in so coarse a manner as to 



excite a prejudice against it, nor to make any 
concessions in the hope of obtaining popularity 
1 If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live 
peaceably with all men,' can no more mean that 
we should exercise that false candour which 
conciliates at the expense of sincerity, than that 
we should defend the truth with so intolerant a 
spirit, as to injure the cause by discrediting the 
advocate. 

As the apostle beautifully obtests his brethren, 
not by the power and dignity, but 'by the meek- 
ness and gentleness of Christ,' so every Christian 
should adorn his doctrine by the same endearing 
qualities, evincing by the brightness of the po- 
lish, the solidity of the substance. But he will 
carefully avoid adopting the external appearance 
of these amiable tempers as substitutes for piety, 
when they are only its ornaments. Condescend- 
ing manners may be one of the numberless mo- 
difications of selfishness, and reputation is thus 
often obtained, where it is not fairly earned. 
Carefully to examine whether he pleased others, 
for their good to edification, or in order to gain 
praise and popularity, is the bounden duty of a 
Christian. 

We should not be angry with the blind for 
not seeing, nor with the proud for not acknow 
ledging their blindness. We ourselves perhaps 
were once as blind ; happy if we are not still as 
proud. If not in this instance, in others per- 
haps they might have made more of our advan- 
tages than we have done ; we, under their cir- 
cumstances might have been more perversely 
wrong than they are, had we not been treated 
by the enlightened with more patient tenderness 
than we are disposed to exercise towards them. 
Tyre and Sidon, we are assured by truth itself, 
would have repented, had they enjoyed the pri- 
vileges which Chorazin and Bethsaida threw 
away. Surely we may do that for the love of 
God, and for the love of our opponent's soul, 
which well-bred men do through a regard to po- 
liteness. Why should a Christian be more ready 
to offend against the rule of charity than a gen- 
tleman against the rule of decorum ? Candour 
in judging is like disinterestedness in acting ; 
both are statutes of the royal law. 

There is also a kind of right which men feel 
they possess to their own opinion. With this 
right it is often more difficult to part than even 
with the opinion itself. If our object be the 
real good of our opponent; if it be to promote 
the cause of truth, and not to contest for victory, 
we shall remember this. We shall consider 
what a value we put upon our own opinion : 
why should his, though a false one, be less dear 
to him, if he believe it true ? This considera- 
tion will teach us not to expect too much at first. 
It will teach us the prudence of seeking some 
general point, in which we cannot fail to agree. 
This will let him see that we do not differ from 
him for the sake of differing ; which conciliating 
spirit of ours may bring him to a temper to listen 
to arguments on topics where our disagreement 
is wider. 

In disputing, for instance, with those who 
wholly reject the divine authority of the scrip- 
tures, we can gain nothing by quoting them, 
and insisting vehemently on the proof which is 
to be drawn from them, in support of the point 



4b8 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



in debate : their unquestionable truth availing 
nothing with those who do not allow it. But 
if we take some common ground, on which both 
the parties can stand, and reason, from the analo- 
gies of natural religion, and the way in which 
God proceeds in the known and acknowledged 
course of his providence, to the way in which 
he deals with us, and has declared he will deal 
with us, as the God revealed in the Bible ; our 
opponent may be struck with the similarity and 
be put upon a track of consideration, and be 
brought to a temper in considering which may 
terminate in the happiest manner. He may 
be brought at length to be less averse from 
listening to us, on those grounds and principles 
of which probably he might otherwise never 
have seen the value. 

Where a disputant of another description can- 
not endure what he sneeringly calls the strict- 
ness of evangelical religion, he will have no 
objection to acknowledge the momentous truths 
of man's responsibility to his Maker, of the 
omniscience, omnipresence, majesty and purity 
of God. Strive then to meet him on these 
grounds, and respectfully inquire if he can 
sincerely affirm that he is acting up to the truths 
he acknowledges ? — If he is living in all re- 
spects as an accountable being ought to live? — 
If he is really conscious of acting as a being 
ought to act, who knows that he is continually 
acting under the eye of a just and holy God ? 
You will find he cannot stand on these grounds. 
Either he must be contented to receive the truth 
as revealed in the gospel, or be convicted of in- 
consistency, or self-deceit, or hypocrisy ; you 
will at least drive him off his own ground which 
he will find untenable, if you cannot bring him 
over to yours. But while the enemy is effecting 
his retreat, do not you cut off the means of his 
return ? 

Some Christians approve Christianity as it is 
knowledge, rather than as it is principle. They 
like it as it yields a grand object of pursuit ; as 
it enlarges their view of things, as it opens to 
them a wider field of inquiry ; a fresh source of 
discovery, an additional topic of critical inves- 
tigation. They consider it rather as extending 
the limits of their research, than as a means of 
ennobling their affections. It furnishes their 
understanding with a fund of riches on which 
they are eager to draw, not so much for the im- 
provement of the heart as of the intellect. The}' 
consider it as a thesis on which to raise inter- 
esting discussion, rather than as premises from 
which to draw practical conclusions ; as an in- 
controvertible truth, rather than as a rule of life. 

There is something in the exhibition of sacred 
subjects given us by these persons, which ac- 
cording to our conception, is not only mistaken 
but pernicious. We refer to their treatment of 
religion as a mere science divested of its practi- 
cal application, and taken rather as a code of 
philosophical speculations than of active princi- 
ples. To explain our meaning, we might per- 
haps venture to except against the choice of 
topics almost exclusively made by these writers. 

After they have spent half a life upon the 
evidences, the mere vestibule, so necessary, we 
allow, to be passed into the temple of Christi- 
anity, we acoompany them into their edifice, 



and find it composed of materials but too co. 
incident with their former taste. Questions of 
criticism, of grammar, of history, of metaphy- 
sics, of mathematics, and of all the sciences 
meet us, in the very place of that which saint 
Paul tells us ' is the end of all,' — that is, ' Charity 
out of a pure heart, and of a good conscience, 
and of faith unfeigned, from which' he adds, 
' some having swerved, have turned aside to 
vain jangling.'* 

We are very far from applying the latter 
term to all scientific discussions in religion, of 
which we should be the very last to deny the 
use, or question the necessity. Our main objec- 
tion lies to the preponderance given to such 
topics by our controversialists in their divinity, 
and to the spirit too often manifested in their 
discussiors. A preponderance it is, which 
makes us sometimes fear they cousider these 
things rather as religion itself, than as helps to 
understand it, as the substitutes, not the allies 
of devotion. At the same time, a cold and 
philosophical spirit, often studiously maintained, 
seems to confirm the suspicion, that religion 
with them is not accidentally, but essentially, 
and solely an exercise of the wits, and a field 
for the display of intellectual prowess — as if 
the salvation of souls were a thing by the by. 

These prize fighters in theology remind us 
of the philosophers of other schools : we feel as 
if we were reading Newton against Des Cartes, 
or the theory of caloric in opposition to phlogis- 
ton. ' Nous le regardons,' says the eloquent 
Saurin upon some religious subject, ' pour la 
plupart, de la meme maniere, dont on envisage 
les ide es d'un ancien philosophe sur le gouverne- 
ment.' — The practical part of religion in short 
is forgotten, is lost in its theories ; and what is 
worst of all, a temper hostile to the spirit of 
Chrisftanity is employed to defend or illustrate 
its positions. 

The latter effect might be traced beyond the 
foregoing causes, to another nearly allied to 
them — the habit of treating religion as a science 
capable of demonstration. On a subject evi- 
dently admitting but of moral evidence, we 
lament to see questions dogmatically proved, 
instead of being temperately argued. Nay we 
could almost smile at the sight of some intricate 
and barren novelty in religion, demonstrated to 
the satisfaction of some one ingenious theorist, 
who draws upon himself instantly a hundred 
confutations of every position he maintains. 
The ulterior stages of the debate are often such 
as might ' make angels weep.' And when we 
remember that even in the most important ques- 
tions, involving eternal interests, ' probability is 
the yery guide of life,'t we could most devoutly 
Wish, that on subjects, to say the least, not 
' generally necessary to salvation,' infallibility 
were not the claim of the disputant, or personal 
animosity the condition of his failure. 

Such speculatists who are more anxious to 
make proselytes to an opinion, than converts to 
a principle, will not be so likely to convince an 

* See 1 Tim. i, 5, 6. also verse 4, in which the apostle 
hints at certain ' fables and endless genealogies, which 
minister questions rather than godly edifying which is 
by faith.' We dare not say how closely this description 
applies to some modern controvertists in theology.. 

t Butler's Introduction to ' The Analogy.' 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



469 



opponent, as the Christian who is known to act 
up to his convictions, and whose genuine piety 
will put life and heart into his reasonings. The 
opponent probably knows already all the inge- 
nious arguments which books supply. Inge- 
nuity therefore, if he be a candid man, will not 
be so likely to touch him, as that ' godly sin- 
cerity' which he cannot but perceive the heart 
of his antagonist is dictating to his lips. There 
is a simple energy in pure Christian truth which 
a factitious principle imitates in vain. The 
1 knowledge which pufteth up' will make few 
practical converts unaccompanied with the 
' charity which edifleth.' 

To remove prejudices, then, is the bounden 
duty of a Christian, but he must take care not 
to remove them by conceding what integrity 
forbids him to concede. He must not wound 
his conscience to save his credit. If an ill bred 
roughness disgusts another, a dishonest com- 
plaisance undoes himself. He must remove all 
obstructions to the reception of truth, but the 
truth itself he must not adulterate. In clearing 
away the impediment he must secure the prin- 
ciple. 

If his own reputation be attacked, he must 
defend it by every lawful means ; nor will he 
sacrifice the valuable possession to any demand 
but that of conscience, to any call but the im- 
perative call of duty. If his good name be put 
in competition with any other earthly good, he 
will preserve it, however dear may be the good 
he relinquishes ; but, if the competition lie be- 
tween his reputation and his conscience, he has 
no hesitation in making the sacrifice, costly as 
it is. A feeling man struggles for his fame as 
for his life, but if he be a Christian, he parts 
with it, for he knows that it is not the life of his 
soul. 

For the same reason that we must not be 
over anxious to vindicate our fame, we must 
be careful to preserve it from any unjust 
imputation. The great apostle of the Gentiles 
has set us an' admirable example in both re- 
spects, and we should never consider him in one 
point of view, without recollecting his conduct 
in the other. So profound is his humility that 
he declares himself 'less than the least of all 
saints.' Not content with this comparative 
depreciation, he proclaims his actual corrup- 
tions. ' In me, that is, in my flesh, there is no 
good thing.' Yet this deep self-abasement did 
not prevent him from asserting his own calum- 
nialed worth, from declaring that he was not 
behind the very 'chiefest of the apostles;' — 
again — ' As the truth of Christ is in me, no 
man shall stop me of this boasting,' &c. He then 
enumerates, with a manly dignity, tempered 
with a noble modesty, a multitude of instances 
of his unparalleled sufferings and his unrivalled 
zeal. 

Where only his own personal feelings were 
in question, how self-abasing, how self-anni- 
hilating ! But where the unjust imputation in- 
volved the honour of Christ and the credit of 
religion ' what carefulness is wrought in him, 
yea what clearing of himself; yea what vehe- 
ment desire ; yea what zeal !' 

While we rejoice in the promises annexed to 
the beatitudes, we shoul J be cautious of apply- 



ing to ourselves promises which do not belong 
to us, particularly that which is attached to the 
last beatitude. When our fame is attacked, let 
us carefully inquire, if we are ' suffering for 
righteousness' sake,' or for our own faults ; let 
us examine, whether we may not deserve tho 
censures we have incurred. Even if we are 
suffering in the cause of God, may we not have 
brought discredit on that holy cause by our im- 
prudence, our obstinacy, our vanity ; by our zeal 
without knowledge, and our earnestness without 
temper ? Let us inquire, whether our revilera 
have not some foundation for the charge? 
Whether we have not sought our own glory more 
than that of God ? Whether we are not more 
disappointed at missing that revenue of praise, 
which we thought our good works were entitled 
to bring us in, than at the wound religion may 
have sustained ? Whether, though our views 
were right on the whole, their purity was not 
much alloyed by human mixtures ? Whether 
neglecting to count the cost, we did not expect 
unmixed approbation, uninterrupted success, 
and a full tide of prosperity and applause, to- 
tally forgetting the reproaches received, and the 
obloquy sustained by ' the Man of Sorrows.' 

If we can on an impartial review, acquit our- 
selves as to the general purity of our motives, 
the general integrity of our conduct, the un- 
feigned sincerity of our endeavours, then we 
may indeed, though with deep humility, take 
to ourselves the comfort of this divine beatitude. 
When we really find, that men only speak evil 
of us for his sake in whose cause we have la- 
boured, however that labour may have been 
mingled with imperfection, we may indeed 're- 
joice and be exceeding glad.' Submission may 
be elevated into gratitude, and forgiveness into 
love. 



CHAP. XV. 

On the propriety of introducing Religion in 
general conversation. 

May we be allowed to introduce here an 
opinion warmly maintained in the world, and 
which indeed strikes at the root of all rules for 
the management of religious debate recom- 
mended in the preceding chapter ? It is, that 
the subject of religion ought on no occasion to 
be introduced in mixed company : that the di- 
versity of sentiment upon it is so great, and so 
nearly connected with the tenderest feelings of 
our minds, as to be liable to lead to heat and 
contention. Finally, that it is too grave and 
solemn a topic to be mixed in the miscellaneous 
circle of social discourse, much less in the fes- 
tive effusions of convivial cheerfulness. Now, 
in answer to these allegations, we must at least 
insist, that should religion, on other grounds, be 
found entitled to social discussion, the last ob- 
servation, if true, would prove convivial cheer- 
fulness incompatible with the spirit and practice 
of religion, rather than religion inadmissible 
into cheerful parties. And it is certainly a 
retort difficult of evasion, that where to intro- 
duce Religion herself is to endanger her honour, 



470 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



there she rather suffers in reputation by the pre- 
sence of her friend. The man endeared by con- 
viction to his religion will never bear to be long, 
much less to be statedly separated from the ob- 
ject of his affections : and he whose zeal once 
determined him ' to know nothing'' amongst his 
associates, 'but Jesus Christ and him crucified,' 
never could have dreamt of a latitude of inter, 
pretation, which would admit a Christian into 
scenes where every tldng but Jesus Christ and 
him crucified, might be recognized with credit. 

These principles appear so plain and incon- 
trovertible, that the question seems rather to call 
for a different statement, viz. — Why religion 
should not be deemed admissible into every so- 
cial meeting and friendly circle in which a 
Christian himself would choose to be found ? 
That it is too weighty and important a subject 
for discussion, is an argument, which, standing 
alone, assumes the gross absurdity that either 
men never talk of that which most nearly in- 
terests them, or that when they do, they talk 
improperly. They will not, it is true, introduce 
a private concern, however important, in which 
no one is interested but themselves. But in the 
subject of religion, who is not interested ? Or 
where will topics be found more universal in 
their application to all times, persons, places and 
circumstances, as well as more important, than 
those which relate to the eternal welfare of 
mankind ? 

Nor will it be avowed with great colour of 
reason, that topics so important suffer in point 
of gravity, or in the respect of mankind, by fre- 
quent discussion. We never observed men grow 
indifferent to their health, their affairs, their 
friends, their country, in proportion as these 
were made the subjects of their familiar dis- 
course. On the contrary, oblivion has been no- 
ticed as the offspring of silence. The man who 
never mentions his friend, is, we think, in gene- 
ral most likely to forget him. And far from 
deeming the name of one, greater than any 
earthly friend 'taken in vain,' when mentioned 
discreetly in conversation, we generally find 
him most remembered and respected in secret, 
by those whose memories are occasionally re- 
freshed by a reference to his word and authority 
in public. ' Familiarity,' indeed, we have been 
told, ' produces contempt ;' a truism, on which 
we are convinced many persons, honestly, though 
blindly, rest their habitual, and even systematic 
reserve on religious subjects. But ' familiarity' 
in our mind has reference rather to the manner, 
than to the act, of introducing religion. To us 
it is synonymous with a certain trite and trivial 
repetition of serious remarks, evidently ' to no 
profit,' which we sometimes hear from persons 
familiarized, rather by education than feeling, 
to the language of piety. 

More particularly we refer it to a still more 
criminal habit which, to their disgrace, some 
professors of religion share with the profane, of 
raising a laugh by the introduction of a religious 
observation or even a Scriptural quotation. ' To 
court a grin when we should woo a soul,' is 
surely an abuse of religion, as well in the par- 
lour as the pulpit. Nor has the senate itself 
been always exempt from this impropriety. Dr. 
Johnson has long since pronounced a jest drawn 



from the Bible, the vulgarest because the easiest 
of all jests. — And far from perverting religious 
topics to such a purpose himself, a feeling Chris- 
tian would not often be found, where such would 
be the probable consequence of offering a pious 
sentiment in company. 

That allusions involving religious questions 
are often productive of dispute and altercation, 
is a fact, which though greatly exaggerated, 
must yet in a degree be admitted. This cir- 
cumstance may in some measure account for 
the singular reception which a religious remark 
is often observed to meet with in the world. It 
is curious to notice the surprise and alarm 
which, on such occasions, will frequently per- 
vade the party present. The remark is received 
as a stranger guest, of which no one knows the 
quality or intentions. And, like a species of 
intellectual foundling, it is cast upon the com- 
pany without a friend to foster its infancy, or to 
own any acquaintance with the parent. A fear 
of consequences prevails. It is obvious that the 
feeling is — ' We know not into what it may 
grow : it is therefore safer to stifle it in the 
birth.' This, if not the avowed, is the implied 
sentiment. 

But is not this delicac)', this mauvaise honte, 
so peculiar perhaps to our countrymen on reli- 
gious subjects, the very cause which operates so 
unfavourably upon that effect which it labours 
to obviate ? Is not the very infrequency of mo- 
ral or religious observations, a sufficient account 
to be given both of the perplexity and the irrita- 
tion said to be consequent upon their introduc- 
tion ? And were not religion (we mean such 
religious topics as may legitimately arise in 
mixed society,) banished so much as it is from 
conversation, might not its occasional recurrence 
become by degrees as natural, perhaps as inte- 
resting, certainly as instructive, and after all as 
safe, as ' a close committee on the weather,' or 
any other of the authorized topics which are 
about as productive of amusement as of instruc- 
tion ? People act as if religion were to be re- 
garded at a distance ; as if even a respectful ig- 
norance were to be preferred to a more familiar 
approach. This reserve, however, does not give 
an air of respect, so much as of mystery, to re- 
ligion. An able writer* has observed, ' that was 
esteemed the most sacred part of Pagan devotion 
which was the most impure, and the only thing 
that was commendable in it is, that it was kept 
a great mystery.' He approves of nothing in 
this religion but the modesty of withdrawing it- 
self from the eyes of the world. — But Christiani- 
ty requires not to be shrouded in any such mys 
terious recesses. She does not, like the Eastern 
monarchs, owe her dignity to her concealment. 
She is, on the contrary, most honoured where 
most known, and most revered where most clear- 
ly visible. 

It will be obvious that hints rather than ar- 
gument belong to our present undertaking. In 
this view, we may perhaps be excused if we of- 
fer a few general observations, upon the differ- 
ent occasions on which a well regulated mind 
would be solicitous to introduce religion into 
social discourse. The person possessed of such 

* Bishop Sherlock. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



471 



a mind, would be mainly anxious, in a society 
of Christians, that something should appear in- 
dicative of their profession. He would accord- 
ingly feel a strong desire to effect it, when he 
plainly perceived his company engaged on no 
other topic either innocently entertaining, or ra- 
tionally instructive. The desire, however, would 
Dy no means cloud his brow, give an air of im- 
patience to his countenance, or render him inat- 
tentive to the general tone and temper of the 
circle. On the contrary, he would endeavour to 
feel additional interest in his neighbour's sug- 
gestions, in proportion as he hoped in turn to 
attract notice to his own. He would show long 
forbearance to the utmost extent of conscientious 
toleration. In the prosecution of his favourite 
design, he would never attempt a forced or un- 
reasonable allusion to serious subjects ; a caution 
-equiring the nicest judgment and discrimina- 
tion, most particularly where he felt the senti- 
ments or the zeal of his company to be not con- 
genial with his own. His would be the spirit 
of the prudent mariner, who does not even ap- 
proach his native shore without carefully watch- 
ing the winds, and sounding the channels ; 
knowing well that a temporary delay, even on 
an unfriendly element, is preferable to a hasty 
landing his company, on shore indeed, but upon 
the point of a rock. 

Happily for our present purpose, the days we 
live in, afford circumstances both of foreign and 
domestic occurrence, of every possible variety 
of colour and connection, so as to leave scarcely 
any mind unfurnished with a store of progressive 
remarks by which the most instructive truths 
may be approached through the most obvious 
topics. And a prudent mind will study to make 
:1s approaches to such an ultimate object, pro- 
gressive , it will know aiso where to stop, rather 
indeed out of regard to others than to itself. 
And in the manly avowal of its sentiments, 
avo'ding' aj= well what is canting in utterance as 
tecnnical in language, it will make them at once 
appear not the ebullition of an ill educated ima- 
gination, but the result of a long exercised un- 
derstanding. 

Nothing will be more likely to attract atten- 
tion or secure respect to your remarks, than the 
good taste in which they are delivered. On 
common topics, we reckon him the most elegant 
speaker whose pronunciation and accent are so 
free from all peculiarities, that it cannot be de- 
termined to what place he owes his birth. A 
polished critic of Rome accuses one of the finest 
of her historians of provinciality. This is a 
fault obvious to less enlightened critics, since 
the Attic herb-woman could detect the provin- 
cial dialect of a great philosopher. Why must 
religion have her Patavinity ? Why must the 
Christian adopt the quaintness of a party, or a 
scholar the idiom of the illiterate ? VVhy should 
a valuable truth be combined with a vulgar or 
fanatical expression ? If either would offend 
when separate, how inevitably must they disgust 
when the one is mistakingly intended to set off 
the other. Surely this is not enchasing our 
apples of gold in pictures of silver.' 

We must not close this part of our subject 
without alluding to another, and still more deli- 
cate introduction of religion, in the way of re- 



proof. Here is indeed a point in religious con- 
duct to which we feel it a boldness to make any 
reference at all. Bold indeed, is that casuist, 
who would lay down general rules on a subject 
where the consciences of men seem to differ so 
widely from each other : and feeble too often 
will be its justest rules, where the feelings of 
timidity or delicacy rush in with a force which 
sweeps down many a land-mark erected for its 
own guidance, even by conscience itself. 

Certainly much allowance, perhaps respect, is 
due in cases of very doubtful decision, to those 
feelings which, after the utmost self regulation 
of mind, are found to be irresistible. And cer- 
tainly the habits and modes of address attached 
to refined society, are such as to place personal 
observations on a very different footing to that 
on which they stand by nature. A frown, even 
a cold and disapproving look, may be a reception 
which the profane expression or loose action of 
a neighbour of rank and opulence, may have 
never before encountered from his flatterers or 
convivial companions. A vehement censure in 
his case might inflame his resentment without 
amending his fault. — Whether the attempt be to 
correct a vice or rectify an error, one object 
should ever be steadily kept in view — to con- 
ciliate rather than to contend, to inform but not 
to insult, to evince that we assume, not the cha- 
racter of a dictator, but the office of a Christian 
friend ; that we have the best interests of the 
offender, and the honour of religion at heart, 
and that to reprove is so far from a gratification, 
that it is a trial to ourselves, the effort of con- 
science, not the effect of choice. 

The feelings, therefore, of the person to be 
admonished should be most scrupulous!)' con- 
sulted. The admonition, if necessarily strong, 
explicit and personal, should yet be friendly, 
temperate, and well bred. An offence, even 
though publicly committed, is generally best re- 
proved in private, perhaps in writing. Age, 
superiority of station, previous acquaintance, 
above all, that sacred profession to which the 
honour of religion is happily made a personal 
concern, are circumstances which especially 
call for, and sanction the attempt recommended. 
And he must surely be unworthy his Christian 
vocation, who would not conscientiously use any 
influence or authority which he might chance to 
possess, in discountenancing or rectifying the 
delinquency he condemns. 

We are, indeed, as elsewhere, after the closest 
reflection and longest discussion often forced 
into the general conclusion, that ' a good heart 
is the best casuist.' — And doubtless where true 
Christian benevolence towards man meets in the 
same mind with an honest zeal for the glory of 
God, a way will be found, let us rather say will 
be opened, for the right exercise of this, as of 
every virtuous disposition. 

Let us ever remember what we have so often, 
insisted on, that self-denial is the ground work, 
the indispensable requisite for every Christian 
virtue ; that without the habitual exercise of this 
principle, we shall never be followers of him 
' who pleased not himself.' And when we are 
called by conscience to the largest use of it in 
practice, we must arm ourselves with the high- 
est considerations for the trial ; we must consi 



472 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



der him, who (through his faithful reproofs) 
' endured the contradiction of sinners against 
himself.' And when even from Moses we hear 
the truly evangelical precept, 1 thou shalt in any 
wise rebuke thy brother, and not suffer sin up- 
on him ;' we must duly weigli how strongly its 
performance is enforced upon ourselves, by the 
conduct of one greater than Moses, who express- 
ly ■ suffered for us, leaving us an example that 
we should follow his footsteps.' 



CHAP. XVI. 

Christian Watchfulness. 

Of all the motives to vigilanco and self-disci- 
pline which Christianity presents, there is not 
one more powerful than the danger, from which 
even religious persons are not exempt, of slack- 
ening in zeal and declining in piety. Would we 
could affirm, that coldness in religion is confined 
to the irreligious I If it be melancholy to observe 
an absence of Christianity where no profession 
of it was ever made, it is far more grievous to 
mark its declension, where it once appeared not 
only to exist, but to flourish. We feel on the 
comparison, the same distinct sort of compas- 
sion with which we contemplate the pecuniary 
distresses of those who have been always indi- 
gent, and of those who have fallen into want 
from a state of opulence. Our concern differs 
not only in degree but in kind. 

This declension is one of the most awakening 
calls to watchfulness, to humility, and self-in- 
spection, which religion can make to him ' who 
thinketh he standeth ;' which it can make to him 
who, sensible of his own weakness, ought to feel 
the necessity ' of strengthening the things which 
remain that are ready to die/ 

If there is not any one circumstance which 
ought more to alarm and quicken the Christian, 
than that of finding himself grow languid and 
indifferent, after having made not only a profes- 
sion but a progress, so there is not a more rea- 
sonable motive of triumph to the profane, not 
one cause which excites in him a more plausible 
ground of suspicion, either that there never was 
any truth in the profession of the person in ques- 
tion, or which is a more fatal, and, to such a 
mind, a more natural conclusion — that there is 
no truth in religion itself. At best, lie will be 
persuaded that this can only be a faint and fee- 
ble principle, the impulse of which is so soon 
exhausted, and which is by no means found suf- 
ficiently powerful to carry on its votary through- 
out his course. He is assured that piety is only 
an outer garment, put on for show or conveni- 
ence, and that when it ceases to be wanted for 
either it is laid aside. In these unhappy in- 
stances the evil seldom ceases with him who 
causes it. The inference becomes general, that 
all religious men are equally unsound or equally 
deluded, only that some are more prudent, or 
more fortunate, or greater hypocrites than 
others. After the falling away of one promising 
character, the old suspicion recurs and is con- 
firmed, and the defection of others pronounced 
to be infallible. 



There seems to be this marked distinction in 
the different opinions which religious and world- 
ly men entertain respecting human corruption. 
The candid Christian is contented to believe it, 
as an indisputable general truth, while he is 
backward to suspect the wickedness of the indi- 
vidual, nor does he allow himself to give full 
credit to particular instances without proof. The 
man of the world, on the contrary, who denies 
the general principle is extremely prone to sus- 
pect the individual: Thus his knowledge of 
mankind not only furnishes a proof, but out- 
strips the truth of the doctrine : though he de- 
nies it as a proposition of Scripture, he is eager 
to establish it as a fact of experiment. 

But the probability is, that the man by his de- 
parture from the principles with which he ap- 
peared to set out, so much gratifies the thought- 
less, and grieves the serious mind, never was a 
sound and genuine Christian. His religion was 
perhaps taken up on some accidental circum- 
stance, built on some false ground, produced by 
some evanescent cause ; and though it cannot 
be fairly pronounced that he intended by his 
forward profession and prominent zeal, to de- 
ceive others, it is probable that he himself was 
deceived. Perhaps he had made too sure of 
himself. His early profession was probably ra- 
ther bold and ostentatious ; he had imprudently 
fixed his stand on ground so high as to be not 
easily tenable, and from which a descent would 
be but too observable. While he thought he 
never could be too secure of his own strength, 
he allowed himself to be too censorious on the 
infirmities of others, especially of those whom 
he had apparently outstripped, and who, though 
they had started together, he had left behind 
him in the race. 

Might it not be a safer course, if in the outset 
of the Christian life, a modest and self-distrust- 
ing humility were to impose a temporary re- 
straint on the forwardness of outward profession? 
A little knowledge of the human heart, a little 
suspicion of the deceitfulness of his own, would 
not only moderate the intemperance of an ill- 
understood zeal, should the warm convert be- 
come an established Christian, but would save 
the credit of religion, which will receive a fresh 
wound in the possible event of his desertion from 
her standard. 

Some of the most distinguished Christians in 
this country began their religious career with 
this graceful humility. They would not suffer 
their change of character, and their adoption of 
new principles, and a new course to be blazoned 
abroad, as the affectionate zeal of their confiden- 
tial friends would have advised, till the princi- 
ples they had adopted were established, and 
worked into habits of piety ; till time and expe- 
rience had evinced that the grace of God had 
not been bestowed on them in vain. Their pro- 
gress proved to be such as might have been in- 
ferred from the modesty of their outset. They 
have gone on with a perseverance which diffi- 
culties have only contributed to strengthen, and 
experience to confirm ; and will, through divine 
aid, doubtless go on, shining more and more un 
to the perfect dav. 

But to return to the less steady convert. Per- 
haps religion was only, as we have hinted else 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



473 



where, one pursuit among many which he had 
taken up when other pursuits failed, and which 
he now lays down because, his faith not being 
rooted and grounded, fails also ; — or the tempta- 
tion arising from without might concur wilh the 
failure within. If vanity be his infirmity, he 
will shrink from the pointed disapprobation of 
his superiors. If the love of novelty be his be- 
setting weakness, the very peculiarity and strict- 
ness of religion, the very marked departure 
from the ' gay and primrose path' in which he 
had before been accustomed to walk, which first 
attracted, now repels him. The attention which 
his early deviation from the manners of the 
world drew upon him, and which once flattered, 
now disgusts him. The very opposition which 
once animated, now cools him. He is discou- 
raged at the near view, subdued by the required 
practice, of that Christian self-denial which, as 
a speculation, had appeared so delightful. Per- 
haps his fancy had been fired by some act of 
Christian heroism, which he felt an ambition to 
imitate : a feeling which tales of martial prow- 
ess, or deeds of chivalry, something that, pro- 
mising celebrity and exciting emulation, had 
often kindled before. The truth is, religion had 
only taken hold of his imagination, his heart had 
been left out of the question. 

Or he had in the twilight of his first awaken- 
ing, seen religion only as something to be be- 
lieved ; he now finds that much is to be done 
in the new life, and much which was habitual 
to the old one left undone. Above all, he did 
not reckon on the consistency which the Chris- 
tian life demands. Warm affections rendered 
the practice of some right actions easy to him ; 
but he did not include in his faulty and imper- 
fect scheme, the self-denial, the perseverance, 
the renouncing of his own will and his own 
way, the evil report as well as the good report, 
to which every man pledges himself, when he 
enlists under the banner of Christ. The cross 
which it was easy to venerate, he finds it hard 
to bear. 

Or religion might be adopted when he was 
in affliction, and he is now happy : — when he 
was in bad circumstances, and he is now grown 
affluent. Or it might be assumed as something 
wanting to his recommendation to that party or 
project by which he wished to make his way ; 
as something that would better enable him to 
carry certain points which he had in view ; 
something that, with the new acquaintance he 
wished to cultivate, might obliterate certain de- 
fects, in his former conduct, and white-wash a 
somewhat sullied reputation. 

Or in his now more independent situation, it 
may be he is surrounded by temptations, soften- 
ed by blandishments, allured by pleasures, which 
he never expected would arise to weaken his re- 
solutions. These new enchantments make it 
not so easy to be pious, as when he had little to 
lose and every thing to desire, as when the world 
wore a frowning, and religion an inviting as- 
pect. Or he is perhaps by the vicissitudes of 
life, transferred from a sober and humble society, 
where to be religious was honourable, to a more 
fashionable set of associates, where, as the dis- 
closure of his piety would add nothing to his 
credit, he set out with taking pains to conceal 

Vol. I. 



it, till it has fallen into that gradual oblivion, 
which is the natural consequence of its being 
kept out of sight. 

But we proceed to a far more interesting and 
important character. The one indeed whom we 
have been slightly sketching, may by his incon- 
stancy do much harm ; the one on which we are 
about to animadvert, might by his consistency 
and perseverance effect essential good. Even 
the sincere, and to all appearance, the establish- 
ed Christian, especially if his situation in life 
be easy, and his course smooth and prosperous, 
had need keep a vigilant eye upon his own 
heart. For such a one it will not be sufficient 
that he keep his ground if he do not advance in 
it. Indeed it will be a sure proof that he has 
gone back, if he has not advanced. 

In a world so beset with snares, various are 
the causes which may possibly occasion in even 
good men a slow but certain decline in piety. 
A decline scarcely perceptible at first, but which 
becomes more visible in its subsequent stages. 
When therefore we suspect our hearts of any 
declension in piety, we should not compare our- 
selves with what we were in the preceding week 
or month, but what we were at the supposed 
height of our character. Though the alteration 
was not perceptible in its gradual progress, one 
shade melting into the next, and each losing its 
distinctness, yet when the two remote states aro 
brought into contrast, the change will be stri- 
kingly obvious. 

Among other causes, may be assigned the in- 
discreet forming of some worldly connexion, 
especially that of marriage. In this connexion, 
for union it cannot be called, it is to be lamented 
that the irreligious more frequently draw away 
the religious to their side, than that the contrary 
takes place ; a circumstance easily accounted 
for by those who are at all acquainted with the 
human heart. 

Or the sincere but incautious Christian may 
be led by a strong affection which assumes the 
shape of virtue, into a fond desire of establish- 
ing his children advantageously in the world, 
into methods which if not absolutely incorrect, 
are yet ambiguous at {.he best. In order to raise 
those whom he loves to a station above their 
level, he may be tempted, while self-deceit will 
teach him to sanctify the deed by the motive, to 
make some little sacrifices of principle, some 
little abatements of that strict rectitude, for 
which in the abstract no man would more stre- 
nuously contend. And as it may be in general 
observed, that the most amiable minds are most 
susceptible of the strongest natural affections ; 
of course the very tenderness of the heart lays 
such characters peculiarly open to a danger, to 
which the unfeeling and the obdurate are less 
exposed. 

If the person in question be of the sacred or- 
der, no small danger may arise from his living 
under the eye of an irreligious, but rich and 
bountiful patron. It is his duty to make religion 
appear amiable in his eyes. — He ought to con- 
ciliate his good will by every means which rec- 
titude can sanction. But though his very piety 
will stimulate his discretion in the adoption of 
those means, he will take care never to let his 
discretion intrench on his integrity 



474 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



If he be under obligations to him, he may be 
in danger of testifying his gratitude, and fur- 
thering his hopes by some electioneering ma- 
noeuvres, and by too much electioneering society. 
He may, unawares be tempted to too much con- 
formity to his friend's habits, too much convivi- 
ality in his society. And when he witnesseth 
so much kindness and urbanity in his manners, 
possibly so much usefulness and benevolence in 
his lifeyhe may be even tempted to suspect that 
he himself may be wrong ; to accuse himself of 
being somewhat churlish in his own temper, a 
little too austere in his habits, and rather hard 
in his judgment of a man so amiable. He will 
be still more likely to fall into this error if he 
expects a favour than if he has obtained it ; for 
though it is not greatly to the honour of human 
nature, we daily see how much keener are the 
feelings which are excited by hope than those 
which are raised by gratitude — The favour which 
has been already conferred, excites a temperate, 
that which we are looking for, a fervid feeling. 

These relaxing feelings and these softened 
dispositions, aided by the seducing luxury of the 
table, and the bewitching splendour of the apart- 
ment ; by the soft accommodations which opu- 
lence exhibits ; and the desires which they are 
too apt tc awaken in the dependant, may, not im- 
possibly, lead by degrees to a criminal timidity 
in maintaining the purity of his own principles, 
in supporting the strictness of his own practice. 
He may gradually lose somewhat of the dignity 
of his professional, and of the sobriety of the 
Christian character. He may be brought to for- 
feit the independence of his mind ; and in order 
to magnify his fortune, may neglect to magnify 
his office. 

Even here, from an increasing remissness in 
self-examination, he may deceive himself by 
persisting to believe — for the films are now grow- 
ing thick over his spiritual sight — that his mo- 
tives are defensible. Were not his discernment 
labouring under a temporary blindness, he would 
reprobate the character which interested views 
have insensibly drawn him in toact. He would 
be as much astonished to be told that his cha- 
racter was become his own, as was the royal 
offender, when the righteous boldness of the 
prophet pronounced the heart-appalling words, 
1 Thou art the man.' 

Still he continues to flatter himself that the 
reason of his diminished opposition to the faults 
of his friend, is not because he has a more lu- 
crative situation in view, but because he may, 
by a slight temporary concession, and a short 
suspension of a severity which he begins to fan- 
cy he has carried too far, secure for his future 
life a more extensive field of usefulness, in the 
benefice which is hanging over his head. 

In the mean time hope and expectation so fill 
his mind, that he insensibly grows cold in the 
prosecution of his positive duties. He begins to 
lament that in his present situation he can make 
but few converts, that he sees but small effects 
of his labours, not perceiving that God may have 
withdrawn his blessing from a ministry which 
is exercised on such questionable grounds. With 
his new expectations he continues to blend his 
old ideas. Fie feasts his imagination with the 
prospect of a more fruitful harvest on -an un- 



known, and perhaps an unbroken soil — as if hu- 
man nature were not pretty much the same 
every where ; as if the labourer were accounta- 
ble for the abundance of his crop, and not solely 
for his own assiduity ; as if actual duty, faith- 
fully performed, even in this circumscribed 
sphere in which God has cast our lot, is not 
more acceptable to him, than theories of the 
most extensive good, than distant speculations 
and improbable projects, for the benefit even ot 
a whole district; while, in the indulgence of 
these airy schemes, our own specific and ap- 
pointed work lies neglected, or is performed 
without energy and without attention. 

Self-love so naturally infatuates the judgment, 
that it is no paradox to assert that we look too 
far, and yet do not look far enough. We look 
too far when passing over the actual duties of the 
immediate scene, we form long connected trains 
of future projects, and indulge our thoughts in 
such as are most remote, and perhaps least pro- 
bable. And we do not look far enough when 
the prospective mind does not shoot beyond all 
these little earthly distances, to that state, falsely 
called remote, whither all our steps are not the 
less tending, because our eyes are confined to 
the home scenes. But while the precariousness 
of our duration ought to set limits to our designs, 
it should furnish incitements to our application. 
Distant projects are too apt to slacken present 
industry ; while the magnitude of schemes, pro- 
bably impracticable, may render our actual ex- 
ertions cold and sluggish. 

Let it be observed that we would be the last 
to censure any of those fair and honourable 
means of improving his condition which every 
man, be he worldly or religious, owes to himself, 
and to his family. Saints as well as sinners 
have in common, what a great genius calls, 
' certain inconvenient appetites of eating and 
drinking ;' which while we are in the body must 
be complied with. It would be a great hardship 
on good men, to be denied any innocent means 
of fair gratification. It would be a peculiar in- 
justice that the most diligent labourer should be 
esteemed the least worthy of his hire, the least 
fit to rise in his profession. 

The more serious clergyman has also the same 
warm affection for his children with his less 
scrupulous brother, and consequently the same 
laudable desire for their comfortable establish- 
ment ; only in his plans for their advancement 
he should neither entertain ambitious views nor 
prosecute any views, even the best, by methods 
not consonant to the strictness of his avowed 
principles. Professing to ' seek first the king- 
dom of God and his righteousness,' he ought to 
be more exempt from an over anxious solicitude 
than those who profess it less zealously. Avow- 
ing a more determined confidence that all other 
things will, as far as they are absolutely neces- 
sary, ' be added unto him,' he should, as it is 
obvious he commonly does, manifest practically, 
a more implicit trust, confiding in the gracious 
and cheering promise, that promise expressed 
both negatively and positively, as if to comfort 
with a double confirmation, that God who is 
' both his light and defence, who will give graee 
and worship, will also withhold no good thing 
from them that live a godly life.' 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



475 



It is one of the trials of faith appended to the 
sacred office, that its ministers, like the father 
of the faithful, are liable to go out, ' not knowing 
whither they go ;' and this not only at their 
first entrance into their profession, but through 
life ; an inconvenience to which no other pro- 
fession, is necessarily liable ; a trial which is 
not perhaps fairly estimated. 

This remark will naturally raise a laugh 
among those who at once hold the function in 
contempt, deride its ministers, and think their 
well-earned remuneration lavishly and even un- 
necessarily bestowed. They will probably ex- 
claim with as much complacency in their ridi- 
cule, as if it were really the test of truth — ' A 
great cause of commisseration truly, to be trans- 
ferred from a starving curacy to a plentiful bene- 
fice, or from the vulgar society of a country parish 
to be a stalled theologian in an opulent town !' 

We are far from estimating at a low rate the 
exchange from a state of uncertainty to a state 
of independence, from a life of penury to com- 
fort, or from a barely decent to an affluent pro- 
vision. — But does the ironical remarker rate the 
feelings and affections of the heart at nothing ? 
If he insists that money is that chief good of 
which ancient philosophy says so much, we beg 
leave to insist that it is not the only good. We 
are above the affectation of pretending to con- 
dole with any man on his exaltation, but there 
are feelings which a man of acute sensibility, 
rendered more acute by an elegant education, 
values more intimately than silver or gold. 

Is it absolutely nothing to resign his local 
comforts, to break up his local attachments, to 
have new connexions to form, and that frequent- 
ly at an advanced period of life ? Connexions, 
perhaps less valuable than those he is quitting ? 
Is it nothing for a faithful minister to be sepa- 
rated from an affectionate people, a people *ot 
only whose friendship, but whose progrj^s has 
constituted his happiness here, as it will, make 
his joy and crown of rejoicing hereafter ? 

Men of delicate minds estimate things by their 
affections as well as by their circumstances : to 
a man of a certain cast of character, a change 
however advantageous, may be rather an exile 
than a promotion. While he gratefully accepts 
the good, he receives it with an edifying ac- 
knowledgment of the imperfection of the best 
human things. These considerations we con- 
fess add the additional feelings of kindness to 
their persons, and of sympathy with their vicis- 
situdes, to our respect and veneration for their 
holy office. 

To themselves, however, the precarious tenor 
of their situation presents an instructive emblem 
of the uncertain condition of human life, of the 
transitory nature of the world itself. Their 
liableness to a sudden removal, gives them the 
advantage of being more especially reminded of 
the necessity and duty of keeping in a continual 
posture of preparation, having ' their loins gird- 
ed, their shoes on their feet, and their staff in 
their hand.' They have also the same promises 
which supported the Israelites in the desert. — 
The same assurance which cheered Abraham, 
may still cheer the true servants of God under 
tul difficulties. — ' Fear not — I am thy shield and 
thy exceeding great reward.' 



But there are perils on the right hand and on 
the left. It is not among the least, that though 
a pious clergyman may at first have tasted with 
trembling caution of the delicious cup of ap- 
plause, he may gradually grow, as thirst is in- 
creased by indulgence, to drink too deeply of 
the enchanted chalice. The dangers arising 
from any thing that is good are formidable, be- 
cause unsuspected. And such are the perils of 
popularity, that we will venture to say that the 
victorious general who has conquered a king- 
dom, or the sagacious statesman who has pre- 
served it, is almost in less danger of being spoilt 
by acclamation than the popular preacher ; be- 
cause their danger is likely to happen but once, 
his is perpetual. Theirs is only on a day of 
triumph, his day of triumph occurs every week; 
we mean the admiration he excites. Every 
fresh success ought to be a fresh motive to hu- 
miliation ; he who feels his danger will vigilant- 
ly guard against swallowing too greedily the in- 
discriminate, and often undistinguishing plaudits 
which his doctrines or his manner, his talent or 
his voice, may equally procure for him. 

If he be not prudent as well as pious, he may 
be brought to humour his audience, and his 
audience to flatter him with a dangerous emula- 
tion, till they will scarcely endure truth itself 
from any other lips. Nay, he may imperceptibly 
be led not to be always satisfied with the atten- 
tion and improvement of his hearers, unless 
the attention be sweetened by flattery, and the 
improvement followed by exclusive attachment. 

The spirit of exclusive fondness generates a 
spirit of controversy. Some of the followers 
will rather improve in casuistry than in Chris- 
tianity. They will be more busied in opposing 
Paul to Apollos, than looking unto 'Jesus, the 
author and finisher of their faith ;' than in bring, 
ing forth fruits meet for repentance. Religious 
gossip may assume the place of religion itself. 
A party spirit is thus generated, and Christianity 
may begin to be considered as a thing to be dis- 
cussed and disputed, to be heard and talked about, 
rather than as the productive principle of virtu- 
ous conduct.* 

We owe, indeed, lively gratitude and affec- 
tionate attachment to the minister who has 
faithfully laboured for our edification ; but the 
author has sometimes noticed a manner adopted 
by some injudicious adherents, especially of her 
own sex, which seems rather to erect their fa- 
vourite into the head of a sect, than to reverence 
him as the pastor of a flock. This mode of 
evincing an attachment, amiable in itself, is 
doubtless as distressing to the delicacy of the 
minister as it is unfavourable to religion, to which 
it is apt to give an air of party. 

May we be allowed to animadvert more im- 
mediately on the cause of declension in piety, in 
some persons who formerly exhibited evident 
marks of that seriousness in their lives which 
they continue to inculcate from the pulpit. If 
such has been sometimes (we hope it has been 
very rarely) the case, may it not be partly 
ascribed to an unhappy notion that the same ex- 
actness in his private devotion, the same watch- 

* This polemic tattle is of a totally different character 
from that species of religious conversation recommended 
i u the preceding chapter. 



476 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



fulness in his daily conduct, is not equally ne- 
cessary in the advanced progress as in the first 
stages of a religious course ? He does not de- 
sist from warning his hearers of the continual 
necessity of these things, but is he not in some 
danger of not applying the necessity to himself? 
May he not begin to rest satisfied with the in- 
culcation without the practice ? It is not pro- 
bable indeed that he goes so far as to establish 
himself as an exempt case, but he slides from 
indolence into the exemption, as if its avoidance 
were not so necessary for him as for others. 

Even the very sacredness of his profession is 
not without a snare. He may repeat the holy 
offices so often that he may be in danger on the 
one hand, of sinking into the notion that it is a 
mere profession, or on the other, of so resting in 
it as to make it supercede the necessity of that 
strict personal religion with which he set out : 
He may at least be satisfied with the occasional, 
without the uniform practice. There is a dan- 
ger — we advert only to its possibility — that his 
very exactness in the public exercise of his 
function, may lead to a little justification of his 
remissness in secret duties. His zealous expo- 
sition of the Scriptures to others may satisfy 
him, though it does not always lead to a practi- 
cal application of them to himself. 

But God, by requiring exemplary diligence 
in the devotion of his appointed servants, would 
keep up in their minds a daily sense of their 
dependance on him. If he does not continually 
teach by his Spirit those who teach others, they 
have little reason to expect success, and that 
Spirit will not be given where it is not sought ; 
or, which is an awful consideration, may be 
withdrawn, where it had been given, and not 
improved as it might have been. 

Should this unhappily ever be the case, it 
would almost reduce the minister of Christ to a 
mere engine, a vehicle through which know- 
ledge was barely to pass, like the ancient oracles 
who had nothing to do with the information but 
to convey it. Perhaps the public success of the 
best men has been, under God, principally owing 
to this, that their faithful ministration in the 
temple has been uniformly preceded and follow- 
ed by petitions in the closet ; that the truths 
implanted in the one, have chiefly flourished 
from having been watered by the tears, and 
nourished by the prayers of the other. 

We will hazard but one more observation on 
this dangerous and delicate subject; in this 
superficial treatment of which, it is the thing in 
the world the most remote from the writer's 
wish, to give the slightest offence to any pious 
member of an order which possesses her highest 
veneration. If the indefatigable labourer in his 
great Master's vineyard, has, as must often be 
the case, the mortification of finding that his 
labours have failed of producing their desired 
effect, in some instance, where his warmest 
hopes had been excited ; — if he feels that he has 
not benefitted others as he had earnestly de- 
sired, this is precisely the moment to benefit 
himself, and is perhaps permitted for that very 
end. Where his usefulness has been obviously 
great, the true Christian will be humbled by 
the recollection that he is only an instrument. 
Where it has been less, the defeat of his hopes 



offers the best occasion, which he will not fail to 
use for improving his humility. Thus he may 
always be assured that good has been done 
somewhere, so that in any case his labour will 
not have been vain in the Lord. 



CHAP. XVII. 

True and False Zeal. 

It is one of the most important ends of cul- 
tivating that self-knowledge which we havo 
elsewhere reoommended, to discover what is the 
real bent of our mind, and which are the strong- 
est tendencies of our character ; to discover 
where our disposition requires restraint, and 
where we may be safely trusted with some 
liberty of indulgence. If the temper be fervid, 
and that fervour be happily directed to religion, 
the most consummate prudenee will be requisite 
to restrain its excesses without freezing its 
energies. 

If, on the contrary, timidity and diffidence be 
the natural propensity, we shall be in danger of 
falling into coldness and inactivity with regard 
to ourselves, and into too unresisting a com- 
pliance with the requisitions, or too easy a con- 
formity with the habits of others. It will there- 
fore be an evident proof of Christian self-govern- 
ment, when the man of too ardent zeal restrains 
its outward expression where it would be un- 
seasonable, or unsafe ; while it will evince the 
same Christian self-denial in the fearful and 
diffident character, to burst the fetters of timidity, 
where duty requires a holy boldness ; and when 
he is called upon to lose all lesser fears in the 
fear of God. 

Jt will then be one of the first objects of a 
Christein to get his understanding and his con- 
science thoroughly enlightened ; to take an 
exact survey not only of the whole comprehen- 
sive scheme of Christianity, but of his own 
character ; to discover, in order to correct the 
defects in his judgment, and to ascertain the 
deficiencies even of his best qualities. Through 
ignorance in these respects, though he may 
really be following up some good tendency, 
though he is even persuaded that he is not wrong 
either in his motive or his object, he may yet 
be wrong in the measure, wrong in the mode, 
wrong in the application, though right in the 
principle. He must therefore watch with a 
suspicious eye over his better qualities, and 
guard his very virtues from deviation and ex- 
cess. 

His zeal, that indispensable ingredient in the 
composition of a great character, that quality, 
without which no great eminence either secular 
or religious has ever been attained; which is 
essential to the acquisition of excellence in arts 
and arms, in learning and piety ; that principle 
without which no man will be able to reach the 
perfection of his nature, or to animate others to 
aim at that perfection, will yet hardly fail to 
mislead the animated Christian, if his know- 
ledge of what is right and just, if his judgment 
in the application of that knowledge do not 
keep pace with the principle itself. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



477 



Zeal, indeed, is not so much an individual 
virtue as the principle which gives life and 
colouring, as the spirit which gives grace and 
benignity, as the temper which gives warmth 
and energy to every other. It is that feeling which 
exalts the relish of every duty, and sheds a 
lustre on the practice of every virtue ; which, 
embellishing every image of the mind with its 
glowing tints, animates every quality of the 
heart with its invigorating motion. It may be 
said of zeal among the virtues as of memory 
among the faculties, that though it singly never 
made a great man, yet no man has ever made 
himself conspicuously great where it has been 
wanting. 

Many things however must concur before we 
can be allowed to determine whether zeal be 
really a virtue or a vice. Those who are con- 
tending for the one or the other, will be in the 
situation of the two knights, who meeting on a 
cross road, were on the point of fighting about 
the colour of a cross which was suspended be- 
tween them. One insisted it was gold ; the other 
maintained it was silver. The duel was pre- 
vented by the interference of a passenger, who 
desired them to change their positions. Both 
crossed over to the opposite side, found the cross 
was gold on one side, and silver on the other. 
Each acknowledged his opponent to be right. 

It may be disputed whether fire be a good or 
an evil. The man who feels himself cheerful 
by its kindly warmth, is assured that it is a be- 
nefit, but he whose house it has just burnt down 
will give another verdict. Not only the cause, 
therefore, in which zeal is exerted must be good, 
but the principle itself must be under due regu- 
lation : or, like the rapidity of the traveller who 
gets into a wrong road, it will only carry him 
so much the further out of his way ; or if he 
be in the right road, it will, through inattention, 
carry him involuntarily beyond his destined 
point. — That degree of motion is equally mis- 
leading which detains us short of our end, or 
which pushes us beyond it. 

The apostle suggests a useful precaution by 
expressly asserting that it is ' in a good cause,' 
that we ' must be zealously affected;' which im- 
plies this further truth, that where the cause is 
not good, the mischief is proportioned to the 
zeal. But lest we should carry our limitations 
of the quality to any restriction of the seasons 
for exercising it, he takes care to animate us to 
its perpetual exercise, by adding that we must 
be always so affected. 

If the injustice, the intolerance and persecu- 
tion, with which a misguided zeal has so often 
afflicted the church of Christ, in its more early 
periods, be lamented as a deplorable evil ; yet 
the OTerruling wisdom of Providence educing 
good from evil, made the very calamities which 
false zeal occasioned, the instruments of pro- 
ducing that true and lively zeal to which we 
owe the glorious band of martyrs and confessors, 
those brightest ornaments of the best periods of 
the church. This effect, though a clear vindi- 
cation of that divine goodness which suffers evil, 
is no apology for him who perpetrates it. 

It is curious to observe the contrary opera- 
tions of true and false zeal, which though appa- 
rently only different modifications of the same 



quality, are, when brought into contact, repug- 
nant, and even destructive to each other. There 
is no attribute of the human mind where the 
different effects of the same principle have such 
a total opposition : for is it not obvious that the 
same principle under another direction, which 
actuates the tyrant in dragging the martyr to 
the stake, enables the martyr to embrace it? 

As a striking proof that the necessity for cau- 
tion is not imaginary, it has been observed that 
the Holy Scriptures record more instances of a 
bad zeal than of a good one. This furnishes the 
most authoritative argument for regulating this 
impetuous principle, and for governing it by all 
those restrictions which a feeling so calculated 
for good and so capable of evil demands. 

It was zeal, but of a blind and furious cha- 
racter, which produced the massacre on the day 
of St. Bartholomew ; — a day to which the mourn- 
ful strains of Job have been so well applied. — 
1 Let that day perish. Let it not be joined to 
the days of the years. Let darkness and the 
shadow of death stain it.' — It was a zeal the 
most bloody, combined with a perfidy the most 
detestable, which inflamed the execrable Flo- 
rentine,* when, having on this occasion invited 
so many illustrious protestants to Paris under 
the alluring mask of a public festivity, she con 
trived to involve her guest, the pious queen of 
Navarre, and the venerable Coligni in the gene- 
ral mass of undistinguished destruction. The 
royal and pontifical assassins not satisfied with 
the sin, converted it into a triumph.— Medals 
were struck in honour of a deed which has no 
parallel even in the annals of Pagan persecution. 

Even glory did not content the pernicious 
plotters of this direful tragedy. Devotion was 
called in to be 

The crown and consummation of their crime. 

The blackest hypocrisy was made use of to sanc- 
tify the foulest murder. The iniquity could not 
be complete without solemnly thanking God lor 
its success. The pope and cardinals proceeded 
to St. Mark's church, where they praised the 
Almighty for so great a blessing conferred on 
the see of Rome, and the Christian world. A 
solemn jubilee completed the preposterous mum- 
mery. — This zeal of devotion was as much worse 
than even the zeal of murder, as thanking God 
for enabling us to commit a sin is worse than 
the commission itself. A wicked piety is still 
more disgusting than a wicked act. God is less 
offended by the sin itself than by the thank- 
offering of its perpetrators. It looks like a black 
attempt to involve the Creator in the crime.t 

It was this exterminating zeal which made 
the fourteenth Louis, bad in the profligacy of 
his youth, worse in the superstition of his age, 
revoke the tolerating edict which might have 
drawn down a blessing on his kingdom. One 
species of crime was called on, in his days of 
blind devotion, to expiate another committed in 
his days of mad ambition. — But the expiation 
was even more intolerable than the offence. The 
havoc made by the sword of civil persecution 

* Catharine de Medici. 

f See Thuanus for a most affecting and exact account 
of this direful massacie. 



478 



THE WORRS OV HANNAH MORE. 



was a miserable atonement for the blood which 
unjust aggression had shed in foreign wars. 

It was this impious and cruel zeal which in- 
spired the monk Dominick, in erecting the most 
infernal tribunal which ever inventive bigotry 
projected to dishonour the Christian name, and 
which with pertinacious barbarity has conti- 
nued for above six centuries, to afflict the hu- 
man race. 

For a complete contrast to this pernicious zeal 
we need not, blessed be God, travel back into re- 
mote history, nor abroad into distant realms. 
This happy land of civil and religious liberty 
can furnish a countless catalogue of instances 
of a pure, a wise, and a well directed zeal. Not 
to swell the list, we will only mention that it 
has in our own age, produced the Society for 
promoting Christian Knowledge, the British and 
Foreign Bible Society, and the Abolition of the 
African slave trade. Three as noble, and which 
will, we trust, be as lasting monuments as ever 
national virtue erected to true piety. These are 
institutions which bear the genuine stamp of 
Christianity, not originating in party, founded 
in disinterestedness, and comprehending the 
best interests of almost the whole habitable 
globe, — ' without partiality and without hypo- 
crisy.' 

Why we hear so much in praise of zeal from 
a certain class of religious characters, is partly 
owing to their having taken up a notion, that 
its acquired exertions relate to the care of other 
people's salvation rather than to their own ; and 
indeed the casual prying into a neighbour's 
house, though much more entertaining, is not 
near so troublesome as the constant inspection 
of one's own. It is observable that the outcry 
against zeal among the irreligious is raised on 
nearly the same ground, as the clamour in its 
favour by these professors of religion. The 
former suspect that the zeal of the religionist 
evaporates in censuring their impiety, and in 
eagerness for their conversion, instead of being 
directed to themselves. This supposed anxiety 
they resent, and give a practical proof of their 
resentment by resolving not to profit by it. 

Two very erroneous opinions exist, respecting 
zeal. It is commonly supposed to indicate a 
want of charity, and the two principles are ac- 
cused of maintaining separate interests. This 
is so far from being the case, that charity is the 
firm associate of that zeal of which it is sup- 
posed to be the enemy. — Indeed, this is so infal- 
lible a criterion by which to try its sincerity, 
that we should be apt to suspect the legitimacy 
of the zeal which is unaccompanied by this fair 
ally. 

Another opinion equally erroneous is not a 
little prevalent — that where there is much zeal 
there is little or no prudence. Now a sound and 
sober zeal is not such an idiot as to neglect to 
provide for its own success ; and would that suc- 
cess be provided for, without employing for its 
accomplishment, every precaution which pru- 
dence can suggest ? — True zeal, therefore, will 
De as discreet as it is fervent, well knowing that 
its warmest efforts will be neither effectual, nor 
lasting, without those provisions which discre- 
tion alone can make. No quality is ever pos- 
sessed in perfection where its opposite is want- 



ing ; zeal is not Chrislrian fervour, but animai 
heat, if not associated with charity and pru 
dence. 

Zeal indeed, like other good things, is fr$. 
quently calumniated because it is not understood; 
and it may sometimes deserve censure, as being 
the effervescence of that weak but well meaning 
mind which will defeat the efforts not only of 
this, but of every other good propensity. 

That most valuable faculty therefore of in- 
tellectual man, the judgment, the enlightened, 
impartial, unbiassed judgment, must be kept in 
perpetual activity, not only in order to ascertain 
that the cause be good, but to determine also 
the degree of its importance in any given case, 
that we may not blindly assign an undue value 
to an inferior good : for want of this discrimina- 
tion we may be fighting a windmill, when we 
fancy we are attacking a fort. We must prove 
not only whether the thing contended for be 
right, but whether it be essential ; whether in 
our eagerness to attain this subordinate good we 
may not be sacrificing, or neglecting, things of 
more real consequence. Whether the value we 
assign to it may not be even imaginary. 

Above all, we should examine whether we do 
not contend for it chiefly because it happens to 
fall in with our own humour, or our own party, 
more than on account of its intrinsic worth ; 
whether we do not wish to distinguish ourselves 
by our pertinacity, arid to append ourselves to 
the party rather than to the principle ; and thus, 
as popularity is often gained by the worst part 
of a man's character, whether we do not princi- 
pally persist from the hope of becoming popular. 
The favourite adage that le jeu ne vaul pas la 
chandelle, might serve as an appropriate motto 
to one half of the contentions which divide and 
distract the world. 

This zeal, hotly exercised for mere circum- 
stantials, for ceremonies different in themselves, 
for distinctions rather than differences, has un- 
happily assisted in causing irreparable separa- 
tions and dissentions in the Christian world, 
even where the champions on both sides were 
great and good men. — Many of the points which 
have been the sources of altercation were not 
worth insisting upon, where the opponents 
agreed in the grand fundamentals of faith and 
practice. 

But to consider zeal as a general question, as 
a thing of every day experience. He whose 
piety is most sincere will be likely to be the 
most zealous. But though zeal is an indication, 
and even a concomitant of sincerity, a burning 
zeal is sometimes seen where the sincerity is 
somewhat questionable. 

For where zeal is generated by ignorance it 
is commonly fostered by self-will. That which 
we have embraced through false judgment we 
maintain through false honour. — Pride is gene- 
rally called in to nurse the offspring of errcr. 
It is from this confederacy that we frequently 
see those who are perversely zealous for points 
which can add nothing to the cause of Christian 
truth, whether they are rejected or retained, 
cold and indifferent about the great things which 
involve the salvation of man. 

Though all momentous truths, all indispensa- 
ble duties, are, in the luminous volume of inspi- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



479 



ration, made so obvious that those may read who 
run ; the contested matters are not only so com- 
paratively little as to be by no means worthy 
of the heat they excite, but are rendered so 
doubtful, not in themselves, but by the opposite 
systems built on them, that he who fights for 
them is not always sure whether he bo right or 
not ; and if he carry his point he can make no 
moral use of his victory. This indeed is not his 
concern. It is enough that he has conquered. 
The importance of the object having never de- 
pended on its worth, but on the opinion of his 
right to maintain that worth. 

The Gospel assigns very different degrees 
of importance to allowed practices and com- 
manded duties. It by no means censures those 
wh«o were rigorous in their payment of the 
most inconsiderable tythes ; but seeing this duty 
was not only put in competition with, but pre- 
ferred before, the most important duties, even 
judgment, mercy and faith, the flagrant hypo- 
crisy was pointedly censured by meekness itself. 

This opposition of a scrupulous exactness in 
paying the petty demand on three paltry herbs, 
to the neglect of the three cardinal Christian 
virtues, exhibits as complete and instructive a 
specimen of that frivolous and false zeal which, 
evaporating in trifles, wholly overlooks those 
grand points on which hangs eternal life, as can 
be conceived. 

This passage serves to corroborate a striking 
fact, that there is scarcely in scripture any pre- 
cept enforced, which has not some actual ex- 
emplification attached to it. The historical 
parts of the Bible, therefore, are of inestimable 
value, were it only on this single ground, that 
the appended truths and principles so abundant- 
ly scattered through them, are in general so 
happily illustrated by them. They are not dry 
aphorisms and cold propositions, which stand 
singly, and disconnected, but truths suggested 
by the event, but precepts growing out of the 
occasion. The recollection of the principles re- 
calls to the mind the instructive story which 
they enrich, while the remembrance of the cir- 
cumstance impresses the sentiment upon the 
heart. Thus the doctrine, like a precious gem, 
is at once preserved and embellished by the 
narrative being made a frame in which to en- 
shrine it. 

True zeal will first exercise itself in earnest 
desires, in increasing ardour to obtain higher 
degrees of illumination in our own minds ; in 
fervent prayer that this growing light may 
operate to the improvement of our practice, that 
the influences of divine grace may become more 
outwardly perceptible by the increasing correct- 
ness of our habits; that every holy affection may 
be* followed by its correspondent act, whether 
of obedience or of resignation, of doing, or of 
suffering. 

Eut the effects of a genuine and enlightened 
zeal will not stop here. It will be visible in our 
discourse with those to whom we may have a 
probability of being useful. But though we 
should not confine the exercise of our zeal to our 
conversation, nor our attention to the opinions 
and practices of others, yet this, when not done 
with a bustling kind of interference, and offen- 
sive forwardness, is proper and useful. It is 



indeed a natural effect of zeal to appear where 
it exists, as a fire which really burns will not be 
prevented from emitting both light and heat; 
yet we should labour principally to keep up in 
our own minds the pious feelings which religion 
has excited there. The brightest flamo will 
decay if no means are used to keep it alive. 
Pure zeal will cherish every holy affection, and 
by increasing every pious disposition will ani- 
mate us to every duty. It will add new force 
to our hatred of sin, fresh contrition to our re- 
pentance, additional vigour to our resolution^ 
and will impart augmented energy to every 
virtue, It will give life to our devotions, and 
spirit to all our actions. 

When a true zeal has fixed these right affec- 
tions in our own hearts, the same principle will, 
as we have already observed, make us earnest 
to excite them in others. No good man wishes 
to go to heaven alone, and none ever wished 
others to go thither without earnestly endea- 
vouring to awaken right affections in them. 
That will be a false zeal which does not begin 
with the regulation of our own hearts. That 
will be an illiberal zeal which stops where it 
begins. A true zeal will extend itself through 
the whole sphere of its possessor's influence 
Christian zeal, like Christian charity, will begin 
at home, but neither the one nor the other must 
end there. 

But that we must not confine our zeal to mere 
conversation is not only implied but expressed 
in Scripture. The apostle does not exhort us 
to be zealous only of good words but of good 
works. True zeal ever produces true benevo- 
lence. It would extend the blessings which we 
ourselves enjoy, to the whole human race. It 
will consequently stir us up to exert all our in- 
fluence to the extension of religion, to the ad- 
vancement of every well concerted and well 
conducted plan, calculated to enlarge the limits 
of human happiness, and more especially to 
promote the eternal interests of human kind. 

But if we do not first strenuously labour for our 
own illumination, how shall we presume to en- 
lighten others ! It is a dangerous presumption, 
to busy ourselves in improving others, before 
we have diligently sought our own improvement. 
Yet it is a vanity not uncommon that the first 
feelings, be they true or false, which resemble 
devotion, the first faint ray of knowledge which 
has imperfectly dawned, excites in certain raw 
minds an eager impatience to communicate to 
others what they themselves have not yet at- 
tained. Hence the novel swarms of uninstruct- 
ed instructors, of teachers who have had no 
time to learn. The act previous to the impart- 
ing knowledge should seem to be that of ac- 
quiring it. Nothing would so effectually check 
an irregular and improve a temperate zeal, 
as the personal discipline, the self acquaintance 
we have so repeatedly recommended. 

True Christian zeal will always be known 
by its distinguishing and inseparable properties. 
It will be warm, indeed, not from temperament 
but principle. It will be humble, or it will not 
be Christian zeal. — It will restrain its impetu- 
osity that it may the more effectually promote 
its object. — It will be temperate, softening what 
is strong in the act by gentleness in the man 



430 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Her. It will be tolerating, willing to grant what 
it would itself desire. — It will be forbearing, in 
the hope that the offence it censures may be oc- 
casional failing and not a habit of the mind. 
— It will be candid, making a tender allowance 
for those imperfections which beings, fallible 
themselves ought to expect from human infir- 
mity. — It will be reasonable — employing fair 
argumeat and affectionate remonstrance, instead 
of irritating by the adoption of violence, instead 
of mortifying by the assumption of superiority. 
§ He, who in private society allows himself in 
violent anger or unhallowed bitterness, or ac- 
rimonious railing, in reprehending the faults 
of another, might, did his power keep pace with 
his inclination, have recourse to other weapons. 
He would probably banish and hum, confiscate 
and imprison, and think then as he thinks now, 
that he is doing God service. 

If there be any quality which demands a 
clearer sight, a tighter rein, a stricter watchful- 
ness than another, zeal is that quality. The 
heart where it is wanting has no elevation ; 
where it is not guarded, no security. The pru- 
dence with which it is exercised is the surest 
evidence of its integrity; for if intemperate it 
not only raises enemies to ourselves but to God. 
It augments the natural enmity to religion in- 
stead of increasing her friends. 

But if tempered by charity, if blended with 
benevolence, if sweetened by kindness, if evinc- 
ed to be honest by its influence on your own 
conduct, and gentle by its effect on your man- 
ners, it may lead your irreligious acquaintance 
to inquire more closely in what consists the 
distinction between them and you. You will 
already by this mildness have won their affec- 
tion. Your next step may be to gain over their 
judgment. They may be led to examine what 
solid grounds of difference subsists between you 
and them. What substantial reason you have 
for not going their lengths. What sound argu- 
ment they can offer for not going yours. 

But it may possibly be asked, after all, where 
do we perceive any symptoms of this inflam- 
matory distemper? Should not the prevalence, 
or at least the existence of a disease be ascer- 
tained previous to the application of the remedy ? 
That it exists is sufficiently obvious, though it 
must be confessed that among the higher ranks 
it has not hitherto spread very widely ; nor is its 
progress likely to be very alarming, or its 
effects very malignant. It is to be lamented 
that in every rank, indeed, coldness and indiffer- 
ence, carelessness and neglect, are the reigning 
epidemics. These are diseases far more diffi- 
cult to cure ; diseases not more dangerous to the 
patient than distressing to the physician, who 
generally finds it more dfticult to raise a slug- 
gish habit than to lower an occasional heat. 
The imprudently zealous man, if he be sincere, 
may, by a discreet regimen, be brought to a 
state of complete sanity ; but to rouse from a 
state of morbid indifference, to brace from a to- 
tal relaxation of the system, must be the imme- 
diate work of the great Physician of souls; of 
him who can effect even this, by his Spirit ac- 
companying this powerful word, ' Awake thou 
that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and 
Christ shall give thee light.' 



CHAP. XVIII. 

Insensibility to Eternal Things. 

Insensibility to eternal things, in beings who 
are standing on the brink of eternity, is a mad- 
ness which would be leckoned among prodigies, 
if it were not so common. It would be al 
together incredible, if the numberless instances 
we have of it were only related, and not wit- 
nessed, were only heard of, and not experienced. 
If we had a certain prospect of a great estate, 
and a splendid mansion which we knew must 
be ours in a few days ; and not only ours as a 
bequest, but an inheritance, not only as a 
possession, but a perpetuity ; if, in the mean 
time, we rented, on a precarious lease, a paltry 
cottage in bad repair, ready to fall, and from 
which we knew we must at all events soon be 
turned out, depending on the proprietor's will, 
whether the ejectment might not be the next 
minute ; would it argue wisdom or even com- 
mon sense, totally to overlook our near and 
noble reversion, and to be so fondly attached to 
our falling tenement, as to spend great part of 
our time and thoughts in supporting its ruins 
by props, and concealing its deca}'s by decora- 
tions ? To be so absorbed in the little sordid 
pleasures of this frail abode, as not even to cul- 
tivate a taste for the delights of the mansion, 
where such treasures are laid up for us, and on 
the possession of which we fully reckon in spite 
of our neglect, — this is an excess of inconside 
ration, which must be seen to be credited. 

It is a striking fact, that the acknowledged 
uncertainty of life drives worldly men to make 
sure of every thing depending on it, except their 
eternal concerns. It leads them to be regular 
in their accounts, and exact in their bargains. 
They are afraid of risking ever so little property, 
on so precarious a tenure as life, without ensur- 
ing a reversion. There are even some who 
speculate on the uncertainty of life as a trade. 
Strange, that this accurate calculation of tho 
duration of life should not involve a serious at- 
tention to its end 1 Strange, that the critical 
annuitant should totally overlook his perpetuity ! 
Strange, that in the prudent care not to risk a 
fraction of property, equal care should not be 
taken to risk eternal salvation ! 

We are not supposing flagitious characters, 
remarkable for any thing which the world calls 
wicked : we are not supposing their wealth ob- 
tained by injustice, or increased by oppression. 
We are only supposing a soul drawn aside from 
God, by the alluring baits of a world, which, 
like the treacherous love of Atalanta, causes 
him to lose the victory by throwing golden ap- 
ples in his way. The shining baits are obtain 
ed, but the race is lost ! 

To worldly men of a graver cast, business 
may be as formidable an enemy as pleasure is to 
those of a lighter turn : business has so sober an 
air that it looks like virtue, and virtuous it cer- 
tainly is, when carried on in a proper spirit, with- 
due moderation, and in the fear of God. To have a 
lawful employment, and to pursue it with deli 
gence, is not only right and honourable in itself, 
but is one of the best preservatives from tempta- 
tion.* 
* That accurate judge of human life, Dr. Johnson, tua 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



481 



When a man pleads in his favour, the dili- 
gence business demands, the self-denying- prac- 
tices it imposes, the patience, the regularity, the 
industry indispensable to its success; when he 
argues that these are habits of virtue, that they 
ure a daily discipline to the moral man; and 
that the world could not subsist without busi- 
ness, he argues justly ; — but when he forgets his 
interest in the eternal world, when he neglects 
to lay up a treasure in heaven, in order that he 
may augment a store which he does not want, 
and, perhaps, he does not intend to use, or uses 
to purposes merely secular, he is a bad calcu- 
lator, of the relative value of things. 

Business has an honourable aspect as being 
opposed to idleness, the most hopeless offspring 
of the whole progeny of sin. The man of busi- 
ness comparing himself with the man of dissi- 
pation, feels a fair and natural consciousness of 
his own value, and of the superiority of his own 
pursuits. But it is by comparison that we de- 
ceive ourselves to our ruin. Business, whether 
professional, commercial, or political, endangers 
minds of a better cast, minds which look down 
on pleasure as beneath a thinking being. But 
if business absorb the affections, if it swallow up 
time, to the neglect of eternity ; if it generate a 
worldly spirit; if it cherish covetousness ; if it 
engage the mind in long views, and ambitious 
pursuits, it may be as dangerous, as its more in- 
considerate frivolou-s rival. The grand evil of 
both lies ?n the alienation of the heart from God. 
Nay, in one respect, the danger is greater to 
him who is the best employed. The man of 
pleasure, however thoughtless, can never make 
himself believe that he is doing right. The man 
plunged in the serious bustle of business, can- 
not easily persuade himself that he may be doing 
wrong. 

Commutation, compensation and substitution, 
are the grand engines which worldly religion 
incessantly keeps in play. Her's is a life of 
Darter, a state of spiritual traffic, so much in- 
dulgence for so many good works. The impli- 
cation is, 'we have a rigorous master,' and it is 
but fair to indemnify ourselves for the severity 
of his requisitions ; just as an overworked ser- 
vant steals a holyday. — ' These persons,' says 
an eminent writer,* 'maintain amewm and tuvin 
with heaven itself.' The set bounds to God's 
prerogative, lest it should too much encroach on 
man's privilege. 

We have elsewhere observed, that if we invite 
people to embrace religion on the mere merce- 
nary ground of present pleasure, they will desert 
it as soon as they find themselves disappointed. 
Men are too ready to clamour for the pleasures 
of piety before they have, I dare not say entitled 
themselves to them, but put themselves into the 
way of receiving them. We should be angry at 
that servant, who made the receiving of his 
wages a preliminary to the performance of his 
work. This is not meant to establish the merit 
of the works, but the necessity of our seeking 
that transforming and purifying change which 

often been heard by the writer of these pages to ob- 
serve, that it was the greatest misfortune which could 
befal a man to have been bred to no profession, and pa- 
thetically to regret that this misfortune wae his own. 
* The learned and pioua John Smith. 



Vol. t. 



H2 



characterises the real Christian ; instead of com- 
plaining that we do not possess those consola- 
tions, which can be consequent only on such a 
mutation of the mind. 

But if men consider this world on the true 
scripture ground as a state of probation ; if they 
consider religion as a school for happiness, in- 
deed, but of which the consummation is only to 
be enjoyed in heaven, the Christian hope will 
support them ; theChristian faith will strengthen 
them. They will serve diligently, wait patient- 
ly, love cordially, obey faithfully, and be stead- 
fast under all trials, sustained by the cheering 
promise held out to him, 'who endures to the end.' 

There are certain characters who seem to have 
a graduated scale of vices. Of this scale they 
keep clear of the lowest degrees, and to rise 
above the highest they are not ambitious, forget 
ful that the same principle which operates in 
the greater, operates also in the less. A life of 
incessant gratification does not alarm the con- 
science, yet it is equally unfavorable to religion, 
equally destructive of its principle, equally op- 
posite to its spirit, with more obvious vices. 

These are the habits which, by relaxing the 
mind and dissolving the heart, particularly fos- 
ter indifference to our spiritual state, and insen- 
sibility to the things of eternity. A life of vo- 
luptuousness, if it be not a life of actual sin, is a 
disqualification for holiness, for happiness, for 
heaven. It not only alienates the heart from 
God, but lays it open to every temptation to 
which natural temper may invite, or incidental 
circumstances allure. The worst passions lie 
dormant in hearts given up to selfish indulgences, 
always ready to start into action as occasion 
calls. 

Voluptuousness and irreligion play into each 
other's hands : they are reciprocally cause and 
effect. The looseness of the principle confirms 
the carelessness of the conduct, while the negli- 
gent conduct in its own vindication shelters it- 
self under the supposed security of unbelief. 
The instance of the rich man in the parable of 
Lazarus, strikingly illustrates this truth. 

Whoever doubts that a life of sensuality is 
consistent with the most unfeeling barbarity to 
the wants and sufferings of others ; whoever 
doubts that boundless expense and magnificence, 
the means of procuring which were wrung from 
the robbery and murder of a lacerated world, 
may not be associated with that robbery and 
murder, — let him turn to the gorgeous festivities 
and unparalleled pageantries of Versailles and 
Saint Cloud. — There the Imperial Harlequin, 
from acting the deepest and the longest tragedy 
that ever drew tears of blood from an audience 
composed of the whole civilized globe, by a sud- 
den stroke of his magic wand, shifts the scene 
of this most preposterous pantomime :-— 

Where moody madness laughing wild 
Amidst severest wo, 

gloomily contemplates the incongruous specta- 
cle, sees the records of the Tyburn Chronicle 
embellished with the wanton splendours of the 
Arabian tables ; beholds 

Perverse all monstrous, all prodigious things; 
beholds tyranny with his painted vizor of pa. 
triotism, and polygamy with her Janus face of 






482 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



political conscience and counterfeit affection fill 
the fore ground ; while sceptred parasites, and 
pinchbeck potentates, tricked on with the shining 
spoils of plundered empires, and decked with the 
pilfered crowns of deposed and exiled monarchs, 
fill and empty the changing scene, with ' exits 
and with entrances,' as fleeting and unsubstan- 
tial as the progeny of Banquo, — beholds inven- 
tive but fruitless art, solicitously decorate the 
ample stage to conceal the stains of blood — stains 
as indelible as those which ihe ambitious wife 
of the irresolute thane vainly strove to wash 
from her polluted hands ; while in her sleeping 
delirium she continued to cry, 

Still here's the smell of blood ; 

The perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten it. 

But to return to the general question. Let 
us not inquire whether these unfeeling tempers 
and selfish habits offend society, and discredit 
us with the world ; but whether they feed our 
corruptions and put us in a posture unfavour- 
able to all interior improvement ; whether they 
offend God and endanger the soul ; whether the 
gratification of self is the life which the Re- 
deemer taught or lived ; whether sensuality is a 
suitable preparation for that state where God 
himself, who is a Spirit, will constitute all the 
happiness of spiritual beings. 

But these are not the only, perhaps not the 
greatest dangers. The intellectual vices, the 
spiritual offences may destroy the soul without 
much injuring the credit. These have not, like 
voluptuousness, their seasons of alteration and 
repose. Here the principle is in continual ope- 
ration. Envy has no interval. Ambition never 
cools. Pride never sleeps. The principle at 
least is always awake. An intemperate man is 
sometimes sober, but a proud man is never hum- 
ble. Where vanity reigns, she reigns always. 
These interior sins are more difficult of extirpa- 
tion, they are less easy of detection ; more hard 
to come at ; and, as the citadel holds out after 
the outworks are taken, these sins of the heart 
are the latest conquered in the moral warfare. 

Here lies the distinction between the worldly 
and the religious man. It is alarm enough for 
the Christian that he feels any propensities to 
vice. Against these propensities he watches, 
strives and prays : and though he is thankful for 
the victory when he has resisted the temptation, 
he can feel no elation of heart while conscious 
of inward dispositions, which nothing but divine 
grace enables him to keep from breaking out in 
a flame. He feels that there is no way to obtain 
the pardon of sin but to leave off sinning: he 
feels that though repentance is not a Saviour, 
yet that there can be no salvation where there 
is no repentance. Above all, he knows that the 
promise of remission of sin by the death of Christ 
is the only solid ground of comfort. However 
correct his present life may be, the weight of 
past offences would hang so heavy on his con- 
science, that without the atoning blood of his 
Redeemer, despair of pardon for the past would 
leave him hopeless. He would continue to sin, 
as an extravagant bankrupt who can get no ac- 
quittal, would continue to be extravagant, be- 
cause no present frugality could redeem his 
former debts. 



It is sometimes pleaded that the laboui nUnch 
ed to persons in high public stations and in* 
portant employments, by leaving them no time 
furnishes a reasonable excuse for the omission 
of their religious duties. These apologies are 
never offered for any such neglect in the poor 
man, though to him every day brings the in- 
evitable return of his twelve hours' labour, with- 
out intermission and without mitigation. 

But surely the more important the station, the 
higher and wider the sphere of action, the more 
imperious is the call for -eligion, not only in the 
way of example, but even in the way of success ; 
if it be indeed granted that there is such a thing 
as divine influences, if it be allowed that God 
has a blessing to bestow. If the ordinary man 
who has only himself to govern, requires that 
aid, how urgent is his necessity who has to go- 
vern millions ! What an awful idea, could we 
even suppose it realized, that the weight of a 
nation might rest on the head of him whose heart 
looks not up for a higher support ! 

Were we alluding to sovereigns, and not to 
statesmen, we need not look beyond the throne 
of Great Britain, for the instance of a monarch 
who has never made the cares attendant on a 
king, an excuse for neglecting his duty to the 
King of kings. 

The politician, the warrior, and the orator, 
find it peculiarly hard to renounce in themselves 
that wisdom and strength, to which they believe 
that the rest of the world are looking up. The 
man of station or of genius, when invited to the 
self-denying duties of Christianity, as well as 
he who has ' great possessions,' goes away t sor- 
rowing.' 

But to know that they must end, stamps va- 
nity on all the glories of life ; to know that they 
must end soon, stamps infatuation, not only on 
him who sacrifices his conscience for their ac- 
quisition, but on him who, though upright in 
the discharge of his duties, discharges them 
without any reference to God. — Would the con- 
queror or the orator reflect when the 'laurel 
crown is placed on his brow, how soon will it be 
followed by the cypress wreath,' it would lower 
the delirium of ambition ; it would cool the in. 
toxication of prosperity. 

There is a general kind of belief in Chris 
tianity, prevalent among men of the world, which, 
by soothing the conscience, prevents self-inquiry 
That the holy Scriptures contain the will of God, 
they do not question ; that they contain the best 
system of morals, they frequently assert: but 
that they do not feel the necessity of acquiring 
a correct notion of the doctrines those Scriptures 
involve. The depravity of man, the atonement 
made by Christ, the assistance of the Holy Spi- 
rit — these they consider as the metaphysical 
part of religion, into which it is not of much im- 
portance to enter, and by a species of self-flat- 
tery, they satisfy themselves with an idea of 
acceptableness with their Maker, as a state to 
be attained without the humility, faith, and new- 
ness of life which they require, and which are 
indeed their proper concomitants. 

A man absorbed in a multitude of secular con- 
cerns, decent but unawakened, listens with a 
kind of respectful insensibility, to the overtures 
of religion. He considers the church as venera 






THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



483 



ble from her antiquity, and important from her 
connexion with the state. No one is more alive 
to her political, nor more dead to her spiritual 
importance. He is anxious for her existence, 
bat indifferent to her doctrines. These he con- 
siders as a general matter in which he has no 
individual concern. He considers religious ob- 
servances as something decorous but unreal ; as 
a grave custom made respectable by public usage, 
and long prescription. He admits that the poor, 
who have little to enjoy, and the idle who have 
little to do, cannot do better than make over to 
God that time which cannot be turned to a more 
profitable account. Religion, he thinks, may 
properly enough employ leisure, and occupy old 
age. But though both advance towards himself 
with no imperceptible step, he is still at a loss 
to determine the precise period when the leisure 
is sufficient, or the age enough advanced. It 
recedes as the destined season approaches. He 
continues to intend moving, but he continues to 
stand still. 

Compare his drowsy Sabbaths with the ani- 
mation of the days of business, you would not 
think it was the same man. The one are to be 
got over, the others are enjoyed. He goes from 
the dull decencies, the shadowy forms — for such 
they are to him, of public worship, to the solid 
realities of his worldly concerns, to the cheerful 
activities of secular life. These he considers as 
bounden, almost as exclusive duties. The others 
indeed may not be wrong, but these he is sure 
are right. The world is his element. Here he 
breathes freely his native air. Here he is sub- 
stantially engaged. Here his whole mind is 
alive, his understanding broad awake, all his 
energies are in full play ; his mind is all ala- 
crity ; his faculties are employed, his capacities 
are filled ; here they have an object worthy of 
their widest expansion. Here his desires and 
affections are absorbed. The faint impression 
of the Sunday's sermon fades away, to be as 
faintly revived on the Sunday following, again 
to fade in the succeeding week. To the sermon 
ne brings a formal ceremonious attendance ; to 
the woild, he brings all the heart, and soul, and 
mind, and strength. To the one he resorts in 
conformity to law and custom ; to induce him to 
resort to the other, he wants no law, no sanction, 
no invitation, no argument. His will is of the 
part)'. His passions are volunteers. The in- 
visible things of heaven are clouded in shadow, 
are lost in distance. The world is lord of the 
ascendant. Riches, honours, power fill his mind 
with brilliant images. They are present, they 
are certain, they are tangible. They assume 
form and bulk. In these therefore he cannot be 
mistaken ; in the others he may. The eager- 
ness of competition, the struggle for superiority, 
the perturbations of ambition, fill his mind with 
an emotion, his soul with an agitation, his affec- 
tions with an interest, which, though very un- 
like happiness, he yet flatters himself is the road 
to it. This fictitious pleasure, this tumultuous 
feeling, produces at least that negative satisfac- 
tion of which he is constantly in search — it 
keeps him from himself. 

Even in circumstances where there is no suc- 
cess to prevent a very tempting bait, the mere 
occupation, the crowd of objects, the succession 



of engagements, the mingling pursuits, the very 
tumult and hurry have their gratifications. The 
bustle gives false peace by leaving no leisure 
for reflection. He lays his conscience asleep 
with the ' flattering unction, of good intentions. 
He comforts himself with the credible pretence 
of want of time, and the vague resolution of giv- 
ing up to God the dregs of that life, of the vi- 
gorous season of which he thinks the world 
more worthy. Thus commuting with his Ma- 
ker, life wears away, its close draws near — and 
even the poor commutation which was promised 
is not made. The assigned hour of retreat either 
never arrives, or if it does arrive, sloth and sen- 
suality are resorted to, as the fair reward of a 
life of labour and anxiety ; and whether he dies 
in the protracted pursuit of wealth, or in the en- 
joyment of the luxuries it has earned, he dies in 
the trammels of the world. 

If we do not cordially desire to be delivered 
from the dominion of these worldly tempers, it 
is because we do not believe in the condemna- 
tion annexed \o their indulgence. We may in- 
deed believe it as we believe any other general 
proposition, or any indifferent fact ; but not as 
truth in which we have a personal concern ; not 
as a danger which has any reference to us. We 
evince this practical unbelief in the most une- 
quivocal way, by thinking so much more about 
the most frivolous concern in which we are as- 
sured we have an interest, than about this most 
important of all concerns. 

Indifference to eternal things, instead of tran- 
quilizing the mind, as it professes to do, is, when 
a thoughtful moment occurs, a fresh subject of 
uneasiness ; because it adds to our peril the hor- 
ror of not knowing it. If shutting our eyes to 
a danger would prevent it, to shut them would 
not only be a happiness but a duty ; but to bar- 
ter eternal safety for momentary ease, is a wretch- 
ed compromise. To produce this delusion, mere 
inconsideration is as efficient a cause as the 
most prominent sin. The reason why we do 
not value eternal things is, because we do not 
think of them. The mind is so full of what is 
present, that it has no room to admit a thought 
of what is to come. Not only we do not give 
that attention to a never-dying soul which pru- 
dent men give to a common transaction, but we 
do not even think it worth the care which in- 
considerate men give to an inconsiderable one. 
We complain that life is short, and yet throw 
away the best part of it, only making over to 
religion that portion which is good for nothing 
else ; life would be long enough if we assigned 
its best period to its best purpose. 

Say not that the requisitions of religion are 
severe, ask rather if they are necessary. If a 
thing must absolutely be done, if eternal misery 
will be incurred by not doing it, it is fruitless 
to inquire whether it be hard or easy. Inquire 
only whether it be indispensable, whether it be 
commanded, whether it be practicable. It is a 
well known axiom in science, that difficulties 
are of no weight against demonstrations. The 
duty on which our eternal state depends, is not 
a thing to be debated, but done. The duty which 
is too imperative to be evaded, too important to. 
be neglected, is not to be argued about, but per 
formed. To sin on quietly, because vou do not 



484 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



: ntend to sin always, is to live on a reversion 
which will probably never be yours. 

' It is folly to say that religion drives men to 
despair ; when it only teaches them by a salu- 
tary fear to avoid destruction. The fear of Gpd 
differs from all other fear, for it is accompanied 
with trust, and confidence, and love. ' Blessed 
is the man that feareth alway,' is no paradox to 
him who entertains this holy fear. It sets him 
above the fear of ordinary troubles. It fills his 
heart. He is not discomposed with those inferior 
apprehensions which unsettle the soul and un- 
hinge the peace of worldly men. His mind is 
occupied with one grand concern, and is there- 
fore less liable to be shaken than little minds 
which are filled with little things. Can that 
principle lead to despair, which proclaims the 
mercy of God in Christ Jesus to be greater than 
all the sins of all the men in the world ? 

If despair then prevent your return, add not 
to your list of offences that of doubting of the 
forgiveness which is sincerely implored. You 
have already wronged God in his holiness, wrong 
him not in his mercy. You may offend him 
more by despairing of his pardon than by all the 
sins which have made that pardon necessary. 
Repentance, if one may venture the bold remark, 
almost disarms God of the power to punish. 
Hear his style and title as proclaimed by him- 
self; — ' The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and 
gracious, long suffering and abundant in good- 
ness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, 
forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin, and 
that will by no means clear the guilty' — that is, 
those who by unrepented guilt exclude them- 
selves from the offered mercy. 

If infidelity or indifference, which is practi- 
cal infidelity, keep you back, yet, as reasonable 
beings, ask yourselves a few short questions ; 
' For what end was I sent into the world ? Is 
my soul immortal ? Am I really placed here in 
a state of trial, or is this span my all ? Is there 
an eternal state ? If there be, will the use I 
make of this life decide on my condition in that? 
I know that there is death, but is there a judg- 
ment ?' — 

Rest not till you have cleared up, I do not 
say your own evidences for heaven ; — you have 
much to do before you arrive at that stage — but 
whether there be any heaven ? Ask yourself 
whether Christianity is not important enough 
to deserve being inquired into ? Whether eter- 
nal life is not too valuable to be entirely over- 
looked ? Whether eternal destruction, if a reali- 
ty, is not worth avoiding ? — If you make these 
interrogations sincerely, you will make them 
practically. They will lead you to examine 
your own personal interest in these things. 
Evils which are ruining us for want of atten- 
tion to them, lessen, from the moment our atten- 
tion to them begins. True or false, the question 
is worth settling. Vibrate then no longer be- 
tween doubt and certainty. If the evidence be 
inadmissible, reject it. But if you can once as- 
certain these cardinal points, then throw away 
your time if you can, then trifle with eternity if 
vou dare.* 

* An awakeningtsall to public and individual feelings 
na* been recently made, by an observation of an elo- 
quent speaker in the house of commons. He remarked 



It is one of the striking characters of the On* 
nipotent that ' he is strong and patient.' It is a 
standing evidence of his patience that • he is 
provoked every day.' How beautifully do these 
characters reflect lustre on each other. If he 
were not strong, his patience would want its 
distinguishing perfection. If he were not pa- 
tient, his strength would instantly crush those 
who provoke him, not sometimes, but often ; not 
every year, but ' every day.' 

Oh you, who have a long space given you for 
repentance ; confess that the forbearance of God, 
when viewed as coupled with his strength, is his 
most astonishing attribute ! Think of the com- 
punions of your early life ; if not your associates 
in actual vice, if not your confederates in guilty 
pleasures, yet the sharers of your thoughtless 
meetings, of your convivial revelry, of your 
worldly schemes, of your ambitious projects — 
think how many of them have been cut off, per- 
haps without warning, probably without repent- 
ance. — They have been represented to their 
Judge ; their doom, whatever it be, is irreversi- 
bly fixed ; yours is mercifully suspended. — 
Adore the mercy : embrace the suspension. 

Only suppose if they could be permitted to 
come back to this world, if they could be allow- 
ed another period of trial, how would they spend 
their restored life ! How cordial would be their 
penitence, how intense their devotion, how pro- 
found their humility, how holy their actions ! 
Think then that you have still in your power 
that for which they would give millions of 
worlds. ' Hell,' says a pious writer, ' is trntli 
seen too late.' 

In almost every mind there sometimes float 
indefinite and general purposes of repentance. 
The operation of these purposes is often repelled 
by a real though disavowed scepticism. ' Be- 
cause sentence is not executed speedily,' they 
suspect it has never been pronounced. They 
therefore think they may safely continue to da 
fer their intended but unshapen purpose. — 
Though they sometimes visit the sick bed of 
others; though they see how much disease dis- 
qualifies for all duties, yet to this period of inca- 
pacity, to this moment of disqualification do they 
continue to defer this tremendously important 
concern. 

What an image of the divine condescension 
does it convey, that 4 the goodness of God lead- 
eth to repentance !' It does not barely invite, 
but it conducts. Every warning is more or less 
an invitation ; every visitation is a lighter stroke 
to avert a heavier blow. This was the way in 
which the heathen world understood portents 
and prodigies, and on this interpretation of th^m 
they acted. Any alarming warning, whether 
rational or superstitious, drove them to their tem- 
ples, their sacrifices, their expiations. Does our 



that himself and the honourable member for Yorkshire, 
then sitting on a committee appointed on occasion of a 
great national calamity, were the only surviving mem- 
bers of the committee on a similar occasion twenty-two 
years ago! The call is the more alarming, because the 
mortality did not arise from some extraordinary cause, 
which might not again occur, but was in the common 
course of human things. Such a proportion of deaths is 
perpetually taking place, but the very frequency which 
ought to excite attention prevents it, till it is thus forced 
on our notice. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



485 



clearer light always carry us farther ? Does it 
in these instances, always carry us as far as na- 
tural conscience carried them ? 

The final period of the worldly man at length 
arrives ; but he will not believe his danger. 
Even if he fearfully glance round for an intima- 
tion of it in every surrounding face, every face, 
it is too probable, is in a league to deceive him. 
What a noble opportunity is now offered to the 
Christian physician to show a kindness as far 
superior to any he has ever shown, as the con- 
cerns of the soul are superior to those of the 
body ? Oh let him not (ear prudently to reveal 
a truth for which the patient may bless him in 
eternity ! Is it not sometimes to be feared that 
in the hope of prolonging for a little while the 
existence of the perishing body, he robs the ne- 
ver-dying soul of its last chance of pardon ? 
Does not the concern for the immortal part 
united with his care of the afflicted body, bring 
the medical professor to a nearer imitation than 
any other supposable situation can do, of that 
Divine Physician, who never healed the one 
without manifesting a tender concern for the 
other ? 

But the deceit is short, is fruitless. The 
amazed spirit is about to dislodge. Who shall 
speak its terror and dismay ? Then he cries 
out in the bitterness of his soul, ' What capacity 
has a diseased man, what time has a dying man, 
what disposition has a sinful man to acquire 
good principles, to unlearn false notions, to re- 
nounce bad practices, to establish right habits, 
to begin to love God, to begin to hate sin ? How 
is the stupendous concern of salvation to be 
worked out by a mind incompetent to the most 
ordinary concerns. 

The infinite importance of what he has to do 
— the goading conviction that it must be done — 
the utter inability of doing it — the dreadful com- 
bination in his mind of both the necessity and 
incapacity — -the despair of crowding the con- 
cerns of an age into a moment — the impossibili- 
ty of beginning a repentance which should have 
been completed — of setting about a peace which 
should have been concluded — of suing for a par- 
don which shoul'i have been obtained ; — all these 
complicated concerns — without strength, with- 
out time, without hope, with a clouded memory, 
a disjointed reason, a wounded spirit, undefined 
terrors, remembered sins, anticipated punish- 
ment, an angry God, and accusing conscience, 
altogether, intolerably augment the sufferings 
of a body which stands in little need of the in- 
supportable burthen of a distracted mind to ag- 
gravate its torments. 

Though we pity the superstitious weakness 
of the German emperor in acting over the anti- 
cipated solemnities of his own funeral — that 
eccentric act of penitence of a great but per- 
verted mind ; it would be well if we were now 
and then to represent to our minds while in 
cound health, the solemn certainties of a dying 
bed ; if we were sometimes to imagine to our- 
selves this awful scene, not only as inevitable, 
but as near ; if we accustomed ourselves to see 
things now, as we shall then wish we had seen 
them. Surely the most sluggish insensibility 
must be roused by figuring to itself the rapid 
approach of death, the nearness of our unalter- 



able doom, our instant transition to that state of 
unutterable bliss or unimaginable wo to which 
death will in a moment consign us. Such a 
mental representation would assist us in dissi- 
pating the illusion of the senses, would help to 
realise what is invisible, and approximate what 
we think remote. It would disenchant us from 
the world, tear off her painted mask, shrink her 
pleasures into their proper dimensions, her con- 
cerns into their real value, her enjoyments 
into their just compass, her promises into no- 
thing. 

Terrible as the evil is, if it must, and that at 
no distant day, be met, spare not to present it to 
your imagination ; not to lacerate your feelings, 
but to arm your resolution ; not to excite unpro- 
fitable distress, but to strengthen your faith. If 
it terrify you at first, draw a little nearer to it 
every time. Familiarity will abate the terror. 
If you cannot face the image, how will you en- 
counter the reality ? 

Let us then figure to ourselves the moment 
(who can say that moment may not be the next?) 
when all we cling to shall elude, our grasp; when 
every earthly good shall be to us as if it had 
never been, except in the remembrance of the 
use we hav,e made of it ; when our eyes shall 
close upon a world of sense, and open on a world 
of spirits ; when there shall be no relief for the 
fainting body, and no refuge for the parting 
soul, except that single refuge to which, per- 
haps, we have never thought of resorting — that 
refuge which if we have not despised we have 
too probably neglected — the everlasting mercies 
of God in Christ Jesus. 

Reader ! whoever you are, who have neglected 
to remember that to die is the end for which you 
were born, know that you have a personal in- 
terest in this scene. Turn not away from it in 
disdain, however feebly it may have been repre- 
sented. You may escape any other evil of life, 
but its end you cannot escape. Defer not then 
its weightiest concern to its weakest period. 
Begin not the preparation when you should be 
completing the work. Delay not the business 
which demands your best faculties to the period 
of their debility, probably of their extinction. 
Leave not the work which requires an age to do, 
to be done in a moment, a moment too which 
may not be granted. The alternative is tremen- 
dous. The difference is that of being saved or 
lost. It is no iight thing to perish ! 



CHAP. XIX. 

Happy Deaths. 

Few circumstances contribute more fatally to 
confirm in worldly men that insensibility to 
eternal things which was considered in the pre- 
ceding chapter, than the boastful accounts we 
sometimes hear of the firm and heroic death- 
beds of popular but irreligious characters. Many 
causes contribute to these happy deaths as they 
are called. The blind are bold, they do not see 
the precipice they despise. — Or perhaps there is 
less unwillingness to quit a world which has so 
often disappointed them, or which they have 



486 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



sucked to the last dregs. They leave life with . great intellectual powers it is as impossible not 



less reluctance, feeling that they have exhausted 
all its gratifications. — Or it is a disbelief of the 
reality of the state on which they are about to 
enter. — Or it is a desire to be released from ex- 
cessive pain, a desire naturally felt by those who 
calculate their gain rather by what they are 
escaping from, than by what they are to receive. 
— Or it is equability of temper, or firmness of 
nerve, or hardness of mind. — Or it is the arro- 
gant wish to make the last act of life confirm 
its preceding professions. — Or it is the vanity 
of perpetuating their philosophic character. — 
Or if some faint ray of light break in, it is the 
pride of not retracting the sentiments which 
from pride they have maintained ; — The desire 
of posthumous renown among their own party ; 
the hope to make their disciples stand firm by 
their example ; the ambition to give their last 
possible blow to revelation — or perhaps the fear 
of expressing doubts which might beget a suspi- 
cion that their disbelief was not so sturdy as 
they would have it thought. Above all, may 
they not, as a punishment for their long neglect 
of the warning voice of truth, be given up to a 
etrong delusion to believe the lie they have so 
often propagated, and really to expept to find in 
death that eternal sleep, with which they have 
affected to quiet their own consciences, and have 
really weakened the faith of others ? 

Every new instance is an additional buttress 
on which the sceptical school lean for support, 
and which they produce as a fresh triumph. 
With equal satisfaction they collect stories of 
infirmity, depression, and want of courage in 
the dying hour of religious men, whom the na- 
ture of the disease, timorousness of spirit, pro- 
found humility, the sad remembrance of sin, 
though long repented of and forgiven, a deep 
sense of the awfulness of meeting God in judg- 
ment ; — wjiom some or all of these causes may 
occasion to depart in trembling fear : in whom, 
though heaviness may endure through the night 
of death, yet joy cometh in the morning of the 
resurrection. 

It is a maxim of the civil law that definitions 
are hazardous. And it cannot be denied that 
various descriptions of persons have hazarded 
much in their definitions of a happy deatk. A 
very able and justly admired writer, who has 
distinguished himself by the most valuable works 
on political economy, has recorded as proofs of 
the happy death of a no less celebrated contem- 
porary, that he cheerfully amused himself in his 
last hours with Lucian, a game of vrfiist, and 
some good humoured drollery upon Charon and 
his boat. 

But may we not venture to say, with ' one of 
the people called Christians,'* himself a wit and 
philosopher, though of the school of Christ, that 
the man who could meet death in such a frame 
of mind, ' might smile over Babylon in ruins, 
esteem the earthquake which destroyed Lisbon 
an agreeable occurrence, and congratulate the 
hardened Pharaoh on his overthrow in the Red 
Sea.' 

This eminent historian and philosoper, whose 

* The late excellent Bishop Home. See his letters to 
Ot Adam Smith. 



to admire, as not to lament their unhappy mis- 
application, has been eulogized by his friend, as 
coming nearer than almost any other man, to 
the perfection of human nature in his life ; and 
has been almost deified for the cool courage and 
heroic firmness with which lie met death. His 
eloquent panegyrist, with as insidious an inuen- 
do as has ever been thrown out against revealed 
religion, goes on to observe, that ' perhaps it is 
one of the very worst circumstances against 
Christianity, that very few of its professors were 
ever either so moral, so humane, or could so 
philosophically govern their passions, as the 
sceptical David Hume.' 

Yet notwithstanding this rich embalming of 
so nc-ble a compound of' matter and motion,' we 
must be permitted to doubt one of the two things 
presented for our admiration ; we must either 
doubt the so much boasted happiness of his 
death, or the so much extolled humanity of his 
heart. We must be permitted to suspect the 
soundness of that benevolence which led him to 
devote his latest hours to prepare, under the la- 
bel of an Essay on Suicide, a potion for posterity 
of so deleterious a quality, that if taken by the 
patient, under all the circumstances in which 
he undertakes to prove it innocent, might have 
gone near to effect the extinction of the whole 
human race. For if all rational beings, accord- 
ing to this posthumous prescription, are at liber- 
ty to procure their own release from life, ' under 
pain or sickness, shame or poverty,' how large 
a portion of the world would be authorized to 
quit it uncalled ! For how many are subject to 
the two latter grievances ; from the two former 
how few are altogether exempt !* 

The energy of that ambition which could con- 
centrate the last efforts of a powerful mind, the 
last exertions of a spirit greedy of fame, into a 
project not only for destroying the souls, but for 
abridging the lives of his fellow creatures, leaves 
at a disgraceful distance the inverted thirst of 
glory of the man, who to immortalize his own 
name, set fire to the Temple at Ephesus. Such 
a burning zeal to annihilate the eternal hope of 
his fellow creatures might be philosophy ; but 
surely to authorise them to curtail their moral 
existence, which to the infidel who looks for no 
other, must be invaluable, was not philanthropy. 
But if this death was thought worthy of being 
blazoned to the public eye in all the warm and 
glowing colours with which affection decorates 
panegyric ; the disciples of the same school have 
been in general, anxiously solicitous to produce 
only the more creditable instances of invincible 
hardness of heart, while they have laboured to 
cast an impenetrable veil over the closing scene 
of those among the less inflexible of the fater- 
nity, who have established in their departing 
moments, any symptoms of doubt, any indica- 

* Another part of the Essay on Suicide, has this pas- 
sago, — ' Whenever pain or sorrow so far overcome my 
patience, as to make me tired of life, I may conclude 
that I am recalled from my station in the plainest and 
most express terms.' And again — 'When I fall upon 
my own sword, I receive my death equally from the 
hands of the Deity, as if it had proceeded from a lion, a 
precipice, or a fever.' And again — ' Where is the crime 
of turning a few ounces of blood from their natural 
channel.' 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



487 



tions of distrust, respecting the validity of their 
principles : — Principles which they had long 
maintained with so much zeal, and disseminat- 
ed with so much industry. 

In spite of the sedulous anxiety of his satel- 
lites to conceal the clouded setting of the great lu- 
minary of modern infidelity, from which so many 
minor stars have filled their little urns, and then 
set up for original lights themselves; in spite 
of the pains taken — for we must drop metaphor 
— to shroud from all eyes, except those of the 
initiated, the terror and dismay with which the 
Philosopher of Geneva met death, met his sum- 
mons to appear before that God whose provi- 
dence he had ridiculed, that Saviour whose 
character and offices he had vilified, — the secret 
was betrayed. In spite of the precautions taken 
by his associates to bury in congenial darkness 
the agonies which in his last hours contradicted 
the audacious blasphemies of a laborious life 
spent in their propagation, at last like his great 
instigator, he believed and trembled. 

Whatever the sage of Ferney might be in the 
eyes of Journalists, of Academicians, of Ency- 
clopaedists, of the Royal Author of Berlin, of 
Revolutionists in the egg of his own hatching, 
of full grown infidels of his own spawning ; of 
a world into which he had been for more than 
half a century industriously infusing a venom, 
the effects of which will be long felt, the ex- 
piring philosopher was no object of veneration 
to his nurse. — She could have recorded ' a tale 
to harrow up the soul,' the horrors of which were 
sedulously attempted to be consigned to oblivion. 
But for this woman and a few other unbribed 
witnesses, his friends would probably have en- 
deavoured to edify the world with this addition 
to the brilliant catalogue of happy deaths.* 

It has been a not uncommon opinion that the 
works of an able and truly pious Christian, by 
their happy tendency to awaken the careless 
and to convince the unbelieving, may, even for 
ages after the excellent author is entered into 
his eternal r>est, by the accession of new con- 
verts which they bring to Christianity, con- 
tinue to add increasing brightness to the crown 
of the already glorified saint. If this be true, 
how shall imagination presume to conceive, 
much less how shall language express, what 
must be expected in the contrary case ? How 
shall we dare turn our thoughts to the progres- 
sive torments which may be ever heaping on 
the heads of those unhappy men of genius, who 
have devoted their rare talents to promote vice 

* It is a well attested fact, that this woman, after his 
decease, being sent for to attend another person in dy- 
ing circumstances, anxiously inquired if the patient was 
a gentleman ; for that she had recently been so dread- 
fully terrified in witnessing the dying horrors of Mons. 
de Voltaire, which surpassed all description, that she 
had resolved never to attend any other person of that 
eex unless she could be assured that he was not a philo- 
kuiilier. Voltaire, indeed, as he was deficient in the 
moral nonesty and the other good qualities, which ob- 
tained for Mr. Hume the affection of his friends, wanted 
his sincerity. Of all his other vices, hypocrisy was the 
consummation While he daily dishonoured the Re- 
deemer by the invention of unheard of blasphemies: 
after lie had bound himself by a solemn pledge never to 
rest till he had exterminated his very name from the 
face of the earth, he was not ashamed to assist regu- 
larly at the awful commemoration of his death at the 
altar! 



and infidelity, continue with fatal success to 
make successive proselytes through successive 
ages — if their works last so long, and thus ac- 
cumulate on themselves anguish ever growing 
miseries ever multiplying, without hope of any 
mitigation, without hope of any end ! 

A more recent instance of the temper and 
spirit which the College of Infidelity exhibits 
on these occasions is perhaps less generally 
known. A person of our own time and country, 
of high rank and talents, and who ably filled a 
great public situation, had unhappily in early 
life, imbibed principles and habits analogous to 
these of a notoriously profligate society of which 
he was a member, a society, of which the veiy 
appellation it delighted to distinguish itself 
by, is 

Offence and torture to the sober ear. 

In the near view of death, at an advanced age, 
deep remorse and terror took possession of his 
soul; but he had no friend about him to whom 
he could communicate the state of his mind, or 
from whom he could derive either counsel or 
consolation. One day in the absence of his at- 
tendants he raised his exhausted body on his 
dying bed, and threw himself on the floor, where 
he was found in great agony of spirit, with a 
prayer-book in his hand. This detection was 
at once a subject for ridicule and regret to 
his colleagues, and he was contemptuously 
spoken of as a pusillanimous deserter from the 
good cause. The phrase used by them to ex- 
press their displeasure at his apostacy is too 
offensive to find a place here.* Were we called 
upon to decide between the two rival horrors, 
we should feel no hesitation in pronouncing this 
death a less unhappy one than those to which 
we have before alluded. 

Another well known sceptic, while in perfect 
health, took measures by a special order, to 
guard against any intrusion in his last sick- 
ness, by which he might, even in the event 
of delirium, betray any doubtful apprehension 
that there might be any hereafter ; or in any 
other way be surprised in uttering expressions 
of terror, and thus exposing the state of his 
mind, in case any such revolution should take 
place, which his heart whispered him might 
possibly happen. 

But not only in those happy deaths which 
close a life of avowed impiety, is there great 
room for suspicion, but even in cases where 
without acknowledged infidelity, there has been 
a careless life; when in such cases we hear of 
a sudden death-bed revolution, of much seeming 
contrition, succeeded by extraordinary profes- 
sions of joy and triumph, we should be very 
cautious of pronouncing on their real state. 
Let us rather leave the penitent of a day to that 
mercy against which he has been sinning 
through a whole life. These ' Clinical Converts,' 
(to borrow a favourite phrase of the eloquent 
bishop Taylor,) may indeed be true penitents ; 
but how shall we pronounce them to be so ? — 
How can we conclude that ' they are dead un!e 
sin' unless they are spared to ' live unto righte. 
ousness ?' 

* The writer had this anecdote from an acquaintance 
of the noble person at the time of his death. 



488 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Happily we are not called upon to decide. 
He to whose broad eye the future and the past 
lie open, as he has been their constant witness, 
so will he be their unerring judge.* 

But the admirers of certain happy deaths, do 
not even pretend that any such change appeared 
in the friends of whom they make not so much 
the panegyric as the apotheosis. They would 
even think repentance a derogation from the 
dignity of their character. They pronounce 
them to have been good enough as they were ; 
insisting that they have a demand for happiness 
upon God, if there be any such Being ; a claim 
upon heaven, if there be any such place. They 
are satisfied that their friend, after a life spent 
' without God in the world,' without evidencing 
any marks of a changed heart, without even 
affecting any thing like repentance, without in- 
timating that there was any call for it, died 

PRONOUNCING HIMSELF HAPPY. 

But nothing is more suspicious than a happy 
death, where there has neither been religion in 
the life nor humility in its close, where its course 
has been without piety, and its termination with- 
out repentance. 

Others in a still bolder strain, disdaining the 
posthumous renown to be conferred by survi- 
vers, of their having died happily, prudently 
secure their own fame, and changing both the 
tense and the person usual in monumental in- 
scriptions, with prophetic confidence record on 
their own sepulchral marble, that they shall die 
not only ' happv,' but ' grateful,' — the pre- 
science of philosophy thus assuming as certain 
what the humble spirit of Christianity only pre- 
sumes to hope. 

There is another reason to be assigned for 
the charitable error of indiscriminately consign- 
ing our departed acquaintance to certain hap- 
piness. Affliction, as it is a tender, so it is a 
misleading feeling ; especially in minds na- 
turally soft, and but slightly tinctured with re- 
ligion. The death of a friend awakens the 
kindest feelings of the heart. But by exciting 
true sorrow, it often excites false charity. Grief 
naturally softens every fault, love as naturally 
heightens every virtue. It is right and kind 
to consign error to oblivion, but not to immor- 
tality. Charity indeed we owe to the dead as 
well as to the living, but not that erroneous 
charity by which truth is violated, and unde- 
served commendation lavished on those whom 
truth could no longer injure. To calumniate 
the dead is even worse than to violate the rights 
of sepulture ; not to vindicate calumniated worth, 
when it can no longer vindicate itself, is a 
crime next to that of attacking it;f but on the 

* The primitive church carried their incredulity of 
the appearances of repentance so far as to require not 
only years of sorrow for sin, but perseverance in piety, 
oefore they would admit offenders to their communion ; 
and as a test of their sincerity, required the uniform 
practice of those virtues most opposite to their former 
vices. Were this made the criterion now, we should 
not so often hear such flaming accounts of converts, so 
exultingly reported, before time has been allowed to try 
their stability. More especially we should not hear of 
so many triumphant relations of death-bed converts, in 
whom the symptoms must frequently be too equivocal 
to admit the positive decision of human wisdom. 

t What a generous instance of that disinterested at- 
tachment which survives the grave of its object and pi- 



dead, charity, though well understood, is often 
mistakingly exercised. 

If we were called upon to collect the greatest 
quantity of hyperbole — falsehood might be too 
harsh a term — in the least given time and space, 
we should do well to searcli for it in those sacred 
edifices expressly consecrated to truth. There 
we should see the ample mass of canonizing 
kindness which fills their mural decorations, 
expressed in all those flattering records inscrib- 
ed by every variety of motive to every variety 
of claim. In addition to what is dedicated to 
real merit by real sorrow, we should hear of 
tears which were never shed, grief which was 
never felt, praise which was never earned ; we 
should see what is raised by the decent demands 
of connexion, by tender, but undiscerning friend- 
ship, by poetic licence, by eloquent gratitude for 
testamentary favours. 

It is an amiable though not a correct feeling 
in human nature, that, fancying we have not 
done justice to certain characters during their 
lives, we run into the error of supposed com- 
pensation by over estimating them after their 
decease. 

On account of neighbourhood, affinity, long 
acquaintance, or some pleasing qualities, we 
may have entertained a kindness for many per- 
sons, of whose state however, while they lived, 
we could not with the utmost stretch of charity 
think favourably. If their sickness has been 
long and severe, our compassion having been 
kept by that circumstance in a state of continued 
excitement, though we lament their death, yet 
we feel thankful that their suffering is at an end. 
Forgetting our former opinion, and the course 
of life on which it was framed, we fall into all 
the common-place of consolation, — ' God is mer- 
ciful — we trust that they are at rest— what a 
happy release they have had !' — Nay, it is well 
if we do not go so far as to entertains kind of 
vague belief that their better qualities joined to 
their sufferings have, on the whole, ensured 
their felicity. 

Thus at once losing sight of that word of God 
which cannot lie, of our former regrets on their 
subject, losing the remembrance of their defec- 
tive principles and thoughtless conduct ; without 
any reasonable ground for altering our opinion, 
any pretence for entertaining a better hope — we 
assume that they are happy. We reason as if 
we believed that the suffering of the body had 
purchased the salvation of the soul, as if it had 
rendered any doubt almost criminal. We seem 

ously rescues his reputation from the assaults of ma- 
lignity, was given by the late excellent bishop Por 
tens, in his animated defence of archbishop Seeker! May 
his own fair fame never stand in need of any such warm 
vindication, which, however, it could not fail to find in 
the bosom of every good man ! — The fine talents of this 
lamented prelate, uniformly devoted to the purposes for 
which God gave them — his life directed to those duties 
to which his high professional station called him — his 
Christian graces — those engaging manners which shed 
a soft lustre on the firm fidelity of his friendships — that 
kindness which was ever flowing from his heart to his 
lips— the benignity and candour which distinguished 
nut his conversation only, but. his conduct — these and 
all those amiable qualities, that gentle temper and cor- 
rect cheerfulness with which he adorned society, will 
everendear his memory to all who knew him intimate- 
ly ; and let his friends remember, that to imitate his vir- 
tues, will be the best proof of their remembering them 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



489 



to make ourselves easy on the falsest ground 
imaginable, not because we believe their hearts 
were changed, but because they are now beyond 
all possibility of change. 

But surely the mere circumstance of death 
will not have rendered them fit for that heaven 
for which we before feared they were unfit. Far 
be it from us, indeed, blind and sinful as we are, 
to pass sentence upon them, to pass sentence 
upon any. We dare not venture to pronounce 
what may have passed between God and their 
souls, even at the last hour. We know that in- 
finite mercy is not restricted to times or seasons; 
to an early or a late repentance : we know not 
but in that little interval their peace was made, 
their pardon granted, through the atoning blood, 
and powerful intercession of their Redeemer. 
Nor should we too scrupulously pry into the 
state of others, never, indeed, except to benefit 
them or ourselves ; we should rather imitate the 
example of Christ, who at once gave an admira- 
ble lesson of meekness and charitable judgment, 
when avoiding an answer which might have 
led to fruitless discussion, he gave a reproof un- 
der the shape of an exhortation. In reply to the 
inquiry, ' Are there few that be saved,' he thus 
checked vain curiosity — ' Strive (you) to enter 
in at the strait gate.' On another occasion, in 
the same spirit, he corrected inqusitiveness, not 
by an answer, but by an interrogation and a 
precept — ' What is that to thee ? Follow thou 
me.' 

But where there is string ground to appre- 
hend that the contrary m<iy have been the case, 
it is very dangerous to pronounce peremptorily 
on the safety of the dead. Because if we allow 
ourselves to be fully persuaded that they are en- 
tered upon a state of happiness, it will natu- 
rally and fatally tempt us to lower our own 
standard. If we are ready to conclude that they 
are now in a state of glory whose principles we 
believed to be incorrect, whose practice, to say 
the least of it, we know to have been negligent, 
who, without our indulging a censorious or a 
presumptuous spirit, we thought lived in a state 
of mind, and a course of habits, not only far 
from right, but even avowedly inferior to our 
own ; will not this lead to the conclusion, either 
that we ourselves, standing on so much higher 
ground, are in a very advanced state of grace, 
or that a much lower than ours may be a state 
of safety ? And will not such a belief tend to 
slacken our endeavours, and to lower our lone, 
both of faith and practice ? 

By this conclusion we contradict the affect- 
ing assertion of a very sublime poet, 

For us they sicken and for us they die. 

For while we are thus taking and giving false 
comfort, our friend as to us will have died in 
vain. Instead of his death having operated as 
a warning voice, to rouse us to a more animated 
piety, it will be rather likely to lull us into a 
dangerous security. If our affection has so 
blinded our judgment, we shall by a false can- 
dour to another, sink into a false peace ourselves. 

It will be a wounding circumstance to the 
feelings of surviving friendship, to see a person 
of loose habits, whom though we love, yet we 

Vol. L 



feared to admonish, and that because we loved 
him ; for whom, though we saw his danger, yet 
perhaps we neglected to pray ; to see him 
brought to that ultimate and fixed state in which 
admonition is impossible, in which prayer is not 
only fruitless, but unlawful. 

Another distressing circumstance frequently 
occurs. We meet with affectionate but irreli- 
gious parents, who though kind and perhaps 
amiable, have neither lived themselves, nor edu- 
cated their families in Christian principles, nor 
in habits of Christian piety. A child at the 
age of maturity dies. Deep is the affliction of 
the doting parent. The world is a blank. He 
looks round for comfort where he has been ac- 
customed to look for it among his friends. He 
finds it not. He looks up for it where he has 
not been accustomed to seek it. Neither his 
heart nor his treasure has been laid up in hea- 
ven. Yet a paroxysm, of what may be termed 
natural devotion, gives to his grief an air of 
piety. The first cry of anguish is commonly 
religious. 

The lamented object perhaps, through utter 
ignorance of the awful gulf which was opening 
to receive him, added to a tranquil temper, 
might have expired without evincing any great 
distress, and his happy death is industriously 
proclaimed through the neighbourhood, and the 
mourning parents have only to wish that their 
latter end may be like his. They cheat at once 
their sorrow and their souls, with the soothing 
notion that they shall soon meet their beloved 
child in Heaven. Of this they persuade them- 
selves as firmly and as fondly, as if both they 
and the object of their grief had been living in 
the way which leads thither. Oh, for that un- 
bought treasure, a sincere, a real friend, who 
might lay hold on the propitious moment ! When 
the heart is softened by sorrow, it might possi- 
bly, if ever, be led to its true remedy. This 
would indeed be a more unequivocal, because 
more painful act of friendship than pouring in 
the lulling opiate of false consolation, which we 
are too ready to administer, because it saves our 
own feelings, while it sooths, without healing, 
those of the mourner. 

But perhaps the integrity of the friend con- 
quers his timidity. Alas ! he is honestly explicit 
to unattending or to offended ears. They refuse 
to hear the voice of the charmer. But if the 
mourners will not endure the voice of exhorta- 
tion now, while there is hope, how will they en- 
dure the sound of the last trumpet when hope is 
at an end ? If they will not bear the gentle 
whisper of friendship, how will they bear the 
voice of the accusing angel, the terrible sentence 
of the incensed Judge ? If private reproof be 
intolerable, how will they stand the being made 
a spectacle to angels and to men, even to the 
whole assembled universe, to the whole creation 
of God ? 

But instead of converting the friendly warn, 
ing to their eternal benefit, they are probably 
wholly bent on their own vindication. Still their 
character is dearer to them than their soul. 
' We never,' say they, ■ were any man's enemy.' 
Yes — you have been the enemy of all to whom 
you have given a bad example. You have espe- 
cially been the enemy to your children in whom 



490 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



you have implanted no christian principles. 
Still they insist with the prophet that ' there is 
no iniquity in them that can be called iniquity.' 
* We have wronged no one,' say they, ' we have 
given to every one his due. We have done our 
duty.' Your first duty was to God. You have 
robbed your Maker of the service due to Him. 
You have robbed your Redeemer of the souls 
he died to save. You have robbed your own 
soul and too probably the souls of those whom 
you have so wretchedly educated, of eternal hap- 
piness. 

Thus the flashes of religion which darted in 
upon their conscience in the first burst of sor- 
row, too frequently die away; they expire be- 
fore the grief which kindled them. They resort 
again to their old resource, the world, which if 
it cannot soon heal their sorrow, at least soon 
diverts it. 

To shut our eyes upon death as an object of 
terror or of hope, and to consider it only as a 
release or an extinction, is viewing it under a 
character which is not its own. But to get rid 
of the idea at any rate, and then boast that we 
do not fear the thing we do not think of is not 
difficult. Nor is it difficult to think of it with- 
out alarm if we do not include its consequences. 
But to him who frequently repeats, not me- 
chanically, but devoutly, ' we know that thou 
ehalt come to be our Judge,' death cannot be a 
matter of indifference. 

Another cause of these happy deaths is that 
many think salvation a slight thing, that heaven 
is cheaply obtained, that a merciful God is easily 
pleased, that we are Christians, and that mercy 
comes of course to those who have always pro- 
fessed to believe that Christ died to purchase it 
for them. This notion of God being more mer- 
ciful than he has any where declared himself to 
be, instead of inspiring them with more grati- 
tude to him, inspires more confidence in them- 
selves. This corrupt faith generates a corrupt 
morality. It leads to this strange consequence, 
not to make them love God better, but to ven- 
ture on offending him more. 

People talk as if the act of death made a com- 
plete change in the nature, as well as in the 
condition of man. Death is the vehicle to ano- 
ther state of being, but possesses no power to 
qualify us for that state. In conveying us to a 
new world it does not give us a new heart. It 
puts the unalterable stamp of decision on the 
character, but does not transform it into a cha- 
racter diametrically opposite. 

Our affections themselves will be rather raised 
than altered. Their tendencies will be the same, 
though their advancement will be incomparably 
higher. They will be exalted in their degree, 
but not changed in their nature. They will be 
purified from all earthly mixtures, cleansed from 
all human pollutions, the principle will be clear- 
ed from its imperfections, but it will not become 
another principle. He that is unholy will not 
be made holy by death. The heart will not have 
a. new object to seek, but will be directed more 
Jitensely to the same object. 

They who love God here will love him far 
aiore in heaven, because they will know him 
far better. There he will reign without a com- 
petitor. They who served him here in sincerity 



will there serve him in perfection. If ' the pure 
in heart shall see God,' let us remember that 
this purity is not to be contracted after we have 
been admitted to its remuneration. The beati- 
tude is pledged as a reward for the purity, not 
as a qualification for it. Purity will be subli- 
mated in heaven, but will not begin to be pro- 
duced there. It is to be acquired by passing 
through the refiner's fire here, not through the 
penal and expiatory fire which human ingenuity 
devised to purge offending man 

From the foul deeds done in his days of nature. 

The extricated spirit will be separated from the 
feculence of all that belongs to sin, to sense, to 
self. We shall indeed find ourselves new, be- 
cause spiritualized beings ; but if the cast of the 
mind were not in a great measure the same, 
how should we retain our identity ? The soul 
will there become that which it here desired to 
be, that which it mourned because it was so far 
from being. It will have obtained that complete 
victory over its corruptions which it here only 
desired, which it here only struggled to obtain. 

Here our love of spiritual things is superin- 
duced, there it will be our natural frame. The 
impression of God on our hearts will be stamped 
deeper, but it will not be a different impression. 
Our obedience will be more voluntary, because 
there will be no rival propensities to obstruct it. 
It will be more entire, because it will have to 
struggle with no counteracting force. — Here we 
sincerely though imperfectly love the law of 
God, even though it controuls our perverse will, 
though it contradicts our corruptions. There 
our love will be complete, because our will will 
retain no perverseness, and our corruptions will 
be done away. 

Repentance, precious at all seasons, in the 
season of health is noble. It is a generous prin- 
ciple when it overtakes us surrounded with the 
prosperities of life, when it is not put off till dis- 
tress drives us to it. Seriousness of spirit is 
most acceptable to God when danger is out of 
sight, preparations for death when death appears 
to be at a distance. 

Virtue and piety are founded on the nature 
of things, on the laws of God, not on any vicis- 
situdes in human circumstances. Irreligion, 
folly, and vice, are just as unreasonable in the 
meridian of life as at the approach of death. 
They strike us differently but they always re- 
tain their own character. Every argument 
against an irreligious death is equally cogent 
against an irreligious life. Piety and penitence 
may be quickened by the near view of death, 
but the reasons for practising them are not 
founded on its nearness. Death may stimulate 
our fears for the consequences of vice, but fur- 
nishes no motive for avoiding it, which Chris- 
tianity had not taught before. The necessity 
of religion is as urgent now as it will be .vhen 
we are dying. It may not appear so, but the 
reality of a thing does not depend on appear- 
ances. Besides, if the necessity of being reli- 
gious depended on the approach of death, what 
moment of our lives is there, in which we have 
any security against it? In every point of view, 
therefore, the same necessity for being religiou* 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



491 



subsists whgn we are in full health as when we 
are about to die. 

We may then fairly arrive at this conclusion, 
that there is no happy death but that which con- 
ducts to a happy immortality : — No joy in put- 
ting off the body, if we have not put on the Lqrd 
Jesus Christ ; — No consolation in escaping from 
the miseries of time, till we have obtained a well 
grounded hope of a blessed eternity. 



And duller would he be than the fat weed 
That rots itself at ease on Lethe's wharf, 

were he left to batten undisturbed, in peaceful 
security, on the unwholesome pastures of rank 
prosperity. The thick exhalations drawn up 
from this gross soil render the atmosphere so 
heavy as to obstruct the ascent of piety, her 
flagging pinions are kept down by the influence 
of this moist vapour ; she is prevented from 
soaring, 



-to live insphered 



CHAP. XX. 

On the Sufferings of Good Men. 

Affliction is the school in which great vir- 
tues are acquired, in which great characters are 
formed. It is a kind of moral Gymnasium, in 
which the disciples of Christ are trained to 
robust exercise, hardy exertion, and severe 
conflict. 

We do not hear of martial heroes in ' the calm 
and piping time of peace,' nor of the most emi- 
nent saints in the quiet and unmolested periods 
of ecclesiastical history. We are far from deny- 
ing that the principle of courage in the warrior, 
or of piety in the saint continues to subsist, ready 
to be brought into action when perils beset the 
country or trials assail the church ; but it must 
be allowed that in long periods of inaction, both 
are liable to decay. 

The Christian, in our comparatively tranquil 
day, is happily exempt from the trials and the 
terrors which the annals of persecution record. 
Thanks to the establishment of a pure Chris- 
tianity in the church, thanks to the infusion of 
the same pure principle into our laws, and to the 
mild and tolerating spirit of botli — a man is so 
far from being liable to pains and penalties for 
his attachment to his religion, that he is pro- 
tected in its exercise ; and were certain existing 
statutes enforced, he would even incur penalties 
for his violation of religious duties, rather than 
for his observance of them.* 

Yet still the Christian is not exempt from his 
individual, his appropriate, his undefined trials. 
We refer not merely to those ' cruel mockings,' 
which the acute sensibility of the apostle led him 
to rank in the same catalogue with bonds, im- 
prisonments, exile and martyrdom itself. We 
allude not altogether to those misrepresentations 
and calumnies to which the zealous Christian is 
peculiarly liable ; nor exclusively to those diffi- 
culties to which his very adherence to the prin- 
ciples he professes, must necessarily subject 
him ; nor entirely to those occasional sacrifices 
of credit, of advancement, of popular applause, 
to which his refusing to sail with the tide of 
popular opinion may compel him ; nor solely to 
the disadvantages which under certain circum- 
stances his not preferring expediency to princi- 
ple may expose him. But the truly good man 
is not only often called to struggle with trials of 
large dimensions, with exigencies of obvious 
difficulty, but to encounter others which are 
better understood than defined. 

* We allude to the laws against swearing, attending 
public worship, &c. 



In regions mild of calm and serene air, 
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot 
Which men call earth. 

The pampered Christian thus continually gra- 
vitating to the earth, would have his heart solely 
bent to 

Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being, 
Unmindful of the crown religion gives, 
After this mortal change, to her true servants. 

It is an unspeakable blessing that no events 
are left to the choice of beings, who from their 
blindness would seldom fail to choose amiss. 
Were circumstances at our own disposal we 
should allot ourselves nothing but ease and suc- 
cess, but riches and fame, but protracted youth, 
perpetual health, unvaried happiness. 

All this as it would not be very unnatural, so 
perhaps it would not be very wrong, for beings 
who were always to live on earth. But for be- 
ings who are placed here in a state of trial and 
not established in their final home, whose con- 
dition in eternity depends on the use they make 
of time, nothing would be more dangerous than 
such a power, nothing more fatal than the con- 
sequences to which such a power would lead. 

If a surgeon were to put in the hand of a 
wounded patient the probe or the lancet, with 
how much false tenderness would he treat him- 
self! How skin-deep would be the examina- 
tion, how slight the incision ! The patient 
would escape the pain, but the wound might 
prove mortal. The practitioner therefore wisely 
uses his instruments himself. He goes deep 
perhaps, but not deeper than the case demands. 
The pain may be acute but the life is preserved. 
Thus He in whose hands we are, is too good, 
and loves us too well to trust us with ourselves. 
He knows that we will not contradict our own 
inclinations, that we will not impose on ourselves 
any thing unpleasant, that we will not inflict on 
ourselves any voluntary pain, however necessary 
the infliction, however salutary the effect. God 
graciously does this for us himself, or he knows 
it would never be done. 

A Christian is liable to the same sorrows and 
sufferings with other men : he has no where 
any promise of immunity from the troubles of 
life, but he has a merciful promise of support 
under them. He considers them in another 
view, he bears them with another spirit, he im 
proves them to other purposes than those whose 
views are bounded by this world. Whatever 
may be the instruments of his sufferings, whether 
sickness, losses, calumnies, persecutions, he 
knows that it proceeds from God ; all means are 
his instruments. All inferior causes operate bv 
his directing hand. 



492 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



We said that a Christian is liable to the same the ' tribulation' which should be the effect of 
Bufferings with other men. Might we not re- that conquest, a ground for animating the fidelity 
peat what we have before said, that his very | of his followers — ever thought of bidding them 



Christian profession is often the cause of his 
sufferings ? They are the badge of his disciple- 
ship, the evidences of his Father's love ; they 
are at once the marks of God's favour, and the 
materials of his own future happiness. 

What were the arguments of worldly advan- 
tage held out through the whole New Testa- 
ment, to induce the world to embrace the religion 
it taught ? What was the condition of St. Paul's 
introduction to Christianity ? It was not — I will 
crown him with honour and prosperity, with 
dignity and pleasure, but — I will show him how 
great things he must suffer for my name's sake.' 
What were the virtues which Christ chiefly 
taught in his discourses ? What were the graces 
he most recommended by his example ? Self- 
denial, mortification, patience, long-suffering, 
renouncing ease and pleasure. These are the 
marks which have ever since its first appearance, 
distinguished Christianity from all the religions 
in the world, and on that account evidently prove 
its divine original. Ease, splendour, external 
prosperity, conquest, made no part of its esta- 
blishment. Other empires have been founded 
in the blood of the vanquished. — the dcminion 
of Christ was founded in his own blood. Most 
of the beatitudes which infinite compassion pro- 
nounced, have the sorrows of earth for their 
subject, but the joys of heaven for their com- 
pletion. 

To establish this religion in the world, the 
Almighty, as his own word assures u% subverted 
kingdoms and altered the face of nations. ' For 
thus saith the Lord of Hosts,' (by his prophet 
Haggai) ' yet once, it is a little while, and I will 
shake the heavens and the earth, and the sea 
and the dry land ; and I will shake all nations, 
and the desire of all nations shall come.' Could 
a religion, the kingdom of which was to be 
founded by such awful means, be established, be 
perpetuated, without involving the sufferings of 
its subjects. 

If the Christian course had been meant for a 
path of roses, would the life of the author of 
Christianity have been a path strewed with 
thorns ? ' He made for us,' says bishop Jeremy 
Taylor, ' a covenant of sufferings, his very pro- 
mises were suffering,s ; his rewards were suffer- 
ings, and his arguments to invite men to follow 
him were only taken from sufferings in this life, 
and the reward of sufferings hereafter. 

But if no prince but the Prince of Peace ever 
set out with the proclamation of the reversionary 
nature of his empire — if no other king, to allay 
avarice and check ambition, ever invited sub- 

1'ects by the unalluring declaration that ' his 
Lingdom was not of this world' — if none other 
ever declared that it was not dignity or honours, 
valour or talents that made them ' worthy of 
him,' but ' taking up the cross' — if no other ever 
mado the sorrows which would attend his fol- 
lowers a motive for their attachment — yet no 
other ever had the goodness to promise, or the 
power to make his promise good, that he would 
give ' rest to the heavy laden.' Other sovereigns 
have l overcome the world' for their own ambi- 
tion, but none besides ever thought of making 



' be of good cheer,' because he had overcome the 
world in a sense which was to make his subjects 
lose all hope of rising in it. 

The apostle to the Philippians enumerated it 
among the honours and distinctions prepared 
for his most favoured converts, not only that 
' they should believe in Christ,' but that they 
should also ' suffer for him.' Any other religion 
would have made use of such a promise as an 
argument to deter, not to attract. That a reli- 
gion should flourish the more under such dis- 
couraging invitations, with the threat of even 
degrading circumstances and absolute losses, is 
an unanswerable evidence that it was of no hu- 
man origin. 

It is among the mercies of God, that he 
strengthens the virtues of his servants by hard- 
ening them under the cold and bracing climate 
of adverse fortune, instead of leaving them to 
languish under the shining but withering sun 
of unclouded prosperity. When they cannot be 
attracted to him by gentler influences, he sends 
these salutary storms and tempests, which purify 
while they alarm. Our gracious Father knows 
that eternity is long enough for his children to 
be happy in. 

The character of Christianity may be seen by 
the very images of military conflict, under which 
the Scriptures so frequently exhibit it. Suffering 
is the initiation into a Christian's calling. It is 
his education for heaven. Shall the scholar re- 
bel at the discipline which is to fit him for his 
profession ; or the soldier at the exercise which 
is to qualify him for victory ? 

But the Christian's trials do not all spring 
from without. He would think them compara- 
tively easy, had he only the opposition of men 
to struggle against, or even the severer dispen- 
sations of God to sustain. If he has a conflict 
with the world, he has a harder conflict with sin. 
His bosom foe is his most unyielding enemy ; 

His warfare is within, there unfatigued 
His fervent spirit labours. 

This it is which makes his other trials heavy, 
which makes his power of sustaining them weak, 
which renders his conquest over them slow and 
inconclusive ; which too often solicits him to 
oppose interest to duty, indolence to resistance, 
and self-indulgence to victory. 

This world is the stage on which worldly men 
more exclusively act, and the things of the world, 
and the applause of the world, are the rewards 
which they propose to themselves. These they 
often attain — with these they are satisfied. They 
aim at no higher end, and of their aim they are 
not disappointed. But Jet not the Christian re- 
pine at the success of those whose motives he 
rejects, whose practices he dares not adopt, 
whose ends he deprecates. If he feel any dis- 
position to murmur when he sees the irreligious 
in great prosperity, let him ask himself if he 
would tread their path to attain their end — if he 
would do their work to obtain their wages ? He 
knows he would not. Let him then cheerfully 
leave them to scramble for the prizes, and jostle 
for the places, which the world temptingly holds 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



493 



out, but which ho will not purchase at the 
world's price. 

Consult the page of history, and observe, not 
only if the best men have been the most suc- 
cessful, but even if they have not often eminent- 
ly failed in great enterprises, undertaken per- 
haps on the purest principles ; while unworthy 
instruments have been often employed, not only 
to produce dangerous revolutions, but to bring 
about events ultimately tending to the public 
bene£t ; enterprizes in which good men feared 
to engage, which perhaps they were not com- 
petent to effect, or in effecting which they might 
have wounded their conscience and endangered 
their souls. 

Good causes are not always conducted by 
good men. A good cause may be connnected 
with something that is not good, with party for 
instance. Party often does that for virtue, 
which virtue is not able to do for herself; and 
thus the right cause is promoted and effected by 
some subordinate, even by some wrong motive. 
A worldly man, connecting himself with a re- 
ligious cause, gives it that importance in the 
eyes of the world, which neither its own recti- 
tude, nor that of its religious supporters had 
been able to give it. Nay the very piety of its 
advocates — for worldly men always connect 
piety with imprudence — had brought the wis- 
dom, or at least the expediency of the cause into 
suspicion, and it is at last carried by a means 
foreign to itself. The character of the cause 
must be lowered, we had almost said, it must in 
a certain degree be deteriorated, to suit the 
general taste, even to obtain the approbation of 
that multitude for whose benefit it is intended. 
How long, as we have had occasion to ob- 
serve in another connexion) had the world 
groaned under the most tremendous engine 
which superstition and despotism, in dreadful 
confederation, ever contrived to force the con- 
sciences, and torture the bodies of men ; where 
racks were used for persuasion, and flames for 
arguments ! The best of men for ages have 
been mourning under this dread tribunal, with- 
out being competent to effect its overthrow ; the 
worst of men have been able to accomplish it 
with a word. — It is a humiliating lesson for good 
men, when they thus see how entirely instru- 
mentality may be separated from personal virtue. 
We still fall into the error of which the pro- 
phet so long ago complained, ' we call the proud 
happy, 1 and the wicked fortunate, and our hearts 
are too apt to rise at their successes. We pre- 
tend indeed that they rise with indignation; but 
is it not to be feared that with this indignation 
is mixed a little envy, a little rebellion against 
God ? We murmur, though we know that when 
the instrument has finished his work, the divine 
employer throws him by, cuts him off, lets him 
perish. 

But you envy him in the midst of that work, 
to accomplish which he has sacrificed every 
principle of justice, truth, and mercy. Is this 
a man to be envied ? Is this a prosperity to be 
grudged '! Would you incur the penalties of that 
happiness at which you are not ashamed to 
murmur ? 

But is it happiness to commit sin, to be ab- 
horred by good men, to offend God, to ruin his 



own soul ? Do you really consider a temporary 
success a recompence for deeds which will en- 
sure eternal woe to the perpetrator ? Is the suc- 
cessful bad man happy ? Of what materials 
then is happiness made up? Is it composed of a 
disturbed mind and an unquiet conscience? 
Are doubt and difficulty, are terror and appre- 
hension, are distrust and suspicion, felicities for 
which a Christian would renounce his peace, 
would displease his Maker, would risk his soul? 
— Think of the hidden vulture that feeds on the 
vitals of successful wickedness, and your repin- 
ings, your envy, if you are so unhappy as to feel 
envy, will cease. Yoar indignation will be con- 
verted into compassion, your execrations into 
prayer. 

But if he feel neither the scourge of conscience 
nor the sting of remorse, pity him the more. 
Pity him for the very want of that addition to 
his unhappiness : for if he added to his miseries 
that of anticipating his punishment, he might 
be led by repentance to avoid it. Can you 
reckon the blinding the eyes and the hardening 
his heart, any part of his happiness ? This 
opinion, however, you practically adopt, when- 
ever you grudge the propensity of the wicked. 
God, by delaying the punishment of bad men, 
for which we are so impatient, may have de- 
signs of mercy of which we know nothing; — 
mercy perhaps to them, or if not to them, yet 
mercy to those who are suffering by them, and 
whom he intends by these bad instruments to 
punish, and by punishing, eventually to save. 

There is another sentiment which prosperous 
wickedness excites in certain minds ; that is 
almost more preposterous than envy itself, — 
and that is respect ; but this feeling is never 
raised unless both the wickedness and the pros- 
perity be on a grand scale. 

This sentiment also is founded in secret im- 
piety, in the belief either that God does not 
govern human affairs, or that the motives of 
action are not regarded by him, or that pros- 
perity is a certain proof of his favour, or that 
where there is success there must be worth. 
These flatterers however forsake the prosperous 
with their good fortune; their applause is with- 
held with the success which attracted it. As 
they were governed by events in their admira- 
tion, so events lead them to withdraw it. 

But in this admiration there is a bad taste as 
well as a bad principle. If ever wickedness 
pretends to excite any idea of sublimity, it must 
be, not in its elevation but its fall. If ever 
Caius Marius raises any such sentiment, it is 
not when he carried the world before him, it is 
not in his seditious and bloody triumphs at 
Rome, but it is when in poverty and exile his 
intrepid look caused the dagger to drop from 
the hand of the executioner ; — it is when sitting 
among the venerable ruins of Carthage he en- 
joined a desolation so congenial to his own — 
Dionysius, in the plenitude of arbitrary power, 
raises our unmixed abhorrence. We detest 
the oppressor of the people while he continued 
to trample on them, we execrate the monster 
who was not ashamed to sell Plato as a slave. 
If ever we feel any thing like interest on this 
subject, it is not with the tyrant of Syracuse 
. but with the school-master of Corinth. 



494 



THE WORKS OK HANNAH MORE. 



But though God may be patient with triumph- 
ant wickedness, he does not wink or connive at 
it. Between being permitted and supported, 
between being employed and approved, the dis- 
tance is wider than we are ready to acknow- 
ledge. Perhaps ' the iniquity of the Amorites is 
not yet full.' God has always the means of 
punishment as well as of pardon in his own 
hands. But to punish just at the moment when 
toe would hurl the bolt, might break in on a 
scheme of Previdence of wide extent and in- 
definite consequences. ' They have drunk their 
hemlock,' says a fine writer, 'but the poison does 
not yet work.' Perhaps the convulsion may be 
the more terrible for the delay. Let us not be im- 
patient to accomplish a sentence which infinite 
justice sees right to defer; it is always time 
enough to enter into hell. Let us think more 
of restraining our own vindictive tempers, than 
of precipitating their destruction. They may 
yet repent of their crimes they are perpetrating. 
God may still by some scheme, intricate, and 
unintelligible to us, pardon the sin which we 
think exceeds the limits even of his mercy. 

But we contrive to make revenge itself look 
like religion. We call down thunder on many 
a head under pretence, that those on whom we 
invoke it are God's enemies, when perhaps we 
invoke it because they are ours. 

But though they should go on with a full 
tide of prosperity to the end, will it not cure 
our impatience that that end must come ? — 
Will it not satisfy us that they must die, 
that they must come to judgment? Which 
is to be envied, the Christian who dies and his 
brief sorrows have a period, or he who closes a 
prosperous life and enters on a miserable eter- 
nity ? The one has nothing to fear if the pro- 
mises of the Gospel be true, the other nothing to 
hope if they be not false. The work of God 
must be a lie, heaven a fable, hell an invention, 
before the impenitent sinner can be safe. Is 
that man to be envied whose security depends on 
their falsehood ? Is the other to be pitied whose 
hope is founded on their reality ? Can that state 
be happiness, which results from believing that 
there is no God, no future reckoning ? Can that 
state be misery which consists in knowing that 
there is both ? 

In estimating the comparative happiness of 
good and bad men, we should ever bear in mind 
that of all the calamities which can be inflicted 
or suffered, sin is the greatest, and of all punish- 
ments insensibility to sin is the heaviest which 
the wrath of God inflicts in this world for the 
commission of it. God so far then from approv- 
ing a wicked man, because he suffers him to go 
on triumphantly, seems rather by allowing him 
to continue his smooth and prosperous course, 
to have some awful destiny in store for him, 
which will not perhaps be revealed till his re- 
pentance is too late; then his knowledge of God's 
displeasure, and the dreadful consequences of 
that displeasure, may be revealed together, may 
be revealed when there is no room for mercy. 

But without looking to futurity — consulting 
only the present condition of suffering virtue, — 
if we put the inward consolation derived from 
communion with God, the humble confidence 
of prayer, the devout trust in the divine protec- 



tion, supports commonly reserved for the afflict- 
ed Christian, and eminently bestowed in his 
greatest exigence ; if we place these feelings in 
the opposite scale with all that unjust power 
ever bestowed or guilty wealth possessed ; we 
shall have no hesitation in deciding on which 
side even present happiness lies. 

With a mind thus fixed, with a faith thus 
firm, one great object so absorbs the Christian, 
that his peace is not tossed about with the things 
which discompose ordinary men. ' My for- 
tune,' may he say, ' it is true, is shattered ; but 
as I made not ' fine gold my confidence' while 
I possessed it, in losing it I have not lost myself. 
I leaned not on power, for I knew its instability. 
Had prosperity been my dependence, my sup- 
port being removed, I must fall.' 

In the case of the afflicted Christian you la 
ment perhaps with the wife of the persecuted 
hero, that he suffers being innocent. But would 
it extract the sting from suffering, were guilt 
added to it ! Out of two worlds to have all sor- 
row in this and no hope in the next would be 
indeed intolerable. Would you have him pur- 
chase a reprieve from suffering by sinful com- 
pliances ? Think how ease would be destroyed 
by the price paid for it ! For how short a time 
he would enjoy it, even if it were not bought at 
the expence of his soul ! 

It would be preposterous to say that suffering 
is the recompencc of virtue, and yet it may with 
truth be asserted that the capacity for enjoying- 
ing the reward of virtue is enlarged by suffering, 
and thus it becomes not only the instrument of 
promoting virtue, but the instrument of reward- 
ing it. Besides, God chooses for the confirma- 
tion of our faith, as well as for the consumma- 
tion of his gracious plans, to reserve in his own 
hand this most striking proof of a future retri- 
bution. To suppose that he cannot ultimately 
recompense his virtuous afflicted children, is to 
believe him less powerful than an earthly fa- 
ther ; to suppose that he will not is to believe 
him less merciful. 

Great trials are oftener proofs of favour than 
of displeasure. An inferior officer will suffice 
for inferior expeditions, but the sovereign se- 
lects the ablest general for the most difficult 
service. And not only does the king evidence 
his opinion by the selection, but the soldier 
proves his attachment by rejoicing in the pre- 
ference. His having gained one victory is no 
reason for his being set aside. Conquest, which 
qualifies him for new attacks, suggests a reason 
for his being again employed. 

The sufferings of good men by no means 
contradict the promises that ' Godliness has the 
promise of the life that now is,' nor that pro- 
mise ' that the meek shall inherit the earth.* 
They possess it by the spirit in which they en- 
joy its blessings, by the spirit with which they 
resign them. 

The belief too that trials will facilitate salva- 
tion is another source of consolation. Suffer- 
ings also abate the dread of death by cheapen- 
ing the price of life. The affections even of the 
real Christian are too much drawn downwards. 
His heart too fondly cleaves to the dust, though 
he knows that trouble springs out of it. How 
would it be, if he invariably possessed present 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



495 



enjoyments, and if a long vista of delights lay 
always open before him ? He has a farther 
comfort in his own honest consciousness ; a 
bright conviction that his Christian feeling un- 
der trials, is a cheering evidence that his piety 
is sincere. The gold has been melted down, 
and its purity is ascertained. 

Among his other advantages, the afflicted 
Christian has that of being able to apply to the 
mercy of God : not as a new and untried, and 
therefore an uncertain resource. He does not 
come as an alien before a strange master, but as 
a child into the well known presence of a tender 
father. He did not put off prayer till this press- 
ing exigence. He did not make his God a sort 
of dernier resort, to be had recourse to only in 
the great water-floods. He had long and dili- 
gently sought him in the calm ; he had adhered 
to him, if the phrase may be allowed, before he 
was driven to it. He had sought God's favour 
while he enjoyed the favour of the world. He 
did not wait for the day of evil to seek the su- 
preme Good. He did not defer his meditations 
on heavenly things to the disconsolate hour when 
earth has nothing for him. He can cheerfully 
associate religion with those former days of feli- 
city, when with every thing before him out of 
which to choose, he chose God. He not only 
feels the support derived from his present pray, 
ers, but the benefit of all those which he offered 
up in the day of joy and gladness. He will es- 
pecially derive comfort from the supplications 
he had made for the anticipated though unknown 
trial of the present hour, and which in such 
a world of vicissitudes, it was reasonable to 
expect. 

Let us confess, then, that in all the trying 
circumstances of this changeful scene, there is 
something infinitely soothing to the feelings of 
a Christian, something inexpressibly tranquiliz- 
ing to his mind, to know that he has nothing to 
do with events, but to submit to them ; that he 
has nothing to do with the revolutions of life but 
to acquiesce in them, as the dispensations of 
eternal wisdom ; that he has not to take the ma- 
nagement out of the hands of Providence, but 
submissively to follow the divine leading ; that 
he has not to contrive for to-morrow, but to ac- 
quiesce to-day ; not to condition about events 
yet to come, but to meet those which are pre- 
sent with cheerful resignation. Let him be 
thankful that as he could not by foreseeing, pre- 
vent them, so he was not permitted to foresee 
them, thankful for ignorance where knowledge 
would only prolong without preventing suffer- 
ing; thankful for that grace which has promised 
that our strength shall be proportioned to our 
day, thankful that as he is not responsible for 
trials which he has not brought on himself, so 
by the goodness of God these trials may be im- 
proved to the noblest purposes. The quiet ac- 
quiescence of the heart, the annihilation of the 
will under actual circumstances, be the trial 
great or small, is more acceptable to God, more 
indicative of true piety, than the strongest ge- 
neral resolutions of firm acting and deep sub- 
mission under the most trying unborn events. 
In the remote case it is the imagination which 
submits : in the actual case it is the will. 

We are too reaHy to imagine that there Is no 



other way of serving God but by active exer- 
tions ; exertions which are often made because 
they indulge our natural taste, and gratify our 
own inclinations. — But it is an error to imagine 
that God, by putting us in any supposable situa- 
tion, puts it out of our power to glorify him; 
that he can place us under any circumstances 
which may not be turned to some account, either 
for ourselves or others. Joseph in his prison, 
under the strongest disqualifications, loss of li- 
berty, and a blasted reputation, made way for 
both his own high advancement and for the de- 
liverance of Israel. Daniel in his dungeon, not 
only the destined prey, but in the very jaws of 
furious beasts, converted the king of Babylon, 
and brought him to the knowledge of the true 
God. Could prosperity have effected the for- 
mer ? Would not prosperity have prevented the 
latter ? 

But to descend to more familiar instances ; — 
It is among the ordinary, though most mysteri 
ous dispensations of Providence, that many of 
his appointed servants who are not only emi 
nently fitted, but also most zealously disposed, 
to glorify their Redeemer, by instructing and 
reforming their fellow creatures, are yet dis- 
qualified by disease, and set aside from that pub- 
lic duty of which the necessity is so obvious, 
and of which the fruits were so remarkable ; 
whilst many others possess uninterrupted health 
and strength, for the exercise of those func- 
tions for which they are little gifted and less 
disposed. 

But God's ways are not as our ways. He is 
not accountable to his creatures. The caviller 
would know why it is right. The suffering 
Christian believes and feels it to be right. He 
humbly acknowledges the necessity of the afflic- 
tion which his friends are lamenting; he feels 
the mercy of the measure which others are sus- 
pecting of injustice. With deep humility he is 
persuaded that if the affliction is not yet with 
drawn, it is because it has not yet accomplished 
the purpose for which it was sent. The priva- 
tion is probably intended both for the individual 
interest of the sufferer, and for the reproof of 
those who have neglected to profit by his labours. 
Perhaps God more especially thus draws still 
nearer to himself, him who had drawn so many 
others. 

But to take a more particular view of the case, 
we are too ready to consider suffering as an in- 
dication of God's displeasure, not so much 
against sin in general, as against the individual 
sufferer. Were this the case, then would those 
saints and martyrs who have pined in exile, and 
groaned in dungeons, and expired on scaffolds, 
have been the objects of God's peculiar wrath 
instead of his special favour. But the truth is, 
some little tincture of latent infidelity mixes it- 
self in almost all our reasonings on these topics. 
We do not constantly take into the account a 
future state. We want God, if I may hazard 
the expression, to clear himself as he goes. Wo 
cannot give him such long credit as the period 
of human life. He must every moment be vin- 
dicating his character against every sceptical 
cavil ; he must unravel his plans to e*iery shal« 
low critic, he must anticipate the knowledge of 
his design before its operations are completed. 



496 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



If we may adopt a phrase in use among the vul- 
gar, we will trust him no farther than we can 
see him. Though he has said, 'judge nothing 
before the time, we judge instantly, of course 
rashly, and in general falsely. Were the brevity 
of earthly prosperity and suffering, the certainty 
of retributive justice, and the eternity of future 
blessedness perpetually kept in view, we should 
have more patience with God. 

Even in judging fictitious compositions, we 
are more just. During the perusal of a tragedy, 
or any work of invention, though we feel for the 
distresses of the personages, yet wc do not form 
an ultimate judgment of the propriety or injus- 
tice of their sufferings. We wait for the catas- 
trophe. We give the poet credit either that he 
will extricate them from their distresses, or 
eventually explain the justice of them. We do 
not condemn him at the end of every scene for 
the trials of that scene, which the sufferers do 
not appear to have deserved ; for the sufferings 
which do not always seem to have arisen from 
their own misconduct. We behold the trials of 
the virtuous with sympathy, and the successes 
of the wicked with indignation ; but we do not 
pass our final sentence till the poet has passed 
his. We reserve our decisive judgment till the 
last scene closes, till the curtain drops. Shall 
we not treat the schemes of Infinite Wisdom 
with as much respect as the plot of a drama? 

But to borrow our illustrations from realities. 
— In a court of justice the by-standers do not 
give their sentence in the midst of a trial. We 
wait patiently till all the evidence is collected, 
and circumstantially detailed, and finally sum- 
med up. And — to pursue the illusion — imper- 
fect as human decisions may possibly be, fallible 
as we must allow the most deliberate and honest 
verdict must prove, we commonly applaud the 
justice of the jury, and the equity of the judge. 
The felon they condemn, we rarely acquit; where 
they remit judgment, we rarely denounce it. — 
It is only infinite wisdom on whose purposes 
we cannot rely ; it is only infinite mercy whose 
operations we cannot trust. It is only ' the 
Judge of all the earth' who cannot do right. We 
reverse the order of God by summoning Him 
at our bar, at whose awful bar we shall soon be 
judged. 

But to return to our more immediate point — 
the apparently unfair distribution of prosperity 
between good and .bad men. As their case is 
opposite in every thing — the one is constantly 
deriving his happiness from that which is the 
source of the other's misery, a sense of the di- 
vine omniscience. The eye of God if a 'pillar 
of light' to the one, ' and a cloud and darkness' 
to the other. It is no less a terror to him who 
dreads His justice, than a joy to him who derives 
all his support from the awful thought, Thou 
God seest ! 

But as we have already observed, can we want 
a broader line of discrimination between them 
than their actual condition here, independently 
of the different portions reserved for them here- 
after ? Is it not distinction enough, that the 
one, though sad, is safe ; that the other, though 
confident, is insecure ? Is not the one as far 
from rest as he is from virtue, as far from the 
enjoyment of quiet as from the hope of heaven, 



as far from peace as he is from God ? Is it no- 
thing that every day brings the Christian nearer 
to his :rown, and that the sinner is every day 
working his way nearer to his ruin ? The hour 
of death which the one dreads as something 
worse than extinction, is to the other the hour 
of his nativity, the birth-day of immortality. At 
the height of his sufferings, the good man knows 
that they will soon terminate. In the zenith of 
his success the sinner has a similar assurance. 
But how different is the result of the same con- 
viction ! An invincible faith sustains the one, 
in the severest calamities, while an inextin- 
guishable dread gives the lie to the proudest 
triumphs of the other. 

He then, after all, is the only happy man, — 
not whom worldly prosperity renders apparently 
happy, but whom no change of worldly circum- 
stances can make essentially miserable ; whose 
peace depends not on external events, but on an 
internal support ; not on that success which is 
common to all, but on that hope which is the 
peculiar privilege, on that promise which is the 
sole prerogative of a Christian. 



CHAP. XXI. 

The temper and conduct of the Christian in Sick, 
ness and in Death. 

The pagan philosophers have given many ad- 
mirable precepts both for resigning blessings 
and for sustaining misfortunes ; but wanting the 
motives and sanctions of Christianity, though 
they excite much intellectual admiration, they 
produce little practical effect. The stars which 
glittered in their moral night, though bright, im- 
parted no warmth. Their most beautiful dis- 
sertations on death had no charm to extract its 
sting. We receive no support from their most 
elaborate treatises on immortality, for want of 
Him who ' brought life and immortality to light.' 
Their consolatory discussion could not strip the 
grave of its terrors, for to them it was not ' swal- 
lowed up in victory.' To conceive of the soul 
as an immortal principle, without proposing a 
scheme for the pardon of its sins, was but cold 
consolation. Their future state was but a happy 
guess : their heaven but a fortunate conjecture. 

When we peruse their finest compositions, we 
admire the manner in which the medicine is ad- 
ministered, but we do not find it effectual for 
the cure, nor even for the mitigation of our dis- 
ease. The beauty of the sentiment we applaud, 
but our heart continues to ache. There is no 
healing balm in their elegant prescription. 
These four little words, ' thy will be done,' 
contain a charm of more powerful efficacy than 
all the discipline of the stoic school ! They cut 
up a long train of clear but cold reasoning, and 
supercede whole volumes of argument on fate 
and necessity. 

What sufferer ever derived any ease from the 
subtle distinction of the hair-splitting casuist, 
who allowed 'that pain was very troublesome, 
but resolved never to acknowledge it to be an 
evil V There is an equivocation in his manner 
of stating the proposition. He does not directly 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



497 



nay that pain is not an evil, but by a sophistical 
turn professes that philosophy will never confess 
it to be an evil. But what consolation does the 
sufferer draw from the quibbling nicety ? ' What 
difference is there,' as archbishop Tillotson well 
inquires, ' between things being troublesome and 
being evils, when all the evil of an affliction lies 
in the trouble it creates to us ?' 

Christianity knows none of these fanciful dis- 
tinctions. She never pretends to insist that pain 
is not an evil, but she does more ; she converts 
it into a good. Christianity therefore teaches a 
fortitude as much more noble than philosophy, 
as meeting pain with resignation to the hand 
that inflicts it, is more heroic than denying it 
to be an evil. 

To submit on the mere human ground that 
there is no alternative, is not resignation, but 
hopelossness. To bear affliction solely because 
impatience will not remove it is but an inferior, 
though a just reason for bearing it. It savours 
rather of despair than submission, when not 
sanctioned by a higher principle. — ' It is the 
Lord, let him do what seemeth him good,' is at 
once a motive of more powerful obligation, than 
all the documents which philosophy ever sug- 
gested ; a firmer ground of support than all the 
energies that natural fortitude ever supplied. 

Under any visitation, sickness for instance, 
God permits us to think the affliction ' not joy- 
ous but grievous.' But though he allows us to 
feel, we must not allow ourselves to repine. 
There is again a sort of heroism in bearing up 
against affliction, which some adopt on the 
ground that it raises their character, and confers 
dignity on their suffering. This philosophic 
firmness is far from being the temper which 
Christianity inculcates. 

When we are compelled by the hand of God 
to endure sufferings, or driven by a conviction 
of the vanity, of the world to renounce its enjoy- 
ments, we must not endure the one on the low 
principle of its being inevitable, nor, in flying 
from the other must we retire to the contempla- 
tion of our own virtues. We must not, with a 
sullen intrepidity, collect ourselves into a centre 
of our own ; into a cold apathy to all without, 
and a proud approbation of all within. We must 
not contract our scattered faults into a sort of 
dignified selfishness ; nor concentrate our feel- 
ings into a proud magnanimity, we must not 
adopt an independent rectitude. A gloomy sto- 
icism is not Christian heroism. A melancholy 
non-resistance is not Christian resignation. 

Nor must we indemnify ourselves for our out- 
ward self-control by secret murmurings. We 
may be admired for our resolution in this in- 
stance, as for our generosity and disinterested- 
ness in other instances ; but we deserve little 
commendation for whatever we give up, if we 
do not give up our own inclination. It is in- 
ward repining that we must endeavour to re- 
press ; it is the discontent of the heart, the un- 
expressed but not unfelt murmur, against which 
we must pray for grace and struggle for resist- 
ance. We must not smother our discontents 
before others, and feed on them in private. It 
is the hidden rebellion of the will we must sub- 
due, if we would submit as Christians. Nor must 
wo justify our impatience by saying that if our 

Vol. I. 12 



affliction did not disqualify us from being useful 
to our families, and active in the service of God, 
we could more cheerfully bear it. Let us rather 
be assured that it does not disqualify us for that 
duty which we most need, and to which God 
calls us by the very disqualification. 

A constant posture of defence against the at- 
tacks of our great spiritual enemy, is a better 
security than an incidental blow, or even an oc- 
casional victory. It is also a better preparation 
for all the occurrences of life. It is not some 
signal act of mortification, but an habitual state 
of discipline which will prepare us for great 
trials. A soul ever on the watch, fervent in pray- 
er, diligent in self-inspection, frequent in medi- 
tation, fortified against the vanities of time by 
repeated views of eternity, all the avenues to 
such a heart will be in a good measure shut 
against temptation, barred in a great degree 
against the the tempter. ' Strong in the Lord 
and in the power of his might,' it will be enna- 
bled to resist the one, to expel the other. To a 
mind so prepared, the thoughts of sickness will 
not be new, for he knows it is the ' condition of 
the battle ; the prospect of death will not be sur- 
prising, for he knows it is its termination. 

The period is now come when we must sum- 
mon all the fortitude of the rational being, all the 
resignation of the Christian. The principles we 
have been learning must now be made practical. 
The speculations we have admired we must 
now realize. All that we have been studying 
was in order to furnish materials for this grand 
exigence. — All the strength we have been col- 
lecting must now be brought into action. We 
must now draw to a point all the scattered argu- 
ments, all the several motives, all the individual 
supports, all the cheering promises of religion. 
We must exemplify all the rules we have given 
to others ; we must embody all the resolutions 
we have formed for ourselves ; we must reduce 
our precepts to experience ; we must pass from 
discourses on submission to its exercise ; from 
dissertations on suffering to sustaining it. We 
must heroically call up the determinations of 
our better days. We must recollect what we 
have said of the supports of faith and hope 
when our strength was in full vigour, when our 
heart was at ease, and our mind undisturbed. 
Let us collect all that remains to us of mental 
strength. Let us implore the aid of holy 
hope and fervent faith, to show that religion 
is not a beautiful theory, but a soul-sustaining 
truth. 

Endeavour without harrassing scrutiny or 
distressing doubt, to act on the principles which 
your sounder judgment formerly admitted. The 
strongest faith is wanted in the hardest trials. 
Under those trials, to the confirmed Christian 
the highest degree of grace is commonly im- 
parted. Impair not that faith on which you 
rested when your mind was strong, by suspect- 
ing its validity now it is weak. That which 
had your full assent in perfect health, which 
was then firmly rooted in your spirit, and 
grounded in your understanding, must not be 
unfixed by Ihe doubts of an enfeebled reason 
and the scruples of an impaired judgment. You 
may not now be able to determine on the rea- 
sonableness of propositions, but you may derive- 



498 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



■trong consolation from conclusions which were 
once fully established in your mind. 

The reflecting Christian will consider the na- 
tural evil of sickness as the consequence and 
punishment of moral evil. He will mourn, not 
only that he suffers pain, but because that pain 
is the effect of sin. If man had not sinned, he 
would not have suffered. The heaviest aggra- 
vation of his pain is to know that he has de- 
served it. But it is a counterbalance to this 
trial to know that our merciful Father has no 
pleasure in the sufferings of his children ; that 
he chastens them in love ; that he never in- 
flicts a stroke which he could safely spare ; that 
he inflicts it to purify as well as to punish, to 
caution as well as to cure, to improve as well as 
to chastise. 

What a support in the dreary season of sick- 
ness is it to reflect, that the Captain of our sal- 
vation was made perfect through sufferings ; 
that if we suffer with him we shall also reign 
with him, which implies also the reverse, that 
if we do not suffer with him, we shall not reign 
with him ; that is, if we suffer merely because 
we cannot help it, without reference to him, 
without suffering for his sake and in his spirit. 
If it be not sanctified suffering it will avail but 
little. We 6hall not be paid for having suffered, 
as is the creed of too many, but our meetness 
for the kingdom of glory will be increased if we 
suffer according to his will and after his exam- 
ple. 

He who is brought to serious reflection by the 
salutary affliction of a sick bed, will look back 
with astonishment on his former false estimate 
of worldly things. Riches! Beauty! Pleasure! 
Genius ! Fame ! — What are they in the eyes 
of the sick and the dying ? 

Riches ! These are so far from affording him 
a moment's ease, that it will be well if no former 
misapplication of them aggravate his present 
pains. He feels as if he only wished to live 
that he might henceforth dedicate them to the 
purposes for which they were given. 

Beauty ! What is beauty, he cries, as he con- 
siders his own sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, and 
pallid countenance. He acknowledges with 
the Psalmist, that the consuming of beauty is 
'the rebuke with which the Almighty corrects 
man for sin.' 

Genius ! What is it ? Without religion, ge- 
nius is only a lamp on ths gate of a palace. It 
may serve to cast a gleam of light on those with- 
out, while the inhabitant sits in darkness. 

Pleasure ! That has not left a trace behind 
it. 'It died in the birth, and is not therefore 
worthy to come into the bill of Mortality.'* 

Fame ! Of this his very soul acknowledges 
the emptiness. He is astonished how he could 
ever be so infatuated as to run after a sound, to 
court a breath, to pursue a shadow, to embrace 
a cloud. Augustus, asking his friends as they 
surrounded his dying bed, if he had actod his 
part well, on their answering in the affirmative, 
cried plaudite. But the acclamations of the 
whole universe would rather mock than sooth 
•lie dying Christian if unsanctioned by the hope 
<f the divine approbation. He now rates at its 

♦Bishop Hall. . 



just value that fame which was so often eclipsed 
by envy, and which will be so soon forgotten in 
death. He has no ambition left but for heaven, 
where there will be neither envy, death, nor for- 
getfulness. 

When capable «of reflection, the sick Chris- 
tian will revolve all the sins and errors of his 
past life; he will humble himself for them as 
sincerely as if he had never repented of them 
before ; and implore the divine forgiveness as 
fervently as if he did not believe they were long 
since forgiven. The remembrance of his former 
offences will grieve him, but the humble hope 
that they are pardoned will fill him ' with joy 
unspeakable and full of glory.' 

Even in this state of helplessness he may im- 
prove his self-acquaintance. He may detect new 
deficiencies in his character, fresh imperfections 
in his virtues. Omissions will now strike him 
with the force of actual sins. Resignation, 
which he fancied was so easy when only the 
sufferings of others required it, he now finds to 
be difficult when called on to practise it himself. 
He has sometimes wondered at their impatience, 
he is now humbled at his own. He will not only 
try to bear patiently the pains he actually suf- 
fers, but will recollect gratefully those from 
which he has been delivered, and which he may 
have formerly found less supportable than his 
present sufferings. 

In the extremity of pain he feels there is no 
consolation but in humble acquiescence in the 
divine will. It may be that he can pray but 
little, but that little will be fervent. He can 
articulate perhaps not at all, but his prayer is 
addressed to one who sees the heart, who cam 
interpret its language, who requires not words, 
but affections. A pang endured without a mur- 
mur, or only such an involuntary groan as na- 
ture extorts, and faith regrets, is itself a prayer. 
If surrounded with all the accommodations 
of affluence, let him compare his own situation 
with that of thousands, who probably with great- 
er merit, and under severer trials, have not one 
of his alleviations. When invited to the distaste- 
ful remedy, let him reflect how many perishinc 
fellow creatures may be pining for that remedy, 
to whom it might be restorative, or who, fancy- 
ing that it might be so, suffer additional distress 
from their inability to procure it. 

In the intervals of severer pain he will turn 
his few advantages to the best account He will 
make the most of every short respite. He will 
patiently bear with little disappointments, little 
delays, with the awkwardness of accidental ne- 
glect of his attendants, and, thankful for gene- 
ral kindness, he will accept good will instead 
of perfection. The suffering Christian will be 
grateful for small reliefs, little alleviations, short 
snatches of rest. To him, abated pain will be 
positive pleasure. The freer use of limbs which 
had nearly lost their activity, will be enjoyments. 
Let not the reader who is rioting 

In all the madness of superfluous health, 

think lightly of these trivial comforts. Let him 
not despise them as not worthy of gratitude, or 
as not capable of exciting it. He may one day, 
and that no distant day, be brought to the same 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



499 



state of debility and pain. May he experience 
the mercies he now derides, and may he feel 
higher comforts of safe grounds ! 

The sufferer has perhaps often regretted that 
one of the worst effects of sickness is the selfish- 
ness it too naturally induces. The temptation 
to this he will resist, by not being exacting and 
unreasonable in his requisitions. Through his 
tenderness to the feelings of others, he will be 
careful not to add to their distress by any ap- 
pearance of discontent. 

What a lesson against selfishness have we 
in the conduct of our dying Redeemer ! — It was 
while bearing his cross to the place of execu- 
tion, that he said to the sorrowing multitude, 
' Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for 
your children.' It was while enduring the 
agonies of crucifixion that he endeavoured to 
mitigate the sorrows of his mother and of his 
friend, by tenderly committing them to each 
other's care. — It was while sustaining the 
pangs of dissolution, that he gave the imme- 
diate promise of heaven to the expiring crimi- 
nal. 

The Christian will review, if able, not only 
the sins, but the mercies of his past life. If pre- 
viously accustomed to unbroken health, he will 
bless God for the long period in which he has en- 
joyed it. If continued infirmity has been his 
portion, he will feel grateful that he has had 
6uch a long and gradual weaning from the 
world. From either state he will extract con- 
solation. If pain be new, what a mercy to have 
hitherto escaped it ! If habitual, we bear more 
easily what we have borne long. 

He will review his temporal blessings and de- 
liverances ; his domestic comforts, his Christian 
friendships. Among his mercies, his now 
'purged eyes' will reckon his difficulties, his 
sorrows and trials. A new and heavenly light 
will be thrown on that passage, ' It is good for 
me that I have been afflicted.' It seems to him 
as if hitherto he had only heard it with the 
hearing of his ear, but now his ' eye seeth it.' 
If he be a real Christian, and has had enemies, 
he will always have prayed for them, but now 
he will be thankful for them. He will the more 
earnestly implore mercy for them as instru- 
ments which have helped to fit" him for his pre- 
sent state. He will look up with holy gratitude 
to the great Physician, who by a divine che- 
mistry in making up events, has made that one 
unpalatably ingredient, at the bitterness of 
which he once revolted, the very means by 
which all other things have worked together 
for good ; had they worked separately they 
would not have worked efficaciously. 

Under the most severe visitations, let us com- 
pare, if the capacity of comparing be allowed 
us, our own sufferings with the cup which our 
Redeemer drank for our sakes — drank to avert 
the divine displeasure from us. Let us pursue 
the comparative view of our condition with that 
of the Son of God. He was deserted in his 
most trying hour ; deserted probably by those 
whose limbs, sight, life, he had restored, whose 
souls he had come to save. We are surrounded 
by unwearied friends; every pain is mitigated 
by sympathy, every want not only relieved but 
prevented ; the ' asking eye' explored ; the in- 



articulate sound understood; the ill-expressed 
wish anticipated ; the but suspected want sup- 
plied. When our souls are ' exceeding sorrow 
ful,' our friends participate our sorrow ; when 
desired ' to watch' with us, they watch not ' one 
hour,' but many, not falling asleep, but both 
flesh and spirit ready and willing ; not forsak- 
ing us in our ' agony,' but sympathizing where 
they cannot relieve ! 

Besides this, we must acknowledge with the 
penitent malefactor, ' we indeed suffer justly, 
but this man hath done nothing amiss.' We 
suffer for our offences the inevitable penalty 
of our fallen nature. He bore our sins and those 
of the whole human race. Hence the heart- 
rending interrogation, ' Is it nothing to you all 
ye that pass by ? Behold and see if there be 
any sorrow like unto my sorrow, which is done 
unto me, wherewith the Lord hath afflicted me 
in the day of his fierce anger.' 

How cheering in this forlorn state to reflect 
that he not only suffered for us then, but is 
sympathizing with us now; that 'in all our 
afflictions he is afflicted.' The tenderness of 
the sympathy seems to add a value to the sacri- 
fice, while the vastness of the sacrifice, endears 
the sympathy by ennobling it. 

If the intellectual powers be mercifully pre- 
served, how many virtues may now be brought 
into exercise which had either lain dormant, or 
been considered as of inferior worth in the pros- 
perous day of activity. The Christian temper 
indeed seems to be that part of religion which 
is more peculiarly to be exercised on a sick bed. 
The passive virtues, the least brilliant, but the 
most difficult, are then particularly called intc 
action. To suffer the whole will of God on the 
tedious bed of languishing, is more trying than 
to perform the most shining exploit on the 
theatre of the world. The hero in the field of 
battle has the love of fame as well as patriotism 
to support him. He knows that the witnesses 
of his valour will be the heralds of his renown. 
The martyr at the stake is divinely strengthen- 
ed. Extraordinary grace is imparted for extra- 
ordinary trials. His pangs are exquisite, but 
they are short.' — The crown is in sight, it is 
almost in possession. By faith ' he sees the 
heavens opened. He sees the glory of God, and 
Jesus standing at the right hand of God.' But 
to be strong in faith, and patient in hope, in a 
long and lingering sickness, is an example of 
more general use and ordinary application, than 
even the sublime heroism of the martyr. The 
sickness is brought home to our feelings, we see 
it with our eyes, we apply it to our hearts. Of 
the martyr we read, indeed, with astonishment. 
Our faith is strengthened, and our admiration 
kindled ; but we read it without that special ap- 
probation, without that peculiar reference to 
our own circumstances, which we feel in cases 
that are likely to apply to ourselves. With the 
dying friend we have not only a feeling of pious 
tenderness, but there is also a community of 
interests. The certain conviction that his case 
must soon be our own, makes it our own now. 
Self mixes with the social feeling, and the Chris- 
tian death we are contemplating we do not so 
much admire as a prodigy, as propose for a 
model. To the martyr's stake we feel that we 



500 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



are not likely to be brought. To the dying bed 
we must inevitably come. 

Accommodating his state of mind to the na- 
ture of his disease, the dying Christian will de- 
rive consolation in any case, cither from think- 
ing how forcibly a sudden sickness breaks the 
chain which binds him to the world, or how 
gently a gradual decay unties it. He will feel 
and acknowledge the necessity of all he suffers 
to wean him from life. He will admire the di- 
vine goodness which commissions the infirmities 
of sickness to divest the world of its enchant- 
ments, and to strip death of some of its most 
formidable terrors. He feels with how much 
less reluctance we quit a body exhausted by suf- 
fering than one in the vigour of health 

Sickness, instead of narrowing the heart — its 
worst effect on an unrenewed mind, enlarges 
his. He earnestly exhorts those around him to 
defer no act of repentance, no labour of love, no 
deed of justice, no work of mercy, to that state 
of incapacity in which he now lies. 

How many motives has the Christian to re- 
strain his murmurs! Murmuring offends God 
both as it is injurious to his goodness, and as it 
perverts the occasion which God has now otlered 
for giving an example of patience. Let us not 
complain that we have nothing to do in sickness, 
when we are furnished with the opportunity as 
well as called to the duty of resignation ; the 
duty indeed is always ours, but the occasion is 
now more eminently given. Let us not say even 
in this depressed state that we have nothing to 
ba thankful for. If sleep be afforded, let us ac- 
knowledge the blessing : if wearisome nights be 
our portion, let us remember they are ' appoint- 
ed to us.' Let us mitigate the grievance of 
watchfulness, by considering it as a sort of pro- 
longation of life ; as the gift of more minutes 
granted for meditation and prayer. If we are 
not able to employ it to either of these purposes, 
there is a fresh occasion for exercising that re- 
signation which will be accepted for both. 

If reason be continued, yet with sufferings too 
intense for any religious duty, the sick Christian 
may take comfort that the business of life was 
accomplished, before the sickness began. He 
will not be terrified if duties are superseded, if 
means are at an end, for he has nothing to do 
but to die. — This is the act for which all acts, 
all other duties, all other means, will have been 
preparing him. He who has long been habitu- 
ated to look death in the face, who has often an- 
ticipated the agonies of dissolving nature ; who 
has accustomed himself to pray lor support un- 
der them, will now feel the blessed effect of 
those petitions which have long been treasured 
in heaven. To those anticipatory prayers he 
may perhaps now ow r e the huaible confidence of 
hope in this inevitable hour. Habituated to the 
contemplation, he will not, at least, have the 
dreadful additions of surprise and novelty to ag- 
gravate the trying scene. It has long been fa- 
miliar to his mind, though hitherto it could only 
operate with the inferior force of a picture to a 
reality. He will not however have so much 
scared his imagination by the terrors of death, 
as invigorated his spirit by looking beyond them 
to the blessedness which follows. Faith will 
not so much dwell on the opening grave as shoot 



forward to the glories to which it leads. Tho 
hope of heaven will soften the pangs which lie 
in the way to it. On heaven then he will fix 
his eyes rather than on the awful intervening 
circumstances. He will not dwell on the sttug 
gle which is for a moment, but on the crown 
which is forever. He will endeavour to think 
Use of death than of its conqueror ; less of tho 
grave than of its spoiler ; less of the body in 
ruins than of the spirit in glory ; less of tho 
darkness of his closing day than of the opening 
dawn of immortality. In some brighter mo- 
ments, when viewing his eternal redemption 
drawing nigh, as if the freed spirit had already 
burst its prison walls, as if the manumission had 
actually taken place, he is ready exultingly to 
exclaim, 'My soul is escaped, the snare is broken, 
and I am delivered.' 

If he ever inclines to wish for recovery, it is 
only that he may glorify God by his future life, 
more than he has done by the past ; but as he 
knows the deceitfulness of his heart, he is not 
certain that this would be the case, and he there- 
fore does not wish to live. Yet should he be re- 
stored he humbly resolves, in a better strength 
than his own, to dedicate his life to the restorer. 

But he suffers not his thoughts to dwell on 
life. Retrospections are at an end. His pros- 
pects as to this world are at an end also. He 
commits himself unreservedly to his heavenly 
Father. But though secure of the port, he may 
still dread the passage. The Christian will re- 
joice that his rest is at hand, the man may shud- 
der at the unknown transit. If faith is strong, 
nature is weak. Nay, in this awful exigence, 
strong faith is sometimes rendered faint through 
the weakness of nature. 

At the moment when his faith is looking round 
for every additional confirmation, he may rejoice 
in those blessed certainties, those glorious reali- 
zations which scripture affords. He may tako 
comfort that the strongest attestations given by 
the apostles to the reality of the heavenly state, 
were not conjectural. They, to use the words 
of our Saviour, spake what they knew, and testi- 
fied what they had seen. ' I reckon,' says St. 
Paul, ' that the afflictions of this present life are 
not worthy to be compared with the glory that 
shall be revealed.' lie said this after he had 
been caught up in the third heaven ; after he 
had beheld the glories to which he alludes. The 
author of the Apocalyptic vision, having described 
the ineffable glories of the new Jerusalem, thus 
puts new life and power into his description. — ' I 
John saw these things, and heard them.' 

The power of distinguishing objects increases 
with our approach to them. The Christian feels 
that he is entering on a state where every care 
will cease, every fear vanish, every desire be 
fulfilled, every sin be done away, every grace 
perfected : where there will be no more tempta- 
tions to resist, no more passions to subdue, no 
more insensibility to mercies, no more deadness 
in service, no more wandering in prayer, no 
more sorrows to be felt for himself, no tears to 
be shed for others. He is going where his de- 
votion will be without languor, his love without 
alloy, his doubts certainty, his expectation en- 
joyment, his hope fruition. All will be perfect, 
for God will be all in all. 



THE WORK'S OF HANNAH MORE. 



501 



From God he knows that he shall derive im- 
mediately all his happiness. It will no lodger 
pass through any of those channels which now 
sully its purity. It wi^be offered him through 
no second cause which may fail, no intermediate 
agent which may deceive, no uncertain medium 
which may disappoint. The felicity is not only 
certain, but perfect, — not only perfect, but eter- 
nal. 

As he approaches the land of realities, the 
shadows of this earth cease to interest or mislead 
him. The films are removed from his eyes. Ob- 
jects are stripped of their false lustre. Nothing 
that is really little any longer looks great. The 
mists of vanity are dispersed. Every thing 
which is to have an end appears small, appears 
nothing. Eternal things assume their proper 
magnitude, for he beholds them in the true point 



f of vision. He has ceased to lean on the world, 
for he has found it both a reed and a spear ; it 
has failed and it has pierced him. He leans not 
on himself, for he has long known his weakness. 
He leans not on his virtues, for they can do no- 
thing for him. Had he no better refuge he feels 
that his sun would set in darkness ; his life close 
in despair. 

But he knows in whom he has trusted, and 
therefore knows not what he should fear. — He 
looks upward with holy but humble confidence 
to that great Shepherd, who having long since 
conducted him into green pastures,— having by 
his rod corrected, and by his staff supported 
him, will, he humbly trusts, guide him through 
the dark valley of the shadow of death, and 
safely land him on the peaceful shores of ever. 
lasting rest 






TRAGEDIES.* 



PREFACE TO THE TRAGEDIES. 



I am desirous to anticipate a censure which the critical reader will be ready to bring forward, 
on the apparent inconsistency between the contents of the latter part of this volume, composed of 
dramatic pieces, and several sentiments not unfrequently introduced in some of my writings, re- 
specting the dangerous tendency of certain public amusements, in which dramatic entertainments 
will be naturally included. The candid reader will be able to solve the parado'i when it is inti- 
mated at what different periods of life these different pieces were written. The dates, if they were 
regularly preserved, would explain that the seeming disagreement does not involve a contradiction, 
as it proceeds not from an inconsistency, but from a revolution in the sentiments of the author. 

From my youthful course of reading, and early habits of society and conversation, aided, per- 
haps, by that natural but secret bias which the inclination gives to the judgment, I had been led 
to entertain that common, but, as I must now think, delusive and groundless hope, that the stage, 
under certain regulations, might be converted into a school of virtue ; and thus, like many others, 
inferred, by a seemingly reasonable conclusion, that though a bad play would always be a bad 
thing, yet the representation of a good one might become not only harmless, but useful ; and 
that it required nothing more 4han a correct judgment and a critical selection, to transform a 
pernicious pleasure into a profitable entertainment. 

On these grounds (while, perhaps, as was intimated above, it was nothing more than the in- 
dulgence of a propensity), I was led to natter myself it might be rendering that inferior service 
to society which the fabricator of safe and innocent amusements may reasonably be supposed to 
confer, to attempt some theatrical compositions, which, whatever other defects might be justly 
imputable to them, should at least be found to have been written on the side of virtue and mod- 
esty ; and which should neither hold out any corrupt image to the mind, nor any impure descrip- 
tion to the fancy. 

As the following pieces were written and performed at an early period of my life, under the 
above impressions, I feel it a kind of duty (imploring pardon for the unavoidable egotism to which 
it leads), not to send them afresh into the world in this collection, without prefixing to them a 
candid declaration of my altered view. In so doing, I am fully aware that I equally subject 
myself to the opposite censures of two different classes of readers, one of which will think that 
the best evidence of my sincerity would have been the suppression of the tragedies themselves, 
while the other will reprobate the change of sentiment which gives birth to the qualifying preface. 

I should, perhaps, have been inclined to adopt the first of these two opinions, had it not 
occurred to me that the suppression would be thought disingenuous ; and had I not been 
also desirous of grounding on the publication, though in a very cursory manner, my sentiments 
on the general tendency of the drama ; for it appeared but fair and candid to include in this 
view my own compositions ; and thus, in some measure, though without adverting to them, to 
involve myself in the general object of my own animadversions. 

I am not, even now, about to controvert the assertion of some of the ablest critics, that a well- 
written tragedy is, perhaps, one of the noblest efforts of the human mind — I am not, even now, 
about to deny, that of all public amusements it is the most interesting, the most intellectual, and 
the most accommodated to the tastes and capacities of a rational being ; nay, that it is almost the 
only one which has mind for its object ; which has the combined advantage of addressing itself 
to the imagination, the judgment, and the heart ; that it is the only public diversion which calls 
out the higher energies of the understanding in the composition, and awakens the most lively and 
natural feelings of the heart in the representation. 

With all this decided superiority in point of mental pleasure which the stage possesses over 
every other species of public entertainment, it is not to be wondered at that its admirers and 
advocates, even the most respectable, should cherish a hope, that, under certain restrictions, and 
under an improved form, it might be made to contribute to instruction as well as to pleasure ; and 
it is on this plausible ground that we have heard so many ingenious defences of this species of 
amusement. 

What the stage might be under another and an imaginary state of things, it is not very easy> 
for us to know, and therefore not very important to inquire. Nor is it, indeed, the soundest logic 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 503 

to argue on the possible goodness of a thing, which, in the present circumstances of society, is 
doing positive evil, from the imagined good that thing might be conjectured to produce in a sup- 
posed state of unattainable improvement. Would it not be more safe and simple to determine 
our judgment as to the character of the thing in question, on the more visible, and therefore more 
rational grounds, of its actual state, and from the effects which it is known to produce in that state *? 

For, unfortunately, this Utopian good cannot be produced, until not only the stage itself has 
undergone a complete purification, but until the audience shall be purified also. For we must 
first suppose a state of society in which the spectators will be disposed to relish all that is pure, 
and to reprobate all that is corrupt, before the system of a pure and uncorrupt theatre can be 
adopted with any reasonable hope of success. There must always be a congruity between the 
taste of the spectator and the nature of the spectacle, in order to effect that point of union which 
can produce pleasure : for it must be remembered that people go to a play, not to be instructed, 
but to be pleased. As we do not send the blind to an exhibition of pictures, nor the deaf to a 
concert, so it would be leaving the projected plan of a pure stage in a state Gf imperfection, unless 
the general corruption of human nature itself were so reformed as to render the amusements of 
a perfectly purified stage palatable. If the sentiments and passions exhibited were no longer 
accommodated to the sentiments and passions of the audience, corrupt nature would soon with- 
draw itself from the vapid and inappropriate amusement ; and thin, I will not say empty benches, 
would too probably be the reward of the conscientious reformer. 

Far be it from me to wish to restore that obsolete rubbish of ignorance and folly with which 
the monkish legends furnished out the rude materials of our early drama : I mean those uncouth 
pieces, in which, under the titles of mysteries and moralities, the most sacred persons were intro- 
duced as interlocutors ; in which events too solemn for exhibition, and subjects too awful for 
detail, were brought before the audience with a formal gravity more offensive than levity itself. 
The superstitions of the cloister were considered as suitable topics for the diversions of the stage ; 
and celestial intelligences, uttering the sentiments and language, and blended with the buffoon- 
eries, of Bartholomew fair, were regarded as appropriate subjects of merrimaking for a holyday 
audience. But from this holy mummery, at which piety, taste, and common sense, would be 
equally revolted, I return to the existing state of things.* 

I have never perused any of those treatises, excellent as some of them are said to be, which 
pious divines have written against the pernicious tendency of theatrical entertainments. The 
convictions of my mind have arisen solely from experience and observation. I shall not, there- 
fore, go over the well-trodden ground of those who have inveighed, with too much justice, against 
the immoral lives of too many stage professors, allowing always for some very honourable excep- 
tions. I shall not remark on the gross and palpable corruptions of those plays which are obvi- 
ously written with an open disregard to all purity and virtue : nor shall 1 attempt to show whether 
any very material advantage would arise to the vain and the dissipated, were they to exclude the 
theatre from its turn in their undiscriminated round of promiscuous pleasure. But I would 
coolly and respectfully address a few words to those many worthy and conscientious persons, who 
would not, perhaps, so early and incautiously expose their youthful offspring to the temptations of 
an amusement of which they themselves could be brought to see and to feel the existence. ' 

The question, then, which with great deference I would propose, is not whether those who 
risk every thing may not risk this also ; but whether the more correct and considerate Christian 
might not find it worth while to consider if the amusement in question be entirely compatible 
with his avowed character 1 whether it be entirely consistent with the clearer views of one who 
professes to live in the sure and certain hope of that immortality which is brought to light by the 
gospell 

For, however weighty the arguments in favour of the superior rationality of plays may be 
found in the scale, when a rational being puts one amusement in the balance against another ; I 
however fairly he may exalt the stage against other diversions, as being more adapted to a man 
of sense ; yet this, perhaps, will not quite vindicate it in the opinion of the more scrupulous 
Christian, who will not allow himself to think that of two evils either may be chosen. His 
amusements must be blameless, as well as ingenious ; safe, as well as rational ; moral, as well as 
intellectual. They must have nothing in them which may be likely to excite any of the tempers 
which it is his daily task to subdue ; any of the passions which it is his constant business to keep 
in order. His chosen amusements must not deliberately add to the " weight" which he is com- 
manded " to lay aside ;" they should not irritate the " besetting sin" against which he is strug- 
gling ; they should not obstruct that " spiritual mindedness" which he is told " is life and peace ;" 
they should not inflame that " lust of the flesh, that lust of the eye, and that pride of life," which 
he is forbidden to gratify. A religious person who occasionally indulges in an amusement not 
consonant to his general views and pursuits, inconceivably increases his own difficulties by whet- 

* An enthusiast to the literature of my own country, and so jealous of its fame as grudgingly to allow its com- 
parative inferiority in any one instance, T am yet compelled to acknowledge, that, as far as my slender reading en- 
ables me to form a judgment, the English dramatic poets are in general more licentious than those of most other 
countries. In that profligate reign, 

" When all the Muses were debauched at court," 
the stage attained its highest degree of dissoluteness. Mr. Garrick did a great deal towards its purificatioo. It 1* 
«aid not to have since kept the ground it then gained. 



604 THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 

ting tastes and exciting appetites, which it will cut him out sc much work to counteract, as will 
greatly overbalance, in a conscientious mind, the short and trivial enjoyment. I speak now on 
the mere question of pleasure. Nay, the more keen his relish for the amusement, the more ex- 
quisite his discernment of the beauties of composition or the graces of action may be, the more 
prudent he may perhaps find "it to deny himself the gratification which is enjoved at the slightest 
hazard of nis higher interests ; a gratification which to him will be the more dangerous, in pro- 
portion as it is more poignantly felt. 

A Christian, in our days, is seldom called, in his ordinary course, to great and signal sacrifices, 
to very striking and very ostensible renunciations ; but he is daily called to a quiet, uniform, con- 
stant series of self-denial in small things. A dangerous and bewitching, especially if it be not a 
disreputable pleasure, may perhaps have a just place among those sacrifices : and, if he be really 
in earnest, he will not think it too much to renounce such petty enjoyments, were it only from 
the single consideration that it is well to seize every little occasion which occurs of evidencing to 
himself that he is constantly on the watch ; and of proving to the world, that in small things, as 
well as in great, he is a follower of Him who " pleased nothimself 

Little, unobserved, and unostentatious abstinences, are among the silent deeds of his daily 
warfare. And whoever brings himself to exercise this habitual self-denial, even in doubtful cases, 
will soon learn, from happy experience, that in many instances abstinence is much more easily 
practised than temperance. There is in this case no excited sensibility to allay ; there is no 
occasional remorse to be quieted ; there is no lost ground to be recovered ; no difficult backing out, 
only to get again to the same place where we were before. This observation adopted into practice 
might, it is presumed, effectually abolish the qualifying language of many of the more sober fre- 
quenters of the theatre, "that they go but seldom, and never but to a. good play."' We give 
these moderate and discreet persons all due praise for comparative sobriety. But while they go 
at all, the principle is the same ; for they sanction, by going sometimes, a diversion which is not 
to be defended on strict Christian principles. Indeed, their acknowledging that it should be but 
sparingly frequented, probably arises from a conviction that it is not quite right. 

I have already remarked that it is not the object of this address to pursue the usual track of 
attacking bad plays, of which the more prudent and virtuous seldom vindicate the principle, 
though they do not always scrupulously avoid attending the exhibition. I impose rather on my- 
self the unpopular task of animadverting on the dangerous effects of those which come under the 
description of good plays ; for from those chiefly arises the danger (if danger there be), to good 
people. 

Now, with all the allowed superiority justly ascribed to pieces of a better cast, it does not seem 
to be a complete justification of the amusement, that the play in question is more chaste in the 
sentiment, more pure in the expression, and more moral in the tendency, than those which are 
avowedly objectionable ; though I readily concede all the degrees of distinction, and very im- 
portant they are, between such compositions and those of the opposite character. But the point 
for which I am contending is of another and of a distinct nature ; namely, that there will, gen- 
erally speaking, still remain, even in tragedies, otherwise the most unexceptionable, provided they 
are sufficiently impassioned to produce a powerful effect on the feelings, and have spirit enough 
to deserve to become popular ; there will still remain an essential radical defect. What I insist 
on is, that there almost inevitably runs through the whole web of the tragic drama (for to this 
least blameable half of stage composition I confine my remarks, as against comedy still stronger 
objections may be urged), a prominent thread of false principle. It is generally the leading 
object of the poet to erect a standard of honour in direct opposition to the standard of Chris- 
tianity ; and this is not done subordinately, incidentally, occasionally ; but worldly honour is the 
very soul, and spirit, and lifegiving principle of the drama. Honour is the religion of tragedy. 
It is her moral and political law. Her dictates form its institutes. Fear and shame are the capi- 
tal crimes in her code. Against these, all the eloquence of her most powerful pleaders, against 
these her penal statutes, pistol, sword, and poison, are in full force. Injured honour can only be 
vindicated at the point of the sword ; the stains of injured reputation can only be washed out in 
blood. Love, jealousy, hatred, ambition, pride, revenge, are too often elevated into the rank of 
splendid virtues, and form a dazzling system of worldly morality, in direct contradiction to the 
spirit of that religion whose characteristics are "charity, meekness, peaceableness, longsuffer- 
lng, gentleness, forgiveness." "The fruits of the Spiiit" and the fruits of the stage, if the 
parallel were followed up, as it might easily be, would perhaps exhibit as pointed a contrast as 
human imagination could conceive. 

I by no means pretend to assert that religion is excluded from tragedies ; it is often incidentally 
introduced ; and many a period is beautifully turned, and many a moral is exquisitely pointed, with 
the finest sentiments of piety. But the single grains of this counteracting principle, scattered up 
and down the piece, do not extend their antiseptic property in a sufficient degree to preserve from 
corruption the body of a work, the general spirit and leading tempers of which, as was said above, 
are evidently not drawn fiom that meek religion, the very essence of which consists in "casting 
down high imaginations :" while, on the other hand, the leaven of the predominating evil secretly 
works and insinuates itself, till the whole mass becomes impregnated by the pervading principle. 
Now, if the directing principle be unsound, the virtues growing out of it will be unsound also ; 
and no subordinate merit, no collateral excellences, can operate with effectual potency against 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 505 

an evil which is of prime and fundamental force and energy, and which forms the very essence 
of the work. 

A learned and witty friend, who thought differently on this subject, once asked me if I went so 
far as to think it necessary to try the merit of a song or a play by the ten commandments. To 
this may we not venture to answer, that neither a song nor a play should at least contain any 
thing hostile to the ten commandments. That, if harmless merriment be not expected to advance 
religion, we must take care that it do not oppose it ; that if we concede that our amusements are 
not expected to make us better than we are, ought we not to condition that they do not make us 
worse than they find us 1 If so, then, whatever pleasantry of idea, whatever gayety of senti- 
ment, whatever airiness of expression we innocently admit, should we not jealously watch against 
any unsoundness in the general principle, any mischief in the prevailing tendency 1 

We cannot be too often reminded, that we are, to an inconceivable degree, the creatures of 
habit. Our tempers are not principally governed, nor our characters formed, by single marked 
actions ; nor is the colour of our lives often determined by prominent, detached circumstances ; 
but the character is gradually moulded by a series of seemingly insignificant but constantly re- 
curring practices, which, incorporated into our habits, become part of ourselves. 

Now, as these lesser habits, if they take a wrong direction, silently and imperceptibly eat out 
the very heart and life of vigorous virtue, they will be almost more sedulously watched by those 
who are careful to keep their consciences tenderly alive to the perception of sin (however they 
may elude the attention of ordinary Christians), than actions which deter by bold and decided evil. 

When it is recollected how many young men pick up their habits of thinking, and their notions 
of morality, from the playhouse, it is not perhaps going too far to suspect, that the principles and 
examples exhibited on the stage may contribute in their full measuie and proportion towards sup- 
plying a sort of regular aliment to the appetite (how dreadfully increased !) for duelling, and even 
suicide. For, if religion teaches, and experience proves, the immense importance to our tempers 
and morals of a regular attendance on public worship, which attendance is only required of us 
one day in a week ; and if it be considered how much the heart and mind of the attentive hearer 
become gradually imbued with the principles infused by this stated, though unfrequent attend- 
ance ; who, that knows any thing of the nature of the human heart, will deny how much more 
deep and lasting will be the impression likely to be made by a far more frequent attendance at 
those places where sentiments of a direct contrary tendency are exhibited ; exhibited too, with 
every addition which can charm the imagination and captivate the senses. Once in a week, it 
may be, the young minds are braced by the invigorating principles of a strict and self-denying 
religion : on the intermediate nights, their good resolutions (if such they have made), are melted 
down with all that can relax the soul, and dispose it to yield to the temptations against which it 
was the object of the Sunday's lecture to guard and fortify it. In the one case, there is every 
thing held out which can inflame or sooth corrupt nature, in opposition to those precepts which, 
in the other case, were directed to subdue it. And this one grand and important difference 
between the two cases should never be overlooked, that religious instruction, applied to the 
human heart, is seed sown in an uncultivated soil, where much is to be cleared, to be broken up, 
and to be rooted out, before good fruit will be produced : whereas the theatrical seed, by lighting 
on the fertile soil prepared by nature for the congenial implantation, is likely to shoot deep, 
spread wide, and bring forth fruit in abundance. 

But, to drop all metaphor. — They are told — and from whose mouth do they hear it 1 — that 
"blessed are the poor in spirit, the meek, and the peacemakers." Will not these, and such 
like humbling propositions, delivered one day in seven only, in all the sober and beautiful sim- 
plicity of our church, with all the force of truth indeed, but with all its plainness also, be more 
than counterbalanced by the speedy and much more frequent recurrence of the nightly exhibi- 
tion, whose precise object it too often is, not only to preach, but to personify doctrines in dia- 
metrical and studied opposition to poverty of spirit, to purity, to meekness, forbearance, and 
forgiveness 1 Doctrines, not simply expressed, as those of the Sunday are, in the naked form of 
axioms, principles, and precepts, but realized, imbodied, made alive, furnished with organs, 
clothed, decorated, brought into lively discourse, into interesting action ; enforced with all the 
energy of passion, adorned with all the graces of language, and exhibited with every aid of em- 
phatical delivery, every attraction of appropriate gesture. To such a complicated temptation is 
it wise, voluntarily, studiously, unnecessarily, to expose frail and erring creatures 1 Is not the 
conflict too severe ! Is not the competition too unequal 1 

It is pleaded by the advocates for church music, that the organ and its vocal accompaniments 
assist devotion, by enlisting the senses on the side of religion ; and it is justly pleaded as an 
argument in favour of both, because the affections may fairly and properly derive every honest 
aid from any thing which helps to draw them off from the world to God. But is it not equally 
true, that the same species of assistance, in a wrong direction, will produce an equally forcible 
effect in its way, and at least equally contribute in drawing off the soul from God to the world ! 
I do not presume to say that the injury will be inevitable, much less that it will be irretrievable ; 
but I dare repeat, that it is exposing feeble virtue to a powerful temptation ; and to a hazard so 
great, that were the same reason applied to any worldly subject, it would be thought a folly to 
venture on any undertaking where the chances against our coming off unhurt were so obviously 
agamst us. Besides, if we may pursue the doctrine of chances a little farther, that is at best 
Vol. I. 



506 THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 

playing a most unprofitable game, where, if we even could be sure that nothing would be lost, it 
is clear to demonstration that nothing can be gained ; so that the certain risk is not even coun- 
terbalanced by the possible success. 

It is not in point to the present design to allude to the multitude of theatrical sentiments 
which seem to be written as if in avowed opposition to such precepts as "Swear not at all:" 
" He that looketh on a woman to lust after her, hath already committed adultery in his heart," 
&c. &c. We are willing to allow that this last offence, at least, is generally, I would it were 
invariably, confined to those more incorrect dramas which we do not now profess to consider. 
Yet it is to be feared we should not find many pieces (are we sure we can find onel) entirely 
exempt from the first heavy charge. And it is, perhaps, one of the most invincible objections to 
many tragedies, otherwise not very exceptionable, that the awful and tremendous name of the 
infinitely glorious God is shamefully, and almost incessantly, introduced in various scenes, both 
in the way of asseveration and of invocation. 

Besides, the terms good and bad play are relative ; for we are so little exact in our general 
definitions, that the character given to the piece often takes its colour from the character of him 
who gives it. Passages which to the decent moral man (him, I mean, who is decent and moral 
on mere worldly principles) are to the "purged eye" of a Christian disgusting by their vanity, 
and offensive by their levity, to speak in the gentlest terms. 

But more especially the prime animating spirit of many of our more decorous dramas seems 
to furnish a strong contrast to the improved and enlarged comment of our Saviour in the New 
Testament, on the divine prohibition against murder in the Old, in the wo denounced against 
anger, as containing in itself the seed and principle of murder ; anger, and its too usual con- 
comitant, revenge, being the main spring on which some of our best tragedies turns. 

The eloquent apologies, and the elaborate vindication of the crimes resulting from the point 
r honour and the dread of shame, and with such apologies and vindications some of our most 
uproved pieces abound, too temptingly invite the high unbroken spirit of a warm youth, from 
admiring such sentiments to adopt them ; and he is liable to be stimulated first to the commis- 
; on of the crime, and, after he has committed it, to the hope of having his reputation cleared, 
oy the perpetual eulogies these flattering scenes bestow on rash and intemperate bravery ; on the 
dignity of that spirit which cannot brook an insult ; and on that generous sense of wounded 
honour which is ever on the watch to revenge itself. And when he hears the bursts of applause 
with which these sallies of resentment, these vows of revenge, these determinations to destroy or 
be destroyed, this solemn obtesting the great Judge of hearts to witness the innocence of — per- 
haps a veiy criminal action or intention ; — when, I say, a hotheaded young man witnesses the 
enthusiasm of admiration which such expressions excite in a transported audience, will it not 
■operate as a kind of stimulus to him to adopt a similar conduct, should he ever he placed in 
similar circumstances 1 and will it not furnish him with a sort of criterion how such maxims 
would be received, and such conduct approved, in real life 1 For the danger does not lie merely 
in his hearing such sentiments delivered from the stage, but also in seeing how favourably they 
are received by the audience ; received, too, by those persons who, should he realize these sen- 
timents, would probably be the arbiters of his conduct. These are to him a kind of anticipated 
jury. The scene is, as it were, the rehearsal of an acquittal at the bar of that world whose 
tribunal is, perhaps, unhappily for him, considered as his last appeal ; for it is not probably 
hazarding too much to conclude, that by the sort of character we are considering, human opin- 
ion will be looked upon as the highest motive of action, human praise as the highest reward, and 
human censure as an evil to be deprecated, even by the loss of his soul. 

If one of the most virtuous of poets and of men, by the cool, deliberate, argumentative man- 
ner in which he makes his Roman hero destroy himself ; this hero, too, a pagan, consistently 
illustrating by this action an historical fact, and acting in a natural conformity to his own stoical 
principles ; — if, I say, under all these palliating circumstances, the ingenious sophistry by which 
the poet was driven to mitigate the crime of suicide, in order to accommodate the sentiment to 
the real character of his hero ; — if this Christian poet, even to his own private friend and literary 
associate, could appear, by the specious reasoning of his famous soliloquy, to vindicate self-mur- 
der, so that the unhappy Budgell exclaimed, when falling by his own hand, 

" What Cato did, and Addison approv'd, 
Must sure be right : " 

If, I say, under all the extenuating circumstances here detailed, such a dreadful effect could De 
produced from a cause so little expected or intended by its author to produce it, how much more 
probably are similar ill consequences likely to arise from similar causes in the hands of a poet 
less guarded and worse principled ; and whose heroes have, perhaps, neither the apology of ac- 
knowledged paganism, nor the sanetion of historic truth 1 For Addison, who in general has 
made his piece a vehicle of the noblest and most patriotic sentiments, could not avoid making 
his catastrophe just what he has made it, without violating a notorious fact, and falsifying the 
character he exhibits. 

Even in those plays in which the principles which false honour teaehes are neither professedly 
inculcated nor vindicated ; nay, where moreover the practices above alluded to, and especially 
the practice of duelling, are even reprobated in the progress of the piece ; yet the hero who ha« 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 507 

been reprieved from sin during four acts by the sage lemonstrance of some interfering friend, or 
the imperious power of beauty ; beauty, which is to a stage hero that restraining or impelling 
power which law, or conscience, or scripture, are to other men ; still, in the conclusion, when 
the intrigue is dexterously completed, when the passion is worked up to its acme, and the vale- 
dictory scene is so near at hand that it becomes inconvenient to the poet that the impetuosity of 
his hero should be any longer restrained ; when his own patience and the expostulating powers 
of his friend are both exhausted together, and he seasonably winds up the drama by stabbing 
either his worst enemy or his best benefactor, or, as it still more frequently happens, himself ; 
still, notwithstanding his criminal catastrophe, the hero has been exhibited through all the pre- 
ceding scenes as such a combination of perfections ; his behaviour has been so brave and so gen- 
erous (and bravery and generosity are two qualities which the world boldly stakes against both 
tables of the decalogue), that the youthful spectator, especially if he have that amiable warmth 
and sensibility of soul which lay him so peculiarly open to seduction, is too much tempted to con- 
sider as venial the sudden and unpremeditated crime to which the unresisted impulse of the 
moment may have driven so accomplished a character. And a little tame tag of morality, set to 
a few musical periods by the unimpassioned friend, is borne down, absorbed, lost, in the impetu- 
ous but too engaging character of the feeling, fiery hero ; a character, the errors of which are 
now consummated by an act of murder, so affectingly managed, that censure is swallowed up in 
pity : the murderer is absolved by the weeping auditory, who are ready, if not to justify the crime, 
yet to vindicate the criminal. The drowsy moral at the close, slowly attempts to creep after the 
poison of the piece ; but it creeps in vain ; it can never expel that which it can never reach ; for 
one stroke of feeling, one natural expression of the passions, be the principle right or wrong, 
carries away the affections of the auditor beyond any of the poet's force of reasoning to control. 
And they know little of the power of the dramatic art, or of the conformation of the human mind, 
who do not know that the heart of the feeling spectator is always at the command of the passions 
in the hand of a true poet ; who snatches him with uncontrolled dominion 

" To Thebes and Athens when he will, and where." 

Now, to counteract the bias given by the passions, all the flowers of rhetoric, all the flights 
of mere poetry, and all the blunted weapons ot logic united, are ineffectual. Of course, the con- 
cluding antidote never defeats the mischief of the piece ; the effect of the smooth moral is in- 
stantly obliterated, while that of the indented passion is perhaps indelible. 

Let me now for a moment turn to the younger part of that sex, to whose service I have 
generally devoted my principal attention. A virtuous young woman, it will be said, who has 
been correctly educated, will turn with abhorrence from the unchaste scenes of a loose play. 
It is indeed so to be hoped ; and yet many plays which really deserve that character, escape 
that denomination. But I concede this point, and proceed to the more immediate object of my 
animadversions. The remark may be thought preposterous, should I observe, that, to a chaste 
and delicate young mind, there is in good plays one danger which, I will venture to assert, is 
almost more formidable than that which is often attached to pieces more obviously- censurable. 
The more refined and delicate the passion of love is made to appear, the more insinuating, and, 
of course, the more dangerous, will the exquisite and reiterated representation of that passion 
be found. Now, love being the grand business of plays, those young ladies who are frequently 
attending them, will be liable to nourish a feeling which is often strong enough of itself, without 
this constant supply of foreign fuel, namely, that love is the grand business of life also. If the 
passion be avowedly illicit, her well-instructed conscience will arm her with scruples, and her 
sense of decorum will set her on her guard. While, on the other hand, the greater the purity 
with which the passion is exhibited, provided the exhibition be very touching and warm, the more 
deep and irresistible will be its effect on a tender and inexperienced heart ; nay, the more likely 
will the passion acted on the stage be to excite a corresponding passion in the heart of the young 
spectatress. If she have not yet felt the passion she sees so finely portrayed, she will wish to 
feel it ; and, the not having felt it, she will consider as something wanting to the perfection of 
her nature. She will ascribe the absence of it to a defect in her own heart which must be sup- 
plied, or to some untowardness in her own circumstances which must be removed. Thus her 
imagination will do the work of the passions, and the fancy will anticipate the feelings of the 
heart : the source this, of some of the most fatal disorders in the female character ! 

Now, to captivate such a tender and affectionate heart as that we are considering, the semblance 
of virtue is necessary ; for, while she will conceive of criminal passion as censurable, she will be 
equally apt to consider even the most imprudent passion as justifiable, so long as the idea of 
absolute crime is kept at a distance. If the love be represented as avowedly vicious, instead 
of lending herself to the illusion, she will allow it ought to be sacrificed to duty ; but if she 
thinks it innocent, she persuades herself that every duty should be sacrificed to it. Nay, she 
will value herself in proportion as she thinks she could imitate the heroine who is able to love 
with so much violence and so much purity at the same time. By frequent repetition, especially 
if there be a taste for romance and poetry in the innocent young mind, the feelings are easily 
transplanted from the theatre to the closet ; they are made to become a standard of action, and 
are brought home as the regulators of life and manners. The heart being thus filled with the 
pleasures of love a new era takes place in her mind, and she carries about with her an aptitude 



'508 THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 

to receive any impression herself, and a constantly waking and active desire to make this im- 
pression in return. The plain and sober duties of life begin to be uninteresting ; she wishes 
them to be diversified with events, and enlivened by heroes. Though she retains her virtue, her 
sobermindedness is impaired ; for she longs to be realizing those pains and pleasures, and to be 
acting over those scenes and sacrifices, which she so often sees represented. If the evils arising 
from frequent scenic representations to a young woman were limited to this single inconvenience, 
that it makes her sigh to be a heroine, it would be a strong reason why a discreet and pious 
mother should be slow in introducing her to them. 

I purposely forbear, in this place, repeating any of those higher arguments drawn from the 
utter irreconcileableness of this indulgence of the fancy, of this gratification of the senses, this 
unbounded roving of the thoughts, with the divine injunction of bringing " every thought into 
the obedience of Christ." 

But it will be said, perhaps, all this rigour may be very suitable to enthusiasts and fanatics, to 
the vulgar, the retired, and the obscure : but would you exclude the more liberal and polished 
part of society from the delight and instruction which may be derived from the great masters 
of the human heart, from Shakspeare particularly 1 

On this subject I think myself called upon to offer my opinion (such as it is) as unreservedly 
as I have taken the liberty of doing on the points considered in the former part of this preface. 
I think, then, that there is a substantial difference between seeing and reading a dramatic com- 
position ; and that the objections which lie so strongly against the one, are not, at least in the 
same degree, applicable to the other. Or, rather, while there is an essential and inseparable 
danger attendant on dramatic exhibitions, let the matter of the drama be ever so innocent, the 
danger in reading a play arises solely from the sentiments contained in it. 

„ To read a moral play is little different from reading any other innocent poem ; the dialogue 
form being a mere accident, and no way affecting the moral tendency of the piece. Nay, some 
excellent poets have chosen that form on account of its peculiar advantages, even when the nature 
of their subjects precluded the idea of theatrical exhibition. Thus Buchanan wrote his fine 
tragedies of " The Baptist," and " Jephthah," Grotius that of " Christ Suffering," and Milton 
that of " Samson Agonistes ;" not to name the "Joseph," the " Bethulia Delivered," and some 
other, pieces of the amiable Metastasio. Nothing, therefore, could be more unreasonable, than to 
proscribe from the study or the closet well-selected dramatic poetry. It may be read with safety, 
because it can there be read with soberness. The most animated speeches subside into com- 
parative tameness, and, provided they are perfectly pure, produce no ruffle of the passions, no 
agitation of the senses, but merely afford a pleasant, and, it may be, a not unsalutary exercise to 
the imagination: 

In all the different kinds of poetry, there will be a necessity for selection ; and where could 
safer poetical amusement be found than in the works of Racine, whose Athalia, in particular (as 
we have had occasion elsewhere to observe), most happily illustrates an interesting piece of scrip- 
ture history, at the same time that, considered as a composition, it is itself a model of poetical 
perfection. I may mention, as an exquisite piece, the Masque of Gomus, and, as interesting 
poems in the dramatic form also, the Caractacus, and Elfrida, of Mason ; the passing over which 
pieces in the volumes of that virtuous poet, merely because they are in a dramatic form, would 
be an instance of scrupulosity which one might venture to say no well-informed conscience could- 
suggest. 

Let neither, then, the devout and scrupulous, on the one hand, nor the captious caviller, on 
the other, object to this distinction ; I mean between reading a dramatic composition, and seeing 
a theatrical exhibition, as if it were fanciful or arbitrary. In the latter, is it the mere repetition 
of the speeches which implies danger 1 is it this vtfiich attracts the audience 1 No : were even 
the best reader, if he did not bring in aid the novelty of a foreign language, to read the whole 
play himself, without scenic decorations, without dress, without gesticulation, would such an ex- 
hibition be numerously, or for any length of time, attended 1 ! What then chiefly draws the 
multitude 1 It is the semblance of real action which is given to the piece, by different persons 
supporting the different parts, and by their dress, their tones, their gestures, heightening the repre- 
sentation into a kind of enchantment. It is the concomitant pageantry, it is the splendour of 
the spectacle, and even the show of the spectators : — these are the circumstances which alto- 
gether fill the theatre — which altogether produce the effect — which altogether create the danger. 
These giv« a pernicious force to sentiments which, when read, merely explain the mysterious 
action of the human heart, but which, when thus uttered, thus accompanied, become contagious 
and destructive. These, in short, make up a scene of temptation and seduction, of overwrought 
voluptuousness and unnerving pleasure, which surely ill accords with " working out our salvation 
with fear and trembling," or with that frame of mind which implies that " the world is crucified 
to us, and we to the world." 

I trust I have sufficiently guarded against the charge of inconsistency, even though I venture 
to hazard an opinion that, in company with a judicious friend or parent, many scenes of Shak- 
speare may be read not only without danger, but with improvement. Far be it from me to wish 
to abridge the innocent delights of life, where they may be enjoyed with benefit to the under- 
standing, and without injury to the principles. Women, especially, whose walk in life is so 
circumscribed, and whose avenues of information are so few, may, I conceive, lean? to know the 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 609 

world with less danger, and to study human nature with more advantage, from the perusal of 
selected parts of this incomparable genius, than from most other attainable sources. I would in 
this view consider Shakspeare as a philosopher as well as poet, and I have been surprised to hear 
many pious people universally confound and reprobate this poet with the common herd of drama- 
tists and novelists. To his acute and sagacious mind every varied position of the human heart, 
every shade of discrimination in the human character, all the minuter delicacies, all the exquisite 
touches, all the distinct affections, all the contending interests, all the complicated passions of 
the heart of man, seem, as far as is allowed to human inspection to discern them, to be laid 
open. Though destitute himself of the aids of literature, and of the polish of society, he seems 
to have possessed by intuition all the advantages that various learning and elegant society can 
bestow ; and to have combined the warmest energies of passion, and the boldest strokes of im- 
agination, with the justest proprieties of reasoning, and the exactest niceties of conduct. He 
makes every description a picture, and every sentiment an axiom. He seems to have known 
how every being which did exist would speak and act under every supposed circumstance and 
every possible situation ; and how every being which did not exist must speak and act, if ever 
he were to be called into actual existence. 

From the discriminated, the guarded, the qualified perusal of such an author, it would be 
impossible, nor does it appear to be necessary, to debar accomplished "and elegantly educated 
young persons. Let not the above eulogmm be censured as too strong or too bold. In almost 
every library they will rind his writings ; in almost every work of taste and criticism, the young 
reader will not fail to meet the panegyric of Shakspeare. The frequent allusions to him, and the 
beautiful quotations from him, will, if they light upon a corresponding taste, inflame it with a 
curiosity to peruse all his works. Now, would it not be safer to anticipate the danger which 
might result from a private and unqualified perusal, for the parent to select such pieces as have 
■ in them the fewest of those corruptions, which truth must allow that Shakspeare possesses in 
common with other dramatic poets \ For who will deny that all the excellences we have ascribed 
to him are debased by passages of offensive grossness '? are tarnished with indelicacy, false taste, 
and vulgarity 1 This is not the place for a discussion of those faults, too obvious to be over- 
looked, too numerous to be detailed, too strong to be palliated. Let me, however, be permitted 
to observe, that though Shakspeare often disgusts by single passages and expressions (which I 
will not vindicate by ascribing them to the false taste of the age in which he wrote ; for though 
that may extenuate the fault of the poet, it does not diminish the danger of the reader), yet 
perhaps the general tendency of his pieces is less corrupt than that of the pieces of almost any 
dramatist ; and the reader rises from the perusal of Shakspeare without those distinct images of 
evil on his mind, without having his heart so dissolved by amatory scenes, or his mind so warped 
by corrupt reasoning, or his heart so inflamed with seducing principles, as he will have expe- 
rienced from other writers of the same description, however exempt their works may be from the 
more broad and censurable vices of composition which disfigure many parts of Shakspeare. Lest 
I be misrepresented, let it be observed, that I am now distinguishing the general result arising 
from the tendency of his pieces, from the effect of particular passages ; and this is the reason 
why a discriminated perusal is so important. For, after all, the general disposition of mind with 
which we rise from the reading of a work, is the best criterion of its utility or mischief. To 
the tragedies of Shakspeare, too, belongs this superiority, that his pieces being faithful histories 
of the human heart, and portraits of the human character, love is only introduced as one passion 
among many which enslave mankind ; whereas by most other play writers, it is treated as the 
• monopolizing tyrant of the heart. 

It is not because I consider Shakspeare as a correct moralist and an unerring guide, that I sug- 
gest the. advantage of having the youthful curiosity allayed by a partial perusal, and under prudent 
inspection : but it is for this very different reason, lest, by having that curiosity stimulated by the 
incessant commendation of this author, with which both books and conversation abound, young 
persons should be excited to devour in secret an author who, if devoured in the gross, will not 
fail, by many detached passages, to put a delicate reader in the situation of his own ancient Pistol 
when eating the leek ; that is, to swallow and execrate at the same time. 

But to conclude, — which I will do with a recapitulation of the principal objects already touched 
upon. That I may not be misunderstood, let me repeat that this preface is not addressed to the 
gay and dissolute ; to such as profess themselves to be " lovers of oleasure more than lovers of 
God ;" — but it is addressed to the more soberminded ; to those who believe the gospel of Jesus 
Christ ; who wish to be enlightened by its doctrines, to be governed by its precepts, and who 
profess to be " seeking a better country, even a heavenly one." The question then which we 
have been asking is, whether the stage, in its present state, be a proper amusement for such a 
character 1 What it would be, if perfectly reformed, and cast into the Christian mould, we have 
considered as another question, which it will be time enough to answer when the reformation 
itself takes place. 

Neither (as has been observed) is it to the present purpose to insist that theatrical amuse- 
ments are the most rational ; for the question we have undertaken to agitate is, whether they 
are blameless 1 In this view, the circumstance of going but seldom cannot satisfy a conscien« 
tious mind ; for if the amusement be right, we may partake of it with moderation, as of other 
awful pleasures ; if wrong, we should never nartake of it. 



510 THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 

Some individuals may urge that the amusements of the theatre never had the bad effects on 
their minds which they are said to have on the minds of others ; but supposing this to be really 
the case (which however may admit of doubt), ought not such persons to reflect, that by their 
presence they sanction that which is obviously hurtful to others, and which must, if so, be dis- 
pleasing to God 1 

The stage is by universal concurrence allowed to be no indifferent thing. The impressions it 
makes on the mind are deep and strong ; deeper and stronger, perhaps, than are made by any 
other amusement. If then such impressions be in the general hostile to Christianity, the whole 
resolves itself into this short question — Should a Christian frequent it 



[In addition to what has here been advanced on the subject of theatrical amusements, the 
editor hopes to be excused for inserting the conclusion of Jeremy Collier's " Short View of the 
Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage :" printed in 1699. 

" These entertainments are, as it were, literally renounced in baptism. They are the vanities 
of the wicked world, and the works of the devil, in the most open and emphatical signification. 
What communion has light with darkness, and what concord has Christ with Belial 1 Call you 
this diversion 1 can profaneness be such an irresistible delight 1 Does the crime of the perform- 
ance make the spirit of the satisfaction, and -is the scom of Christianity the entertainment of 
Christians 1 Is it such a pleasure to hear the scriptures burlesqued 1 Is ribaldry so very obli- 
ging, and atheism so charming a quality 1 Are we indeed willing to quit the privilege of our 
nature, to surrender our charter of immortality, and throw up the pretences to another life 1 It 
may be so ; but then we should do well to remember that nothing is not in our. power. Our 
desires did not make us, neither can they unmake us. But I hope our wishes are not so mean, 
and that we have a better sense of the dignity of our being. And if so, how can we be pleased 
with those things which would degrade us into brutes, which ridicule our creed, and turn all our 
expectations into romance. 

" And, after all, the jest on't is, these men would make us believe their design is virtue and 
reformation. In good time ! they are likely to combat vice with success, who destroy the princi- 
ples of good and evil ! Take them at the best, and they do no more than expose a little humour 
and formality. But then, as the matter is managed, the correction is much worse than the fault. 
They laugh at pedantry and teach atheism ; cure a pimple, and give the plague. I heartily 
wish they would have let us alone. To exchange virtue for behaviour, is a hard bargain. Is 
not plain honesty much better than hypocrisy well dressed 1 what's sight good for, without sub- 
stance"! what is a wellbred libertine, but a wellbred knave 1 One that can't prefer conscience 
to pleasure, without calling himself fool ; and will sell his friend, or his father, if need be, for 
his convenience. 

" In short : nothing can be more disserviceable to probity and religion than the management 
of the stage. It cherishes those passions, and rewards those vices, which 'tis the business of 
reason to discountenance. It strikes at the root of principle, draws off the inclinations from 
virtue, and spoils good education. It is the most effectual means to emasculate people's spirits, 
and debauch their manners. How many of the unwary have these sirens devoured 1 and how 
often has the best blood been tainted with this infection 1 what disappointments of parents, what 
confusion in families, and what beggary in estates, have been hence occasioned 1 and, which ia 
still worse, the mischief spreads daily, and the malignity grows more envenomed. The fever 
works up towards madness, and will scarcely endure to be touched. And what hope is there of 
health, when the patient strikes in with the disease, and flies in the face of the remedy 1 ! Can 
religion retrieve us 1 yes, when we don't despise it. But while our notions are naught, our 
lives will hardly be otherwise. What can the assistance of the church signify to those who are 
more ready to rally the preacher, than practise the sermon 1 to those who are overgrown with 
pleasure, and hardened in ill custom 1 who have neither patience to hear, nor conscience to take 
hold of] you may almost as well feed a man without a mouth, as give advice where there's no 
disposition to receive it. It is true, as long as there is life there's hope. Sometimes the force 
of argument, and the grace of God, and the anguish of affliction, may strike through the preju- 
dice, and make their way into the soul. But these circumstances don't always meet, and then 
the case is extremely dangerous. For this miserable temper, we may thank the stage, in a 
great measure ; and, therefore, if I mistake not, they have the least pretence to favour, and the 
most need of repentance of all men living."] 



*• 



THE INFLEXIBLE CAPTIVE: 

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 

AS IT WAS ACTED IN 1774, AT THE THEATRE ROYAL AT BATH. 

" The man resolv'd, and steady to his trust, 
Inflexible to ill, and obstinately "just." 



THE HON. MRS. BOSCAWEN. 

Dear Madam, 
It seems somewhat extraordinary, that although, with persons of great merit and delicacy, 
no virtue stands in higher estimation than truth ; yet, in such an address as the present, there 
would be some danger of offending them, by a strict adherence to it : I mean, by uttering truths 
so generally acknowledged, that every one except the person addressed would acquit the writer 
of flattery. And it will be a singular circumstance to see a dedication without praise, to a lady 
possessed of every quality and accomplishment which can justly entitle her to it. 
I am, dear madam, with great respect, 

Your most obedient, and very obliged humble servant, 

THE AUTHOR. 



THE ARGUMENT. I 



Among the great names which have done honour to antiquity in general, and to the Roman 
Republic in particular, that of Marcus Attilius Regulus has, by the general consent of all ages, 
been considered as one of the most splendid, since he not only sacrificed his labours, his liberty, 
and his life, for the good of his country, but, by a greatness of soul almost peculiar to himself, 
contrived to make his very misfortunes contribute to that glorious end. 

After the Romans had met with various successes in the first Punic war, under the command 
of Regulus, victory at length declared for the opposite party — the Roman army was totally 
overthrown, and Regulus himself taken prisoner by Xantippus, a Lacedaemonian general in the 
servic e of the Carthaginians : the victorious enemy, exulting in so important a conquest, kept 
him many years in close imprisonment, and loaded him with the most cruel indignities. They 
thought it was now in their power to make their own terms with Rome, and determined to send 
Regulus thither, with their ambassador, to negotiate a peace, or at least an exchange of captives, 
thinking he would gladly persuade his countrymen to discontinue a war which necessarily pro- 
longed his captivity. They previously exacted from him an oath to return, should his embassy 
prove unsuccessful ; at the same time giving him to understand, that he must expect to suffer a 
cruel death if he failed in it : this they artfully intimated, as the strongest motive for him to 
leave no means unattempted to accomplish their purpose. 

At the unexpected arrival of this venerable hero, the Romans expressed the wildest transports 
of joy, and would have submitted to almost any conditions, to procure his enlargement ; but 
Regulus, so far from availing himself of his influence with the senate to obtain any personal 
advantages, employed it to induce them to reject proposals so evidently tending to dishonour 
their country, declaring his fixed resolution to return to bondage and death, rather than violate 
his oath. 

He at last extorted from them their consent ; and departed amid the tears of his family, the 
importunities of his friends, the applauses of the senate, and the tumultuous opposition of the 
people : and, as a great poet of his own nation beautifully observes, " he embarked for Carthage 
as calm and unconcerned, as if, on finishing the tedious lawsuits of his clients, he was retiring 
toVenafrian fields, or the sweet country of Tarentum." 



*** This piece is a pretty close imitation of the AttilioRegolo of Metastasio, but enlarged 
and extended into a tragedy of five acts. Historical truth has in general been followed, except 
in some less essential instances, particularly that of placing the return of Regulus to Rome pos- 
terior to the death of his wife. The writer herself never considered the plot as sufficiently 
bustling and dramatic for representation. 



612 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



PROLOGUE. 



WRITTEN BY THE REV. DR. LANGHORNE 



Deep in the bosom of departed days, 

Where the first gems of human glory blaze ; 
Where, crown'd with flowers, in wreaths im- 
mortal dress'd, 
The sacred shades of ancient virtue rest ; 
With joy they search, who joy can feel, to find 
Some honest reason still to love mankind. 
There the fair foundress of the scene to-night, 
Explores the paths that dignify delight ; 
The regions of the mighty dead pervades ; 
The sibyl she that leads us to the shades. 
O may each blast of ruder breath forbear 
To waft her light leaves on the ruthless air ; 
Since she, as heedless, strives not to maintain 
This tender offspring of her teeming brain ! 
For this poor birth was no provision made, 
A flower that sprung and languish'd in the shade. 



On Avon's banks, forsaken and forlorn, 
This careless mother left her elder born ; 
And though unlike what Avon hail'd of yore, 
Those giant sons that Shakspeare's banners 

bore, 
Yet may we yield this little offspring grace, 
And love the last and least of such a race. 
Shall the strong scenes, where senatorial Rome 
Mourn'd o'er the rigour of a patriot's doom ; ' 
Where melting nature, aw'd by virtue's eye, 
Hid the big drop, and held the bursting sigh, 
Where all that majesty of soul can give, 
Truth, honour, pity, fair affection live : 
Shall scenes like these, the glory of an age, 
Gleam from the press, nor triumph on the stage? 
Forbid it, Britons ! and, as Romans brave, 
Like Romans boast one citizen to save. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



Regulus. — Mr. Henderson. 
Publics, his son. — Mr. Dimond. 
Manlius, the Consul. — Mr. Blisselt. 
Licinius, a Tribune. — Mr. Brown. 



Guards, Lictors, People, &c. 
Scene. — Near the Gales of Rome 



Hamilcar, the Carthaginian Ambassador.— 

Mr. Rowbotham. 
Attilia, daughter of Regulus. — Miss Mansell. 
Barce, a Carthaginian captive. — Miss Wheeler. 



ACT I. 

Scene — A Hall in the Consul's Palace. 
Enter Licinius, Attilia, Lictors, and People. 

Lie. Attilia waiting here 1 Is't possible 1 
la this a place for Regulus's daughter 1 
Just gods ! must that incomparable maid 
Associate here with Lictors and Plebeians 1 

Alt. Yes, on this threshold patiently I wait 
The consul's coming ; I would make him blush 
To see me here his suiter. O, Licinius, 
This is no time for form and cold decorum ; 
Five lagging years have crept their tedious round, 
And Regulus, alas ! is still a slave ; 
A wretched slave, unpitied, and forgotten ; 
No other tribute paid his memory, 
Than the sad tears of his unhappy child ; 
If she be silent, who will speak for Regulus 1 

Lie. Let not her sorrows make my fair unjust. 
Is there in Rome a heart so dead to virtue, 
That does not beat in Regulus's cause 1 
That wearies not the gods for his return 1 
That does not think all subjugated Afric, 
A slender, unimportant acquisition, 
If, in return for this extended empire, 
The freedom of thy father be the purchase 1 
These are the feelings of imperial Rome ; 
My own, it were superfluous to declare. 
For if Licinius were to weigh his merit, 
That he's thy father were sufficient glory. 
He was my leader, train'd me up to arms ; 
And, if I boast a spark of Roman honour, 
I owe it to his precepts and his virtues. 

Alt. And yet I have not seen Licinius stir. 



Lie. Ah ! spare me thy reproaches — what, 
when late 
A private citizen, could I attempt " 
'Twas not the lust of power, or pride of rank, 
Which made me seek the dignity of tribune ; 
No, my Attilia, but I fondly hop'd 
'Twould strengthen and enforce the just request, 
Which, as a private man, I vainly urg'd ; 
But now, the people's representative, 
I shall demand, Attilia, to be heard. 

Alt. Ah ! let us not too hastily apply 
This dangerous remedy ; I would not rouse 
Fresh tumults 'twixt the people and the senate : 
Each views with jealousy the idol, power, 
Which, each possessing, would alike abuse. 
What one demands, the other still denies. 
Might J advise you, try a gentler method ; 
I know that every moment Rome expects 
Th' ambassador of Carthage, nay, 'tis said 
The conscript fathers are already met 
To give him audience in Bellona's temple. 
There might the consul at my suit, Licinius, 
Propose the ransom of my captive father. 

Lie. Ah ! think, Attilia, who that consul is, 
Manlius, thy father's rival, and his foe : 
His ancient rival, and his foe profess'd : 
To hope in him, my fair, were fond delusion. 

Alt. Yet tho' his rival, Manlius, is a Roman : 
Nor will he think of private enmities, 
Weigh'd in the balance with the good of Rome, 
Let me at least make trial of his honour. 

Lie. Be it so, my fair ! but elsewhere make 
thy suit ; 
Let not the consul meet AttiHa here, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



513 



Confounded with the refuse of the people. 

Att. Yes, I will see him here, e'en here, Lici- 
nius. 
Let Manlius blush, not me : here will I speak, 
Here shall he answer me. 

Lie. Behold, he comes. 

Att. Do thou retire. 

Lie. O, bless me with a look, 

One parting look, at least. 

Alt. Know, my Licinius, 

That at this moment I am all the daughter, 
The filial feelings now possess my soul, 
And other passions find no entrance there. 

Lie. sweet, yet powerful influence of virtue, 
That charms though cruel, though unkind sub- 
And what was love exalts to admiration ! [dues, 
Yes, 'tis the privilege of souls like thine 
To conquer most when least they aim at conquest. 
Yet, ah ! vouchsafe to think upon Licinius, 
Nor fear to rob thy father of his due ; 
For surely virtue and the gods approve 
Unwearied constancy and spotless love. 

[Exit Licinius. 

Enter Manlius. 

Att. Ah ! Manlius, stay, a moment stay, and 
hear me. 

Man. I did not think to meet thee here, Attilia ; 
The place so little worthy of the guest. 

Att. It would, indeed, have ill become Attilia, 
While still her father was a Roman citizen ; 
But for the daughter of a slave to Carthage, 
It surely is most fitting. 

Man. Say, Attilia, 

What is the purpose of thy coming hither 1 

Att. What is the purpose, patience, pitying 
Heaven ! 
Tell me, how long, to Rome's eternal shame, 
To fill with horror all the wond'ring world, 
My father still must groan in Punic chains, 
And waste the tedious hours in cruel bondage 1 
Days follow days, and years to years succeed, 
And Rome forgets her hero, is content 
That Regulus be a forgotten slave. 
What is his crime '! is it that he preferr'd 
His country's profit to his children's good 1 
Is it th' unshaken firmness of his soul, 
Just, uncorrupt, and, boasting, let me speak it, 
Poor in the highest dignities of Rome 1 
Illustrious crime ! glorious poverty ! 

Man. But know, Attilia — 

Alt. O, have patience with me. 

And can ungrateful Rome so soon forget 1 
Can those who breathe the air he breath'd forget 
The great, the godlike virtues of my father 1 
There's not a part of Rome but speaks his praise. 
The streets — thro' them the hero pass'd trium- 
The forum — there the legislator plann'd [phant : 
The wisest, purest laws — the senate-house — 
There spoke the patriot Roman — there his voice 
Secur'd the public safety : Manlius, yes ; 
The wisdom of his counsels match'd his valour. 
Enter the temples — mount the capitol — 
And tell me, Manlius, to what hand but his 
They owe their trophies, and their ornaments, 
Their foreign banners, and their boasted ensigns, 
Tarentine, Punic, and Sicilian spoils 1 
Nay, e'en those lictors who precede thy steps, 

Vol. 'P. 



This consul's purple which invests thy limbs, 

All, all were Regulus's, were my father's. 

And yet this hero, this exalted patriot, 

This man of virtue, this immortal Roman, 

In base requital for his services, 

Is left to linger out a life in chains, 

No honours paid him but a daughter's tears. 

Rome ! Regulus ! O thankless citizens ! 
Man. Just are thy tears : — thy father well 

deserves them ; 
But know thy censure is unjust, Attilia. 
The fate of Regulus is felt by all : 
We know and mourn the cruel woes he suffers 
From barbarous Carthage. 

Att. Manlius, you mistake ; 

Alas ! it is not Carthage which is barbarous ; 
'Tis Rome, ungrateful Rome, is the barbarian ; 
Carthage but punishes a foe profess'd, 
But Rome betrays her hero and her father : 
Carthage remembers how he slew her sons, 
But Rome forgets the blood he shed for her : 
Carthage revenges an acknowledged foe, 
But Rome with basest perfidy rewards 
The glorious hand that bound her brow witk 

laurels. 
Which now is the barbarian, Rome or Carthage ? 

Man. What can be done 1 

Alt. A woman shall inform you. 

Convene the senate ; let them straight propose 
A ransom, or exchange for Regulus, 
To Africa's ambassador. Do this, 
And heav'n's best blessings crown your days 
with peace. 

Man. Thou speakestlike a daughter, I, Attilia, 
Must as a consul act ; I must consult 
The good of Rome, and with her good, her glory. 
Would it not tarnish her unspotted fame, 
To sue to Carthage on the terms thou wishest 1 

Att. Ah ! rather own thou'rt still my father's 
foe. 

Man. Ungen'rous maid! no fault of mine 
concurr'd 
To his destruction. 'Twas the chance of war. 
Farewell ! ere this the senate is assembled — 
My presence is requir'd. — Speak to the fathers, 
And try to soften their austerity ; 
My rigour they may render vain, for know, 

1 am Rome's consul, not her king, Attilia. 

[Exit Manlius with the lictors, &c. 
Alt. (alone.) This flattering hope, alas ! has 
prov'd abortive. 
One consul is our foe, the other absent. 
What shall the sad Attilia next attempt 1 
Suppose I crave assistance from the people ! 
Ah ! my unhappy father, on what hazards, 
What strange vicissitudes, what various turns, 
Thy life, thy liberty, thy all depends ! 

Enter Barce (in haste). 

Bar. Ah, my Attilia ! 

Att. Whence this eager haste 1 

Bar. Th' ambassador of Carthage is arriv'd. 
Att. And why does that excite such won- 
drous transport '! 
Bar. I bring another cause of greater still. 
Att. Name it, my Barce. 
Bar. Regulus comes with him. 

Att. My father ! can it be 1 
2 K 



514 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Bar. Thy father — Regulus. 

Att. Thou art deceiv'd, or thou deceiv'st thy 

friend. 
Bar. Indeed I saw him not, but every tongue 
Speaks the glad tidings. 

Enter Publius. 

Alt. See where Publius comes. 

Pub. My sister, I'm transported ! Oh Attilia, 
He's here, our father — Regulus is come ! 

Alt. I thank you, gods : my full heart ! 
where is he 1 
Hasten, my brother, lead, lead me to him. 

Pub. It is too soon : restrain thy fond impa- 
tience. 
With Africa's ambassador he waits, 
Until th' assembled senate give him audience. 

All. Where was he, Publius, when thou 
saw'st him first 1 

Pub. You know, in quality of Roman questor, 
My duty 'tis to find a fit abode 
For all ambassadors of foreign states. 
Hearing the Carthaginian was arriVd, 
I hasten'd to the port, when, just gods ! 
No foreigner, no foe, no African 
Salutes my eye, but Regulus — my father ! 

Atl. Oh mighty joy ! too exquisite delight ! 
What said the hero 1 tell me, tell me all, 
And ease my anxious breast. 

Pub. Ere I arriv'd, 

My father stood already on the shore, 
Fixing his eyes with anxious eagerness, 
As straining to descry the capitol. 
I saw, and flew with transport to embrace him, 
Pronounced with wildest joy the name of father — 
With reverence seiz'd his venerable hand, 
And would have kiss'd it ; when the awful hero, 
With that stern grandeur which made Carthage 

tremble, 
Drew back — stood all collected in himself, 
And said austerely, Know, thou rash young man, 
That slaves in Rome have not the rights of fa- 
thers. 
Then asked, if yet the senate was assembled, 
And where 1 which having heard, without in- 
dulging 
The fond effusions of his soul, or mine, 
He suddenly retired. I flew with speed 
To find the consul, but as yet, success 
Attends not my pursuit. Direct me to him. 

Bar. Publius, you'll find him in Bellona's 
temple. 

Att. Then Regulus returns to Rome a slave ! 

Pub. Yes, but be comforted ; I know he brings 
Proposals for a peace ; his will's his fate. 

Att. Rome may perhaps refuse to treat of 
peace. 

Pub. Didst thou behold the universal joy 
At his return, thou wouldst not doubt success. 
There's not a tongue in Rome but, wild with 

transport, 
Proclaims aloud that Regulus is come ! 
The streets are filled with thronging multitudes, 
Pressing with eager gaze to catch a look. 
The happy man who can descry him first, 
Points him to his next neighbour, he to his ; 



Then what a thunder of applause goes rounu ; 
What music to the ear of filial love ! 
Attilia ! not a Roman eye was seen, 
But shed pure tears of exquisite delight. 
Judge of my feelings by thy own, my sister. 
By the large measure of thy fond affection, 
Judge mine. 

Att. Where is Licinius 1 find him out ; 
My joy is incomplete till he partakes it. 
When doubts and fears have rent my anxious 
In all my woes he kindly bore a part : [heart, 
Felt all my sorrows with a soul sincere, 
Sigh'd as I sigh'd, and number'd tear for tear : 
Now favouring heav'n my ardent vows has blest, 
He shall divide the transports of my breast. 

[Exit Attilia. 

Pub. Barce, adieu ! 

Bar. Publius, a moment hear me. 

Know'st thou the name of Africa's ambassador T 

Pub. Hamilcar 1 

Bar. Son of Hanno 1 

Pub. Yes ! the same. 

Bar. Ah me ! Hamilcar ! — How shall I sup- 
port it ! (aside.) 

Pub. Ah, charming maid ! the blood forsakes 
thy cheek : 
Is he the rival of thy Publius 1 speak, 
And tell me all the rigour of my fate. 

Bar. Hear me, my lord. Since I have been 
thy slave, 
Thy goodness, and the friendship of Attilia, 
Have soften'd all the horrors of my fate. 
Till now I have not felt the weight of bondage. 
Till now — ah, Publius ! — think me not un- 
grateful, 
I would not wrong thee — I will be sincere — 
I will expose the weakness of my soul. 
Know then, my lord — how shall I tell thee all T 

Pub. Stop, cruel maid, nor wound thy Publius 
more ; 
I dread the fatal frankness of thy words : 
Spare me the pain of knowing I am scorn'd ; 
And if thy heart's devoted to another, 
Yet do not tell it me ; in tender pity 
Do not, my fair, dissolve the fond illusion, 
The dear delightful visions I have form'd 
Of future joy, and fond exhaustless love. 

{Exit Publius. 

Bar. (alone.) And shall I see him then, see 
my Hamilcar, 
Pride of my soul, and lord of all my wishes 1 
The only man in all our burning Afric 
Who ever taught my bosom how to love ! 
Down, foolish heart ! be calm, my busy 

thoughts ! 
If at his name I feel these strange emotions, 
How shall I see, how meet my conqueror ] 
O let not those presume to judge of joy [gives. 
Who ne'er have felt the pangs which absence 
Such tender transport those alone can prove, 
Who long, like me, have known disastrous love ; 
The tears that fell, the sighs that once were paid, 
Like grateful incense on his altar laid ; 
The lambent flame rekindle, not destroy, 
And woes remember'd heighten present joy. 

[Exit. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



515 



ACT II. 

Scene — The inside of the Temple of Bellona — 
Seats for the Senators and Ambassadors — 
Lictors guarding the entrance. 

Manlius, Publius, and Se7iators. 

Man. Let Regulus be sent for to our presence ; 
And with him the ambassador of Carthage. 
Is it then true the foe would treat of peace 1 

Pub. They wish at least our captives were 
exchang'd, 
And send my father to declare their wish : 
If he obtain it, well : if not, then Regulus 
Returns to meet the vengeance of the foe, 
And pay for your refusal with his blood : 
He ratified this treaty with his oath, 
And, ere he quitted Carthage, heard, unmov'd, 
The dreadful preparations for his death, [men ! 
Should he return. O Romans ! my country- 
Can you resign your hero to your foe 1 
Say, can you give up Regulus to Carthage 1 

Man. Peace, Publius, peace, for see, thy 
father comes. 

Enter Hamilcar and Regulus. 

Ham. Why dost thou stop 1 dost thou forget 
this temple 1 
I thought these walls had been well known to 
Regulus 1 
Reg. Hamilcar ! I was thinking what I was 
When last I saw them, and what now I am. 
Ham. (to the consul.) Carthage, by me, to 
Rome this greeting sends ; 
That, wearied out, at length, with bloody war, 
If Rome inclines to peace, she offers it. 

Man. We will at leisure answer thee. Be 
seated. 
Come, Regulus, resume thine ancient place. 
Reg. (pointing to the senators.) Who then 

are these ] 
Man. The senators of Rome. 
Reg. And who art thou 1 
Man. What mean'st thou 1 I'm her consul ; 
Hast thou so soon forgotten Manlius 1 [Rome, 
Reg. And shall a slave then have a place in 
Among her consuls and her senators 1 

Man. Yes ! — For her heroes Rome forgets 
Softens their harsh austerity for thee, [her laws ; 
To whom she owes her conquest and her tri- 
umphs, [bers. 
Reg. Rome may forget, but Regulus remem- 
Man. Was ever man so obstinately good ] 

(Aside.) 
Pub. (rising.) Fathers, your pardon. I can sit 
no longer. (To the senators.) 

Reg. Publius, what dost thou mean 1 
Pub. To do my duty ; 

Where Regulus must stand, shall Publius sit 1 
Reg. Alas ! Rome, how are thy manners 
chang'd ! 
When last I left thee, ere I sail'd for Afric, 
It was a crime to think of private duties 
When public cares requir'd attention. — Sit, 
(To Pub.) And learn to occupy thy place with 
honour. 
Pub. Forgive me, sir, if I refuse obedience ; 
My heart o'erflows with duty to my father. 



Reg. Know, Publius, that thy duty's at an 
Thy father died when he became a slave, [end ; 

Ma?i. Now urge thy suit, Hamilcar, we at- 
tend, [senger ; 

Ham. Afric hath chosen Regulus her mes- 
In him, both Carthage and Hamilcar speak. 

Man. (to Reg.) We are prepar'd to hear thee. 

Ham. (to Reg.) Ere thou speak'st 

Maturely weigh what thou hast sworn to do, 
Should Rome refuse to treat with us of peace. 

Reg. What I have sworn I will fulfil, Ham- 
Be satisfied. [ilcar 

Pub. Ye guardian gods of Rome, 

With your own eloquence inspire him now ! 

Reg. Carthage by me this embassy has sent ; 
If Rome will leave her undisturb'd possession 
Of all she now enjoys, she offers peace ; 
But if you rather wish protracted war, 
Her next proposal is, exchange of captives ; — 
If you demand advice of Regulus, 
Reject them both. — 

Ham. What dost thou mean 1 

Pub. My father ! 

Man. Exalted fortitude ! I'm lost in wonder. 
(Aside.) [breath, 

Reg. Romans ! I will not idly spend my 
To show the dire effects of such a peace ; 
The foes, who beg it, show their dread of war. 

Man. But the exchange of prisoners thou pro- 
posest 1 [nic fraud. 

Reg. That artful scheme conceals some Pu- 

Ham. Roman, beware ! hast thou so soon 
forgotten 1 

Reg. I will fulfil the treaty I have sworn to. 

Pub. All will be ruined. 

Reg. Conscript fathers ! hear me. — [ills, 
Though this exchange teems with a thousand 
Yet 'tis th' example I would deprecate. 
This treaty fix'd, Rome's honour is no more ; 
Should her degenerate sons be promis'd life, 
Dishonest life, and worthless liberty, 
Her glory, valour, military pride, 
Her fame, her fortitude, her all were lost. 
What honest captive cf them all would wish 
With shame to enter her imperial gates, 
The flagrant scourge of slavery on his back 1 
None, none, my friends, would wish a fate so vile, 
But those base cowards who resign'd their arms, 
Unstain'd with hostile blood, and poorly sued, 
Through ignominious fear of death, for bond- 
age ; 
The scorn, the laughter, of th' insulting foe. 
shame ! shame ! shame ! eternal infamy ! 

Man. However hurtful this exchange may be, 
The liberty, the life of Regulus, 
More than compensates for it. 

Reg. Thou art mistaken. — 

This Regulus is a mere mortal man, 
Yielding apace to all th' infirmities 
Of weak, decaying nature. — I am old, 
Nor can my future, feeble services, 
Assist my country much ; but mark me well ; 
The young fierce heroes you'd restore to Car- 
thage, 
In lieu of this old man, are her chief bulwarks. 
Fathers ! in vig'rous youth this well-strung arm 
Fought for my country, fought and conquer'd 
for her : 



516 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



That was the time to prize its service high. 
Now, weak and nerveless, let the foe possess it, 
For it can harm them in the field no more. 
Let Carthage have the poor, degrading triumph, 
To close these failing eyes ; but, 0, my coun- 
trymen ! 
Check their vain hopes, and show aspiring Afric 
That heroes are the common growth of Rome. 

Man. Unequall'd fortitude. 

Pub. fatal virtue ! [founds me. 

Ham. What do I hear 1 this constancy con- 

Man. {to the senators.) Let honour be the 
spring of all our actions, 
Not interest, fathers. Let no selfish views 
Preach safety at the price of truth and justice. 

Reg. If Rome would thank me, I will teach 
her how. 
— Know, fathers, that these savage Africans 
Thought me so base, so very low of soul, 
That the poor, wretched privilege, of breathing, 
Would force me to betray my country to them. 
Have these barbarians any tortures left, 
To match the cruelty of such a thought ] 
Revenge me, fathers ! and I'm still a Roman. 
Arm, arm yourselves, prepare your citizens, 
Snatch your imprison'd eagles from their fanes, 
Fly to the shores of Carthage, force her gates, 
Die every Roman sword in Punic blood — 
And do such deeds — that when I shall return 
(As I have sworn, and am resolved to do), 
I may behold with joy, reflected back, 
The terrors of your rage in the dire visages 
Of my astonish'd executioners. [in wonder ! 

Ham. Surprise has chill'd my blood ! I'm lost 

Pub. Does no one answer 1 must my father 
perish ! [question : 

Man. Romans, we must defer th' important 
Maturest counsels must determine on it. 
Rest we awhile : — Nature requires some pause 
From high-rais'd admiration. Thou, Hamilcar, 
Shalt shortly know our final resolution. 
Meantime, we go to supplicate the gods. 

Reg. Have you a doubt remaining 1 Man- 
lius, speak. 

Man. Yes, Regulus, I think the danger less 
To lose th' advantage thy advice suggests, 
Than would accrue to Rome in losing thee, 
Whose wisdom might direct, whose valour 

guard her. 
Athirst for glory thou wouldst rush on death, 
And for thy country's sake wouldst greatly perish. 
Too vast a sacrifice thy zeal requires, 
For Rome must bleed when Regulus expires. 
Exeunt consul and senators. 

Manent Regulus, Publius, Hamilcar ; to 
them enter Attilia and Licinius. 

Ham. Does Regulus fulfil his promise thus ! 

Reg. I've promis'd to return, and I will do it. 

Att. My father ! think a moment. 

Lie. Ah ! my friend ! 

Lie. and Att. 0, by this hand, we beg — 

Reg. Away ! no more. 

Thanks to Rome's guardian gods, I'm yet a slave, 
And will be still a slave, to make Rome free ! 

Att. Was the exchange refused 1 Oh ! ease 
my fears. 

Reg. Publius ! conduct Hamilcar and myself 



To the abode thou hast for each provided. 

Att. A foreign residence 1 a strange abode ! 
And will my father spurn his household gods 1 

Pub. My sire a stranger 1 — Will he taste no 
more 
The smiling blessings of his cheerful home 1 

Reg. Dost thou not know the laws of Rome 
A foe's ambassador within her gates 1 [forbid 

Pub. This rigid law does not extend to thee. 

Reg. Yes ; did it not alike extend to all, 
'Twere tyranny. — The law rights every man, 
But favours none. 

Alt. Then, O my father, 

Allow thy daughter to partake thy fate ! 

Reg. Attilia ! no. The present exigence 
Demands far other thoughts, than the soft cares, 
The fond effusions, the delightful weakness, 
The dear affections 'twixt the child and parent. 

Att. How is my father chang'd from what 
I've known him ! [Regulus, 

Reg. The fate of Regulus is chang'd, not 
I am the same ; in laurels or in chains. 
'Tis the same principle ; the same fix'd soul, 
Unmov'd itself, though circumstances change. 
The native vigour of the free-born mind 
Still struggles with, still conquers, adverse for- 
tune ; 
Soars above chains, invincible though van- 
quished. 

[Exeunt Regulus and Publius. 

Attilia, Hamilcar, going, enter Barce. 

Bar. Ah ! my Hamilcar. 

Ham. Ah ! my long-lost Barce . 

Again I lose thee ; Regulus rejects 
Th' exchange of prisoners Africa proposes. 
My heart's too full. Oh, I have much to say ! 

Bar. Yet you unkindly leave me, and say 
nothing. [loves, 

Ham. Ah ! didst thou love as thy Hamilcar 
Words were superfluous ; in my eyes, my Barce, 
Thou'dst read the tender eloquence of love, 
Th' uncounterfeited language of my heart. 
A single look betrays the soul's soft feelings, 
And shows imperfect speech of little worth. 

[Exit Hamilcar. 

Att. My father then conspires his own de- 
Is it not so 1 [struction. 

Bar. Indeed, I fear it much ; 

But as the senate has not yet resolv'd, [ment ; 
There is some room for hope ; lose not a mp- 
And, ere the conscript fathers are assembled, 
Try all the powers of winning eloquence, 
Each gentle art of feminine persuasion, 
The love of kindred, and the faith of friends, 
To bend the rigid Romans to thy purpose. 

Att. Yes, Barce, I will go ; I will exert 
My little pow'r, though hopeless of success. 
Undone Attilia ! fall'n from hope's gay heights 
Down the dread precipice of deep despair. 
So some tir'd mariner the coast espies, 
And his lov'd home explores with straining eyes ; 
Prepares with joy to quit the treacherous deep, 
Hush'd every wave, and every wind asleep ; 
But, ere he lands upon the well-known shore, 
Wild storms arise, and furious billows roar, 
Tear the fond wretch from all his hopes aw&y, 
And drive his shatter'd bark again to sea. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



517 



ACT III. 
Scene — A Portico of a Palace without the 
gates of Rome. — The abode of the Cartha- 
ginian ambassador. 
Enter Regulus and Publius meeting. 

Reg. Ah ! Publius here at such a time as 
this 1 [senate 

Know'st thou the important question that the 
This very hour debate 1 — Thy country's glory, 
Thy father's honour, and the public, good ] 
Dost thou know this, and fondly linger here 1 

Pub. They're not yet met, my father. 

Reg. Haste — away — 

Support my counsel in th' assembled senate, 
Confirm their wav'ring virtue by thy courage, 
And Regulus shall glory in his boy. [task. 

Pub. Ah ! spare thy son the most ungrateful 
What ! — supplicate the ruin of my father 1 

Reg. The good of Rome can never hurt her 
sons. 

Pub. In pity to thy children, spare thyself. 

Reg. Dost thou then think that mine's a 
frantic bravery 1 
That Regulus would rashly seek his fate ] 
Publius ! how little dost thou know thy sire ! 
Misjudging youth ! learn, that like other men, 
I shun the evil, and I seek the good ; 
But that I find in guilt, and this in virtue. 
Were it not guilt, guilt of the blackest die, 
Even to think of freedom at th' expense 
Of my dear bleeding country 1 to me, therefore, 
Freedom and life would be the heaviest evils ; 
But to preserve that country, to restore her, 
To heal her wounds, though at the price of life, 
Or, what is dearer far, the price of liberty, 
Is virtue — therefore, slavery and death 
Are Regulus's good — his wish — his choice. 

Pub. Yet sure our country 

Reg. Is a whole, my Publius, 

Of which we all are farts, nor should a citizen 
Regard his interests as distinct from hers ; 
No hopes or fears should touch his patriot soul, 
But what affect her honour or her shame. 
E'en when in hostile fields he bleeds to save her, 
'Tis not his blood he loses, 'tis his country's ; 
He only pays her back a debt he owes. 
To her he's bound for birth and education : 
Her laws secure him from domestic feuds, 
And from the foreign foe her arms protect him. 
She lends him honours, dignity, and rank, 
His wrongs revenges, and his merit pays ; 
And, like a tender and indulgent mother, 
Loads him with comforts, and would make his 

state 
As blest as nature and the gods design'd it. 
Such gifts, my son, have their alloy of pain, 
And let th' unworthy wretch, who will not bear 
His portion of the public burden, lose 
Th' advantages it yields ; — let him retire 
From the dear blessings of a social life, 
And from the sacred laws which guard those 

blessings ; 
Renounce the civiliz'd abodes of man, 
With kindred brutes one common shelter seek 
In honid wilds, and dens, and dreary caves, 
And with their shaggy tenants share the spoil ; 
Or, if the savage hunters miss 'heir prey, 



From scatter'd acorns pick a scanty meal, — 
Far from the sweet civilities of life ; [dom : 
There let him live, and vaunt his wretched free- 
While we, obedient to the laws that guard us, 
Guard them, and live or die as they decree. 
Pub. With reverence and astonishment I bear 
thee! 
Thy words, my father, have convine'd my reason, 
But cannot touch my heart ; — nature denies 
Obedience so repugnant. I'm a son. 

Reg. A poor excuse, unworthy of a Roman . 
Brutus, Virginius, Manlius — they were fathers. 
Pub. 'Tis true, they were ; but this heroic 
This glorious elevation of the soul, [greatness, 
Has been confin'd to fathers, — Rome, till now, 
Boasts not a son of such unnatural virtue, 
Who, spurning all the powerful ties of blood, • 
Has labour'd to procure his father's death. 
Reg. Then be the first to give the great ex- 
ample — 
Go, hasten, be thyself that son, my Publius. 
Pub. My father, ah ! 

Reg. Publius, no more ; begone — 

Attend the senate — let me know my fate ; 
'Twill be more glorious if announe'd by thee. 
Pub. Too much, too much, thy rigid virtue 
claims 
From thy unhappy son. O nature, nature ! 

Reg. Publius ! am I a stranger, or thy father 1 
In either case an obvious duty waits thee ; 
If thou regard'st me as an alien here, 
Learn to prefer to mine the good of Rome ; 
If as a father — reverence my commands, [soul, 
Pub. Ah ! couldst thou look into my inmost 
And see how warm it burns with love and duty, 
Thou wouldst abate the rigour of thy words. 

Reg. Could I explore the secrets of thy breast, 
The virtue I would wish should flourish there 
Were fortitude, not weak, complaining love. 

Pub. If thou requir'st my blood, I'll shed it all ; 
But when thou dost enjoin the harsher task 
That I should labour to procure thy death, 
Forgive thy son — he has not so much virtue. 
[Exit Publius. 
Reg. Th' important hour draws on, and now 
my soul 
Loses her wonted calmness, lest the senate 
Should doubt what answer to return to Car- 

ye protecting deities of Rome ! [thage. 
Ye guardian gods ! look down propitious on her, 
Inspire her senate with your sacred wisdom, 
And call up all that's Roman in their souls ! 

Enter Manlius (speaking). 

See that the lictors wait, and guard the en- 
Take care that none intrude. [trance — 

Reg. Ah ! Manlius here 1 

What can this meanl 

Man. Where, where is Regulus ! 

The great, the godlike, the invincible 1 
Oh, let me strain the hero to my breast. — 

Reg. (avoiding him.) Manlius, stand off, re- 
member I'm a slave 1 
And thou Rome's consul. 

Man. I am something more : 

1 am a man enamour'd of thy virtues ; 

Thy fortitude and courage have subdued me. 
I was thy rival — I am now ihy friend ; 



518 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Allow me that distinction, dearer far 

Than all the honours Rome can give without it 
Reg. This is the temper still of noble minds 

And these the blessings of an humble fortune. 

Had I not been a slave, I ne'er had gain'd 

The treasure of thy friendship. 
Man. I confess, 

Thy grandeur cast a veil before my eyes, 

Which the reverse of fortune has remov'd. 

Oft have I seen thee on the day of triumph, 

A conqueror of nations, enter Rome ; 

Now, thou hast conquer'd fortune and thyself. 

Thy laurels oft have mov'd my soul to envy, 

Thy chains awaken my respect, my reverence ; 

Then Regulus appear'd a hero to me, 

He rises now a god. 

Reg. Manlius, enough. 

Cease thy applause ; 'tis dang'rous ; praise like 
thine 

Might tempt the most severe and cautious virtue. 

Bless'd be the gods, who gild my latter days 
With the bright glory of the consul's friendship ! 
Man. Forbid it, Jove ! saidst thou thy latter 
days] 
May gracious heav'n to a far distant hour 
Protract thy valued life. Be it my care 
To crown the hopes of thy admiring country, 
By giving back her long-lost hero to her. 
I will exert my power to bring about 
Th' exchange of captives Africa proposes. 

Reg. Manlius, and is it thus, is this the way 
Thou dost begin to give me proofs of friendship : 
Ah ! if thy love be so destructive to me, 
What would thy hatred be 1 Mistaken consul ! 
Shall I then lose the profit of my wrongs 1 
Be thus defrauded of the benefit 
I vainly hoped from all my years of bondage? 
I did not come to show my chains to Rome, 
To move my country to a weak compassion ; 
I came to save her honour, to preserve her 
From tarnishing her glory ; came to snatch her 
From offers so destructive to her fame. 

Manlius ! either give me proofs more worthy 
A Roman's friendship, or renew thy hate. 

Man. Dost thou not know, that, this exchange 
Inevitable death must be thy fate 1 [refus'd, 

Reg. And has the name of death such terror 
in it, 
To strike with dread the mighty soul of Manlius 1 
'Tis not to-day I learn that I am mortal. 
The foe can only take from Regulus 
What wearied nature would have shortly yield- 
It will be now a voluntary gift, [ed ; 
'Twould then become a tribute seiz'd, not offer'd. 
Yes, Manlius, tell the world that as I lived 
For Rome alone, when I could live no longer, 
'Twas my last care how, dying, to assist, 
To save that country I had lived to serve. 

Man. unexampled worth ! O godlike Reg- 
ulus ! 
Thrice happy Rome ! unparalleled in heroes ! 
Hast thou then sworn, thou awfully good man ! 
Never to bless the consul with thy friendship 1 

Reg. If thou wilt love me, love me like a 
Roman. [ship. 

These are the terms on which I take thy frieno- 
We both must make a sacrifice to Rome, 

1 of my life, and thou of Regulus : 



One must resign his being, one his friend. 
It is but just, that what procures our country 
Such real blessings, such substantial good, 
Should cost thee something — I shall lose but 

little. 
Go then, my friend ! but promise, ere thou goest, 
With all the consular authority, 
Thou wilt support my counsel in the senate. 
If thou art willing to accept these terms, [ship. 
With transport I embrace thy proffer'd friend- 
Maw, (after a pause.) Yes, I do promise. 
Reg. Bounteous gods, I thank you ! 

Ye never gave, in all your round of blessing, 
A gift so greatly welcome to my soul, 
As Manlius' friendship on the terms of honour ! 
Man. Immortal Powers ! why am not la slave 1 
By heav'n ! I almost envy thee thy bonds. 
Reg. My friend ! there's not a moment to be 
lost ; 
Ere this, perhaps, the senate is assembled. 
To thee, and to thy virtues, I commit 
The dignity of Rome — my peace and honour. 
Man. Illustrious man, farewell ! 
Reg. Farewell, my friend ! 

Man. The sacred flame thou hast kindled in 
my soul 
Glows in each vein, trembles in every nerve, 
And raises me to something more than man. 
My blood is fired with virtue, and with Rome, 
And every pulse beats an alarm to glory. 
Who would not spurn a sceptre when compar'd 
With chains like thine 1 Thou man of every 
virtue, 

farewell ! may all the gods protect and bless 

thee. [Exit Manlius. 

Enter Licinius. 

Reg. Now I begin to live : propitious Heaven 
Inclines to favour me. — Licinius here 1 

Lie. With joy, my honour'd friend, I seek 
thy presence. 

Reg. And why with joy 1 

Lie. Because my heart once more 

Beats high with flattering hope. In thy great 

1 have been labouring. [cause 
Reg. Say'st thou in my cause ] 
Lie. In thine and Rome's. Does it excite 

thy wonder 1 
Couldst thou then think so poorly of Licinius, 
That base ingratitude could find a place 
Within his bosom 1 — Can I then forget 
Thy thousand acts of friendship to my youth 1 
Forget them too at that important moment 
When most I might assist thee 1 — Regulus, 
Thou wast my leader, general, father — all. 
Didst thou not teach me early how to tread 
The path of glory ; point the way thyself, 
And bid me follow thee 1 

Reg. But say, Licinius, 

What hast thou done to serve me 1 

Lie. I have defended 

Thy liberty and life ! 

Reg. Ah ! speak — explain. — . 

Lie. Just as the fathers were about to meet, 
I hasten'd to the temple — at the entrance 
Their passage I retarded, by the force 
Of strong entreaty ; then address'd myself 
So well to each, that I from each obtain'd 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



519 



A declaration, that his utmost power 
Should be exerted for thy life and freedom. 

Reg. Great gods ! what do I hear ! Licinius 
too! 

Lie. Not he alone ; no, 'twere indeed unjust 
To rob the fair Attilia of her claim 
To filial merit. — What I could, I did. [earth, 
But she — thy charming daughter — heav'n and 
What did she not, to save her father 1 

Reg. Who 1 

Lie. Attilia, thy belov'd — thy age's darling ! 
Was ever father bless'd with such a child ! 
Gods ! how her looks took captive all who saw 
How did her soothing eloquence subdue [her ! 
The stoutest hearts of Rome ! How did she rouse 
Contending passions in the breasts of all ! 
How sweetly temper dignity with grief! 
With what a soft, inimitable grace, [sooth'd. 
She prais'd, reproach'd, entreated, flatter'd, 

Reg. What said the senators 1 

Lie. What could they say * 

Who could resist the lovely conqueror 1 
• See where she comes — Hope dances in her eyes, 
And lights up all her beauties into smiles. 

Enter Attilia. 

Att. Once more, my dearest father — 

Reg. Ah, presume not 

To call me by that name. For know, Attilia, 
I number thee among the fees of Regulus. 

Att. What do I hear 1 thy foe ] my father's 
foe 1 [glory . 

Reg. His worst of foes — the murd'rer of his 

Att. Ah ! is it then a proof of enmity 
To wish thee all the good that gods can give thee, 
To yield my life, if needful, for thy service 1 

Reg. Thou rash, imprudent girl ! thou little 
know'st 
The dignity and weight of public cares. 
Who made a weak and inexperiene'd woman 
The arbiter of Regulus's fate ] 

Lie. For pity's sake, my Lord ! 

Reg. Peace, peace, young man ! 

Her silence better than thy language pleads. 
That bears at least the semblance of repentance. 
Immortal powers ! — A daughter and a Roman ! 

Att. Because I am a daughter, I presum'd — 

Lie. Because I am a Roman, I aspired 
T' oppose th' inhuman rigour of thy fate. 

Reg. No more, Licinius. Howcanhebecall'd 
A Roman, who would live with infamy \ 
Or how can she be Regulus's daughter, 
Whose coward mind wants fortitude and honour * 
Unhappy children ! now you make me feel 
The burden of my chains : your feeble souls 
Have made me know I am indeed a slave. 

[Exit Regulus. 

Att. Tell me, Licinius, and oh ! tell me truly, 
If thou believ'st in all the round of time 
There ever breath'd a maid so truly wretched 1 
To weep, to mourn, a father's cruel fate — 
To love him with soul-rending tenderness — 
To know no peace by day, or rest by night — 
To bear a bleeding heart in this poor bosom, 
Which aches and trembles but to think he suffers : 
This is my crime — in any other child 
'Twould be a merit. 

Lie. Oh ! my best Attilia ! 



Do not repent thee of the pious deed : 

It was a virtuous error. That in us 

Is a just duty, which the godlike soul 

Of Regulus would think a shameful weakness. 

If the contempt of life in him be virtue, 

It were in us a crime to let him perish. 

Perhaps at last he may consent to live ; 

He then will thank us for our cares to save him : 

Let not his anger fright thee. Though our love 

Offend him now, yet, when his mighty soul 

Is reconcil'd to life, he will not chide us. 

The sick man loathes, and with reluctance takes 

The remedy by which his health's restor'd. 

Att. Licinius! his reproaches wound my soul. 
I cannot live, and bear his indignation. 

Lie. Would my Attilia rather lose her father 
Than, by offending him, preserve his life 1 

Att. Ah! no. If he but live, I am contented. 

Lie. Yes, he shall live, and we again be 
bless'd : 
Then dry thy tears, and let those lovely orbs 
Beam with their wonted lustre on Licinius, 
Who lives but in the sunshine of thy smiles. 

[Exit Licinius. 

Att. (alone.) Oh Fortune, Fortune, thou ca- 
pricious goddess ! 
Thy frowns and favours have alike no bounds ; 
Unjust or prodigal, in each extreme. 
When thou wouldst humble human vanity, 
By singling out a wretch to bear thy wrath, 
Thou crushest him with anguish to excess ; 
If thou wouldst bless, thou mak'st the happiness 
Too poignant for his giddy sense to bear. — 
Immortal gods, who rule the fates of men, 
Preserve my father ! bless him, bless him, 

heav'n ! 
If your avenging thunderbolts must fall. 
Strike here — this bosom will invite the blow, 
And thank you for it : but in mercy spare, 
Oh ! spare his sacred, venerable head ; 
Respect in him an image of yourselves ; 
And leave a world, who wants it, an example 
Of courage, wisdom, constancy, and truth. 

Yet if, Eternal Powers who rule this ball ! 
You have decreed that Regulus must fall ; 
Teach me to yield to your divine command, 
And meekly bow to your correcting hand ; 
Contented to resign, or pleas'd receive, 
What reason may withhold, or mercy give. 

[Exit Attilia. 

ACT IV. 

Scene — Gallery in the Ambassador's Palace. 
Reg. (alone.) Be calm my soul ! what strange 
emotions shake thee ! 
Emotions thou hast never felt till now. 
Thou hast defied the dangers of the deep, 
Th' impetuous hurricane, the thunder's roar,* 
And all the terrors of the various war ; 
Yet, now thou tremblest, fearful and dismay'd, 
With anxious expectation of thy fate. — 
Yes, thou hast amplest reason for thy fears ; 
For till this hour, so pregnant with events, 
Thy fame and glory never were at stake. 
Soft — lot me think — what is this thing called 

glory 1 
'Tis the soul's tyrant, that should be dethron'd, 
And learn subjection like her other passions 



520 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Ah no ! 'tis false : this is the coward's plea ; 

The lazy language of refining vice. 

That man was born in vain, whose wish to serve 

Is circumscribed within the wretched bounds 

Of self — a narrow, miserable sphere ! 

Glory exalts, enlarges, dignifies, 

Absorbs the selfish in the social claims, 

And renders man a blessing to mankind.— 

It is this principle, this spark of deity, 

Rescues debased humanity from guilt, 

And elevates it by her strong excitements. — 

It takes off sensibility from pain, [death ; 

From peril, fear ; plucks out the sting from 

Changes ferocious into gentle manners ; 

And teaches men to imitate the gods. 

It shows, — but see, alas ! where Publius comes. 

Ah ! he advances with a downcast eye, 

And step irresolute. — 

Enter Publius. 

Rtg. My Publius, welcome ! 

What tidings dost thou bring 1 What says the 

senate 1 
Is yet my fate determin'd 1 quickly tell me. — 

Pub. I cannot speak, and yet, alas ! I must. 

Reg. Tell me the whole. — 

Pub. Would I were rather dumb 1 

Reg. Publius, no more delay : — I charge thee 
speak. [part. 

Pub. The senate has decreed you shall de- 

Reg. Blest spirit of Rome ! thou hast at last 
prevail'd — 
I thank the gods, I have not lived in vain ! 
Where is Hamilcar 1 — find him — let us go, 
For Regulus has naught to do in Rome ; 
I have accomplished her important work, 
And must depart. 

Pub. Ah, my unhappy father ! 

Reg. Unhappy, Publius ! didst thou say un- 
happy ? 
Does he, does that blest man deserve this name, 
Who to his latest breath can serve his country 1 

Pub. Like thee, my father, I adore my 
country, 
Yet weep with anguish o'er thy cruel chains. 

Reg. Dost thou not know that life's a slavery 1 
The body is the chain that binds the soul ; 
A yoke that every mortal must endure. 
Wouldst thou lament — lament the general fate, 
The chain that nature gives, entail'd on all, 
Not these J wear. 

Pub. Forgive, forgive my sorrows : 

I know, alas ! too well, those fell barbarians 
Intend thee instant death. 

Reg. So shall my life 

And servitude together have an end. — 
Publius, farewell ! nay, do not follow me. 

Pub. Alas ! my father, if thou ever lov'dst 
Refuse me not the mournful consolation [me, 
To pay the last sad offices of duty 
I e'er can show thee. — 

Reg. No ! — thou canst fulfil 

Thy duty to thy father in a way 
More grateful to him : I must straight embark. 
Be it meanwhile thy pious care to keep 
My lov'd Attilia from a sight, I fear, 
"Would rend her gentle heart. Her tears, my son, 
Would dim the glories of thy father's triumph. 



Her sinking spirits are subdued by grief, 

And, should her sorrows pass the bounds of rea- 

Publius, have pity on her tender age ; [son, 

Compassionate the weakness of her sex ; 

We must not hope to find in her soft soul 

The strong exertion of a manly courage. — 

Support her fainting spirit, and instruct her, 

By thy example, how a Roman ought 

To bear misfortune. O, indulge her weakness ! 

And be to her the father she will lose. 

I leave my daughter to thee — I do more— • 

I leave to thee the conduct of — thyself. 

— Ah, Publius ! I perceive thy courage fails- • 
I see the quivering lip, the starting tear ; — 

That lip, that tear calls down my mounting soul. 

Resume thyself — oh ! do not blast my hope ! 

Yes — I'm composed — thou wilt not mock my 
age — 

Thou art — thou art a Roman — and my son. 

[Exit. 
Pub. And is he gonel — now be thyself, my 
soul — 

Hard is the conflict, but the triumph glorious. 

Yes, — I must conquer these too tender feelings ; 

The blood that fills these veins demands it of 

My father's great example, too, requires it. [me ; 

Forgive me, Rome, and glory, if I yielded 

To nature's strong attack : — I must subdue it. 

Now, Regulus, I feel I am thy son. 

Enter Attilla and Barce. 

Att. My brother, I'm distracted, wild with 
fear — 
Tell me, tell me, what I dread to know — 
Is it, then, true 1 — I cannot speak — my father ? 

Bar. May we believe the fatal news 1 

Pub. Yes, Barca 

It is determin'd. Regulus must go. 

Att. Immortal powers ! — What say'st thou 1 

Bar. Can it be 1 

Thou canst not mean it. 

Att. Then you've all betrayed me. 

Pub. Thy grief avails not. 

Enter Hamilcar and Licinius. 

Bar. Pity us, Hamilcar ! 

Att. Oh, help, Licinius, help the lost Attilia ! 

Ham. My Barce ! there's no hope. 

Lie. Ah ! my fair mourner, 

All's lost ! 

Att. What, all, Licinius 1 saidst thou all J 
Not one poor glimpse of comfort left behind l 
Tell me at least where Regulus is gone : 
The daughter shall partake the father's chains, 
And share the woes she knew not to prevent. 

[Going. 

Pub. What would thy wild despair 1 Attilia, 
stay, 
Thou must not follow ; this excess of grief 
Would much offend him. 

Att. Dost thou hope to stop me 1 

Pub. I hope thou wilt resume thy better self, 
And recollect thy father will not bear — 

Att. I only recollect I am a daughter, 
A poor, defenceless, helpless, wretched daugh- 
Away — and let me follow. [ter ! 

Pub. No, my sister. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



521 



Att. Detain me not — Ah ! while thou hold'st 
me here, 
He goes, and I shall never see him more. 

Bar. My friend, be comforted, he cannot go 
Whilst here Hamilcar stays. 

Att. O, Barce, Barce ! 

Who will advise, who comfort, who assist me 1 
Hamilcar, pity me. — Thou wilt not answer 1 

Ham. Rage and astonishment divide my soul. 

Att. Licinius, wilt thou not relieve my sor- 
rows 1 

Lie. Yes, at my life's expense, my heart's 
Wouldst thou instruct me how. [best treasure, 

Att. My brother, too — 

Ah ! look with mercy on thy sister's woes ! 

Pub. I will at least instruct thee how to 
bear them. 
My sister — yield thee to thy adverse fate ; 
Think of thy father, think of Regulus ; 
Has he not taught thee how to brave misfortune 1 
'Tis but by following his illustrious steps 
Thou e'er canst merit to be call'd his daughter. 

Att. And is it thus thou dost advise thy sister 1 
Are these, ye gods, the feelings of a son 1 
Indifference here becomes impiety — 
Thy savage heart ne'er felt the dear delights 
Of filial tenderness — the thousand joys 
That flow from blessing and from being bless'd ! 
No — didst thou love thy father as / love him, 
Our kindred souls would be in unison ; 
And all my sighs be echoed back by thine. 
Thou wouldst — alas ! — I know not what I say. — 
Forgive me, Publius, — but, indeed, my brother, 
I do not understand this cruel coldness. 

Ham. Thou mayst not — but I understand it 
His mighty soul, full as to thee it seems [well. 
Of Rome and glory — is enamour'd — caught — 
Enraptur'd with the beauties of fair Barce. — 
She stays behind, if Regulus departs. 
Behold the cause of all the well-feign'd virtue 
Of this mock patriot — curst dissimulation ! 

Pub. And canst thou entertain such vile sus- 
picions 1 
Gods ! what an outrage to a son like me. 

Ham. Yes, Roman : now I see thee as thou 
Thy naked soul divested of its veil, [art, 

Its specious colouring, its dissembled virtues : 
Thou hast plotted with the senate to prevent 
Th' exchange of captives. All thy subtle arts, 
Thy smooth inventions, have been set to work — 
The base refinements of your polish' 'd land. 

Pub. In truth the doubt is worthy of an 
African. {Contemptuously.) 

Ham. I know — 

Pub. Peace, Carthaginian, peace, and hear 
Didst thou not know, that on the very man [me, 
Thou hast insulted, Barce's fate depends 1 

Ham. Too well I know, the cruel chance of 
war 
Gave her, a blooming captive, to thy mother ; 
Who,, dying, left the beauteous prize to thee. 

Pub. Now, see the use a Roman makes of 
power. 
Heav'n is my witness how I lov'd the maid ! 

she was dearer to my soul than light ! 
Dear as the vital stream that feeds my heart ! 
But know, my honour's dearer than my love. 

1 do not even hope thou wilt believe me ; 

Vol. I 



Thy brutal soul, as savage as thy clime, 
Can never taste those elegant delights, 
Those pure refinements, love and glory yield 
'Tis not to thee I stoop for vindication, 
Alike to me thy friendship or thy hate ; 
But to remove from others a pretence 
For branding Publius with the name of villain ; 
That they may see no sentiment but honour 
Informs this bosom. — Barce, thou art free. 
Thou hast my leave with him to quit this shore. 
Now learn, barbarian, how a Roman loves. [Exit. 

Bar. He cannot mean it ! 

Ham. Oh, exalted virtue ! 

Which challenges esteem, though from a foe. 
{Looking after Publius.) 

Att. Ah ! cruel Publius, wilt thou leave me 
Thus leave thy sister 1 [thus 1 

Bar. Didst thou hear, Hamilcar 1 

Oh ! didst thou hear the godlike youth resign mel 

{Hamilcar and Licinius seem lost in thought.) 

Ham. Farewell, I will return. 

Lie. Farewell, my love ! {to Attilia.) 

Bar. Hamilcar, where — 

Att. Alas ! where art thou going 1 

{to Licinius. 

Lie. If possible, to save the life of Regulus. 

Att. But by what means 1 — Ah ! how canst 
thou effect it 1 ? 

Lie. Since the disease so desperate is become, 
We must apply a desperate remedy. 

Ham. {after a long pause.) Yes, I will mor- 
tify this generous foe ; 
I'll be reveng'd upon this stubborn Roman ; 
Not by defiance bold, or feats of arms, 
But by a means more sure to work its end ; 
By emulating his exalted worth, 
And showing him a virtue like his own ; 
Such a refin'd revenge as noble minds 
Alone can practise, and alone can feel. 

Att. If thou wilt go, Licinius, let Attilia 
At least go with thee. 

Lie. No, my gentle love, 

Too much I prize thy safety and thy peace. 
Let me entreafMiee, stay with Barce here 
Till our return. 

Att. Then, ere ye go, in pity 

Explain the latent purpose of your souls. 

Lie. Soon shalt thou know it all — Farewell ' 
farewell ! 
Let us keep Regulus in Rome or die. 

{to Hamilcar as he goes out.) 

Ham. Yes. — These smooth, polish'd Romans, 
shall confess 
The soil of Afric too produces heroes, [theirs, 
What, though our pride perhaps be less than 
Our virtue may be equal : they shall own 
The path of honour's not unknown to Carthage, 
Nor, as they arrogantly think, confin'd 
To their proud capitol : — Yes, they shall learn 
The gods look down on other climes than theirs. 

{Exit. 

Att. What ! gone, both gone 1 What can I 
think or do 1 
Licinius leaves me, led by love and virtue, 
To rouse the citizens to war and tumult, 
Which may be fatal to himself and Rome, 
And yet, alas ! not serve my dearest father. 
Protecting deities ! preserve them both ! 



622 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Bar. Nor is thy Barce more at ease, my friend ; 
I dread the fierceness of Hamilcar's courage ; 
Rous'd by the grandeur of thy brother's deed, 
And stung by his reproaches, his great soul 
Will scorn to be outdone by him in glory. 
Yet, let us rise to courage and to life, 
Forget the weakness of our helpless sex, 
And mount above these coward woman's fears. 
Hope dawns upon my mind — my prospect clears, 
And every cloud now brightens into day. 

Att. How different are our souls ! Thy san- 
guine temper, 
Flush'd with the native vigour of thy soil, 
Supports thy spirits ; while the sad Attilia, 
Sinking with more than all her sex's fears, 
Sees not a beam of hope ; or, if she sees it, 
'Tis not the bright, warm splendour of the sun ; 
It is a sickly and uncertain glimmer 
Of instantaneous lightning, passing by. 
It shows, but not diminishes the danger, 
And leaves my poor benighted soul as dark 
As it had never shone. 

Bar. Come, let us go. 

Yes, joys unlook'd for now shall gild thy days, 
And brighter suns reflect propitious rays. 

\Exeunt. 

Scene — A Hall looking towards the Garden. 

Enter Regulus, speaking to one of Hamilcar's 

attendants. 

Where's your ambassador 1 where is Hamilcar 1 
Ere this he doubtless knows the senate's will. 
Go seek him out — tell him we must depart — 
Rome has no hope for him, or tvish for me. 
Longer delay were criminal in both. 

Enter Manlius. 
Reg. He comes. The consul comes ! my 
noble friend ! 

let me strain thee to this grateful heart, 
And thank thee for the vast, vast debt, I owe 

thee! 
But for thy friendship I had been a wretch — 
Had been compell'd to shamefm liberty. 
To thee I owe the glory of these chains, 
My faith inviolate, my fame preserv'd, 
My honour, virtue, glory, bondage, — all ! 

Man. But we shall lose thee, so it is decreed — 
Thou must depart ! 

Reg. Because I must depart 

You will not lose me ; I were lost indeed 
Did I remain in Rome. 

Man. Ah ! Regulus, 

Why, why so late do I begin to love thee 1 
Alas ! why have the adverse fates decreed, 

1 ne'er must give thee other proofs of friendship, 
Than those, so fatal, and so full of wo 1 ! 

Reg. Thou hast perform'd the duties of a 
friend ; 
Of a just, faithful, true, and noble friend : 
Yet, generous as thou art, if thou constrain me 
To sink beneath a weight of obligation, 
I could — yes, Manlius — I could ask still more. 

Man. Explain thyself. 

Reg. I think I have fulfill'd 

The various duties of a citizen ; 
Nor have I aught beside to do for Rome. 
Now, nothing for the public good remains. 



Manlius, I recollect I am a father ! 

My Publius ! my Attilia ! ah ! my friend, 

They are — (forgive the weakness of a parent) 

To my fond heart dear as the drops that warm it. 

Next to my country, they're my all of life ; 

And, if a weak old man be not deceiv'd, 

They will not shame that country. Yes, my 

The love of virtue blazes in their souls, [friend, 

As yet these tender plants are immature, 

And ask the fostering hand of cultivation : 

Heav'n in its wisdom would not let their father 

Accomplish this great work. — To thee, my friend, 

The tender parent delegates the trust : 

Do not refuse a poor man's legacy ; 

I do bequeath my orphans to thy love — 

If thou wilt kindly take them to thy bosom, 

Their loss will be repaid with usury. 

0, let the father owe his glory to thee, 

The children their protection ! 

Man. Regulus, 

With grateful joy my heart accepts the trust ; 
Oh ! I will shield with jealous tenderness, 
The precious blossoms from a blasting world. 
In me thy children shall possess a father, 
Though not as worthy, yet as fond as thee. 
The pride be mine to fill their youthful breasts 
With every virtue — 'twill not cost me much : 
I shall have naught to teach, nor they to learn, 
But the great history of their godlike sire. 

Reg. I will not hurt the grandeur of thy virtue, 
By paying thee so poor a thing as thanks. 
Now all is over, and, I bless the gods, 
I've nothing more to do. 

Enter Publius inhaste. 

Pub. Regulus ! 

Reg. Say what has happen'd 1 

Pub. Rome is in a tumult — 

There's scarce a citizen but runs to arms — 
They will not let thee go. 

Reg. Is't possible 1 

Can Rome so far forget her dignity 
As to desire this infamous exchange 1 
I blush to think it ! 

Pub. ' Ah ! not so, my father. 

Rome cares not for the peace, nor for th' ex- 
She only wills that Regulus shall stay, [change ; 

Reg. How, stay? my oath — my faith — my 
Do they forget 1 [honour ! ah ! 

Pub. No : Every man exclaims, 

That neither faith nor honour should be kept 
With Carthaginian perfidy and fraud. 

Reg. Gods ! gods ! on what vile principles 
they reason ! 
Can guilt in Carthage palliate guilt in Rome, 
Or vice in one absolve it in another 1 
Ah ! who hereafter shall be criminal, 
If precedents are used to justify 
The blackest crimes 1 

Pub. Th' infatuated people 

Have called the augurs to the sacred fane, 
There to determine this momentous point. 

Reg. I have no need of oracles, my son ; 
Honour's the oracle of honest men. 
I gave my promise, which I will observe 
With most religious strictness. Rome, 'tis true, 
Had power to choose the peace, or change of 
But whether Regulus return or not, [slaves ; 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



623 



Is his concern, not the concern of Rome. 
That was a public, this a private care. 
Publius ! thy father is not what he was ; 
/ am the slave of Carthage, nor has Rome 
Power to dispose of captives not her own. 
Guards ! let us to the port. — Farewell, my 
friend. [thou go 

Man. Let me entreat thee stay ; for shouldst 
To stem this tumult of the populace, 
They will by force detain thee : then, alas ! 
Both Regulus and Rome must break their faith. 

Reg. What ! must I then remain 1 

Man. No, Regulus, 

I will not check thy great career of glory : 
Thou shalt depart ; meanwhile, I'll try to calm 
This wild, tumultuous uproar of the people. 
The consular authority shall still them. 

Reg. Thy virtue is my safeguard — but — 

Man. Enough. — 

1 know thy honour, and trust thou to mine. 
I am a Roman, and I feel some sparks 
Of Regulus's virtue in my breast. 
Though fate denies me thy illustrious chains, 
I will at least endeavour to deserve them. 

[Exit. 

Reg. How is my country alter'd ! how, ala-s, 
Is the great spirit of old Rome extinct ! 
Restraint and force must now be put to use, 
To make her virtuous. She must be compell'd 
To faith and honour. — Ah ! what, Publius here 1 
And dost thou leave so tamely to my friend 
The honour to assist me 1 Go, my boy, 
'Twill make me more in love with chains and 
To owe them to a son. [death, 

Pub. I go, my father — 

I will, I will obey thee. 

Reg. Do not sigh — 

One sigh will check the progress of thy glory. 

Pub. Yes, I will own the pangs of death itself 
Would be less cruel than these agonies : 
Yet do not frown austerely on thy son : 
His anguish is his virtue : if to conquer 
The feelings of my soul were easy to me, 
'Twould be no merit. Do not then defraud 
The sacrifice I make thee of its worth. 

[Exeunt severally. 

Manlius, Attilia. 

Att. {speaking as she enters.) Where is the 
consull — where, oh! where is Manlius 1 
I come to breathe the voice of mourning to him ; 
I come to crave his mercy, to conjure him 
To whisper peace to my afflicted bosom, 
And heal the anguish of a wounded spirit. 

Man. What would the daughter of my noble 
friend ] [touch'd thee, — 

Att. (kneeling.) If ever pity's sweet emotions 
If ever gentle love assail'd thy breast — 
If ever virtuous friendship fir'd thy soul — 
By the dear names of husband and of parent — 
By all the soft yet powerful ties of nature — 
If e'er thy lisping infants charm'd thine ear, 
And waken'd all the father in thy soul, — ■ 
If e'er thou hop'st to have thy latter days 
Bless' d by their love, and sweeten'd by their 
duty — ' [ter, 

Oh ! hear a kneeling, weeping, wretched daugh- 
Who begs a father's life — nor hers alone, 



But Rome's — his country's father. 

Man. Gentle maid i 

Oh ! spare this soft, subduing eloquence ! — 
Nay, rise. I shall forget I am a Roman — 
Forget the mighty debt I owe my country — 
Forget the fame and glory of thy father. 
I must conceal this weakness, (turns from her.) 

Att. (rises eagerly.) Ah! you weep ! 
Indulge, indulge, my lord, the virtuous softness : 
Was ever sight so graceful, so becoming, 
As pity's tear upon the hero's cheek 1 [ing-) 

Man. No more — I must not hear thee, (go- 

Att. How ! not hear me ! [lord — 

You must — you shall — nay, nay, return, my 
Oh ! fly not from me — look upon my woes, 
And imitate the mercy of the gods : 
'Tis not their thunder that excites our reverence, 
'Tis their mild mercy and forgiving love. 
'Twill add a brighter lustre to thy laurels, 
When men shall say, and proudly point thee out, 
" Behold the consul ! — he whosav'd his friend." 
Oh ! what a tide of joy will overwhelm thee ! 
Who will not envy thee thy glonou* ieelings 1 

Man. Thy father scorns his liberty ind life, 
Nor will accept of either, at th' expense 
Of honour, virtue, glory, faith, and Rome. 

Att. Think you behold the godlike Regulus; 
The prey of unrelenting, savage foes, 
Ingenious only in contriving ill : — 
Eager to glut their hunger of revenge, 
They'll plot such new, such dire, unhnard-oi 

tortures — 
Such dreadful and such complicated vengeance, 
As e'en the Punic annals have not known ; 
And, as they heap fresh torments on his head, 
They'll glory in their genius for destruction. 
Ah ! Manlius — now methinks I see my father — 
My faithful fancy, full of his idea, [torn — 

Presents him to me — mangled, gash'd, and 
Stretch'd on the rack in writhing agony — 
The torturing pincers tear his quivering flesh, 
While the dire murderers smile upon his 

wounds — 
His groans their music, and his pangs their sport. 
And if they lend some interval of ease, 
Some dearbought intermission, meant to make 
The following pang more exquisitely felt, 
Th' insulting executioners exclaim, [scorn'd !" 
"Now, Roman ! feel the vengeance thou hast 

Man. Repress thy sorrows — 

Att. Can the friend of Regulus 

Advise his daughter not to mourn his fate ! 
How cold, alas ! is friendship, when compar'd 
To ties of blood — to nature's powerful impulse ! 
Yes — she asserts her empire in my soul ; 
'Tis nature pleads — she will — she must be 

heard ; 
With warm, resistless eloquence, she pleads. 
Ah, thou art soften'd ! — see — the consul yields— 
The feelings triumph — tenderness prevails — 
The Roman is subdued — the daughter con- 
quers ! (catching hold of his robe.) 

Man. Ah ! hold me not — I must not, cannot 
The softness of thy sorrow is contagious ; [stay, 
I too may feel, when I should only reason. 
I dare not hear thee — Regulus and Rome, 
The patriot and the friend — all, all forbid it. 

(breaks from her, and extf.) 



624 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Att. Oh feeble grasp !> — and is he gone, quite 
gone 1 
Hold, hold thy empire, reason, firmly hold it, 
Or rather quit at once thy feeble throne, 
Since thou but serv'st to show me what I've lost, 
To heighten all the horrors that await me ; 
To summon up a wild, distracted crowd 
Of fatal images, to shake my soul, 
To scare sweet peace, and banish hope itself. 
Farewell! delusive dreams of joy, farewell! 
Come, fell despair ! thou pale-eyed spectre, 
For thou shalt be Attilia's inmate now, [come, 
And thou shalt grow, and twine about her heart, 
And she shall be so much enamour'd of thee, 
The pageant pleasure ne'er shall interpose 
Her gaudy presence to divide you more. 

(stands in an attitude of silent grief.) 

Enter Licinius. 

Lie. At length I've found thee — ah, my 
charming maid ! [fondness ! 

How have I sought thee out with anxious 
Alas ! she hears me not. My best Attilia ! 
Ah ! grief oppresses every gentle sense. 
Still, still she hears not — 'tis Licinius speaks, 
He comes to sooth the anguish of thy spirit, 
And hush thy tender sorrows into peace. 

Ait. Who's he that dares assume the voice 
of love, 
Ai'd comes unbidden to these dreary haunts 1 
Steals on the sacred treasury of wo, 
And breaks the league despair and I have made 1 

Lie. 'Tis one who comes the messenger of 
Heav'n, 
To talk of peace, of comfort, and of joy. 

Att. Didst thou not mock me with the sound 
of joy '! 
Thou little know'st the anguish of my soul, 
If thou believ'st I ever can again, 
So long the wretched sport of angry fortune, 
Admit delusive hope to my sad bosom. 
No — I abjure the flatterer and her train. 
Let those who ne'er have been like me deceiv'd, 
Embrace the fair, fantastic sycophant — 
For I, alas ! am wedded to despair, 
And will not hear the sound of comfort more. 

Lie. Cease, cease, my love, this tender voice 
of wo, 
Though softer than the dying cygnet's plaint : 
She ever chants her most melodious strain 
When death and sorrow harmonize her note. 

Att. Yes, I will listen now with fond delight ; 
For death and sorrow are my darling themes. 
Well ! — what hast thou to say of death and 

sorrow 1 
Believe me, thou wilt find me apt to listen, 
And, if my tongue be slow to answer thee, 
Instead of words I'll give thee sighs and tears. 

Lie. I come to dry thy tears, not make them 
flow ; 
The gods, once more propitious, smile upon us, 
Joy shall again await each happy morn, 
And ever-new delight shall crown the day ! 
Yes, Regulus shall live. 

Att. Ah, me ! what say'st thou 1 

Alas ! I'm but a poor, weak, trembling woman — 
I cannot bear these wild extremes of fate — 
Then mock me not. I think thou ai t Licinius, 



The generous lover, and the faithful friend ! 
I think thou wouldst not sport with my afflictions. 
Lie. Mock thy afflictions 1 May eternal Jove, 
And every power at whose dread shrine we wor- 
Blast all the hopes my fond ideas form, [ship, 
If I deceive thee ! Regulus shall live, 
Shall live to give thee to Licinius' arms. 
Oh ! we will smooth his downward path of life, 
And after a long length of virtuous years, 
At the last verge of honourable age, 
When nature's glimmering lamp goes gently out, 
We'll close, together close, his eyes in peace, 
Together drop the sweetly-painful tear, 
Then copy out his virtues in our lives. 

All. And shall we be so blest 1 is't possible * 
Forgive me, my Licinius, if I doubt thee. 
Fate never gave such exquisite delight 
As flattering hope hath imaged to thy soul. 
But how 1 Explain this bounty of the gods. 
Lie. Thou know'st what influence the name 

of tribune 
Gives its possessor o'er the people's minds : 
That power I have exerted, nor in vain ; 
All are prepar'd to second my designs : 
The plot is ripe — there's not a man but swears 
To keep thy godlike father here in Rome — 
To save his life at hazard of his own. 

Att. By what gradation does my joy ascend ! 
I thought that if my father had been sav'd 
By any means, I had been rich in bliss : 
But that he lives, and lives preserv'd by thee, 
Is such a prodigality of fate, 
I cannot bear my joy with moderation : 
Heaven should have dealt it with a scantier 

hand, [on me ; 

And not have shower'd such plenteous blessings 
They are too great, too flattering, to be real ; 
'Tis some delightful vision which enchants 
And cheats my senses, weaken'd by misfortune. 
Lie. We'll seek thy father, and, meanwhile, 

my fair, [him. 

Compose thy sweet emotions ere thou see'st 
Pleasure itself is painful in excess ; 
For joys, like sorrows, in extreme, oppress : 
The gods themselves our pious cares approve, 
And, to reward our virtue, crown our love 

ACT V. 

An Apartment in the Ambassador'' 's palace — 
Guards and other attendants seen at a dis- 
tance. 

Ham. Where is this wondrous man, this 
matchless hero, 
This arbiter of kingdoms and of kings, 
This delegate of Heaven, this Roman god f 
I long to show his soaring mind an equal, 
And bring it to the standard of humanity. 
What pride, what glory will it be, to fix 
An obligation on his stubborn soul ! 
Oh ! to constrain a foe to be obliged ! 
The very thought exalts me e'en to rapture. 

Enter Regulus and Guards. 

Ham. Well, Regulus ! At last— 

Reg. I know it all ; 

I know the motive of thy just complaint- 
Be not alarm'd at this licentious uproar 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



525 



Of the mad populace. I will depart — 
Fear not ; I will not stay in Rome alive. 
Ham. What dost thou mean by uproar and 
alarms 1 
Hamilcar does not come to vent complaints ; 
He rather comes to prove, that Afric too 
Produces heroes, and that Tiber's banks 
May find a rival on the Punic coast. [bate : 
Reg. Be it so. — 'Tis not a time for vain de- 
Collect thy people. — Let us straight depart. 

Ham. Lend me thy hearing first. 

Reg. O patience, patience ! 

Ham. It is esteem'd a glory to be grateful 1 

Reg. The time has been when 'twas a duty 
But 'tis a duty now so little practis'd, [only, 
That to perform it is become a glory. 

Ham. If to fulfil it should expose to danger 1 — 

Reg. It rises then to an illustrious virtue. 

Ham. Then grant this merit to an African. 
Give me a patient hearing. — Thy great son, 
As delicate in honour as in love, 
Hath nobly given my Barce to my arms ; 
And yet 1 know he dotes upon the maid. 
I come to emulate the generous deed ; 
He gave me back my love, and in return 
I will restore his father. 

Reg. Ah ! what say'st thou 1 

Wilt thou preserve me, then 1 

Ham. I will. 

Reg. But how 1 

Ham. By leaving thee at liberty to fly. 

Reg. Ah ! [tence, 

Ham. I will dismiss my guards on some pre- 
Meanwhile do thou escape, and lie conceal'd : 
I will affect a rage I shall not feel, 
Unmoor my ships, and sail for Africa. 

Reg. Abhorr'd barbarian ! 

Ham. Well, what dost thou say 1 

Art thou not much surpris'd 1 

Reg. I am indeed. 

Ham. Thou couldst not then have hoped it 1 

Reg. No ! I could not. 

Ham. And yet I'm not a Roman. 

Reg. (smiling contemptuously.) I perceive it. 

Ham. You may retire, (aloud to the guards.) 

Reg. No ! — Stay, I charge you, stay. 

Ham. And wherefore stay 1 

Reg. I thank thee for thy offer, 

But I shall go with thee. 

Ham. 'Tis well, proud man ! 

Thou dost despise me, then 1 

Reg. No, but I pity thee. 

Ham. Why pity me 1 

Reg. Because thy poor, dark soul, 

Hath never felt the piercing ray of virtue. 
Know, African ! the scheme thou dost propose 
Would injure me, thy country, and thyself. 

Ham. Thou dost mistake. 

Reg. Who was it gave thee power 

To rule the destiny of Regulus 1 
Am I a slave to Carthage, or to thee ! 

Ham. What does it signify from whom, proud 
Thou dost receive this benefit 1 [Roman, 

Reg. A benefit 1 

O, savage ignorance ! is it a benefit 
To lie, elope, deceive, and be a villain 1 

Ham. What ! not when life itself, when all's 
at stake ? 



Know'st thou my countrymen prepare thee tor- 
That shock imagination but to think of 1 [tures 
Thou wilt be mangled, butcher'd, rack'd, im- 
Goes not thy nature shrink 1 [paled. 

Reg. (smiling at Ms threats.) Hamilcar ! no. 
Dost thou not know the Roman genius better] 
We live on honour — 'tis our food, our life, 
The motive and the measure of our deeds ! 
We look on death as on a common object ; 
The tongue nor faulters, nor the cheek turns pale, 
Nor the calm eye is moved at sight of him : 
We court, and we embrace him, undismay'd ; 
We smile at tortures if they lead to glory, 
And only cowardice and guilt appal us. 

Ham. Fine sophistry ! the valour of the tongue, 
The heart disclaims it ; leave this pomp of words, 
And cease dissembling with a friend like me. 
I know that life is dear to all who live, 
That death is dreadful, — yes, and must be fear'd, 
E'en by the frozen apathists of Rome. 

Reg. Did I fear death, when, on Bagrada's 
banks, 
I faced and slew the formidable serpent 
That made your boldest Africans recoil, 
And shrink with horror, though the monster liv'd 
A native inmate of their own parch'd deserts 1 
Did I fear death before the gates of Adis 1 — 
Ask Bostar, or let Asdrubal confess. 

Ham. Or shall I rather of Xantippus ask, 
Who dar'd to undeceive deluded Rome, 
And prove this vaunter not invincible 1 
'Tis even said, in Africa I mean, 
He made a prisoner of this demi-god. — 
Did we not triumph then 1 

Reg. Vain boaster ! no. 

No Carthaginian conquer'd Regulus ; 
Xantippus was a Greek — a brave one, too : 
Yet what distinction did your Afric make 
Between the man who serv'd her and her foe t 
I was the object of her open hate : 
He, of her secret, dark malignity. 
He durst not trust the nation he had sav'd ; 
He knew, and therefore fear'd you. — Yes, he 

knew 
Where once you were obliged, you ne'er forgave. 
Could you forgive at all, you'd rather pardon 
The man who hated, than the man who serv'd you. 
Xantippus found his ruin ere it reach'd him, 
Lurking behind your honours and rewards, 
Found it in your feign'd courtesies and fawnings. 
When vice intends to strike a master stroke, 
Its veil is smiles, its language protestations. 
The Spartan's merit threaten'd, but his service 
Compell'd his ruin. — Both you could not pardon. 
Ham. Come, come, I know fuli well — 
Reg. Barbarian ! peace. 

I've heard too much — Go, call thy followers ; 
Prepare thy ships, and learn to do thy duty. 
Ham. Yes ! — show thyself intrepid, and in- 
sult me ; 
Call mine the blindness of barbarian friendship. 
On Tiber's banks I hear thee, and am calm : 
But know, thou scornful Roman ! that too soon 
In Carthage thou mayst fear and feel my ven- 
geance : 
Thy cold, obdurate pride shall there confess, 
Though Rome may talk — 'tis Africa can punish. 

{Exit. 



526 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORR 



Reg. Farewell ! I've not a thought to waste 
on thee. 
Where is the consul ? why does Publius stay ? 
Alas ! I fear — but see, Attilia comes. 

Enter Attilia. 

Reg. What brings thee here, my child ? what 
eager joy 
Transports thee thus? 

Att. I cannot speak — my father ! 

Joy chokes my utterance — Rome, dear, grateful 

Rome 
(Oh ! may her cup with blessings overflow), 
Gives np our common destiny to thee ; [her, 
Faithf il and constant to th' advice thou gav'st 
She will not hear of peace, or change of slaves, 
But she insists — reward and bless her, gods ! — 
That thou shalt here remain. 

Reg. What ! with the shame — 

Att. Oh ! no — the sacred senate hath con- 
sider'd [faith, 

That, when to Carthage thou didst pledge tny 
Thou wast a captive, and that, being such, 
Thou couldst not bind thyself in covenant. 

Reg. He who can die is always free, my 
child ! 
Leam farther, he who owns another's strength 
Confesses his own weakness. Let them know, 
I swore I would return because I chose it, 
And will return, because I swore to do it. 

Enter Publius. 

Pub. Vain is that hope, my father. 

Reg. Who shall stop me ? 

Pub. All Rome. — The citizens are up in 
arms : 
In vain would reason stop the growing torrent ; 
In vain wouldst thou attempt to reach the port, 
The way is barr'd by thronging multitudes : 
The other streets of Rome are all deserted. 

Reg. Where, where is Manlius ? 

Pub. He is still thy friend ; 

His single voice opposes a whole people ; 
He threats this moment, and the next entreats, 
But all in vain ; none hear him, none obey. 
The general fury rises e'en to madness. 
The axes tremble in the lictors' hands, 
Who, pale and spiritless, want power to use 

them — 
And one wild scene of anarchy prevails. 

Reg. Farewell ! my daughter. Publius, follow 
me. [Exit Publius. 

Att. Ah ! where ? I tremble — 

(detaining Regulus.) 

Reg. To assist my friend — 

T' upbraid my hapless country with her crime — 
To keep unstain'd the glory of these chains — 
To go, or perish. 

Att. Oh ! have mercy ! 

Reg. Hold ; 

I have been patient with thee ; have indulg'd 
Too much the fond affections of thy soul ; 
It is enough ; thy grief would now offend 
Thy father's honour ; do not let thy tears 
Conspire with Rome to rob me of my triumph. 

Att. Alas ! it wounds my soul. 

Reg. I know it does. 

I know 'twill grieve thy gentle heart to lose me ; 



But think thou mak'st the saciifice to Rome, 
And all is well again. 

Att. Alas ! my father, 

In aught beside — 

Reg. What wouldst thou do, my child 1 

Canst thou direct the destiny of Rome, 
And boldly plead amid th' assembled senate ? 
Canst thou, forgetting all thy sex's softness, 
Fiercely engage in hardy deeds of arms ? 
Canst thou encounter labour, toil, and famine, 
Fatigue and hardships, watchings, cold and heat? 
Canst thou attempt to serve thy country thus ? 
Thou canst not : — but thou mayst sustain my 
Without these agonizing pangs of grief, [loss 
And set a bright example of submission, 
Worthy a Roman's daughter. 

Att. Yet such fortitude — 

Reg. Is a most painful virtue ; — but Attilia 
Is Regulus's daughter, and must have it. 

Att. I will entreat the gods to give it me. 
Ah ! thou art offended ! I have lost thy love. 

Reg. Is this concern a mark that thou hast 
lost it? 
I cannot, cannot spurn my weeping child. 
Receive this proof of my paternal fondness , — 
Thou lov'st Licinius — he too loves my daughter. 
I give thee to his wishes ; I do more — 
I give thee to his virtues. — Yes, Attilia, 
The noble youth deserves this dearest pledge 
Thy father's friendship ever can bestow. 

Att. My lord ! my father ! wilt thou, canst 
thou leave me ? 
The tender father will not quit his child ! 

Reg. I am, I am thy father ! as a proof, 
I leave thee my example how to suffer. 
My child ! I have a heart within this bosom ; 
That heart has passions — see in what we 

differ ; 
Passion — which is thy tyrant — is my slave. 

Att. Ah ! stay, my father. Ah ! 

Reg. Farewell ! farewell ! [Exit. 

Att. Yes, Regulus ! I feel thy spirit here, 
Thy mighty spirit, struggling in this breast, 
And it shall conquer all these coward feelings, 
It shall subdue the woman in my soul ; 
A Roman virgin should be something more — 
Should dare above her sex's narrow limits — 
And I will dare — and mis'ry shall assist me— 
My father ! I will be indeed thy daughter ! 
The hero shall no more disdain his child ; 
Attilia shall not be the only branch 
That yields dishonour to the parent tree. 

Enter Barce. 

Bar. Attilia ! is it true that Regulus, 
In spite of senate, people, augurs, friends, 
And children, will depart ? 

Att. Yes, it is true. 

Bar. Oh ! what romantic madness ! 

Att. You forget — 

Barce ! the deeds of heroes claim respecr. 

Bar. Dost thou approve a virtue which must 
lead 
To chains, to tortures, and to certain death ? 

Att. Barce ! those chains, those tortures, and 
Will be his triumph. [that death, 

Bar. Thou art pleas'd, Attilia ; 

By hoav'n, thou dost exult in his destruction ! 



THE- WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



a*7 



Att. Ah! pitying powers. (weeps.) 

Bar. I do not comprehend thee. 

Att. No, Barce, I believe it. — Why, how 
shouldst thou 1 
If I mistake not, thou wast born in Carthage ; 
In a barbarian land, where never child 
Was taught to triumph in a father's chains. 

Bar. Yet thou dost weep — thy tears at least 
are honest, 
For they refuse to share thy tongue's deceit ; 
They speak the genuine language of affliction, 
And tell the sorrows that oppress thy soul. 

Att. Grief, that dissolves in tears, relieves 
the heart. 
Vhen congregated vapours melt in rain, 
The sky is calm'd, and all's serene again. 

[Exit. 

Bar. Why, what a strange, fantastic land is 
this! 
This love of glory's the disease of Rome ; 
It makes her mad, it is a wild delirium, 
A universal and contagious phrensy ; 
It preys on all, it spares nor sex nor age : 
The consul envies Regulus his chains — [dom — 
He, not less mad, contemns his life and free- 
The daughter glories in the father's ruin — 
And Publius, more distracted than the rest, 
Resigns the object that his soul adores, 
For this vain phantom, for this empty glory. 
This may be virtue ; but I thank the gods, 
The soul of Barce's not a Roman soul. [Exit. 

Scene — Within sight of the Tiber — ships ready 
for the embarcation of Regulus and the Am- 
bassador — Tribune and People slopping up the 
passage — Consul and Lictors endeavouring to 
clear it. 

Manlius and Licinius advance. 

Lie. Rome will not suffer Regulus to go. 

Man. I thought the consul and the senators 
Had been a part of Rome. 

Lie. I grant they are — 

But still the people are the greater part. 

Man. The greater, not the wiser. 

Lie. The less cruel. 

Full of esteem and gratitude to Regulus, 
We would preserve his life. 

Man. And we his honour. 

Lie. His honour ! 

Man. Yes. Time presses. Words are vain. 
Make way there — clear the passage. 

Lie. On your lives, 

Stir not a man. 

Man. I do command you, go. 

Lie. And I forbid it. 

Man. Clear the way, my friends. 

How dares Licinius thus oppose the consul 1 

Lie. How dar'st thou, Manlius, thus oppose 
the tribune 1 

Man. I'll show thee what I dare, imprudent 
Lictors, force through the passage. [boy ! 

Lie. Romans, guard it. 

Man. Gods ! is my power resisted then with 
Thou dost affront the majesty of Rome, [arms ! 

Lie. The majesty of Rome is in the people ; 
Thou dost insult it by opposing them. 

People. Let noble Regulus remain in Rome. 



Man. My friends, let me explain this treach- 
erous scheme. 
People. We will not hear thee — Regulus shall 
Man. What ! none obey me 1 [stav. 

People. Regulus shall stay. 

Man. Romans, attend. 

People. Let Regulus remain. 

Enter Regulus, followed by Publius, Attilia, 
Hamilcar, Barce, &lc. 

Reg. Let Regulus remain ! What do I hear 1 
Is't possible the wish should come from youl 
Can Romans give, or Regulus accept, 
A life of infamy ? Is't possible 1 
Where is the ancient virtue of my country 1 
Rise, rise, ye mighty spirits of old Rome ! 
I do invoke you from your silent tombs ; 
Fabricius, Codes, and Camillus, rise, [were. 
And show your sons what their great fathers 
My countrymen, what crime have I committed 1 
Alas ! how has the wretched Regulus 
Deserv'd your hatred ! 

Lie. Hatred 1 ah ! my friend, 

It is our love would break these cruel chains. 

Reg. If you deprive me of my chains, I'm 
nothing ; 
They are my honours, riches, titles, — all ! [try ; 
They'll shame my enemies, and grace my coun- 
They'll waft her glory to remotest climes, 
Beyond her provinces and conquer'd realms, 
Where yet her conq'ring eagles never flew ; 
Nor shall she blush hereafter if she find 
Recorded with her faithful citizens, 
The name of Regulus, the captive Regulus. 
My countrymen ! what, think you, kept in awe 
The Volsci, Sabines, yEqui, and Hernici? 
The arms of Rome alone '! no, 'twas her virtue , 
That sole surviving good, which brave men keep, 
Though fate and warring worlds combine against 

them : 
This still is mine — and I'll preserve it, Romans ! 
The wealth of Plutus shall not bribe it from me ! 
If you, alas ! require this sacrifice, 
Carthage herself was less my foe than Rome ; 
She took my freedom — she could take no more ■ 
But Rome, to crown her work, would take my 

honour. 
My friends ! if you deprive me of my chains, 
I am no more than any other slave : 
Yes, Regulus becomes a common captive, 
A wretched, lying, perjur'd fugitive ! 
But if, to grace my bonds, you leave my honour, 
I shall be still a Roman, though a slave, [ges 1 

Lie. What faith should be observ'd with sava. 
What promise should be kept which bonds 
extort 1 

Reg. Unworthy subterfuge ! ah ! let us leave 
To the wild Arab and the faithless Moor 
These wretched maxims of deceit and fraud : 
Examples ne'er can justify the coward. 
The brave man never seeks a vindication, 
Save from his own just bosom and the gods ; 
From principle, not precedent, he acts ; 
As that arraigns him, or as that acquits, 
He stands or falls ; condemn'd or justified. 

Lie. Rome is no more, if Regulus departs. 

Reg. Let Rome remember Regulus must die ; 
Nor would the moment of my death be distant, 



628 



THE WORKS OF HAlNlNAH MORE. 



If nature's work had been reserv'd for nature : 
What Carthage means to do, she would have 
As speedily, perhaps, at least as surely, [done, 
My wearied life has almost reach'd its goal ; 
The once warm current stagnates in these veins, 
Or through its icy channels slowly creeps — 
View the weak arm ; mark the pale, furrow'd 

cheek, 
The slacken'd sinew, and the dim sunk eye, 
And tell me then I must not think of dying ! 
How can I serve you else 1 My feeble limbs 
Would totter now beneath the armour's weight, 
The burden of that body it once shielded. 
You see, my friends, you see, my countrymen, 
I can no longer show myself a Roman, 
Except by dying like one. — Gracious Heaven 
Points out a way to crown my days with glory ; 
O, do not frustrate then the will of Jove, 
And close a life of virtue with disgrace. 
Come, come, I know my noble Romans better ; 
I see your souls, I read repentance in them ; 
You all applaud me — nay, you wish my chains ; 
'Twas nothing but excess of love misled you, 
And, as you're Romans, you will conquer that. 
Yes ! — I perceive your weakness is subdued — 
Seize, seize the moment of returning virtue ; 
Throw to the ground, my sons, those hostile 
Retard no longer Regulus's triumph ; [arms ; 
I do request it of you as a friend, 
I call you to your duty as a patriot, 
And — were I still your gen'ral, I'd command 
you. 

Lie. Lay down your arms — let Regulus depart. 
(To the people, who clear the way, and quit their 
arms.) 

Reg. Gods ! gods ! I thank you — you indeed 
are righteous. [oh, father ! 

Pub. See every man disarm'd. Oh, Rome ! 

Att. Hold, hold, my heart. Alas ! they all 
obey. [thee. 

Reg. The way is clear. Hamilcar, I attend 

Ham. Why, I begin to envy this old man ! 

(aside.) 

Man. Not the proud victor on the day of tri- 
umph, 



Warm from the slaughter of dispeopled reabns, 
Though conquer'd princes grace his chariot 

wheels, 
Though tributary monarchs wait his nod, 
And vanquish'd nations bend the knee before him, 
E'er shone with half the lustre that surrounds 
This voluntary sacrifice for Rome ! 
Who loves his country will obey her laws ; 
Who most obeys them is the truest patriot. 

Reg. Be our last parting worthy of ourselves. 
Farewell ! my friends. I bless the gods who 

rule us, 
Since I must leave you, that I leave you Romans. 
Preserve the glorious name untainted still, 
And you shall be the rulers of the globe, 
The arbiters of earth. The farthest east, 
Beyond where Ganges rolls his rapid flood, 
Shall proudly emulate the Roman name. 
(Kneels.) Ye gods, the guardians of this glori- 
ous people, 
Who watch with jealous eye ./Eneas' race, 
This land of heroes I commit to you ! [care ! 
This ground, these walls, this people, be your 
Oh ! bless them, bless them with a liberal hand ! 
Let fortitude and valour, truth and justice, 
For ever flourish and increase among them ! 
And if some baneful planet threat the capitol 
With its malignant influence, oh ! avert it. 
Be Regulus the victim of your wrath. — 
On this white head be all your vengeance pour'd, 
But spare, oh ! spare, and bless immortal Rome ! 
Ah ! tears 1 my Romans weep ! Farewell ! fare- 
well ! 

Attilia struggles to get to Regulus — is pre- 
vented — she faints — he fixes his eye steadily 
on her for some time, and then departs to the 
ships. 

Manlius. (looking after him.) Farewell! fare- 
well ! thou glory of mankind ! 
Protector, father, saviour of thy country ! 
Through Regulus the Roman name shall live, 
Shall triumph over time, and mock oblivion. 
Farewell ! thou pride of this immortal coast ! 
'Tis Rome alone a Regulus can boast. 



EPILOGUE. 



BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. 



What son of physic, but his heart extends, 
As well as hand, when call'd on by his friends 1 
What landlord is so weak to make you fast, 
When guests like you bespeak a good repast 1 
But weaker still were he whom fate has plac'd 
To sooth your cares, and gratify your taste, 
Should he neglect to bring before your eyes, 
Those dainty dramas which from genius rise ; 
Whether your luxury be to smile or weep, 
His and your profits just proportion keep. 
To-night he brought, nor fears a due reward, 
A Roman Patriot by a Female Bard. 
Britons, who feel his flame, his worth will rate, 
No common spirit his, no common fate. 
Inflexible and Captive must be great. 
" How !" cries a sucking fop, thus lounging, 
straddling, 



(Whose head shows want of ballast by its nod 

dling), 
" A woman write 1 Learn, madam, of your 

betters, 
And read a noble lord's posthumous letters. 
There you will learn the sex may merit praise, 
By making puddings — not by making plays : 
They can make tea and mischief, dance and sing ; 
Their heads, though full of feathers, can't take 

wing." [chance, 

I thought they could, sir ; now and then, by 
Maids fly to Scotland, and some w ves to France 
He still went nodding on — " Do all she can, 
Woman's a trifle — plaything — like her fan." 
Right, sir, and when a wife, the rattle of a man. 
And shall such things as these become the test 
Of female worth 1 the fairest and the best 



THE*VORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



5*9 



Of all heaven's creatures 1 for so Milton sung us, 
And, with such champions, who shall dare to 

wrong us 1 [ray'd ; 

Come forth, proud man, in all your pow'rs ar- 
Shine out in all your splendour — who's afraid 1 
Who on French wit has made a glorious war, 
Defended Shakspeare, and subdued Voltaire 1 — 
Woman !* — Who, rich in knowledge, knows no 

pride, 
Can boast ten tongues, and yet not satisfied 1 

*Mrs. Montague, author of an essay on the wri- 
tings of Shakspeare. 
Vol. I. 



Woman ! * Who lately sung the sweetest lay \ 
A woman ! woman ! woman !t still I say. 
Well then, who dares deny our power and might 1 
Will any married man dispute our right 1 
Speak boldly, sirs, — your wives ar»e not in sight. 
What ! are you silent 1 then you are content ; 
Silence, the proverb tells us, gives consent. 
Critics, will you allow our honest claim 1 
Are you uumb too ] This night has fix'd our 
fame. 

* Mrs. Carter, well known for her skill in ancient 
and modern languages. 
t Miss Aikin, whose poems were ju?t published. 
2L 



PERCY: 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



REMARKS. 



The feuds of the rival houses of Percy and of Douglas have furnished materials for this melancholy tale, in 
Inch Mrs. More* has embodied many judicious sentiments and excellent passages, producing a forcible lesson to 
arental tyranny. The victim of her husband's unreasonable jealousy, Elwina's virtuous conflict is pathetic and 
interesting ; while Percy's sufferings, and the vain regret of Earl Raby, excite and increase our sympathy. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Percy, Earl of Northumberland, Mr. Lewis. 

Earl Douglas, Mr. Wrougfilon. 

Earl Raby, Elwina's Father, Mr. Aickin. 

Edric, Friend to Douglas Mr. Whitejkld. 

Harcourt, Friend to Percy, Mr. Robson. 

Sir Hubert, a Knight, Mr. Hull. 

Elwina, Mrs. Barry. 

Birtha, ; Mrs. Jackson. 

Knights, Guards, Attendants, &c. 
Scene. — Raby Castle, in Durham. 



ACT I. 
SCENE I.—A Gothic Hall. 
Enter Edric and Birtha. 
Bir. What may this mean 1 Earl Douglas has 
enjoin'd thee 
l'o meet him here in private "? 

Edr. Yes, my sister, 
And this injunction I have oft receiv'd ; 
But when he comes, big with some painful secret, 
He starts, looks wild, then drops ambiguous hints, 
Frowns, hesitates, turns pale, and says 'twas 

nothing ; . 

Then feigns to smile, and by his anxious care 
To prove himself at ease, betrays his pain. 

Bir. Since my short sojourn here, I've mark'd 
this earl, 



And though the ties of blood unite us closely, 
I shudder at his haughtiness of temper, 
Which not his gentle wife, the bright Elwina, 
Can charm to rest. Ill are their spirits pair'd ; 
His is the seat of frenzy, hers of softness, 
His love is transport, hers is trembling duty ; 
Rage in his soul is as the whirlwind fierce, 
While hers ne'er felt the power of that rude 

passion. 
Edr. Perhaps the mighty soul of Douglas 

mourns, 
Because inglorious love detains him here, 
While our bold knights, beneath the Christian 

standard, 
Press to the bulwarks of Jerusalem. 
Bir. Though every various charm adorn9 

Elwina, 



* Of this estimable lady, a cotemporary writer says, "This lady has for many years flourished in the literary 
world, which she has richly adorned by a variety of labours, all possessing strong marks of excellence. In the 
cause of religion and society, her labours are original and indefatigable; and the industrious poor have been 
once enlightened by her instructions, and supported by her buunl,y " 



THE* WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



31 



And though the noble Douglas dotes to madness, 
Yet some dark mystery involves their fate: 
The canker grief devours Elwina's bloom, 
And on her brow meek resignation sits, 
Hopeless, yet uncomplaining. 

Edr. 'Tis most strange. 

Bir. Once, not long since, she thought herself 
alone ; 
'Twas then the pent-up anguish burst its bounds; ( 
With broken voice, clasp'd hands, and streaming 

eyes, 
She call'd upon her father, call'd him cruel, 
And said her duty claim'd far other recompense. 

Edr. Perhaps the absence of the good Lord 
Raby, 
Who, at her nuptials, quitted this fair castle, 
Resigning it to her, may thus afflict her. 
Hast thou e'er question'd her, good Birtha 1 

Bir. Often, 
But hitherto in vain ;" and yet she shows me 
The endearing kindness of a sister's love ; 
But if 1 speak to Douglas 

Edr. See ! he comes. 
It would offend him should he find you here. 

Enter Douglas. 

Dou. How ! Edric and his sister in close con- 
ference 1 
Do they not seem alarm'd at my approach 1 
And see, how suddenly they part ! Now Edric, 
[Exit Birtha. 
Was this well done 1 or was it like a friend, 
When I desir'd to meet thee here alone, 
With all the warmth of trusting confidence, 
To lay my bosom naked to thy view, 
And show thee all its weakness, was it well 
To call thy sister here, to let her witness 
Thy friend's infirmity'? — perhaps to tell her — 

Edr. My lord, I nothing know; I came to learn. 

Dou. Nay then thou dost suspect there 's some- 
thing wrong 1 

Edr. If we were bred from infancy together, 
If T partook in all thy youthful griefs, 
And every joy thou knew'st was doubly mine, 
Then tell me all the secret of thy soul : 
Or have these few short months of separation, 
The only absence we have ever known, 
Have these so rent the bands of love asunder, 
That Douglas should distrust his Edric's truth'? 

Dou. My friend, I know thee faithful as thou'rt 
brave, 
And I will trust thee — but not now, good Edric. 
'Tis past, 'tis gone, it is not worth the telling, 
'Twas wrong tc cherish what disturb'd my peace ; 
I'll think of it no more. 

Edr. Transporting news ! 
I fear'd some hidden trouble vex'd your quiet. 
In secret I have watch'd 

Dou. Ha ! watch'd in secret 1 
A spy, employ'd, perhaps, to note my actions. 
What have 1 said '? Forgive me, thou art noble : 
Yet do not press me to disclose my grief, 
For when thou know'st it, I perhaps shall hate thee 
As much, my Edric, as I hate myself 
For my suspicions — I am ill at ease. 

Edr. How will the fair Elwina grieve to h? ar it ! 

Dou. Hold, Edric, hold — thou hast touch'd the 
fatal string 
That wakes me into madness. Hear me then, 
But let the deadly secret be secured 
With bars of adamant in thy close breast. 
Think on the curse which waits on broken oaths ; 



A knight is bound by more than vulgar ties, 
And perjury in thee were doubly damn'd. • 
Well then, the king of England — 

Edr. Is expected 
From distant Palestine. 

Dou. Forbid it, Heaven ! 
For with him comes — 

Edr. Ah! who"? 

Dou. Peace, peace, 
For see Elwina 's here. Retire, my Edric ; 
When next we meet, thou shalt know all. Fare- 
well. [Exit Edric. 
Now to conceal with care my bosom's anguish, 
And let her beauty chase away my sorrows ! 
Yes, I would meet her with a face of smiles — ■ 
But 'twill not be. 

Enter Elwina. 

Elw. Alas, 'tis ever thus ! 
Thus ever clouded is his angry brow. [Aside. 

Dou. I were too bless'd, Elwina, could I hope 
You met me here by choice, or that your bosom 
Shar'd the warm transports mine must ever feel 
At your approach. 

Elw. My lord, if 1 intrude, [giveness : 

The cause which brings me claims at least for- 
I fear you are not well, and come, unbidden, 
Except by faithful duty, to inquire, 
If haply in my power, my little power 
1 have the means to minister relief 
To your affliction 1 

Dou. What unwonted goodness 

I were bless'd above the lot of man, 

If tenderness, not duty, brought Elwina; i 
Cold, ceremonious, and unfeeling duty, 
That wretched substitute for love: but know, 
The heart demands a heart; nor will be paid 
With less than what it gives. E'en now, Elwina, 
The glistening tear stands trembling in your eyes. 
Which cast their mournful sweetness on the 

ground, 
As if they fear'd to raise their beams to mine, 
And read the language of reproachful love. 

Elw. My lord, 1 hop'd the thousand daily proofs 
Of my obedience- 

Dou. Death to all my hopes ! [encel 

Heart-rending word ! — obedience ! what 's obedi- 
'Tis fear, 'tis hate, 'tis terror, 'tis aversion, 
'Tis the cold debt of ostentatious duty, 
Paid with insulting caution, to remind me 
How much you tremble to ofTend a tyrant 

So terrible as Douglas. — O, Elwina 

While duty measures the regard it owes 
With scrupulous precision and nice justice, 
Love never reasons, but profusely gives, 
Gives, like a thoughtless prodigal, its all, 
And trembles then, lest it has done too little. 

Elw. Indeed I'm most unhappy that my cares, 
And my solicitude to please, offend. 

Dou. True tenderness is less solicitous, 
Less prudent and more fond ; the enamour'd heart 
Conscious it loves, and bless'd in being lov'd, 
Reposes on the object it adores, 
And trusts the passion it inspires and feels.- - 
Thou hast not learn'd how terrible it is 
To feed a hopeless flame.— But hear, Elwina, 
Thou most obdurate, hear me. — 

Elw. Say, my lord, 
For your own lips shall vindicate my fame, 
Since at the altar I became your wife, 
Can malice charge me with an act, a word, 

1 ought to blush at 1 Have I not still liv'd 



532 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



As open to the eye of observation, 

As fearless innocence should ever live 1 

I call attesting angels to be witness, 

If in my open deed, or secret thought, 

My conduct, or my heart, they've aught discern'd 

Which did not emulate their purity. 

Dou. This vindication ere you were accus'd, 
This warm defence, repelling all attacks 
Ere they are made, and construing casual Words 
To formal accusations, trust me, Madam, 
Shows rather an alarm'd and vigilant spirit, 
For ever on the watch to guard its secret, 
Than the sweet calm of tearless innocence. 
Who talk'd of guilt ? Who testified suspicion 1 
El to. Learn, Sir, that virtue, wliile 'tis free from 
blame, 
Is modest, lowly, meek, and unassuming; 
Not apt, like fearful vice, to shield its weakness 
Beneath the studied pomp of boastful phrase 
Which swells to hide the poverty it shelters ; 
But, when this virtue feels itself suspected, 
Insulted, set at nought, its whiteness stain'd, 
It then grows proud, forgets its humble worth, 
And rates itself above its real value, 
Dou. I did not mean to chide! but think, 
think, 
What pangs must rend this fearful doting heart, 
To see you sink impatient of the grave, 
To feel, distracting thought ! to feel you hate me ! 
Elw. What if the slend< thread by which I 
hold 
This poor precarious being soon must break, 
Is it Elwina's crime, or Heaven's decree 1 
Yet I shall meet, I trust, the king of terrors, 
Submissive and resign'd, without one pang, 
One fond regret, at leaving this gay world. 

Dou. Yes, Madam, there is one, one man ador'd, 
For whom your sighs will heave, your tears will 

flow, 
For whom this hated world will still be dear, 

For whom you still would live 

Elw. Hold, hold my lord, 
What may this mean 1 

Dou. Ah ! I have gone too far. 
What have I said 1 — Your father, sure, your father. 
The good Lord Raby, may at least expect 
One tender sigh. 

Elw. Alas, my lord ! I thought 
The precious incense of a daughter'6 sighs 
Might rise to heavei^ and not offend its ruler. 

Dou. 'Tis true ; yet Raby is no more belov'd 
Since he bestow'd his daughter's hand on Douglas : 
That was a crime the dutiful Elwina 
Can never pardon ; and believe me, Madam, 
My love 's so nice, so delicate my honour, 
I am asham'd to owe my happiness 
To ties which make you wretched. [Exit Douglas. 

Eho. Ah ! how 's this 1 
Though I have ever found him fierce and rash, 
Full of obscure surmises and dark hints, 
Till now he never ventur'd to accuse me. 
" Yet there is one, one man belov'd, ador'd, 
For whom your tears will flow" — these were his 

words — 
And then the wretched subterfuge of Raby — 
How poor th' evasion ! — But my Birtha comes. 

Enter Birtha. 

Bir. Crossing the portico I met Lord Douglas, 
Disorder'd were his looks, his eyes shot fire ; 
He call'd upon your name with such distraction 
I frar'd some sudden evil had befallen you. 



Elw. Not sudden : no ; long has the storm 
been gathering, 
Which threatens speedily to burst in ruin 
On this devoted head. 
Bir. I ne'er beheld 
Your gentle soul so ruffled, yet I've marked you, 
W hile others thought you happiest of the happy, 
Bless'd with whate'er the world calls great, or 

good, 
With all that nature, all that fortune gives, 
I've mark'd you bending with a weight of sorrow. 

Elw. O I will tell thee all ! thou couldst not find 
An hour, a moment in Elwina's life, 
When her full heart so long'd to ease its burden, 
And pour its sorrows in thy friendly bosom: 
Hear then, with pity hear, my tale of wo, 
And, O forgive, kind nature, filial piety, 
If my presumptuous lips arraign a father ! 
Yes, Birtha, that belov'd, that cruel father, 
Has doom'd me to a life of hopeless anguish, 
To die of grief ere half my days are number'd; 
Doom'd me to give my trembling hand to Douglas, 
'Twas all I had to give — my heart was — Percy's. 

Bir. What do 1 hear ? 

Elw. My misery, not my crime. 
Long since the battle 'twixt the rival houses 
Of Douglas and of Percy, for whose hate 
This mighty globe 's too small a"*theatre, 
One summer's morn, my father chas'd the deer 
On Cheviot Hills, Northumbria's fair domain. 

Bir. On that fam'd spot where first the feuds 
commene'd 
Between the earls 1 

Elw. The same. During the chace, 
Some of my father's knights receiv'd an insult 
From the Lord Percy's herdsmen, churlish fo- 

* Testers, 
Unworthy of the gentle blood they serv'd. 
My father, proud and jealous of his honour, 
(Thou know'st the fiery temper of our barons,) 
Swore that Northumberland had been concern 'd 
In this rude outrage, nor would hear of peace, 
Or reconcilement, which the Percy offer'd ; 
But bade me hate, renounce, and banish him. 

! 'twas a task too hard for all my duty : 

1 strove, and wept ; I strove — but still I lov'd. 
Bir. Indeed 'twas most unjust; but say what 

follow'd 1 [tale 1 

Elw. Why should "I dwell on the disastrous 
Forbid to see me, Percy soon embark'd 
With our great king against the Saracen. 
Soon as the jarring kingdoms were at peace, 
Earl Douglas, whom till then I ne'er had seen, 
Came to this castle ; 'twas my hapless fate 
To please him. — Birtha! thou can'st tell what 

followed : 
But who shall tell the agonies I felt"? 
My barbarous father fore'd me to dissolve 

The tender vows himself had bid me form 

He dragg'd me trembling, dying, to the altar, 
I sigh'd, I struggled, fainted, and complied. 

Bir. Did Douglas know, a marriage had been 
Propos'd 'twixt you and Percy 1 [once 

Elw. If he did, 
He thought, like you, it was a match of policy, 
Nor knew our love surpass'd our fathers' prudence. 

Bir. Should he now find he was the instru- 
ment 
Of the Lord Raby's vengeance 1 

Eho. 'Twere most dreadful ! 
My father lock'd this motive in his breast, 
And feign'd to have forgot to*, chace of Cheviot. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



533 



Some moons have now completed their slow course 
Since my sad marriage. — Percy still is absent. 

Bir. Nor will return before his sov'reign comes. 

Elw. Talk not of his return ! this coward heart 
Can know no thought of peace but in his absence. 
How, Douglas here again 1 some fresh alarm ! 
Enter Douglas, agitated, with letters in his hand. 

Dou. Madam, your pardon — 

Elw. What disturbs my lord 1 [ease. 

Dou. Nothing. — Disturb ! I ne'er was more at 
These letters from your father give us notice 
He will be here to-night : — He farther adds, 
The king 's each hour expected. 

Elw. How"? the king 1 ? 
Said you, the king? 

Dou. And 'tis Lord Raby's pleasure 
That you among the foremost bid him welcome. 
You must attend the court. 

Elw. Must I, my lord 1 

Dou. Now to observe how she receives the 
news ! [Aside. 

Elw. I must not, — cannot. — By the tender love 
You have so oft profess'd for poor Elwina, 
Indulge this one request — O let me stay ! 

Dou. Enchanting sounds! she does not wish 
to go — [Aside. 

Elw. The bustling world, the pomp which 
waits on greatness, 
111 suits my humble, unambitious soul ; — 
Then leave me here, to tread the safer path 
Of private life ; here, where my peaceful course 
Shall be as silent as the shades around me; 

#or shall one vagrant wish be e'er allow'd 
o stray beyond the bounds of Raby Castle. 
I Dou. O music to my ears ! [Aside.] Can you 

resolve 
To hide those wondrous beauties in the shade, 
Which rival kings would cheaply buy with empire 1 
Can you renounce the pleasures of a court, 
Whose roofs resound with minstrelsy and mirth 1 

Elw. My lord, retirement is a wife's best duty, 
And virtue's safest station is retreat. 

Dou. My soul's in transports! [Aside] But 
can you forego 
What wins the soul of woman — admiration 1 
A world, where charms inferior far to yours 
Only presume to shine when you are absent ! 
Will you not long to meet the public gaze 1 
Long to eclipse the fair, and charm the brave 1 

Elw. These are delights in which the mind 
partakes not. 

Dou. I'll try her farther. [Aside. 

[ Takes her hand, and looks steadfastly at her 
as he speaks. 
But reflect once more : 

When you shall hear that England's gallant peers. 
Fresh from the fields of war, and gay with glory, 
All vain with conquest, and elate with fame, 
When you shall hear these princelyyouths contend, 
In many a tournament, for beauty's prize ; 
When you shall hear of revelry and masking, 
Of mimic combats and of festive halls, 
Of lances shiver'd in the cause of love, 
Will you not then repent, then wish your fate, 
Your happier fate, had till that hour reserv'd you 
For some plumed conqueror 1 

Elw. My fate, my lord, 
Is now bound up with yours. 

Dou. Here let me kneel — [der ; 

Yes, I will kneel, and gaze, and weep, and won- 

Thou paragon of goodness! — pardon, pardon. 

_ T T [Kisses her hand. 

Vol. I. L 



I am convinc'd — I can no longer doubt, 
Nor talk, nor hear, nor reason, nor reflect. 
— I must retire, and give a loose to joy. 

[Exit Douglas. 

Bir. The king returns. 

Elw. And with him Percy comes ! 

Bir. You needs must go. 

Elw. Shall I solicit ruin, 
And pull destruction on me ere its time 1 
I, who have held it criminal to name him 1 
I will not go — I disobey thee, Douglas, 
But disobey thee to preserve thy honour. [Exeunt 

ACT II. 

SCENE I.— The Hall. 

Enter Douglas, speaking. 

See that the traitor instantly be seiz'd, 

And strictly watch'd ; let none have access to him. 

— O jealousy, thou aggregate of woes ! 

Were there no hell, thy torments would create one. 

But yet she may be guiltless — may 1 she must. 

How beautiful she look'd ! pernicious beauty ! 

Yet innocent as bright seem'd the sweet blush 

That mantled on her cheek. But not for me, 

But not for me, those breathing roses blow ! 

And then she wept — What ! can I bear her tears'? 

Well- let her weep — her tears are for another ; 

did they fall for me, to dry their streams 

I'd drain the choicest blood that feeds this heart, 
Nor think the drops I shed were half so precious. 
[He stands in a musing posture. 

Enter Lord Raby. 

Raby. Sure I mistake — am I in Raby Castle? 
Impossible ; that was the seat of smiles ; 
And Cheerfulness and Joy were household god& 

1 us'd to scatter pleasures when I came, 
And every servant shar'd his lord's delight; 
But now Suspicion and Distrust dwell here, 
And Discontent maintains a sullen sway. 
Where is the smile unfeign'd, the jovial welcome, 
Which cheer'd the sad, beguil'd the pilgrim's pain, 
And made Dependency forget its bonds 1 
Where is the ancient, hospitable hall, 

Whose vaulted roof once rung with harmless mirth, 
Where every passing stranger was a guest, 
And every guest a friend 1 I fear me much, 
If once our nobles scorn their rural seats, 
Their rural greatness, and their vassals' love, 
Freedom and English grandeur are no more. 

Dou. [Advancing.] My lord, you are welcome. 

Raby. Sir, I trust 1 am ; 
But yet methinks I shall not feel I'm welcome 
Till my Elwina bless me with her smiles : 
She was not wont with ling'ring step to meet me, 
Or greet my coming with a cold embrace ; 
Now, I extend my longing arms in vain : 
My child, my darling, does not come to fill them. 
O they were happy days, when she would fly 
To meet me from the camp, or from the chace, 
And with her fondness overpay my toils ! 
How eager would her tender hands unbrace 
The ponderous armour from my war-worn limbs, 
And pluck the helmet which oppos'd her kiss ! 

Dou. O sweet delights, that never must be mine ! 

Raby. What do I hear 1 

Dou. Nothing: inquire no farther. 

Raby. My lord, if you respect an old man's 
peace, 
If e'er you doted on my much-lov'd child, 
As 'tis most sure you made me think you did, 



534 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Then, by the pangs which you may one day feel, l She begg'd to stay behind in Raby Castlo, 



When you, like me, shall be a fond, fond father, 
And tremble for the treasure of your age, 
Tell me what this alarming silence means? 
You sigh, you do not speak, nay more, you hear 

not; 
Your lab'ring soul turns inward on itself, 
As there were nothing but your own sad thoughts 
.Deserv'd regard. Does my child live 1 
JDou. She does. 
Raby. To bless her father ! 
JDou. And to curse her husband ! 
Raby. Ah ! have a care, my lord. I'm not so 

old— 
Dou. Nor I so base, that I should tamely bear it ; 
Nor am I so inur'd to infamy, 
That I can say, without a burning blush, 
She lives to be my curse ! 
Raby. How 's this ? 
Dou. I thought 
The lily opening to the heaven's soft dews, 
Was not so fragrant, and was not so chaste. 
Raby. Has she prov'd otherwise ? I'll not be- 
lieve it. 
Who has traduc'd my sweet, my innocent child ? 
Yet she 's too good to 'scape calumnious tongues. 
I know that Slander loves a lofty mark : 
It saw her 6oar a flight above her fellows, 
And hurl'd its arrow to her glorious height, 
To reach her heart, and bring her to the ground. 
Dou. Had the rash tongue of Slander so pre- 
sum'd, 
My vengeance had not been of that slow sort 
To need a prompter ; nor should any arm, 
No, not a father's, dare dispute with mine, 
The privilege to die in her defence. 
None dares accuse Elwina, but — 
Raby. But who! 
Dou. But Douglas. 

Raby. [Puis his hand to his sword.] You ? — 
O spare my age's weakness ! 
You do not know what 'tis to be a father ; 
You do not know, or you would pity me, 
The thousand tender throbs, the nameless feel- 
ings, 
The dread to ask, and yet the wish to know, 
When we adore and fear ; but wherefore fear ? 
Does not the blood of Raby fill her veins ? 
Dou. Percy ; — know'st thou that name ? 
Raby. How? What of Percy? 
Dou. He loves Elwina, and, my curses on him ! 
He is belov'd again. 
Raby. I'm on the rack ! 
Dou. Not the two Theban brothers bore each 
other 
Such deep, such deadly hate as I and Percy. 
Raby. But tell me of my child. 
Dou. [Not minding him.] As I and Percy ! 
When at the marriage rites, O rites accurs'd ! 
I seiz'd her trembling hand, she started back, 
Cold horror thrill'd her veins, her tears now'd fast. 
Fool that I was, I thought 'twas maiden fear ; 
Dull, doting ignorance : beneath those terrors, 
Hatred for me and love for Percy lurk'd. 
Raby. What proof of guilt is this ? 
Dou. E'er since our marriage, 
Our days have still been cold and joyless all ; 
Painful restraint, and hatred ill disguis'd, 
Her sole return for all my waste of fondness. 
This very morn I told her 'twas your will 
She should repair to court ; with all those graces, 
Which first subdued mv soul, and still enslave it, 



For courts and cities had no charms for her. 
Curse my blind love ! I was again ensnar'd, 
And doted on the sweetness which deceiv'd me. 
Just at the hour she thought I should be absent, 
(For chance could ne'er have tim'd their guilt so 

well,) 
Arriv'd young Harcourt, one of Percy's knights, 
Strictly enjoin'd to speak to none but her; 
I seiz'd the miscreant : hitherto he 's silent, 
But tortures soon shall force him to confess ! 

Raby. Percy is absent — They have never met. 

Dou. At what a feeble hold you grasp for suc- 
cour ! 
Will it content me that her person 's pure ? 
No, if her alien heart dotes on another, 
She is unchaste, were not that other Percy. 
Let vulgar spirits basely wait for proof, 
She loves another — 'tis enough for Douglas. 

Raby. Be patient. 

Dou. Be a tame convenient husband, 
And meanly wait for circumstantial guilt ? 
No — I am nice as the first Csesar was, 
And start at bare suspicion. [Going. 

Raby. [Holding him.] Douglas, hear me : 
Thou hast nam'd a Roman husband ; if she 's 

false, 
I mean to prove myself a Roman father. 

[Exit Douglas. 
This marriage was my work, and thus I'm pu- 
nish'd ! 



Enter Elwina. 



Elw. Where is my father ? let me fly to meA 
And die of joy in his belov'd embrace! 



O let me clasp his venerable knees, 



[hir 



Raby. [Avoiding her embrace.] Elwina ! 
Elw. And is that all ? so cold? 
Raby. [Sternly.] Elwina! 
Elw. Then I'm undone indeed ! How stern 
his looks ! 
I will not be repuls'd, I am your child. 
The child of that dear mother you ador'd ; 
You shall not throw me off, I will grow here, 
And, like the patriarch, wrestle for a blessing. 
Raby. [Holding her from him.] Before I take 
thee in these aged arms, 
Press thee with transport to this beating heart 
And give a loose to all a parent's fondness, 
Answer, and see thou answer me as truly 
As if the dread inquiry came from Heaven, — 
Does no interior sense of guilt confound thee 1 
Canst thou lay all thy naked soul before me ? 
Can thy unconscious eye encounter mine ? 
Canst thou endure the probe, and never shrink 1 
Can thy firm hand meet mine, and never tremble ? 
Art thou prepar'd to meet the rigid Judge ? 
Or to embrace the fond, the melting father ? 
Elw. Mysterious Heaven ! to what am I re- 

serv'd ! 
Raby. Should some rash man, regardless of 
thy fame, 
And in defiance of thy marriage vows, 
Presume to plead a guilty passion for thee 
What wouldst thou do ? 

Elw. What honour bids me do. 
Raby. Come to my arms ! [ They embrace 
Elw. My father ! 
Raby. Yes, Elwina, 
Thou art my child — thy mother's perfect image. 
Elw. Forgive these tears of mingled joy and 
doubt , 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



535 



For why tfiat question 1 who should seek to please 
The desolate Efwina'J 

Raby. But if any 
Should soprewume, canst thou resolve to hate him, 
Whate'er his name, whate'er his pride of blood, 
Whate'er his former arrogant pretensions 1 

Elw. Ha! 

Baby. Dost thou falter 1 Have a care, Elwina. 

Elw. Sir, do not fear me: am I not your 
daughter 1 [honour ; 

Raby. Thou hast a higher claim upon thy 
Thou art Earl DougW wife. 

Elw. [ Weeps.] I aat, indeed ! 

Raby. Unhappy Douglas ! 

Elw. Has he then cooiplain'd 
Has he presumed to sully my white fame 1 

Raby. He knows that Percy 

Elw. Was my destin'd husband ; 
By your own promise, by a father's promise, 
And by a tie more strong, more sacred still, 
Mine, by the fast firm bond of mutual love. 

Raby. Now, by my fears, thy husband told me 
truth. 

Elw. If he has told thee, that thy only child 
Was fore'd a helpless victim to the altar, 
Torn from his arms who had her virgin heart, 
And fore'd to make false vows to one she hated, 
Then I confess that he has told the truth. 
[ Raby. Her words are barbed arrows in my 

heart. 
But 'tis too late. [Aside.] Thou hast appointed 

Harcourt 
To see thee here by stealth in Douglas' absence 1 
• Elw. No, by my life, nor knew I till this moment 
That Harcourt was return'd. Was it for this 
I taught my heart to struggle with its feelings 1 
Was it for this I bore my wrongs in silence ? 
When the fond ties of early love were broken, 
Did my weak soul break out in fond complaints'? 
Did I reproach thee 1 Did I call thee cruel 1 
No — I endur'd it all ; and wearied Heaven 
To bless the father who destroy'd my peace. 

Enter Messenger. 

Mess. My lord, a knight, Sir Hubert as I think, 
But newly landed from the holy wars, 
Entreats admittance. 

Raby. Let the warrior enter. 

[Exit Messenger. 
All private interests sink at his approach ; 
All selfish cares be for a moment banish'd ; 
I've now no child, no kindred but my country. 

Elw. Weak heart, be still, for what hast thou 
to fear 1 ? 

Enter Sir Hubert. 

Raby. Welcome, thou gallant knight ! Sir Hu- 
bert, welcome ! 
Welcome to Raby Castle ! — In one word, 
Is the kingsafe 1 Is Palestine subdu'd 1 

Sir H. The king is safe, and Palestine subdu'd. 
Raby. Bless'd be the God of armies ! Now, Sir 
Hubert, 
By all the saints, thou'rt a right noble knight. 

why was I too old for this crusade ! 

1 think it would have made«ne young again, 
Could I, like thee, have seen the hated crescent 
Yield to the Christian cross. — How now, Elwina ! 
What ! cold at news which might awake the dead 1 
If there 's a drop in thy degenerate veins 

That glows not now, thou art not Raby's daughter. 
It is religion's cause, the cause of Heaven ! 



Elw. When policy assumes religion's name, 
And wears the sanctimonious garb of faith 
Only to colour fraud, and license murder, 
War then is tenfold guilt. 

Raby. Blaspheming girl! 

Elw. 'Tis not the crosier, nor the pontiffs robe 
The saintly look, nor elevated eye, 
Nor Palestine destroy'd, nor Jordan's banks 
Deluged with blood of slaughter'd infidels ; 
No, nor the extinction of the eastern world, 
Nor all the mad, pernicious, bigot rage 
Of your crusades, can bribe that Power that sees 
The motive with the act. O blind, to think 
That cruel war can please the Prince of Peace ! 
He, who erects his altar in the heart, 
Abhors the sacrifice of human blood, 
And all the false devotion of that zeal 
Which massacres the world he died to save. 

Raby. O impious rage ! If thou wouldst shun 

my curse, [Hubert, 

No more, I charge thee. — Tell me, good Sir 

Say, have our arms achiev'd this glorious deed, 

(I fear to ask,) without much C hristian blood-shed 1 

Elw. Now, Heaven support me! [Aside. 

Sir H. My good lord of Raby, 
Imperfect is the sum of human glory ! 
Would I could tell thee that the field was won, 
Without the death of such illustrious knights 
As make the high-flush'd cheek of victory pale. 

Elw. Why should I tremble thus 1 [Aside. 

Raby. Who have we lost 1 [Grey, 

Sir It. The noble Clifford, Walsingham, and 
Sir Harry Hastings, and the valiant Pembroke, 
All men of choicest note. ■ 

Raby. O that my name 
Had been enroll'd in such a list of heroes ! 
If I was too infirm to serve my country, 
I might have prov'd my love by dying for her. 

Elw. Were there no more ? 

Sir H. But few of noble blood. 
But the brave youth who gain'd the palm of glory, 
The flower of knighthood, and the plunu: of war, 
Who bore his banner foremost in the field, 
Yet conquer'd more by mercy than the sword, 
Was Percy. 

Elw. Then he lives! [Aside, 

Raby. Did he"? Did Percy'? 
O gallant boy, then I'm thy foe no more ; 
Who conquers for my country is my friend ! 
His fame shall add new glories to a house, 
Where never maid was false, nor knight dis- 
loyal, [tears : 

Sir H. You do embalm him, lady, with your 
They grace the grave of glory where he lies — 
He died the death of honour. 

Elw. Said'st thou — died 1 

Sir H. Beneath the towers of Solyma he felL 

Elw. Oh! 

Sir H. Look to the lady. 

[Klwis a faints in her father's arms. 

Raby. Gentle knight, retire 

'Tis an infirmity of nature in her, 

She ever mourns at any tale of blood ; 

She will be well anon — meantime, Sir Hubert, 

You'll grace our castle with your friendly sojourn. 

Sir H. I must return with speed — health to the 
lady. [Exit 

Raby. Look up, Elwina. Should her husband 
Yet she revives not. [come ! 

Enter Douglas. 
Dou. Ha Elwina fainting ! 



536 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



My lord, I fear you have too harshly chid her. 
Her gentle nature could not brook your sternness. 
She wakes, she stirs, she feels returning life. 
My love ! [He takes her hand. 

Elw. O Percy ! 

Dou. [Starts.] Do my senses fail me 1 

Elw. My Percy, 'tis Ehvina calls. 

Dou. Hell, hell! 

Raby. Retire awhile, my daughter. 

Elw. Douglas here, 
My father and my husband 1 — O for pity 

[Exit, casting a look of anguish on both. 

Dou. Now, now confess she well deserves my 
vengeance ! 
Before my face to call upon my foe ! 

Raby. Upon a foe who has no power to hurt 
Earl Percy 's slain. ., [thee — 

Dou. I live again. — But hold — 
Did she not weep 1 she did, and wept for Percy. 
If she laments him, he 's my rival still, 
And not the grave can bury my resentment. 

Raby. The truly brave are still the truly gen'rous. 
Now, Douglas, is the time to prove thee both. 
If it be true that she did once love Percy, 
Thou hast no more to fear, since he is dead. 
Release young Harcourt, let him see Elwina, 
'Twill serve a double purpose, 'twill at once 
Prove Percy's death, and thy unchang'd affection. 
Be gentle to my child, and win her heart 
By confidence and unreproaching love. 

Dou. By Heaven, thou counsel'st well ! it shall 
be done. 
Go set him free, and let him have admittance 
To my Elwina's presence. 

Raby. Farewell, Douglas. 
Show thou believ'st her faithful, and she'll prove 
so. [Exit. 

Dou. Northumberland is dead — that thought is 
peace ! 
Her heart may yet be mine, transporting hope ! 
Percy was gentle, even a foe avows it, 
And I'll be milder than a summer's breeze. 
Yes. thou most lovely, most ador'd of women, 
I'll copy every virtue, every grace, 
Of my bless'd rival, happier even in death 
To be thus lov'd, than living to be scorn'd. [Exit. 

Act hi. 

SCENE I. — A Garden at Raby Castle, with a 
Bower. 

Enter Percy and Sir Hueert. 

Sir H. That Percy lives, and is return'd in 
safety, 
More joys my soul than all the mighty conquests 
That sun beheld, which rose on Syria's ruin. 

Per. I've told thee, good Sir Hubert, by what 
wonder 
I was preserv'd, though number'd with the slain. 

Sir H. 'Twas strange, indeed ! 

Per. 'Twas Heaven's immediate work ! 
But let me now indulge a dearer joy, 
Talk of a richer gift of Mercy's hand ; 
A gift so precious to my doting heart, 
That life preserv'd is but a second blessing. 
O Hubert, let my soul indulge its softness ! 
The hour, the spot, is sacred to Elwina. 
This was her fav'rite walk ; I well remember, 
(For who forgets that loves as I have lov'd ?) 
'Twas in that very bower she gave this scarf, 
Wrought by the hand of love ! she bound it on, 
And, smiling, cried, Whate'er befall us, Percy, 



Be this the sacred pledge of faith between us. 
I knelt, and swore, call'd every power to witness, 
No time, nor circumstance, should force it from me, 
But I would lose my life and that together 
Here I repeat my vow. 

Sir H. Is this the man 
Beneath whose single arm a host was crush'dl 
He, at whose name the Saracen turn'd pale 1 
And when he fell, victorious armies wept, 
And mourn'd a conquest they had bought so dear 1 
How has be chang'd the trumpet's martial note, 
And all the stirring clangour of the war, 
For the soft melting of the lover's lute ! 
Why are thine eyes still bent upon the bower'? 

Per. O Hubert, Hubert, to a soul enamour'd, 
There is a sort of local sympathy, 
Which, when we view the scenes of early passion, 
Paints the bright image of the object lov'd 
In stronger colours than remoter scenes 
Could ever paint it ; realizes shade, 
Dresses it up in all the charms it wore, 
Talks to it nearer, frames its answers kinder, 
Gives form to fancy, and embodies thought. 

Sir H. I should not be believ'd in Percy's camp, 
If I should tell them that their gallant leader, 
The thunder of the war, the boIdNorthumberland, 
Renouncing Mars, dissolv'd in amorous wishes, 
Loiter'd in shades, and pined in rosy bowers, 
To catch a transient gleam of two bright eyes. 

Per. Enough of conquest, and enough of war ! 
Ambition 's cloy'd — the heart resumes its rights. 
When England's king, and England's good re- 

quir'd, 
This arm not idly the keen falchion brandish 'd: ■ 
Enough — for vaunting misbecomes a soldier. 
I live, I am return'd — am near Elwina ! [her; 
Seest thou those turrets 1 Yes, that castle holds 
But wherefore tell thee this? fortho\i hast seen her. 
How look'd, what said she 1 Did she hear the tale 
Of my imagin'd death without emotion? 

Sir H. Percy, thou hast seen the musk-rose, 
newly blown, 
Disclose its bashful beauties to the sun, 
Till an unfriendly, chilling storm descended, 
Crush'd all its blushing glories in their prime, 
Bow'd its fair head, and blasted all its sweetness; 
So droop'd the maid beneath the cruel weight 
Of my sad tale. 

Per. So tender and so true ! 

Sir H. I left her fainting in her father's arms, 
The dying flower yet hanging on the tree. 
Even Raby melted at the news I brought, 
And envy'd thee thy glory. 

Per. Then I am bless'd ! 
His hate subdu'd, I've nothing more to fear. 

Sir H. My embassy dispalch'd, I left the castle, 
Nor spoke to any of Lord Raby's household, 
For fear the king should chide the tardiness 
Of my return. My joy to find you living 
You have already heard. 

Per. But where is Harcourt ? 
Ere this he should have seen her, told her all, 
How I surviv'd, return'd — and how I love ! 
I tremble at the near approach of bliss, 
And scarcely can sustain the joy which waits me 

Sir H. Grant, Heaven, the fair one prove but 
half so true ! 

Per. O she is truth itself! 

Sir H. She may be chang'd, 
Spite of her tears, her fainting, and alarms. 
1 know the sex, know them as nature made 'em, 
Not such as lovers wish, and poets feign. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



537 



Per. To doubt her virtue were suspecting Hea- 
'Twere little less than infidelity ! [ v en, 

And yet I tremble. Why does terror shake 
These firm-strung nerves ? But 'twill be ever thus, 
When fate prepares us more than mortal bliss, 
And gives us only human strength to bear it. 

Sir H. What beam of brightness breaks through 
yonder gloom ? [comes 

Per. Hubert — she comes ! by all my hopes, she 
'Tis she — the blissful vision is Elwina ! [me ! 

But ah ! what mean those tears 1 — She weeps for 

transport ! — go. — I'll listen unobserv'd, 
And for a moment taste the precious joy, 
The banquet of a tear which falls for love. 

[Exit Sir Hubert, Percy goes into the 
bower. 

Enter Elwina. 

Shall I not weep ? and have I then no cause ? 
If I could break the eternal bands of death, 
And wrench the sceptre from his iron grasp ; 
If I could bid the yawning sepulchre 
Restore to life its long committed dust ; 
If 1 could teach the slaughtering hand of war 
To give me back my dear, my murder'd Percy, 
Then I indeed might once more cease to weep. 
[Percy comes out of the bower. 

Per. Then cease, for Percy lives. 

Elw. Protect me, Heaven ! 

Per. O joy unspeakable ! My life, my love ! 
End of my toils, and crown of all my caTes ! 
Kind as consenting peace, as conquest bright, 
Dearer than arms, and lovelier than renown ! 

Elw. It is his voice — it is, it is my Percy ! 
And dost thou live ? 

Per. I never liv'd till now. 

Elw. And did my sighs, and did my sorrows 
reach thee ? 
And art thou come at last to dry my tears ? 
How did'st thou 'scape the fury of the foe'? 

Per. Thy guardian genius hover'd o'er the field, 
And turn'd the hostile spear from Percy's breast, 
Lest thy fair image should be wounded there. 
But Harcourt should have told thee all my fate, 
How I surviv'd 

Elw. Alas ! I have not seen him. 
Oh ! T have suffer'd much. 

Per. Of that no more ; 
For every minute of our future lives 
Shall be so bless'd, that we will learn to wonder 
How we could ever think we were unhappy. 

Elw. Percy — I cannot speak. 

Per. Those tears how eloquent ! 

1 would not change this motionless, mute joy, 
For the sweet strains of angels : I look down 
With pity on the rest of human kind, 
However great may be their fame of happiness, 
And think their niggard fate has given them 

nothing, 
Not giving thee ; or, granting some small blessing, 
Denies them my capacity to feel it. 

Elw. Alas ! what mean you ? 

Per. Can I speak my meaning ? [it ; 

'Tis of such magnitude that words would wrong 
But surely my Elwina's faithful bosom 
Should beat in kind responses of delight, 
And feel, but never question, what I mean. 

Elw. Hold, hold, my heart, thou hast much 
more to suffer ! 

Per. Let the slow form, and tedious ceremony, 
Wait on the splendid victims of ambition. 
Love stays for none of these. Thy father 's soften 'd, 



He will forget the fatal Cheviot chacc; 
Raby is brave, and I have serv'd my country , 
I would not boast, it was for thee I conquer'd ; 
Then come, my love. 

Elw. O never, never, never ! 

Per. Am I awake] Is that Elwina's voice? 

Elw. Percy, thou most ador'd, and most de- 
If ever fortitude sustain'd thy soul, [ceiv'd ! 

When vulgar minds h#ve sunk beneath the stroke, 
Let thy imperial spirit now support thee. — 
If thou canst be so wondrous merciful, 
Do not, O do not curse me ! — but thou wilt, 
Thou must — for I have done a fearful deed, 
A deed of wild despair, a deed of horror. 
I am, I am — 

Per. Speak, say, what art thou ? 

Elw. k Married ! 

Per. Oh! [ me; 

Elw. Percy. I think I begged thee not to curse 
But now I do revoke the fond petition. 
Speak ! ease thy bursting soul ; reproach, upbraid, 
O'erwhelm me with thy wrongs I'll bear it all. 

Per. Open, thou earth, and hide me from her 
sight ! 
Did'st thou not bid me curse thee? 

Elw. Mercy ! mercy ! 

Per. And have I 'scaped the Saracen's fell 
Only to perish by Elwina's guilt ? [sword 

I would have bared my bosom to the foe, 
I would have died, had I but known you wish'd it. 

Elw. Percy, I lov'd thee most when most I 
wrong'd thee; 
Yes, by these tears I did. 

Per. Married! just Heaven! 
Married! to whom? Yet wherefore should 

know? 
It cannot add fresh horrors to thy crime, 
Or my destruction. 

Elw. Oh ! 'twill add to both. 
How shall I tell ? Prepare for something dreadful. 
Hast thou not heard of — Douglas ? 

Per. Why, 'tis well ! 
Thou awful Power, why waste thy wrath on me? 
Why arm omnipotence to crush a worm? 
I could have fallen without this waste of ruin. 
Married to Douglas! By my wrongs, I like it; 
'Tis perfidy complete, 'tis finish'd falsehood, 
'Tis adding fresh perdition to the sin, 
And filling up the measure of offence ! 

Elw. Oh ! 'twas my father's deed ! he made his 
child 
An instrument of vengeance on thy head. 
He wept and threaten'd, sooth'd me, and com- 
manded. 

Per. And you complied, most duteously com- 
plied ! 

Elw. I could withstand his fury; but his tears, 
Ah, they undid me ! Percy dost thou know 
The cruel tyranny of tenderness ? 
Hast thou e'er felt a father's warm embrace ? 
Hast thou e'er seen a father's flowing tears, 
And known that thou could'st wipe those teara 

away ? 
If thou hast felt, and hast resisted thrse, 
Then thou may'st curse my weakness ; but if not, 
Thou canst not pity, for thou canst not judge. 

Per. Let me not hear the music of thy voice, 
Or I shall love thee still ; I shall forget 
Thy fatal marriage and my savage wrongs. 

Elw. Dost thou not hate me, Percy? 

Per. Hate thee? Yes, 
As dying martyrs hate the righteous cause 



538 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MOR . 



Of that bless'd power for whom they bleed — 1 
hate thee. 
[They look at each other with silent agony. 

Enter Harcourt. 

Har. Forgive, my lord, your faithful knight — 

Per. Come, Harcourt, 
Come, and behold the wretch who once was Percy. 

Har. With grief I've learn'd the whole un- 
happy tale. 
Earl Douglas, whose suspicion never sleeps — 

Per. What, is the tyrant jealous ! 

Elw. Hear him, Percy. 

Per. I will command my rage — Go on. 

Har. Earl Douglas 
Knew, by my arms and my accoutrements, 
That I belong'd to you ; he questioned much, 
And much he menae'd me, but both alike 
In vain ; he then arrested and confin'd me. [it. 

Per. Arrest my knight ! The Scot shall answer 

Elw. How came you now releas'd 1 

Har. Your noble father 
Obtain'd my freedom, having learn'd from Hubert 
The news of Percy's death. The good old lord, 
Hearing the king's return, has left the castle 
To do him homage. 
[To Percy.] Sir, you had best retire ; 
Your safety is endanger'd by your stay. 
I fear should Douglas know 

Per. Should Douglas know ! 
Why what new magic 's in the name of Douglas 1 
That it should strike Northumberland with fear ? 
Go, seek the haughty Scot, and tell him — no — 
Conduct me to his presence. 

Elw. Percy, hold; 
Think not 'tis Douglas — 'tis— 

Per. I know it well 

Thou mean'st to tell me 'tis Elwina's husband; 
But that inflames me to superior madness. 
This happy husband, this triumphant Douglas, 
Shall not insult my misery with his bliss. 
I'll blast the golden promise of his joys. 
Conduct me to him — nay, I will have way — 
Come, let us seek this husband. 

Elw. Percy, hear me. 
When I was robb'd of all my peace of mind, 
My cruel fortune left me still one blessing, 
One solitary blessing, to console me ; 
It was my fame. — 'Tis a rich jewel, Percy, 
And I must keep it spotless, and unsoil'd : 
But thou wouldst plunder what e'en Douglas spar'd, 
And rob this single-gem of all its brightness. 

Per. Go — thou wast born to rule the fate of 
Thou art my conqueror still. [Percy. 

Elw. What noise is that 1 

[Harcourt goes to the side of the stage. 

Per. Why art thou thus alarm'd 1 

Elw. Alas ! I feel 
The cowardice and terrors of the wicked, 
Without their sense of guilt. 

Har. My lord, 'tis Douglas. 

Elw. Fly, Percy, and for ever 

Per. Fly from Douglas 1 

Elw. Then stay, barbarian, and at once destroy 
My life and fame. 

Per. That thought is death. I go: 
My honour to thy dearer honour yields. 

Elw. Yet, yet thou art not gone ! 

Per. Farewell, farewell ! [Exit Percy. 

Elw. I dare not meet the searching eye of 
Douglas. 
I must conceal my terrors. 



Douglas at the side with his sword drawn, 
Edric holds him. 

Dou. Give me way. 

Edr. Thou shalt not enter. [no hell, 

Dou. [Struggling with Edric] If there were 
It would defraud my vengeance of its edge, 
And she should live. 

[Breaks from Edric and conies forward . 
Cursed chance ! he is not here. 

Elw. [Going.'] I dare not meet his fury. 

Dou. See she flies 
With every mark of guilt. — Go, search the bower, 
[Aside to Edric. 
He shall not thus escape. Madam, return. [Aloud. 
Now, honest Douglas, learn of her to feign. [Aside. 
Alone, Elwina'? who had just parted hence ] 

[ Willi affected composure. 

Elw. My lord, 'twas Harcourt ; sure you must 
have met him. [else ! 

Dou. O exquisite dissembler ! [Aside.] No one 

Elw. My lord ! 

Dou. How I enjoy her criminal confusion ! 

[Aside. 
You tremble, Madam. 

Elw. Wherefore should I tremble 1 
By your permission Harcourt was admitted ; 
'Twas no mysterious, secret introduction. 

Dou. And yet you seem alarm'd. — IfHarcourt's 
presence 
Thus agitates each nerve, makes every pulse 
Thus wildly throb, and the warm tides of blood 
Mount in quick rushing tumults to your cheek , 
If friendship can excite such strong emotions, 
What tremors had a lover's presence caus'd 1 

Elw. Ungenerous man ! 

Dou. I feast upon her terrors. [Aside. 

The story of his death was well contriv'd ; [ To her. 
But it affects not me ; I have a wife, 
Compar'd with whom cold Dian was unchaste. 

[Takes her hand. 
But mark me well — though it concerns not you — 
If there 's a sin more deeply black than others, 
Distinguish'd from the list of common crimes, 
A legion in itself, and doubly dear 
To the dark prince of hell, it is — hypocrisy. 

[ Throivs her from him, and exit. 

Elw. Yes, I will bear this fearful indignation ! 
Thou melting heart, be firm as adamant; 
Ye shatter'd nerves, be strung with manly force, 
That I may conquer all my sex's weakness, 
Nor let this bleeding bosom lodge one thought, 
Cherish one wish, or harbour one desire, 
That angels mav not hear, and Douglas know. 

[Exit. 

ACT IV. 

SCENE I.— The Hall. 

Enter Douglas, his sword drawn and bloody in 
one hand, in the other a letter. Harcourt, 
wounded. 

Dou. Traitor, no more ! this letter shows thy 
office. 
Twice hast thou robb'd me of my dear revenge. 
1 took thee for thy leader. — Thy base blood 
Would stain the noble temper of my sword; 
But as the pander to thy master's lust, 
Thou justly fall'st by a wrong'd husband's hand. 

Har. Thy wife is innocent. 

Dou. Take, him away. 

Har. Percy, revenge my full ! 

\ [ Guards bear Harcourt in 



THE WORKS 01" HANNAH MORE. 



539 



Dou. Now for the letter ! 
He begs once more to see her. — So 'tis plain 

They have already met ! — but to the rest 

[Heads.] " In vain you wish me to restore the 

scarf; 
Dear pledge of love, while I have life I'll wear it, 
'Tis next my heart ; no power shall force it thence ; 
Whene'er you see it in another's hand, 
Conclude me dead." — My curses on them both ! 
How tamely I peruse my shame ! but thus, 
Thus let me tear the guilty characters 
Which register my infamy ; and thus, 
Thus would I scatter to the winds of heaven 
The vile complotters of my foul dishonour. 

[ Tears the letter in the utmost agitation. 

Enter Edric. 

Edr. My lord 

Dou. [In the utmost fury, not seeing Edric] 
The scarf! 

Edr. Lord Douglas. 

Dou. [Still not hearing him.] Yes, the scarf! 
Percy, I thank thee for the glorious thought ! 
I'll cherish it; 'twill sweelen all my pangs, 
And add a higher relish to revenge ! 

Edr. My lord ! 

Dou. How ! Edric here 1 

Edr. What new distress "? [shame, 

Dou. Dost thou expect I should recount my 
Dwell on each circumstance of my disgrace, 
And swell my infamy into a talel 
Rage will not let me — But — my wife is false. 

Edr. Art though convinc'd % 

Dou. The chronicles of hell 
Cannot produce a falser. — But what news 
Of her cursed paramour 1 

Edr. He has escap'd. 

Dou. Hast thou examin'd every avenue 1 
Each spot 1 the grove % the bower, her favourite 

Edr. I've search'd them all. ' [haunt 1 

Dou. He shall be yet pursued. 
Set guards at every gate. — Let none depart 
Or gain admittance here, without my knowledge. 

Edr. What can their purpose be 1 

Dou Is it not clear 1 ? 
Harcourt has raised his arm against my life ; 
He fail'd ; the blow is now reserv'd for Percy ; 
Then, with his sword fresh reeking from my heart, 
He'll revel with that wanton o'er my tomb ; 
Nor will he bring her aught she'll hold so dear, 
As the curs'd hand with which he slew her husband. 
But he shall die ! I'll drown my rage in blood, 
Which I will offer as a rich libation 
On thy infernal altar, black revenge ! [Exeunt. 

SCENE II— The Garden. 

Enter Elwina. 

Elw. Each avenue is so beset with guards, 
And lynx-ey'd Jealousy so broad awake, 
He cannot pass unseen. Protect him, Heaven ! 

Enter Birtha. 
My Birtha, is he safe 1 has he escap'd 1 [to him, 

Bir. I know not. I despatch'd young Harcourt 
To bid him quit the castle, as you order'd, 
Restore the scarf, and never see you more. 
But how the hard injunction was receiv'd, 
Or what has happen'd since, I'm yet to learn. 

Elw. O when shall I be eas'd of all my cares, 
And in the quiet bosom of the grave 
Lay down this weary head ! — I'm sick at heart ! 
Should Douglas intercept his flight ! 



Bir. Be calm ; 
Douglas this very moment left the castle, 
With seeming peace. 

Elw. Ah, then, indeed there 's danger ! 
Birtha, whene'er Suspicion feigns to sleep, 
'Tis but to make its careless prey secure, [thee, 

Bir. Should Percy once again entreat to see 
'Twere best admit him ; from thy lips alone 
He will submit to hear his final doom 
Of everlasting exile. 

Elw. Birtha, no; 
If honour would allow the wife of Douglas 
To meet his rival, yet I durst not do it. 
Percy ! too much this rebel heart is thine: 
Too deeply should I feel each pang I gave 
I cannot hate — but I will banish — thee. 
Inexorable duty, O forgive, 
If 1 can do no more ! 

Bir. If he remains, 
As I suspect, within the castle walls, 
'Twere best I sought him out. 

Elw. Then tell him, Birtha, 
But, Oh ! with gentleness, with mercy, tell him. 
That we must never, never meet again. 
The purport of my tale must be severe, 
But let thy tenderness embalm the wound 
My virtue gives. O soften his despair ; 
But say — we meet no more. 

Enter Percy. 

Rash man, he 's here ! 

[She attempts to go, he seizes her hand, 

Per. I will be heard ; nay, fly not ; I will speak 
Lost as J. am, I will not be denied 
The mournful consolation to complain. 

Elv). Percy, I charge thee, leave me. 

Per. Tyrant, no : 
I blush at my obedience, blush to think 
I left thee here alone, to brave the danger 
I now return to share. 

Elw. That danger 's past: 
Douglas was soon appeas'd ; he nothing knows. 
Then leave me, I conjure thee, nor again 
Endanger my repose. Yet, ers thou goest, 
Restore the scarf. 

Per. Unkind Elwina, never ! 
'Tis all that's left me of my buried joys, 
All which reminds me that I once was happy. 
My letter told thee I would ne'er restore it. 

Elw. Letter ! what letter 1 

Per. That I sent by Harcourt. 

Elw. Which I ne'er receiv'd. Douglas per- 
Who knows 1 [haps ■ 

Bir. Harcourt, t' elude his watchfulness, 
Might prudently retire. 

Elw. Grant Heaven it prove so ! 

[Er.wiNA going, Percy holds her 

Per. Hear me, Elwina ; the most savage honour 
Forbids not that poor grace. 

Elw. It bids me fly thee. [part, 

Per. Then, ere thou goest, if we indeed must 
To sooth the horrors of eternal exile, 
Say but — thou pity'st me ! 

Elw. [ Weeps.] O Percy— pity thee ! 
Imperious honour ; — Surelv I may pity him. 
Yet, wherefore pity 1 no, I envy thee : 
For thou hast still the liberty to weep, 
In thee 'twill be no crime ; thy tears are guiltless, 
For they infringe no duty, stain no honour, 
And blot no vow; but mine are criminal, 
Are drops of shame which wash the cheek of guilt, 
And every tear I shed dishonours Douglas. 



540 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Per. I swear my jealous love e'en grudges thee 
Thy sad pre-eminence in wretchedness. 

Elw. Rouse, rouse, my slumb'ring virtue ! 
Percy hear me. [thine, 

Heaven, when it gives such high- wrought souls as 
Still gives as great occasions to exert them. 
If thou wast form'd so noble, great, and gen'rous, 
'Twas to surmount the passions which enslave 
The gross of human-kind. — Then think. O think, 
She, whom thou once didst love, is now another's. 

Per. Go on — and tell me that that other's 
Douglas. [me : 

Elw. Whate'er his name, he claims respect from 
His honour 's in my keeping, and I hold 
The trust so pure, its sanctity is hurt 
E'en by thy presence. 

Per. Thou again hast conquer'd. 
Celestial virtue, like the angel spirit, 
"Whose flaming sword defended Paradise, 
Stands guard on every charm. — Elwina, yes, 
To triumph over Douglas, we'll be virtuous. 

Elw. 'Tis not enough to be, — we must appear so : 
Great souls disdain the shadow of offence, 
Nor must their whiteness wear the stain of guilt. 

Per. I shall retract-^I dare not gaze upon thee ; 
My feeble virtue staggers, and again 
The fiends of jealousy torment and haunt me. 
They tear my heart-strings. Oh ! 

Elw. No more ; 
But spare my injur'd honour the affront 
To vindicate itself. 

Per. But, love ! 

Elw. But, glory ! 

Per. Enough ! a ray of thy sublimer spirit 
Has warm'd my dying honour to a flame ! 
One effort and 'tis done. The world shall say, 
When they shall speak o f my disastrous love, 
Percy deserv'd Elwina though he lost her. 
Fond tears, blind me not yet ! a little longer, 
Let my sad eyes a little longer gaze, 
And leave their last beams here. 

Elw. [ Turns from, him.] I do not weep. 

Per. Not weep 1 then why those eyes avoiding 
mine 1 [cents '] 

And why that broken voice 1 those trembling ac- 
That sigh which rends my soul 1 

Elw. No more, no more. [once ; 

Per. That pang decides it. Come — I'll die at 
Thou Power supreme ! take all the length of days, 
And all the blessings kept in store for me, 
And add to her account. — Yet turn once more, 
One little look, one last, short glimpse of day, 
And then a long dark night. — Hold, hold my heart, 

break not yet, while I behold her sweetness ; 
For after this dear, mournful, tender moment, 

1 shall have nothing more to do with life. 

Elw. I do conjure thee, go. 

Per. 'Tis terrible to nature ! 
With pangs like these the soul and body part ! 
And thus, but oh, with far less agony, 
The poor departing wretch still grasps at being, 
Thus clings to life, thus dreads the dark unknown, 
Thus struggles to the last to keep his hold ; 
And when the dire convulsive groan of death 
Dislodges the sad spirit — thus it stays, 
And fondly hovers o'er the form it lov'd. 
Once and no more — farewell, farewell ! 

Elw. For ever! 

[ They look at each other for some time, then 
exit Percy. After a pause ; 
'Tis past — the conflict 's past ! retire, my Birtha, 
I would address me to the throne of grace. 



Bir. May Heaven restore that peace thy bosom 
wants! [Exit Birtha. 

Elw. [ Kneels.} Look down, thou awful, heart- 
inspecting Judge, 
Look down with mercy on thy erring creature, 
And teach my soul the lowliness it needs! 
And if some sad remains of human weakness 
Should sometimes mingle with my best resolves, 

breathe thy spirit on this wayward heart, 
And teach me to repent th' intruding sin 
In it's first birth of thought ' 

[Noise within.] What noise is that 1 

The clash of swords ! should Douglas be return'd 

Enter Douglas and Percy, fighting. 
Dou. Yield, villain, yield. 
Per. Not till this good right arm 
Shall fail its master. 
Dou. This to thy heart, then. 
Per. Defend thy own. 

[ They fight ; Percy disarms Douglas. 
Dou. Confusion, death, and hell ! 
Edr. [ Without.] This way I heard the noise. 

Enter Edric, and many Knights and Gnards, 
from every part of the stage. 

Per. Cursed treachery ! 
But dearly will I sell my life. 

Dou. Seize on him. 

Per. I'm taken in the toils. 

[Percy is surrounded by Guards, who take 
his sword. 

Dou. In the cursed snare 
Thou laidst for me, traitor, thyself art caught. 

Elw. He never sought thy life. 

Dou. Adulteress, peace ! 
The villain Harcourt too — but he 's at rest. 

Per. Douglas, I'm in thy power; but do not 

triumph, [me. 

Percy 's betray'd, not conquer'd. Come, despatch 

Elw. [To Douglas.] O do not, do not kill him ! 

Per. Madam, forbear; 
For by the glorious shades of my great fathers, 
Their godlike spirit is not so extinct, 
That I should owe my life to that vile Scot. 
Though dangers close me round on every side, 
And death besets me, I am Percy still. 

Dou. Sorceress, I'll disappoint thee — he shall die, 
Thy minion shall expire before thy face, 
That I may feast my hatred with your pangs, 
And make his dying groans, and thy fond tears, 
A banquet for my vengeance. 

Elw. Savage tyrant! 

1 would have fallen a silent sacrifice, [thee. 
So thou had'st spar'd my fame — I never wrong'd 

Per. She knew not of my coming ; — I alone 
Have been to blame — Spite of her interdiction, 
I hither came. She 's pure as spotless saints. 

Elw. I will not be excus'd by Percy's crime; 
So white my innocence, it does not ask 
The shade of others' faults to set it off; 
Nor shall he need to sully his fair fame 
To throw a brighter lustre round my virtue. 

Dou. Yet he can only die — but death for honour ! 
Ye powers of hell, who take malignant joy 
In human bloodshed, give me some dire means, 
Wild as my hate, and desperate as my wrongs ! 

Per. Enough of words. Thou know'st I hate 
thee, Douglas ; 
'Tis steadfast, fix'd, hereditary hate, 
As thine for me; our fathers did bequeath it 
As part of our unalienable birthright, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



54' 



Which nought but death can end. — Come, end it 
here. 

Elw. [Kneels.] Hold, Douglas, hold ! — not for 
myself I kneel, 
J do not plead for Percy, but for thee : 
Arm not thy hand against thy future peace, 
Spare thy brave breast the tortures of remorse, — 
Stain not a life of unpolluted honour, 
For, oh ! as surely as thou strik'st at Percy, 
Thou wilt for ever stab the fame of Douglas. 

Per. Finish the bloody work. 

Dou. Then take thy wish. 

Per. Why dost thou start ! 
[Percy bares his bosom. Douglas advances 
to stab him, and discovers the scarf. 

Dou. Her scarf upon his breast ! 
The blasting sight converts me into stone; 
Withers my powers like cowardice or age, 
Curdles the blood within my shiv'ring veins 
And palsies my bold arm. 

Per. [Ironically to the Knights.] Hear you, his 
friends ! 
Bear witness to the glorious, great exploit, 
Record it in the annals of his race, 
That Douglas, the renown'd — the valiant Douglas, 
Fenc'd round with guards, and safe in his own 

castle, 
Surpris'd a knight unarm'd, and bravely slew him. 

Dou. [Throwing away his dagger.] 'Tis true 
— I am the very stain of knighthood. 
How is my glory dimm'd ! 

Elw. It blazes brighter ! 
Douglas was only brave — he now is generous ! 

Per. This action has restor'd thee to thy rank, 
And makes thee worthy to contend with Percy. 

Dou. Thy joy will be as short as 'tis insulting. 
[ToElwina. 
And thou, imperious boy. restrain thy boasting. 
Thou hast sav'd my honour, not remov'd my hate, 
For my soul loathes' thee for the obligation. 
Give him his sword. 

Per. Now thou'rt a noble foe, 
And in the field of honour I will meet thee, 
As knight encount'ring knight. 

Elw. Stay, Percy, stay, 
Strike at the wretched cause of all, strike here, 
Here sheathe thy thirsty sword, but spare my 
husband. [me, 

Dou. Turn. Madam, and address those vows to 
To spare the precious life of him you love. 
Even now you triumph in the death of Douglas ; 
Now your loose fancy kindles at the thought, 
And, wildly rioting in lawless hope, 
Indulges the adultery of the mind. 
But I'll defeat that wish. — Guards, bear her in. 
Nay, do not struggle. . [She is borne in. 

Per. Let our deaths suffice, 
And reverence virtue in that form inshrin'd. 

Dou. Provoke my rage no farther. — I have 
kindled 
The burning torch of never-dying vengeance 
At love's expiring lamp. — But mark me, friends, 
If Percy's happier genius should prevail, 
And I should fall, give him safe conduct hence, 
Be all observance paid him. — Go, I follow thee. 

[Aside to Edric. 
Within I've something for thy private ear. 

Per. Now shall this mutual fury be appeas'd ! 
These eager harfds shall soon be drench'd in 

slaughter ! 
Yes — like two famish'd vultures snuffing blood, 
And panting to destroy, we'll rush to combat ; 
Vol. I. 



Yet I've the deepest, deadliest cause of hate, 
I am but Percy, thou'rt — Elwina's husband. 

[Exeunt, 

ACT V. 

SCENE I. — Elwina's Apartment 

Elw. Thou who in judgment still remember'st 
mercy, 
Look down upon my woes, preserve my husband ! 
Preserve my husband ! Ah, I dare not ask it ; 
My very prayers may pull down ruin on me ! 
If Douglas should survive, what then becomes 
Of— him — I dare not name 1 And if he conquers, 
I've slain my husband. Agonizing state ! 
When I can neither hope, nor think, nor pray, 
But guilt involves me. Sure to know the worst 
Cannot exceed the torture of suspense, 
When each event is big with equal horror. 

[Looks out. 
What, no one yet 1 This solitude is dreadful ! 
My horrors multiply ! 

Enter Birtha. 
Thou messenger of wo ! 

Sir. Of wo, indeed ! 

Elw. How, is my husband dead 1 
Oh, speak ! 

Bir. Your husband lives. 

Elw. Then farewell, Percy 
He was the tenderest, truest ! — Bless him,Heaven, 
With crowns of glory and immortal joys ! 

Bir. Still are you wrong ; the combat is not over. 
Stay, flowing tears, and give me leave to speak. 

Elw. Thou sayest that Percy and my husband 
Then why this sorrow ] [five ; 

Bir. What a task is mine ! 

Elw. Thou talk'st as if I were a child in grief, 
And scarce acquainted with calamity. 
Speak out, unfold thy tale, whate'er it be, 
For I am so familiar with affliction, 
It cannot come in any shape will shock me. 

Bir. How shall I speak 1 Thy husband 

Elw. What of Douglas ] 

Bir. When all was ready for the fatal combat, 
He call'd his chosen knights, then drew his sword, 
And on it made them swear a solemn oath, 
Confirm'd by every rite religion bids, 
That they would see perform 'd his last request, 
Be it whate'er it would. Alas ! they swore. 

Elw. What did the dreadful preparation meanl 

Bir. Then to their hands he gave a poison 'd cup, 
Compoundjed of the deadliest herbs and drugs ; 
Take this, said he, it is a husband's legacy ; 
Percy may conquer — and — I have a wife ! 
If Douglas falls, Elwina must not live. 

Elw. Spirit of Herod! Why, 'twas greatly 
thought ! 
'Twas worthy of the bosom which conceiv'd it ! 
Yet 'twas too merciful to be his own. 
Yes, Douglas, yes, my husband, I'll obey thee, 
And bless thy genius which has found the means 
To reconcile thy vengeance with my peace, 
The deadly means to make obedience pleasant. 

Bir. O spare, for pity spare, my bleeding heart : 
Inhuman to the last ! Unnatural poison ! 

Elw. My gentle friend, what is there in a name 7 
The means are little where the end is kind. 
If it disturb thee, do not call it poison ; 
Call it the sweet oblivion of my cares, 
My balm of wo, my cordial of affliction, 
The drop of mercy to my fainting soul, 
My kind dismission from a world of sorrow, 



542 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



My cup of bliss, my passport to the skies. 
Bir. Hark ! what alarm is that 1 
Elw. The combat 's over ! [Birtha goes out. 
[Elwina stands in a fixed attitude, her 
hands clasped. 
Now, gracious Heaven, sustain me in the trial, 
And bow my spirit to thy great decrees ! 

Reenter Birtha. 

[Elwina looks steadfastly at her without 
speaking. 

Bir. Douglas is fallen. 

Elw. Bring me the poison. 

Bir. Never. [approach! 

Elw. Whereare the knights'? I summon you — 
Draw near, ye awful ministers of fate, 
Dire instruments of posthumous revenge ! ' 
Come — I am ready; but your tardy justice 
Defrauds the injur'd dead. — Go, haste, my friend, 
See that the castle be securely guarded, 
Let every gate be barr'd — prevent his entrance. 

Bir. Whose entrance 1 

Elw. His — the murderer of my husband. 

Bir. He 's single, we have hosts of friends. 

Elw. No matter; 
Who knows what love and madness may attempt '] 
But here 1 swear by all that binds the good, 
Never to see him more. — Unhappy Douglas . 
O if thy troubled spirit still is conscious 
Of our past woes, look down, and hear me swear, 
That when the legacy thy rage bequeath'd me 
Works at my heart, and conquers struggling 
Ev'n in that agony I'll still be faithful, [nature, 
She who could never love, shall yet obey thee, 
Weep thy hard fate, and die to prove her truth. 

Bir. O unexampled virtue! [A noise witliout. 

Elw. Heard you nothing ! 
By all my fears the insulting conqueror comes. 

save me, shield me ! 

Enter Douglas. 

Heaven and earth, my husband ! 

Don. Yes 

To blast thee with the sight of him thou hat'st, 
Of him thou hast wrong'd, adultress, 'tis thy 
husband. [mercy, 

Elw. [Kneels,] Bless'd be the fountain of eternal 
This load of guilt is spar'd me ! Douglas lives ! 
Perhaps both live ! [ To Birtha.] Could I be sure 

of that, 
The poison were superfluous, joy would kill me. 

Dou. Be honest now, for once, and curse thy 
stars ; 
Curse thy detested fate which brings thee back 
A hated husband, when thy guilty soul 
Revell'd in fond, imaginary joys 
With my too happy rival: when thou flew'st, 
To gratify impatient, boundless passion, 
And joinadulterous lust to bloody murder; 
Then to reverse the scene ! polluted woman ! 
Mine is the transport now, and thine the pang. 

Elw. Whence sprung the false report that thou 
had'st fall'n 1 

Dou. To give thy guilty breast a deeper wound. 
To add a deadlier sting to disappointment, 

1 rais'd it— I contriv'd— I sent it thee. [virtue. 
Elw. Thou seest me bold, but bold in conscious 

— That my sad soul may not be stain'd with blood, 
That I may spend my few short hours in peace, 
And die in' holy hope of Heaven's forgiveness, 
Relieve the terrors of my lab'ring breast, 
Say I am clear ofc murder — say he lives, 



Say but that little word, that Percy lives, 
And Alps and oceans shall divide us ever, 
As far as universal space can part us. 

Dou. Canst thou renounce him 1 

Elw. Tell me that he lives, 
And thou shalt be the ruler of my fate, 
For ever hide me in a convent's gloom, 
From cheerful day-light, and the haunts of men, 
Where sad austerity, and ceaseless prayer 
Shall share my uncomplaining day between them. 

Dou. O, hypocrite! now, Vengeance, to thy 
office. 
I had forgot — Percy commends him to thee, 
And by my hand — 

Elw. How — by thy hand 1 

Dou. Has sent thee 
This precious pledge of love. 

[He gives her Percy's scarf. 

Elw. Then Percy 's dead ! [mine ! 

Dou. He is. — O great revenge, thou now art 
See how convulsive sorrow rends her frame ! 
This, this is transport ! — injur'd honour now 
Receives its vast, its ample retribution. 
She sheds no tears, her grief s too highly wrought; 
'Tis speechless agony. — She must not faint — 
She shall not 'scape her portion of the pain. 
No ! she shall feel the fulness of distress, 
And wake to keen perception of her loss. 

Bir. Monster ! Barbarian ! leave her to her 
sorrows. 

Elw. [In a low broken voice.] Douglas — think 
not I faint, because thou seest 
The pale and bloodless cheek of wan despair. 
Fail me not yet, my spirits ; thou cold heart, 
Cherish thy freezing current one short moment, 
And bear thy mighty load a little longer. 

Dou. Percy, I must avow it, bravely fought, — 
Died as a hero should ; — but, as he fell, 
(Hear it, fond wanton !) call'd upon thy name, 
And his last guilty breath sigh'd out — Elwina ! 
Come — give a loose to rage, and feed thy soul 
With wild complaints, and womanish upbraidings. 

Elw. [In a low solemn voice.] No. 
The sorrow 's weak that wastes itself in words, 
Mine is substantial anguish — deep, not loud; 
I do not rave — Resentment 's the return 
Of common souls for common injuries. [sion; 
Light grief is proud of state, and courts compas- 
But there 's a dignity in cureless sorrow, 
A sullen grandeur which disdains complaint ; 
Rage is for little wrongs — Despair is dumb. 

[Exeunt Elwina and Birtha. 

Dou. Why, this is well ! her sense of wo is 
strong ! [her, 

The sharp, keen tooth of gnawing grief devours 
Feeds on her heart, -and pays me back my pangs. 
Since 1 must perish, 'twill be glorious ruin : 
I fall not singly, but, like some proud tower, 
I'll crush surrounding objects in the wreck, 
And make the devastation wide and dreadful. 

Enter Raby. 

Raby. O whither shall a wretched father turn, 
Where fly for comfort 1 Douglas, art thou here 1 
I do not ask for comfort at thy hands. 
I'd but one little casket, where I lodged 
My precious hoard of wealth, and, like an idiot, 
I gave my treasure to another's keeping, 
Who threw away the gem, nor knew its value, 
But left the plunder'd owner quite a beggar. 

Dou. What art thou come to see thy race dis- 
honour'd ? 



THE WORKS OP HANNAH MORE. 



543 



And thy bright snn of glory set in blood 1 
I would have spar'd thy virtues, and thy age, 
The knowledge of her infamy. 

Rabij. 'Tis false. [blood. 

Had she been base, this sword had drank her 

Dou. Ha ! dost thou vindicate the wanton 1 

Raby. Wanton"? 
Thou hast defam'd a noble lady's honour — 
My spotless child — in ine behold her champion : 
The strength of Hercules will nerve this arm, 
When lifted in defence of innocence. 
The daughter's virtue for the father's shield, 
Will make old Raby still invincible. 

[Offers to draw. 

Dou. Forbear. 

Raby. Thou dost disdain my feeble arm, 
And scorn my age. 

Dou. There will be blood enough ; 
Nor need thy wither'd veins, old lord, be drain'd, 
To swell the copious stream. 

Raby. Thou wilt not kill her"? 

Dou. Oh, 'tis a day of horror ! 

Enter Edric and Birtha. 

Edr. Where is Douglas 1 
I come to save him from the deadliest crime 
Revenge did ever meditate. 

Dou. What meanest thou 1 [wife. 

Edr. This instant fly, and save thy guiltless 

Dou. Save that perfidious — 

Edr. That much-injur'd woman. 

Bir. Unfortunate indeed, but O most innocent ! 

Edr. In the last solemn article of death, 
That truth-compelling state, when even bad men 
Fear to speak falsely, Percy clear'd her fame. 

Dou. I heard him. — 'Twas the guilty fraud of 
love. 
The scarf, the scarf! that proof of mutual passion, 
Given but this day to ratify their crimes ! 

Bir. What means my lord 1 This day 1 That 
fatal scarf 
Was given long since, a toy of childish friendship ; 
Long ere your marriage, ere you knew Elwina. 

Raby. 'Tis I am guilty. 

Dou. Ha! 

Raby. I, — I alone. 
Confusion, honour, pride, parental fondness, 
Distract my soul, — Percy was not to blame, 
He was — the dostin'd husband of Elwina! 
He lov'd her — was belov'd — and I approv'd. 
The tale is long. — I chang'd my purpose since, 
Forbade their marriage — 

Dou. And confirm'd my mis'ry ! 
Twice did they meet to-day — my wife and Percy. 

Raby. I know it. 

Dou. Ha ! thou knew'st of my dishonour 1 
Thou wast a witness, an approving witness, 
At least a tame one ! 

Raby. Percy came, 'tis true, 
A constant, tender, but a guiltless lover ! 

Dou. I shall grow mad indeed ; a guiltless lover ! 
Percy, the guiltless lover of my wife 1 

Raby. He knew not she was married. 

Dou. How 1 ? is't possible "? [cent; 

Raby. Douglas, 'tis true ; both, both were inno- 
He of her marriage, she of his return. [vow'd 

Bir. But now, when we believ'd thee dead, she 
Never to see thy rival. Instantly, 
Not in a state of momentary passion, 
But with a martyr's dignity and calmness, 
She bade me bring the poison. 

Dou. Had'st thou done it, 



Despair had been my portion ! Fly, good Birtna, 
Find out the suffering saint — describe my peni- 
tence, 
And paint my vast extravagance of fondness, 
Tell her I love as never mortal lov'd — 
Tell her I know her virtues, and adore them — 
Tell her I come, but dare not seek her presence, 
Till she pronounce my pardon. 

Bir. I obey. [Exit Birtha. 

Raby. My child is innocent ! ye choirs of saints 
Catch the bless'd sounds — my child is innocent! 

Dou. O I will kneel, and sue for her forgiveness, 
And thou shalt help me plead the cause of love, 
And thou shalt weep — she cannot sure refuse 
A kneeling husband and a weeping father. 
Thy venerable cheek is wet already. 

Raby. Douglas! it is the dew of grateful joy 
My child is innocent ! I now would die, 
Lest fortune should grow weary of her kindness, 
And grudge me this short transport. 

Dou. Where, where is she 1 
My fond impatience brooks not her delay ; 
GLuick, let me find her, hush her anxious soul, 
And sooth her troubled spirit into peace. 

Enter Birtha. 

Bir. O horror, horror, horror ! 

Dou. Ah ! what mean'st thou 1 

Bir. Elwina — 

Dou. Speak — 

Bir. Her grief wrought up to frenzy, 
She has, in her delirium, swallow'd poison ! 

Raby. Frenzy and poison ! 

Dou. Both a husband's gift ; 
But thus I do her justice. 
As Douglas goes to stab himself, enter ElwIna 

distracted, her hair dishevelled, Percy's scarf 

in her hand. 

Elw. [Goes up to Douglas.] What, blood 



again 



1 We cannot kill him twice ! 



Soft, soft — no violence — he 's dead already ; — 
I did it — Yes — I drown'd him with my tears ; — 
But hide the cruel deed ! I'll scratch him out 
A shallow grave, and lay the green sod on it ; 
Ay — and I'll bind the wild briar o'er the turf, 
And plant a willow there, a weeping willow — 

[She sits on the ground. 
But look you tell not Douglas, he'll disturb him ; 
He'll pluck the willow up — and plant a thorn. 
He will not let me sit upon his grave, 
And sing all day, and weep and pray all night. 

Raby. Dost thou not know me 1 

Elw. Yes — I do remember 
You had a harmless lamb. 

Raby. I had indeed ! [mate, 

Elw. From all the flock you chose her out a 
In sooth a fair one — you did bid her love it — 
But while the shepherd slept the wolf devour'd it. 

Raby. My heart will break. This is too much, 
too much ! 

Elw. [Smiling.] O 'twas a cordial draught — I 
drank it all. 

Raby. What means my child 1 

Dou. The poison ! Oh the poison ! 
Thou dear wrong'd innocence — 

Elw. Off— murderer, off! 
Do not defile me with those crimson hands. 

[Shows the sca-f. 
This is his winding sheet — I'll wrap him in it — 
I wrought it for my love — there — now I've dress'd 

him. 
How brave he looks ! my father will forgive him, 



544 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



He dearly lov'd him once — but that is over. 
See where he comes — beware, my gallant Percy, 
Ah ! come not here, this is the cave of death, 
And there 's the dark, dark palace of Revenge ! 
See the pale king sits on his blood-stain'd throne ! 
He points to me — I come, I come, I come. 

[She faints, they run to her, Douglas takes 
up his sword and stabs himself. 

Dou. Thus, thus I follow thee. 

Edr. Hold thy rash hand ! 

Dou. It is too late. No remedy but this 
Could medicine a disease so desperate. 

Raby. Ah, she revives ! 

Dou. [Raising himself.] She lives! bear, bear 
me to her ! 
We shall be happy yet. 

[He struggles to get to her, but sinks down. 
It will not be — 

O for a last embrace — Alas ! I faint — 
She lives — Now death is terrible indeed — 
Fair spirit, 1 lov'd thee — O — Elwina ! [Dies. 

Elw. Where have I been 7 The damps of 
death are on me. [thus ! 

Raby. Look up, my child ! O do not leave me 
Pity the anguish of thy aged father. 
Hast thou forgot me 1 

Elw'. No — you are my father ; 
O you are kindly come to close my eyes, 
And take the kiss of death from my cold lips ! 

Raby. Do we meet thus ? 

Elw. We soon shall meet in peace. 
I've but a faint remembrance of the past — 



But something tells me — O those painful struggles 
Raise me a little — there — 

[She sees the body of Douglas, 
What sight is that 1 [der'd ! 

A sword, and bloody 1 Ah ! and Douglas mur- 

Edr. Convinc'd too late of your unequall'd 
virtues, [wrongs, 

And wrung with deep compunction tor your 
By his own hand the wretched Douglas fell. 

Elw. This adds another, sharper pang to death. 
O thou Eternal ! take him to thy mercy, 
Nor let this sin be on his head, or mine ! 

Raby. I have undone you all — the crime is mine ! 
O thou poor injur'd saint, forgive thy father, 
He kneels to his wrong'd child. 

Elw. Now you are cruel, 
Come near, my father, nearer — I would see you, 
But mists and darkness cloud my failing sight. 

death ! suspend thy rights for one short moment, 
Till I have ta'en a father's last embrace — 

A father's blessing. — Once — and now 'tis over. 
Receive me to thy mercy, gracious Heaven ! 

[She dies. 
Raby. She 's gone ! for ever gone ! cold, dead 
and cold. 
Am I a father 7 Fathers love their children 

1 murder mine ! With impious pride I snatch'd 
The bolt of vengeance from the hand of Heaten 
My punishment is great — but oh ! 'tis just. 
My soul submissive bows. A righteous God 
Has made my crime become my chastisement. 

[Exeunt 



THE FATAL FALSEHOOD: 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 

AS IT WAS ACTED IN 1779, AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN. 



THE COUNTESS BATHURST, 



THIS TRAGEDY IS VERY RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, AS A 
SMALL TRIBUTE TO HER MANY VIRTUES, 
AND AS A 
GRATEFUL TESTIMONY OF THE FRIENDSHIP WITH WHICH SHE HONOURS 
HER MOST OBEDIENT AND MOST 

OBLIGED HUMBLE SERVANT, 

THE AUTHOR. 



PROLOGUE. 



WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR OF THE TRAGEDY. SPOKEN BY MR. HULL. 



Our modern poets now can scarcely choose 
A subject worthy of the Tragic Muse ; 
For bards so well have glean 'd th' historic field, 
That scarce one sheaf th' exhausted ancients 

yield ; 
Or if, perchance, they from the golden crop 
Some grains, with hand penurious, rarely drop* 
Our author these consigns to manly toil, 
For classic themes demand a classic soil. 
A vagrant she, the desert waste who chose, 
Where truth and history no restraints impose. 
To her the wilds of fiction open lie, 
A flow'ry prospect, and a boundless sky ; 
Yet hard the task to keep the onward way, 
Where the wide scenery lures the foot to stray ; 
Where no severer limits check the Muse 
Than lawless fancy is dispos'd to choose. 
Nor does she emulate the loftier strains 
Which high heroic Tragedy maintains : 
Nor conquest she, nor wars, nor triumphs sings, 
Nor with rash hand o'erturns the thrones of 

kings. 
No ruin'd empires greet to-night your eyes, 
No nations at our bidding fall or rise ; 



To statesmen deep, to politicians grave, 
These themes, congenial to their tastes, we 

leave, 
Of crowns and camps, a kingdom's weal or wo, 
How few can judge, because how few can know ! 
But here you all may boast the censor's art, 
Here all are critics who possess a heart. 
And of the passions we display to-night, 
Each hearer judges like the Stagyrite. 
The scenes of private life our author shows 
A simple story of domestic woes ; 
Nor unimportant is the glass we hold, 
To show the effect of passions uncontroll'd ; 
For if to govern realms belong to few, 
Yet all who live have passions to subdue. 
Self-conquest is the lesson books should preach, 
Self-conquest is the theme the stage should 

teach. 
Vouchsafe to learn this obvious duty here, 
The verse though feeble, yet the moral's clear. 
mark to-night the unexampled woes 
Which from unbounded self-indulgence flows. 
Your candour once endur'd our author's lays ; 
Endure them now — it will be ample praise 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA 



Earl Guildford. Bertrand. 

Rivers, his son. Emmelina. 

Orlando, a young Italian Count. Julia. 

Scene. — Earl Guildford's Castle. 



ACT I. 

Scene — An Apartment in Guildford Castle. 

Enter Bertrand. 

Ber. What fools are seriously melancholy 

villains ! 
Vol. I. 



I play a surer game, and screen my heart 
With easy looks and undesigning smiles ; 
And while my plots still spring from sober 

thought, 
My deeds appear the effect of wild caprice, 
And I the thoughtless slave of giddy chance. 
2M 



M6 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



What but this frankness could have won the 

promise 
Of young Orlando, to confide to me 
That secret grief which preys upon his heart 1 
'Tis shallow, indiscreet hypocrisy, 
To seem too good : I am the careless Bertrand, 
The honest, uridesigning, plain, blunt man. 
The follies I avow cloak those I hide, 
For who will search where nothing seems con- 

ceal'd ! 
'Tis rogues of solid, prudent, grave demeanour, 
Excite suspicion ; men on whose dark brow 
Discretion, with his iron hand, has grav'd 
The deep-mark'd characters of thoughtfulness. 
Here comes my uncle, venerable Guildford, 
Whom I could honour, were he not the sire 
Of that aspiring boy, who fills ihe gap [thee ! 
'Twixt me and fortune ; — Rivers, how I hate 

Enter Guildford. 

How fares my noble uncle ? 

Guild. Honest Bertrand ! 

I must complain we have so seldom met : 
Where do you keep 1 believe me, we have 
miss'd you. [me, sir, 

Ber. 0, my good lord ! your pardon — spare 
For there are follies in a young man's life, 
And idle thoughtless hours, which I should blush 
To lay before your wise and temperate age. 

Guild. Well, be it so — youth has a privilege, 
And I should be asham'd could I forget 
I have myself been young, and harshly chide 
This not ungraceful gayety. Yes, Bertrand, 
Prudence becomes moroseness, when it makes 
A rigid inquisition of the fault, 
Not of the man, perhaps, but of his youth. 
Foibles that shame the head on which old Time 
Has shower'd his snow, are then more pardon- 
And age has many a weakness of its own. [able. 

Ber. Your gentleness, my lord, and mild re- 
proof, 
Correct the wanderings of misguided youth. 
More than rebuke can shame me into virtue. 

Guild. Saw you my beauteous ward, the 
lady Julia ] 

Ber. She pass'd this way, and with her your 
Your Emmebna. [fair daughter, 

Guild. Call them both my daughters ; 

For scarce is Emmelina more belov'd 
Than Julia, the dear child of my adoption. 
The hour approaches too, (and, bless it heaven, 
With thy benignest. kindliest influence !) 
When Julia shall indeed become my daughter, 
Shall, in obedience to her fathers will, 
Crown the impatient vows of my brave son, 
And richly pay him for his dangers past. 

Ber. Oft have I wondered how the gallant 
Youthful and ardent, doting to excess, [Rivers, 
Could dare the dangers of uncertain war. 
Ere marriage had confirmed his claim to Julia. 

Guild. 'Twas the condition of her father's will, 
My brave old fellow-soldier, and my friend ! 
He wished to see our ancient houses joined 
By this, our children's union ; but the veteran 
So highly valued military prowess. 
That he bequeath'd his fortunes and his daughter 
To my young Rivers, on these terms alone, 
That he should early gain renown in arms ; 



And if he from the field returned a conqueror, 
That sun which saw him come victorious homo 
Should witness their espousals. Yet he comes 

not! 
The event of war is to the brave uncertain, 
Xor can desert in arms ensure success. 

Ber. Yet fame speaks loudly of his early 
valour. [Orlando, 

Guild. E'er since the Italian count, the young 
My Rivers' bosom friend, has been my guest, 
The glory of my son is all his theme : 
Oh ! he recounts his virtues with such joy, 
Dwells on his merit with a zeal so warm, 
As to his generous heart pays back again 
The praises he bestows. 

Ber. Orlando's noble. 

He's of a tender, brave, and gallant nature, 
Of honour most romantic, with such graces 
As charm all womankind. 

Guild. And here comes one, 

To whom the story of Orlando's praise 
Sounds like sweet music. 

Ber. What, your charming daughter ! 

Yes, I suspect she loves the Italian count : 

(Aside.) 
That must not be. Now to observe her closely. 

Enter Emmelina. 

Guild. Come hither, Emmelina: we were 
speaking 
Of the young Count Orlando. What think you 
Of this accomplished stranger 1 

Em. (confused.) Of Orlando! 

Sir, as my father's guest, my brother's friend, 
I do esteem the count. 

Guild. Nay. he has merit 

Might justify thy friendship, if he wanted 
The claims thou mention'st ; yet I mean to 
blame him. [mv father? 

Em. What has he done ? How has he wrong'd 
For you are just, and are not ansrry lightly ; 
And he is mild, unapt to give offence, 
As you to be offended. 

Guild. Nay, 'tis not much : 

But why does young Orlando shun my presence 1 
Why lose that cheerful and becoming spirit 
Which lately charmed us all ! Rivers will 

chide us, 
Should he return and find his friend unhappy. 
He is not what he was. What says my child t 

Em. My lord, when first my brother's friend 
arrived — 
Be still, my heart — (Aside.) 

Ber. She dares not use his name 

Her brother's friend ! (Aside.) 

Em. When first your noble guest 

Came from that voyage he kindly undertook 
To ease our terrors for my Rivers' safety, 
"When we believed him dead, he seem'd most 

happy. 
And shar'd the gen'ral joy his presence gave. 
Of late he is less gay ; my brother's absence, 
(Or I mistake) disturbs his friend's repose : 
Nor is it strange ; one mind informs them both I 
Each is the very soul that warms the other, 
And both are wretched or are bless'd together 

Ber. Whv trembles my fair cousin ? 

Em. Can I think 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



547 



That my lov'd brother's life has been in danger, 
Nor feel a strong emotion 1 

Ber. (ironically.) Generous pity ! 

But when that danger has so long been past, 
You should forget your terrors. 

Em. I shall never ; 

For when I think that danger sprung from friend- 
That Rivers, to preserve another's life, [ship ; 
Incurr'd this peril, still my wonder rises. 

Ber. And why another's life 1 Why not Or- 
lando's 1 
Such caution more betrays than honest freedom. 

Guild. He's still the same, the gibing, thought- 
less Bertrand, 
Severe of speech, but innocent of malice. 

[Exit Guildford : Emmelina going. 

Ber. Stay, my fair cousin ! still with adverse 

Am I beheld 1 Had I Orlando's form, [eyes 

I mean, were I like him your brother's friend, 

Then would your looks be turned thus coldly 

on me 1 [nothing, 

Em. But that I know your levity means 
And that your heart accords not with your 
This would offend me. [tongue, 

Ber. Come, confess the truth, 

That this gay Florentine, this Tuscan rover, 
Has won your easy heart, and given you his : 
I know the whole ; I'm of his secret council ; 
He has confess'd — 

Em. Ha ! what has he confess'd 1 

Ber. That you are wondrous fair : nay, noth- 
ing farther : 
How disappointment fires her angTy cheek ! 

(Aside.) 
Yourself have told the rest, your looks avow it, 
Your eyes are honest, nor conceal the secret. 

Em. Know, sir, that virtue no concealment 
needs : 
So far from dreading, she solicits notice, 
And wishes every secret thought she harbours, 
Bare to the eye of men, as 'tis to heaven. 

Ber. Yet mark me well : trust not Orlando's 
truth ; 
The citron groves have heard his amorous vows 
Breath'd out to many a beauteous maid of 

Florence ; 
Bred in those softer climes, his roving heart 
Ne'er learn 'd to think fidelity a virtue ; 
He laughs at tales of British constancy. 
But see, Orlando comes — he seeks you here. 
With eyes bent downwards, folded arms, pale 
Disorder'd looks, and negligent attire, [cheeks, 
And all the careless equipage of love, [blood 
He bends this way. Why does the mounting 
Thus crimson your fair cheek 1 He does not 

see us ; 
I'll venture to disturb his meditations, 
And instantly return. [Exit Bertrand. 

Em. No more ; but leave me. 

He's talkative, but harmless ; rude, but honest ; 
Fuller of mirth than mischief. See, they meet — 
This way they come ; why am I thus alarm'd 1 
What is't to me that here Orlando comes 1 
Oh, for a little portion of that art 
Ungenerous men ascribe to our whole sex ! 
A little artifice were prudence now : 
But I have none ; my poor unpractis'd heart 
Is bo unknowing of dissimulation, 



So little skill'd to seem the thing it is not, 
That if my lips" are mute, my looks betray me. 

Re-enter Bertrand with Orlando. 

Ber. Now to alarm her heart, and search out 
his. (Aside.) 

Or. We crave your pardon, beauteous Em- 
melina, 
If rudely we intrude upon your thoughts ; 
Thoughts pure as infants' dreams or angels' 

wishes, 
And gentle as the breast, from which they spring. 

Em. Be still, my heart, nor let him see thy 
weakness. (Aside.) 

We are much bound to thank you, cousin Ber- 
trand, 
That since your late return, the Count Orlando 
Appears once more among us. Say, my lord, 
Why have you shunn'd your friends' society 1 
Was it well done 1 My father bade me chide 

you ; 
I am not made for chiding, but he bade me ; ■ 
He says, no more you rise at early dawn 
With him to chase the boar : I pleaded for you ; 
Told him 'twas savage sport. 

Or. What was his answer 1 

Em. He said 'twas sport for heroes, and 
made heroes ; 
That hunting was the very school of war, 
Taught our brave youth to shine in nobler fields, 
Preserv'd them from the rust of dull inaction, 
Train'd them for arms, and fitted them for con- 
quest. 

Or. 0, my fair advocate ! scarce can I grieve 
To have done wrong, since my offence has 
So sweet a pleader. [gain'd 

Ber. (aside.) So, I like this well; 

Full of respect, but cold. 

Em. My lord, your pardon , 

My father waits my coming ; I attend him. 

[Exit. 

Ber. In truth, my lord, you're a right happy 
man ; 
Her parting look proclaims that you are blest ; 
The crimson blushes on her cheek display'd 
A gentle strife 'twixt modesty and love : 
Discretion strove to dash the rising joy, 
But conquering love prevail'd and told the tale. 
My lord, you answer not. 

Or. What shall I say ! 

Oh, couldst thou read my heart ! 

Ber. The hour is come 

When my impatient friendship claims that trust 
Which I so oft have press'd, and you have 
promis'd. 

Or. I cannot tell thee : 'tis a tale of guilt ; 
How shall I speak 1 my resolution sickens ; 
All virtuous men will shun me, thou wilt scorn 
And fly the foul contagion of my crime. [me, 

Ber. My bosom is not steel'd with that harsh 
prudence 
Which would reproach thy failings : tell me all ; 
The proudest heart loves to repose its faults 
Upon a breast that has itself a tincture 
Of human weakness : I have frailties too, 
Frailties that teach me how to pity thine. 
What ! 6ilent still 1 Thou lov'st my beauteom 
Have I not guess'd 7 [cousin ! 



548 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Or. I own that she has charms 

Might warm a frozen stoic into love, 
Tempt hermits back again to that bad world 
They had renounc'd, and make religious men 
Forgetful of their holy vows to heav'n : 
Yest Bertrand — come, I'll tell thee all my weak- 
Thou hast a tender, sympathizing heart — [ness ; 
Thou art not rigid to a friend's defects. 
That heavenly form I view with eyes as cold 
As marble images of lifeless saints ; 
I see and know the workmanship divine ; 
My judgment owns her exquisite perfections, 
But my rebellious heart denies her claim. 

Ber. What do I hear ! you love her not ! 

Or. Oh ! Bertrand ! 

For pity do not hate me ; but thou must, 
For am I not at variance with myself ! 
Yet shall I wrong her gentle, trusting nature, 
And spurn the heart I labour'd to obtain 1 
She loves me, Bertrand : oh ! too sure she 
loves me : [sion ; 

- Loves me with tenderest, truest, chastest pas- 
Loves me, oh, barb'rous fate ! as I love — Julia. 

Ber. Heard I arighl 1 Did you not speak of 
Julia] 
Julia ! the lovely ward of my good uncle 1 
Julia ! the mistress of your friend, of Rivers 1 

Or. Go on, go on, and urge me with my guilt ; 
Display my crime in all its native blackness ; 
Tell me some legend of infernal falsehood, 
Tell me some dreadful tale of perjur'd friends, 
Of trust betray'd, of innocence deceiv'd : 
Place the dire chronicle before my eyes ; 
Inflame the horror, aggravate the guilt : 
That I may see the evils which await me, 
Nor pull such fatal mischiefs on my head, 
As with my ruin must involve the fate 
Of all I love on earth. 

Ber. Just as I wish. (Aside.) 

Or. Thou know'st I left my native Italy, 
Directed hither by the noble Rivers, 
To ease his father's fears, who thought he fell 
In that engagement where we both were 

wounded. 
His was a glorious wound, gain'd in the cause 
Of gen'rous friendship : for a hostile spear, 
Aim'd at my breast, Rivers in his receiv'd, 
Sav'd my devoted life, and won my soul. 

Ber. So far I knew ; but what of Emmelina ] 

Or. Whether her gentle beauties first allur'd 
me, 
Or whether peaceful scenes and rural shades, 
Or leisure, or the want of other objects, 
Or solitude, apt to engender love, 
Engag'd my soul, I know not ; but I lov'd her. 
We were together always, till the habit 
Grew into something like necessity. 
When Emmelina left me I was sad, 
Nor knew a joy till Emmelina came ; 
Her soft society amus'd my mind, 
Fill'd up my vacant heart, and touch'd my soul : 
'Twau gratitude, 'twas friendship, 'twas esteem, 
Twas reason, 'twas persuasion, — nay, 'twas 

Ber. But where was Julia ! [love. 

Or. Oh ! too soon she came ; 

For when I saw that wondrous form of beauty, 
I stood entranced, like some astronomer, 
Who, ae he views the bright expanse of heaven, 



Finds a new star. I gaz'd, and was imoone ; 
Gaz'd, and forgot the tender Emmelina, 
Gaz'd, and forgot the gen'rous, trusting Rivers, 
Forgot my faith, my friendship, and my honour. 
Ber. Does Julia know your love 1 
Or. Forbid it, heaven ! 

What ! think'st thou I am so far gone in guilt 
As boldly to avow it 1 Bertrand, no ; 
For all the kingdoms of the spacious earth, 
I would not wrong my friend, or damn my hon- 
our, [self. 
Ber. Trust me, you think too hardly of your- 
Or. Think I have lodg'd a secret in thy breast 
On which my peace, my fame, my all depends ; 
Long have I struggled with the fatal truth, 
And scarce have dar'd to breathe it to myself: 
For, oh ! too surely the first downward step, 
The treacherous path that leads to guilty deeds, 
Is to make sin familiar to the thoughts. [Exit. 
Ber. Am I awake 1 No : 'tis delusion all ! 
My wildest wishes never soar'd to this ; 
Fortune anticipates my plot : he loves her. 
Loves just whom I would have him love — loves 

Julia ! 
Orlando, yes, I'll play thee at my will ; 
Poor puppet ! thou hast trusted to my hand 
The strings by which I'll move thee to thy ruin, 
And make thee too the instrument of vengeance, 
Of glorious vengeance on the man I hate. [Exit. 

ACT II. 

Enter Julia and Emmelina. 

Julia. How many cares perplex the maid who 
loves ! 
Cares which the vacant heart can never know. 
You fondly tremble for a brother's life ; 
Orlando mourns the absence of a friend ; 
Guildford is anxious for a son's renown ; 
In my poor heart your various terrors meet, 
With added fears and fonder apprehensions ■. 
They all unite in me, I feel for all, 
His life, his fame, his absence, and his love ; 
For he may live to see his native home, 
And he may live to bless a sister's hopes, 
May live to gratify impatient friendship, 
May live to crown a father's house with honour, 
May live to glory, yet be dead to love. 

Em. Forbear these fears ; they wound my 
brother's honour : 
Julia ! a brave man must be ever faithful ; 
Cowards alone dare venture to be false ; 
Cowards alone dare injure trusting virtue, 
And with bold perjuries affront high heaven. 

Julia. I know his faith, and venerate his vir- 
I know his heart is tender as 'tis brave ; [tues ; 
That all his father's worth, his sister's softness, 
Meet in his generous breast — and yet I fear — 
Whoever lov'd like me, and did not fear 1 

Enter Guildford. 

Guild. Where are my friends, my daughter 'I 
where is Julia! 
How shall I speak the fulness of my heart ] 
My son, my Rivers, will this day return. 

Em. My dearest brother ! 

Julia. Ha ! my Rivers comes ! 

Propitious heaven ! 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



549 



Em. And yet my Julia trembles. 

Jv.Ha. Have I not cause 1 my Rivers comes ! 
I dread to ask, and yet I die to hear, [but how 1 
My lord — you know the terms — 

Guild. He comes a conqueror ! 

He comes as Guildford's son should ever come ! 
The battle's o'er, the English arms successful, 
And Rivers, like an English warrior, hastes 
To lay his laurels at the feet of beauty. [Exit. 

Julia. My joy oppresses me ! 

Em. And see, Orlando ! 

How will the welcome news transport his soul, 
And raise his drooping heart ! with caution tell 

him, 
Lest the o'erwhelming rapture be too much 
For his dejected mind. 

Enter Orlando and Bertrand. 

Julia. My lord Orlando, 

Wherefore that troubled air 1 no more you dwell 
On your once darling theme ; you speak no more 
The praises of your Rivers ; is he chang'dl 
Is he not still the gallant friend you lov'd, 
As virtuous and as valiant 1 

Or. Still the same ; 

He must be ever virtuous, ever valiant. 

Em. If Rivers is the same, then must I think 
Orlando greatly chang'd ; you speak not of him, 
Nor long for his return, as you were wont. 
How did you use to spend the livelong day, 
In telling some new wonders of your friend, 
Till night broke in upon th' unfinish'd tale ; 
And when 'twas o'er, you would begin again, 
And we again would listen with delight, 
With fresh delight, as if we had not heard it ! 
Does Rivers less deserve, or you less love 1 

Or. Have I not lov'd him 1 was rny friendship 
When any praised his glories in the field 1 [cold 
My raptur'd heart has bounded at the tale ! 
Methought I grew illustrious from his glory, 
And rich from his renown ; to hear him prais'd, 
More proud than if I had achiev'd his deeds, 
And reap'd myself the harvest of his fame. 
How have I trembled for a life so dear, 
When his too ardent soul, despising caution, 
Has plung'd him in the foremost ranks of war, 
As if in love with danger. 

Julia. Valiant Rivers ! 

How does thy greatness justify my love ! 

Ber. He's distant far, so I may safely praise 
him. (Aside.) 

I claim some merit in my love of Rivers, 
Since I admire the virtues that eclipse me ; 
With pleasure I survey those dazzling heights 
My gay, inactive temper cannot reach. 

Em. Spoke like my honest cousin. Then, 
Orlando, 
Since such the love you bear your noble friend, 
How will your heart sustain the mighty joy 
The news I tell will give you 1 Yes, Orlando, 
Restrain the transports of your grateful friend- 
ship, 
And hear with moderation, hear me tell you 
That Rivers will return — 

Or. Howl when 1 ? 

Em. This day. 

Or. Impossible ! 

Ber. Then all my schemes are air. (.Aside.) 



Em. To-day I shall embiace my valiant 
brother ! [her right 1 

Julia. You droop, my lord : did you not hear 
She told you that your Rivers would return, 
Would come to crown your friendship and our 
hopes. [friend 1 

Or. He is most welcome ! Is he not my 
You say my Rivers comes. Thy arm, good 
Bertrand. 
Ber. Joy to us all ; joy to the Count Orlando ! 
Weak man, take care. (Aside to Orlando.) 
Em. My lord ! you are not well. 

Ber. Surprise and joy oppress him ; I myself 
Partake his transports. Rouse, my lord, for 
Em. How is it with you now 1 [shame. 

Or. Quite well — 'tis past. 

Ber. The wonder's past, and naught but joy 
remains. 

Enter Guildford and Rivers. 

Guild. He's come ! he's here ! I have em- 
brac'd my warrior ; 
Now take me, heav'n, I have liv'd long enough. 

Julia. My lord, my Rivers ! 

Riv. 'Tis my Julia's self! 

My life ! 

Julia. My hero ! Do I then behold thee 1 

Riv. Oh, my full heart ! expect not words, 

Em. Rivers ! [my Julia ! 

Riv. My sister ! what an hour is this ! 

My own Orlando, too ! 

Or. My noble friend ! 

Riv. This is such prodigality of bliss, 
I scarce can think it real. Honest Bertrand, 
Your hand ; yours, my Orlando, yours, my 
And as a hand, I have a heart for all ; [father ; 
Love has enlarg'd it ; from excess of love 
I am become more capable of friendship. 
My dearest Julia ! 

Guild. She is thine, my son, [her, 

Thou hast deserv'd her nobly ; thou hast won 
Fulfill'd the terms — 

Riv. Therefore I dare not ask her ; 

I would not claim my Julia as a debt, 
But take her as a gift ; and, oh ! I swear 
It is the dearest, richest, choicest gift, 
The bounty of indulgent heaven could grant. 

(Guildford joins their hands.) 

Julia. Spare me, my lord. — As yet I scarce 
have seen you. 
Confusion stops my tongue — yet I will own, 
If there be truth or faith in woman's vows, 
Then you have still been present to this heart, 
And not a thought has wander'd from its duty. 
[Exeunt Julia and Emmelina. 

Riv. (looking after Julia.) Oh, generous Julia! 

Or. (aside to Ber.) Mark how much she loves 
him ! [fond sex have always ready. 

Ber. (aside to Or.) Mere words, which the 

Riv. Forgive me, good Orlando, best of friends ! 
How my soul joys to meet thee on this shore ! 
Thus to embrace thee in my much-lov'd Eng- 
land ! [of heroes. 

Guild. England ! the land of worth, the soil 
Where great Elizabeth the sceptre sways, 
O'er a free, glorious, rich, and happy people ! 
Philosophy, not cloister'd up in schools, 
The speculative dream of idle monks, 



550 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Attir'd in attic robe, here roams at large ; 
Wisdom is wealth, and science is renown 
Here sacred laws protect the meanest subject, 
The bread that toil procures fair freedom sweet- 
And every peasant eats his homely meal [ens, 
Content and free, lord of his small domain. 

Biv. Past are those Gothic days, and, thanks 
to heav'n, 
They are for ever past, when English subjects 
Were born the vassals of some tyrant lord ! 
When free-soul'd men were basely handed down 
To the next heir, transmitted with their lands, 
The shameful legacy, from sire to son ! [bov, 

Guild. But while thy generous soul, my noble 
Justly abhors oppression, yet revere 
The plain stern virtues of our rough forefathers : 
O, never may the gallant sons of England 
Lose their plain, manly, native character. 
Forego the glorious charter nature gave them, 
Beyond what kings can give, or laws bestow ; 
Their candour, courage, constancy, and truth ! 
[Exeunt Guildford and Rivers. 

Or. Stay, Bertrand, stay — Oh, pity my dis- 
traction ! 
This heart was never made to hide its feelings ; 
I had near betray'd myself. 

Ber. I trembled for you ; 

Remember that the eye of love is piercing, 
And Emmelina mark'd you. 

Or. 'Tis too much : 

My artless nature cannot bear disguise. 
Think what I felt when unsuspecting Rivers 
Press'd me with gen'rous rapture to his bosom, 
Profess'd an honest joy, and call'd me friend ! 
I felt myself a traitor : yet I swear, 
Yes, by that Power who sees the thoughts of 
I swear, I love the gallant Rivers more [men, 
Than light or life ! I love, but yet I fear him : 
I shrunk before the lustre of his virtue — 
I felt as I had wrong'd him — felt abash'd. 
I cannot bear this conflict in my soul, 
And therefore have resolv'd — 

Ber. On what 1 

Or. To fly. 

Ber. To fly from Julia 1 

Or. Yes, to fly from all, 

From every thing I love ; to fly from Rivers, 
From Emmelina, from myself, from thee : 
From Julia 1 no — that were impossible, 
For I shall hear her image in my soul ; 
It is a part of me,, the dearest part ; 
So closely interwoven with my being, 
That I can never lose the dear remembrance, 
Till I am robb'd of life and her together. 

Ber. 'Tis cowardice to fly. 

Or. 'Tis death to stay. 

Ber. Where would you go 1 How lost in 
thought he stands ! (Aside.) 

A vulgar villain now would use persuasion, 
And by his very earnestness betray 
The thing he meant to bide ; I'll coolly wait, 
Till the occasion shows me how to act, 
Then turn it to my purpose. Ho ! Orlando ! 
Where would you go 1 

Or. To solitude, to hopeless banishment ! 
Yes, I will shroud my youth in those dark cells 
Where disappointment steals devotion's name, 
To cheat the wretched votary into ruin ; 



There will I live in love with misery ; 
Ne'er shall the sight of mirth profane my grmi, 
The sound of joy shall never charm my ear, 
Nor music reach it, save when the slow bell 
Wakes the dull brotherhood to lifeless prayer 
Then, when the slow-retreating world recedes, 
When warm desires are cold, and passion dead, 
And all things but my Julia are forgotten, 
One thought of her shall fire, my languid soul, 
Chase the faint orison, and feed despair. 

Ber. What! with monastic, lazy drones retire, 
And chant cold hymns with holy hypocrites 1 
First perish all the sex ! forbid it, manhood ! 
Where is your nobler self ! for shame, Orlando , 
Renounce this superstitious, whining weakness, 
Or I shall blush to think I calTd you friend. 

Or. What can I do? [ r ' a ge 

Ber. (after a pause.) Beg she'll defer the mar 
But for one single day ; do this, and leave 
The rest to me : she shall be thine. 

Or. How sayst thou ? 

What, wrong her virtue 1 

Ber Still this cant of virtue ! 

This pomp of words, this phrase without a, 

meaning ! 
I grant that honour's something, manly honour ; 
I'd fight, I'd burn, I'd bleed, I'd die for honour ; 
But what's this virtue ! 

Or. Ask you what it is 1 

Why, 'tis what libertines themselves adore ; 
'Tis that which wakens love and kindles rapture, 
Beyond the rosy lip or starry eye. 
Virtue ! 'tis that which gives a secret force 
To common charms ; but to true loveliness 
Lends colouring celestial. Such its power, 
That she who ministers to guilty pleasures, 
Assumes its semblance when she most would 
Virtue ! 'tis that ethereal energy [please, 

Which gives to body spirit, soul to beauty. [Exit. 

Ber. Curse on his principles ! Yet I shall 
shake them ; 
Yes, I will bend his spirit to my will, 
Now, while 'tis warm with passion, and will take 
Whatever mould my forming hand will give it. 
'Tis worthy of my genius ! Then I love 
This Emmelina : true, she loves not me, 
But, should young Rivers die, his father's lands 
Would then be mine — is Rivers, then, immortal ! 
Come — Guildford's lands, and his proud daugh- 
ter's hand, [genius ! 
Are worth some thought. Aid me, ye spurs to 
Love, mischief, poverty, revenge, and envy ! 

[Exit Bertrand. 

Enter Emmelina and Rivers, talking. 

Em. Yet do not blame Orlando, good my 
brother ; [lov'd ; 

He's still the same, that brave frank heart you 
Only his temper's chang'd, he is grown sad ; 
But that's no fault, X only am to blame ; 
Fond, foolish heart, to give itself away 
To one who gave me nothing in return ! 

Riv. How's this I my father said Orlando 

lov'd thee. 
Em. Indeed I thought so ; he was kinder once; 
Nay, still he loves, or my poor heart deceives me. 
Riv. If he has wrong'd thee ! yet I know ha 
could not ; 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



551 



His gallant soul is all made up of virtues, 
And I would rather doubt myself than him. 
Yet tell me all the story of your loves, 
And let a brother's fondness sooth thy cares. 

Em. When to this castle first Orlando came, 
A welcome guest to all, to me most Welcome ; 
Yes, spite of maiden shame and burning blushes, 
Let me confess he was most welcome to me ! 
At first my foolish heart so much deceiv'd me, 
I thought I lov'd him for my brother's sake ; 
But when I closely search'd this bosom traitor, 
I found, alas ! I lov'd him for his own. 

Riv. Blush not to own it ; 'twasawell-plac'd 
I glory in the merit of my friend, [flame ! 

And love my sister more for loving him. 

Em. He talk'dofyou ; I listen'd with delight, 
And fancied 'twas the subject only charm'd me ; 
But when Orlando chose another theme, 
Forgive me, Rivers, but I listen'd still 
With undiminish'd joy — he talk'd of love, 
Nor was that theme less grateful than the former. 
I seenvd the very idol of his soul ; 
Rivers, he said, would thank me for the friend- 
I bore to his Orlando ; I believ'd him. [ship 
Julia was absent then — but what of Julia 1 

Riv. Ay, what of her indeed 1 why nam'd 
you Julia 1 
You could not surely think ? no, that were wild. 
Why did you mention Julia 1 

Em. (confusedly.) Nay, 'twas nothing, 

'Twas accident, nor had my words a meaning ; 
If I did name her — 'twas to note the time — 
To mark the period of Orlando's coldness. 
The circumstance was casual, and but meant 
To date the change ; it aim'd at nothing farther. 

Riv. (agitated.) 'Tis very like — no more — 
I'm satisfied — 
You talk as I had doubts : what doubts have 1 1 
Why do you labour to destroy suspicions 
Which never had a birth 1 Is she not mine 1 
Mine by the fondest ties of dear affection 1 — ■ 
But did Orlando change at her return 1 
Did he grow cold 1 It could not be for that ; 
You may mistake. And yet you said 'twas then : 
Was it precisely then 1 I only ask 
For the fond love I bear my dearest sister. 

Em. 'Twas as I said. [melina . 

Riv. (recovering himself .) He loves thee, Em- 
These starts of passion, this unquiet temper, 
Betray how much he loves thee : yes, my sister, 
He fears to lose thee, fears his father's will 
May dash his rising hopes, nor give thee to him. 

Em. Oh, flatterer ! thus to sooth my easy 
With tales of possible, unlikely bliss ! [nature 
Because it may be true, my credulous heart 
Whispers it is, and fondly loves to cherish 
The feeble glimmering of a sickly hope. [age 

Riv. This precious moment, worth a tedious 
Of vulgar time, I've stol'n from love and Julia ; 
She waits my coming, and a longer stay 
Were treason to her beauty and my love. 
Doubts vanish, fears recede, and fondness 
triumphs. [Exeunt. 

ACT III. 

Scene — A Garden. 

Em. Why do my feet unbidden seek this 
grovel 



Why do I trace his steps 1 I thought him here 
This is his hour of walking, and these shades 
His daily haunt : oft have they heard his vows : 
Ah ! fatal vows, which stole my peace away ! 
But now he shuns my presence : yet who knows, 
He may not be ungrateful, but unhappy ! 
Yes, he will come to clear his past offences, 
With such prevailing eloquence will plead, 
So mourn his former faults, so blame his cold- 
ness, 
And by ten thousand graceful ways repair them, 
That I shall think I never was offended. 
He comes, and every doubt's at once dispell'd : 
'Twas fancy all ; he never meant to wrong me. 

Enter Orlando. 

Or. Why at this hour of universal joy, [ture, 
When every heart beats high with grateful rap- 
And pleasure dances her enchanting round ; 
O, tell me why, at this auspicious hour, 
You quit the joyful circle of your friends : 
Rob social pleasure of its sweetest charm, 
And leave a void e'en in the happiest hearts, 
An aching void which only you can fill ! 
Why do you seek these unfrequented shades 1 
Why court these gloomy haunts, unfit for beauty, 
But made for meditation and misfortune 1 

Em. I might retort the charge, my lord Or- 
lando ! 
I might inquire how the lov'd friend of Rivers, 
Whom he has held deep-rooted in his heart 
Beyond a brother's dearness, sav'd his life, 
And cherish'd it when sav'd beyond his own ; — 
I might inquire, why, when this Rivers comes, 
After long tedious months of expectation, 
Alive, victorious, and as firm in friendship 
As fondness could have wish'd, or fancy feign'd ■ 
I might inquire why thus Orlando shuns him — 
Why thus he courts this melancholy gloom, 
As if he were at variance with delight, 
And scorn'd to mingle in the general joy ] 

Or. Oh, my fair monitress ! I have deserv'd 
Your gentle censure. Henceforth I'll be gay. 

Em. Julia complains too of you. 

Or. Ah ! does Julia 1 

If Julia chides me, I have err'd indeed : 
For harshness is a stranger to her nature, [fore 1 
But why does she complain 1 0, tell me where- 
That I may soon repair the unwilling crime, 
And prove my heart at least ne'er meant to 

Em. Why so alarm'd 1 [wrong her. 

Or. Alarm'd ! 

Em. Indeed, you seem'd so. 

Or. Sure you mistake. Alarm'd ! oh no, I 
was not ; 
There was no cause — I could not be alarm'd 
Upon so slight a ground. Something you said, 
But what, I know not, of your friend. 

Em. Of Julia 1 

Or. That Julia was displeas'^— was it not sol 
'Twas that, or something bke it. 

Em. She complains 

That you avoid her. 

O. How ! that I avoid her \ 

Did Julia say so 1 ah ! you had forgot — 
It could not be. 

Em. Why are you terrified 1 

Or,' No, 



652 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Not terrified — I am not — but were those [ing ; 
Her very words ! you might mistake her mean- 
Did Julia say Orlando shunn'd her presence 1 
Oh ! did she, could she say so 1 

Em. If she did, 

Why this disorder 1 there's no cause. 

Or. No cause 1 

Oh ! there's a cause of dearer worth than em- 
pire ! 
Quick let me fly, and find the fair upbraider ; 
Tell her she wrongs me, tell her I would die 
Rather than meet her anger. (Emmelin a faints.) 

Ah, she faints ! 
What have I said 1 curse my imprudent tongue ! 
Look up, sweet innocence ! my Emmelina — 
My gentle friend, awake ! look up, fair creature ! 
'Tis your Orlando calls. 

Em. Orlando's voice ! 

Methought he talked of love — nay, do not mock 
My heart is but a weak, a very weak one ! [me ; 
I am not well — perhaps I've been to blame. 
Spare my distress ; the error has been mine. 

[Exit Emmelina. 

Or. So then, all's over ; I've betrayed my 
secret, 
And stuck a poison'd dagger to her heart, 
Her innocent heart. Why, what a wretch am I ! 
Ruin approaches — shall I tamely meet it, 
And dally with destruction till it blast me 1 
No, I will fly thee, Julia, fly for ever. 
Ah, fly ! what then becomes of Emmelina'! 
Shall I abandon her 1 it must be so ; 
Better escape with this poor wreck of honour 
Than hazard all by staying. Rivers here 1 

Enter Rivers. 

Riv. The same. My other self! my own 
Orlando ! 
I came to seek thee ; 'twas in thy kind bosom, 
My suffering soul reposed its secret cares, 
When doubts and difficulties stood before me : 
And now, now when my prosperous fortune 

shines, 
And gilds the smiling hour with her bright beams, 
Shall I become a niggard of my bliss, 
Defraud thee of thy portion of my joys, [them 1 
And rob thee of thy well-earn'd claim to share 

Or. That I have ever lov'd thee, witness 
Heaven ! [sing 

That I have thought thy friendship the best bles- 
That mark'd the fortune of my happier days, 
I here attest the sovereign Judge of hearts ! 
Then think, think what anguish I endure, 
When I declare, in bitterness of spirit, 
That we must part 

Riv. What does Orlando mean! 

Or. That I must leave thee, Rivers ; must 
Thy lov'd society. [renounce 

Riv. Thou hast been injur'd ; 

Thy merit has been slighted : sure, my father, 
Who knew how dear I held thee, would not 
wrong thee. 

Or. He is all goodness ; no — there is a cause — 
Seek not to know it. 

Riv. Now, by holy friendship ! 

I swear thou shalt not leave me ; what, just now, 
When I have safely pass'd so many perils, 
Escap'd so many deaths, return'd once more 



To the kind arms of long desiring friendship , 

Just now, when I expected such a welcome. 

As happy souls in paradise bestow 

Upon a new inhabitant, who comes 

To taste their blessedness, you coldly tell me 

You will depart : it must not be, Orlando. 

Or. It must, it must. 

Riv. Ah, must ! then tell me wherefore 1 

Or. I would not dim thy dawn of happiness, 
Nor shade the brighter beams of thy good fortune 
With the dark sullen cloud that hangs o'er mine. 

Riv. Is this the heart of him I call'd my 
friend, 
Full of the graceful weakness of affection 1 
How have I known it bend at my request ! 
How lose the power of obstinate resistance, 
Because his friend entreated ! This Orlando ! 
How is he chang'd ! 

Or. Alas, how chang'd, indeed ! 

How dead to every relish of delight ! 
How chang'd in all but in his love for thee ! 
Yet think not that my nature is grown harder, 
That I have lost that ductile, yielding heart ; 
Rivers, I have not — oh ! 'tis still too soft ; 
E'en now it melts, it bleeds in tenderness — 
Farewell ! I dare not trust myself— farewell ! 

Riv Then thou resolv'st to go ] 

Or. This very day '. 

Riv. What do I hear 1 To-day ! It must not 
This is the day that makes my Julia mine. [be. 

Or. Wed her to-day 1 

Riv This day unites me to hei ; 

Then stay at least till thou behold'st her mine. 

Or. Impossible ! another day were ruin. 

Riv. Then let me fly to Julia, and conjure her 
To bless me with her hand this hour — this 

Or. Oh ! no, no, no ! [moment, 

Riv. I will : in such a cause 

Surely she will forego the rigid forms 
Of cold decorum ; then, my best Orlando ! 
I shall receive my Julia from thy hand ; 
The blessing will be doubled ! I shall owe 
The precious gift of love to sacred friendship ! 

Or. Canst thou bear this, my heart 1 

Riv. Then, my Orlando, 

Since thy unkind reserve denies my heart 
Its partnership in this thy hoard of sorrows, 
I will not press to know it ; thou shalt go 
Soon as the holy priest has made us one : 
For, oh ! 'twill sooth thee in the hour of parting, 
To know I'm in possession of my love, 
To think I'm blest with Julia, to reflect 
Thou gav'st her to my arms, my bride ! my wife ! 

Or. Ah ! my brain turns ! 

Riv. 'Tis as I thought ; I'll try him. 

(Aside.) 
Now answer me, Orlando, and with truth ; 
Hide nothing from thy friend — dost thou not 
love 1 [heart. 

Or. Ha ! how ! I am betray 'd ! he reads my 

Riv. Hast thou, with all that tenderness of 
soul, 
From love's infection kept thy yielding heart 1 
Say, couldst thou bask in all the blaze of beauty, 
And never feel its warmth 1 — Impossible ! 
Oh ! I shall probe thy soul, till thou confess 
The conqu'ring fair one's name — but why con- 
Come, come, I know full well — [fess 1 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



558 



Or. Ha ! dost thou know 1 

And knowing, dost thou suffer me to live 1 
And dost thou know my guilt, and call me friend 1 
He mocks but to destroy me ! 

Riv. Come, no more : 

Love is a proud, an arbitrary god, 
And will not choose as rigid fathers bid ; 
I know that thine has destin'd for thy bride 
A Tuscan maid ; but hearts disdain all force. 

Or. How's this 1 what, dost thou justify my 
passion 1 

Riv. Applaud it — glory in it — will assist it. 
She is so fair, so worthy to be lov'd, 
That I should be thy rival, were not she 
My sister. 

Or. How ! 

Riv. She is another Julia. 

Or. I stood upon a fearful precipice — 
I'm giddy still — oh, yes ! I understand thee — 
Thy beauteous sister ! what a wretch I've been ! 
Oh, Rivers ! too much softness has undone me. 
Yet I will never wrong the maid I love, 
Nor injure thee ; first let Orlando perish ! 

Riv. Be more explicit. 

Or. For the present spare me. 

Think not too hardly of me, noble Rivers ! 
I am a man, and full of human frailties ; 
But hate like hell the crime which tempts me on. 
When I am ready to depart I'll see thee, 
Clear all my long accounts of love and honour, 
Remove thy doubts, embrace thee, and expire. 
[Exit Orlando. 

Manet Rivers. 

Riv. It must be so — to what excess he loves 

her! 
Yet wherefore not demand her ? for his birth 
May claim alliance with the proudest fortune. 
Sure there's some hidden cause — perhaps — ah, 

no ! [suspicion ; 

Turn from that thought, my soul ! 'twas vile 
And I could hate the heart which but conceiv'd it. 
'Tis true their faiths are different — then his 

father, 
Austere and rigid, dooms him to another. 
That must not be — these bars shall be remov'd ; 
I'll serve him with my life, nor taste of bliss 
Till I have sought to bless the friend I love. 

[Exit. 

Re-enter Orlando. 

Or. Wed her to-day ] wed her perhaps this 

hour 1 
Hasten the rites for me? I give her to him 1 
I stand a tame spectator of their bliss 1 
I live a patient witness of their joy 1 [blood. 
First let this dagger drink my heart's warm 
( Takes a dagger from his bosom, then sees Julia. ) 
The sorceress comes ! oh, there's a charm about 

her [live. 

Which holds my hand, and makes me wish to 
I shudder at her sight ! open, thou earth, 
And save me from the peril of her charms ! 

(Puts up the dagger.) 

Enter Julia. 

Julia. Methought I beard the cry of one in 

pain; 
Vol. I. 



From hence it came ; ah, me ! my lord Orlando ! 
What means that sigh ? that agonizing voice 1 
Those groans which rend your heart 1 those 

frantic looks 1 
Indeed I'm terrified. What would you do 1 

Or. (furiously.) Die ! 

Julia. Talk you of death] renounce the fatal 
Live for my sake, Orlando. [thought ; 

Or. For thy sake 1 

That were indeed a cause to live for ages, 
Would nature but extend the narrow limits 
Of human life so far. 

Julia. And for the sake 

Of Rivers ; live for both ; he sends me here 
To beg you would delay your purpos'd parting ; 
His happiness, he swears, if you are absent, 
Will be but half complete. 

Or. Is it to-night 1 

This marriage, Julia, did you say to-night r 

Julia. It is, and yet you leave us. 

Or. No.— I'll stay. 

Since you command, stay and expire before you. 

Julia. What mean you 1 

Or. That I'll perish at the feet 

Of — Rivers. 

Julia. Tell your sorrows to my lord ; 

Upon his faithful breast repose the weight 
That presses you to earth, 

Or. Tell him ? Tell Rivers 1 

Is he not yours 1 Does not the priest now wait 
To make you one 1 Then do not mock me thus : 
What leisure can a happy bridegroom find 
To think upon so lost a wretch as I am 1 
You hate me, Julia. 

Julia. Hate you ! how you wrong me ! 

Live to partake our joy. 

Or. Hope you for joy 1 

Julia. Have I not cause 1 Am I not lov'd 
by Rivers 1 
Rivers, the best, the bravest of his sex ! 
Whose valour fabled heroes ne'er surpass'd, 
Whose virtues teach the young and charm the 
Whose graces are the wonder of our sex, [old ; 
And envy of his own. 

Or. Enough ! enough ! 

spare this prodigality of praise. 
But, Julia, if you would not here behold me 
Stretch'd at your feet a lifeless bloody corpse, 
Promise what I shall now request. 

Julia. What is it 1 

Or. That till to-morrow's sun, I ask no longer, 
You will defer this marriage. 

Julia. Ah! defer it! 

Impossible ; what would my Rivers think 1 

Or. No matter what ; 'tis for his sake I ask it : 
His peace, his happiness, perhaps his life 
Depends on what I ask. 

Julia. His life ! the life of Rivers ! 

Some dreadful thought seems lab'ring in your 
Explain this horrid mystery. [breast ; 

Or. I dare not. 

If you comply, before to-morrow's dawn, 
All will be well, the danger past : then finish 
These — happy nuptials : but if you refuse, 
Tremble for him you love ; the altar's self 
Will be no safeguard from a madman's rage. 

Julia. What rage 1 what madman l what re* 
morseless villain 1 



654 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Orlando— will not you protect your friend 1 
Think how he loves you — he would die for you — 
Then save him, on my knees I beg you save 
him — (Kneels.) 

Oh ! guard my Rivers from this bloody foe. 

Or. Dearer than life I love him — ask no more, 
But promise in the awful face of heaven, 
To do what I request— and promise further, 
Not to disclose the cause. 

Julia. Oh, save him ! save him ! 

Or. 'Tis t'o preserve him that I ask it : promise, 
Or see me fall before you. 

(He draws the dagger, she still kneeling. ) 

Julia. I do promise. 

Hide, hide that deadly weapon — I do promise. 

(Rises.) 
How wild you look ! you tremble more than I. 
I'll call my Rivers hither. 

Or. Not for worlds. 

If you have mercy in your nature, Julia, 
Retire. Oh, leave me quickly to myself; 
Do not expose me to the strong temptation 
Which now assaults me. — Yet you are not gone. 

Julia. Be more composed ; I leave you with 

regret. [its seat ! 

(As she goes out.) His noble mind is shaken from 

What may these transports mean 1 heav'n guard 

my Rivers ! 

As Julia goes out, enter Bertrand ; he speaks 
behind. 

Ber. Why, this is well ; this has a face ; she 
weeps, 
He seems disorder'd. — Now, to learn the cause, 
And then make use of what I hear by chance, 
As of a thing I knew. (He listens.) 

Or. (after a pause.) And is she gone 1 
Her parting words shot fire into my soul ; 
Did she not say she left me with regret 1 
Her look was tender, and the starting tear 
Fill'd her bright eye ; she left me with regret — 
She own'd it too. 

Ber. 'Twill do. 

(Comes forward.) What have you done 1 

The charming Julia is dissolv'd in wo ; 
Her radiant eyes are quench'd in floods of tears ; 
For you they fall ; her blushes have confess'd it. 
Or. For me 1 what sayst thou 1 Julia weep 
for me ! 
Yet she is gentle, and she would have wept 
For thee ; for any who but seem'd unhappy. 
Ber. Ungrateful ! 
Or. How 1 

Ber. Not by her tears, I judge, 

But by her words, not meant for me to hear. 
Or. What did she say? What didst thou 
hear, good Bertrand 1 
Speak — I'm on fire. 

Ber. It is not safe to tell you. 

Farewell ! I would not injure Rivers. 

Or. Stay, 

Or tell me all, or I renounce thy friendship. 
Ber. That threat unlocks my tongue ; I must 
not lose thee. 
Sweet Julia wept, clasp'd her fair hands, and 
Why was I left a legacy to Rivers, [cried, 

Robb'd of the power of choice 1 Seeing me 
she started, 



Would have recall'd her words, blush'd, and 
retir'd. [my ruin. 

Or. No more ; thou shalt not tempt me to 
Deny what thou hast said, deny it quickly. 
Ere I am quite undone ; for, oh ! I feel 
Retreating virtue touches its last post, 
And my lost soul now verges on destruction. 
Bertrand ! she promis'd to defer the marriage. 

Ber. Then my point's gain'd ; that will make 
Rivers jealous. (Aside ) 

She loves you. 

Or. No ; and even if she did 

I have no hope. 

Ber. You are too scrupulous. 

Be bold, and be successful ; sure of this, 
There is no crime a woman sooner pardons 
Than that of which her beauty is the cause. 

Or. Shall I defraud my friend 1 he bled to 
gain her ! 
What ! rob the dear preserver of my life 
Of all that makes the happiness of his 1 
And yet her beauty might excuse a falsehood , 
Nay, almost sanctify a perjury. 
Perdition's in that thought — 'twas born in hell. 
My soul is up in arms, my reason's lost, 
And love, and rage, and jealousy, and honour, 
Pull my divided heart, and tear my soul. [Exit, 

Manet Bertrand. 

Ber. Rave on, and beat thy wings ; poor 
bird ! thou'rt lim'd, 
And vain will be thy struggles to get loose. 
How much your very honest men lack prudence ! 
Though all the nobler virtues fill one scale, 
Yet place but indiscretion in the other, 
In worldly business, and the ways of men, 
That single folly weighs the balance down, 
While all the ascending virtues kick the beam. 
Here's this Orlando now, of rarest parts, 
Honest, heroic, generous, frank, and kind, 
As inexperience of the world can make him ; 
Yet shall this single weakness, this imprudence, 
Pull down unheard-of plagues upon his head, 
And snare his heedless soul beyond redemption ; 
While dull, unfeeling hearts, and frozen spirits, 
Sordidly safe, secure because untempted, 
Look up, and wonder at the generous crime 
They wanted wit to frame, and souls to dare. 

ACT IV. 
Scene — An Apartment. 

Em. How many ways there are of being 

wretched ! 
The avenues to happiness how few ! 
When will this busy, fluttering heart be still t 
When will it cease to feel and beat no more 1 
E'en now it shudders with a dire presage 
Of something terrible it fears to know. 
Ent'ring, I saw my venerable father 
In earnest conference with the Count Orlando ; 
Shame and confusion fill'd Orlando's eye, 
While stern resentment fir'd my father's cheek. 
And look, he comes, with terror on his brow ! 
But, ! he sees me, sees his child ; and now 
The terror of his look is lost in love, 
In fond, pacemal love. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



555 



Enter Guildford. 

Guild. Come to my arms, 

And there conceal that penetrating eye, 
Lest it should read what I would hide for ever, 
Would hide from all, but most would hide from 

thee — 
Thy father's grief, his shajne, his rage, his tears. 

Em. Tears ! heaven and earth ! see if he 
does not weep ! [my eyes 

Guild. He who has drawn this sorrow from 
Shall pay me back again in tears of blood. 
'Tis for thy sake I weep. 

Em. Ah, weep for me ! 

Hear, heaven, and judge ; hear, heaven, and 
If any crime of mine — [punish me ! 

Guild. Thou art all innocence ; 

Just what a parent's fondest wish would frame ; 
No fault of thine e'er stain'd thy father's cheek ; 
For if I blush'd, it was to hear thy virtues, 
And think that thou wast mine : and if I wept, 
It was from joy and gratitude to heaven, 
That made me father of a child like thee. 
Orlando — 

Em. Whafrof him 1 

Guild. I cannot tell thee ; 

An honest shame, a virtuous pride forbids. 

Em. Oh, speak! [father? 

Guild. Canst thou not guess, and spare thy 

Em. 'Tis possible I can — and yet I will not : 
Tell me the worst while I have sense to hear. 
Thou wilt not speak — nay, never turn away ; 
Dost thou not know that fear is worse than grief? 
There may be bounds to grief, fear knows no 

bounds ; 
In grief we know the worst of what we feel, 
But who can tell the end of what we fear 1 
Grief mourns some sorrow palpable and known, 
But fear runs wild with horrible conjecture. 

Guild. Then hear the worst, and arm thy soul 
to bear it. 
My child ! — he has — Orlando has refus'd thee. 

Em. (after along pause.) 'Tis well — 'tis very 
well — 'tis as it should be. [wo, 

Guild. Oh, there's an eloquence in that mute 
Which mocks all language. Speak, relieve thy 

heart, 
Thy bursting heart ; thy father cannot bear it. 
Am I a man? no more of this, fond eyes ! 
I am grown weaker than a chidden infant, 
While not a sigh escapes to tell thy pain. 

Em. See, I am calm ; I do not shed a tear ; 
The warrior weeps, the woman is a hero ! 

Guild, (embraces her.) My glorious child! 
now thou art mine indeed ! 
Forgive me if I thought thee fond and weak. 
I have a Roman matron for my daughter, 
And not a feeble girl. And yet I fear, 
For, oh ! I know thy tenderness of soul, 
I fear this silent anguish but portends 
Some dread convulsion soon to burst in horrors. 

Em. I will not shame thy blood ; and yet, 
my father, 
Methinks thy daughter should not be refus'd L 
Refused ! It is a harsh, ungrateful sound ; 
Thou shouldst have found a softer term of scorn. 
And have I then been held so cheap 1 Refus'd 1 
Been treated like the light ones of my sex, 
Held up to sale 1 been ofier'd, and refused 1 



Guild. Long have I known thy love , I 
thought it mutual ; 
I met him — talk'd of marriage — 

Em. Ah ! no more : 

I am rejected ; — does not that suffice 1 
Excuse my pride the mortifying tale ; 
Spare me particulars of how and when, 
And do not parcel out thy daughter's shame. 
No flowers of rhetoric can change the fact, 
No arts of speech can varnish o'er my shame ; 
Orlando has refus'd me. 

Guild. Villain! villain! 

He shall repent this outrage. 

Em. Think no more on't : 

I'll teach thee how to bear it ; I'll grow proud, 
As gentle spirits still are apt to do 
When cruel slight or killing scorn assails them 
Come, virgin dignity, come, female pride, 
Come, wounded modesty, come, slighted love, 
Come, conscious worth, come too, black 

despair ! 
Support me, arm me, fill me with my wrongs '. 
Sustain this feeble spirit ! Yes, my father, 
But for thy share in this sad tale of shame, 
I think I could have borne it. 

Guild. Thou hast a brother ; 

He shall assert thy cause. 

Em. First strike me dead — 

No, in the wild distraction of my spirit, 
In this dread conflict of my breaking heart, 
Hear my fond pleading — save me from that 

curse ; 
Thus I adjure thee by the dearest ties (kneels) 
Which link society ; by the sweet names 
Of parent and of child ; by all the joys 
These tender chains have yielded, I adjure thee 
Breathe not this fatal secret to my brother ; 
Let him not know his sister was refused ! 
0, spare me that consummate, perfect ruin ! 
Conceive the mighty wo — I cannot speak : 
And tremble to become a childless father. 

[Exit Emmelina. 

Guild. What art thou, life 1 thou lying vanity ! 
Thou promiser, who never mean'st to pay ! 
This beating storm will crush my feeble age ! 
Yet let me not complain ; I have a son, 
Just such a son as heaven in mercy gives, 
When it would bless supremely ; he is happy ; 
His ardent wishes will this day be crown'd ; 
He weds the maid he loves ; in him, at least, 
My soul will yet taste comfort. — See, he's here ; 
He seems disorder'd. 

Enter Rivers (not seeing Guildford.) 

Riv. Yes, I fondly thought 

Not all the tales which malice might devise, 
Not all the leagues combined hell might form, 
Could shake her steady soul. 

Guild. What means my son 1 

Where is thy bride 1 

Riv. 0, name her not ! 

Guild. Not name her ] 

Riv. No, if possible, not think of her ; 

Would I could help it ! — Julia ! oh, my Julia ! 
Curse my fond tongue ! I said I would not name 
I did not think to do it, but my heart [her ; 
Is full of her idea ; her lov'd image 
So nils my soul, it shuts out other thoughts ; 



556 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



My lips resolving not to frame the sound, 
Dwell on her name, and all my talk is Julia ! 
Guild. 'Tis as it should be ; ere the mid- 
night bell 
Sound in thy raptured ear, this charming Julia 
Will be thy wife. 
Riv. No. 

Guild. . How % 

Riv. She has refused. 

Guild. Saystthou? 
Riv. She has. 

Guild. Why, who would be a father ! 

Who that could guess the wretchedness it brings, 
But would entreat of heaven to write him child- 
less ! 
Riv. 'Twas but a little hour ago we parted, 
As happy lovers should ; but when again 
I sought her presence, with impatient haste, 
Told her the priest, the altar, all was ready; 
She blushed, she wept, and vowed it could not be ; 
That reasons of importance to our peace 
Forbade the nuptial rites to be performed 
Before to-morrow. 

Guild. She consents to-morrow ! 

She but defers the marriage, not declines it. 

Riv. Mere subterfuge ! mere female artifice ! 
What reason should forbid our instant union ? 
Wherefore to-morrow ? wherefore not to-night? 
What difference could a few short hours have 

made ? 
Or if they could, why not avow the cause ? 
Guild. I have grown old in camps, have lived 
in courts ; 
The toils of bright ambition have I known, 
Woo'd greatness and enjoy'd it, till disgust 
Follow'd possession ; still I fondly look'd 
Through the false perspective for distant joy, 
Hop'd for the hour of honourable ease, 
When, safe from all the storms and wrecks of 
My shatter'd bark at rest, I might enjoy [fate, 
An old man's blessings, liberty and leisure, 
Domestic happiness and smiling peace. 
The hour of age indeed is com? ! I feel it ; 
Feel it in all its sorrows, pains, and cares ; 
But where, oh where's th' untasted peace it 
promis'd ? [Exit Guildford. 

Riv. I would not deeper wound my father's 
peace ; 
But hide the secret cause of my resentment, 
Till all be known ; and yet I know too much. 
It must be so — his grief, his sudden parting : 
Fool that I was, not to perceive at once — 
But friendship blinded me, and love betray'd. 
Bertrand was right, he told me she was changed 
And would, on some pretence, delay the mar- 
riage ; 
I hop'd 'twas malice all. — Yonder she comes, 
Dissolved in tears ; I cannot see them fall, 
And be a man ; I will not, dare not meet her ; 
Her blandishments would sooth me to false 

peace, 
And if she asked it, I should pardon all. [Exit. 

Enter Julia. 

Julia. Stay, Rivers ! stay, barbarian ! hear 
me speak ! 
Return, inhuman ! — best belov'd ! return : 
Oh . I will tell thee all, restore thy peace, 



Kneel at thy feet, and sue for thy forgiveness. 
He hears me not — alas ! he will not hear. 
Break, thou poor heart, since Rivers is unkind. 

Enter Orlando. 
Or. Julia in tears ! 

Julia. Alas ! you have undone me I 

Behold the wretched' victim of her promise ! 
I urged, at your request, the fatal suit 
Which has destroy 'd my peace ; Rivers sus- 
And I am wretched ! [pects me. 

Or. Better 'tis to weep 

A temporary ill, than weep for ever ; 
That anguish must be mine. 

Julia. Ha ! weep for ever ! 

Can they know wretchedness, who know not 

love ? [honour ! 

Or. Not love ! oh cruel friendship ! tyrant 

Julia. Friendship ! alas, how cold art thou 

to love ! 
Or. Too well I know it ; both alike destroy me, 
I am the slave of both, and, more than either, 
The slave of honour. 

Julia. If you then have felt 

The bitter agonies — 

Or. Talk you of agonies ? 

You who are lov'd again ! No ! they are mine , 
Mine are the agonies of hopeless passion ; 
Yes, I do love — I dote, I die for love ! 

(falls at her feet.) Julia ! 

Julia. How ? 

Or. Nay, never start — I know I am a villain ! 
I know thy hand is destin'd to another, 
That other too my friend, that friend the man 
To whom I owe my life ! Yes, I adore thee ; 
Spite of the black ingratitude, adore thee ; 
I dote upon my friend, and yet betray him ; 
I'm bound to Emmelina, yet forsake her ; 
I honour virtue, while I follow guilt ; 
I love the noble Rivers more than life, 
But Julia more than honour. 

Julia. Hold ! astonishment 

Has seal'd my lips ; whence sprung this mon- 
Or. (rises.) From despair. [strous daring? 
Julia. What can you hope from me 1 

Or. Hope ! nothing. 

I would not aught receive, aught hope but death. 
Think'st thou I need reproach ? think'st thou I 
To be reminded that my love's a crime ? [need 
That every moral tie forbids my passion ? 
But though I know that heaven has plagues in 

store, 
Yet mark — I do not, will not, can't repent ; 
I do not even wish to love thee less ; 
I glory in my crime : pernicious beauty ! 
Come, triumph in thy power, complete my woes ; 
Insult me with the praises of my rival, 
The man on earth — whom most I ought to love ! 
Julia. I leave thee to remorse, and to that 
Thy crime demands, (going.) [penitence 

Or. A moment stay. 

Julia. I dare not. 

Or. Hear all my rival's worth, and all my 
The unsuspecting Rivers sent me to thee, [guilt. 
To plead his cause ; I basely broke my trust. 
And, like a villain, pleaded for myself. 

Julia. Did he ? Did Rivers? Then he loves 
Quick let me seek him out. [me still— 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



557 



Or. (takes out the dagger.) First take this 
dagger ; 
Had you not forced it from my hand to-day, 
I had not liv'd to know this guilty moment ; 
Take it, present it to the happy Rivers ; 
Tell him to plunge it in a traitor's heart ; 
Tell him his friend, Orlando, is that traitor ; 
Tell him Orlando forg'd the guilty tale ; 
Tell him Orlando was the only foe 
Who at the altar would have murder'd Rivers, 
And then have died himself. 

Julia. Farewell — repent — think better. 

[Exit Julia. 

(As she goes out, he still looks after her.) 

Enter Rivers. 

Riv. Turn, villain, turn ! 

Or. Ha ! Rivers here 1 

Riv. Yes, Rivers. 

Or. Gape wide, thou friendly earth, for ever 
hide me ! 
Rise Alps, ye crushing mountains, bury me ! 

Riv. Nay, turn, look on me. 

Or. Rivers ! oh, I cannot, 

I dare not, I have wrong'd thee. 

Riv. Doubly wrong'd me ; 

Thy complicated crimes cry out for vengeance. 

Or. Take it. 

Riv. But I would take it as a man. 

Draw. " (Rivers draws.) 

Or. Not for a thousand worlds. 

Riv. Not fight 1 

Why, thou'rt a coward too as well as villain : 
I shall despise as well as hate thee. 

Or. Do ; 

Yet wrong me not, for if I am a coward 
'Tis but to thee : there does not breathe the 
Thyself excepted, who durst call me so, [man, 
And live ; but, oh ! 'tis sure to heaven and thee, 
I am the veriest coward guilt e'er made. 
Now, as thou art a man, revenge thyself ; 
Strike ! 

Riv. No, not stab thee like a base assassin, 
But meet thee as a foe. 

Or. Think of my wrongs. 

Riv. I feel them here. 

Or. Think of my treachery. 

Riv. Oh, wherefore wast thou false 1 how 
have I lov'd thee ! 

Or. Of that no more : think of thy father's 
Of Emmelina's wrongs — [grief, 

Riv. Provoke me not. 

Or. Of Julia— 

Riv. Ha ! I shall forget my honour, 

And do a brutal violence upon thee, 
Would tarnish my fair fame. Villain and cow- 
Traitor ! will nothing rouse thee 1 [ard ! 

Or. (drawing.) Swelling heart ! 

Yet this I have deserv'd, all this, and more. 

As they prepare to fight, enter Emmelina hastily. 

Em. Lend me your swiftness, lightnings — 
'tis too late. 
See, they're engaged — oh no — they live, both 
Hold, cruel men ! [live ! 

Riv. Unlucky ! 'tis my sister. 

Em. Ye men of blood ! if yet you have not 
All eense of human kindness, love, or pity : [lost 



If ever you were dear to one another ; 
If ever you desire or look for mercy, 
When, in the wild extremity of anguish, 
You supplicate that Judge who has declared 
That vengeance is his own — oh, hear me now ; 
Hear a fond wretch, whom misery has made 
Bold; [souls. 

Spare, spare each other's life — spare your own 

Or. (to Rivers.) Thou shouldst have struck 
at once ! O, tardy hand ! [curtail'd ? 

Em. Does death want engines 1 is his power 
Has fell disease forgotten to destroy 1 
Are there not pestilence and spotted plagues, 
Devouring deluges, consuming fires, 
Earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, and famine, 
That man must perish by the hand of man 1 
Nay, to complete the horror, friend by friend 1 

Riv. What ! shall I then endure this outrage 
tamely 1 [love 

Em. No. — If you covet death ; if you're in 
With slaughter and destruction — does not war 
Invite you to her banner 1 Far and wide 
Her dire dominion reaches. — There seek death. 
There fall without a crime. There, where no 
No individual rage, no private wrong, [hate, 
Arms man against his brother. — Not as here, 
Where both are often murderers in the act ; 
In the foul purpose — always. 

Riv. Is honour nothing 1 

Em. Honour! 0,yes, I know him. 'Tis a 
phantom ; 
A shadowy figure wanting bulk and life , 
Who, having nothing solid in himself, 
Wraps his thin form in Virtue's plunder'd robe, 
And steals her title. Honour ! 'tis the fiend 
Who feeds on orphans' tears and widows' groans, 
And slakes his impious thirst in brothers' blood. 
Honour ! why, 'tis the primal law of hell ! 
The grand device to people the dark realms 
With noble spirits, who, but for this curst honour, 
Had been at peace on earth, or bless'd in heaven. 
With this fa Ise honour, Christians have nocom- 
Religion disavows, and truth disowns it. [merce. 

Or. (throws away his sword.) An angel speaks, 
and angels claim obedience. 

Riv. (to Orlando.) This is the heart thou 
hast wrong'd. 

Em. (comes up to Orlando.) I pity thee ; 
Calamity has taught me how to pity : 
Before I knew distress, my heart was hard ; 
But now it melts at every touch of wo ; 
And wholesome sufferings bring it back to virtue-. 
Rivers, he once was good and just like thee : 
Who shall be proud, and think he stands secure,. 
If thy Orlando's false"! 

Riv. Think of his crime. 

Em. Oh, think of his temptation ! think 'twas- 
Julia ; 
Thy heart could not resist her ; how should his ? 
It is the very error of tis friendship. 
Your souls were fram'd so very much alike, 
He could not choose but to love whom Rivers 
lov'd. [like this 1 

Or. Think'st thou there is in death a pang 

Strike, my brave friend ! be sudden and be 

Death, which is terrible to happy men, [silent. 

To me will be a blessing : I have lost [friend ; 

I All that could make life dear ; I've lost my 



5£>8 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



I've stabb'd the peace of mind of that fair crea- 
I have survival my honour : this is dying ! [ture, 
The mournful fondness of officious love 
Will plant no thorns upon my dying pillow ; 
No precious tears embalm my memory, 
But curses follow it. 

Em. See, Rivers melts ; 

He pities thee. 

Or. I'll spare thy noble heart 

The pain of punishing ; Orlando's self 
Revenges both. 

(Goes to stub himself with the dagger.) 

Em. Barbarian ! kill me first. 

Riv. (snatching the dagger.) Thou shalt not 
die ! I swear I love thee still : 
That secret sympathy which long has bound us, 
Pleads for thy life with sweet but strong en- 
treaty. 
Thou shalt repair the wrongs of that dear saint, 
And be again my friend. 

Or. Oh, hear me, 

Em. No. 

I cannot stoop to live on charity, 
And what but charity is love compell'd 1 
I've been a weak, a fond, believing woman, 
And credulous beyond my sex's softness : 
But with the weakness, I've the pride of woman. 
I loved with virtue, but I fondly loved ; 
That passion fixed my fate, determined all, 
And marked at once the colour of my life. 
Hearts that love well, love long ; they love but 
once< [mine ; 

My peace thou hast destroyed, my honour's 
She who aspired to gain Orlando's heart, 
Shall never owe Orlando's hand to pity. 

[Exit Emmelina. 

Or. (after a pause.) And I still live ! 

Riv. Farewell ! should I stay longer 

I might forget my vow. 

Or. Yet hear me, Rivers. 

{Exit Rivers, Oklando following. 

Enter Bertrand on the other side. 

Ber. How's this 1 my fortune fails me, both 
alive ! 
I thought by stirring Rivers to this quarrel, 
There was at least an equal chance against him. 
I work invisibly, and, like the tempter, 
My agency is seen in its effects. 
Well, honest Bertrand ! now for Julia's letter. 
(Takes out a letter.) This fond epistle of a love- 
sick maid, 
I've sworn to give, but did not swear to whom. 
"Give it my love," said she, " my dearest lord!" 
Rivers, she meant ; there's no address — that's 

lucky. 
Then where's the harm 1 Orlando is a lord 
As well as Rivers, loves her too as well. 
(Breaks open the letter.) I must admire your 

style — your pardo», fair one. 
(Runs over it.) I tread in air — methinks I brush 
the stars, [me. — 

And spurn the subject world which rolls beneath 
There's not a word but fits Orlando's case 
As well as Rivers' ; — tender to excess — [less ; 
No name — 'twill do ; his faith in me is bound- 
Then, as the brave are still, he's unsuspecting, 
And credulous beyond a woman's weakness. 



(Going out he spies the dagger.) Orlando's dag* 

ger ! ha ! 'tis greatly thought. 
This may do noble service ; such a scheme ! 
My genius catches fire ! the bright idea 
Is formed at once, and fit for instant action. 

[Exit. 

ACT V. 

Scene — The Garden. 

Ber. 'Twas here we were to meet ; where 
does he stay ] 
This compound of strange contradicting parts, 
Too flexible for virtue, yet too virtuous 
To make a flourishing, successful villain ! 
Conscience ! be still, preach not remorse to me ; 
Remorse is for the luckless, failing villain. 
He who succeeds repents not ; penitence 
Is but another name for ill success. 
Was Nero penitent when Rome was burnt ? 
No ; but had Nero been a petty villain, 
Subject to laws and liable to fear, 
Nero perchance had been a penitent. 
He comes. — This paper makes him all my own. 

Enter Orlando. 

Or. At length this wretched, tempest-beaten 
bark 
Seems to have found its haven : I'm resolved ; 
My wavering principles are fixed to honour ; 
My virtue gathers force, my mind grows strong, 
I feel an honest confidence within, 
A precious earnest of returning peace. 

Ber. Who feels secure, stands on the verge 
of ruin. (Aside.) 

Trust me, it joys my heart to see you thus : 
What have I not attempted for your sake ! 
My love for you has warped my honest nature, 
And friendship has infringed on higher duties. 

Or. It was a generous fault. 

Ber. Yet 'twas a fault. 

Oh for a flinty heart that knows no weakness, 
But moves right onward, unsedue'd by friend- 
And all the weak affections ! [ship, 

Or. Hear me, Bertrand ' 

This is my last farewell ; absence alone 
Can prop my stagg'ring virtue. 

Ber. You're resolv'd : 

Then Julia's favours come too late : 

Or. What favours'? 

Ber. Nay, nothing : I renounce these weak 
affections ; 
They have misled us both. I too repent, 
And will return the letter back to Julia. 

Or. Letter ! what letter 1 Julia write to me 
I will not see it. What would Rivers say 1 
Bertrand ! he sav'd my life ; — I will not see it 

Ber. I do not mean you should : nay, I refus'd 
To bring it you. 

Or. Refus'd to bring the letter? 

Ber. Yes, I refus'd at first. 

Or. Then thou hast brought it ? 

My faithful Bertrand ! — come. 

Ber. 'Twere best not see it. 

Or. Not see it ! how ! not read my Julia'a 
letter ! 
An empire should not bribe me to forbear. 
Come, come. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



559 



Ber. Alas, how frail is human virtue ! 
My resolution melts, and though I mean not 
To trust you with the letter, I must tell you 
With what a thousand, thousand charms she 
gave it. [it, 

" Take this," said she, " and, as Orlando reads 
Attend to every accent of his voice ; 
Watch every little motion of his eye ; 
Mark if it sparkles when he talks of Julia ; 
If when he speaks, poor Julia be the theme ; 
If when he sighs, his bosom heave for Julia : 
Note every trifling act, each little look, 
For, oh ! of what importance is the least 
To those who love like me !" 

Or. Delicious poison ! 

how it taints my soul ! give me the letter. 

(Bertrand offers it. Orlando refuses.) 
Ha! where's the virtue which but now I boasted] 
'Tis lost, 'tis gone — conflicting passions tear me. 

1 am again a villain. Give it — no : 

A spark of honour strikes upon my soul. 
Take back the letter ; take it back, good Ber- 
Spite of myself compel me to be just : [trand ! 
I will not read it. 

Ber. How your friend will thank you ! 

Another day makes Julia his for ever. 
Even now the great pavilion is prepar'd ; 
There will the nuptial rites be solemnized. 
5ulia already dress'd in bridal robes, 
Like some fair victim — 

Or. 0, no more, no more. 

What can she write to me 1 

Ber. Some prudent counsel. 

Or. Then wherefore fear to read it 1 come, 
I'll venture ; 
What wondrous harm can one poor letter do 1 
The letter — quick — the letter. 

Ber. Since you force me. (Gives it.) 

Or. Be firm, ye shivering nerves ! It is her 
hand. [you this. 

(Reads.) " To spare my blushes, Bertrand brings 
How have you wrong'd me ! you believ'd me 
false ; [y ou - 

'Twas my compassion for your friend deceiv'd 
Meet me at midnight in the great pavilion ; 
But shun till then my presence ; from that hour 
My future life is yours ; your once-lov'd friend 
I pity and esteem ; but you alone 
Possess the heart of Julia." 

This to me ! 
I dream, I rave, 'tis all Elysium round me, 
And thou, my better angel ! this to me ! 

Ber. I'm dumb ; oh, Julia ! what a fall is 
thine ! 

Or. What, is it such a crime to love 1 away — 
Thy moral comes too late ; thou shouldst have 
Thy scruple sooner, or not urg'd at all : [urg'd 
Thou shouldst — alas ! I know not what I say — 
But this I know, the charming Julia loves me, 
Appoints a meeting at the dead of night ! 
She loves ! the rest is all beneath my care. 

Ber. Be circumspect; the hour is just at hand ; 
Since all is ready for your purpos'd parting, 
See your attendants be dispos'd aright, 
Near the pavilion gate. 

Or. Why so 1 ? 

Ber. 'Tis plain, 

Julia must be the partner of your flight : 



'Tis what she means, you must not mind her 
A little gentle violence perhaps, [struggles ; 
To make her yield to what she had resolv'd, 
And save her pride ; she'll thank you for it after. 

Or. Take her by force 1 I like not that, 
Bertrand, 
There is a mutinous spirit in my blood, 
That wars against my conscience. Tell my Julia 
I will not fail to meet her. 

Ber. I obey. 

Be near the garden ; I shall soon return. 

[Exit Bertrand. 

Or. This giant sin, whose bulk so lately scared 
Shrinks to a common size ; I now embrace [me, 
What I but lately fear'd to look upon. 
Why, what a progress have I made in guilt ! 
Where is the hideous form it lately wore 1 
It grows familiar to me ; I can think, 
Contrive, and calmly meditate on mischief, 
Talk temp'rately of sin, and cherish crimes 
I lately so abhorr'd, that had they once 
But glanced upon the surface of my fancy 
I had been terrified. Oh, wayward conscience ! 
Too tender for repose, too sear'd for penitence ! 
[Exit Orlando. 

Scene changes to another part of the Garden — 
A grand Pavilion — The Moon shining. 
Enter Rivers, in a melancholy attitude. 
Riv. Ye lovely scenes of long-remember'd 
bliss ! 
Scenes which I hop'd were fated to bestow 
Still dearer blessings in a beauteous bride ! 
Thou gay pavilion, which art dress'd so fair 
To witness my espousals, why, ah, why 
Art thou adorn'd in vain 1 Yet still I court thee, 
For Julia lov'd thee once : — dear, faithless Julia' 
Yet is she false 1 Orlando swore she was not : 
It may be so, yet she avoids my presence, 
Keeps close from every eye, but most from 
mine. 

Enter Orlando. 

Or. Ah ! Rivers here 1 would I had shunn'd 
his walks ! 
How shall I meet the man I mean to wrong 1 

Riv. Why does Orlando thus expose his 
To this cold air 1' [health 

Or. I ask the same of Rivers ] 

Riv. Because this solitude, this silent hour, 
Feeds melancholy thoughts, and sooths my 
My Julia will not see me. [soul. 

Or. How i 

Riv. She denies me 

Admittance to her presence. 

Or. (aside.) Then I'm lost, 

Conrirm'd a villain, now 'tis plain she loves me. 

Riv. She will not pardon me one single fault 

Of jealous love, though thou hadst clear'd up 

■ all. [known. 

Or. Wait till to-morrow, all will then be 

Riv. Wait till to-morrow ! Look at that 
pavilion ; 
All was prepar'd ; yes, I dare tell thee all. 
For thou art honest now. 

Or. (aside. ) That wounds too deeply. 

Riv. Soon as the midnight bell gave the glad 
. summons, 



560 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



This dear pavilion had beheld her mine. 

Or. All will be well to-rnorrow. (aside.) If I 

stay [Rivers. 

I shall betray the whole. — Good night, my 

Riv. Good night ; go you to rest ; I still shall 
walk. [Exit Orlando. 

Yes, I will trace her haunts ; my too fond heart, 
Like a poor bird that's hunted from its nest, 
Dares not return, and knows not where to fix ; 
Still it delights to hover round the spot 
Which lately held its treasure ; eyes it still, 
And with heart-breaking tenderness surveys 
The scene of joys which never may return. [Exit. 

Scene changes to another pprt of the garden. 
Re-enter Orlando. 

Or. Did he say rest 1 talk'd he of rest to me 1 
Can rest and guilt associate 1 but no matter, 
I cannot now go back ; then such a prize, 
Such voluntary love, so fair, so yielding, 
Would make archangels forfeit their allegiance ! 
I dare not think ; reflection leads to madness. 

Enter Bertrand. 
Bertrand ! I was not made for this dark work : 
My heart recoils — poor Rivers ! 

Ber. What of Rivers 1 

Or. I've seen him. 

Ber. Where 1 

Or. Before the great pavilion. 

Ber. (aside.) That's lucky, saves me trouble ; 
were he absent, 
Half of my scheme had failed. 

Or. He's most unhappy ; 

He wish'd me rest, spoke kindly to me, Bertrand ; 
How; how can I betray him 1 

Ber. He deceives you ; 

He's on the watch, else wherefore now abroad 
At this late hour 1 beware of treachery. 

Or. I am myself the traitor. 

Ber. Come, no more ! 

The time draws near, you know the cypress 
'Tis dark. [walk, 

Or. The fitter for dark deeds like mine. 

Ber. I have prepar'd your men ; when the bell 
Go into the pavilion ; there you'll find [strikes 
The blushing maid, who with faint screams per- 
haps 
Will feign resentment. But you want a sword. 

Or. A sword ! — I'll murder no one — why a 
sword 1 [take mine ; 

Ber. 'Tis prudent to be arm'd ; no words, 
There may be danger, Julia may be lost, 
This night secures or loses her for ever. 
The cypress walk — spare none who look like 
spies. 

Or. (looking at the sword.) How deeply is that 
soul involv'd in guilt, 
Who dares not hold communion with its 
Nor ask itself what it designs to do ! [thoughts, 
But dallies blindly with the gen'ral sin, 
Ofunexamin'd, undefin'd perdition ! 

[Exit Orlando. 

Ber. Thus far propitious fortune fills my sails, 
Yet still I doubt his milkiness of soul ; 
My next exploit must be to find out Rivers, 
And, as from Julia, give him a feign'd message, 
To join .er here at the pavilion gate ; 



There shall Orlando's well-arm'd servants meet 

him, 
And take his righteous soul from this bad world. 
If they should fail, his honest cousin Bertrand 
Will help him onward in his way to heav'n. 
Then this good dagger, which I'll leave beside 

him, 
Will, while it proves the deed, conceal the doer ; 
'Tis not an English instrument of mischief, 
And who'll suspect good Bertrand wore a dag- 
ger 1 
To clear me further, I've no sword — unarm'd — 
Poor helpless Bertrand ! Then no longer poor, 
But Guildford's heir, and lord of these fair lands. 
[Exit Bertrand. 

Enter Orlando on the other side. 

Or. Draw thy dun curtain round, oh, night ! 
black night ! 

Inspirer and concealer of- foul crimes ! 

Thou wizard night ! who conjur'st up dark 
thoughts, [guilt '. 

And mak'st him bold, who else would start at 

Beneath thy veil the villain dares to act, 

What in broad da/ he would not dare to think. 

Oh, night ! thou hid'st the dagger's point from 
men, 

But canst thou screen the assassin from himself] 

Shut out the eye of heav'n 1 extinguish con- 
science 1 

Or heal the wounds of honour 1 Oh, no, no, no ! 

Yonder she goes — the guilty, charming Julia ! 

My genius drives me on — Julia, I come. 

(Runs off.) 

Scene — The Pavilion. 

An arched door, through which Julia and her 
maid come forward on the stage. 
Julia. Not here 1 not come 1 look out, my 
faithful Anna. 
There was a time — oh, time for ever dear ! 
When Rivers would not make his Julia wait. 
Perhaps he blames me, thinks the appointment 
Too daring, too unlike his bashful Julia ; [bold, 
But 'twas the only means my faithful love 
Devis'd, to save him from Orlando's rashness. 
I have kept close, refus'd to see my Rivers ; 
Now all is still, and I have ventured forth, 
With this kind maid, and virtue for my guard. 
Come, we'll go in, he cannot sure be long. 

(They go into the pavilion.) 

Enter Orlando, his sword drawn and bloody, 
his hair dishevelled. 

Or. What have I done 1 a deed that earns 
damnation ! 
Where shall I fly ] ah ! the pavilion door t 
'Tis open — it invites me to fresh guilt ; 
I'll not go in — let that fallen angel wait, 
And curse her stars as I do. 
(The midnight bell strikes.) Hark! the bell ! 
Demons of darkness, what a peal is that ! 
Again ! 'twill wake the dead — I cannot bear it f 
'Tis terrible as the last trumpet's sound ! 
That was the marriage signal ! Powers of hell, 
What blessings have I blasted ! Rivers ! Julia ! 
(Julia comet out) 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



561 



Julia. My Rivers calls ; I come, I come. — 
Orlando ! 

Or. Yes, 

Thou beautiful deceiver ! 'tis that wretch. 

Julia. That perjur'd friend. 

Or. That devil ! 

Julia. I'm betrayed. 

Why art thou herel 

Or. Thou canst make ruin lovely, 

Or I would ask, why didst thou bring me here 1 

Julia. I bring thee here 1 

Or. Yes, thou, bright falsehood ! thou. 

Julia. No, by my hopes of heaven ! where is 
Some crime is meant. [my Rivers 1 

Or. (catches her hand.) Julia ! the crime is 
done. 
Dost thou not shudder 1 art thou not amaz'd 1 
Art thou not cold and blasted with my touch 1 
Is not thy blood congeal'd 1 does no black horror 
Fill thy presaging soul 1 look at these hands ; 
Julia ! they're stain'd with blood ; blood, Julia, 
Nay, look upon them. [blood ! 

Julia. Ah ! I dare not. Blood ! 

Or. Yes, thou dear false one, with the noblest 
That ever stain'd a dark assassin's hand, [blood 
Had not thy letter with the guilty message 
To meet thee here this hour, blinded my honour, 
And wrought my passion into burning phrensy, 
Whole worlds should not have bribed me. 

Julia. Letter and message 1 

I sent thee none. 

Or. Then Bertrand has betrayed me ! 

And I have done a deed beyond all reach, 
All hope of mercy — I have murder'd Rivers. 

Julia. Oh ! (She falls into her maid's arms.) 

Or. O rich reward which love prepares for 
Thus hell repays its instruments ! [murder ! 

Enter Guildford with servants. 

Guild. Where is he 1 

Where is this midnight murderer'! this assassin 1 
This is the place Orlando's servant nam'd. 

Or. The storm comes on. 'Tis Guildford, 
good old man ! 
Behold the wretch accurst of heaven and thee. 

Guild. Accurst of both indeed. How, Julia 
fainting ! 

Or. She's pure as holy truth ; she was de- 
And so was I. [ceiv'd, 

Guild. Who tempted thee to this 1 

Or. Love, hell, and Bertrand. 

Julia, (recovering.) Give me back my Rivers ; 
I will not live without him. Oh, my father ! 

Guild. Father ! I'm none ; I am no more a 
father ; 
I have no child ; my son is basely murder'd, 
And my sweet daughter, at the fatal news, 
Is quite bereft of reason. 

Or. Seize me, bind me : 

If death's too great a mercy, let me live : 
Drag me to some damp dungeon's horrid gloom, 
Deep as the centre, dark as my offences ; 
Come, do your office, take my sword ; oh, Ber- 
trand, 
Yet, ere I perish, could it reach thy heart ! 

(They seize Orlando.) 

Julia. I will not long survive thee, oh, my 
Rivers ! 

Vol, I. • 



Enter Rivers with the dagger. 

Riv. Who calls on Rivers with a voice so sad, 
So full of sweetness 1 

Guild. Ah, my son ! 

Julia. 'Tis he, 'tis he ! 

Julia and Rivers run into each other's arms. 
Orlando breaks from the guards, and foMs 
on his knees. 

Or. He lives, he lives ! the godlike Rivers 
lives ! 
Hear it, ye host of heaven! witness, ye saints ! 
Recording angels, tell it in your songs ; 
Breathe it, celestial spirits, to your lutes, 
That Rivers lives ! 

Julia. Explain this wondrous happiness! 

Riv. 'Twas Bertrand whom Orlando killed ; 
the traitor 
Has with his dying breath confess'd the whole. 

Or. Good sword, I thank thee ! 

Riv. In the tangled maze 

Orlando miss'd the path he was to take, [ceal'd 
And pass'd through that where Bertrand lay con- 
To watch th' event : Orlando thought 'twas me, 
And that I play'd him false : the walk was dark. 
In Bertrand's bloody hand I found this dagger. 
With which he meant to take my life ; but how 
Were you alarm'd? 

Guild. One of Orlando's men, 

Whom wealth could never bribe to join in mur- 

Or. Murder ! I bribe to murder 1 [der — 

Riv. No ; 'twas Bertrand 

Brib'd them to that curst deed ; he lov'd my 

Or. Exquisite villain ! [sister. 

Guild. Fly to Emmelina, 

If any spark of reason yet remain, 
Tell her the joyful news. Alas, she's here ! 
Wildly she flies ! Ah, my distracted child ! 

Enter Emmelina distracted. 

Em. Off, off ! I will have way ! ye shall not 
hold me : 
I come to seek my lord ; is he not here 1 
Tell me, ye virgins, have ye seen my love, 
Or know you where his flocks repose at noon 1 
My love is comely — sure you must have seen 

him ; 
'Tis the great promiser ! who vows and swears ; 
The perjur'd youth ! who deals in oaths and 

breaks them. 
In truth he might deceive a wiser maid. 
I lov'd him once ; he then was innocent ; 
He was no murderer then, indeed he was not ; 
He had not kill'd my brother. 

Riv. Nor has now ; 

Thy brother lives. 

Em. I know it — yes, he lives 

Among the cherubim. Murd'rers too will live ; 
But where 1 I'll tell you where — down, down, 

down, down. 
How deep it is ! 'tis fathomless — 'tis dark ! 
No — there's a pale blue flame — ah, poor Or- 
Guild. My heart will burst. [lando ! 

Or. Pierce mine, and that will ease it. 

Em. (comes up to her father.) I knew a maid 
who lov'd — but she was mad — 
Fond, foolish girl ! Thank heav'n. I am not mad ; 
2N 



562 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Yet the afflicting angel has been with me ; 
But do not tell my father, he would grieve ; 
Sweet, good old man — perhaps he'd weep to 

hear it : 
I never saw my father weep but once ; 
I'll tell you when it was. I did not weep ; 
'Twas when — but soft, my brother must not 

know it. 
'Twas when his poor fond daughter was refus'd. 
Guild. Who can bear this 1 
Or. I will not live to bear it. 

Em. (comes up to Orlando.) Take comfort, 

thou poor wretch ! I'll not appear 
Against thee, nor shall Rivers ; but blood must, 
Blood will appear ; there's no concealing blood. 
What's that I my brother's ghost — it vanishes ; 
(Catches hold o/F*ivers.) 
Stay, take me with thee, take me to the skies ; 
I have thee fast ; thou shalt not go without me. 
But hold — may we not take the murd'rer with us 1 



That look says — No. 

with thee. 
Yet hold me fast — 'tis 



Why then I'll not go 
dark- 



■I'm lost — I'm 
gone. (Dies.) 

Or. One crime makes many needful ; this 
day's sin 
Blots out a life of virtue. Good old man ! 
My bosom bleeds for thee ; thy child is dead, 
And I the cause. 'Tis but a poor atonement ; 
But I can make no other. (Stabs himself.) 

Riv. What hast thou done 1 

Or. Fill'd up the measure of my sins. Oh, 
mercy ! 
Eternal goodness, pardon this last guilt ! 
Rivers, thy hand ! — farewell ! forgive me, 

heaven ! 
Yet is it not an act which bars forgiveness, 
And shuts the door of grace for ever 1 — Oh ! 

(Diss.) 
(The curtain falls to soft music.) 



EPILOGUE. 



WRITTEN BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ. SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES. 



Unhand me, gentlemen, by heaven, I say, 
I'll make a ghost of him who bars my way. 

[Behind the scenes. 

Forth let me come — A poetaster true, 
As lean as envy, and as baneful too ; 
On the dull audience let me vent my rage, 
Or drive these female scribblers from the stage. 
For scene or history, we've none but these, 
The law of liberty and wit they seize ; 
In tragic — comic — pastoral — they dare to please. 
Each puny bard must surely burst with spite, 
To find that women with such fame can write ; 
But, oh, your partial favour is the cause, 
Which feeds their follies with such full applause. 
Yet still our tribe shall seek to blast their fame, 
And ridicule each fair pretender's aim ; 
Where the dull duties of domestic life 
Wage with the muse's toils eternal strife. 

What motley cares Conlla's mind perplex, 
While maids and metaphors conspire to vex ! 
In studious dishabille behold her sit, 
A letter'd gossip, and a housewife wit ; 
At once invoking, though for different views, 
Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse. 
Round her strew'd room a frippery chaos lies, 
A checker'd wreck of notable and wise ; 
Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, 
Oppress the toilet, and obscure the glass ; 
Unfinish'd here an epigram is laid, 
And there a mantuamaker's bill unpaid : 
Here newborn plays foretaste the town's ap- 
plause, 



There, dormant patterns pine for future gauze ; 

A moral essay now is all her care, 

A satire next, and then a bill of fare : 

A scene she now projects, and now a dish, 

Here's act the first — and here — remove with 

Now while this eye in a fine phrensy rolls, [fish. 

That, soberly casts up a bill for coals ; 

Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, 

And tears, and thread, and balls, and thimbles 

mix. 
Sappho, 'tis true, long vers'd in epic song, 
For years esteem'd all household studies wrong ; 
When dire mishap, though neither shame nor sin, 
Sappho herself, and not her muse, lies in. 
The virgin Nine in terror fly the bower, 
And matron Juno claims despotic power ; 
Soon Gothic hags the classic pile o'erturn, 
A caudle-cup supplants the sacred urn ; 
Nor books nor implements escape their rage, 
They spike the inkstand, and they rend the page ; 
Poems and plays one barbarous fate partake, 
Ovid and Plautus suffer at the stake, 
And Aristotle's only sav"d — to wrap plumcake. 
Yet, shall a woman tempt the tragic scene 1 
And dare — but hold — I must repress my spleen ; 
I see your hearts are pledg'd to her applause, 
While Shakspeare's spirit seems to aid her 

cause ; 
Well pleas'd to aid — since o'er his sacred bier 
A female hand did ample trophies rear, 
And gave the greenest laurel that.is worshipp'd 

there. 



POEMS. 



MORNING SOLILOQUY. 

The following lines were written by Hannah More for 
her own use, in early life ; but a copy having been given 
to a friend, the author was importuned to print it. She 
complied, and prefixed to trie piece the following — 

" As early rising is very conducive to health, 
and to the improvement of the mind in knowl- 
edge and piety, this soliloquy is designed to pro- 
mote so important an end ; and is recommended 
more particularly to young persons, as, by con- 
tracting a habit of rising early in the days of 
their youth, they would be less liable to depart 
from such a custom as they advance in life. 
The last stanza is expressive of the action of 
rising, in order that those who repeat it may 
have no excuse for not quitting their beds im- 
mediately." 

Soft slumbers now mine eyes forsake, 

My powers are all renew'd ; 
May my freed spirit too awake, 

With heavenly strength endued ! 

Thou silent murderer Sloth, no more 

My mind imprison'd keep ; 
Nor let me waste another hour 

With thee, thou felon Sleep. 

Hark, my soul, could dying men 

One lavish'd hour retrieve, 
Though spent in tears, and pass'd in pain, 

What treasures would they give ! 

But seas of pearl, and mines of gold, 

Were offer'd them in vain ; 
Their pearl of countless price is lost,* 

And where's the promis'd gain 1 

Lord, when thy day of dread account 
For squander'd hours shall come, 

Oh, let them not increase th' amount, 
And swell the former sum ! 

* See Matthew xiii. 46. 



Teach me in health each good to prize, 

I, dying, shall esteem ; 
And every pleasure to despise 

I then shall worthless deem. 

For all thy wondrous mercies past 

My grateful voice I raise, 
While thus I quit the bed of rest 

Creation's Lord to praise. 



ON MR. SHAPLAND, 

An eminent Apothecary in Bristol. 

Would st thou inquire of him who sleeps be* 
neath, [dust, 

This tomb shall tell thee, 'tis no common 
That, crush'd at length by oft defeated death, 

Fills the cold urn committed to its trust. 

Stranger !' this building fallen to decay, 

Was once the dwelling of an honest mind — 
A spirit cheerful as the light of day — 
The soul of friendship — milk of human kind. 

His art torbade th' expiring wretch to die, 
Empower'd the nerveless tongue once more 
to speak, 

Restor'd its lustre to the sunken eye, 

And spread fresh roses on the livid cheek 

Each various duty bound on social man, 
'Twas his with glowing duty to perform, 

As crystal pure, his stream of conduct ran, 
Unstain'd by folly, undisturb'd, by storm. 

With me, then, stranger ! mourn departed 
worth ; 

Steel'd is the heart that can forbear to sigh ; 
Let deep regret call all thy sorrows forth — 

Live as he liv'd — and fear not then to die.* 

* Dr. Stonhnuse had the highest esteem for Mr. Shap- 
land, who attended his family, as well as that of Mrs. 
More, even after he had left off general practice. Dr. 
Stonhouse, in 1780, presented to Mr. Shapland a piece 
of plate " as a testimony of his gratitude for the rebtura^ 
tion of health, through the blessing of God." 



END OK VOL. I. 



THE 



W O E K S 



OF 



HANNAH MORE. 



FIRST COMPLETE AMERICAN EDITION. 
II. 



NEW-YORK: 
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, 

NO. 82 CLIFF-STREET. 
18 40. 



CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. 



HINTS FOR FORMING THE CHARACTER 
OF A YOUNG PRINCESS. 

Page 

Chap. I — Introductory Chapter, ... 6 

Chap. II — On the Acquisition of Knowledge, 7 

Chap. Ill — On the Importance of forming the 
Mind, 10 

Chap. IV — The Education of a Sovereign a 
Specific Education, 12 

Chap. V — Importance of Studying Ancient 
History, 16 

Chap. VI — Laws — Egypt — Persia, . . 17 

Chap. VII— Greece 19 

Chap. VIII— Rome, 22 

Chap. IX— Characters of Historians, who 
were themselves concerned in the transac- 
tions which they record, .... 25 

Chap. X — Reflections on History— Ancient 
Historians, 26 

Chap. XI— English History— Mr. Hume, . 29 

Chap. XII — Important Eras of English His- 
tory—Alfred—King John— Henry VII., . 31 

Chap. XIII— Queen Elizabeth, ... 33 

Chap. XIV — Moral Advantages to be drawn 
from the Study of History, independent of 
the examples it exhibits — It proves the Cor- 
ruption of Human Nature — It demonstrates 
the superintending power of Providence — 
illustrated by Instances 35 

Chap. XV — On the Distinguishing Characters 
of Christianity, 38 

Chap. XVI — On the Scripture Evidences of 
Christianity. The Christian Religion pecu- 
liarly adapted to the Exigencies of Man ; 
and especially calculated to supply the De- 
fects of Heathen Philosophy, ... 41 

Chap. XVII — The use of History in teaching 
the Choice of Favourites — Flattery — Our 
Taste Improved in the Arts of Adulation — 
The Dangers of Flattery exemplified, . 46 

Chap. XVIII — Religion necessary to the well- 
being of States, 49 

Chap. XIX — Integrity the true political Wis- 
dom, 53 

Chap. XX — On the True Arts of Popularity, 56 

Chap. XXI — The importance of the Royal 
Example in promoting Loyalty — On False 
Patriotism — Public Spirit, ... 59 

Chap. XXII — On the Graces of Deportment 
— The Dispositions necessary for Business 
— Habits of Domestic Life, . . .60 

Chap. XXIII— On the Choice of Society- 
Sincerity the Bond of Familiar Intercourse 
— Liberality — Instances of Ingratitude in 
Princes — On raising the tone of Conversa- 
tion — And of Manners, . . . .61 

Chap. XXIV— On the Art of Moral Calcula- 
tion, and forming a Just Estimate of Things 
and Persons, 64 

Chap. XXV — On Erroneous Judgment 

Character of Queen Christina of Sweden 
— Comparison of Christina with Alfred, . 67 

Chap. XXVI— Observations on the Age of 
Louis XIV. and on Voltaire, ... 69 



Page 
Chap. XXVII — An examination of the Claims 
of those Princes who aspired to the appel- 
lation of the GREAT, .... 72 
Chap. XXVIII— Books, .... 76 
Chap. XXIX— Of Periodical Essay Writers, 

particularly Addison and Johnson, . . 79 
Chap. XXX — Books of Amusement, . . 82 
Chap. XXXI— Books of Instruction, . . 85 
Chap. XXXII— The Holy Scriptures— The 

Old Testament, 87 

Chap. XXXIII— The Holy Scriptures— The 

New Testament, 89 

Chap. XXXIV— On the abuse of Terms- 
Enthusiasm — Superstition — Zeal for Reli- 
gious opinions no proof of Religion, . 92 
Chap. XXXV— The Reformation, . . 96 
Chap. XXXVI — On the importance of Reli- 
gious Institutions and Observances — They 
are suited to the nature of Christianity, and 
particularly adapted to the character of Man, 98 
Chap. XXXVII— Of the Established Church 

of England, 100 

Chap. XXXVIII — Superintendence of Provi- 
dence manifested in the Local Circum- 
stances, and in the Religious History of Eng- 
land, 104 

Chap. XXXIX — The same subject continued 
— tolerant Spirit of the Church — Circum- 
stances which led to the Revolution, and to 
the Providential Succession of the House 

of Hanover, 109 

Chap. XL — On Christianity as a Principle of 
Action, especially as it respects Supreme 
Rulers, 113 

CHRISTIAN MORALS. 
Chap. I — On the writers of Pious Books, . 118 
Chap. II— On Providence, . . . 123 

Chap. Ill — Practical use of the Doctrine of 

Providence, 127 

Chap. IV— Thy win be done, . . .131 
Chap. V— On Parable, . . . .134 

Chap. VI— On the Parable of the Talents, . 137 
Chap. VII — On Influence, considered as a 

Talent, 140 

Chap. VIII — On Time, considered as a Talent, 144 

Chap. IX— On Charity 146 

Chap. X— On Prejudice, . . . .150 
Chap. XI — Particular Prejudices, . . 154 
Chap. XII— Farther Causes of Prejudico, . 158 
Chap. XIII — Humility, the only true Greatness, 160 
Chap. XIV— On Retirement, . . .165 
Chap. XV — Dangers and Advantages of Re- 
tirement, 169 

Chap. XVI— An Inquiry, why some Good 

Sort of People are not better, . . . 172 
Chap. XVII— The Inquiry, why some Good 

Sort of People are not better, continued, 175 
Chap. XVIII — Thoughts respectfully suggest- 
ed to Good Sort of People, . . .179 

Chap. XIX— On Habits 183 

Chap. XX— On the Inconsistency of Chris- 
tians wath Christianity, .... 188 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
Chap. XXI— Expostulation with the Incon- 
sistent Christian 191 

Chap. XXII— Reflections of an Inconsistent 

Christian after a serious perusal of the Bible. 195 
Chap. XXIU— The Christian in the Work!. 196 
Chap. XXIV— Difficulties and Advantages of 
the Christian in the World, . . 200 

Chap. XXV— Candidas 205 

Chap. XXVI— The established Christian, . 210 

AX ESSAY ON THE CHARACTER AND 
PRACTICAL WRITINGS OF ST. PAUL. 

Chap. I— Introductory Remarks on the Mo- 
ot Paganism, showing the m\ 
of Christian Revelation 

Chap. II— On the Historical Writers of the 
New Testament 

Chap. Ill— On the Epistolatory Writers of the 
\ \ Testament, particularly Saint Paul, 

Chap. IV— Saint Paul's Faith, a Practical 
Principle 

Chap. V— The Morality of Saint Paul, 

Chap. VI— The disinterestedness of St, Paul, 

Chap. VII— Saint Paul's Prudence in his 
Conduct towards the Jews, 

Chap. VIII— Samt Paul's Judgment in his in- 
tercourse with the Pagans, 

Chap. IX— On the general Principle of Saint 
Paul's Writings 

Chap. X— On the Stvle and Genius of Samt 
Paul. . 

Chap. XI— Saint Paul's Tenderness ot Heart. 

Chap. XII— St. Paul's Heavenly Mmdedness, 

Chap. XIII— A General View of the Qualities 
- lint Paul — His Knowledge of Human 
Nature — His Delicacy in giving Advice or 
Reproof— His Integrity 

Chap. XIV— St. Paul on the Love of Money. 

Chap. XV — On the Genius of Christianity, as 
seen m Saint Paul, 

Chap. XVI— Saint Paul's respect for consti- 
tuted Authorities 

Chap. XVII— Saint Paul's Attention to infe- 
rior Concerns 

Chap. XV III— Saint Paul on the Resurrection, 

Chap. XIX— Saint Paul on Prayer, Thanks- 
giving, and Religious Joy, 

Chap. XX — Saint Paul an Example to Fa- 
miliar Life. 

Chap. XXI — On the superior Advantages of 
the present Period, for the attainment of 
Knowledge, Religion, and Happiness, 

Chap. XXII — Conclusion — Cursory Inquiry 
into some of the Causes which Impeded 
general Improvement, .... 

CCELEBS IN SEARCH OF A WIFE, . 304 

FOREIGN SKETCHES. 

Foreign Associations, 437 

French Opinions of English Society, . . 440 

-h Opinion of French Society, . . 443 

England's Best Hope, 449 

DOMESTIC SKETCHES. 

On Soundness in Judgment and Consistency 

in Conduct. 454 

Novel Opinions in Religion, .... 456 
111 effects of the late Secession, . . .461 

Exertions of Pious Ladies 465 

High Profession, and Negligent Practice, . 468 
Auricular Confession, 4~1 



217 
881 

•:■: i 

2« 
230 
834 

836 

2 ;'- 

846 

259 
251 
261 

265 
270 

873 

277 

281 

2S4 

367 
891 

896 



Unprofitable Reading, 
The Borderers, . 



Page 
. 471 

. 473 



REFLECTIONS ON PRAYER. 

On the Corruption of Human Nature, . 477 

: s Notions of the Dignity of Man, shown 
from his Helplessness and Dependence, . 479 

The Obligation of Prayer Universal— Regular 
Seasons to be observed — The Skeptic and 
the Sensualist reject Prayer. . . 1S1 

Errors in Prayer, which may hinder its being 
answered — The Proud Man's Prayer — The 
Patient Christian— False Excuses, under 
the Pretence of Inability 483 

God our Father — Our Unwillingness to please 
Him — Form of Prayer — Great and Little 
Sins— All Sin an Offence against God — Ben- 
efit of Habitual Prayer 487 

The Doctrine o( Imputed Sanctification, 
newly adopted — The old one, of Progressive 
Sanctification. newly rejected— Both Doc- 
trines injurious to Praver — St. Paul's Char- 
acter, ....... 489 

Character of those who expect Salvation for 
their Good Works — Oi those who depend 
on a careless Xominal Faith — Both these 
Characters unfavourable to Prayer — Chris- 
tianity a Religion of Love, which d- 
to Prayer, exhibited in a thin! Character, 491 

Prayer — The condition of its attendant Bles- 

— Useless Contention about Terms. . 493 

Vain Excuses for the Neglect of Prayer — The 
Man of Business— Case of Nehemiah — 
Prayer against the Fear of Death— Charac- 
ters to whom Prayer is Recommended, . 495 

The Consolation of Prayer — Its Perpetual 
Obligation, . . ' . . . .403 

On Intercessory Praver, .... 500 

The Pravin? Christian in the World— The 
Promise of Rest to the Christian, . . 502 

The Lord's Prayer, a Model both for our De- 
votion and our Practice — It teaches the 
Duty of Promoting Schemes to advance 
the Glory of God 505 

Conclusion, 508 

SPIRIT OF PRAYER. 
Chap. I — The Necessity of Prayer, founded 

on the Corruption of Human Nature, . 513 
Chap. II— The Duty of Prayer, inferred from 

the Helplessness of Man. . . .514 

Chap. Ill — Prayer : its Definition, . . 515 
Chap. IV— The efficacy of Prayer, . . 519 
Chap. V — Vain Excuses for the Neglect of 

Prayer 522 

Chap. VI— Characters who reject Prayer, . 525 
Chap. VII— Errors in Praver, . . . 527 
Chap. VIII— The Lord's Prayer, . . .530 
Chap. IX— The Lord's Prayer continued, 
THY WILL BE DONE. . . .532 

Chap. X — Scheme of Prayer proposed for 
YoungPersons, on the Model of the Lord's 
Prayer, ... ... 534 

Chap. XI — Perseverance in Prayer and Praise, 537 
Chap. XII— Intercessory Prayer, . . 540 

Chap. XIII— Practical Results of Prayer, ex- 
hibited in the Life of the Christian in the 

World 542 

Chap. XIV — The Consolations of Prayer in 
Affliction, Sickness, and Death, . . 545 



Essays on Various Subjects, 
Moriana, 



550 

576 



HINTS 

TOWARDS FORMING THE CHARACTER OF A YOUNG PRINCESS. 

I call that a complete and generous education, which fits a person to perform justly, skilfully 
and magnanimously, all the offices both of public and private life, of peace, and of war. — Milton. 



TO THE RIGHT REVEREND THE LORD BISHOP OF EXETER. 

Mv Lord. — Could it have been foreseen by the author of the following pages, that in the case 
of the illustrious person who is the subject of them, the standard of education would have been 
set so high ; and especially, that this education would be committed to such able and distinguish- 
ed hands, the work might surely have been spared. But as the work was gone to the press be- 
fore that appointment was announced, which must give general satisfaction, it becomes impor- 
tant to request, that if the advice suggested in any part of the work should appear presumptuous, 
your lordship, and still more the public, who might be more forward than your lordship in charg- 
ing the author with presumption, will have the candour to recollect, that it was offered not to 
the learned bishop of Exeter, but to an unknown, and even to an imaginary preceptor. 

Under these circumstances, your lordship will perhaps have the goodness to accept the dedica- 
tion of the following pages ; not as arrogantly pointing out duties to the discharge of which you 
are so competent, but as a mark of the respect and esteem with which I have the honour to be, 
My lord, your lordship's most obedient and most faithful servant, 

April 2, 1805. THE AUTHOR 



PREFACE. 

If any book, written with an upright and disinterested intention, may be thought to require 
an apology, it is surely the slight work which is now, with the most respectful deference, sub- 
mitted, not to the public only, but especially tn those who may be more immediately interested in 
the important object which it has in view. 

If we were to inquire what is, even at the present critical period, one of the most momentous 
concerns which can engage the attention of an Englishman, who feels for his country like a 
patriot, and for his posterity like a father ; what is that object of which the importance is not 
bounded by the shores of the British islands, nor limited by our colonial possessions ; — with 
which, in its consequences, the interests, not only of all Europe, but of the whole civilized world, 
may hereafter be in some measure implicated ; what Briton would hesitate to reply, the educa- 
tion of the Princess Charlotte of Wales ? 

Aftei this frank confession of the unspeakable importance of the subject in view, it is no wonder 
if the extreme difficulty, as well as delicacy of the present undertaking, is acknowledged to 
be sensibly felt by the author. 

It will too probably be thought to imply not only officiousness, but presumption, that a private 
individual should thus hazard the obtrusion of unsolicited observations on the proper mode of 
forming the character of an English princess. — It may seem to involve an appearance of unwar- 
rantable distrust, by implying an apprehension of some deficiency in the plan about to be adopted 
by those, whoever they may be, on whom this great trust may be devolved : and to indicate self- 
conceit, by conveying an intimation, after so strong an avowal of the delicacy and difficulty of the 
task, that such a deficiency is within the powers of the author to supply. 

The author, however, earnestly desires, as far as it may be possible to obviate these antici- 
pated charges, by alleging that under this free constitution, in which every topic of national 
policy is openly canvassed, and in which the prerogative of the crown form no mean part of the 
liberty of the subject, the principles which it is proper to instil into a royal personage, become 
a topic, which if discussed respectfully, may without offence, exercise, the liberty of the British 
press. 

The writer is very far, indeed, from pretending to offer any thing approaching to a sytem of 
instruction for the royal pupil, much less from presuming to dictate a plan of conduct to the pre- 
ceptor. What is here presented, is a mere outline, which may be filled up by far more able hands : 
a sketch which contains no consecutive details, which neither aspires to regularity of design, nor 
exactness of execution. 

To awaken a lively attention to a subject of such moment, to point out some circumstances 
connected with the early season of improvement, but still more with the subsequent stages of life ; 
to offer, not a treatise on education, but a desultory suggestion of sentiments and principles ; to 
convey instruction, not so much by preceptor by argument, as to exemplify it by illustrations 
and examples ; and, above all, to stimulate the wise and the good to exertions far more effectual ■ 
these are the real motives which have given birth to this slender performance. 



6 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Had the royal pupil been a prince, these hints would never have been obtruded on the world, 
as it would then have been naturally assumed, that the established plan usually adopted in such 
cases would have been pursued. Nor does the author presume in the present instance, to in- 
sinuate a suspicion, that there will be any want of a large and liberal scope in the projected sys- 
tem, or to intimate an apprehension that the course of study will be adapted to the sex, rather 
than to the circumstances of the princess. 

If, however, it should be asked, why a stranger presumes to interfere in a matter of such high 
concern ? It may be answered in the words of an elegant critic, that in classic story, when a superb 
and lasting monument was about to be consecrated to beauty, every lover was permitted to carry 
a tribute. 

The appearance of a valuable elementary work on the principles of Christianity, which has 
been recently published in our language, translated from the German under the immediate pa- 
tronage of an august personage, for the avowed purpose of benefit to her illustrious daughters, as 
it is an event highly auspicious to the general interests of religion, so is it a cirdumstance very 
encouraging to the present undertaking. 

It is impossible to write on such points as are discussed in this little work without being led to 
draw a comparison between the lot of a British subject, and that of one who treats on similar topics 
under a despotic government. — The excellent archbishop of Cambray, with every advantage 
which genius, learning, and profession, and situation could confer; the admired preceptor of 
the duke of Burgundy, appointed to the office by the king himself, was yet in the beautiful work 
which he composed for the use of his royal pupil, driven to the necessity of couching his instruc- 
tions under a fictitious narrative, and of sheltering behind the veil of fable, the duties of a just 
sovereign, and the blessings of a good government : he was aware, that even under this disguise, 
his delineation of both would too probably be construed into a satire on the personal errors of 
his own king, and the vices of the French government, and in spite of his ingenious discretion, 
the event justified his apprehensions. 

Fortunate are the subjects of that free and happy country who are not driven to have recourse 
to any such expedients ; who may, without danger, dare to express temperately what they think 
lawfully ; who, in describing the most perfect form of government, instead of recurring to poetic 
invention, need only delineate that under which they themselves live; who, in sketching the cha- 
racter, and shadowing out the duties of a patriot king, have no occasion to turn their eves from 
their own country to the throne of Ithaca or Salentum. 



HINTS 

TOWARDS FORMING THE CHARACTER OF A YOUNG PRINCESS. 



INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 

We are told that when a sovereign of ancient 
times, who wished to be a mathematician, but 
was deterred by the difficulty of attainment, 
asked, whether he could not be instructed in 
some easier method, the answer which he re- 
ceived was, that there was no royal road to 
geometry. The lesson contained in this reply 
ought never to be lost sight of, in that most im- 
portant and delicate of all undertakings, the 
education of a prince ! 

It is a truth which might appear too obvious 
to require enforcing, and yet of all others it is a 
truth most liable to be practically forgotten, that 
the same subjugation of desire and will, of in- 
clinations and tastes, to the laws of reason and 
conscience, which every one wishes to see pro- 
moted in the lowest ranks of society, is still 
more necessary in the very highest, in order to 
the attainment either of individual happiness, 
or of general virtue, to public usefulness, or to 
private self-enjoyment. 

Where a prince, therefore, is to be educated, 
his own welfare no less than that of his people, 
humanity no less than policy, prescribe, that 
the claims and privileges of the rational being 
should not be suffered to merge in the peculiar 
rights or exemptions of the expectant sovereign. 
If, in such cases, the wants and weaknesses of 



human nature could indeed be wholly effaced, 
as easily as they are kept out of sight, there 
would at least be some resonable plea against 
the charge of cruelty. But when, on the con- 
trary, the most elevated monarch must still 
retain every natural hope and fear, every af- 
fection and passion of the heart, every frailty 
of the mind, and every weakness of the body, 
to which the meanest subject is liable ; how ex- 
quisitely inhuman must it be to provide so sedu- 
lously for the extrinsic accident of transient 
greatness, as to blight the growth of substantial 
virtue, to dry up the fountains of mental and 
moral comfort, and in short to commit the ill- 
fated victim of such mismanagement to more, 
almost, than human dangers and difficulties, 
without even the common resources of the least 
favoured of mankind. 

Yet, must not this be the unaggravated con- 
sequence of not accustoming the royal child to 
that salutary control which the corruption of 
our nature requires, as its indispensable and 
earliest corrective ? If those foolish desires, 
which in the great mass of mankind are provi- 
dentially repressed by the want of means to 
gratify them, should, in the case of royalty, be 
thought warrantable, because every possible 
gratification is within reach, what would be the 
result, but the full blown luxuriance of folly, 
vice, and misery ? The laws of human nature 



THE WORKS O HANNAH MORE. 



vrill not bend to human greatness ; and by these 
immutable laws it is determined, that happiness 
and virtue, virtue and self-command, self-com- 
mand and early habitual self-denial, should be 
joined together in an indissoluble bond of con- 
nexion. 

The first habit, therefore, to be formed in every 
human being, and still more in the offspring and 
heir of royalty, is that of patience, and even 
cheerfulness, under postponed and restricted 
gratification. And the first lesson to be taught 
is, that since self-command is so essential to all 
genuine virtue and real happiness, where others 
cannot restrain us, there, especially, we should 
restrain ourselves. That illustrious monarch, 
Gustavus Adolphus, was so deeply sensible of 
this truth, that when he was surprised by one 
of his officers in secret prayer in his tent, he 
said, ' Persons of my rank are answerable to 
God alone for their actions ; this gives the ene- 
my of mankind a peculiar advantage over us ; an 
advantage which can only be resisted by prayer, 
and reading the Scriptures.' 

As the mind opens, the universal truth of this 
principle may be exemplified in innumerable in- 
stances, by which it may be demonstrated, that 
man is a rational being only so far as he can 
thus command himself. That such a superiority 
to the passions is essential to all regular and 
steady performance of duty ; and that true gra- 
tification is thus, and thus only insured, because, 
by him who thus habitually restrains himself, 
not only every lawful pleasure is most perfectly 
njoyed ; but every common blessing, for which 
the sated voluptuary has lost all relish, becomes 
a source of the most genuine pleasure, a source 
of pleasure which is never exhausted, because 
such common blessings are never wholly with- 
held. 

The mind should be formed early, no less than 
the person : and for the same reason. Provi- 
dence has plainly indicated childhood to be the 
season of instruction, by communicating at that 
period, such flexibility to the organs, such re- 
tention to the memory, such quickness to the 
apprehension, such inquisitiveness to the temper, 
such alacrity to the animal spirits, and such im- 
pressibility to the affections, as are not possessed 
at any subsequent period. We are therefore 
bound by every tie of duty to follow these obvi- 
ous designations of Providence, by moulding 
that flexibility to the most durable ends ; by 
storing that memory with the richest know- 
ledge ; by pointing that apprehension to the 
highest objects ; by giving to that alacrity its 
best direction ; by turning that inquisitiveness 
to the noblest intellectual purposes ; and, above 
all, by converting that impressibility of heart to 
the most exalted moral use. 

If this be true in general, much more forcibly 
does it apply to the education of princes ! No- 
thing short of the soundest, most rational, and, 
let me add, most religious education, can coun- 
teract the dangers to which they are exposed. 
If the highest of our nobility, in default of some 
better way of guarding against the mischiefs of 
flatterers and dependents, deem it expedient to 
commit their sons to the wholesome equality of 
a public school, in order to repress their aspiring 
notions, and check the tendencies of their birth ; 



— If they find it necessary to counteract the per- 
nicious influence of domestic luxury, and the 
corrupting softness of domestic indulgence, by 
severity of study and closeness of application ; 
how much more indispensable is the spirit of this 
principle in the instance before us ? The highest 
nobility have their equals, their competitors, and 
even their superiors. Those who are born with- 
in the sphere of royalty are destitute of all such 
extrinsic means of correction, and must be 
wholly indebted for their safety to the soundness 
of their principles, and the rectitude of their ha- 
bits. Unless, therefore, the brightest light of 
reason be, from the very first, thrown upon their 
path, and the divine energies of our holy reli- 
gion, both restraining and attractive, be brought 
as early as possible to act upon their feelings, 
the children of royalty, by the very fate of their 
birth, would be 'of all men most miserable.' 

Let it not, however, be supposed, that any im- 
practicable rigour is here recommended ; or that 
it is conceived to be necessary that the gay pe- 
riod of childhood should be rendered gloomy or 
painful, whether in the cottage or the palace. 
The virtue which is aimed at, is not that of the 
stoic philosophy ; nor do the habits which are 
deemed valuable, require the harshness of a 
Spartan education. Let nature, truth, and rea. 
son, be consulted ; and, let the child, and espe- 
cially the royal child, be as much as possible, 
trained according to their simple and consistent 
indications. The attention, in such instances 
as the present, should be the more watchful and 
unremitting, as counteracting influences are, in 
so exalted a station, necessarily multiplied ; and 
every difficulty is at its greatest possible height 
In a word, let not common sense, which is uni- 
versal and eternal, be sacrificed to the capricious 
tastes of the child, or to the pliant principles of 
any who may approach her. But let the virtue 
and the happiness of the royal pupil be as sim- 
ply, a-s feelingly, and as uniformly consulted, as 
if she were the daughter of a private gentleman. 
May this attention to her moral and mental cul- 
tivation be the supreme concern, from honest re- 
verence to the offspring of such a race, from a 
dutiful regard to her own future happiness, and 
from reasonable attention to the well-being of 
those millions, whose earthly fate may be at 
this moment suspended on lessons, and habits, 
received by one providentially distinguished 
female ! 



CHAP. II. 

On the Acquisition of Knowledge. 

The course of instruction for the princess 
will, doubtless, be wisely adapted, not only to 
the duties, but to the dangers of her rank. The 
probability of her having one day functions to 
discharge, which, in such exempt cases only, 
fall to the lot of females, obviously suggests the 
expediency of an education not only superior to, 
but in certain respects, distinct from, that of 
other women. What was formerly deemed ne- 
cessary in an instance of this nature, may be 
inferred from the well-known attainments of the 



H 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



unfortunate lady Jane Grey ; and still more from 
the no less splendid acquirements of queen Eli- 
zabeth. Of the erudition of the latter, we have 
particular account from one, who was the fittest 
in that age to appreciate it, the celebrated Roger 
Aschasm. He tells us, that when he read over 
with her the orations of Eschines and Demos- 
thenes in Greek, she not only understood, at 
first sight, the full force and propriety of the 
language, and the meaning of the orators, but 
that she comprehended the whole scheme of tin 
laws, customs, and manners of the Athenians. 
She^.possessed an exact and accurate knowledge 
of the Scriptures, and had committed to memory 
most of the striking passages in them. She had 
also learned by heart many of the finest parts of 
Thucydides and Xenophon, especially those 
which relate to life and manners. Thus were 
her early years sedulously employed in laying 
in a large stock of materials for governing well. 
To what purpose she improved them, let her il- 
lustrious reign of forty-five years declare ! 

If the influence of her erudition on her subse- 
quent prosperity should be questioned ; let it be 
considered, that her intellectual attainments sup- 
ported the dignity of her character, under foibles 
and feminine weaknesses, which would other- 
wise have sunk her credit : she had even ad- 
dress enough to contrive to give to those weak- 
nesses a certain classic grace. Let it be consi- 
dered also, that whatever tended to raise her 
mind to a level with those whose services she 
was to use, and of whose counsels she was to 
avail herself, proportionably contributed to that 
mutual respect and confidence between the queen 
and her ministers, without which, the results of 
her government could not have been equally 
successful. Almost every man of rank was then 
a man of letters, and literature was valued ac- 
cordingly. Had, therefore, deficiency of lea-rning 
been added to inferiority of sex, we might not 
at this day have the reign of Elizabeth on which 
to look back, as the period in which administra- 
tive energy seemed to attain the greatest possible 
perfection. 

Yet, though an extended acquaintance with 
ancient authors will be necessary now, as 
it was then, in the education of a princess, a ge- 
neral knowledge of ancient languages, it is pre- 
sumed, may be dispensed with. The Greek 
authors, at least, may doubtless be read with 
sufficient advantage through the medium of a 
translation ; the spirit of the original being, per- 
haps, more transfusible into the English, than 
into any other modern tongue. But are there 
not many forcible reasons why the Latin lan- 
guage should not be equally omitted ?* Besides 
the advantage of reading, in their original dress, 
the historians of that empire, the literature of 
Rome is peculiarly interesting, as being the 
most satisfactory medium through which the 
moderns can obtain an intimate knowledge of 
the ancient world. As the Latin itself is a mo- 
dification of one of the Greek dialects, so the 
Roman philosophers and poets, havirig formed 

* The royal father of the illustrious pupil vs said tn 
possess the princely accomplishment of a pure classical 
taste. Of his love for polite learning, the attention 
which he is paying to the reeovery of certain of the lost 
works of some of the Roman authors is an evidence. 



themselves, as much as possible, on Grecian mo- 
dels, present to us the nearest possible transcripts 
of those masters whom they copy. Thus, by an 
acquaintance with the Latin language, we are 
brought into a kind of actual contact not only 
with the ancient world, but with that portion of 
it which, having the most direct and the fullest 
intercourse with the other parts, introduces us, 
in a manner the most informing and satisfactory 
to classical and philosophical antiquity in gene- 
ral. But what is sCill more, the Latin tongue 
enables us for ourselves, without the intermedia- 
tion of any interpreter, to examine all the par- 
ticular circumstances in manners, intercourse, 
modes of thinking and speaking, of that period 
which Eternal Wisdom chose (probably because 
it was ever after to appear the most luminous in 
the whole retrospect of history) as fittest for the 
advent of the Messiah, and the bringing life and 
immortality to light by the gospel. 

If to this may be added lesser yet not unim- 
portant considerations, we would say, that by 
the acquaintance which the Latin language 
would give her with the etymology of words 
she will learn to be more accurate in her defini- 
tions, as well as more critically exact and ele- 
gant in the use of her own language ; and her 
ability to manage it with gracefulness and vigour 
will be considerably increased.* 

Of the modern languages, if the author dares 
hazard an opinion, the French and German seem 
the most necessary. The Italian appears less 
important, as those authors which seem more 
peculiarly to belong to her education, such as 
Davilla, Guicciardin, and Beccaria, may be read 
either in French or English translations. 

It is not to be supposed that a personage, un- 
der her peculiar circumstances, should have 
much time to spare lor the acquisition of what 
are called the fine arts ; nor, perhaps, is it to be 
desired. To acquire them in perfection, would 
steal away too large a portion of those precious 
hours which will barely suffice to lay in the va- 
rious rudiments of indispensable knowledge ; 
and, in this fastidious age, whatever falls far 
short of perfection, is deemed of little worth. A 
moderate skill in music, for instance, would pro- 
bably have little other effect, than to make the 
listeners feel, as Farinelli is said to have done, 
who used to complain heavily that the pension 
of 2000/. a year, which he had from the king of 
Spain, was compensation little enough for his 
being sometimes obliged to hear his majesty 
play. Yet this would be a far less evil than 
that to which excellence might lead. We can 
think of few things more to be deprecated, than 
that those who have the greatest concerns to 
pursue, should have their tastes engaged, per- 
haps monopolized, by trifles. A listener to the 
royal music, if possessed of either wisdom or 
virtue, could not but feel his pleasure at the 
most exquisite performance abated, by the ap- 
prehension that this perfection implied the ne- 
glect of matters far more essential. 

* Who does not consider as one of the most interest 
inc; passages of modern history, that which relates the 
effect produced by an eloquent f>atin oration pronounc- 
ed in a full assembly, by the late empress Maria The- 
resa, in the bloom of her youth and beauty, so late as 
theveai 1740? Antiquity produces uothingmore touch- 
ing of the kind. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Besides, to excel in those arts, which, though 
merely ornamental, are yet well enough adapted 
to ladies who have only a subordinate part to fill 
in life, would rather lessen than augment the 
dignity of a sovereign. It was a truly royal re- 
ply of Themistocles, when he was asked if he 
could play on the lute — ' No, but if you will 
give me a paltry village I may perhaps know 
how to improve it into a great city.' 

These are imperial arts, and worthy kings. 

As to these inferior accomplishments, it is not 
desirable, and is it not sufficient that a sovereign 
should possess that general knowledge and taste 
which give the power of discriminating excel- 
lence, so as judiciously to cherish, and liberally 
to reward it ? 

But, not only in works of mere taste ; even in 
natural history, botany, experimental philoso- 
phy, and other generally valuable sciences, a 
correct but unlaboured outline of knowledge, it 
is presumed, will, in the present instance, be 
thought sufficient. Profitable and delightful as 
these pursuits are to others (and no one more 
admires them than the writer of this essay) yet 
the royal personage must not be examining 
plants, when she should be studying laws ; nor 
investigating the instincts of animals, when she 
should be analyzing the characters of men. The 
time so properly devoted to these studies in other 
educations, will be little enough in this, to attain 
that knowledge of general history, and especially 
that accurate acquaintance with the events of 
our own country, which, in her situation, are 
absolutely indispensable. 

Geography and chronology have not unfitly 
been termed the two eyes of history. With 
chronology she should be completely acquainted. 
It is little to know events, if we do not know in 
what order and succession they are disposed. It 
is necessary also to learn how the periods of 
computation are determined. Method does not 
merely aid the memory, it also assists the judg- 
ment, by settling the dependence of one event 
upon another. Chronology is the grand art of 
historical arrangement. To know that a man 
of distinguished eminence has lived, is to know 
little, unless we know when he lived, and who 
were his contemporaries. Indistinctness and 
confusion must always perplex that understand- 
ing, in which the annals of past ages are not 
thus consecutively linked together. 

Would it not be proper always to read history 
with a map, in order to keep up in the mind the 
indissoluble connexion between history and geo- 
graphy ; and that a glance of the country may 
recall the exploits of the hero, or the virtues of 
the patriot who has immortalized it ? 

Respecting the study of geography, I would 
observe that many particulars, which do not 
seem to have been considered by the generality 
of writers, ought to be brought before the view 
of a royal pupil. The effects of local situation, 
and geographical boundary, on the formation 
and progress of nalions and empires. — The con- 
sequences, for example, which have resulted as 
well in the political, as in the civil and religious 
circumstances of mankind, from the Mediterra- 
nean being so aptly interposed, not so much as 



it should seem to be a common barrier, as to 
form a most convenient and important medium 
of intercourse between Europe, Asia, and Afri- 
ca. — The effect of this great Naumachia of the 
ancient world, in transferring empire from east 
to west; — the want of tides in the Mediterrane- 
an, so as to adapt this scene of early maritime 
adventure to the rudeness of those who were first 
to navigate it, and whose success might have 
been fatally impeded, by that diversity of cur- 
rents, which in other seas the ebb and flow of 
the tides is perpetually creating. 

In connection with this, though somewhat 
locally remote from it, is to be remarked the re- 
gularity of the monsoons in the Erythraean* sea, 
by means of which, the earlier traders between 
Africa and India were carried across the Per- 
sian gulf, without the exercise of that skill, 
which as yet did not exist. And, as if to facili- 
tate the conveyance of those most interesting 
commodities to the Mediterranean, in order that 
the commerce of that inland ocean might never 
want an adequate stimulus, the Red Sea is car- 
ried onward, till it is separated from the Medi- 
teranean by a comparatively narrow isthmus : 
an isthmus that seems providentially to have 
been retained, that while the maratime activity 
and general convenience of the ancient world 
was provided for, there might still be sufficient 
difficulty in the way, to excite to a more extend- 
ed circumnavigation, when the invention of the 
compass, the improvement of maritime skill, 
and the general progress of human society, should 
concur in bringing on the proper season. 

And, in this geographic sketch, let not the re- 
markable position of Judea be forgotten :t placed 
in the very middle parts of the old world (whose 
extent may be reckoned from the pillars of Her 
cules to ' the utmost Indian isle Tabrobane,') 
as the sun in the centre of the solar system, and 
at the top of the Mediterranean, both that it 
might be within the vortex of great events, and 
also that when the fulness of time should come, 
it might be most conveniently situated for pour- 
ing forth that light of truth, of which it was des- 
tined to be the local origin, upon all the nations 
of the earth, and especially on the Roman em- 
pire. Such are the less common particulars to 
which attention may advantageously be drawn. 
With geography in general should of course be 

* A name given formerly to all that portion of the 
st>a which lies between Arabia and India, though latter- 
ly confined to the Arabian gulf. 

t It is worthy of notice, that in all probability Judea 
was the country by means of which a trade was first 
oppnpil between the Mediterranean and India. David 
had taken from the Edomites two cities at tbe Red Sea, 
Ezion Geber and Elath; these, we are told, Solomon 
made sea-ports, and colonized them with navigators, 
furnished by the king of Tyre, of whom it is said, 2 
Chron. viii. 18, that he sent unto Solomon ships and 
servants, who had knowledge of the sea, and they went 
with the servants of Solomon toOpliir; and, 1 Kings, 
x. 22, we are told that Salomon had at sea a navy of 
Tarshish with the navy of Hiram, v> hich came once in 
three years, bringing gold and silver, ivory, apes, and 
peacocks. Thus, Tyre, the great emporium of the 
Mediterranean was evidently indebted to David and 
Solomon, for access to that commerce of the east, which 
was carried on by means of the Red Sea, and brought 
from 1 he above-mentioned ports, across the isthmus of 
Suez, probably to the same place where the Tyrians in 
later times unshipped their Asiatic commodities, the 
port of Rhinocorura. 



10 



THE WORRS OF HANNAH MORE. 



connected some knowledge of the natural and 
civil history of each country ; its chief political 
revolutions, its alliances, and dependencies; to- 
gether with the state of its arts, commerce, na- 
tural productions, government, and religion. 



CHAP. Ill 

On the importance of forming the mind. 

It is of the highest importance that the royal 
pupil should acquire an early habit of method 
and regularity in her studies. She should, there- 
fore, be particularly guarded against that de- 
sultory manner of reading, too common at this 
day, and particularly with women. She should 
be trained always to study some valuable pur- 
pose, and carefully to attend to the several way- 
marks, by means of which that end may most 
effectually be attained. She should be accus- 
tomed to call fortli the forces of her mind, and 
to keep them alert, well disciplined, and ready 
for service. She should so cultivate settled prin- 
ciples of action, as to acquire the habit of ap- 
plying them, on demand, to the actual occasions 
of life ; and should possess a promptitude, as 
well as soundness, in deducing consequences, 
and drawing conclusions. Her mind should be 
exercised with as much industry in the pursuit 
of moral truth and useful knowledge, as that of 
a young academic in the studies of his profes- 
sion. The art of reigning is the profession of a 
prince. And, doubtless, it is a science which 
requires at least as much preparatory study as 
any other. Besides, one part of knowledge is 
often so necessary for reflecting light on another 
part, that perhaps no one who does not under- 
stand many things, can understand any thing 
well. 

But, whatever may be the necessary degree 
of knowledge, it is most, certain that it cannot 
be attained amidst the petty avocations which 
occupy a modern lady's time. — Knowledge will 
not come by nature or by chance. Precepts do 
not always convey it. Talents do not always 
insure it. It is the fruit of pains. It is the re- 
ward of application. 

Dii laboribus omnia vendunt. 

Let her ever bear in mind, she is not to study 
that she may become learned, but that she may 
become wise. It is by such an acquisition of 
knowledge as is here recommended, that her 
mind must be so enlarged and invigorated as to 
prepare her for following wise counsels, without 
blindly yielding to fortuitous suggestions ; as to 
en-able her to trace actions into their multifari- 
ous consequences, and to discover real analogies 
without being deceived by superficial appear- 
ances of resemblance. It is thus that she must 
be secured from the dominion of the less en- 
lightened. This will preserve her from credu- 
lity; prevent her from overrating inferior talents, 
and help her to attain that nil admirari, which 
is so necessary for distinguishing arrogant pre- 
tension from substantial merit. It will aid her 
to appreciate the value of those around her ; will 



friends ; preserve her from a blind prejudice in 
choosing them, from retaining them through fear 
or fondness, and from changing them through 
weakness or caprice. ' When we are abused 
through specious appearances,' says the judi- 
cious Hooker, ' it is because reason is negligent 
to search out the fallacy.' But he might have 
added, if reason be not cultivated early, if it be 
not exercised constantly, it will have no eye for 
discernment, no heart for vigorous exertion. 
Specious appearances will perpetually deceive 
that mind which has been accustomed to acqui- 
esce in them through ignorance, blindnees, and 
inaction. 

A prince should be ignorant of nothing which 
it is honourable to know ; but he should look on 
mere acquisition of knowledge not as the end to 
be rested in, but only as the means of arriving 
at some higher end. He may have been well 
instructed in history, belles leltres, philosophy, 
and languages, and yet have received a defective 
education, if the formation of his judgment has 
been neglected. For, it is not so important to 
know every thing, as to know the exact value of 
every thing, to appreciate what we learn, and to 
arrange what we know. 

Books alone will never form the character. 
Mere reading would rather tend to make a pe- 
dantic, than an accomplished prince. It is con- 
versation which must unfold, enlarge, and apply 
the use of books. Without that familiar com- 
ment on what is read, which will make a most 
important part of the intercourse between a royal 
pupil and the society around him, mere reading 
might only fill the mind with fallacious models 
of character, and false maxims of life. It is 
conversation which must develope what is ob- 
scure, raise what is low, correct what is defective, 
qualify what is exaggerated, and gently and al- 
most insensibly raise the understanding, form 
the heart, and fix the taste ; and by giving just 
proportions to the mind, teach it the power of 
fair appreciation, draw it to adopt what is rea- 
sonable, to love what is good, to taste what is 
pure, and to imitate what is elegant. 

But this is not to be effected by cold rules, 
and formal reflections ; by insipid dogmas, and 
tedious sermonizing. It should be done so in- 
directly, so discreetly, and so pleasantly, that 
the pupil shall not be led to dread a lecture at 
every turn, nor a dissertation on every occur- 
rence. While yet such an ingenious and cheer- 
ful turn may be given to subjects apparently un- 
promising, old truths may be conveyed by such 
new images, that the pupil will wonder to find 
herself improved when she thought she was only 
diverted. Folly may be made contemptible, af- 
fectation ridiculous, vice hateful, and virtue 
beautiful, by such seemingly unpremeditated 
means, as shall have the effect, without having 
the effort, of a lesson. Topics must not be so 
much proposed as insinuated. 

But above all, there should be a constant, but 
imperceptible habit of turning the mind to a love 
of truth in all its forms and aspects ; not only 
in matters of grave morality, but in matters of 
business, of common intercourse, and even of 
taste ; for there is a truth both in moral and 
mental taste, little short of the exactness of ma- 



assist her penetration in what regards her | thematical truth ; and the mind should acquire 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



II 



an habit of seeking perfection m every thing. 
This habit should be so early and insensibly 
formed, that when the pupil comes aflerwards 
to meet with maxims, and instances of truth 
and virtue, in historical and moral writings, she 
may bring to the perusal tastes, tempers, and 
dispositions so laid in, as to have prepared the 
mind for their reception. As this mode of 
preparatory and incidental instruction will be 
gradual and inwoven, so it will be deep and 
durable; but as it will be little obvious to ordi- 
nary judges, it will excite less wonder and ad- 
miration than the usual display and exhibition 
so prevalent in modern education. Its effects 
will be less ostensible, but they will be more 
certain. 

When it is considered how short is that pe- 
riod of life in which plain unvarnished truth 
will be likely to appear in all its naked simpli- 
city before princes, is there a moment of that 
happy, that auspicious season to be lost, for 
presenting it to them in all its lovely and engag- 
ing forms ? It is not enough that they should 
possess truth as a principle ; they should cherish 
it as an object of affection, delight in it as a 
matter of taste, and dread nothing so much as 
false colouring and artifice. 

He who possesses a sound principle, and 
Btrong relish of truth in his own mind, will 
possess a touchstone by which to try this 
quality in others, and which will enable him to 
detect false notions, to see through false man- 
ners, and to despise false attractions. This 
discerning faculty is the more important, as the 
high breeding of every polished society pre- 
sents so plausible an imitation of goodness, as 
to impose on tho superficial observer, who, 
satisfied with the image and superscription, 
never inquires whether the coin be counterfeit 
or sterling. 

The early habit of sifting questions, turning 
about a truth, and examining an argument on 
all sides, will strengthen the intellectual powers 
of the royal pupil ; prevent her thoughts from 
wandering ; accustom her to weigh fairly and 
resolve soundly ; will conquer irresolution in 
her mind ; preserve her from being easily de- 
ceived by false reasoning, startled by doubts, 
and confounded by objections. She will learn 
to digest her thoughts in an exact method, to 
acquire a logical order in the arrangement of 
them, to possess precision in her ideas, and its 
natural concomitant, perspicuity in her expres- 
sion ; all which will be of the highest impor- 
tance to one who may hereafter have so much 
to do and to say in public. 

With the shades of expressions she should 
also be well acquainted, and be habituated to 
use the most apposite and the most correct; 
such are neither too high nor too low, too strong 
nor too weak, for the occasion, such as are ob- 
vious, but not vulgar, accurate but not pedantic, 
elegant but not artificial. 

The memory should be stored with hone but 
the best things, that when, hereafter, the judg- 
ment is brought into exercise, it may find none 
but the best materials to act upon. Instead, 
therefore, of loading the memory, might it not 
be useful to establish it into a rule to read to her 
every day, as an amusement, and distinctly J 



from all regular instruction, a passage from the 
history of England, a story out of Plutarch, or 
any similar author ; and require of her to repeat 
it afterwards, in her own words ? This would 
not only add, daily, one important fact to her 
stock of knowledge, but would tend to form a 
perspicuous and elegant style. — Occasion would 
also be furnished for observing whether she ex- 
hibited that best proof of good sense, the seizing 
on the prominent features of the story, laying 
less stress on what was less important. 

But while accuracy is thus sought the still 
more important habit of comprehensiveness 
must not be overlooked. Her mind should be 
trained to embrace a wide compass; it should 
be taught to take in a large whole, and then sub- 
divide it into parts ; each of which should be 
considered distinctly, yet connectedly, with 
strict attention to its due proportions, relative 
situations, its bearings with respect to the others, 
and the dependence of each part on the whole. 
Where, however, so many things are to be 
known, and so many to be done, it is impossi- 
ble to attend equally to all. It is therefore im- 
portant, that, in any case of competition, the 
less material be left unlearned and undone ; and 
that petty details never fill the time and mind, 
at the expense of neglecting great objects. 

For those, therefore, who have much business 
and little time, it is a great and necessary art to 
learn to extract the essential spirit of an author 
from the body of his work, to know how to seize 
on the vital parts ; to discern where his strength 
lies ; and to separate it from those portions of 
the work which are superfluous, collateral, or 
merely ornamental. 

On the subject of economizing- time, the 
writer would have been fearful of incurring the 
charge of needless strictness, by suggesting the 
utility of accustoming princes to be read to 
while they are dressing, could not the actual 
practice of our admirable queen Mary be ad- 
duced to sanction the advice. — That excellent 
princess, from a conscientious regard to the 
value of time, was either read to by others, or 
condescended, herself, to read aloud, that those 
who were employed about her person might 
share the benefit, which she enhanced by such 
pleasant and judicious remarks as the subject 
suggested. But there is an additional reason 
why the children of the great would be benefited 
by this habit; for it would not only turn idle 
moments to some account, but would be of use in 
another way, by cutting off the fairest occasions 
which their inferior attendants can have for 
engaging them, by frivolous or flattering dis. 
course. 

It would be well to watch attentively the bent 
of the mind in the hours of relaxation and 
amusement, when caution is dismissed by tho 
pupil, and control by the preceptor ; when no 
studies are imposed, and no specific employ- 
ment suggested. In fact when vigilance ap- 
pears to sleep, it should be particularly on the 
alert, in order to discern those tendencies and 
dispositions which will then most naturally un- 
fold themselves ; and because that the heart, 
being at those seasons less under discipline, 
will be more likely to betray its native charac- 
ter. And as the regulation of the temper is 



12 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



that part of education on which the whole hap- 
piness of life most materially depends, no occa- 
sion should be neglected, no indication slighted, 
no connteraction omitted, which may contribute 
to accomplish so important an end. 

The peculiar defects, not merely such faults 
as are incident to childhood, but the predomi- 
nating faults of the individual, should be care- 
fully watched, lest they acquire strength through 
neglect, when they might have been diminished 
hy a counteracting force. If the temper be 
restless, ardent, and impetuous, weariness and 
discontent will, hereafter, fill up the dreary in- 
tervals between one animating scene and an- 
other, unless the temper be subdued and tran- 
quillized by a constant habit of quiet, though 
varied, and interesting occupation. Few things 
are more fatal to the mind, than to depend for 
happiness on the contingent recurrence of 
events, business, and diversions, which inflame 
and agitate it ; for as they do not often occur, 
the intervals which are long are also languid ; 
the enjoyment is factitious happiness ; the pri- 
vation is actual misery. 

Reading, therefore, has, especially to a 
prince, its moral uses, independently of the na- 
ture of the study itself. It brings no small 
gain, if it secure him from the dominion of 
turbulent pursuits and agitating pleasures. If 
it snatch him on the one hand, from public 
schemes of ambition and false glory ; and if it 
rescue him on the other, from the habit of form- 
ing petty projects of incessant diversion, the 
rudiments of a trifling and useless life. 

Knowledge, therefore, is often the preserva- 
tive of virtue, and, next to right habits of senti- 
ment and conduct, the best human source of 
happiness. Could Louis the fourteenth have 
read, probably the edict of Nantz had not been 
revoked. But a restless temper, and a vacant 
mind, unhappily lighting on absolute power, 
present, in this monarch, a striking instance of 
the fatal effects of ignorance and the calamity 
of a neglected education. He had a good na- 
tural understanding, loved business, and seem- 
ed to have a mind capable of comprehending it. 
Many of his recorded expressions are neat and 
elegant. But he was uninstructed upon system ; 
cardinal Mazarine, with a view to secure his own 
dominion, having withheld from him all the 
necessary means of education. Thus, he had 
received no ideas from books ; he even hated in 
others the learning which he did not himself 
possess : the terms wit and scholar, were in his 
mind, terms of reproach ; the one as implying 
satire, the other pedantry. He wanted not 
application to public affairs ; and habit had 
given him some experience in them. But the 
apathy which marked his latter years strongly 
illustrated the infelicity of an unfurnished mind. 
This, in the tumult of his brighter days, amidst 
the succession of intrigues, the splendour of 
festivity, and the bustle of arms, was scarcely 
felt. But ambition and voluptuousness cannot 
always be gratified. Those ardent passions, 
which in youth were devoted to licentiousness, 
in the meridian of life to war, in a more advanc- 
ed age to bigotry and intolerance, not only had 
never been directed by religion, but had never 
been softened by letters. — After he had re- 



nounced his mistresses at home, and his unjust 
wars abroad, even though his mind seems to 
have acquired some pious tendencies, his life 
became a scene of such inanity and restlessness, 
that he was impatient at being, for a moment, 
left alone. He had no intellectual resources. 
The agitation of great events had subsided. 
From never having learned either to employ 
himself in reading or thinking, his life became 
a blank, from which he could not be relieved by 
the sight of his palaces, his gardens, and his 
aqueducts, the purchase of depopulated villages 
and plundered cities. 

Indigent amid all his possessions, he ex 
hibited a striking confirmation of the decla- 
ration of Solomon, concerning the unsatisfying 
nature of all earthly pleasures ; and showed, 
that it is in vain even for kings to hope to ob- 
tain from others those comforts, and that con- 
tentment, which man can derive only from with 
in himself. 



CHAP. IV. 

The Education of a Sovereign a specific Educa- 
tion. 

The formation of the character is the grand 
object to be accomplished. This should be con- 
sidered to be not so much a separate business, 
as a sort of centre to which all the rays of in- 
struction should be directed. All the studies 
it is presumed, of the royal pupil should have 
some reference to her probable future situation. 
Is it not, therefore, obviously requisite that her 
understanding be exercised in a wider range 
than that of others of her sex ; and that her prin- 
ciples be so established, on the best and surest 
foundation, as to fit her at once for fulfilling the 
peculiar demands, and for resisting the peculiar 
temptations of her station ? Princes have been 
too often inclined to fancy, that they have few 
interests in common with the rest of mankind, 
feeling themselves placed by Providence on an 
eminence so much above them. But the great 
aim should be, to correct the haughtiness which 
may attend this superiority, without relinquish- 
ing the truth of the fact. Is it not, therefore, 
the business of those who have the care of a 
royal education, not so much to deny the reality 
of this distance, or to diminish its amount, as to 
account for its existence, and point out the uses 
to which it is subservient ? 

A prince is an individual being, whom the 
hand of Providence has placed on a pedestal of 
peculiar elevation : but he should learn, that he 
is placed there as the minister of good to others ; 
that the dignity being hereditary, he is the more 
manifestly raised to that elevation, not by his 
own merit, but by providential destination ; by 
those laws, which he is himself bound to observe 
with the same religious fidelity as the meanest 
of his subjects. It ought early to be impressed 
that those appendages of royalty, with which 
human weakness may too probably be fascinated, 
are intended not to gratify the feelings, but to 
distinguish the person of the monarch ; that, in 
themselves, they are of little value ; that thev 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



13 



are beneath the attachment of a rational, and of 
no substantial use to a moral being ; in short, 
that they are not a subject of a triumph, but are 
to be acquiesced in for the public benefit, and 
from regard to that weakness of our nature, 
which subjects so large a portion of every com- 
munity to the influence of their imagination, 
and their senses. 

While, therefore, a prince is taught the use 
of those exterior embellishments, which, as was 
before observed, designate, rather than dignify 
his station ; while he is led to place the just va- 
lue on every appendage which may contribute 
to give him importance in the eyes of the multi- 
tude ; who not being just judges of what con- 
stitutes true dignity, are consequently apt to 
reverence the royal person exactly so far as they 
Bee outward splendour connected with it ; should 
not a royal pupil himself be taught, instead of 
overvaluing that splendour, to think it a hum- 
bling, rather than an elevating consideration, 
that so large a part of the respect paid to him, 
should be owing to such extrinsic causes, to 
causes which make no part of himself? Let 
him then be taught to gratify the public with all 
the pomp and circumstance suitable to royalty ; 
but let him never forget, that though his station 
ought always to procure for him respect, he 
must ever look to his own personal conduct, for 
inspiring veneration, attachment, and affection ; 
and ever let it be remembered that this affection 
is the strongest tie of obedience ; that subjects 
like to see their prince great, when that great- 
ness is not produced by rendering them less ; 
and as the profound Selden observes, ' the people 
will always be liberal to a prince who spares 
them, and a good prince will always spare a 
liberal people.' 

This is not a period when any wise man 
would wish to diminish either the authority, or 
the splendour of kings. So far from it, he will 
support with his whole weight, an institution 
which the licentious fury of a revolutionary spi- 
rit has rendered more dear to every Englishman. 
On no consideration, therefore would he pluck 
even a feather from those decorations of royalty, 
which, by a long association, have become inti- 
mately connected with its substance. In short, 
every wise inhabitant of the British isles must 
feel, that he who would despoil the crown of its 
jewels, would not be far from spoiling the wearer 
of his crown. And as nothing but domestic 
folly or frenzy would degrade the monarch from 
his due elevation, so democratic envy alone 
would wish to strip him, not only of a single 
constituent of real greatness, but even of a sin- 
gle ornamental appendage on which the people 
have been accustomed to gaze with honest joy. 

Nevertheless, those outrages which have lately 
been committed against the sanctity of the 
throne, furnish new and most powerful reasons 
for assiduously guarding princes by every re- 
spectful admonition, against any tendency to 
exceed their just prerogatives, and for checking 
every rising propensity to overstep, in the slight- 
est degree, their well-defined rights. 

At the same time it should be remembered, 
that there may be no less dangerous faults on 
the other side, and that want of firmness in 
maintaining just rights, or of spirit in the prompt 



and vigorous exercise of necessary authority 
may prove as injurious to the interests of a com- 
munity as the most lawless stretch of power. 
Defects of this very kind were evidently among 
the causes, of bringing down, on the gentlest of 
the kings of France, more calamities than had 
ever resulted from the most arbitrary exertion 
of power in any of his predecessors. Feebleness 
and irresolution, which seems to be little more 
than pardonable weaknesses in private persons, 
may, by their consequences, prove in princes 
fatal errors ; and even produce the effect of great 
crimes. Vigour to secure, and opportunity to 
exert their constitutional power, is as essentia] 
as moderation not to exceed it.* 

It serves to show the inestimable value of 
well-defined laws, and the importance of making 
the prince acquainted with them, that Louis the 
thirteenth conceived a jealousy respecting his 
own power, because he did not understand the 
nature of it ; and his favourites were unable or 
unwilling to instruct him. But his usurpation 
of extraordinary power tended to exalt his mi- 
nister still more than himself; and in setting 
the king above the laws, he still set the cardinal 
above the king. 

The power of the monarchs of France had 
never been defined by any written law. Charles 
V. Louis IX. and perhaps a very few other wise 
and temperate princes, did not conceive their 
power to be above the laws, but approved of 
those moderating maxims which had become, 
by degrees, the received usages of the state, and 
which, while they seemed, in some measure, 
a constitutional check upon the absolute power 
of the crown, formed also a guard against that 
popular licentiousness, which, in a pure despot- 
ism, appears to be the only resource left to the 
people. But France has had few monarchs like 
Charles V. and still fewer like Louis IX. Henry 
IV. seems to have found and observed the happy 
medium. He was at once resolute and mild ; 
determined and affectionate; politic and humane. 
The firmness of his mind, and the active vigour 
of his conduct, always kept pace with the gen- 
tleness of his language. He fought for his pre- 
rogatives bravely, and defended them vigorously; 
yet, it is said, he ever carefully avoided the use 
of the term. He also loved and sought popular- 
ity, but he never sacrificed to it any just claim, 
nor ever made a concession which did not also 
tend to guard the real prerogatives of the crown.t 
And it seems to be the true wisdom of a prince, 
that, as he cannot be too deliberate in his coun- 
cils, nor too cautious in his plans, so when those 
counsels are well matured, and those plans well 

* May it not be observed, without risking the impu- 
tation of flattery, that perhaps never, in the hisiory of 
the world, has any country been so uninterruptedly 
blessed with that very temperament of government, 
which is here implied, as this empire has been under 
the dominion of the house of Hanover ? There has, on 
no occasion been a want pf firmness; but with that 
firmness, there has been a conscientious regard to the 
principles of the constitution. Who can at this moment 
pretend to pronounce how much we owe to the steady 
integrity which is so obviously possessed by our present 
sovereign? And who does not remember with what 
good effect his resolute composure and dignified firmness 
were exerted during a scene of the greatest alarm which 
has occurred in his reign— the riots of the year 1780. 

t III ne se detioit pas des loix, parcequ'il se fioit en lui 
meme.— De Retz. 



14 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



digested he cannot be too decisive in their exe- 
cution. 

It was not, indeed, under the actual rule of 
monarchs, however arbitrary, that royal autho- 
rity was raised to its highest pitch in France. 
It was Richelieu, who, under a regency, rapidly 
established such a system of tyranny, as the 
boldest sovereign had seldom dared to attempt. 
He improved on all the anterior corruptions ; 
and, as a lively French author says, tried to con- 
coal their being corruptions, by erecting them 
into political maxims. Mazarin, with inferior 
ability, which would not have enabled him to 
give the impulse, attempted still more to accele- 
rate the movement of that machine which his 
predecessor had set a going with such velocity ; 
and a civil war was the consequence. 

Happily, the examples of neither the kings, 
the laws, nor the constitution of France, can be 
strictly applicable to us. Happily also, we live 
at a time, when genuine freedom is so com- 
pletely established among us : when the consti- 
tution, powers, and privileges of parliament are 
so firmly settled ; the limits of the royal pre- 
rogative so exactly defined, and so fully under- 
stood ; and the mild, moderate, and equitable 
spirit of the illustrious family in which it is in- 
vested, is wi*'iall so conspicuous, that as Black- 
stone observes, ' topics of government, which, 
like the mysteries of the Bona Dea, were for- 
merly thought too sacred to be divulged to any 
but the initiated, may now, without the smallest 
offence, be fully and temperately discussed.' 

At this tumultuous period, when we have seen 
almost all the thrones of Christendom trembling 
to their foundation ; we have witnessed the Bri- 
tish constitution, like the British oak, confirmed 
and rooted by the shaking of that tremendous 
blast, which has stripped kingdoms of their 
crowns, levelled the fences and inclosures of 
law, laid waste the best earthly blessings of 
mankind, and involved in desolation a large part 
of the civilized world. When we have beheld 
absolute monarchies, and republican states, alike 
ravaged by the tempest, shall we not learn still 
more highly to prize our own unparalleled po- 
litical edifice, built with such fair proportions, 
on principles so harmonious and so just, that 
one part affords to another that support which, 
in its turn, it receives; while each lends strength, 
as well as stability to all ? 

How slender is the security of unlimited 
power, let the ephemeral reigns of eastern des- 
pots declare ! A prince who governs a free peo- 
ple, enjoys a safety which no despotic sovereign 
ever possessed. The latter rules singly ; and 
where a revolution is meditated, the change of 
a single person is soon effected. But where a 
sovereign's power is incorporated with the pow- 
ers of parliament, and the will of the people who 
elect parliaments, the kingly state is fenced in 
with, and intrenched by the other states. He 
relies not solely upon an army. He relies on 
his parliament, and on his people, — a sure re- 
source, while he involves his interests with 
theirs ! This is the happiness, the beauty, and 
the strength of that three-fold bond which ties 
our constitution together. Counsellors may mis- 
lead, favourites may betray, even armies may 
desert, and navies may mutiny, but laws, as 



they are the surest guides of action, so are they 
the surest guards from danger. 

Well might the view of this well-founded 
power produce the remark which it drew forth 
from a sagacious Frenchman,* who was com- 
paring the solid constitutional authority of the 
British monarch, with the more specious, but 
less secure fabric of the despotism of the kings 
of France — ' That a king of England, who act- 
ed according to the laws, was the g realest of 
all monarchs !' 

But while the convulsions of other govern- 
ments, built on less permanent principles, have 
riveted our affection to our own; and while an 
experimental acquaintance with the miseries of 
anarchy most naturally lead us, as subjects, to 
a strong sense of the duty of obedience : — with 
equal zeal would we wish it to be inculcated on 
princes, that they should be cautious never to 
multiply occasions for exacting that obedience ; 
that they should use no unnecessary compulsion 
by seizing as a debt what good subjects are al- 
ways willing to pay as a duty : and what is 
then only to be relied upon, when it is sponta- 
neous and cordial. 

It is observable, that those monarchs who have 
most sedulously contended for prerogative, have 
been among the feeblest and the least capable 
of exercising it ; and that those who have strug- 
gled most earnestly for unjust power, have sel- 
dom enjoyed it themselves, but have made it 
over to mistresses and favourites. This is par 
ticularly exemplified in two of our weakest and 
most unhappy princes, Edward II. and Richard 
II. — Whether it was that this very imbecility 
made them more contentious about their pre- 
rogative, aud more obstinate in resisting the de- 
mands of parliament; or that their favourites 
stimulated them to exactions, the benefit of 
which was to be transferred to themselves. The 
character of Edward III. (notwithstanding his 
faults) was consistently magnanimous. He was 
not more brave than just. He was attentive to 
the dignity of his crown in proportion to that 
magnanimity, and to the creation and execution 
of laws in proportion to that justice ; and he 
took no important steps without the advice of 
parliament. The wretched reign and miserable 
catastrophe of each of the two first-named 
princes, furnish a striking contrast to the energy 
and popularity of the last ; of whom Hume ob- 
serves, ' that his domestic government was even 
more admirable than his foreign conquests;' and 
of whom Selden says, ' that one would think by 
his actions that he never was at home, and by 
his laws that he never was abroad.' 

A wise and virtuous prince will ever hear in 
mind the grand distinction between his own si- 
tuation and that of his minister. The latter is 
but the precarious possessor of a transient autho- 
rity; a mere tenant at will, or, at most, for life. 
He himself is the hereditary and permanent 
possessor of the property. The former may be 
more tempted to adopt measures which, though 
gainful or gratifying at the present, will be pro- 
bably productive of future mischief to the estate 
But surely the latter may be justly expected to 
take a longer and wider view ; and considering 

* Gourville. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



15 



the interests of his posterity no less than his 
own, to reject all measures which are likely to 
disparage their inheritance, or injure their te- 
nure. He will trace the misfortunes of our first 
Charles to the usurpation of the Tudors ; and 
mark but too natural a connexion between the 
unprincipled domination and profuse magnifi- 
cence of Louis XIV., and the melancholy fate of 
his far better and mope amiable successor. He 
will remember the solid answer of the Spartan 
king, who being reproached by a superficial ob- 
server with having left the regal power impaired 
to his posterity, replied, ' No ; for he had left it 
more secure, therefore more ■permanent.'' A 
arge and just conception of interest, therefore, 
no less than of duty, will prompt a wise prince 
to reject all measures which, while they appear 
to flatter the love of dominion, naturally inhe- 
rent in the mind of man, by holding forth the 
present extension of his power, yet tend obsti- 
nately to weaken its essential strength, to make 
his authority the object of his people's jealousy, 
rather than of their affection; to cause it to rest 
on the uncertain basis of military power, rather 
than on the deep and durable foundations of the 
constitution. 

In order to enable him the better, therefore, 
to know the true nature and limits of his autho- 
rity, he will endeavour to develope the constitu- 
tional foundations on which it rests. Sovereigns, 
even female sovereigns, though they cannot have 
leisure to become fully acquainted with the vast 
mass of our laws, ought at least to imbibe the 
spirit of them. If they be not early taught the 
general principles of our laws and constitution, 
they may be liable, from the flatterers to whom 
they may be exposed, to hear of nothing but the 
power which they may exert, or the influence 
which the)' may exercise, without having their 
attention directed to those counteracting princi- 
ples, which, in a limited monarchy like ours, 
serve, in numberless ways, to balance and re- 
strain that power. 

It should be worked into a principle in the 
mind, that it is in consideration of the duties 
which the laws impose on a prince, that those 
laws have secured to him either dignity or pre- 
rogative ; it being a maxim of the law, that pro- 
tection and allegiance are reciprocal. With the 
impression of the power, the splendour, and the 
dignity of royalty, the ideas of trust, duty, and 
responsibility, should be inseparably interwoven. 
It should be assiduously inculcated, that the 
laws form the very basis of the throne ; the root 
and ground-work of the monarch's political ex- 
istence. One peculiar reason why a prince 
ought to know so much of the laws and consti- 
tution, as to be able to determine what is, and 
what is not, an infringement of them, is, that he 
may be quick sighted to the slightest approxi- 
mation of ministers towards any such encroach- 
ments. A farther reason is, that by studying 
the laws and constitution of the country, he may 
become more firmly attached to them, not merely 
by national instinct, and fond prejudice, because 
they are his own, but from judgment, reason, 
knowledge, discrimination, preferenc^ habit, 
obligation, — in a word, because they are the 
best. 

But as this superficial sketch proposes not to 



be an essay on political, but moral instruction, 
these remarks are only hazarded, in order to in- 
timate the peculiar turn which the royal educa- 
tion ought to take. If a sovereign of England 
be, in such a variety of respects, supreme, it fol- 
lows, not only that his education should be libe- 
ral, large, and general, but that it should, more- 
over, be directed to a knowledge of those depart- 
ments in which he will be called to preside. 

As supreme magistrate and the source of all 
judicial power, he should be adequately acquaint- 
ed, not only with the law of nature and of na- 
tions, but particularly with the law of England. 
As possessing the power of declaring war, and 
contracting alliances, he should be thoroughly 
conversant with those authors who, with the 
soundest judgment, the deepest moral views, and 
the most correct precision, treat of the great 
principles of political justice ; who best unfold 
the rights of human nature, and the mischiefs 
of unjust ambition. He should be competently 
acquainted with the present state of the different 
governments of Europe, with which that of 
Great Britain may have any political relation 
and he should be led to exercise that intuitive 
discernment of character and talents, which will 
enable him to decide on the choice of ambassa- 
dors, and other foreign ministers, whom it is 
his prerogative to appoint. 

As he is the fountain of honour, from which 
proceed titles, distinctions, and offices, he should 
be early accustomed to combine a due attention 
to character, with the examination of claims, 
and the appreciation of services ; in order that 
the honours of the subject may reflect no disho- 
nour on the prince. Those whose distinguished 
lot it is to bestow subordinate offices and inferior 
dignities, should evince, by the judgment with 
which they confer them, how fit they themselves 
are to discharge the highest. 

Is he supreme head of the church ? Hence 
arises a strong obligation to be acquainted with 
ecclesiastical history in general, as well as with 
the history of the church of England in particu- 
lar. He should learn, not merely from habit 
and prescription, but from an attentive compa- 
rison of our national church with other ecclesi- 
astical institutions, to discern both the distin- 
guishing characters and appropriate advantages 
of our church establishment. He ought to in- 
quire in what manner its interests are inter- 
woven with those of the state, so far as to be 
inseparable from them. He should learn, that 
from the supreme power, with which the laws 
invest him over the church, arises a most awful 
responsibility, especially in the grand preroga- 
tive of bestowing the higher ecclesiastical ap- 
pointments; a trust which involves consequences 
far too extensive for human minds to calculate ; 
and which a sovereign, even amid all the dazzling 
splendour of royalty, while he preserves tender- 
ness of conscience, and quickness of sensibility, 
will not reflect on without trepidation. While 
history offers numberless instances of the abuse 
of this power, it records numberless striking ex- 
amples of its proper application. It even pre- 
sents some, in which good sense has operated 
usefully in the absence of all principle. — When 
a profligate ecclesiastic applied for prefermen* 
to the profligate duke of Orleans while regen 



16 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



of France, urging as a motive, that he should be 
dishonoured if the duke did not make him a bi- 
shop — * And I,' replied the regent, ' shall be dis- 
honoured if I do.' 



CHAP. V 

On the importance of studying Ancient History. 

Those pious persons do not seem to understand 
the true interests of Christianity, who forbid the 
study of pagan literature. That it is of little 
value, comparatively with Christian learning, 
does not prove it to be altogether without its 
usefulness. In the present period of critical in- 
vestigation, heathen learning seems to be justly 
appreciated, in the scale of letters ; the wisdom 
and piety of some of our most eminent contem- 
poraries having successfully applied it to its no- 
blest office, by rendering it subservient to the 
purposes of Revelation, in multiplying the evi- 
dences, and illustrating the proofs. Thus the 
Christian emperor, when he destroyed the hea- 
then temples, consecrated the golden vessels, to 
adorn the Christian churches. 

In this enlightened period, Religion, our reli- 
gion at least, does not, as in her days of dark- 
ness, feel it necessary to degrade human learn- 
ing, in order to withdraw herself from scrutiny. 
The time is past, when it was produced as a se- 
rious charge against saint Jerome, that he had 
read Homer ; when a doctor of the Sorbonne 
penitently confessed, among his other sins, that 
the exquisite muse of Virgil had made him weep 
for the woes of Dido ; and when the works of 
Tacitus were condemned to the flames, from the 
papal chair, because the author was not a Ro- 
man Catholic. It is also curious to observe a 
papist persecuting the memory of a pagan on 
the ground of his superstition ! Pope Gregory 
the great, expelled Livy from every Christian 
library on this account ! 

The most acute enemy of Christianity, the 
emperor Julian, who had himself been bred a 
Christian and a scholar, well understood what 
was most likely to hurt its cause. He knew the 
use which the Christians were making of ancient 
authors, and of rhetoric, in order to refute error, 
and establish truth. — ' They fight us,' said he, 
' by the knowledge of our own authors ; shall 
we suffer ourselves to be stabbed with our own 
swords'?' He actually made a law to interdict 
their reading Homer and Demosthenes ; prohi- 
bited to their schools the study of antiquity, and 
ordered that they should confine themselves, to 
the explanation of Matthew and Luke, in the 
churches of the Galileans. 

It can never be too soon, for the royal pupil, 
to begin to collect materials for reflection, and 
for action. Her future character will much de- 
pend on the course of reading, the turn of tem- 
per, the habit of thought now acquired, and the 
standard of morals now fixed. The acquisition 
of present taste will form the elements of her 
subsequent character. Her present acquire- 
ments, it is true, will need to be matured by her 
after experience ; but experience will operate to 
'.omparatively little purpose, where only a slen- 



der stock has been laid in for it to work upon ; 
and where these materials for forming the charac- 
ter have not been previously prepared. Things 
must be known before they are done. The part 
should be studied before it is acted, if we expect 
to have it acted well. 

Where much is to be learned, time must be 
economised; and in the judicious selection of 
pagan literature, the discernment of the precep- 
tor will be particularly exercised. All those 
writers, however justly celebrated, who have 
employed much learning, in elaborating points 
which add little to the practical wisdom or vir- 
tue of mankind; all such as are rather curious 
than useful, or ingenious than instructive, should 
be passed over ; nor need she bestow much at- 
tention on points, which, though they may havo 
been accurately discussed, are not seriously im- 
portant. Dry critical knowledge, though it may 
be correctly just ; and mere chronicles of events, 
though they may be strictly true, teach not the 
things she wants. Such authors as Sallust, who, 
in speaking of turbulent innovators, remarks, 
that they thought the very disturbance of things 
established a sufficient bribe to set them at work : 
those who, like this exquisite historian, unfold 
the internal principles of action, and dissect the 
hearts and minds of their personages, who de- 
velope complicated circumstances, furnish a clue 
to trace the labyrinth of causes and effects, and 
assign to every incident its proper motive, will 
be eminently useful. But, if she be taught to 
discern the merits of writers, it is that she may 
become not a critic in books, but in human na- 
ture. 

History is the glass by which the royal mind 
should be dressed. If it be delightful for a pri- 
vate individual to enter with the historian into 
every scene which he describes, and into every 
event which he relates ; to be introduced into 
the interior of the Roman senate, or the Atheni- 
an areopagus ; to- follow Pom pey to Pharsalia, 
Miltiades to Marathon, or Marlborough to Blen- 
heim ; how much more interesting will this be 
to a sovereign? To him for whom senates de- 
bate, for whom armies engage, and who is him- 
self to be a prime actor in the drama! Of how 
much more importance is it to him, to possess 
an accurate knowledge of all the successive go- 
vernments of that world, in a principal govern- 
ment of which he is one day to take the lead. 
To possess himself of the experience of ancient 
states, of the wisdom of every antecedent age ! 
To learn moderation from the ambition of one, 
caution from the rashness of another, and pru- 
dence perhaps from the indiscretion of both ! To 
apply foregone examples to his own use ; adopt- 
ing what is excellent, shunning what is errone- 
ous, and omitting what is irrelevant ! 

Reading and observation are the two grand 
sources of improvement ; but they lie not equal- 
ly open to all. From the latter, the sex and ha- 
bits of a royal female, in a good measure, ex- 
clude her. She must then, in a greater degree, 
depend on the formation which books afford, 
opened and illustrated by her preceptor. Though 
her personal observation must be limited, her 
advantages from historical sources may be large 
and various. 

If history for a time, especially during the 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



17 



reign of the prince whose actions are recorded, 
sometimes misrepresent characters, the dead, 
even the royal dead, are seldom flattered ; unless, 
which indeed too frequently happens, the writer 
is deficient in that just conception of moral excel- 
lence, which teaches to distinguish what is splen- 
did from what is solid. But, sooner or later, his- 
tory does justice. She snatches from oblivion, 
or reproach, the fame of those virtuous men, 
whom corrupt princes, not contented with hav- 
ing sacrificed them to their unjust jealousy, 
would rob also of their fair renown. When 
Arulenus Rusticus was condemned by Domitian, 
for having written with its deserved eulogium, 
the life of that excellent citizen, Thrasea Pcetus ; 
when Senecio was put to death by the same 
emperor, for having rendered the like noble 
justice to Helvidius Priscus — when the his- 
torians themselves, like the patriots whom they 
celebrated were sentenced to death, their books 
also being condemned to the flames ; when 
Fannia, the incomparable wife of Helvidius, 
was banished, having the courage to carry into 
exile that book which had been the cause of it ; 
a book of which her conjugal piety had furnish- 
ed the materials,, — ' In trie fire which consumed 
these books,' says the author of the life of Agri- 
cola, the tyrants imagined that they had stifled 
the very utterance of the Roman people, abolish- 
ed the lawful power of the senate, and forced 
mankind to doubt of the very evidence of their 
senses. Having expelled philosophy, and exiled 
science, they flattered themselves that nothing, 
which bore the stamp of virtue, would exist.* 
— But history has vindicated the noble sufferers. 
Pcetus and Helvidius will ever be ranked among 
the most honourable patriots ; while the empe- 
ror, who, in destroying their lives could not in- 
jure their reputation, is consigned to eternal 
infamy. 

The examples which history records, furnish 
faithful admonitions to succeeding princes, re- 
specting the means by which empires are 
erected and overturned. They show by what 
arts of wisdom, or by neglect of those arts, 
little states become great, or great states fall 
into ruin ; with what equity or injustice wars 
have been undertaken ; with what ability or in- 
capacity they have been conducted ; with what 
sagacity or short-sightedness treaties have been 
formed. How national faith hath been main- 
tained, or forfeited. How confederacies have 
been made, or violated. History, which is the 
amusement of other men, is the school of princes. 
They are not to read it merely as the rational 
occupation of a vacant hour, but to consult it, 
as a storehouse of materials for the art of govern- 
ment. 

There is a splendour in heroic actions, which 
fires the imagination, and forcibly lays hold on 
the passions. Hence, the poets were the first, 
and, in the rude ages of antiquity, the only his- 
torians. They seized on whatever was dazzling, 
in character, or shining in action ; exaggerated 
heroic qualities, immortalized patriotism, and 
deified courage. But instead of making their 
heroes patterns to men, they lessened the utility 
of their example by elevating them into gods. 

* Beginning of Tacitus's life of Agricola. 
Vol. II B 



Hence however arose the first idea of history ; 
of snatching the deeds of illustrious men from, 
the delusions of fable ; of bringing down ex- 
travagant powers, and preter-natural faculties 
within the limits of human nature and possibi- 
lity ; and reducing overcharged characters to 
the size and shape of real life ; giving propor- 
tion, order and arrangement to the widest scheme 
of action, and to the most extended duration of 
time. 



CHAP. VI. 

Laws — Egypt — Persia. 

Bot however the fictions of poetry might have 
given being to history, it was sage political in- 
stitutions, good governments, and wise laws 
which formed both its solid basis, and its valuable 
superstructure. And it is from the labours of an 
cient legislators, the establishment of states, the 
foundation of government, and the progress of 
civil society, that we are to look for more real 
greatness, and more useful instruction, than 
from all the extravagant exploits recorded in 
fabulous ages of antiquity. 

So deep is the reverential awe which man- 
kind have uniformly blended with the idea of 
laws, that almost all civilized nations have af- 
fected to wrap up the origin of them in the ob- 
scurity of a devout mystery, and to intimate 
that they sprang from a divine source. This 
has arisen partly from a love to the marvellous, 
inherent in the human mind ; partly from the 
vanity of a national fondness in each country for 
losing their original in the trackless paths of 
impenetrable antiquity. Of the former of those 
tastes, a legislator, like Numa, who had deep 
views and who knew how much the people re- 
verence whatever is mysterious, would natu- 
rally avail himself. And his supposed divine 
communication was founded in his consummate 
knowledge of the human mind ; a knowledge 
which a wise prince will always turn to good 
account. 

But, however the mysteriousness of the origin 
of laws may excite the reverence of the vulgar, 
it is the wise only who will duly venerate their 
sanctity, as they alone can appreciate their 
value. Laws are providentially designed, not 
only to be the best subsidiary aid of Religion, 
where she is operative, but to be in some sort 
her substitute, in those instances where her 
own direct operations might be ineffectual. For, 
even where the immediate law of God is little 
regarded, the civil code may be externally 
efficient, from its sanctions being more visible, 
palpable, tangible. And human laws are di- 
rectly fitted to restrain the outward acts of 
those, whose hearts are not influenced by the 
divine injunctions. Laws, therefore, are the 
surest fences of the best blessings of civilized 
life. They bind society together, while they 
strengthen the separate interests of those whom 
they reciprocally unite. They tie the hands of 
depredation in the poor, and of oppression in 
the rich : protect the weak against the encroach- 
ments of the powerful, and draw their sacred 



18 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



shelter round all that is dear in domestic, or 
valuable in social life. They are the truest 
guardians of the dignity of the throne, and the 
only rampart of the liberty of the people. 

On the law of nature, and the law of revela- 
tion (where revelation is known) all human 
laws ought to depend. That a rule of civil con- 
duct should be prescribed to man, by the state 
in which he lives, is made necessary by nature, 
as well as sanctioned by revelation. Were man 
an insulated being, the law of nature, and of 
revelation, would suffice for him ; but, for aggre- 
gate man, something more than even municipal 
laws becomes requisite. Divided as human 
beings are, into separate states, and societies, 
connected among themselves, but disconnected 
with other states, each requires with relation to 
the other, certain general rules, called the law 
of nations, as much as each state needs respect- 
ing itself, those distinct codes, which are suited 
to their own particular exigencies. On the 
whole, then, as the natural sense of weakness 
and fear impels man to seek the protection, and 
the blessing of laws, so from the experience of 
that protection, and the sense of that blessing, 
his reason derives the most powerful argument 
to desire their perpetuation ; and his providential 
destiny becomes his choice. 

If, therefore, we would truly estimate the 
value of laws, let us figure to ourselves the 
misery of that state of nature in which there 
should be no law, but that of the strongest ; no 
judge to determine right, or to punish wrong ; 
to redress suffering, or to repel injury ; to pro- 
tect the weak, or to control the powerful. 

If, under the prevalence of a false, and even 
absurd religion, several ancient states, that of 
Egypt in particular subsisted in so much splen- 
dour* for so long a period, and afterwards sunk 
into such abject depression, the causes of both 
are obvious. The laws of ancient Egypt were 
proverbial for their wisdom. It has not escaped 
several christian historians that it was the hu- 
man praise of him who was ordained to be the 
legislator of God's own people, that he was skilled 
in all the learning of the Egyptians. And it 
was meant to confer an high eulogium on the 
wisest of the kings of Israel, that his wisdom 
eclipsed that of Egypt. 

The laws of this state so strongly enforced 
mercy, that they punished with death those who 
refused to save the life of a fellow-creature if 
attacked, when it was in their power. The 
justice of the Egyptian laws was so inflexible, 
that the kings obliged the judges to swear that 
they would never depart from the principles of 
rectitude, though even in obedience to the royal 
command. Their respect for individual virtue, 

* It is to be observed that this splendour alludes to 
the prosperity arising from wise political institutions 
merely ; for the private morals of Egypt must have borne 
some proportion to her corrupt idolatry, which after- 
wards became of the most degrading and preposterous 
kind. Her wisdom, we must therefore infer, was chiefly 
political wisdom. Her morality seems to have been, in a 
good measure, cultivated with a view to aggrandize the 
state, and in violation of many natural feelings, as was 
the case in Sparta. Egypt was a well compacted 
political society, and her virtue appears to have been 
the effect of political discipline. In enumerating ner 
merits, our object is to prove the great importance of 
•aws. 



and for that reputation which follows it, was so 
high, that a kind of moral inquisition was ap- 
pointed, on the death of every citizen, to inquire 
what sort of life he had lived, that his memory 
might be accordingly held in houour or detesta- 
tion. From the verdict of this solemn tribunal, 
even their kings themselves were not exempted. 

The whole aim and end of education among 
them was to inspire a veneration for govern- 
ment and religion. They had a law which as- 
signed some employment to every individual of 
the state. And though the genius of our free 
constitution would justly reprobate what indeed 
its temperate and judicious restraints render 
unnecessary among us, that clause which di- 
rected that the employment should be perpe- 
tuated in the same family, yet, perhaps, the 
severe moralist, with the example of the well- 
ordered government of Egypt before his eyes, 
might reasonably doubt whether a law, the 
effect of which was to keep men in their places, 
though it might now and then check the career 
of a lofty genius, was not a much less injury to 
society than the free scope which was afforded 
to the turbulent ambition of every aspiring 
spirit in the Greek democracies. Bossuet, who 
has, perhaps, penetrated more deeply into these 
subjects than almost any modern, has pronounc- 
ed Egypt to be the fountain of all political wis- 
dom. 

What afterwards plunged the Egyptians into 
calamity, and brought final dissolution on their 
government 7 It was a departure from its con- 
stitutional principles ; it was the neglect and 
contempt of those venerable laws which for 
sixteen centuries had constituted their glory 
and their happiness. They exchanged the love 
of their wise domestic institutions for the am- 
bition of subduing distant countries. One of 
their most heroic sovereigns (as is not unusual) 
was the instrument of their misfortunes. Sesos- 
tris was permitted by Divine Providence to 
diminish the true glory of Egypt, by a restless 
ambition to extend her territory. This splendid 
prince abandoned the real grandeur of govern- 
ing wisely at home for the false glory of foreign 
conquests, which detained him nine years in 
distant climates. At a remote period, the peo- 
ple, weary of the blessings they had so long en- 
joyed under a single monarch, weakened the 
royal power, by dividing it among multiplied 
sovereigns. 

What exalted the ancient Persians to such 
lasting fame ? The equity and strict execution 
of their laws. It was their sovereign disdain 
of falsehood in their public transactions. Their 
considering fraud as the most degrading of 
vices, and thus transfusing the spirit of their 
laws into their conduct. It was that love of jus- 
tice (modern statesmen would do well to imi- 
tate the example) which made them oblige them- 
selves to commend the virtues of their enemies. 
It was such an extraordinary respect for educa- 
tion, that no sorrow was ever expressed foryouno - 
persons who died uninstructed. It was by pay- 
ing such an attention to the children of the 
sovereign, that, at the age of fourteen, they were 
placed under the care of four statesmen who 
excelled in different talents. By one they were 
instructed in the principles of justice; by an 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



19 



other (hey were taught to subdue sensuality ; by 
a third they were initiated in the art of govern- 
ment ; and by a fourth in the duties of religion. 
Plato has given a beautiful sketch of this ac- 
complished and sublime education. 

It will be found that nearly the same causes 
which forwarded the ruin of Egypt, contributed 
to destroy Persia ; a dereliction of those funda- 
mental principles of legislation and morals to 
which it had been indebted for its long prosperi- 
ty and grandeur. 

But be it remembered, that the best human 
laws will not be exempt from the imperfection 
inseparably bound up with all human things. 
Let us beware, however, of those innovators 
who, instead of carefully improving and vigor- 
ously executing those laws which are already 
established, adopt no remedies short of destruc- 
tion ; tolerate no improvement short of creation ; 
who are carried away by a wild scheme of vi- 
sionary perfection, which, if it could any where 
be found to exist, would not be likely to be found 
in the projects of men who disdain to avail them- 
selves of ancient experience and progressive 
wisdom. Thucydides was a politician of another 
cast; for he declared, that even indifferent laws, 
vigilantly executed, were superior to the best 
that were not properly obeyed. Those modern 
reformists, who affect to be in raptures with the 
Greek republics, would do well to imitate the 
deliberation, the slowness, the doubt with which 
the founder of the Athenian legislation intro- 
duced his laws. Instead of those sudden and 
instantaneous constitutions we have witnessed, 
whieh, disdaining the slow growth of moral 
births, have started at once, full grown, from the 
brain of the projector, and were as suddenly 
superseded as rapidly produced ; Solon would 
not suffer a single law to be determined on and 
accepted till the first charm of novelty was past, 
and the first heat of enthusiasm had cooled. 
What would the same capricious theorists say 
to that reverence with which the Egyptians, 
above cited, regarded antiquity, example, cus- 
tom, law, prescription? This sage people con- 
sidered every political novelty with a jealousy 
equal to the admiration with which it is regarded 
by the new school. Trial, proof, experience, 
was the slow criterion by which they ventured 
to decide on the excellence of any institution. 
While, to the licentious innovator, antiquity is 
ignorance, custom is tyranny, order is intole- 
rance, laws are chains. But the end has cor- 
responded with the beginning. Their l baseless 
fabrics' have fallen to pieces before they were 
well reared ; and have exposed their superficial, 
but self-sufficient builders, to the just derision 
of mankind. 



CHAP. VII. 

Greece. 

When we contemplate Greece, and especially 
when we fix our eyes on Athens, our admiration 
is strongly, I had almost said, is irresistibly ex- 
cited, in reflecting, that such a diminutive spot 
concentrated within itself whatever is great and 



eminent in almost every point of view ; whatever 
confers distinction on the human intellect; what- 
ever is calculated to inspire wonder, or commu- 
nicate delight. Athens was the pure well-head 
of poetry : 

Hither, as to their fountain, other stars 
Repairing, in their golden urns draw light. 

It was the theatre of arms, the cradle of the 
arts, the school of philosophy, and the parent of 
eloquence. 

To be regarded as the masters in learning, 
the oracle of taste, and the standard of polite- 
ness, to the whole civilized world, is a splendid 
distinction. But it is a pestilent mischief, when 
the very renown attending such brilliant advan- 
tages becomes the vehicle for carrying into other 
countries the depraved manners by which these 
pre-eminent advantages are accompanied. This 
was confessedly the case of Greece with respect 
to Rome. Rome had conquered Greece by her 
arms; but whenever a subjugated country con- 
tributes, by her vices, to enslave the state which 
conquered her, she amply revenges herself. 

But the perils of this contamination do not 
terminate with their immediate consequences. 
The ill effects of Grecian manners did not cease 
with the corruptions which they engendered at 
Rome. There is still serious danger, lest, while 
the ardent and high spirited young reader con 
templates Greece only through the splendid me- 
dium of her heroes and her artists, her poets and 
her orators ; while his imagination is fired with 
the glories of conquest, and captivated with the 
charms of literature, that he may lose sight of 
the disorders, the corruptions, and the crimes, 
by which Athens, the famous seat of arts and 
of letters, was dishonoured. May he not be 
tinctured (allowing for change of circumstances) 
with something of that spirit which inflamed 
Alexander, when, as he was passing the Hydas- 
pes, he enthusiastically exclaimed, ' O Atheni- 
ans ! could you believe to what dangers I ex- 
pose myself, for the "sake of being celebrated by 
you !' 

Many of the Athenian vices originated in the 
very nature of their constitution ; in the very 
spirit of that turbulent democracy which Solon 
could not restrain, nor the.ablestof his successors 
control. The great founder of their legislation 
felt the dangers inseparable from the democratic 
form of government, when he declared, ' that he 
had not given them the best laws, but the best 
which they were able to bear.' In the very esta- 
blishment of his institutions, he betrayed his 
distrust of this species of government, by those 
guards and ramparts which he was so assiduous 
in providing and multiplying. Knowing him- 
self to be incapable of setting aside the popular 
power, his attention was directed to divest it, as 
much as possible, of its mischiefs, by the en- 
trenchments that he strove to cast about it. His 
sagacious mind anticipated the ill effects of that 
republican restlessness, that at length completely 
overturned the state which it had so often me. 
naced, and so constantly distracted. 

This unsettled government, which left the 
country perpetually exposed to the tyranny of 
the few, and the turbulence of the many, woa 
never bound together by any principle of union, 



20 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



by any bond of interest, common to the whole 
community, except when the general danger, 
for a time, annihilated the distinction of separate 
interests. The restraint of laws was feeble; the 
laws themselves were often contradictory; often 
ill administered; popular intrigues, and tumultu- 
ous assemblies, frequently obstructing their ope- 
ration. The noblest services were not seldom 
rewarded with imprisonment, exile, or assassi- 
nation. Under every change, confiscation and 
proscription were never at a stand ; and the only 
way of effacing the impression of any revolution 
which had produced these outrages, was to pro- 
mote a new one, which engendered in its turn, 
fresh outrages, and improved upon the antece- 
dent disorders. 

By this light and capricious people, acute in 
their feelings, carried away by every sudden 
gust of passion, as mutable in their opinions as 
unjust in their decisions, the most illustrious 
patriots were first sacrificed, and then honoured 
with statues ; their heroes were murdered as 
traitors, and then reverenced as gods. This 
wanton abuse of authority, this rash injustice, 
and fruitless repentance, would be the inevitable 
consequence of lodging supreme power in the 
hands of a vain and variable populace, incon- 
stant in their very vices, perpetually vibrating 
between irretrievable crimes and ineffectual re- 
grets. 

That powerful oratory, which is to us so just 
a subject of admiration, was, doubtless, no in- 
considerable cause of the public disorders. And 
to that exquisite talent, which constitutes one of 
the chief boasts of Athens, we may look for one 
principal source of her disorders • 

Those ancients, whose resistless eloquence 
Wielded at will the fierce Democracy, 
Shook tli' arsenal and fulmined over Greece 
To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne. 

When we consider what mighty influence this 
talent gave to the popular leaders, and what a 
powerful engine their demagogues possessed, to 
work upon the passions of the multitude, who 
composed their popular assemblies ; when we 
reflect on the character of those crowds, on whom 
this strirring eloquence was exercised, and re- 
member that their opinion decided on the fate 
of the country : all this will contribute to ac- 
count for the frequency and violence of the pub- 
lic commotions, and naturally explains why that 
rhetorical genius, which shed so bright a lustre 
on the country, was, from the nature of the 
constitution, frequently the instrument of con- 
vulsing it. 

While the higher class, in many of the Greek 
republics, seemed without scruple to oppress 
their inferiors, the populace of Athens common- 
ly exerted the same hostile spirit of resentment 
against their leaders. — Competition, circumven- 
tion, litigation, every artifice of private fraud, 
every stratagem of personal injustice, filled up 
the short intervals of foreign wars and public 
contests. How strikingly is St. Paul's definition 
of that light and frivolous propensity of the Athe- 
nians which led them to pass the day only ' to 
hear or tell some new thing,' illustrated by Plu- 
tarch's relation of the illiterate citizen, who voted 
Aristides to the punishment of the Ostracism ! 



When this great man questioned his accuser, 
whether Aristides had ever injured him ? He 
replied, so far from it, that he did not even know 
him, only he was quite wearied out with hearing 
him every where called the just. Besides that 
spirit of envy which is peculiarly alive in de- 
mocracies, to have heard this excellent per- 
son calumniated would have been a refreshing 
novelty, and have enabled him, to ' tell a new 
thing.' 

That passionate fondness for scenic diversions 
which led the Athenians not only to apply part 
of the public money to the support of the thea- 
tres, and to pay for the admission of the popu- 
lace, but also made it a capital crime to divert 
this fund to any other service, even to the ser- 
vice of the state, so sacred was this application 
of it deemed was another concurrent cause of 
the profligacy of public manners.* The abuses 
to which this universal invitation to luxury and 
idleness led ; the licentiousness of that purely 
democratic spirit, which made the lowest classes 
claim as a right to partake in the diversions of 
the highest; the pernicious productions of some 
of the comic poets ; the unbounded license in- 
troduced by the mask ; the voluptuousness of 
their music, whose extraordinary effects it would 
be impossible to believe, were they not confirm- 
ed by the general voice of antiquity : all these 
concurring circumstances induced a depravation 
of morals of which less enlightened countries 
do not often present an example. The profane 
and impure Aristophanes was almost adored, 
while the virtue of Socrates not only procured 
hirn a violent death, but Ihe poet, by making the 
philosopher contemptible to the populace, paved 
the way to his unjust sentence by the judges. 
Nay, perhaps the delight which the Athenians 
took in the impious and offensively loose wit of 
this dramatic poet rendered them more deaf to 
the voice of that virtue which was taught by 
Plato and of that liberty in which they had once 
gloried, and which Demosthenes continued to 
thunder in their ears. Their rage for sensual 
pleasure rendered them a fit object for the pro- 
jects of Philip, and a ready prey to the attacks 
of Alexander. 

In lamenting, however, the corruptions of the 
theatre in Athens, justice compels us to acknow- 
ledge, that her immortal tragic poets, by their 
chaste and manly compositions, furnish a noble 
exception. In no country has decency and pu- 
rity, and, to the disgrace of Christian countries, 
let it be added, have morality, and even piety, 
been so generally prevalent in any theatrical 
compositions as in what. 

* Pericles, not being rich enough to supplant his com- 
petitor by acts of liberality, procured this law with 
a view to make his court to the people. He scrupled 
not, in order to secure their attachment to his person 
and government, by thus ' buying them with their own 
money,' effectually ta promote their natural levity and 
idleness, and to corrupt their morals. — The rulers i>f a 
neighbouring nation have b;-en too skilful adepts in the 
art of corruption, not to admire and eagerly adopt an 
example so suited to their political circumstances, anci 
so congenial to their national frivolity. Accordingly, 
an unexampled multitude of theatres have been opened; 
and in order to allay the discontents of the lower class 
at the expense of their time and morals, the price of 
these diversions has been reduced so low as almost to 
emulate the gratuitous admission of the Athenian po- 
pulace. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



21 



. her lofty grave tragedians taught 

In chorus, or iambic, teachers best 
Of moral prudence. 

Yet, in paying a just and warm tribute to the 
moral excellencies of these sublime dramatists, 
Is not an answer provided to that long; agitated 
question, Whether the stage can be indeed made 
a school of morals ? No question had ever a 
fairer chance for decision than was here afford- 
ed. If it be allowed that there never was a more 
profligate city than Athens ; if it be equally in- 
disputable that never country possessed more 
unexceptionable dramatic poets than Eschylus, 
Sophocles and Euripides ; if the same city thus 
at once produced the best physicians and the 
worst patients, what is the result? Do the 
Athenian annals record that any class or condi- 
tion of citizens were actually reformed by con- 
stantly frequenting, we had almost said, by con- 
stantly living in the theatre ? 

Plutarch, who severely condemns the Atheni- 
ans, had too just a judgment to censure either 
the excellence of the poets, or the good taste of 
the people who admired them. But he blames 
them for that excessive passion for diversions, 
* which,' says he, ' by setting up a new object 
of attachment, had nearly extinguished public 
virtue, and made them more anxious about the 
fate of a play than about the fate of' their coun- 
ty-'* 

Such were the manners which historians, ora- 
tors, and poets have consigned to immortal fame ! 
Such were the people for whom our highly edu- 
cated youth are taught to feel an enthusiastic 
admiration ! Such are the forms of government 
which have excited the envy, and pa-rJy furnish- 
ed the model to the bloody innovators and frantic 
politicians of our age ! Madly to glory in the 
dream of liberty, and to be in fact the victim of 
changing ty ranis, but unchanging tyranny. This 
was the coveted lot of ancient Athens. — This is 
the object of reverence, eulogy, and imitation to 
a large portion of modern Europe ! 

In reflecting on the splendid works of genius 
and of art in Athens, as opposed to the vices of 
her government, and the licentiousness of her 
morals, — will it be thought an adequate com- 
pensation for the corruptions of both, if we grant, 
as we are disposed to do, in its fullest extent, 
that unparalleled combination of talents, which 
delighted and informed the rest of the world? 
If wc allow that this elegance of taste spread so 
wide, and descended so low, that every indivi- 
dual of an Athenian mob might, as has been 
triumphantly asserted, t be a just critic of dra- 
matic composition ? That the ear of the popu- 
lace was so nicely tuned and so refined a judge 
of the delicacies of pronunciation, than an Attic 
herb-woman could detect the provincial accent 
of a learned philosopher? Is it even a sufficient 
compensation, exquisite as we allow the grati- 
fication to have been, that the spectator might 
range among the statues of Lysippus, or the 
pictures of Apelles, or the critic enjoy the still 
more intellectual luxury of listening to an ora- 
tion of Demosthenes, of a scene of Euripides, — 

* fW Wortley Montague, on the Rise and Fall of An- 
lient Republics. 

t See an elegant paper in the Adventurer, in which 
some of these triumphs of Athens are asserted. 



while the rulers of so accomplished a people 
were in general dissolute, tyrannical, oppressive 
and unjust ; and the people themselves univer 
sally sunk into the most degraded state of man- 
ners ; immersed in the last excess of effeminacy; 
debased by the most excessive sensuality, fraud, 
idleness, avarice, gaming, and debauchery ? 

If here and there the eye is relieved, and the 
feelings are refreshed, with the casual appear- 
ance of a Miltiades, a Cimon, an Aristides, a 
Socrates, a Phocion, or a Xenophon ; yet 
these thinly scattered stars serve less to re- 
trieve the Athenian character, by their solitary 
lustre, or even by their confluent radiance, than 
to overwhelm it with disgrace, by the atrocious 
injustice with which these bright lumina- 
lies were treated by their country. The eulo- 
gium of the citizen is the satire of the state. 

While we observe that Greece first became 
powerful, rich, and great, through the energy 
of her people, and the vigour of her character, 
and that this very greatness, power, and riches, 
have a natural bias towards corruption ; that 
while they happily tend to produce and nourish 
those arts, which in their just measure sre the 
best embellishments of a nation ; yet carried to 
excess, and misapplied to vicious purposes, tend 
to weaken and corrupt it ; that Athens, by her 
public and private vices, and by her very refine- 
ment in politeness, and her devotedness to the 
arts, not only precipitated her own ruin,: — but 
by the transplantation of those arts, encumbered 
with those vices, ultimately contributed to ruin 
Rome also. While we take this retrospect, we, 
of this highly favoured land, may receive an aw- 
ful admonition ; we may make a most instruc- 
tive comparison of our own situation with re- 
spect to a neighbouring nation, — a nation which, 
under the rapidly-shifting form of every mode 
of government, from the despotism of absolute 
monarchy to a republican anarchy, to which the 
royal tyranny was comparative freedom ; — and 
now again, in the closing scene of this change- 
ful drama, to the heavy subjugation of military 
despotism, has never ceased to be the object of 
childish admiration, of passionate fondness, and 
servile imitation, to too many in our own coun- 
try ; to persons, too, whose rank giving them 
the greatest stake in it, have most to risk by 
the assimilation with her manners, and most to 
lose by the adoption of her principles. And 
though, through the special Providence and un- 
deserved mercies of God, we have withstood the 
flood of revolutionary doctrines, let us, taking 
warning from the resemblance above pointed 
out, no longer persist, as in the halcyon days of 
peace, servilely to adopt her language, habits, 
manners, and corruptions. For now to fill up 
the measure of our danger, her pictures, and her 
statues, not the fruits of her own genius — for 
here the comparison with Athens fails — but the 
plunder of her usurpation, and the spoils of her 
injustice, by holding out new baits to our curi- 
osity, and new attractions to our admiration, are 
in danger of fatally and finally accomplishing 
the resemblance. May the omen be averted! 

Among the numberless lessons which we may 
derive from the study of Grecian history, there 
is one which cannot be too often inculcated, 
more especially as it is a fact little relished by 



22 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



many of our more refined wits and politicians, — 
we mean the error of ascribing to arts, to litera- 
ture, and to politeness, that power of softening 
and correcting the human heart, which is, in 
truth, the exclusive prerogative of religion. 
Really to mend the heart, and purify the prin- 
ciple, is a deeper work than the most finished 
cultivation of the taste has ever been able to ef- 
fect. The polished Athenians were among the 
most unjust of mankind in their national acts, 
and the most cruel towards their allies. They 
remarkably exemplify the tendency of acting in 
a body, to lesson each man's individual consci- 
ousness of guilt or cruelty. This polite people, 
in their political capacity, committed, without 
scruple, actions of almost unparalleled barbarity. 
Every reflecting class of British and especi- 
ally of Christian readers will not fail to peruse 
the annals of this admired republic with senti- 
ments of deep gratitude to heaven for the vast 
superiority of our own national, civil, social, mo- 
ral, and religious blessings. And they may en- 
rich the catalogue with that one additional ad- 
vantage, which Xenophon thought was all that 
Athens wanted, and which we possess — We are 
an Island* The sound and sober politician 
will see most strongly illustrated, in the evils 
of the Athenian state (though dissimilar in some 
respects from modern democracy) the blessings 
of our representative government, and of our 
deliverance from any approximation towards 
that mob government, to which universal suf- 
frage would be the natural and necessary intro- 
duction. 

The delicate and refined female of our fa- 
voured country will feel peculiar sensations of 
thankfulness, in comparing her happy lot' with 
the degraded state of women in the politest ages 
of Greece. Condemned to ignorance, labour, 
and obscurity ; excluded from rational inter- 
course ; debarred from every species of intel- 
lectual improvement or innocent enjoyment ; 
they never seem to have been the objects of re- 
spect or esteem ; in the conjugal relation, the 
servile agent, not the endeared companion. 
Their depressed state was, in some measure, 
confirmed by illiberal legal institutions ; and 
their native genius was systematically restrain- 
ed from rising above one degraded level. Such 
was the lot of the virtuous part of the sex. We 
forbear to oppose to this gloomy picture the pro- 
fligate renown to which the bold pretensions of 
daring vice elevated mercenary beauty ; nor 
would we glance at the impure topic, but to re- 
mind our amiable countrywomen, that immo- 
desty in dress, contempt of the sober duties of 
domestic life, a boundless appetite for pleasure, 
and a misapplied devotion to the arts, were 
among the steps which led to this systematic 
profession of shameless profligacy, and to the 
establishment of those countenanced corruptions 
which raised the more celebrated, but infamous, 
Athenian women 



To that bad eminence. 

Every description of men, who know how to 
estimate public good or private happiness will 
joyfully acknowledge the visible effect which 
* See Montesquieu Esprit des Lois, vol, ii. p. 3. 



Christianity has had independently of its influ. 
ence over its real votaries) in improving and 
elevating the general standard of morals, so as 
considerably to rectify and raise the conduct 
of those who are not directly actuated by its 
principles. And, lastly, to say nothing of a pure 
church establishment, so diametrically the re- 
verse of the deplorably blind and ignorant rites 
of Athenian worship,* — who can contemplate, 
without thankful heart, that large infusion of 
Christianity into our national laws, which has 
set them so infinitely above all comparison 
with the admired codes of Lycurgus and of 
Solon ? 



CHAP. VIII. 



Rome. 



If the Romans from being a handful of ban 
ditti, rendered themselves in a short period lords 
of the universe ; — if Rome, from being an ordi- 
nary town in Italy, became foremost in genius 
and in arms, and at length unrivalled in impe- 
rial magnificence ; let it be remembered that 
the foundations of this greatness were laid in 
some of the extraordinary virtues of that repub- 
lic. The personal frugality of her citizens ; the 
remarkable simplicity of their manners ; the 
habit of transferring from themselves to the 
state all pretensions to external consequence and 
splendour ; the strictness of her laws, and the 
striking impartiality of their execution; that 
inflexible regard to justice, which led them, in 
the early ages of the republic — so little was th6 
doctrine of expediency in repute among them — 
to inflict penalties on those citizens who even 
conquered by deceit, and not by valour ; that 
vigilant attention to private morals which the 
establishment of a censorship secured, and that 
zeal for liberty, which was at the same time sup- 
ported by her political constitution. — These 
causes were the true origin of the Roman great- 
ness. This was the pedestal on which her co- 
lossal power was erected ; and though she re- 
mained mistress of the world, even at a time 
when these virtues had begun to decline, the 
first impulse not having ceased to operate, yet a 
discerning eye might even then perceive her 
growing internal weakness, and might antici- 
pate her final dissolution. 

Republican Rome, however, has been much 
too highly panegyrised. The Romans, had, in- 
deed, a public feeling, to which every kind of 
private affection gave way ; and it is chiefly on 
the credit of their sacrificing their individual 
interests to the national cause, that they ac- 
quired so high a renown. 

It may not be unworthy of remark, that the 
grand fundamental principle of the ancient re» 
publics (and though it was still more strikingly 
manifest in the Grecian, it was in no small de- 
gree the case with republican Rome) was dif- 
ferent from that which constitutes the essential 
principle of the British constitution, and even 
opposite to it. In the former the public was 
every thing ; the rights, the comforts, the very 
* Acts of the Apostles, ch. xvii. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



23 



existence of individuals, were as nothing. With 
us, happily the case is very different, nay even 
exactly the reverse. The well-being of the 
whole community is provided for, by effectually 
securing the rights, the safety, the comforts of 
every individual. Among the ancients, the 
grossest acts of injustice against private persons 
were continually perpetrated and were regarded 
as beneath account, when they stood in the way 
of the will, the interests, the aggrandizement, 
the glory of the slate. In our happier country, 
not the meanest subject can be injured in his 
person or his possessions. The little stock of 
the artisan, the peaceful cottage of the peasant, 
is secured to him by the universal superintend- 
ance, and the strong protection of the public 
force. The state is justly considered as made 
up of an aggregate of particular families; and 
it is by securing the well being of each, that all 
are preserved in prosperity. We could delight 
to descant largely on this topic; and surely the 
contemplation could not but warm the hearts of 
Britons with lively gratitude to the author of all 
their blessings, and with zealous attachment to 
that constitution, which conveys and secures to 
them the enjoyment of sucli unequalled happi- 
ness ! But we dare not expatiate in so wide a 
field. Let us, however, remark, the degree in 
which the benevolent spirit of Christianity is 
transfused into our political system. As it was 
the glory of our religion to take the poor under 
her instruction, and to administer her consola- 
tions to the wretched, so it is the beauty of our 
constitution that she considers not as below her 
care, the seats of humble but honest industry ; 
the peaceful dwellings, and quiet employments 
of the lover of domestic comfort. 

Again — This vital spirit of our constitution is 
favourable to virtue, as well as congenial with 
religion, and conducive to happiness. It checks 
that spirit of injustice and oppression which is 
so manifest in the conduct of the ancient re- 
publics towards all other nations. It tends to 
diffuse a general sense of moral obligation, a 
continual reference to the claims of others, and 
our own consequent obligations ; in short, a con- 
tinual reference to the real rights of man; a 
term which, though so shamefully abused, and 
converted into a watch-word of riot and rebel- 
lion, yet, truly and properly understood, is of 
sound meaning and constant application. By 
princes especially, these rights should ever be 
kept in remembrance. They were, indeed, 
never so well secured, as by that excellent in- 
junction of our blessed Saviour, to do to others 
as we icould have them to do to vs. And to 
which the apostle's brief, but comprehensive 
directions, form an admirable commentary; 
Honour all men — Love your brethren — Fear God 
—Honour the king. 

But to return to the Romans ; their very pa- 
triotism, by leading them to thirst for univer- 
sal empire, finally destroyed them, being no 
less fatal to the morals, than to the greatness 
of the state. Even their vaunted public spirit 
partly originated in the necessities of their 
situation. They were a little state, surrounded 
by a multitude of other little states, and they 
had no safety but in union. 'Necessity first 
roused the genius of war, and the habits of ex- 



perienced and successful valour kept him awake 
The love of wealth and power, in latter ages, 
carried on what original bravery had begun; 
till, in the unavoidable vicissitude of human 
affairs, Rome perished beneath the weight of 
that pile of glory which she had been so long 
rearing.'* 

Their laws and constitution were naturally 
calculated to promote their public spirit, and to 
produce their union. Having succeeded in re- 
pelling the attacks of the small rival powers, 
and, by their peculiar fortune, or rather by the 
designation of Providence, having become the 
predominating power in Italy, they proceeded 
to add conquest to conquest, making in the 
pride of conscious superiority, wars evidently 
the most unjust. Yet it must not be denied, 
that the occupation which progressive conquests 
found for the citizens, communicated a peculiar 
hardiness to the Roman character, and served 
to retard the growth both of luxury and faction. 
That public spirit which might be justified when 
it applied itself to wars of self-defence, became 
by degrees little better than the principle of a 
band of robbers on a great scale; at the best, of 
honourable robbers, who for the sake of the ■ 
spoil, agree fairly to co-operate in order to ob- 
tain it, and divide it equally when it is obtained. 

This public spirit seems to have existed so 
long as there were any objects of foreign ambi- 
tion remaining, and so long as any" sense was 
left to foreign danger. Even in the midst of 
unlawful and unrelenting war, it is important to 
bear in mind, that many of the ancient virtues 
were still assiduously cultivated ; the laws were 
still had in reverence, and, in spite of a corrupt 
polytheism, and of many and great defects in 
the morality and the constitution of Rome, this 
was the salt which, for a time, preserved her. 
The firmness of character, and deep political 
sagacity of the Romans, seem to have borne an 
exact proportion to each other. That foreseeing 
wisdom, that penetrating policy, which led 
Montesquieu to observe, that they conquered 
the world by maxims and principles, seem in 
reality, to have insured the success of their 
conquests, almost more than their high national 
valour, and their bold spirit of enterprize. 

What was it which afterwards plunged Rome 
into the lowest depths of degradation, and finally 
blotted her out from among the nations ? It was 
her renouncing those maxims and principles. It 
was her departure from every virtuous and self- 
denying habit. It was the gradual relaxation 
of private morals. It was the substitution of 
luxury for temperance, and of a mean and nar- 
row selfishness for public spirit. It was a con- 
tempt for the sober manners of the ancient re- 
public, and a dereliction of the old principles of 
government, even while the forms of that govern, 
ment were retained. It was the introduction of 
a new philosophy more favourable to sensuality , 
it was the importation, by her Asiatic procon- 
suls, of every luxury which could pamper that 
sensuality. It was, in short, the evils, result- 
ing from those two passions whiah monopolized 
their souls, the lust of power, and the lust of 
gold. — These passions operated on each other, as 

* Carlo Denina on the ancient Republics of Italy 



24 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



cause and effect, action and reaction ; and pro- 
duced that rapid corruption which Sallust de- 
scribes with so much spirit — Mores majorum 
non paulatim ut antea, sed torrentis modo pre- 
cipitati. Profligacy, venality, peculation, op- 
pression, succeed to that simplicity, patriotism, 
and high-minded disinterestedness, on which 
this nation had once so much valued itself, and 
which had attracted the admiration of the world. 
So that Rome, in the days of her pristine seve- 
rity of manners, and Rome in the last period 
of her freedom, exhibits a stronger contrast than 
will be found between almost any two countries. 

This depravation does not refer to solitary in- 
stances, to the shamelessness of a Verres, or the 
profligacy of a Piso, but to the general practice 
of avowed corruption and systematic venality. 
By the just judgment of Providence, the enjoy- 
ment of the spoils brought home from the con- 
quered nations corrupted the conquerors ; and at 
length compelled Rome, in her turn, both to fly 
before her enemies, and to bow down her head 
under the most intolerable domestic yoke. 
Rome had no more the sj>irit to make any faint 
strn<r<rle for liberty after the death of Caesar, 
than Greece after that of Alexander, though to 
each the occasion seemed- to present itself. 
Neither state had virtue enough left to deserve, or 
even to desire to be free. The wisdom of Cato 
should, in the case of Rome, have discovered 
this : and it should have spared him the fruit 
less attempt to restore liberty to a country 
which its vices had enslaved, and have preserv- 
ed him, even on his own principles, from self-de- 
struction. 

Among the causes of the political servitude 
of Rome may be reckoned, in a considerable 
degree, the institution of the Pretorian bands, 
who, in a great measure, governed both the 
Romans and the emperors. These Pretorian 
bands presented the chief difficulty in the way 
of good emperors, some of whom they destroy- 
ed for attempting to reform them ; and of the 
bad emperors they were the electors. 

In perusing the Roman history, these, and 
other causes of the decline and fall of the em- 
pire, should be carefully shown ; the tendency 
of private vices to produce factions, and the 
tendency of factions to overthrow liberty ; a 
spirit of dissension, and a rapid deterioration of 
morals, being in all states, the most deadly, and, 
indeed, the inseparable symptoms of expiring 
freedom. The no less baneful influence of 
arbitrary power, in the case of the many pro- 
fligate and cruel emperors who succeeded, 
should be clearly pointed out. 

It is also a salutary lesson on the hunger of 
conquest, and the vanity of ambition, to trace 
the Roman power, by its vast accession of ter- 
ritory, losing in solidity what it gained in ex- 
pansion ; furnishing a lasting example to future 
empires, who trust too much for the stability of 
their greatness to the deceitful splendour of 
remote acquisition, and the precarious support 
of distant colonial attachment. 

Above all, the fall of Rome may be attributed, 
in no small degree^to the progress, and, gra- 
dually to the prevalence of the epicurean philo- 
sophy, and to its effect in taking away that* re- 
verence for the gods, which alone could pre- 



serve that deep sense of the sanctity of oaths 
for which Rome, in her better days, had been 
so distinguished. She had originally establish- 
ed her political system on this fear of the gods ; 
and the people continued, as appears from Livy, 
to practise the duties of their religion* (such as 
it was) more scrupulously than any other an- 
cient nation. The most amiable of the Roman 
patriots attributes the antecedent success and 
grandeur of his country to their conviction, 
' that all events are directed by a Divine Powerjt 
and Polybius, speaking merely as a politician, 
accuses some, in his age, of rashness and absur- 
dity, for endeavouring to extirpate the fear of 
the gods ; declaring, that what others held to 
be an object of disgrace, he believed to be the 
very thing by which the republic was sustained. 
He illustrates his position by adducing the con- 
duct of the two great states, one of which, from 
its adoption of the doctrines of Epicurus had no 
sense of religion left, and consequently no reve- 
rence for the solemnities of an oath, which the 
other retained in its full force. 'If among the 
Greeks,' says he, ' a single talent only be in- ' 
trusted to those who have the management of 
any of the public money, though they give ten 
written sureties, with as many seals, and twice 
as many witnesses, they are unable to dis- 
charge the trust reposed in them with integrity, 
— while the Romans, who, in their magistracies 
and embassies, disburse the greatest sums, are 
prevailed on by the single obligation of an oath, 
to perform their duty with inviolable honesty.'* 
In her subsequent total dereliction of this 
integrity, what a lesson does Rome hold out to 
us, to be careful not to lose the influences of 
a purer religion ! To guard, especially, against 
the fatal effects of a needless multiplication of 
oaths, and the light mode in which they are too 
frequently administered ! The citizens of Rome, 
in the days of the younger Cato, had no re- 
source left against this pressing evil, because it- 
was in vain to inculcate a reverence for their 
gods, and to revive the influence of their religion. 
But, if even the belief of false gods had the 
power of conveying political and moral benefits, 
which the dark system of atheism annihilated, 
how earnestly should we endeavour to remove 
and diffuse the ancient deference for the true re- 
ligion, by teaching systematically and seriously, 
to our youth, the divine principles of that Christi- 
anity which, in better times, was the honourable 
practice of our forefathers, and which can alone 
restore a due veneration for the solemnity of 
oaths. § 



* Nulla unquam respublica sanctior, nee bonis ex- 
empts ditior fuit. 

t See Montague on the Rise and Fall of ancient Re- 
publics. 

| Hampton's Polybius, vol. ii. book 6. on the excel- 
lencies of the Roman government. 

§ The admirable Hooker observes, that even the falsest 
religions were mixed with some truths, which had ' very 
notable effects.' Speaking of the dread of perjury in the 
ancient Romans, he adds, ' Jt was their hurt untruly to 
attribute so great power to false gods, as that they were 
able to prosecute, with fearful tokens of divine revenge, 
the wilful violation of oaths and e.xecrible blasphemies, 
offered by deriders of religion even unto those false gods. 
Yet the right belief which they had, that to perjury ven- 
geance is due, was not without good effect, as touching 
the course of their lives who feared the wilful violation 
of oaths.' Ecclesiastical Polity, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



25 



CHAP. IX 

Characters of historians, who were concerned in 
the transactions which they record. 

Or the modern writers of ancient history, the 
young reader will find that Rollint has, in one 
respect, the decided superiority ; we mean in 
his practice of intermixing useful reflections on 
events and characters. But, we should strongly 
recommend the perusal of such portions of the 
original ancient historians, as a judicious pre- 
ceptor would select. And, in reading historians, 
or politicians, ancient or modern, the most likely 
way to escape theories and fables, is to study 
those writers who were themselves actors in the 
scenes which they record. 

Among the principal of these is — Thucydides, 
whose opportunities of obtaining information, 
whose diligence in collecting it, and whose judg- 
ment and fidelity in recording it, have obtained 
for him the general suffrage of the best judges ; 
who had a considerable share in many of the 
event3 which he records, having been an unfor- 
tunate, though meritorious commander in the 
Peloponnesian war, of which he is the incompa- 
rable historian ; — whose chronological accuracy 
is derived from his early custom of preparing 
materials as the events arose ; and whose ge- 
nius confers as much honour, as his unmerited 
exile reflects disgrace, on his native Athens. In 
popular governments, and in none perhaps so 
much as in those of Greece, the ill effects or mis- 
management at home have been too frequently 
charged on those who have had the conduct of 
armies abroad ; and where a sacrifice must be 
made, that of the absent is always the most easy. 
The integrity and patriotism of Thucydides, 
however, were proof against the ingratitude of 
the republic. His work was as impartial as if 
Athens had been just ; like Clarendon, he de- 
voted the period of his banishment to the com- 
position of a history, which was the glory of the 
country that banished him. — A model of can- 
dour, he wrote not for a party or a people, but 
for the world ; not for the applause of his age, 
but the instruction of posterity. And though 
his energy, spirit, and variety must interest all 
readers of taste, statesmen will best know his 
value, and politicians will look up to him as a 
master. — Xenophon, the Attic bee, equally ad- 
mirable in whatever point of view he is consi- 
dered ; a consummate general, historian, and 
philosopher ; who carried on the historic series 
of the Greek revolutions from the period at which 
Thucydides discontinued it ; like him was driven 
into banishment from that country, of which he 
was so bright an ornament, — 

And with his exil'd hours enrich'd the world ! 

The conductor and narrator of a retreat more 
honourable and more celebrated than the vic- 
tories of other leaders ; a writer, who is consi- 
dered by the first Roman critic, as the most ex- 
quisite model of simplicity and elegance ; and 
who in almost all the transactions which he re- 
lates, magna pars fuit. — Polvbius, trained to be 
a statesman in the Achaean league, and a war- 
* The writer forbears to name living authors. 
Vol. II. 



rior at the conquest of Carthage ; the friend of 
Scipio, and the follower of Fabius ; and who ia 
said to be more experimentally acquainted with 
the wars and politics of which he treats, than 
any other Greek. He is however, more authen- 
tic than entertaining ; and the votaries of certain 
modern historians, who are satisfied with an 
epigram instead of a fact, who like turns of wit 
better than sound political reflections, and prefer 
an antithesis to truth, will not justly appreciate 
the merit of Polybius, whose love of authenticity 
induced him to make several voyages to the 
places of which his subjects led him to speak. 
Cesar, of whom it would be difficult to say, 
whether he planned his battles with more skill, 
fought them with more valour, or described 
them with more ability ; or whether his sword 
or pen executed his purposes with more celerity 
and effect ; but, who will be less interesting to 
the general reader, than to the statesman and 
soldier. His commentaries, indeed, will be pe- 
rused with less advantage by the hereditary 
successor of the sovereign of a settled constitu- 
tion, than by those who are struggling with the 
evils of civil commotion. Joinville, whose life 
of his great master, saint Louis, is written with 
the spirit of the ancient nobles, and the vivid 
earnestness of one, who saw with interest what 
he describes with fidelity ; having been compa- 
nion to the king in the expeditions which he re- 
cords. Philippe de Comines, who possessed, by 
his personal concern in public affairs, all the 
avenues to the political and historical knowledge 
of his time, and whose memoirs will be admired 
while acute penetration, sound sense, and solid 
judgment survive. Davila, who learned the art 
of war under that great master, Henry the fourth 
of France, and whose history of the civil wars 
of that country furnishes a variety of valuable 
matter ; who possesses the happy talent of giving 
interest to details, which would be dry in other 
hands ; who brings before the eyes of the reader, 
every place which he describes, and every scene 
in which he was engaged; while his intimate 
knowledge of business, and of human nature, 
enables him to unveil with address, the myste- 
ries of negotiation, and the subtleties of states- 
men. This excellent work is disgraced by the 
most disgusting panegyrics on the execrable 
Catharine di Medici, an offence against truth 
and virtue, too glaring to be atoned for by any 
sense of personal obligation. In consequence 
of this partiality, he speaks of the massacre of 
saint Bartholomew, as slightly as if it had been 
a merely common act of necessary rigour on a 
few criminals ; an execution being the cool term 
by which he describes that tremendous deed.* 
Guicciardin, a diplomatic historian, a lawyer, 
and a patriot ; whose tedious orations and florid 
style cannot destroy the merit of his great work ; 
the value of Which is enhanced by the piety and 
probity of his own mind. Sully, the intrepid 
warrior, the able financier, the uncorrupt minis- 
ter, who generally regulated the deep designs 
of the consummate statesman, by the inflexible 

♦YVhoean help regretting that the lustre of nne of 
the most elegant works of antiquity, Gtuintilian's Insti- 
tution of an Orator, should be in a similar manner tar- 
nished by the most preposterous panegyrics on the em- 
peror Domitian ! 



26 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE, 



rules of religion and justice; whose memoirs 
should be read by ministers, to instruct them 
how to serve kings ; and by kings, to teach them 
how to choose ministers. Cardinal de Retz, 
who delineates with accuracy and spirit the 
principal actors in the wars of the Fronde, in 
which he himself had been a chief agent; who 
developes the dissimulation of courts, with the 
skilfulness of an adept in the arts which he un- 
folds, yet affecting, while he portrays the arti- 
fices of others, a simplicity, the very reverse of 
his real character; while his levity in writing 
retains so much of the licentiousness, and want 
of moral and religious principle of his former 
life, that he cannot be safely recommended to 
those whose principles of judgment and conduct 
are not fixed. Yet, his characters of the two 
famous cardinal prime ministers may be read 
with advantage by those, whose business leads 
them to such studies. The reader of de Retz 
will find frequent occasion to recognise the ho- 
' mage which even impiety and vice pay to reli- 
gion and virtue, while the abundant corruptions 
of popery will call forth from every considerate 
protestant, devout sensations of gratitude to 
Heaven, for having delivered us from the tyran- 
ny of a system, so favourable to the production 
of the rankest abuses in the church, and the 
grossest superstition in the people. Temple, the 
zealous negotiator of the triple alliance, and 
worthy, by bis spirit and candour, to be the as- 
eociate of De Wit in that great business which 
was transacted between them, with the liberal 
spirit, and honourable confidence of private 
friendship. His writings give the clearest in- 
sight into the period and events of which he 
treats ; and his easy, though careless style, and 
well-bred manner, would come, almost more than 
any other, under the description of what may be 
called the genteel, did not his vanity a little 
break the charm. None, however, except his 
politi'cal writings, are meant to be recommend- 
ed ; his religious opinions being highly excep- 
tionable and absurd. Yet it is but justice to 
add, that his unambitious temper, his fondness 
for private life, his enjoyment of its peace, and 
his taste for its pleasures, render his character 
interesting and amiable. The manners painting 
Clarendon, the able chancellor, the exemplary 
minister, the inflexible patriot, who stemmed, 
almost singly, the torrent of vice, corruption, 
and venality ; and who was not ashamed of be- 
ing religious in a court which was ashamed of 
nothing else ; whom the cabal hated for his in- 
tegrity, and the court for his purity ; a states- 
man who might have had statues erected to him 
in any other period but in that in which he lived ; 
would have reformed most other governments 
but that to which he belonged, and been sup- 
ported by almost any king but him whom he 
had the misfortune to serve. Clarendon, the 
faithful biographer of his own life; the majestic 
and dignified historian of the grand rebellion ; 
whose periods sometimes want beauty, but never 
sense, though that sense is often wrapped up in 
an involution and perplexity which a little ob- 
scure it ; whose style is weighty and significant, 
though somewhat retarded by the stateliness of 
its march, and encumbered with a redundancy 



of words. Torcy, whose memoirs, though they animal that delights in party. Yet we are in 



may be thought to bear rather hard on the fa* 
mous plenipotentiaries with whom he negotiated, 
and on the haughtiness of the allies who em- 
ployed them, are written with much good sense, 
modesty, and temper. They present a striking 
reverse in the fortune of the imperious disturber 
of Europe, ' fallen from his high estate.' He 
who had been used to give his orders from the 
banks of the Po, the Danube, and the Tagus, is 
seen reduced to supplicate for peace, and to ex- 
change the insolence of triumph for the hope of 
existence. Two Dutch burgomasters, haughtily 
imposing their own terms on a monarch who 
had before filled France with admiration, and 
Europe with alarm. This reverse must impress 
the mind of the reader, as it does that of the 
writer, with an affecting sense of that controlling 
Providence, which thus derides the madness of 
ambition, and the folly of worldly wisdom; that 
Providence which, in maintaining its character 
of being the abaser of the proud, produces, by 
means at first sight the most opposite, the ac- 
complishment of its own purposes ; and renders 
the unprincipled lust of dominion the instrument 
of its own humiliation. The difficulties of a ne- 
gociator, who has to conclude an inglorious 
though indispensable treaty, are feelingly de- 
scribed, as well as the too natural, though hard 
fate of a minister, who is driven to such an un- 
fortunate measure as that of being considered 
as the instrument of dishonour to his country. 
His pious recognition of God, as the supreme 
disposer of events, is worthy of great praise. 
The copious and fluent Burnet, whose diffuse, 
but interesting history of his own times, informs 
and pleases ; though the loose texture of his 
slovenly narration would not now be tolerated 
in a newspaper; who saw a great deal, and 
wishes to have it thought that he saw every 
thing; whose egotism we forgive for the sake 
of his frankness, and whose minuteness, for the 
sake of his accuracy ; who, if ever he exceeds, 
it is always on the side of liberty and toleration ; 
an excess safe enough when the writer is sound- 
ly loyal, and unquestionably pious ; and more 
especially safe when the reader is a prince. 
Lady Russel, worthy of being the daughter of 
the virtuous Southampton ; too fatally connected 
with the unhappy politics of the times ; whose 
life was a practical illustration of her faith in 
the divine support, and of submission to the di. 
vine will ; and whose letters, by their sound and 
sober piety, strong sense, and useful information, 
eclipse all those of her learned and distinguished 
correspondents. 



CHAP. X. 

Reflections on History — Ancient Historians. 

If, however, the historian be a compatriot, 
and especially if he be a contemporary, even 
though he was no actor in the drama, it is diffi- 
cult for him not to range himself too uniformly 
on one 6ide or the other. The human mind has 
a strong natural bias to adopt exclusive attach- 
ment. Perhaps man may be defined to be an 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



27 



clined to believe that an historian, though he 
may be partial and interested, yet if he be keen 
sighted and intelligent as to the facts of which 
he speaks, is, on the whole, a better witness than 
a more fair and candid, but worse informed man; 
because we may more easily calculate the de- 
gree of allowance to be made for partiality and 
prejudice, than we can estimate that which is 
to be made for defect of information. Of two 
evils, therefore, we should prefer a prejudiced, 
but well informed, to a more impartial, but less 
enlightened narrator. 

When materials are fresh, they are more like- 
ly to be authentic ; but, unfortunately, when it 
is more easy to obtain, it is often less safe to 
employ them. When the events are more re- 
mote, their authenticity is more difficult to as- 
certain ; and, when they are near, the passions 
which they excite are more apt to warp the 
truth. Thus, what might be gained in accuracy 
by nearness of position, is liable to be lost in the 
partiality which that very position induces. 
The true point of vision is attained, when the eye 
and the object are placed at their due distance. 
The reader who comes to the perusal of the 
work, in a more unimpassioned frame than 
perhaps, the author wrote, will best collect the 
characters from the narrative, if fairly given. 

Care should be taken not to extol shining 
characters in the gross, but to point out their 
weaknesses and errors ; nor should the brilliant 
qualities of illustrious men be suffered to cast 
a veil over their vices, or so to fascinate the 
young reader, as to excite admiration of their 
very faults. Even in perusing sacred history, 
we should never extenuate, much less justify, 
the errors of great characters, but make them, 
at once, a ground for establishing the doctrine 
of general corruption, and for quickening our 
own vigilance. The weaknesses of the wisest, 
and the errors of the best, while they should be 
regarded with candour, must not be held up to 
imitation. It has been reasonably conjectured, 
that many acts of cruelty in Alexander, whose 
disposition was naturally merciful, were not a 
little owing to one of his preceptors having been 
early accustomed to call himself Phoenix, and 
his pupil Achilles ; and thus to have habitually 
trained him to an imitation even of the vices 
of this ferocious hero. 

A prince must not study history merely to 
store his memory with amusing narratives or 
insulated events, but with a view to trace the 
dependence of one event upon another. A com- 
mon reader will be satisfied with knowing the 
exploits of Scipio or Hannibal, and will be suffi- 
ciently entertained with the description of the 
riches or beauty of such renowned cities as 
Carthage or Rome ; but a prince (who is also a 
politician) studies history, in order to observe 
how ambition, operating on the breasts of two 
rival states, led to one war after another between 
these two states. By what steps the ruin of the 
one, and the triumph of the other, were hastened 
or delayed ; by what indications the final catas- 
trophe might have been antecedently known, or 
by what measures it might have been averted. 
He is interested not merely when a single event, 
arises, but by the whole skill of the game ; and 
he is on this account anxious to possess many 



inferior circumstances, serving to unite one 
event with another, which, to the ordinary read- 
er, appear insignificant and dull. Again in the 
case of Pompey and Caesar, the reflecting politi- 
cian connects the triumphs of the latter with the 
political moral state of Rome. He bears in mind 
the luxurious habits of the patricians, who be- 
came the officers in Pompey's army ; the gra- 
dual decay of public spirit, the licentiousness 
and venality of the capital, and the arts by which 
Cassar had prepared his troops, while they were 
in Gaul, for the contention which he already 
meditated for the empire of the world. He will, 
in idea, see that world already vanquished, 
when he considers the profound policy of this 
conqueror, who on being appointed to the go- 
vernment of Gaul on both sides the Alps, by ex- 
citing the Gauls to solicit the same privileges 
with the Italians, opened to himself this double 
advantage : — the disturbance which this would 
occasion in Rome, would lift him into absolute 
power ; while by his kindness and protection to 
these people, he gained an accession of strength 
to overthrow his competitor. The ordinary 
reader is satisfied with the battle of Pharsalia 
for the entertainment it affords, and admires the 
splendour of the triumphs, without considering 
these things as links that connect the events 
which are past with those which are to come. 

The preceptor of the royal pupil will, probably, 
think it advisable to select for her perusal some 
of the lives of Plutarch. This author teaches two 
things excellently, antiquity and human nature. 
He would deserve admiration, were it only for 
that magazine of wisdom, condensed in the ex- 
cellent sayings of so many great men, which 
he has recorded. Perhaps, all the historians to- 
gether have not transmitted to us so many of 
the sage axioms and bon mots of ancient Greece 
and Rome. Yet, in his parallels — if that can be 
called a parallel which brings together two men 
who have commonly little or no resemblance, 
even the upright Plutarch exhibits something 
too much of the partiality lately noticed ; the 
scale, whenever he weighs one of his own coun- 
trymen against a Roman, almost invariably in 
clining to the Greek side. 

It may also be deemed, useful to read to her a 
few select portions of Suetonius. Though he is 
an author utterly unfit to be put into youthful, 
and especially, into female hands, yet a judi- 
cious instructor may select passages particu- 
larly appropriated to a royal pupil. In truth, 
the writings of the ancient authors of all classes, 
historians, satirists, poets, and even moralists, 
are liable to the same objection, whether it be 
Suetonius, or Plutarch, or Juvenal, or even the 
comparatively decorous Virgil, that we take in 
hand ; the perusal cannot fail to suggest to every 
considerate, and especially to every female read 
er, the obligations which we owe to Christianity, 
independently of its higher ends, for having so 
raised the standard of morals and of manners, 
as to have rendered almost too monstrous for 
belief, and too shocking for relation, in our days, 
the familiar and uncensured incidents of ancient 
time. Suetonius paints with uncommon force, 
though too often with offensive ■ rossness, the 
crimes of the emperors, with their subsequent 
miseries and punishments. Tyrants will always 



28 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



detest history, and, of all historians, they will 
detest Suetonius. 

An authentic historian of a deceased tyrant must 
not, however, be confounded with the malevolent 
declaimer against royalty. But though the most 
arbitrary prince cannot prevent his own posthu- 
mous disgrace, yet an honest and conscientious 
historian will remember, that, while he is detail- 
ing the uices of a king, which it is his duty to 
enumerate, it is his duty also carefully to avoid 
bringing the office of the king into contempt. And, 
while he is exposing the individual crime, he 
should never lose sight of his respect for the au- 
thority and station of him whose actions truth 
compels him to record in their real characters. 
The contrary insidious practice has of late so 
much prevailed, that the young reader should be 
put on his guard not to suffer his principles to be 
undermined by the affectation of indignant vir- 
tue, mock patriotism, zeal for spurious liberty, 
and factitious morality. It is but justice to Mr. 
Hume, against whose principles we have thought 
it a duty to bear our most decided testimony,* 
to allow that, in the earlier periods of English 
history, he carefully abstains from the vulgar 
error of always ascribing the public calamity, 
which he is relating, to the ambition or injus- 
tice of kings ; but often attributes it, where it 
is often more justly due, to the insolence and 
oppression of the barons, or the turbulence and 
insubordination of the people. If he errs, it is 
on tho contrary side. 

But let those licentious anarchists, who de- 
light to retail insipid jests, or to publish unqua- 
lifted libels on kings as kings, cast their eyes 
on an uninterrupted succession of five illustrious 
Roman emperors, who, though not exempt from 
faults, some of them from vices, chiefly attri- 
butable to paganism, yet exhibit such an unbro- 
ken continuity of great talents and great quali- 
ties, as it would, perhaps, be difficult to find in 
any private family for five successive genera- 
tions. 

The candour of our excellent queen Mary,t 
towards the biographers of princes, was exem- 
plary. When with an intention probably to 
sooth the royal ear, some persons in her pre- 
sence, severely condemned certain historians 
who had made reflections dishonourable to the 
memory of princes, she observed that if the 
princes had given just ground for censure, the 
authors had done well to represent them fairly ; 
and that other sovereigns must expect to be dealt 
with in the same manner, if they gave the same 
cause. She had even the magnanimity to wish, 
that all such princes would read Procopius, (an 
author too much addicted to blacken the memory 
of kings,) • because,' she observed, ' however he 
might have exaggerated the vices he described, 
it would be a salutary lesson to future princes, 
that they themselves must expect the same 
treatment, when all restraint was taken off, and 
the dread of their power terminated with their 
lives.' 

The late king of Prussia, who united the cha- 
racter of an author to that of a warrior, was of 
another way of thinking. He was of opinion, 
that the names of good princes alone should be 
recorded in history ; and that those of the 
* In chap, xi f In chap. viii. 



wicked should be suffered to perish with their 
crimes.* Were this practice to be universally 
adopted, might we not presume to question 
whether even the illustrious name of Frederick 
the great would be as certain, as it is at present, 
of being carried down to posterity 7 

Tacitus is the historian of philosophers, and 
the oracle of politicians. Highly valuable for 
his deep and acute reflections, in which neither 
the governors nor governed are spared ; he is an 
original and profound thinker, and is admirable 
for the plenitude of his images, and the paucity 
of his words. His style is ardent, and his figures 
are bold. Vigour, brevity, and point, are its 
characteristics. He throws out a stronger like- 
ness of a flagitious Roman in three words, than 
a diffuse writer would give in as many pages. 
In his annals he is a faithful, occasionally, in- 
deed, a too faithful narrator; but he is also, at 
the same time, an honest and indignant reprover 
of the atrocious deeds which he records. In a 
man passionately loving liberty, virtue, and his 
country, we pardon, while painting the ruin of 
each, those dark and sullen shades with which 
he sometimes overcharges the picture. Had 
he delineated happier times, his tints would pro- 
bably have been of a lighter cast. If he ever 
deceives, he does not, at least, ever appear to 
intend it ; for he gives rumours as rumours, 
and his facts he generally grounds on the con- 
current testimony of the times of which he 
writes. If, however Tacitus fulfils one of the 
two duties which he himself prescribes to his- 
torians, that of writing without, fear, he does not 
uniformly accomplish the other, that of writing 
without hatred ; at least neither his veracity 
nor his candour extended to his remarks on the 
Jews or Christians. 

But, with all his diffuseness Livy is the wri- 
ter who assists in forming the taste. — With all 
his warmth, there is a beautiful sobriety in his 
narrations; he does not magnify the action, he 
relates it, and pours forth, from a full urn, a co- 
pious and continued stream of varied elegance. 
He directs the judgment, by passing over slight 
things in a slight manner, and dwelling only on 
the prominent parts of his subject, though he 
has been accused of some important omissions. 
He keeps the attention always alive, by exhibit- 
ing passions as well as actions ; and what best 
indicates the hand of a master, we hang sus- 
pended on the event of his narrative, as if it 
were a fiction, of which the catastrophe is in the 
power of the writer, rather than a real history, 
with whose termination we are already ac- 
quainted. He is admirable no less for his hu 
manity than his patriotism ; and he is one of 
the few historians, who have marked the broad 
line of discrimination between true and false 
glory, not erecting pomps, triumphs, and victo- 
ries, into essentials of real greatness. He teaches 
patience under censure, inculcates a contempt 

* Ezamen du Prince de JUachiavel by the hintr of Prus- 
sia. It is curious to compare this composition of the 
ting with his own conduct. To contrast his strong 
reprobation of the baneful gloiy of heroes, his horror 
of conquest, and of tho cruel pas-inns which oppress 
mankind ; his professed admiration of clemency, meek. 
(less; justicp, and couipassinn, with which this work 
abounds, — with the actual exploits of the ravager of the 
fertile plains of Saxony, &.C. Sec. ! ! 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



29 



of vulvar acclamation, and of all praise which 
is not fairly earned. One valuable superiority, 
which Livy possesses over his competitors, is, 
that in describing vice, and vicious characters, 
he scrupulously contrives to excite an abhor- 
rence of both ; and his relations never leave on 
the mind of the reader, a propensity to the 
crime, or a partiality for the criminal whom he 
has been describing. A defect, in this acuteness 
of moral feeling, has been highly pernicious to 
the youthful reader ; and this too common ad- 
mixture of impure description, even when the 
honest design has been to expose vice, has sen- 
sibly tainted the wholesomeness of historic com- 
position. 

Independently of those beautiful, though some- 
times redundant speeches, which Livy puts in- 
to the mouths of his heroes, his eloquent and 
finished answers to ambassadors, furnish a spe- 
cies of rhetoric peculiarly applicable to a royal 
education. 

It has been regretted by some of the critics, 
that Livy, after enriching his own work by the 
most copious plagiarisms from his great precur- 
sor, Polybius, commends him in away so frigid 
as almost to amount to censure. He does not, 
it is true, go the length of Voltaire in his treat- 
ment of Shakspeare, who first pillages and then 
abuses him. The Frenchman, indeed, who 
spoils what he steals, acts upon the old known 
principle of his country highwaymen, who al- 
ways murder where they rob. 

If it be thought that we have too warmly re- 
commended heathen authors, let it be remem- 
bered, that in the hands of every enlightened 
preceptor, as was eminently the case with Fene- 
lon, pagans almost become Christian teachers 
by the maimer in which they will be explained, 
elucidated, purified ; and not only will the cor- 
ruptions of paganism be converted into instruc- 
tion, by being contrasted with the opposite Chris- 
tian graces, but the Christian system will be 
advantageously shown to be almost equally at 
variance, with many pagan virtues, as with all 
its vices. 

If there were no other evidence of the value 
of pagan historians, the profound attention which 
they prove the ancients to have paid to the edu- 
cation of youth, would alone suffice to give them 
considerable weight in the eyes of every judge 
of sound instruction. Their regard to youthful 
modesty; the inculcation of obedience and re- 
serve, the exercises of self-denial, exacted from 
children of the highest rank, put to shame,— I 
will not say Christians, but many of the nomi- 
nal professors of Christianity. — Levity, idleness, 
disregard of the laws, contempt of established 
systems and national institutions, met with a 
severer reprobation in the pagan youth, than is 
always found among those, in our day, who 
yet do not openly renounce the character of 
Christians. 

Far be it from us, however, to take our mo- 
rals from so miserably defective a standard as 
pagan history affords. For though philosophy 
had given some admirable rules for maintaining 
the out-works of virtue, Christianity is the only 
religion which ever pretended to expel vice from 
the heart. — The best qualities of paganism want 
i.he best motives. Some of the overgrown Ro- 



man virtues, also, though they would have been 
valuable in their just measure and degree, and 
in a due symmetry and proportion with other 
virtues, yet, by their excess, helped to produce 
those evils which afterwards ruined Rome ; 
while a perfect system of morals, like the Chris- 
tian, would have prevented those evils. Their 
patriotism was oppression to the rest of the 
world. Their virtue was not so much sullied 
by pride, as founded in it ; and their justice 
was tinctured with a savageness which bears 
little resemblance to the justice which is taught 
by Christianity. 

These two simple precepts of our religion, 
Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy 
heart, and thy neighbour as thyself ; — these two 
principles, kept in due exercise, would, like the 
two powers which govern the natural world, 
keep the intellectual and spiritual world in or- 
der ; would restrain, impel, unite and govern it. 

In considering the ancient philosophy, how 
does the fine gold become dim, before the sober 
lustre of that divine legislator, whose kingdom, 
indeed, was not of this world, but who has taught 
' kings of the earth, princes, and all people,' 
those maxims and principles which cast into 
shade all the false splendours ' of the antique 
world !' Christianity has furnished the only 
true practical comment on that grand position 
of the admirable author of the sublime, that no- 
thing is great the contempt of which is great. 
For how can triumphs, honours, riches, power, 
conquest, fame, be considered as of intrinsic va- 
lue by a Christian, the very essence of whose re- 
ligion consists in being crucified to the world ; 
the very aim and end of whose religion lies in a 
superiority to all greatness which is to have an 
end with this life ; the very nature and genius 
of whose religion tends to prove, that eternal life 
is the only adequate measure of the happiness, 
and immortal glory the only adequate object of; 
the ambition of a Christian. 



CHAP. XI. 

'English History. — Mr. Hume. 

But the royal pupil is not to wander always 
in the wide field of universal history. The ex- 
tent is so vast, and the time for travelling over 
it so short, that after being sufficiently possessed 
of that general view of mankind which the his- 
tory of the world exhibits, it seems reasonable 
to concentrate her studies, and to direct her at- 
tention to certain great leading points, and es- 
pecially to those objects with which she has a 
natural and more immediate connexion. The 
history of modern Europe abounds with such 
objects. In Robertson's luminous view of the 
state of Europe, the progress of society is traced 
with just arrangement and philosophical preci- 
sion. His admirable histories of Charles V. and 
Mary Queen of Scots, separate from their great 
independent merit, will be read with singular 
advantage in connection with the contemporary 
reigns of English history. In the writings of 
Sully and Clarendon, may be seen how, fb ■ a 
long time, the passions of kings were contra. 



so 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



dieted, and often controlled by the wisdom of 
their ministers ; sovereigns who were not in- 
sensible to praise, nor averse from flattery, yet 
submitting-, though sometimes with a very ill 
grace, to receive services rather than adulation. 
Ministers who consulted the good rather than 
the humour of their princes ; who promoted 
their interests, instead of gratifying their vices, 
and who preferred their fame to their favour. 

Mr. Hume. 

Hume is incomparably the most informing, 
as well as the most elegant, of all the writers 
of English history. His narrative is full, well 
arranged, and beautifully perspicuous. Yet, he 
is an author who must be read with extreme 
caution on a political, but especially on a reli- 
gious account. Though, on occasions where he 
may be trusted, because his peculiar principles 
do not interfere, his political reflections are 
usually just, sometimes profound. His account 
of the origin of the Gothic government is full of 
interest and information. He marks, with ex- 
act precision, the progress and decay of the feu- 
dal manners, when law and order began to pre- 
vail, and our constitution assumed something 
like a shape. His finely painted characters of 
Alfred and Elizabeth should be engraved on the 
heart of every sovereign. His political preju- 
dices do not strikingly appear, till the establish- 
ment of the house of Stewart, nor his religious 
antipathies till about the distant dawn of the re- 
formation under Henry V. From that period 
to its full establishment, he is perhaps more dan- 
gerous, because less ostensibly daring than some 
other infidel historians. It is a serpent under a 
bed of roses. He does not (in his history at 
least) so much ridicule religion himself, as in- 
vite others to ridicule it. There is in his man- 
ner, a scdateness which imposes ; in his scepti- 
cism, a sly gravity which puts the reader more 
off his guard than the vehemence of censure, or 
the levity of wit ; for we are always less dis- 
posed to suspect a man who is too wise to ap- 
pear angry. That same wisdom makes him 
too correct to invent calumnies, but it does 
not preserve him from doing what is scarcely 
less disingenuous. He implicitly adopts the in- 
jurious relations of those annalists who were 
most hostile to the reformed faith ; though he 
must have known their accounts to be aggra- 
vated and discoloured, if not absolutely invented. 
He thus makes others responsible for the worst 
things he asserts, and spreads the mischief, 
without avowing the malignity. When he speaks 
from himself, the sneer is so cool, the irony so 
sober, the contempt so discreet, the moderation 
jso insidious, the difference between popish bi- 
gotry, and protestant firmness, between the fury 
of the persecutor and the resolution of the mar- 
tyr, so little marked ;• the distinctions between 
intolerant frenzy and heroic zeal so melted into 
each other, and though he contrives to make 
the reader feel some indignation at the tyrant, 
he never leads him to feel any reverence for the 
sufferer ; he ascribes such a slender superiority 
to one religious system above another,- that the 
young reader who does not come to the perusal 
with his principles formed, will be in danger of 



thinking that the reformation was really not 
worth contending for. 

But, in nothing is the skill of this accomplish- 
ed sophist more apparent than in the artful way 
in which he piques his readers into a conformity 
with his own views concerning religion. Hu- 
man pride, he knew, naturally likes to range it- 
self on the side of ability. He therefore, skil- 
fully works on this passion, by treating with a 
sort of contemptuous superiority, as weak and 
credulous men, all whom he represents as being 
under the religious delusion, and by uniformly 
insinuating that talents and piety belong to op- 
posite parties. 

To the shameful practice of confounding fa- 
naticism with real religion, he adds the disinge- 
nuous habit of accounting for the best actions 
of the best men, by referring them to some low 
motive ; and affects to confound the designs of 
the religious and the corrupt, so artfully, that 
no radical difference appears to subsist between 
them. 

It is injurious to a young mind to read the 
history of the reformation by any author, how 
accurate soever he may be in his facts, who does 
not see a divine power accompanying this great 
work ; by any author who ascribes to the power, 
or rather to the perverseness of nature, and the 
obstinacy of innovation, what was in reality an 
effect of providential direction ; by any who dis- 
cerns nothing but human resources, or stubborn 
perseverance, where a Christian distinguishes, 
though with a considerable alloy of human im- 
perfection, the operation of the Spirit of God. 

Hume has a fascinating manner at the close 
of the life of a hero, a prince, or a statesman, of 
drawing up his character so elaborately as to 
attract and fix the whole attention of the reader ; 
and he does it in such a way, that while he en- 
gages the mind he unsuspectedly misleads it. 
He makes a general statement of the vices and 
virtues, the good and bad actions of the person 
whom he paints, leaving the reader to form his 
own conclusions, by casting up the balance of 
the vices and virtues, of the good and bad ac- 
tions thus enumerated : while he never once 
leads the reader to determine on the character 
by the only sure criterion, the ruling principle, 
which seemed to govern it. This is the too pre- 
vailing method of historians ; they make morals 
completely independent of religion, by thus 
weighing qualities, and letting the preponder- 
ance of the scale decide on virtue, as it were by 
graihs and scruples : thus furnishing a standard 
of virtue subversive of that which Christianity 
establishes. This method instead of marking 
the moral distinctions, blends and confounds 
them, by establishing character on an accidental 
difference, often depending on circumstance and 
occasion, instead of applying to it one eternal 
rule and motive of action.* 

But, there is another evil into which writers 
far more unexceptionable than Mr. Hume often 

* If these remarks may be thought too severe by some 
readers for that degree of scepticism which appears in 
Mr Hume's history may I not. be allowed to observe that 
he has shown his principles so fully, in some of his other 
works, that we are entitled, on the ground of these 
works, to read with suspicion every thing he says wliich 
borders on religion ? — A circumstance apt to be forgot- 
ten by many who read only his history. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



31 



fall, that of rarely leading the mind to look be- 
yond second causes and human agents. It is 
mortifying to refer them to the example of a pa- 
gan. Livy thought it no disgrace to proclaim, 
repeatedly, the insufficiency of man to accom- 
plish great objects without divine assistance. 
He was not ashamed to refer events to the di- 
rection and control of providence ; and when he 
speaks of notorious criminals, he is not contented 
with describing them as transgressing against 
the slate, but represents them as also' offending 
against the gods. 

Yet, it is proper again to notice the defects 
of ancient authors in their views of providential 
interference ; a defect arising from their never 
clearly including a future state in their account. 
They seem to have conceived themselves as 
fairly entitled by their good conduct to the 
divine favour, which favour they usually limited 
to present prosperity. Whereas all notions of 
divine justice must of necessity be widely erro- 
neous, in which a future retribution is not un- 
ambiguously and constantly included. 



CHAP. XII. 

Important aras of English History. 

As the annals of our own country furnish an 
object on which a royal student should be led 
to dwell with particular interest, it may be ne- 
cessary to call the attention to certain impor- 
tant periods of our history and constitution, 
from each of which we begin to reckon a new 
sera; because from that epoch, some new system 
of causes and effects begins to take place ! 

It will be proper, however, to trace the shades 
of alteration which intervene between these 
teras; for though the national changes appear 
to be brought about by some one great event, 
yet, the event itself will be found to have been 
slowly working its way by causes trivial in their 
appearance, and gradual in their progress. 
For the minds of the people must be previously 
ripened for a change, before any material alter- 
ation is produced — It was not the injury that Lu- 
cretia sustained, which kindled the resentment 
of the Romans; the previous misconduct of the 
Tarquins had excited in the people the spirit 
of that revolution. A momentary indignation 
brought a series of discontents to a crisis, and 
one public crime was seized on as the pre- 
tence for revenging a long course of oppression. 
The arrival, however, of these slowly produced 
seras makes a sudden and striking change in 
ihe circumstances of a country, and forms a 
kind of distinct line of separation between the 
manners which precede and those which fol- 
low it. 

A prince (whose chief study must be politics) 
ought in general to prefer contemporary his- 
torians, and even ordinary annalists, to the 
compilers of history who come after them. He 
should have recourse to the documents from 
which authors derive their history, rather than 
sit down satisfied with the history so derived. 
Life, however, is too short to allow, in all cases, 
of this laborious process. Attention, therefore, 



to the minuter details of contemporary annalistai 
and to the original records consisting of letters 
and state papers, must be limited to periods of 
more than ordinary importance. Into these the 
attentive politician will dive for himself, and he 
will often be abundantly repaid. The periods, 
for example, of the unhappy contests in the 
reign of the first Charles, of the restoration, and 
more especially of the revolution, are the turn- 
ing points of our political constitution. A prince, 
by examining these original documents, and by 
making himself master of the points then at 
issue, would be sure to understand what are his 
own rights as a sovereign. 

It is not by single, but by concurrent testi- 
mony, that the truth of history is established. 
And it is by a careful perusal" of different au- 
thors who treat of the same period, that a series 
of historic truth will be extracted. Where they 
agree, we may trust that they are right; 
where they differ we must elicit truth from the 
collision. Thus the royal pupil, when engaged 
in the perusal of Clarendon, should also study 
some of the best writers, who are favourable to 
the parliamentary cause. A careful perusal of 
Ludlow and Whitlock ; a general survey of 
Rushworth, or occasional reference to that 
author and to Thurloe ; and as a cursory review 
of their own lives and times by Laud and Baxter, 
will throw 7 great light on many of the transac- 
tions of the eventful period of the first Charles. 
They will show how different the same actions 
appear to different men, equal in understanding 
and integrity. They will inforce mutual can- 
dour and mutual forbearance, repressing the 
wholesale conclusions of party violence, and 
teaching a prince to be on his guard against 
the intemperate counsels of his interested or 
heated advisers. They will instruct a monarch 
in the important lesson of endeavouring to as- 
certain and keep in view the light in which hi3 
actions and motives will appear to his people. 
They will teach him to attend carefully to the 
opinions and feelings, and even to the prejudices 
of the times ; and in obedience to a precept en- 
joined by divine authority for private life, and 
still more important to be observed in public, — 
' to provide things honest in the sight of all men.' 

Again, while the narratives of the contem- 
porary historians furnish facts, they who live in 
a succeeding age have the additional advan- 
tages first, of a chance of greater impartiality ; 
secondly, of a comparison with corresponding 
events, and, thirdly, of having the tendencies of 
the events related, appreciated by the evidence 
of their actual effects. How imperfect, for 
example, would be the philosophical and politi- 
cal remarks, and how false the whole colour be- 
longing to any history of the French revolu- 
tion which might have immediately appeared.* 
Much lapse of time is necessary in order to re- 
flect back light on the original tendency of 
events. The fermentation of political passions 
requires a long time to subside. The agitation 
continues till the events have nearly lost their 

* The French revolution, with its consequences, seem 
intended practically to contradict what Thucydides de- 
clared to be his design in writing history ; namely, by a 
faithful account of past things to assist mankind in 
conjecturing the future 1 



32 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



interest, by the occurrence of a fresh class of 
events ; which, in their turn, raise a new party, 
and excite a new interest ; so that an impartial 
distribution of praise and censure is seldom 
made till those who are concerned in it have 
been long out of hearing. And it is an incon- 
venience inseparable from human things that 
when writers are least able to come at the truth, 
they are most disposed to tell it. 

It will be necessary to understand the politi 
cal system of Europe, since that period par- 
ticularly, when the two powers of France and 
Austria having arisen to a greatness, which made 
them mutually, as well as generally formidable, 
other countries, seeing the necessity for their 
own safety, of opposing the stronger, and sup- 
porting the weaker, conceived the idea of that 
balance of power, that just equiponderance, 
which might preserve the security of all. 

But there is a far earlier epoch to which at- 
tention ought perhaps, in the very first instance, 
to be directed, I mean the reign of Alfred. 
This is eminently a stud}' for kings. — In Alfred, 
the most vigorous exertion of public justice was 
united with attachment to public liberty. He 
eagerly seized every interval of tranquillity, 
from the convulsions with which the state was 
torn, to collect materials for the most salutary 
institutions, which he afterwards established ; 
he employed every moment he could snatch 
from the wars in which he was inevitably en- 
gaged, in introducing the arts of peace, and in 
turning the minds of his harassed and disorder- 
ly subjects to virtuous and industrious pursuits ; 
in repairing the mischievous consequences of 
past insurrections, and wisely guarding against 
their return. He had to correct the habits of 
a people who had lived without laws, and with- 
out morals ; and to reduce to civilization, men 
who had been driven to subsist by chance or 
rapine. By a system of jurisprudence, which 
united moral discipline with the execution of 
penal laws, he undertook to give a new direc- 
tion to habits inveterately depraved. 

The royal pupil will be taught to ascribe the 
origin of some of our best usages to these sa- 
gacious regulations ; above all, the conception 
of that unparalleled idea which so beautifully 
reconciles the exact administration of justice 
with individual liberty ; the origin of our juries 
evidently appearing to have first entered the 
mind of Alfred. The effects on the people 
seem to have been proportioned to the exertions 
of the prince. Crimes were repressed. The 
most unexampled change took place in the 
national manners. Encouragement was held 
out to the reformed, while punishment kept in 
order the more irreclaimable. Yet with all these 
strong measures, never was a prince more ten- 
derly alive to the liberty of the subject. And 
while commerce, navigation, ingenious inven- 
tions, and all the peaceful arts were promoted by 
him, his skill in the military tactics of that day 
was superior, perhaps, to that of any of his con- 
temporaries. 

To form such vast projects, not for disturbing 
the world, but for blessing it, — to reduce those 
projects, in many instances, to the most minute 
detail of actual execution ; — to have surmounted 
the misfortune of a neglected education so as to 



make himself a scholar, a philosopher, and tne 
moral as well as civil instructor of his people ; 
— all this implies such a grandeur of capacity, 
such an exact conception of the true character 
of a sovereign, such sublimity of principle, and 
such corresponding rectitude of practice, as 
fill up all our ideas of consummate greatness. 
In a word, Alfred seems to have been sent into 
the world to realize the beautiful fiction, which 
poets, philosophers, and patriots, have formed 
of a perfect king. It is also worth observing, 
that all those various plans were both projected 
and executed by a monarch who, as all his- 
torians agree, had suffered more hardships than 
any ordinary adventurer, had fought more bat- 
tles than most generals, and was the most vo- 
luminous author of his day.* And, if it should 
be asked by what means a single individual 
could accomplish such a variety of projects, the 
answer is simply this : It was in a good measure 
by an art of which little account is made, but 
which is perhaps of more importance in a sove 
reign than almost any other, at least it is one 
without which the brightest genius is of little 
value, a strict (economy of time. 

Between the earlier life of Alfred and that of 
Charles II. there was, as must be observed, a 
striking similarity. The paths of both to the 
throne were equally marked by such imminent 
dangers and ' hair breadth's 'scapes' as more 
resemble romance than authentic history. What 
a lesson had Alfred prepared for Charles ! But 
their characters as kings, exhibited an opposi- 
tion which is as strong as the resemblance in 
their previous fortunes. With an understand, 
ing naturally good, with that education which 
Alfred wanted, — with every advantage which 
an improved state of society could give over a 
barbarous one ; such, notwithstanding, was the 
uniform tenor of the Stuart's subsequent life, as 
almost to present the idea of an intended con- 
trast to the virtues of the illustrious Saxon. 

Another epoch to which the pupil's attention 
should be pointed, is the turbulent and iniqui- 
tous reign of king John ; whose oppression and 
injustice were, by the excess to which they were 
carried, the providential means of rousing the 
English spirit, and of obtaining the establish- 
ment of the great charter. This famous trans- 
action, so deservedly interesting to Englishmen, 
bestowed or secured the most valuable civil 
privileges ; chiefly indeed to the barons and 
clergy, but also to the people at large. The 
privileges of the latter had antecedently, been 
scarcely taken into the account, and their liber- 
ties, always imperfect, had suffered much in- 
fringement by the introduction of the feudal law 
into England under the Norman William. For, 
whether they were vassals under the barons, or 
vassals under the king it made little difference 
in their condition ; which was, in fact, to the 
greater part, little better than a state of abso- 
lute slavery. The barons, liberal, perhaps, 
through policy rather than humanity, in strug- 
gling for their own liberty were compelled to in- 
volve in one common interest the liberty of 
the people ; and the same laws which they 

See the character of Alfred in Hume, from which 
the preceding part of this account, hi substance, is 
chiefly taken. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



33 



demanded to secure their own protection, in 
some measure necessarily extended their be- 
nign influence to the inferior classes of society 
— Those immunities, which are essential to the 
well-being of civil and social life, gradually be- 
came better secured. Injustice was restrained, 
tyrannical exactions were guarded against, and 
oppression was no longer sanctioned. This 
famous deed, without any violent innovation, be- 
came the mound of property, the pledge of 
liberty, and the guarantee of independence. As 
it guarded the rights of all orders of men, from 
the lowest to the highest, it was vigorously con- 
tended for by all ; for, if it limited the power of 
the king, it also confirmed it, by securing the 
allegiance and fidelity of the subject. It was of 
inestimable use by giving a determinate form 
and shape, ' such a local habitation and a name,' 
to the spirit of liberty ; so that the English, when, 
as it often happened, they claimed the recogni- 
tion of their legal rights, were not left to wander 
in a wide field, without having any specific ob- 
ject, without limitation, and without direction. 
They knew what to ask for, and, obtaining that, 
they were satisfied. We surely cannot but be 
Bensible of the advantages which they derived 
from this circumstance, who have seen the ef- 
fects of an opposite situation, in this very par- 
ticular, illustrated so strikingly in the earlier 
period of the French revolution. 

But, rapidity of progress seems, by the very 
laws of nature, to be precluded, where the bene- 
fit is to be radical and permanent. — It was not, 
therefore, until our passion for making war 
within the territory of France was cured, nor 
until we left off tearing the bowels of our own 
country, in the dissensions of the Yorkists and 
Lancastrians, after having for near four hun- 
dred years, torn those of our neighbours ; in .a 
word, it was not until both foreign and civil 
fury began to cool, that in the reign of Henry 
VII. the people began to enjoy more real free- 
dom, as the king enjoyed a more settled domi- 
nion, and the interests of peace and commerce 
substantially prevailed. Without ascribing to 
this king virtues which he did not possess, the 
view of his reign, with all its faults, affords a 
kind of breathing time, and sense of repose. It 
is from this reign that the history of the laws, 
and civil constitution of England become inter- 
esting ; as that of our ecclesiastical constitution 
does from the subsequent reign. A general ac- 
quaintance with the antecedent part of our his- 
tory may suffice for the royal pupil, but from 
these periods she cannot possess too detailed a 
knowledge of it. 



CHAP. XII. 

Queen Elizabeth. 

It is remarkable that in France, a nation in 
which women have always been held in the 
highest consideration, their genius has never 
been called to its loftiest exercise. — France is 
perhaps the only country which has never been 
governed by a woman. — The mothers, however, 
of some of her sovereigns, when minors, have, 

Vol. II. C 



during their regencies, Blanche of Castile,* espe- 
cially, discovered talents for government not in- 
ferior to those of most of her kings. 

Anne of Austria has had her eulogists ; but 
in her character there seems to have been more 
of intrigue than of genius, or at least, than of 
sound sense ; and her virtues were problemati- 
cal. If her talents had some splendour, they had 
no solidity. They produced a kind of stage ef- 
fect, which was imposing, but not efficient, and 
she was rather an actress of royalty than a great 
queen. She was not happy in the choice of a 
friend. The source of all Mazarin's greatness, 
she supported him with inflexible attachment, 
and established him in more than regal power. 
In return, he treated her with respect as long 
as he stood in need of her protection, and set her 
aside when her support was become no longer 
necessary to his confirmed power. 

The best queens have been most remarkable 
for employing great men. Among these, Zeno- 
bia, Elizabeth, and Anne stood foremost. Those 
who wish to derogate from the glories of a fe- 
male reign, have never failed to urge, that they 
were owing to the wisdom of the ministers, and 
not to that of the queen ; a censure which in- 
volves an eulogium. For, is not the choice of 
sagacious ministers the characteristic mark of 
a sagacious sovereign ? Would, for instance, 
Mary di Medici have chosen a Walsingham ; 
she who made it one of the first acts of her re- 
gency to banish Sully, and to employ Concini ? 
Or, did it ever enter into the mind of the first 
Mary of England to take into her councils that 
Cecil, who so much distinguished himself in the 
cabinet of her sister ? 

Elizabeth's great natural capacity was, as has 
been before observed, improved by an excellent 
education. Her native vigour of mind had been 
early called forth by a series of uncommon trials. 
The circumspection she had been, from child- 
hood, obliged to exercise, taught her prudence. 
The difficulties which beset her, accustomed 
her to self-control. Can we, therefore, doubt 
that the steadiness of purpose, and undaunted 
resolution which she manifested on almost every 
occasion during her long reign, were greatly to 
be attributed to that youthful discipline? She 
would probably never have acquired such an 
ascendency over the mind of others, had she not 
early learned so absolute a command over her 
own. 

On coming to the crown, she found herself 
surrounded with those obstacles which display 
great characters, but overset ordinary minds. 
The vast work of the reformation, which had 
been undertaken by her brother Edward, but 
crushed in the very birth, as far as was within 
human power, by the bigot Mary, was resumed 
and accomplished by Elizabeth : and that, not 
in the calm of security, not in the fulness of un- 
disputed power, but even while that power was 
far from being confirmed, and that security was 
liable, every mement, to be shaken by the most 
alarming commotions. She had prejudices, ap- 
parently insurmountable, to overcome ; she had 
heavy debts to discharge ; she had an almost 
ruined navy to repair ; she had a debased coin 

• Mother of Louie IX. 



34 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



to restore ; she had empty magazines to fill ; she 
had a decaying commerce to invigorate ; she had 
an exhausted exchequer to replenish. — All these, 
by the blessing of God on the strength of her 
mind, and the wisdom of her councils, she ac- 
complished. She not only paid her own debts; 
but, without any great additional burdens on 
her subjects, she discharged those also which 
were due to the people from her two immediate 
predecessors. At the same time, she fostered 
genius, she encouraged literature, she attracted 
all the great talents of the age within the sphere 
of her own activity. And, though she constantly 
availed herself of all the judgment and talents 
of her ministers, her acquiescence in their mea- 
sures was that of conviction, never of implicit 
confidence. 

Her exact frugality may not, by superficial 
judges, be reckoned among the shining parts of 
her character. Yet, those who see more deeply, 
must allow, that it was a quality from which 
the most important benefits were derived to her 
people ; and without which all her great abili- 
ties would have been comparatively inefficient. 
The parsimony of her grandfather was the ra- 
pine and exaction of an extortioner ; hers, the 
wise economy of a provident parent. If we are 
to judge of the value of actions by their conse- 
quences, let us compare the effects upon the 
country, of the prodigality, both of her father, 
and of her successor, with her own frugality. 
As it has been asserted by Plutarch,* that the 
money idly thrown away by the Athenians on 
the representations of two dramatic poets only, 
amounted to a larger sum than had been ex- 
pended on all their wars against the Persians, 
in defence of their liberty ; so it has been affirm- 
ed, that the first James spent more treasure on 
his favourites, than it had cost Elizabeth to 
maintain all her wars, Yet, there have not been 
wanting historians, who have given the praise 
of liberality to James, and especially to Henry, 
while Elizabeth has suffered the imputation of 
avarice. But we ought to judge of good and 
evil, by their own weight and measure, and not 
by the specious names which the latter can as- 
sume, nor by the injurious terms which may be 
bestowed on the former. 

It is not from the splenetic critic in retired 
life, from the declaimer, ignorant of the duties 
and the requisitions of princes, that we should 
take our sentiments on the point of royal econo- 
my ; but from men, who, however possessing 
different characters and views, yet agree in this 
one respect, that their exalted public situations, 
and great personal experience enable them to 
give a fair and sound opinion. The judgment 
even of the emperor Tiberius was not so impair- 
ed by his vices, but that he could insist, that an 
exchequer, exhausted by prodigality, must be 
replenished with oppression. Cicero, versed in 
public business, no less than in the knowledge 
of mankind, affirms, that ' a liberal prince loses 
more hearts than he gains, and that the resent- 
ment of those from whom he takes the money, 
is much stronger than the gratitude of those to 
whom he gives it.' And, on another occasion 
he says, that ' men are not aware what a rich 

* In his inquiry whether the Athenians were more 
eminent in the art9 of war or peace. 



treasury frugality is.' The same sentiments 
seem to have been adopted by another Roman 
statesman, a royal favourite too. Pliny affirms, 
that ' a prince will be pardoned, who gives no- 
thing to his subjects, provided he takes nothing 
away from them.' 

Those princes, who despising frugality, have 
been prodigal for the sake of a little temporary 
applause, have seldom achieved lasting good. 
And, allowing that this lavish generosity may 
be for the moment a popular quality, yet, there 
is scarcely any thing which has contributed to 
bring more calamities on a state, than the means 
used for enabling the prince to indulge it. It 
was not in Rome alone, as recent instances tes- 
tify, that when the government has wanted mo- 
ney, the rich have been always found to be the 
guilty. A prodigal generosity, as we have seen 
in the case of Caesar, and in our own time, may 
be a useful instrument for paving the way to a 
throne ; but an established sovereign will find 
economy a more certain means of keeping him 
in it. The emperor Nero was extolled for the 
felicity which he was diffusing by his bounty, 
while Rome was groaning under the burthen 
of his exactions. That liberality which would 
make a prince necessitous, and a people poor, 
would, by hurting his fame, weaken his influ- 
ence ; for reputation is power. After all, such 
a care and improvement of the revenue, as will 
enable him to spare his subjects, is the truest 
liberality in a prince. 

But, to return — The distinguishing qualities 
of Elizabeth appear to have been economy, pru- 
dence, and moderation. Yet in some instances 
the former was rigid, not to say unjust.* Nor 
had her frugality always the purest motives. 
She was, it is true, very unwilling to trouble 
parliament for money, for which, indeed, they 
were extremely unwilling to be troubled ; but 
her desire to keep herself independent of them 
seems to have been her motive for this forbear- 
ance- What she might have gained in supplies 
she must have lost in power. 

To her moderation and that middle line of 
conduct which she observed, much of her suc- 
cess may be ascribed. To her moderation in 
the contests between papists and puritans, it is 
chiefly to be attributed, that the reformation is- 
sued in a happier medium in England, than in 
any other country. — To her moderation, in re- 
spect to foreign war, from which she was sin- 
gularly averse, may be ascribed at that rapid 
improvement at home, which took place under 
her reign. — If we were to estimate Elizabeth as 
a private female, she would doubtless appear en- 
titled to but little veneration. If as an instru- 
ment raised up by Divine Providence to carry 
through the most arduous enterprises in the 
most difficult emergencies, we can hardly rate 
her too highly. We owe her much as English- 
men. As protestants, what do we not. owe her ? 
If we look at the woman, wo shall see much to 
blame ; if at the sovereign, we shall see almost 
every thing to admire. — Her great, faults though 
they derogated from her personal character, sel- 
dom deeply affected her administration. In one 
instance only, her favouritism was prejudicial 

* Particularly her keeping the see of Ely vacant nine- 
teen years, in order to retain the revenue. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



35 



to the state ; her appointment of Leicester to 
the naval command, for which he was utterly 
unfit. On many occasions, as we have elsewhere 
observed, her very passions supplied what was 
wanting in principle. Thus, her violent attach- 
ments might have made her indiscriminately 
lavish, if they had not been counteracted by that 
parsimoniousness which never forsook her. Ac- 
cordingly, in the midst of her lamentations for 
the death of Leicester, we see her grief did not 
make her forget to seize his goods, and to repay 
herself for what she had lent him. 

Our censures, therefore, must not be lost in 
our admiration, nor must our gratitude warp 
our judgment. And it may be useful to inquire 
how it came to pass that Elizabeth, with so 
much power, so much prudence, and so much 
popularity, should at length become completely 
miserable, and die, neglected and forsaken, her 
sun setting ingloriously after so bright a day of 
prosperity and honour. 

May we not venture to attribute it to the de- 
fectiveness, not to say unsoundness, of her moral 
principles ? Though corrupt principles for a 
certain period may conceal themselves, and even 
dazzle, by the success of the projects to which, 
in the view of superficial reasouers, they may 
have appeared conducive ; they will, in a long 
course of action, betray their intrinsic weakness. 
— They may not entirely have prevented the 
public good effects of other useful qualities with 
which they were associated ; but they do most 
fatally operate against the personal honour of 
the individual; and against her reaping that 
harvest of gratitude and respect, to which she 
might otherwise have been so justly entitled. 

Vanity was, too probably, the spring of some 
of Elizabeth's most admired actions ; but the 
same vanity also produced that jealousy, which 
terminated in the death of Mary. It was the 
same vanity which led her first to court the ad- 
miration of Essex, and then to suffer him to fall 
a victim to her wounded pride. Her temper 
was uncontrolled. — While we pardon her igno- 
rance of the principles of liberty, we should not 
forget how little she respected the privileges of 
parliament, claiming a right of imprisoning its 
very members, without deigning to give any 
account of her proceedings. 

Policy was her favourite science, but in that 
day a liberal policy was not understood ; and 
Elizabeth was too apt to substitute both simula- 
tion and dissimulation for an open and generous 
conduct. This dissimulation at length lost her 
the confidence of her subjects, and while it in- 
spired her with a distrust, it also forfeited the 
attachment of her friends. Her insincerity, as 
was natural, infected those around her. The 
young Cecil himself was so far alienated from 
his roval mistress, and tainted with the prevail- 
ing spirit of intrigue, as to be secretly corres- 
ponding with her rival James. 

That such mortifying occurrences were too 
likely to arise, from the very nature of existing 
circumstances, where the dying prince was the 
last of her race, and the nearly vacant throne 
about to be possessed by a stranger, must as- 
suredly be allowed. But it may still be asserted, 
that nothing but deficiency of moral character 
could have so desolated the closing scene of an 



illustrious princess. Real virtue will, in every 
rank, draw upon it disinterested regard ; and a 
truly virtuous sovereign will not be shut out 
from a more than ordinary share in this general 
blessing. It is honourable to human nature to 
see the dying William pressing to his bosom the 
hand of Bentick ; but it will be still more con- 
solatory as well as instructive to compare, with 
the forsaken death-bed of Elizabeth, the exem- 
plary closing scence of the second Mary as de- 
scribed by Burnet, an eye-witness of the affect- 
ing event which he relates. 



CHAP. XIV. 

Moral advantages to be derived from the study 
of history, independent of the examples it ex. 
hibits. — History proves the corruption of human 
nature. — It demonstrates the superintending 
power of Providence — illustrated by instances. 

The knowledge of great events and splendid 
characters, and even of the customs, laws, and 
manners of different nations ; an acquaintance, 
however accurate, with the state of the arts, sci- 
ences, and commerce of those nations, important 
as is this knowledge, must not however be con- 
sidered as of primary importance in the study 
of history. — There are still higher uses to which 
that study may be turned. History furnishes a 
strong practical illustration of one of the funda- 
mental doctrines of our religion, the corruption 
of human nature. To this truth it constantly 
bears witness by exemplifying it under every 
shape and shade, and colour, and gradation ; the 
annals of the world, indeed, from its commence- 
ment to the present hour, presenting little else 
than a strongly interwoven tissue of those cor- 
ruptions, and their attendant calamities. 

History every where proves the helplessness 
and natural inability of man, the insufficiency 
of all such moral principles as can be derived 
from nature and experience ; the necessity of 
explicit instruction respecting our true happi- 
ness, and of divinely communicated strength in 
order to its attainment ; and consequently, the 
inconceivable worth of that life and immortali- 
ty, which are so fully brought to light by the 
gospel. 

That reader looks to little purpose over the 
eventful page of history, who does not accustom 
himself to mark therein the finger of the Al- 
mighty, governing kings and kingdoms ; pro- 
longing or contracting the duration of empires ; 
tracing out beforehand, in the unimpeachable 
page of the prophet Daniel,* an outline of suc- 
cessive empires, which subsequent events have 

* The parts of the book of Daniel chiefly alluded to 
aie Nebuchadnezzar's dream and Daniel's interpreta- 
tion of it, in the second chapter ; and his own vision of 
the four beasts, in the eighth, These two passages 
alone, preserved as they have been by the most invete- 
rate enemies of Christianity, amount to an irrefragible 
demonstration that our religion is divine. One of the 
most ancient and most learned opposers of revelation is 
said to have denied the possibility of these prophecies 
having existed before the events. But we know they 
did exist, and no modern infidel dares to dispute it. — 
But, admitting this, however they may take refuge in 
their own inconsequence of mind, they inevitably, 
though indirectly, allow the truth of Christianity 



36 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



realized with the most critical exactness ; and 
describing their eventful subservience to the spi- 
ritual kingdom of the Messiah, with a circum- 
stantial accuracy which the well-informed Chris- 
tian, who is versed in scripture language, and 
whose heart is interested in the subject, reads 
with unutterable and never-ceasing astonish- 
ment. It is, in fact, this wonderful correspond- 
ence, which gives its highest value to the more 
ancient half of the historic series. What would 
it profit us, at this day, to learn from Xenophon, 
that the Assyrian monarch had subjugated all 
those countries, with the exception of Media, 
which spread eastward from the Mediterranean, 
if it were not that, by this statement, he confirms 
that important portion of sacred and prophetic 
history ! And to what solidly useful purpose 
would the same historian's detail of the taking 
of Babylon be applicable, if it did not forcibly as 
well as minutely, illustrate ihe almost equally 
detailed denunciations of the prophet Isaiah? It 
was partly for the purpose of elucidating this 
correspondence between sacred prophecy and 
ancient history ; and showing, by how regular 
a providential chain the successive empires of 
the ancient world were connected with each 
other, and ultimately with Christianity, that the 
excellent Rollin composed his well-known work; 
and the impression which his researches left 
upon his own mind, may be seen in those sub- 
limely pious remarks with which his last volume 
is concluded. 

A careful perusal of the historical and pro- 
phetical parts of scripture will prepare us for 
reading profane history with great advantage. 
In the former we are admitted within the veil. 
We are informed how the vices of nations drew 
down on them the wrath of the Almighty ; and 
how some neighbouring potentate was employed 
as the instrument of divine vengeance. How 
his ambition, his courage, and military skill 
were but the means of fulfilling the divine pre- 
diction, or of inflicting the divine punishment. 
How, when the mighty conqueror, the execu- 
tioner of the sentence of Heaven, had performed 
his assigned task, he was put aside, and was 
himself, perhaps in his turn, humbled and laid 
low. Such are the familiar incidents of his- 
toric and prophetic Scripture. But, in addition 
to the stock of knowledge which we received 
from thence, we shall have learned in the divine 
school to little purpose, if we do not find the be- 
nefit of our studies in the general impression 
and habits of mind which we derive from them ; 
if we do not open our eyes to the agency of Pro- 
vidence in the varying fortunes of nations, and 
in the talents, characters, and fates of the chief 
actors in the great drama of life. 

Do we read in the prophetic page the solemn 
call and designations of Cyrus ?-»-Let us learn 
to recognise no less, as the instrument of the 
Almighty, a Gustavus, and a Marlborough ! Are 
we many hundred years before informed, by 
Him who can alone see the end from the be- 
ginning, of the military exploits of the conqueror 
of Babylon, and the overturner of the Assyrian 
empire ? — Let us learn to refer no less to that 
same all-disposing power, the victories of Lutzen 
and of Blenheim, the humiliation of Austrian 
arrogance, and of French ambition. 



Another important end to the study of generA 
history, distinct from that which has just been 
mentioned, but by no means unconnected with 
it, is the contemplation of divine wisdom and 
goodness, as exercised in gradually civilizing the 
human race, through the instrumentality of their 
own agitation. In this view the mind of the 
pupil should be particularly led to observe that 
mysterious yet most obvious operation of Provi- 
dence, by which, through successive ages, the 
complicated chaos of human agency has been 
so over-ruled as to make all things work together 
for general good : the hostile collision of nations 
being often made conducive, almost in its im- 
mediate consequences, to their common benefit, 
and often rendered subservient to the general 
improvement, and progressive advancement ot 
the great commonwealth of mankind. 

If this view, respecting the world at large, 
should be deemed too vast for satisfactory consi- 
deration, it may be limited to that part with 
which we are most nearly connected ; and to 
which it is hardly too bold to say, that Divine 
Providence itself has, during the latter ages of 
the world, seemed to direct its chief attention — 
I mean the continent of Europe. Let it simply 
be asked, what was the state of this continent 
two thousand years ago? The answer must be 
— from the Alps to the Frozen Ocean, a moral 
as well as physical wilderness. That the human 
powers were formed for extended exercise, and 
in some sense for boundless improvement, tho 
very contemplation of those powers is sufficient 
to evince. But that improvement had not then 
begun, nor was the frost of their dreariest win- 
ter more benumbing than that in which their 
minds had been for ages locked up. To what 
then but a regular design of Providence can we 
attribute the amazing change ! And it is doubt- 
less the part, no less of religious gratitude than 
of philosophical curiosity, to inquire into the se- 
ries of instrumental causes by which the trans- 
formation was effected. This interesting and 
most instructive intelligence is conveyed to us 
by history. We mark the slow but steady de- 
velopement of the wise and benevolent plan. We 
see the ambition of Rome breaking up the soil 
with its resistless plough-share, and scattering 
even through these British isles the first seeds 
of civilization. We see the northern invaders 
burst forth with irresistible violence, bringing 
back, to all human appearance, the former deso- 
lation ; but, in reality, conducing, though with 
an operation like that of lava from a volcano, to 
a richer harvest of social and civil happiness. 
We see all that was really valuable spring up 
again afresh, mingled with new principles of 
utility and comfort ; and above all, quickened 
and enriched by the wide-spread influences of a 
pure and heavenly religion. We see the violent 
passions providentially let loose, when it was 
necessary for society to be roused from a perni- 
cious torpor. We see an enthusiastic rage for 
conquests in Asia, inducing an activity of mind, 
and enlargement of view, out of which eventu- 
ally grew commerce, liberty, literature, philoso- 
phy, and at length, even religious reformation. 
In brief, if in our perusal of history, we take 
true wisdom for our guide, we shall not only be 
instructed by that gracious progressiveness 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MOUE 



37 



wnich is discernable in past events, but, notwith- 
standing the awful concussions of the present 
period, we shall learn to trust Almighty wisdom 
and goodness for what is to come. And we 
shall be ready to indulge the hope of a yet great- 
ly increased happiness of mankind, when we 
consider, that the hand which brought us from 
barbarism to our present circumstances is still 
over us ; — that progression to still better habits 
is equally possible, and equally necessary ; and 
that no means were rendered more conducive to 
euch progress, in the period which is passed, than 
the agitations of the same awful and afflictive 
kind which we are now doomed to contemplate. 

It will be seen that the same Infinite wisdom 
often permits human evils to balance each other, 
and in subservience to his grand purpose of 
general good, not only sets good against evil, 
but often, where the counteracting principle of 
religion seems wholly suspended, prevent any 
fatal preponderance in the scale of human af- 
fairs, by allowing one set of vices to counter- 
balance another. — Thus, societies, which ap- 
pear, on a general view, to have almost wholly 
thrown off the divine government, are still pre- 
served for better things, or perhaps, for the sake 
of the righteous few, who still remain in them, 
by means of those exertions which bad men 
make from selfish motives ; or by the vigilance 
with which one party of bad men watches over 
another. The clash of parties, and the opposi- 
tion of human opinion, are likewise often over- 
ruled for good. The com pages of the public 
mind, if we may use such a term, are no less 
kept together, than the component parts of 
matter, by opposite tendencies. And, as all 
human agents are nothing but the instruments 
of God, he can with equal efficacy, though doubt- 
less not with the same complacency, cause 
the effects of evil passions to be counteracted 
by each other, as well as by the opposite 
virtues. For instance, were it not for indo- 
lence and the dread of difficulty and danger, 
ambition would deluge the world in blood. 
The love of praise, and the love of indul- 
gence, assist, through their mutual opposition, 
to keep each other in order. Avarice and 
voluptuousness are almost as hostile to each 
other, as either is to the opposite virtues ; there- 
fore, by pulling different ways, they contribute 
to keep the world in equipoise. Thus, the same 
divine hand, which had so adjusted the parts 
and the properties of matter, as that their ap- 
parent opposition produces, not disruption, but 
harmony, and promotes the general order, has 
also conceived, through the action and counter- 
action of the human mind, that no jar of passion, 
no abuse of free agency, shall eventually defeat 
the wise and gracious purposes of heaven. 

For an illustration of these remarks, we 
scarcely need go farther than the character of our 
own heroic Elizabeth. Her passions were na- 
turally of the strongest kind ; and it must be ac- 
knowledged, that they were not always under 
the controul of principle. To what then can we 
so fairly ascribe the success which, even in such 
instances, attended her, as the effect of ono 
strong passion forcibly operating on another ? 
Inclinations which were too violent to be check- 
ed by reason were met and counteracted by 



opposite inclinations of equal violence ; and 
through the direction of Providence, the pas- 
sion finally predominant was generally favour- 
able to the public good. 

Do we then mean to admit, that the Almighty 
approves of these excesses in individuals, by 
which his wisdom often works for the general 
benefit? God forbid. Nothing surely could be 
less approved by him, than the licentiousness 
and cruelty of our eighth Henry, though He 
over-ruled those enormities for the advantages 
of the community, and employed them, as his 
instruments for restoring good government, and 
for introducing, and at length establishing, the 
reformation. England enjoys the inestimable 
blessing but the monarch is not the less re- 
sponsible personally for his crimes. We are 
equally certain, that God did not approve of the 
insatiable ambition of Alexander, or of his in- 
credible acquisition of territory by means of 
unjust wars. Yet, from that ambition, those 
wars, and those conquests, how much may the 
condition of mankind have been meliorated ? 
The natural humanity of this hero, which he 
had improved by the study of philosophy under 
one of the greatest masters in the world, dis- 
posed him to turn his conquests to the benefit 
of mankind. He founded seventy cities, says 
his historian, so situated as to promote com- 
merce and diffuse civilization. Plutarch* ob- 
serves, that had those nations not been conquer- 
ed, Egypt would have had no Alexandria, Meso- 
potamia, no Selucia. He also informs us, that 
Alexander introduced marriage into one con- 
quered country, and agriculture into another; 
that one barbarous nation, who used to eat their 
parents, was led by him to reverence and main- 
tain them ; that he taught the Persians to re- 
spect, and not to marry their mothers ; the 
Scythians to bury, and not to eat their dead. 

There was on the whole, something so extra- 
ordinary in the career of this monarch, and in the 
results to which it led, that his historian Arrian, 
amidst all the darkness of paganism, was in- 
duced to say, that Alexander seemed to have 
been given to the world by a peculiar dispensa- 
tion of Providence. 

Did the same just Providence, approve of 
the usurpation of Augustus over his fallen 
country ? — No — but Providence employed it as 
the means of restoring peace to remote pro- 
vinces, which the tyrannical republic had so 
long harassed and oppressed ; and also of estab- 
lishing a general uniformity of law, and facility 
of intercourse between nation and nation, which 
were signally subservient to the diffusion of that 
divine religion, which was so soon to enlighten 
and to bless mankind. 

To adduce one or two instances more, were 
thousands might be adduced — Did the Almighty 
approve those frantic wars which arrogated to 
themselves the name of holy ? Yet, with all the 
extravagance of the enterprise, and the ruinous 
failure which attended its execution, many 
beneficial consequences, as has been already in- 
timated, were permitted, incidentally, to grow 
out of them. The Crusaders, as their historians 
demonstrate^ beheld in their march, countries 

+ Quoted by Gillies vol. iii. p. 385. 

t See especially Robertson's State of Europe. 



38 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



in which civilization had made a greater pro- 
gress than in their own. They saw foreign 
manufactures in a state of improvement to 
which they had not been accustomed at home. 
They perceived remains of knowledge in the 
East, of which Europe had almost lost sight. 
Their native prejudices were diminished in 
witnessing improvements to which the slate of 
their own country presented comparative bar- 
barity. The first faint gleam of light dawned 
on them, the first perceptions of taste and ele- 
gance were awakened, and the first rudiments 
of many an art were communicated to them by 
this personal acquaintance with more polished 
countries. Their views of commerce were im- 
proved, and their means of extending it were 
enlarged. 

It is scarcely necessary to add, that the ex- 
cess to which the popes carried their usurpation, 
and the Romish clergy, their corruptions, was, 
by the Providence of God, the immediate cause 
of the reformation. The taking of Constanti- 
nople by the Turks, though in itself, a most de- 
plorable scene of crimes and calamities, became 
the occasion of most important benefits to our 
countries, by compelling the only accomplished 
scholars then in the world to seek an asylum in 
the western part of Europe. To these countries 
they carried with them the Greek language, 
which ere long proved one of the providential 
means of introducing the most important event 
that has occurred since the first establishment 
of Christianity. 

May we not now add to the number of in- 
stances in which Providence has over-ruled the 
crimes of men for good, a recent exemplification 
of the doctrine, in the ambition of that person, 
who, by his unjust assumption of imperial 
power in a neighbouring nation, has, though 
unintentionally, almost annihilated the wild 
outcry of false liberty, and the clamour of 
mad democracy ? 

All those contingent events which lie without 
the limits and calculations of human foresight ; 
all those variable loose uncertainties which men 
call chance, has God taken under his own cer- 
tain disposal and absolute controul. To reduce 
uncertainty to method, confusion to arrange- 
ment, and contingency to order, is solely the 
prerogative of Almighty power. 

Nothing can be further from the intention of 
these remarks, than to countenance, in the 
slightest degree, the doctrine of optimism in the 
sense in which it was maintained by Mr. Pope. 
Far be it from the writer, to intimate that the 
good which has thus providentially been pro- 
duced out of evil, is greater than the good, 
which would have been produced had no such 
evil been committed ; or to insinuate, that the 
crimes of men do not diminish the quantity of 
good which is enjoyed. This would, indeed, be 
to furnish an apology for vice. That God can 
and does bring good out of evil, is unquestion- 
ably true ; but to affirm, that he brings more, or 
so much good out of evil as he would have 
brought out of good, had good been practised, 
Would be indeed a dangerous position. 

If, therefore, God often ' educes good from ill,' 
yet man has no right to count upon his always 
doing it in the same degree in which he ap- 



points that good shall be productive of good. To 
resume the illustration, therefore, from a few of 
the instances already adduced ; what an exten- 
sive blessing might Alexander, had he acted 
with other views and to other ends, have proved 
to that world, whose happiness he impaired by 
his ambition, and whose morals he corrupted by 
his example ! How much more effectually, and 
immediately might the reformation have been 
promoted, had Henry, laying aside the blind- 
ness of prejudice, and subduing the turbulence 
of passion, been the zealous and consistent sup- 
porter of the protestant cause ; the virtuous hus- 
band of one virtuous wife, and the parent of 
children all educated in the sound principles of 
the reformation 7 Again, had the popes effec- 
tually reformed themselves, how might the unity 
of the churches have been promoted : and even 
the schisms, which have arisen in protestant 
communities, been diminished ! It would be 
superfluous to recapitulate other instances; 
these, it is presumed, being abundantly suffi- 
cient to obviate any charge of the most distant 
approach towards the fatal doctrine of Neces- 
sity. 



CHAP. XV. 

On the distinguishing character of Christianity. 

The great leading truths of Scripture are 
few in number, though the spirit of them is 
diffused through every page. The being and 
attributes of the Almighty ; the spiritual wor- 
ship which he requires ; the introduction of 
natural and moral evil in the world ; the restora- 
tion of man ; the life, death, character, and offi- 
ces of the Redeemer; the holy example he has 
given us; the divine system of ethics which he 
has bequeathed us; the awful sanctions with 
which they are enforced ; the spiritual nature 
of the eternal world ; the necessity of repent- 
ance ; the pardon of sin through faith in a Re- 
deemer; the offer of divine assistance ; and the 
promise of eternal life. The Scripture describes 
a multitude of persons who exemplify its truth ; 
whose lives bear testimony to the perfection of 
the divine law ; and whose characters, however 
clouded with infirmity, and subject to tempta- 
tion, yet, acting under its authority and in- 
fluence, evince, by the general tenor of their 
conduct, that they really embrace religion as a 
governing principle of the heart, and as the 
motive to all virtue in the life. 

In forming the mind of the royal pupil, an 
early introduction to these Scriptures, the de- 
pository of such important truths, will dcubtless 
be considered as a matter of prime concern. 
And as her mind opens, it will be thought neces. 
sary to point out to her, how one great event 
led to another still greater ; till at length we see 
a series accomplished, and an immovable foun- 
dation laid for our faith and hope, which in- 
cludes every essential principle of moral virtue 
and genuine happiness. 

To have given rules for moral conduct might 
appear, to mere human wisdom, the aptest 
method of improving our nature. — And, accord 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



39 



ingly, we find such a course generally pursued 
by the ancient moralists, both of Greece and 
Asia. Of this, it is not the least inconvenient 
result, that rules must be multiplied to a degree 
the most burthensome and perplexing. And 
there would be, after all, a necessity for inces- 
sant alteration, as the rules of one age could not 
be expected to correspond with the manners of 
another. This inconvenience might perhaps, in 
some degree be avoided, by entailing on a peo- 
ple an undeviating sameness of manners. But, 
even when this has been effected, how oppres- 
sively minute, and how disgustingly trivial are 
the authorized codes of instruction ! Of this 
every fresh translation from the moral writings 
of the east is an exemplification ; as if the mind 
could be made pure by overloading the memory ! 

It is one of the perfections of revealed religion, 
that, instead of multiplying rules, it establishes 
principles. It traces up right conduct into a 
few radical dispositions, which, when once fully 
formed, are the natural sources of correspondent 
temper and action. To implant these disposi- 
tions, then, is the leading object of what we may 
venture to call the Scripture philosophy. And 
as the heart must be the seat of that which is to 
influence the whole man, so it is chiefly to the 
heart that the holy Scriptures address them- 
selves. Their object is to make us love what is 
right, rather than to occupy our understandings 
with its theory. Knowledge pvffeth up, says 
one of our divine instructors, but it is love that 
edifieth. And the principle which is here as- 
sumed, will be found most strictly true, that if 
a love of goodness be once thoroughly implanted, 
we shall not need many rules ; but we shall act 
aright from what we may almost call a noble 
kind of instinct. * If thine eye be single,' says 
our Saviour, ' thy whole body shall be full of 
light. 1 Our religion, as taught in the Scrip- 
ture, does, in this very instance, evince its hea- 
venly origin. St. Paul, whose peculiar province 
it seems to have been to explain, as it were sci- 
entifically, the great doctrines of his master, 
gives us a definition of Christianity, which out- 
does at once in brevity, in fulness, and even in 
systematic exactness all that has been achieved 
in the art of epitomizing, by the greatest masters 
of human science, — Faith which workelh by love. 

It is not too much to affirm, that this expres- 
sion substantially contains the whole scope and 
tenor of both Testaments ; the substance of all 
morality, and the very life and soul of human 
virtue and happiness. A want of attention to 
what St Paul means by faith, too generally 
makes the sense of the passage be overlooked. 
But the well-directed student will discern, that 
St. Paul assumes exactly what has been inti- 
mated above, that God's object in Revelation is 
not merely to convey his will, but also to mani- 
fest himself ; not merely to promulgate laws for 
restraining or regulating conduct, but to display 
his own nature and attributes, so as to bring 
back to himself the hearts and affections of fallen 
man ; and that, accordingly, he means by faith, 
the effectual and impressive apprehension of 
God, thus manifested. In his language, it is 
not a notion of the intellect, nor a tradition 
coldly residing in the recollection, which the 
Scriptures exhibit, but an actual persuasion of 



the divine realities. It is, in short, such a con- 
viction of what is revealed, as gives it an effica- 
cy equal for every practical purpose, to that 
which is derived through the evidence of our 
senses. 

Faith, then, in St. Paul's language, is religion 
in its simplest, inward principle. It is the deep 
and efficacious impression, which the manifesta- 
tion of God, made to us in the Scripture, ought 
in all reason to produce in our hearts ; but 
which it does not produce until, in answer to 
our earnest prayer, his holy Spirit ' opens, as it 
were, our hearts,' to receive the things which 
are thus presented to our minds. When the un- 
seen realities of religion, are able to do more 
with us than the tempting objects of this visible 
world, then and not before, is the divine grace 
of faith really formed within us. 

That this is the scriptural idea of faith, will 
appear at once, from a perusal of that most in- 
teresting portion of Scripture the eleventh 
chapter to the Hebrews. The definition with 
which the chapter commences, states this pre- 
cise notion : — ' Faith is the substantiation of 
things hoped for, the demonstration of things 
not seen.'* And the instances adduced are 
most satisfactory exemplifications. ' By faith, 
Noah, being warned of God of things not seen 
as yet, being moved with fear, prepared an aril,' 
&c. ' By faith, Moses forsook Egypt, not fear- 
ing the wrath of the king, for he endured as 
seeing him who is invisible.' ' With the heart,' 
says St. Paul, ' man believeth unto righteous- 
ness ; that is, when the infinitely awful and 
inexpressibly engaging views of God, manifest- 
ing himself in the Scripture, as our Creator, 
Redeemer, and Sanctifier, really, and effectually 
impress themselves on our hearts, so as to be- 
come the paramount principle of inward and 
outward conduct; then, and not before, we are 
in the Scripture sense, believers. And this faith, 
if real, must produce love ; for, when our minds 
and hearts are thus impressed, our affections 
must of necessity yield to that impression. — If 
virtue, said a heathen, could be seen with human 
eyes, what astonishing love would it excite in 
us! St. Paul's divine faith realizes this very 
idea. If Moses ' endured as seeing him who 
is invisible,' it could onlv be, because, in seeing 
God, he beheld what filled up his whole soul, 
and so engaged his hopes and fears, but, above 
all, his love, as to raise him above the low al- 
lurements of the world, and the puny menaces 
of mortals. It is said of him; that ' he account- 
ed even the reproach of Christ greater riches 
than the treasures of Egypt;' a preference 
which implies the strongest affection, as well as 
the deepest conviction. His case, then, clearly 
illustrates what St. Paul says of faith working 
by love ; his apprehension of God being so deep 
and lively, as to fix his supreme love on that 
supreme excellence, which was thus, as it were, 
visible to his mind ; the current of his temper, 
and the course of his actions, followed this para- 
mount direction of his heart. 

* I thus venture to strengthen the expression in the 
authorised translation, in order to convey some clearer 
idea of the original terms, which, as the best critics al- 
low, have, pei haps, a force to which no English wordj 
can do justice 



40 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



The Scripture then, in reality, does not so 
much teach us how to be virtuous, as, if we 
comply with its intention, actually makes us so. 
It is St. Paul's argument through the Epistle 
to the Romans, that even the most perfect code 
of laws which could be given, would fall infi- 
nitely short of our exigencies, if it only gave the 
rules without inspiring the disposition. 

The law of Moses had afforded admirable 
moral precepts, and even the sages of the hea- 
then world had found out many excellent max- 
ims ; but, an inspiriting principle, by which 
men might be made to love goodness as well as 
to know it, was that of which the Gentiles, and, 
i*> some measure, the Jews also, stood in need. 
chsm Co furnish this principle by inspiring such 
a faith in God, as must produce love to God, 
and, by producing love to God, become opera- 
tive in every species of virtue, is avowedly the 
supreme object of the gospel of Christ. 

And, therefore, it is that the Scripture repre- 
sents to us facts, and doctrines founded on facts, 
rather than theories ; because facts are alone 
fitted to work on the heart. In theories, the un- 
derstanding acts for itself; in apprehending 
facts, it acts subserviently to the higher powers 
of the soul, merely furnishing to the affections 
those objects for which they naturally look ; and 
distinguishing false and seductive appearances 
from real sources of delight and comfort. In 
this way the sacred Scriptures make the fullest 
use of our rational powers, uniformly present- 
ing such facts, as grow clearer the more severe- 
ly they are examined: completely satisfying our 
understandings, as to their aptness to the great 
purpose of working on our hearts, and, on the 
whole, making our religion as reasonable, as if, 
like the mathematical truth, it had been exclu- 
sively addressed to our intellect ; while its in- 
fluence on the rightly disposed heart gives such 
an inward proof of its divinity as no merely ra- 
tional scheme could, in the nature of things, 
possess. 

Let, then, the royal pupil be carefully taught, 
that Christianity is not to be examined, nor the 
sacred Scriptures perused, as if they were mere- 
ly to be believed, and remembered, and held in 
speculative reverence. But, let it rather be im- 
pressed upon her, that the holy Scriptures are 
God's great means of producing in her heart, 
that awe of his presence, lhat reverence of his 
majesty, that delight in his infinite perfections, 
that practical affectionate knowledge of the 
only true God, and of Jesus Christ whom he has 
sent, which constitutes the rest, the peace, the 
strength, the light, the consolation of every soul 
which attains to it. Let her be taught to regard 
the oracles of God, not merely as a light to guide 
her steps, but, as a sacred fire to animate and 
invigorate her inmost soul. A purifying flame, 
like that upon the altar, from whence the se- 
raph conveyed the coal to the lips of the pro- 
phet, who cried out, ' Lo ! this hath touched my 
lips, and mine iniquity is taken away, and my 
sin is purged.* 

That fear of God, which the Scripture, when 

used as it ought, never fails to inspire, is felt by 

the possessor to be essential wisdom ; and that 

iove of God, which it is no less fitted to excite, 

equally acknowledged by him whom it influ- 



ences, to be at once essential virtue, and essen- 
tial happiness; and both united, are found to be 
that pure element in which rational intelligences 
are formed to live, and out of which they must 
ever be perturbed and miserable. 

But, to make the Scripture thus efficacious, it 
must be studied according to the will of him 
who gave it. It is said of our Saviour in the 
instance of his disciples, — 'Then opened he 
their understandings, that they might under- 
stand the Scriptures ;' and it is said of Lydia, 
saint Paul's first convert at Philippi, ' That the 
Lord opened her heart, to attend to the things 
which were spoken of Paul.' We read of others 
of whom it is observed, ' the gospel was preach- 
ed, but it did not profit them, because it was not 
mixed with faith in them that heard it.' What 
follows ? evidently, that the Scripture, to be read 
effectually, must be read devoutly, with earnest 
and constant prayer to him whose word it is, 
that he would so impress it on our hearts, by his 
good Spirit, that it may become the power of 
God unto salvation. ' If any man lack wisdom 9 
let him ask it of God,' says St. James, ' who 
giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not, 
and it shall be given him.' 

But, one grand peculiarity of Christianity re- 
mains to be mentioned — That it addresses us 
not merely as ignorant, but as prejudiced and 
corrupt; as needing not merely instruction, but 
reformation. This reformation can be accom- 
plished, these prejudices and these corruptions 
can be removed, only by divine power. It is a 
new creation of the soul, requiring no less than 
its original formation, the hand of the divine ar- 
tificer. ' The natural man receiveth not the 
things of the Spirit of God ; they are foolish, 
ness unto him.' God must reveal them by his 
Spirit : he must produce the disposition to re- 
ceive them. 

To this end no kind of previous knowledge is 
more conducive than the knowledge of ourselves 
as fallen, depraved, and helpless creatures ; and, 
therefore, absolutely requiring some such gra- 
cious interposition in our favour as that which 
the Scripture offers.' Exactly as the malady is 
felt, will the remedy be valued ; and, conse- 
quently, no instruction can be more indispensa- 
ble for the royal pupil, than that which tends to 
impress on her mind, that in this respect she 
stands on a level with the meanest of her fellow- 
creatures. That, from the natural corruption 
of every human heart whatever amiable quali- 
ties an individual may possess, each carries 
about with him a root of bitterness, which, if 
not counteracted by the above means, will spread 
itself through the whole soul, disfigure the cha- 
racter, and disorder the life ; that this malignant 
principle, while predominant, will admit but of 
a shadowy and delusive semblance of virtue, 
which temptation ever dissipates, and from 
which the heart never receives solid comfort, 
Who can enumerate the hourly calamities which 
the proud, the self-willed, the voluptuous, are 
inflicting on themselves ; which rend and lace- 
rate the bosom, while no eye perceives it? Who 
can express the daily disappointment, the alter- 
nate fever and lassitude of him, whose heart 
knows of no rest, but what this disordered world 
1 can afford ? 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



41 



Who then is happy ? He alone, whether prince 
or subject, who, through the powerful and salu- 
tary influence of revealed religion on his heart, 
is so impressed with things invisible, as to rise 
superior to the vicissitudes of mortality : whoso 
believes and feels what is contained in the Bible, 
as to make God his refuge, his Saviour his trust, 
and true practical holiness the chief object of 
his pursuit. To such a one his Bible, and his 
closet, are a counterpoise to all the trials and the 
violence to which he may be exposed. ' Thou 
shalt hide them privily,' says the Psalmist, ' by 
thine own presence, from the provoking of all 
men ; thou shalt keep them secretly in thy pa- 
vilion from the strife of tongues. 



CHAP. XVI. 

On the Scripture evidences of Christianity. — The 
Christian religion peculiarly adapted to the 
exigencies of men ; and especially calculated 
to supply the defects of heathen philosophy. 

If Christianity were examined with attention, 
and candour, it would be found to contain irre- 
sistible evidences of its divine origin. Those 
who have formed continued trains of argument 
in its support, have, no doubt, often effected very 
valuable purposes ; but it is certain, that con- 
viction may be attained in a much simpler me- 
thod. In fact, it would imply a very reasonable 
charge against Christianity, if its proofs were 
of such a nature, that none but scholars or phi- 
losophers could feel their conclusiveness. 

A book exists in the world, purporting to con- 
tain the authentic records, and authoritative 
principles of the one true religion. It is obvi- 
ously the work not of one person, or of one age. 
Its earliest pages, on the contrary, are, beyond 
all sober question, the most ancient writings in 
the world ; while its later parts were confessedly 
composed at a time much within the limits of 
historic certainty ; a time, indeed, with which 
we are better acquainted than with any other 
period in the retrospect of ancient history ; and 
which, like a distant eminence brightly illumi- 
nated by the rays of the sun, is distinctly seen, 
while intermediate tracts are involved in impe- 
netrable mist. 

Against the authority of this most interesting 
volume, numberless objections have been raised. 
But, who has yet clearly and satisfactorily shown 
how its existence, in the form it bears, can be 
rationally accounted for, on the supposition of 
its spuriousness ? That a series of records ori- 
ginating so variously both as to time, occasion, 
and circumstances, should involve some obscu- 
rity or difficulty, or even in some instances ap- 
parent incongruity, is surely no cause of won- 
der : and that these should be dwelt upon and 
exaggerated by persons hostile to the principles 
which the volume contains, and which its truth 
would establish, is most natural. But, which 
of those objectors has ever been able to substi- 
tute a system less liable to objection ? Have 
any of them given a satisfactory solution of the 
unparalleled difficulties which clog their hypo- 
thesis? Which of them has even attempted 

Vol. II. 



fully to explain the simple phenomenon of such 
a volume being in the world, on the supposition 
of fabrication or imposture ? 

This book divides itself into two great por 
tions, the first containing the account of a pre- 
paratory religion, given to a single nation ; the 
latter describing the completion of the scheme, 
so far as to fit this religion for general benefit, 
and unlimited diffusion. 

Respecting the first great portion which we 
call the Old Testament, the leading features ap- 
pear peculiarly striking. In this book alone, 
during those ages, was maintained the first great 
truth, of there being only one living and true 
God: which, though now so universally acknow- 
ledged, was then unconceived by the politest na- 
tions, and most accomplished philosophers. And 
respecting both portions of this book, but espe- 
cially the latter, known by the name of the New 
Testament, this no less interesting remark is to 
be made, that, in every essential point, nearly 
the same view is taken of man's weaknesses 
and wants, of the nature of the human mind, 
and what is necessary to its ease and comfort, 
as is taken by the wisest heathen philosophers ; 
with this most important difference, however, 
that the chief good of man, that pure perennial 
mental happiness, about which they so much 
discoursed, after which they so eagerly panted, 
but of which they so confessedly failed, is here 
spoken of substantially, in their notion of it, as 
a blessing actually possessed, and the feeling of 
it described in such language as bears, so far as 
it is possible for human expressions to bear, the 
stamp of conscious truth and unsophisticated 
nature. 

May we be allowed, in this connexion, to give 
a superficial sketch of the defects in the system 
of the ancient philosophers ? The belief in a 
life to come was confined to a few, and even in 
them this belief was highly defective. Those 
who asserted it, maintained it only in a specu- 
lative and sceptical way ; and it would not be 
easy to produce an instance of their using any 
doctrine of rewards and punishments in a future 
state, as their instrument in promoting virtue. 
They decorated their system with beautiful say- 
ings, on the immortality of the soul ; but they 
did not support it upon this basis. There was, 
therefore, no foundation to their fabric. Poetry, 
indeed, had her Elysium, and her Tartarus. It 
appears, however, that the philosophy of Greece 
and Rome, in proportion as it advanced, dimi- 
nished the strength of the impression which the 
poets had made on the minds of the vulgar, and 
thus the very religion of the sages tended to les- 
sen among the people the sense of a future re 
sponsibility. 

The ancient philosophers had no idea of what 
we designate by the name of the grace and 
mercy of God. They had some conception of 
his bounty, of his providential care, of all his 
natural perfections ; and of some even of /lis 
moral excellences ; for example, of his benevo- 
lence and justice. But their united wisdom ne- 
ver framed a sentence like that in which the 
true God was revealed to Moses: 'The Lord, 
the Lord God, merciful and gracious, forgiving 
iniquity, transgression and sin, and that will by 
no means clear the guilty.' It is on this part 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



of the character of God, that the Scripture is so 
abundantly full. This ignorance of the mercy 
of God associated itself in the heathens, with 
much other religious and moral blindness. From 
this ignorance, that God was merciful, their only 
means of persuading themselves that they were 
in his favour, was to assume that they were up- 
right. And, who can estimate the moral con- 
sequences of an habitual effort to represent to 
ourselves all our own actions, as not having any 
of the guilt of sin, and as not impeaching our 
claims to the justice of the Almighty ? The 
lofty sentiment, that they were themselves a spe- 
cies of gods, was sometimes resorted to, at once 
as a source of self-complacency, and as the sup- 
posed means of virtue. The Stoic affected to 
rise superior to the temptations of the body, to 
soar above all sense of guilt, and all dread of 
pain, by the aid of an extravagant, and almost 
atheistical sentiment, which was opposite to 
common sense, and subversive of all true humi- 
lity, a quality which is the very basis of Chris- 
tian virtues. He was his own god : for he as* 
sumed to himself to be able, by his own strength, 
if he would but exert it, to triumph over fortune ; 
in other words, over Providence, over pain, fear, 
and death itself; and to rise, by the same 
strength, into a participation of the nature of 
the Eternal. Thus, as an eminent writer has 
observed, ' those who endeavoured to cure vo- 
luptuousness, resorted to pride as the means of 
virtue.' In the latter ages, indeed, not a few 
appear to have been at once elated by stoical 
pride, and dissolved in epicurean luxury. 

Their doctrine even of a Providence, connect- 
ed as it was with the merely mundane system, 
led to much misconception of the nature of true 
morality, and to gross superstition. From ig- 
norance of future retribution, they imagined 
that virtue and vice received their exact recom- 
pence here. They were religious, therefore, 
even to superstition, in assuming the existence 
of providential interference in the case of the 
commission of palpable crimes ; and they were 
tempted to esteem those actions, however sinful, 
to be no offences against God, which God did not 
mark by some temporal punishment.* 

Such appear to have been some of the chief 
deficiencies of the heathen system ; a system 
which strongly points out the want of such a 
light as that which the Gospel affords. The 
plilosophers themselves seemed conscious of 
some great defect, and thus the very revelation 
which Christianity has furnished, supplied all 
that was necessary to man, and comes recom- 
mended by the acknowledged occasion for it. 

How striking are the peculiarities, how obvi- 
ous the superiority, which even on a first atten- 
tive perusal, fill the mind of the serious reader 
of the Scripture! But what infidel writer has 
so much as taken its most obvious facts into so- 
ber consideration ? who has attempted to explain 
Itow the writers of the Old Testament should 
differ as they have done from all the writers in 
the world, not only in maintaining so pure a 
theology, but in connecting with it a national 

* A striking instance of this disposition to abuse the 
doctrine of Providence, was exhibited in the speech of 
Nicias to his soldiers, after they were defeated at Sy- 
racuse. 



history, through which that theology passes as 
a chain, binding together and identifying itself 
wibh their whole system, civil and religious? 
This history, involving supernatural events, may 
be a reason why the wilful infidel should reject 
it without examination. But let him who pre- 
tends to candour, attentively consider these re- 
cords, and try if he can project even an outline 
of Jewish history, from which those miraculous 
interpositions shall be consistently excluded. 
There are facts in this narration which cannot 
be disputed : the Jews necessarily having a his- 
tory as well as other nations. Let the sober in- 
fidel, then, endeavour to make out for them an 
hypothetic history, in which, leaving out every 
thing miraculous, all the self-evident phenomena 
shall be accounted for with philosophic plausibi- 
lity. If this be possible, why has it not been 
attempted ? But if this be really impracticable, 
I mean, if these events do actually so make up 
the body of their national history, that no history 
would be left, if they were to be taken away ; 
then let some farther theory be devised, to ex 
plain how a history, thus exclusively strange, 
should stand connected with a theology as ex- 
clusively true ? Let the sober deist prove, if he 
can, that it was unworthy of the God of nature 
to distinguish, by such extraordinary interfe- 
rences, that nation, which alone, of all the na- 
tions of the earth, acknowledged him ; or let 
him separate, if he be able, that national recog- 
nition of the true God from their belief of those 
distinguishing interpositions. If they alone ac- 
knowledged the rightful sovereign of the uni- 
verse, who believed that that sovereign had'sig- 
nally manifested himself in their behalf, can the 
deist show that the belief of the events was not 
essential to the acknowledgment of the supposed 
author of them ? Or will he assert, that the es- 
tablishment of such a truth amongst that people, 
who have since actually communicated it to so 
many other men, perhaps to all, deists not ex- 
cepted, who really do embrace it ; I say, will he 
soberly assert that such a purpose did not justly 
and consistently warrant the very kind of inter- 
position, which the Jewish history presents ? 

But let the honest infidel, if such there be, 
take further into the account the manner iri 
which the maintainers of the one true God have 
acted upon that belief. Let him examine the 
principles of the Jewish moralists, and see where 
else, in the ancient world, the genuine interests 
of virtue are so practically provided for. Let 
him read the sublime and most cordial effusions 
of the Old Testament poets, and say, where else 
the Author of Being, and of all good, is so fully 
recognised, or so suitably adored ? Let him 
consider the expostulation of the prophets, and 
the self-criminating records of the historian, and 
find for them any shadow of parallel in the his. 
tory of mankind. Let the man of genius ob- 
serve how the minds of the writers were elevated, 
on what a strong and steady pinion they soared. 
Let the man of virtue reflect how deeply their 
hearts were engaged ; and let the man of lent n- 
ing compare what he reads here with all that 
has come from heathen poets, sages, or law- 
givers ; and then, let it be soberly pronounced, 
whether it is conceivable that all this should 
exist, without some adequate cause, and whether 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



43 



any cause can be so rationally assigned, as that 
which their venerable lawgiver has himself ex- 
pressed in terms the most critically opposite, and 
the most unaffectedly impressive? ' Ask now,' 
says he, ' of the days that are past, which were 
before thee, since the day that God created man 
upon earth ; and ask from the one side of hea- 
ven to the other, whether there had been any 
such thing as this great thing is, or hath been 
heard like it? Did ever people hear the voice 
of God speaking out of the midst of the fire as 
thou hast heard, and live ? or has God assayed 
to go and take him a nation from the midst of 
another nation, by temptations, by signs, and 
by wonders, and by war, and by an outstretched 
arm, and by great terrors, according to all that 
the Lord your God did for you, in Egypt, be- 
fore your eyes ? Unto thee it was shown that 
the Lord He is God ; there is none else beside 
him. Know, therefore, this day, and consider 
it in thine heart, that the Lord He is God ; in 
heaven above, and upon the earth beneath, there 
is none else.' 

If such be the inevitable conclusion respect- 
ing the Old Testament, how much more irre- 
sistible must be the impression made by the 
New ! The peculiarity which was adverted to 
above, ought, even in the eye of a philosophical 
inquirer, to engage deep attention- I mean, 
that to which heathen sages pointed, as the only 
valuable object of human pursuit, is in this won- 
derful volume described as matter of possession. 
Here, and here only, amongst all the records 
of human feelings, is happiness seriously claim- 
ed, and consistently exemplified. To the im- 
portance of this point, witness is borne by every 
wish which a human being forms, and by every 
6igh which heaves his bosom. But, it is a fact, 
perhaps not yet sufficiently adverted to, that at 
no period do heathen sages seem so strongly to 
have felt the utter insufficiency of all their 
schemes for attaining this object, as at the period 
when the light of Christianity diffused itself 
through the earth. Cicero, that brightest of 
Roman luminaries, had not only put his coun- 
trymen in possession of the substance of Gre- 
cian wisdom, to which his own rich eloquence 
gave new force and lustre, but he had added 
thereto the deep results of his own observations, 
during a life of the most diversified experience, 
and a period the most eventful. And, to this 
point, he uniformly brings all his disquisitions, 
that man can only be happy by a conquest over 
himself; by some energetic principle of wisdom 
and virtue so established in his bosom, as to 
make him habitually superior to every wrong 
passion, to every criminal or weak desire, to the 
attractions of pleasure, and the shocks of cala- 
mity. But it was not Cicero only, who rested 
in this conclusion : Horace, the gayest of the 
Latin poets, is little less explicit in his acknow- 
ledgment, that man should then only find ease 
when he had learnt the art of flying, in a moral 
sense, from himself. 

To the sentiment of a great philosopher and 
poet, let us add that of a no less eminent his- 
torian. Polybius says, ' It seems that men, who, 
in the practice of craft and subtlety, exceed all 
other animals, may, with good reason, be ac- 
knowledged to be no less depraved than they ; 



for other animals are subservient only to the 
appetites of the body, and by them are led to 
do wrong. But men, who have also sentiment 
to guide them, are guilty of ill conduct, not less 
through the abuse of their acquired reason, thai 
from the force of their natural desires.* 

Although, therefore, the doctrine of human 
depravity be, strictly speaking, a tenet peculiar 
to Revelation ; since it is the Bible alone which 
teaches how sin entered into the world, and 
death, with all its attendant woes and miseries, 
by sin ; though it is there alone that we discover 
the obscurity and confusion which there is in 
the understanding of the natural man, the crook- 
edness of his will, and the disorder of his affec- 
tions ; though it is there alone that we are led 
to the origin, and, blessed be God, to the re- 
medy of this disease, in the renewal of our na- 
ture, which is the peculiar office of the holy 
Spirit to effect ; yet, the wiser and more dis- 
cerning among the heathens both felt and ac- 
knowledged, in no inconsiderable degree, the 
thing itself. They experienced not a little of 
the general weight and burthen of the effect, 
though they were still puzzled and confounded 
in their inquiry after the cause. And their 
continual disappointment here was an additional 
source of conviction, that the malady, which 
they painted in the deepest colourings of lan- 
guage, did exist. They seemed to have a per- 
ception, that there was an object somewhere, 
which might remedy these disorders, aid these 
infirmities, satisfy these desires, and bring all 
their, thoughts and faculties into a due obedience 
and happy regulation. They had a dawning on 
their minds, that a capacity for happiness was 
not entiiely lost, nor the object to fill and satisfy 
it quite out of reach. In fact, they felt the 
greatness of the human mind, but they felt it 
as a vast vacuity in which, after all, they could 
find nothing but phantoms of happiness, and 
realities of misery. 

To these deep-toned complaints, in which all 
sorts and conditions of men united, Christianity 
comes forward to make the first propositions of 
relief. She recognises every want and weak- 
ness precisely as these sages represented it: 
and she confidently offers the very remedy for 
which they so loudly called. Her professed ob- 
ject is to establish, in the human mind, that 
collateral principle of virtuous and happy su- 
periority to every thing earthly, sensual, and 
selfish, on which philosophy had so long fixed 
ks anxious, but hopeless desires, and to which 
ajone it looked for real felicity. 

In this view, then, Christianity rests her pre- 
tensions, not merely on historical evidences, 
however satisfactory, nor on the fidelity of suc- 
cessive transcribers, however capable of proof; 
but, on a much more internal, and even more 
conclusive title ; its exquisite correspondence to 
the exigencies of human nature, as illustrated 
by the wisest of all ages and nations, and as felt 
by every reflecting child of mortality. 

Let, then, the deepest sentiments of heathen 
philosophers and poets, respecting human na- 
ture, be dispassionately compared with those 
expressions of our blessed Saviour, in which he 
particularly describes the benefits to be enjoyed 
* Haaiptpn*8 Polybius, book 17, p. 393. 



44 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH M JRE. 



Dy his faithful followers; and let it be judged, 
whether there is not such a correspondence be- 
tween what they want, and what he professes to 
bestoic, as occurs in no other instance in the in- 
tellectual world. — Rest for their souls, is what 
they anxiously sought: and, a burning fever of 
the mind, in which corroding care, insatiable 
desire, perpetual disappointment, unite in tor- 
turing, is the malady of which they uniformly 
complain. Is it not then wonderful to hear our 
Saviour so admirably adapt his language to their 
very feelings? ' Come unto me,' says he, 'all ye 
that labour and are heavy laden, -and I will give 
you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn 
of me, and ye shall find rest to your souls.' — 
' He that drinketh of this water, shall thirst 
again,' intimating by this very expression, the 
insufficiency of every thing earthly to satisfy 
the mind, 'but he that drinketh of the water 
that I shall give him, shall never thirst; but the 
water that I shall give, shall be in him a well of 
water springing up into everlasting life.' 

Whoever is acquainted with the language of 
the ancient philosophers must see, that in these 
expressions our Saviour meets their wishes ; we 
do not mean to say, that they had or could have 
any right apprehensions of that preliminary 
abasement which the Scripture calls repentance, 
and which was put to them in possession of the 
rest and peace for which they sought, and which 
Christ does actually bestow. We do not mean 
to say, that the pride of unassisted nature could 
allow them to see that they were indeed objects 
of pure mercy on the part of God ; and that 
their knowledge of themselves, or of him, could 
be such as to bring the real spirit of their wishes 
to any actual coincidence with the wonderful 
means which God, in his goodness, had devised 
to satisfy them. Though they did occasionally 
express a sense of an evil nature, and a wish 
for relief from it, yet who but the author of our 
religion ever met those wishes ? In what 
other instance has a moral physician thus 
pledged himself to relievo angonised human 
nature ? If there be no such instance, the 
conclusion is inevitable : that Christianity, from 
the deep importance, as well as the unrivalled 
singularity of its overtures, justly claims our 
most serious inquiry, whether what has been 
thus promised has been actually accomplish- 
ed. 

Christianity has amply provided for this 
natural demand ; for it has been ordered, that 
while the New Testament contains every prin- 
ciple necessary for the attainment of human 
happiness, it should also give us a perfect spe- 
cimen of its own efficacy. This we according- 
ly have in the fully delineated character of the 
apostle St. Paul. There is, perhaps, no human 
person in all antiquity, of whose inmost feelings, 
as well as outward demeanour, we are so well 
enabled to judge, as of this great Christian 
teacher. The particulars respecting him the 
Acts of the Apostles, compared with, and illus- 
trated by, his own invaluable epistles, make up 
a full length portrait of him, in which no linea- 
ment is wanting. And, the wisdom of God, in 
this single arrangement, has furnished a body 
of evidence in support, both of the truth and the 
efficacy of our holy religion, whioh, when at- 



tentively examined, will ever satisfy the sincere, 
and silence the caviller. 

The numberless minute and unobvious coin- 
cidences between the narrative and the epistles, 
have been so illustrated in a late invaluable 
work,* as to make the authenticity of both mat- 
ter of absolute demonstration ; and, from such 
an instance of Christian influence, thus authen- 
ticated, the pretensions of Christianity itself 
may be brought to a summary and unequivocal 
test. 

Was St. Paul, then, or was he not, an exem- 
plification of that nobly-imagined wise man, 
which the heathen philosophers had pictured to 
themselves ; as the height of human felicity ? 
Does he appear to have found that rest, for 
which sages panted, and which his divine mas- 
ter proposed to bestow ? Did he possess that 
virtuous and happy superiority to every thing 
earthly, sensual, and selfish, which was ac- 
knowledged to constitute the very essence of 
true philosophy ? Let him that understands hu- 
man nature read, and answer for himself. Let 
him collect all that has been spoken on this sub- 
ject by Socrates or Plato, by Cicero or Seneca, 
by Epictetus or Marcus Antonius, and judge 
coolly, whether St. Paul does not substantially 
exemplify, and, I may add, infinitely out do it all? 

Horace has celebrated the fortitude of Regu- 
lus, in one of bis most animated odes ; but it may 
most soberly be asked, what was the fortitude 
of this pagan hero, when compared with that 
which was unconsciously displayed by St. Paul 
in his way to Jerusalem ? Regulus, we are told, 
would not turn his eyes towards his wife or his 
children. In his heroism, therefore, he sinks 
his humanity. Not so our apostle ; while he 
fears nothing for himself, he feels every thing 
for those around him. 'What mean ye thus to 
weep, and to break my heart,' says he, ' for I 
am ready, not to be bound only, but to die at 
Jerusalem, for the name of the Lord Jesus.' 
If this be not perfect magnanimity, where was 
it ever exhibited ? 

I will add but two instances. — One express- 
ing the feelings which were habitual to himself; 
the other describing that perfection of goodness, 
which he wished to be pursued by others : and 
let the learned infidel find, if he can, a parallel 
for either. In speaking of himself, after ac- 
knowledging an act of friendship in those to 
whom he writes, he says, 'Not as though I 
speak in respect of want, for I have learned in 
whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. 
I know both how to be abased, and I know how 
to abound. I am instructed both to be full and 
to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need, 
lean do all things throughChrist which strength- 
eneth me.' What a testimonial this to the 
faithfulness of the offer of our Saviour, to which 
we have already referred! How consummately 
does it evince, that when he engaged to fulfil 
that deepest of human desires, the thirst of hap- 
piness, he promised no more than he was in- 
finitely able to perform ! The apostle's exhor- 
tation to others, is no less worthy of attention. 
' Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, 
whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things 

* Paley's Hora Paulina. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



45 



are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good 
report — If there be any virtue, if there be any 
praise, think on these things.' In what human 
words did genuine moral feelings ever more 
completely embody itself? Are they not, as it 
were, the very soul and body of true philosophy ? 
But what philosopher, before him, after such a 
lesson to his pupils, could have dared to add the 
words which immediately follow ? — ' The things 
which ye have both learned and received, and 
heard and seen in me, do, and the God of peace 
shall be with you.' 

This is a most imperfect portion of that body 
of internal evidence, which even the most gene- 
ral view of Christianity presses on the attentive 
and candid mind : and with even this before us, 
may it not be boldly asked, what else like this 
has come within human knowledge ? On these 
characters of the gospel then, let the infidel fair- 
ly try his strength. Let him dispiove, if he can, 
the correspondence between the wishes of philo- 
sophy, and the achievements of Christianity, or 
destroy the identity of that common view of 
man's chief good, and paramount happiness. 
Let him account, if he can, for these unexampled 
congruities, on any other ground than that of 
the truth of Christianity ; or let him even plau- 
sibly elude the matter-of-fact evidence to this 
truth, which arises from St. Paul's character. 
In the mean time, let the pious Christian enjoy 
his sober triumph in that system, which not in 
St. Paul only, but in all its true votaries, in 
every age and nation, it has produced — l a hope 
full of immortality,' — ' a peace which passeth 
all understanding,' — ' a wisdom pure and peace- 
able, gentle and easy to be entreated, full of 
mercy and of good fruits, without partiality, and 
without hypocrisy.' 

If any difficulty, attending particular doctrines 
of Christianity, should present itself; it will be 
well first to inquire, whether the doctrine in 
question be really Christian? and this can only 
be determined by a dispassionate and impartial 
recurrence to the Scriptures themselves, parti- 
cularly the New Testament. Whatever is clear- 
ly asserted there, follows inevitably from the 
established divinity of that which contains it. 
And in what conceivable case can, not only hu- 
mility, but rational consistency, be more wisely 
exercised, than in receiving, without question, 
the obvious parts, and then no doubt can be en- 
tertained respecting the whole. Happy had it 
been for the Christian world, had this self-evi- 
dent maxim been practically attended to; for 
then what dispute could possibly have arisen 
about — ' that Word which was made flesh, and 
dwelt among us, being also God over all, blessed 
for evermore ?' Or whether the Father, the 
Son, and the Holy Ghost, in whose name we are 
baptised, must not be essentially divine ? Or 
whether there can be any misconception in what 
the redeemed in heaven make the subject of 
their eternal song : ' that the Lamb which was 
slain, had redeemed them to God by his blood, 
out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, 
and nation ?' 

That plain and simple readers think they find 
each other's doctrines clearly set forth in the sa- 
cred volume, is a matter of fact, authenticated 



by abundant evidence ; and that, where they 
have been disputed, those who have agreed in 
holding them, have evidently derived a deeper 
influence from Christianity, both as to the con- 
ductof their lives, and the comfort of their minds, 
than those who have rejected them, — if it could 
not be substantiated by innumerable proofs, 
would be almost self-evident, on a merely theo- 
retic view of the two cases. For who ever de- 
rived either partial strength, or mental comfort, 
from indulging a habit of metaphysical disquisi- 
tion ! And who but such have, in any age of 
the church, questioned the doctrines of our Sa- 
viour's divinity, the three fold distinction in the 
divine nature, or the expiatory efficacy of Christ's 
one oblation of himself, once offered for the sins 
of the whole world ? 

The Scriptures are so explicit on the last men- 
tioned great doctrine of our religion, that we are 
not left to infer its truth and certainty as we 
might almost do from the obvious exigencies of 
human nature. That guilt is one of the deepest 
of the natural feelings, will not be disputed ; 
and, that the sense of guilt has been, in every 
age and nation a source of the deepest horrors, 
and has suggested even still more horrible me- 
thods of appeasing the perturbed mind, can be 
questioned by none who is acquainted, however 
slightly, with the history of the world. Ath.eists 
in pagan countries have made this very fact the 
great apology for their impiety, charging upon 
religion itself the dismal superstitions, which 
appeared to them to arise from it. And Plu- 
tarch, one of the most enlightened of heathen 
moralists, concludes that even Atheism itself is 
preferable to that superstitious dread of the gods, ■ 
which he saw impelling so many wretched vic- 
tims to daily and hourly self torture. The fact 
is, no misery incident to man involves either 
greater depth, or complication, than that of a 
guilty conscience. ' And a system of religion, 
which would have left this unprovided for, we 
may venture to pronounce, would have been ut- 
terly unsuitable to man, and, therefore, utterly 
unworthy of the wisdom and goodness of God. 

How appositely to this awful feeling, does the 
doctrine of the atonement come into the christian 
system ! How astonishingly has even its gene- 
ral belief chased from the christian world those 
superstitious phantoms with which paganism 
ever has been, and even at this day is, haunted ! 
But above all, what relief has it afforded to the 
humble penitent! ' This,' said the pious Me- 
lancthon, ' can only be understood in conflicts- 
of conscience.' It is most true. Let those 
therefore, who have never felt such conflicts, 
beware how they despise what they may yet be 
impelled to resort to, as the only ceitain stay 
and prop of their sinking spirits. ' It is a fear- 
ful thing,' says an inspired writer, 'to fall into 
the hands of the living God.' Against this fear 
to what resource could we trust, but that which 
the mercy of God has no less clearly revealed 
to us? 'Seeing, then, that we have a great 
high priest that is passed for us into the heavens, 
Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our pro- 
fession ; for we have not a high priest who can 
not be touched with the feeling of our infirmities, 
but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet 
without sin.. Let us, therefore, come boldly to 



4b 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy 
and find grace to help us in time of need.' 



CHAP. XVII. 

The use of history in teaching the choice of fa- 
vourites — Flattery. — Our taste improved in 
the arts of adulation. — The dangers of Jlattery 
exemplified. 

It is not from the history of good princes 
alone, that signal instruction may be reaped. 
The lives of the criminal and unfortunate, com- 
monly unfortunate because criminal, will not be 
read in vain. They are instructive, not only by 
detailing the personal calamities with which the 
misconduct was followed, but by exhibiting that 
misconduct as the source of the alienation of the 
hearts of their subjects ; and often as the re- 
mote, sometimes as the immediate, cause of ci- 
vil commotions and revolutions. 

But caution is to be learned, not from their 
vices only, but from their weaknesses and er- 
rors; from their false judgments, their ignorance 
of human nature, their narrow views arising 
from a bad education, their judging from partial 
information, deciding from infused prejudices, 
and acting on party principles ; their being ha- 
bituated to consider petty unconnected details, 
instead of taking in the great aggregate of pub- 
lic concerns ; their imprudent choice of minis- 
ters, their unhappy spirit of favouritism, their 
preference of selfish flatterers to disinterested 
counsellors, and making tho associates of iheir 
pleasures the dispensers of justice and the mi- 
nisters of public affairs.* 

'Tis by that close acquaintance with the cha- 
racters of men which history supplies, that a 
prince must learn how to avoid a jealous Scja- 
nus, a vicious Tigellinus, a corrupt Spenser and 
Gavaston, a rapacious Epsom and Dudley, a 
pernicious D'Ancre, and ambitious Wolsey, a 
profligate Buckingham ; we allude at once to 
the minister of the first James, and to the still 
more profligate Buckingham of the Second 
Charles ; a tyrannical Richelieu, a crafty Ma- 
zarin, a profuse Louvois, an intriguing Ursini, 
an inefficient Chamillard, an imperious duchess 
of Marlborough, and a supple Masham. 

History presents frequent instances of an in- 
consistency not uncommon in human nature, — 
sovereigns the most arbitrary to their subjects, 
themselves the tools of favourites. He who treat- 
ed his people with disdain, and his parliaments 
with contempt, was, in turn, the slave of Arran, 
ofCar, and of Villiers. His grandson, who boldly 
intrenched on the liberties of his country, was 
himself governed by the Cabal. 

It may sound paradoxical to assert, that in a 
period of society, when characters are less 
strongly marked, a sovereign is, in some re- 
spects, in more danger of choosing wrong. In 
our days, and under our constitution, indeed, it 
is scarcely possible to err so widely, as to select, 

* The Romans seem to have hart just ideas of the 
dignity of character and office attached to the friend of 
a prince by denominating him, not favourite, but parti- 
cep3 curarum. 



for ministers, men of such atrocious characters 
as those who have been just held up to detesta. 
tion. The very improvement of society, there, 
fore, has caused the question to become one of a 
much nicer kind. It is no longer a choice be- 
tween men, whose outward characters exhibit a 
monstrous disproportion to each other. A bold 
oppressor of the people, the people would not en- 
dure. A violent infringer, on the constitution, the 
parliament would not tolerate. But still out of that 
class, from which the election must be made, 
the moral dispositions, the political tendencies, 
and the religious principles of men may differ 
so materially, that the choice may seriously af 
feet at once, the credit and happiness of the 
prince, and the welfare of the country. The con- 
duct of good and bad men will always furnish 
no inconsiderable means of distinction ; yet at 
a time when gross and palpable enormities are 
less likely to be endured, it is the more necessa- 
ry for a prince to be able accurately to discri- 
minate the shades of the characters of public 
men. 

While, therefore, every tendency to art or 
dissimulation should be reprobated, the most 
exact caution should be inculcated, and the 
keenest discernment cultivated, in the royal 
education. All that can improve the judgment, 
sharpen the penetration, or give enlarged views 
of the human mind, should bo put in exercise. 
A prince should possess that sort of sight, 
which, while it takes in remote views, accurate- 
ly distinguishes near objects. To the eye of 
the lynx, which no minuteness can elude, should 
be added that of the eagle, which no brightness 
can blind, for whatever dazzles darkens. He 
should acquire that justness, as well as extent 
of mind, which should enable him to study the 
character of his enemies, and decide upon that 
of his friends ; to penetrate keenly, but not in- 
vidiously, into the designs of others, and vigi- 
lantly to scrutinize his own. His mind should 
be stored, not with shifts and expedients, but 
with large and liberal plans ; not with strata- 
gems, but resources ; not with subterfuges, but 
principles ; not with prejudices, but reasons. He 
should treasure up sound maxims to teach him 
to act consistently ; be provided with steady 
measures suited to (he probable occasion, to- 
gether with a promptitude of mind, prepared to 
vary them so as to meet any contingency. 

In no instance will those who have the care 
of forming the royal pupil find a surer exercise 
of their wisdom and integrity, than in their en- 
deavours to guard the mind from the deadly poi- 
son of flattery. 'Many kings,' says the witty 
South, ' have been dastroyed by poison, but none 
has been so efficaciously mortal as that drunk 
in by the ear.' 

Intellectual taste, it is true, is much refined, 
since the Grecian sophist tried to cure the me- 
lancholy of Alexander by telling him, that 'Jus- 
tice was painted, as seated near the throne of 
Jupiter, to indicate that right and wrong de- 
pended on the will of kings ; and all whose ac- 
tions ought to be accounted just, both by them- 
selves and others.' 

Compliments are not now absurd and extra- 
vagant, as when the most elegant of Roman po- 
ets invited his imperial master to pick out hie 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



47 



own lodging among the constellations : nor, as 
when the bard of Pharsalia offered to the empe- 
ror his choice, either of the sceptre of Jupiter, 
or the chariot of Apollo ; modestly assuring h im, 
that there was not a god in the pantheon, who 
would not yield his empire to him, and account 
it an honour to resign in his favour. This meri- 
torious prince, so worthy to displace the gods, 
was Nero, who rewarded Lucan, not for his adu- 
lation, but for being a better poet than himself, 
with a violent death. 

The smooth and obsequious Pliny improved 
on all anterior adulation. Not content with 
making his emperor the imitator or the equal 
of Deity, he makes him a pattern for it; pro- 
testing that ' men needed to make no other pray- 
ers to the gods, than that they would continue 
to be as good and propitious lords to them as 
Trajan had been.' 

But the refined sycophant of modern days is 
more likely to hide the actual blemishes, and to 
veil the real faults of a prince from himself than 
to attribute to him incredible virtues the ascrip- 
tion of which would be too gross to impose on 
his discernment. There will be more danger of 
a modern courtier imitating the delicacy of the 
ancient painter, who, being ordered to draw the 
portrait of a prince who had but one eye, adopt- 
ed the conciliating expedient of painting him in 
profile. 

But if the modern flatterer be less gross, he 
will be, on that very account the more danger- 
ous. The refinement of his adulation prevents 
the object of it from putting himself on his 
guard. The prince is led, perhaps, to conceive 
with self-complacency that he is hearing the 
language of truth, while he is only the dupe of 
a more accomplished flatterer. He should espe- 
cially beware of mistaking freedom of manner, 
for frankness of sentiment; and of confounding 
the artful familiarities of a designing favourite, 
with the honest simplicity of a disinterested 
friend. 

Where, in our more correct day, is the cour- 
tier who would dare to add profaneness to flat- 
tery so far, as to declare, as was done by the 
greatest philosopher this country ever produced, 
in his letter to prince Charles, that, ' as the Fa- 
ther had been his Creator, so he hoped the Son 
would be his Redeemer ?'* But what a noble 
contrast to this base and blasphemous servility 
in the chancellor of James, does the conduct of 
the chancellor of his grandson exhibit ! The un- 
bending rectitude of Clarendon not only disdain- 
ed to flatter, in his private intercourse, a master 
to whom however his pen is always too partial, 
but it led boldly and honestly to remonstrate 
against his flagitious conduct. A standing ex- 
ample for all times, to the servants and compa- 
nions of kings, he resolutely reproved his mas- 
ter to his face, while he thought it his duty to 
defend him, somewhat too strongly, indeed, to 
others. He boldly besought the king, ' not to 
believe that he had a prerogative to declare vice 
to be virtue.' And in one of the noblest speeches 
on record, in answer to a dishonourable request 
of the king, that he would visit some of his ma- 
jesty's infamous associates ; he laid before him 

* See Howell's Letters. 



with a lofty sincerity, ' the turpitude of a man 
in his dignified office, being obliged to counte 
nance persons scandalous for their vices, fol 
which by the laws of God and man, they ought 
to be odious and exposed to the judgment of tho 
church and state.' In this instance superior to 
his great rival Sully ; that no desire of pleasing 
the king, no consideration of expediency, could 
induce him to visit the royal mistresses, or to 
countenance the licentious favourites. 

Princes have generally been greedy of praise 
in a pretty exact proportion to the pains which 
they have taken not to deserve it. Henry the 
Vlllth was a patron of learned men, and might 
himself be accounted learned. But his favourite 
studies, instead of preserving him from the love 
of flattery, served to lay him open to it. Scholas- 
tic divinity, the fashionable learning of the 
times, as Burnet observes, suited his vain and 
contentious temper, and as ecclesiastics were to 
be his critics, his pursuits of polemical theology 
brought him in the largest revenue of praise , 
so that there seemed to be a contest betweeii 
him and them, whether they could offer, or 
he could swallow, the most copious draughts of 
flattery. 

But the reign of James the first was the great 
epocha of adulation in England; and a prince 
who had not one of the qualities of a warlike, 
and scarcely one of the virtues of a pacific king 
received from clergy and laity, from statesmen 
philosophers, and men of letters, praises not onty 
utterly repugnant to truth and virtue, but di 
rectly contrary to that frankness of manners, 
and magnanimity of spirit, which had formerly 
characterized Englishmen. This ascription of 
all rights, and all talents, and all virtues, to a 
prince, bold through fear, and presumptuous be- 
cause he wished to conceal his own pusillanimi- 
ty, rebounded, as was but just, on the flatterers; 
who, in return for their adulation, were treated 
by him with a contempt, which not the boldest 
of his predecessors had ever ventured to mani- 
fest. His inquiry of his company at dinner, 
whether he might not take his subjects' money 
when he needed it, without the formality of par- 
liament, indicates that one object was always 
uppermost in his mind ;* his familiar intercourse 
was employed in diving into the private opinions 
of men, to discover to what length his oppressive 
schemes might be carried ; and his public con- 
duct occupied in putting those schemes into 
practice. 

But the royal person whom we presume to ad- 
vise, may, from the very circumstance of her 
sex, have more complicated dangers to resist; 
against which her mind should be early forti- 
fied. The dangers of adulation are doubled, 
when the female character is combined with the 
royal. Even the vigorous mind of the great 
Elizabeth did not guard her against the power- 
ful assaults of the flattery paid to her person. 
That masculine spirit was as much the slave of 
the most egregious vanity, as the weakest of her 
sex could have been. AH her admirable pru 
dence and profound policy, could not preserve 
her from the childish and silly levity with which 



The requisition wa9 allowed in a phrase as disgust- 
W servile, by hi 
evaded by Andrews. 



ingly servile, by bishop Meile ; as it was pleasantly 

ded *~~ 



48 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



she greedily invited the compliments of the art- 
ful minister of her more beautiful rival. Even 
that gross instance of Melvil's extravagance en- 
chanted her, when, as she was playing on Ma- 
ry's favourite instrument, for the purpose of be- 
ing overheard by him, the dissembling courtier 
affected to be so ravished by her skill, as to burst 
into her apartment, like an enraptured man, who 
had forgotten his reverence in his admiration. 
It was a curious combat in the great mind of 
Elizabeth, between the offended pride of the 
queen, and the gratified vanity of the woman ; 
but Melvil knew his trade in knowing human 
nature ; — he calculated justly. The woman con- 
quered. 

Princes have in all ages complained that they 
have been ill served. But, is it not because they 
have not always carefully selected their servants ? 
Is it not because they have too often bestowed 
confidence on the unwise, and employments on 
the unworthy ? Because, while they have load- 
ed the undeserving with benefits, they have ne- 
glected to reward those who have served them 
well, and to support those who have served them 
long ? Is it not because they have sometimes a 
way of expecting every thing, while they seem 
to exact nothing ? And have not too many been 
apt to consider that the honour of serving them 
is itself a sufficient reward ? 

By a close study of the weaknesses and pas- 
sions of a sovereign, crafty and designing fa- 
vourites have ever been on the watch to establish 
their own dominion, by such appropriate means 
as seem best accommodated to the turn of those 
weaknesses and passions. If Leonore Concini, 
and the duchess of Marlborough, obtained the 
most complete ascendancy over their respective 
queens, both probably by artful flattery at first, 
they afterwards secured and preserved it by a 
tyranny the most absolute In connexions of 
this nature, it is usually on the side of the so- 
vereign, that the caprice and the haughtiness 
are expected ; but the domineering favourite of 
Anne exclusively assumed to herself all these 
prerogatives of despotic power, and exercised 
them without mercy, on the intimidated and 
submissive queen ; a queen, who, with many 
virtues, not having had the discernment to find 
out, that the opposite extreme to what is wrong, 
is commonly wrong also, in order to extricate 
herself from her captivity to one favourite, fell 
into the snares spread for her by the servility 
of another. Thus, whether the imperious duch- 
ess, or the obsequious Masham, were lady of the 
ascendant, the sovereign was equally infatuated, 
equally misled. 

That attachments formed without judgment, 
and pursued without moderation, are likely to be 
dissolved without reason ; and that breaches the 
most trivial in themselves may be important in 
their consequences, were never more fully ex- 
emplified than in the trifling cause, which, by 
putting an end to the intercourse between the 
above named queen and duchess, produced events 
the most unforeseen and extraordinary. While 
the duke was fighting her majesty's battles 
abroad, and his duchess supporting his interest 
against a powerful party at court ; a pair of 
gloves of a new invention, sent first by the mil- 
uner to the favourite (impatient to have them 1 WiUiam 



before the queen, who had ordered a similai 
pair,) so incensed her majesty, as to be the im- 
mediate cause, by driving the duchess from he. 
post, of depriving the duke of his command, 
compelling the confederates to agree to a peace, 
preserving Louis from the destruction which 
awaited him, making a total revolution in par-' 
ties at home, and determining the fate of Eu- 
rope.* 

To a monarch more eager to acquire fame 
than to deserve it, to pension a poet will be a 
shorter cut to renown than to dispense blessings 
to his country. Louis XII. instead of buying 
immortality of a servile bard, earned and enjoy- 
ed the appellation of father of ftis people ; that 
people whom his brilliant successor, Louis the 
great, drained and plundered, or in the emphatic 
language of the prophet, peeled and scattered to 
provide money for his wars, his mistresses, his 
buildings, and his spectacles. Posterity, how- 
ever, has done justice to both kings, and le bien 
aime is remembered with affectionate veneration, 
while le grand is regarded as the fabricator of 
the ruin of his race. 

How totally must adulation have blunted the 
delicacy of the latter prince, when he could shut 
himself up with his two royal historiographers, 
Boileau and Racine, to hear them read portions 
of his own history. Deservedly high as was 
the reputation of these two fine geniuses, in the 
walks of poetry, was that history likely to con- 
vey much truth or instruction to posterity, which, 
after being composed by two pensioned poets, 
was read by them to the monarch, who was to 
be the hero of the tale ? Sovereigns, indeed, 
may elect poets to record their exploits, but sub- 
jects will read historians. 

The conquest of every town and village was 
celebrated by Boileau in hyperbolic song ; and 
the whole pantheon ransacked for deities, who 
might furnish some faint idea of the glories of 
the immortal Louis. — The time, however, soon 
arrived, when the author of the adulatory ode 
on the taking of Namur, in which the king and 
the gods were again identified, was as complete- 
ly overturned by the incomparable travesty of 
our witty Prior, as the conqueror of Namur him 
self was, by its glorious deliverer — 

Little Will, the scourge of France, 
No godhead, but the first of men.f 

A prince should be accustomed to see and 
know things as they really are, and should be 
taught to dread that state of delusion in which 
the monarch is the only person ignorant of what 
is doing in his kingdom. It was to little pur- 
pose that the sovereign last named, when some 
temporary sense of remorse was excited by an 
affecting representation of the miseries of the 
persecuted protestants, said, ' that he hoped God 
would not impute to him as a crime, punish- 
ments which he had not commanded.' Delusive 
hope ! It was crime enough for a king to be ig- 
norant of what was passing in his dominions. 

There have been few princes so ill-disposed, 
as not to have been made worse by unmeasured 

* Examen du Prince. 

t See Boileau's Ode sur la prise de Namur, by Louis 
and Prior's Poem on the taking of Namur, by king 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



49 



flattery. Even some of the most depraved Ro- 
man emperors began their career with a fair 
promise. Tiberius set out with being mild and 
prudent ; and even Nero, for a considerable time, 
either wore the mask, or did not need it. While 
nistwo virtuous friends maintained their entire 
influence, every thing looked favourable. — But 
when his sycophants had succeeded in making 
Seneca an object of ridicule; and when Tigel- 
linus was preferred to Burrhus all that followed 
was a natural consequence. The abject slavery 
of the people, the servile decrees of the senate, 
the obsequious acquiescence of the court, the 
prostrate homage of every order, all concurred 
to bring out his vices in their full luxuriance, 
and Rome, as was but just, became the victim 
of the monster she had pampered. Tacitus, with 
his usual honest indignation, declares, that as 
often as the emperor commanded banishments 
or ordered assassinations, so often were thanks 
and sacrifices decreed to the gods ! 

But, in our happier days, as subjects, it is 
presumed, indulge no such propensities, so un- 
der our happier constitution, have they no such 
opportunities. Yet powerful, though gentler, 
and almost unapparent means, may be employ- 
ed to weaken the virtue, and injure the fame of 
a prince. To degrade his character, he need 
only be led into one vice, idleness ; and be at- 
tacked by one weapon, flattery. Indiscriminate 
acquiescence and soothing adulation will la)' his 
mind open to the incursion of every evil with- 
out his being aware of it; for his table is not the 
place where he expects to meet an enemy, con- 
sequently, he is not on his guard against him. 
And where he is thus powerfully assailed, the 
kindest nature, the best intentions, the gentlest 
manners, and the mildest dispositions, cannot 
be depended on for preserving him from those 
very corruptions, to which the worst propensities 
lead; and there is a degree of facility, which, from 
softness of temper, becomes imbecility of mind. 

For there is hardly a fault a sovereign can 
commit, to which flattery may not incline him. 
It impels to opposite vices : to apathy and egot- 
ism, the natural failings of the great ; to am- 
bition which inflames the heart, to anger which 
distorts it, to hardness which deadens, and 
to selfishness which degrades it. He should be 
taught, as the intrepid Massilon* taught his 
youthful prince, that the flattery of the courtier, 
contradictory as the assertion may seem, is 
little less dangerous than the disloyalty of the 
rebel. Both would betray him ; and the crime 
of him who would dethrone, and of him who 
would debase his prince, however they may 
differ in a political, differ but little in a moral 
view : nay, the ill effects of the traitor's crime 
may, to the prince at least, be bounded by time, 
while the consequences of the flatterer's may ex- 
tend to eternity. 

CHAP. XVIII. 

Religion necessary to the well-being of states. 

The royal pupil should be informed, that 

* See Massilon's Sermons, abounding equaiiy in the 
•ubliraest piety and the richest eloqueaoe. 

Vol. II.— D 



there are some half Christians, and half philo 
sophers, who wish, without incurring the disi 
credit of renouncing religion, to strip it of its 
value, by lowering its usefulness. They have 
been at much pains to produce a persuasion, 
that however beneficial Christianity may be to 
individuals, and however properly it may be 
taken as the rule of their conduct, it cannot be 
safely brought into action in political concerns ; 
that the intervention of its spirit will rarely 
advance the public good, but on the contrary, 
will often necessarily obstruct it ; and in par 
ticular, that the glory and elevation of states 
must be unavoidably attended with some viola- 
tion even of those laws of morality, which, tney 
allow, ought to be observed in other cases.* 

These assertions, respecting the political dis- 
advantages of religion, have not been urged 
merely by the avowed enemies of Christian 
principles, the Bolingbrokes, the Hobbeses, and 
the Gibbons : but there is a more sober class of 
sceptics, ranged under the banners of a very 
learned and ingenious sophist,+ who have not 
scrupled to maintain, that the author of Chris- 
tianity has actually forbidden us to improve the 
condition of this world, to take any vigorous 
steps for preventing its misery, or advancing its 
glory. Another writer, an elegant wit, but 
whimsical and superficial, though doubtless a 
sincere Christian,! who would be shocked at 
the excess to which impiety has carried the 
position, has yet afforded some countenance to 
it, by intimating, that God has given to men a 
religion which is incompatible with the whole 
economy of that world which he has created, 
and in which he has thought proper to place 
them. He allows, that ' government is essen- 
tial to men, and yet asserts, that it cannot bo 
managed without certain degrees of violence, 
corruption, and imposition, which yet Christi- 
anity strictly forbids. That perpetual patience 
under injuries, must every day provoke new in- 
sults, and injuries, yet is this, says he, enjoined.'' 

The same positions are also repeatedly affirm- 
ed, by a later, more solid, and most admirable 
writer, whose very able defence of the divine 
authority of Christianity and the Holy Scrip- 
tures, naturally obtains credit for any opinions 
which are honoured with his support. 

It may be expected, that those who advance 
such propositions, should at least produce proofs 
from history, that those states, in the govern- 
ment if which Christian principles have been 
most conspicuous, other circumstances being 
equal, have either failed through error, or sunk 
through impotence ; or in some other way have 
suffered from introducing principles into trans- 
actions to which they were inapplicable. 

But how little the avowed sceptic, or even the 
paradoxical Christian seems to understand the 
genius of our religon ; and how erroneous is their 
conception of the true elementary principles of 

* It were to be wished that Cromwell had been the 
only ruler who held, that the rules of morality must be 
dispensed with on great political occasions. 

t Mr. Bayle. 

| Soame Jenyns. It is true, he puts tr« remark in the 
mouth of ' refined and speculative obst'.'rvws.' But he 
afterwards affirms in_his own proper pe< gi-n— That suck 
is indeed the Christian RevetaU&n. 



50 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



political prosperity, we learn from one, who was 
as able as either to determine on the case. He 
who was not only a politician but a king, and 
eminently acquainted with the duties of both 
characters, has assured us, that righteousness 
exalteth a nation. And does not every in- 
stinct of the unsophisticated heart, and every 
clear result of dispassionate and enlarged ob- 
servation, unite in adopting as a moral axiom 
this divinely recorded aphorism ? 

It would, indeed, be strange, if the great 
Author of all things had admitted such an 
anomaly in his moral government; if in direct 
contradiction to that moral ordination of causes 
and effects, by which, in the case of individuals, 
religion and virtue generally tend, in the way 
of natural consequence, to happiness and pros- 
perity, hreligion and vice, to discomfiture and 
misery, the Almighty should have established 
the directly opposite tendencies, in the case 
of those multiplications of individuals, which 
are called civil communities. It is a sup- 
position so contrary to the divine procedure, 
in every other instance, that it would require to 
be proved by incontestible evidence. It would 
indeed amount to a concession, that the moral 
Author of the world had appointed a premium 
as it were, for vice and irreligion ; the very idea 
is profaneness. Happily it is clearly contrary 
also both to reason and experience. Providence, 
the ordinations of which will ever exhibit marks 
of wisdom and goodness, in proportion to the 
care with which they are explored, has, in this 
instance, as well as in others, made our duty 
coincident with our happiness ; has furnished us 
with an additional motive for pursuing that 
course, which is indispensable to our eternal 
welfare, by rendering it, in the case both of in- 
dividuals and of communities, productive also 
of temporal good. It was not enough to make 
the paths of virtue lead to ' the fulness of joy' 
hearafter, they are even now rendered to those who 
walk in them, ' paths of pleasantness and peace. 

It would not be difficult to prove, by a refer- 
ence to the most established principles of hu- 
man nature, that those dispositions of mind, and 
principles of conduct, which both directly and 
indirectly, tend to promote the good order of 
civil communities, are, in general, produced or 
strengthened by religion. The same temper of 
mind which disposes a man to fear God, prompts 
him to honour the king. The same pride, self- 
sufficiency, and impatience of controul, which 
are commonly the root and origin of impiety, 
naturally produce civil insubordination and dis- 
content. One of the most acute of our political 
writers has stated, that all government rests on 
opinion ; on the opinion entertained by the mass 
of the people, of the right to power in their go- 
vernors, or in the opinion of its being their 
own interest to obey. Now, religion naturally 
confirms both these principles ; and thereby 
strengthens the very foundations of the powers 
qf government. It establishes the right to 
power of governors, by teaching, that 'there is 
no power but of God ;' it confirms in subjects 
the sense of its being .their interest to obey by 
the oowerful intervention of its higher sanctions 
and rewards : 'they that resist shall receive to 
themselves condemnation.' 



Religion teaches men to consider their lot in 
life, as a station assigned to them, by Him, who 
has a right to dispose of his creatures as he will. 
It therefore tends to prevent in the great mass 
of the community which must ever be compa- 
ratively speaking, poor, the disposition to repine 
at the more favoured lot, and superior comforts 
of the higher orders ; a disposition which is the 
real source of the most dangerous and deadly 
dissensions. 

Religion, again, as prompting men to view 
all human events as under the divine direction, 
to regard the evils of life as the dispensation of 
Heaven, and often as capable of being rendered 
conducive to the most essential and lasting bene- 
fit, disposes men to bear all their sufferings with 
resignation and cheerfulness. Whereas, on the 
contrary, they who are not under its power, are 
often inclined to revenge on their rulers, the 
misfortunes, which unavoidably result from na- 
tural causes, as well as those which may be 
more reasonably supposed to have owed their 
existence to human imprudence and actual mis- 
conduct. 

Again, if from contemplating these questions 
in their principles and elements, we proceed to 
view them, as they have been exhibited and 
illustrated by history and experience, we shall 
find the same positions established with equal 
clearness and force. Is there any proposition 
more generally admitted, than that political 
communities lend to decay and dissolution, in 
proportion to the corruption of their morals ? 
How often has the authority of the poet been 
adduced (an author acute and just in his views 
of life, but not eminent for being the frieud of 
morals or religion) to prove the inefficacy of 
laws, to avert the progress of a stale's decline 
and fall, while it should be carried forward, to» 
surely, in the downward road, by the general 
corruption of manners. We have already ex- 
emplified these truths, in enumerating the causes 
of the fall of Rome.* On more than one occa- 
sion, that state had owed its preservation to its re- 
verence for the awful sanction of an oath. This 
principle, and indeed the duty which is so closely 
connected with it, of truth and general fidelity 
to engagements, are the very cement which 
holds together societies, and indeed all, whether 
greater or smaller, associations of men ; and that 
this class of virtues is founded and bottomed on 
religion, is undeniably evident. 

If we pass from the page of history to a re- 
view of private life, are we not led to exactly 
the same conclusions ? Where do the politicians, 
who reason from the evidence of facts, expect 
to find a spirit of insubordination and anarchy ? 
Is it not in our crowded crities, in our large 
manufacturing towns, where wealth is often too 
dearly purchased at the price of morality and 
virtue ? And if we resort to individual instances, 
who is the man of peace and quietness ? Who 
is the least inclined to ' meddle with them that 
are given to change ?' Is it not the man of reli- 
gious and domestic habits whose very connex- 
ions, pursuits and hopes, are so many pledges 
for his adherence to the cause of civil order 
and to the support of the laws and institutions 
of his country ? 

• Chap. viii. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



U 



It is the more extraordinary that any writers, 
not deliberately hostile to Ihe cause of* religion 
and virtue, should have given any degree of 
countenance to the pernicious error, which we 
have been so long combating ; because the oppo- 
site opinion has been laid down as an incontesli- 
ble axiom, by those who will not be suspected 
of any extravagant zeal for the credit of religion, 
but, who speak the dictates of strong sense and 
deep observation. Hear then the able, but pro- 
fligate Machiavel — ' Those princes and com- 
monwealths, who would keep their governments 
entire and uncorrupt, are above all things, to 
have a care of religion and its ceremonies, and 
preserve them in due veneration, for in the whole 
world, there is not a greater sign of imminent 
ruin, than when God and his worship are de- 
spised.' — ' A prince therefore, ought most accu- 
rately to regard, that his religion be well-founded, 
and then his government will last; for there is 
no surer way, than to keep that good and united. 
Whatever therefore occurs, that ma3' any way 
be extended to the advantages and reputation of 
the religion they design to establish, by all 
means, they are to be propngated and encou- 
raged ; and tho wiser the prince, the more sure 
it is to be done.' — ' And if this care of divine 
worship were regarded by christian princes, ac- 
cording to the precepts and instructions of him 
who gave it at first, the states and common- 
wealths of Christendom would be much more 
happy and firm.'* 

Machiavel, it will be said, was at once an in- 
fidel and a hypocrite, who did not believe the 
truth of that religion, the observance of which 
he solicitously enforced. Be it so ; it still de- 
ducts nothing from the force of the argument as 
to the political uses of religion. — For if the mere 
forms and institutions, the outward and visible 
signs, of Christianity, were acknowledged to be, 
as they really are, of so great value, by this 
shrewd politician, what might not be the effect 
of its 'inward and spiritual grace?' 

When two able men of totally opposite prin- 
ciples and characters, pointedly agree in any 
important topic, there is a strong presumption 
that they meet in a truth. Such an unlooked 
for conformity may be found, in two writers, so 
decidedly opposite to each other, as our incom- 
parable bishop Butler, and the Florentine secre- 
tary above cited. Who will suspect Butler of 
being a visionary enthusiast? Yet has he drawn 
a most beautiful picture of the happiness of an 
imaginary slate, which should be perfectly vir- 
tuous for a succession of ages. ' In such a state,' 
he insists, there would be no faction. Public de- 
terminations would really be the result of united 
wisdom. All would contribute to the general 
prosperity, and each would enjoy the fruits of his 
own virtue. Injustice, force, and fraud, would be 
unknown — Such a kingdom would influence the 
whole earth ; the head of it indeed would be a 
universal monarch, in a new sense, and all people, 
nations, and languages should serve Aim.'t 

The profound Butler, was indeed, too great 
an adept in the knowledge of human nature, and 



* Machiavel's Discourses on Livy. 

t This is only a short abstract of this fine passage, to 
the whole of which the reader is referred. Butler's Ana- 
logy, part-first, chap, iji, p\ 89, and following. 



too thoroughly versed in the whole history of 
mankind, not to know, as he afterwards observes, 
the impossibility without some miraculous in- 
terposition, that a great body of men should so 
unite in one nation and government, in the fear 
of God, and the practice of virtue ; and that such 
a government should continue unbroken for a 
succession of ages ; yet supposing it could be so, 
indeed, such, he affirms, would be the certain 
effect. And may we not also affirm, that even 
allowing for all the failings and imperfections 
of human nature, which the prelate has excluded 
from his hypothesis, would not a state really 
approach nearer to this supposed happiness, in 
proportion as it taught and practised with more 
sedulity the principles of religion and virtue ? 

We cordially agree, with the famous Cosmo 
di Medici that princes cannot govern their states, 
by 'counting a string of beads, or mumbling 
over paternosters.' But we are, at the same 
time, equally averse from the religion which 
assigns such practices to any class of people ; 
and from that ignorance which would make tho 
religion of any order of men, especially of princes, 
consist in mere ceremonies and observances. 
Charles the wise, was at least as sound a judge 
as Cosmo of what constituted the perfection of 
a royal character, when he declared, that, ' if 
there were no honour and virtue left in the rest 
of the world, the last traces of them should be 
found among princes.' There should indeed, 
be found in the royal character, an innate gran- 
deur ; a dignity of soul which should show it- 
self under all circumstances, and shine through 
every cloud of trial or difficulty. It was from 
such inherent marks of greatness, that the in- 
fant Cyrus, exiled and unknown, was chosen 
king bv the shepherd's children. 

It would not, perhaps, be easy to cite an higher 
authority, on the point in question, the impor- 
tance of religion to a state, than that of the great 
and excellent chancellor de L'Hospital. It was 
a common observation of his, that, ' religion had 
more influence upon the spirits of mankind, 
than all their passions put together ; and that 
the cement, by which it united them, was infi- 
nitely stronger than all the other obligations of 
civil society. This was not the observation of 
a dreaming monk who in his cell, writes maxims 
for a world of which he knows nothing ; but tho 
sentiment derived from deep experience, of an 
illustrious statesman, whose greatness of mind, 
zeal, disinterestedness, and powerful talents, 
supported France under a succession of weak 
and profligate kings. Frugal for the state in 
times of boundless prodigality ; philosophical in 
a period of enthusiastic fury ; tolerant and can- 
did in days of persecution, and deeply conscien- 
tious under all circumstances ; worthy, in short, 
and it is perhaps his best eulogium, to be driven, 
for his virtues, by Catharine di Medici from 
councils, which his wisdom might have con. 
trolled ; and who, on giving up the seals which 
she demanded, withdrew to an honourable lite- 
rary retreat, with the remark, that ' the world 
was too depraved for him to concern himself any 
longer with it. These are the men whom cor- 
rupt princes drive from the -direction of those 
states, which their wisdom might save and their 
virtue might reform. 



S3 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Another of the political advantages of religi- 
ous rectitude in a state, is the security it affords. 
For, with whatever just severity we may repro- 
bate the general spirit of revolution, yet, it must 
be confessed, that it has not, on all occasions, 
been excited by undue discontent, by unprovoked 
impatience, nor even by selfish personal feel- 
ings; but sometimes also from a virtuous sense 
of the evils of oppression and injustice ; evils 
which honest men resent for others as well as for 
themselves. 

Again, there is something so safe and tran- 
quilizing in Christian piety, as we have already 
observed, that, though we would be far from re- 
ducing it to a cold political calculation ; yet, con- 
tent, submission, and obedience, make so large 
a practical part of religion, that wherever it is 
taught in the best and soundest way, it can hard- 
ly fail to promote, in the people, the ends of true 
policy, any more than of genuine morality. 

Our wisest sovereigns, partly, perhaps for this 
reason, have paid the deepest attention to the 
moral instruction of the lower classes of their 
subjects. Alfred and Elizabeth,* among others, 
were too sound politicians to lose this powerful 
hold on the affections of their people. In addi- 
tion to their desire to promote religion, they had 
no doubt discerned, that it is gross vice, that it 
is brutal ignorance, which leave the lower class 
a prey to factious innovators, and renders them 
the blind tools of political incendiaries. When 
the youth of this class are carefully instructed 
in religion by their rightful teachers, those 
teachers have the fairest opportunities of instill- 
ing into them their duty to the state, as well as 
to the church ; and they will find that the same 
lessons which form good Christians, tend to 
make good subjects. But, without that mode- 
rate measure of sound and sober instruction, 
which should be judiciously adapted to their low 
demands, they will be likely neither to honour 
the king, reverence the clergy, nor obey the ma- 
gistrate. While, on the contrary, by inter- 
weaving their duty to their governors, with their 
duty to God, they will at once be preserved from 
mischief in politics, and delusion in religion. 
The awful increase of perjury among us is of 
itself a loud call sedulously to pursue this object. 
How should those who are not early instructed 
in the knowledge of their Maker, fear to offend 
him, by that common violation of the solemnity 

* See a letter of archbishop Whitgift to the bishops, 
of which the following is an extract : 

'Your lordship is not ignorant, that a great part of 
the dissoluteness of manners, and ignorance in the com- 
mon son, that reignethin most parts of this realm, even 
in this clear light of the gospel, ariseth hereof, for, that 
the youth, being as it were, the frie and seminary of the 
chinch and commonwealth, through negligence, LmiIi 
of natural and spiritual fathers, are not, as were meet, 
trained up in the chief and necessary principles of 
Christian religion, whereby they might learn their duty 
to their God, their prince, their country, and their neigh 
bours; especially in their tender years, when these things 
might best be planted in them, and would become most 
hardly to be afterwards removed This mischief might 
well, in mine opinion, be redressed, if that which in 
this behalf hath been godly and wisely provided, were 
as carefully called on and executed, namely, by cate- 
chizing and instiucting in churches the youth of b dh 
sexes, on the Sabbath days, in the afternoon. And, that 
if it may be convenient, before their parents, and others 
of the several parishes, who thereby may take comfort 
and instruction also.'— Strype's Life of Whitgift. 



of oaths, for which we are unhappily becoming 
notorious ? Let us not be deemed needlessly 
earnest in the defence of a truth of such extreme 
importance. — The political value of religion no 
ver can be too firmly believed, or too carefully 
kept in view, in the government of nations. 
May it be deeply rooted in the mind of every 
prince, as a fundamental principle! Let it be 
confirmed by all the various proofs and exam- 
ples, by which its truth can be established, and 
its authority enforced !* 

But, to return. — We most readily concede, 
that by that exultation of a stale of which Solo- 
mon speaks, is not meant, that sudden flash of 
temporary splendor, which is occasioned by the 
mutable advantages of war, the plunder of fo- 
reign countries, the acquisition of unwieldy ter- 
ritory, or the vertigo of domestic revolutions; 
but that sober and solid glory, which is the re- 
sult of just laws ; of agriculture, and sobriety, 
which promote population; of industry and com- 
merce, which increase prosperity ; of such well 
regulated habits in private life, as may serve to 
temper that prosperity, and by strict conse- 
quences, give direction and steadiness to public 
manners.^ For it never can be made a question, 
whether the solidity of the parts must not con- 
tribute to the firmness of the whole ; and whether 
the virtue exercised by collective bodies, can 
any farther be hoped for, than as it exists in the 
individuals who compose them. But, on what 
b:isis can this superstructure rest, by what prin- 
ciple can individual virtue beeither substantially 
promoted or lastingly secured, except by that 
sense of an invisible, almighty, and infinitely 
just, and holy Sovereign of the universe, which 
revelation alone has effectually disclosed to us, 
and reason has recognized as the essence of re- 
ligion ? 

Far be it indeed, from us to deny, that this 
religious principle may not frequently oppose it- 
self to apparent means of aggrandizement, both 
personal and national. — Doubtless it will often 
condemn that to which human pride would 
aspire. Even when an object might in itself be 
fairly desirable, it will forbid the pursuit, except 
through lawful paths. But in the severest of 
such restrictions, it only sacrifices what is sha- 
dowy to what is substantial, the evanescent tri- 
umphs of a day to the permanent comfort of 
successive generations. 

But though we do not assert that national 
prosperity is always, and infallibly, an indica- 
tion of virtue, and of the distinguishing favour 
of God, yet we conceive, that such outward 
marks of divine favour may more generally be 
expected, in the case of communities, than of in- 



* Mr. Addison speaks of the religious instruction of 
the poor as the best means of recovering the country 
from its degeneracy and depravation of manners. And, 
alter drawing an animated picture of a procession of 
charity children on a day of thanksgiving for the tri- 
umphs obtained by the queen's arms, he adds, 4 for my 
part, I can scarce forbear looking on the astonishing 
victories our arms have been crowned with, to be. in 
some measure, the blessings returned upon these chari- 
ties ; and that the great successes of the war, for which 
we lately ottered up our thanks, were, in some measure, 
occasioned by the several objects (of religiously instruct- 
ed children) which then stood before us.'— Giurdian, 
No. 105. These were the sentiments of a Secretary of 
I State 1 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



53 



dividuals. In communities we see not so much 
the effect of each particular act of virtue, as of 
the generally diffused principle. Though virtue 
is often obstructed in labouring to obtain for it- 
self the advantages which belong to it, this is 
no proof against its having a tendency to obtain 
them. The natural tendency indeed, being to 
produce happiness, though it may fail to do it in 
certain expected cases. 

In the case, therefore, of communities and 
states, where the result of many actions, rather 
than the particular effect of each, is seen, it may 
not altogether unfairly be asserted, that virtue 
is its own reward. Perhaps it also may be af- 
firmed, that the system of temporal rewards and 
punishments, which, though chiefly exemplified 
in the Jewish dispensation, was by no means 
confined to it, has not equally passed away, with 
respect to stales and nations, as with respect to 
individuals. The learned Bossuet has observed, 
that while the New Testament manifests to us 
the operation of God's grace, the Old Testament 
exhibits to us his providential government of the 
world. We will not dwell on this remark fur- 
ther than to suggest, that even in this view the 
study of the Old Testament may not be without 
its uses, even to the modern statesman, as we 
know that the Jewish law has clearly been held 
important, by some of our wisest legislators. 

On the whole, we need not hesitate to assert, 
that in the long course of events, nothing, that 
is morally wrong, can be politically right. No- 
thing that is inequitable, can be finally success- 
ful. Nothing, that is contrary to religion, can 
be ultimately favourable to civil policy. We 
may therefore confidently affirm, that impiety 
and vice, sooner or later, bring states, as well 
as individuals, to misery and ruin. That, though 
vice may sometimes contribute to temporary ex- 
altation; in the same degree, it will, in the end, 
contribute to promote decay, and accelerate the 
inevitable pciiod of dissolution. 

Let it then be ever kept in view, that the true 
exaltation is, in fact, that prosperity which arises 
from the goodness of the laws, and the firmness 
and impartiality with which they are executed ; 
which results from moderation in the govern- 
ment, and obedience in people ; from wisdom 
and foresight in council, from activity and in- 
tegrity in commerce, from independence of na- 
tional character, from fortitude in resisting fo- 
reign attack, and zeal in promoting domestic 
harmony ; from patience under sufferings, hardi- 
ness in danger, zeal in the love of civil, and vi- 
gour in the reprobation of savage liberty ; from 
a spirit of fairness and liberality in making 
treaties, and from fidelity in observing them. 
Above all, from a multiplication of individual 
instances of family comfort and independence, 
from the general prevalence, throughout the 
great mass of the people, of habits of industry, 
Bobriety, and good order, from the practice in 
short, of the social and domestic virtues ; of all 
those relative duties and kindnesses, which give 
body and substance to the various charities of 
life, and the best feelings of our nature. 

If sinful nations appear prosperous for a time, 
it is often because there has been some propor- 
tion of good mixed with the evil ; or it is be- 
cause the Providence of God means to use the 



temporary success of guilty nations for the ac- 
complishment of his general scheme, or the pro- 
motion of a particular purpose, of humbling and 
correcting other, perhaps less guilty nations ; or 
it is because ' the iniquity of the Amorites is not 
yet full; and the punishment of the more cor- 
rupt states is delayed, to make their ruin more 
signal and tremendous, and their downfall a 
more portentous object, for the instruction of 
the world. God, without any impeachment of 
his moral government, may withhold retribution, 
because it is always in his power : he may be 
long-suffering, because he is everlasting. He 
may permit the calamity which we see, in order 
to extract from it the good which we see not. — 
He is never the author of moral evil, and the 
natural evil which he does authorise, is both the 
punishment and the corrective of the moral. 
Though God never intended this world for such 
a complete state of retribution, as entirely to 
hinder either vice or virtue from occasionally 
receiving the recompences, and the penalties 
due to the other ; yet there is this obvious differ- 
ence, between nations and individuals, that, 
whereas individuals the most virtuous are often 
the most visited with temporal misfortunes, the 
best governed empires are, on the whole, the 
most secure of prosperity. And if, in the cala- 
mities brought on corrupt states, the innocent 
always unavoidably suffer with the guilty, this 
furnishes no just charge against the equity of 
divine Providence, who here reckons tremen- 
dously with the state as a state, but will, sepa- 
rately and ultimately, reckon with every indi- 
vidual ; and thus finally and fully vindicate his 
own infinite, and much calumniated justice.'* 



CHAP. XIX. 

Integrity the true political wisdom. 

The tendency of a religious temper to exalt 
a prince into a hero, might be sufficiently illus- 
trated by the single instance of Louis the ninth. 
It is notorious, that nothing more severely tries 
the character of princes as well as of individuals, 
than remarkable success. It was, however, in 
this circumstance precisely, that the prince just 
mentioned evinced how completely his christian 
temper had corrected, both the selfishness natu- 
ral to man, and the arrogance habitual to pros- 
perity. 

When, under the unfortunate reign of our 
Henry the third, the affairs of England were re- 
duced to a low condition, while those of France 
were in a highly flourishing state ; Louis, in 
making a treaty with England, generously re- 
fused to take an unfair advantage of the misfor- 
tunes of this country, or to avail himself to the 
utmost of his own superiority- His concessions 
to the depressed enemy were liberal ; and he 
soon after reaped the reward of his moderation, 
in the confidence which it inspired. Louis was 
chosen, both by Henry and his nobles, to settle 
the differences between them. In consequence 

* See bishop Butler's Analogy, a work which cannot 
be too strongly recommended 



54 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



of the recent instance of his public integrity, 
the foreign adversary was invited to be the ar- 
biter of domestic disagreements ; and they were 
happily terminated by his decision. Let infi- 
dels remark, to the disgrace of their scepticism, 
that the monarch who was, perhaps, one of the 
greatest instances of christian piety and devo- 
tion, furnished also an example of the most 
striking moral rectitude ! 

Henry the fourth, when only king of Navarre, 
discovered no less integrity after his glorious 
victory at Coutras. Being asked what terms he 
would require from the king of France, after 
gaining such a victory, 'just the same,' replied 
he, ' that I should ask after losing one.' 

It is, however, necessary to observe, that in- 
tegrity, in order to be successful, must be uni- 
form. Truth, for example, occasionally spoken, 
may not afford to the speaker any part of the 
profit which attends the regular observance of 
truth. The error of corrupt politicians consists 
much in treating each question, as if it were 
an insulated case, and then arguing, perhaps not 
unjustly, that the practice of virtue, in this or 
that particular instance, will not be productive 
of good ; forgetting that if, in all instances, they 
would be virtaous, they would then most proba- 
bly obtain the success and full reward of virtue. 

We know that even in that particular branch 
of political transactions, the diplomatic, wherein 
the strongest temptations to dissimulation, and 
chicanery are held forth to little minds, some of 
the most able and successful negotiators have 
generously disdained the use of any such mean 
expedients. The frankness and integrity of 
Temple and De Witt are not more esteemed by 
the moralist for their probity, than by the states- 
man for their true wisdom. What can there be, 
indeed, so different between the situation of two 
public men, who on the part of their several 
countries respectively, are negotiating on ques- 
tions of policy or commerce ; and that of two 
private men who are treating on some business 
of ordinary life, which should render impolitic, 
in the public concern, that honesty which, in 
the private, is so universally acknowledged to 
be the best policy, as to have grown into an 
adage of universal and unqualified acceptance. 
Indeed, as the adage may refer to what is truly 
politic in the long run, and with a view to gene- 
ral consequences, wc might rather expect, that 
fraud would be admissible into the transactions 
of private men, whose short span of life might 
not be likely to be more than counterbalanced 
by future loss rather than in the concerns of 
states, which, by containing a long continued 
existence, a political identity, under all the suc- 
cessive generations of the members of which 
they are composed, may pay, and pay perhaps 
severely too, in later times, the price of former 
acts of fraud and treachery. — Again, in public, 
no less than in private business, will not any 
one find the benefit of employing an agent, who 
possesses a high character for probity and ho- 
nour ? Will not larger and more liberal conces- 
sions be made to him who may be safely relied 
on for paying their equivalent ? Once more, 
how often are public wars, as well as private 
differences, produced or fermented by mutual 
distrust ! and how surely would a confidence in 



each other's trust and honesty tend to the resto- 
ration of peace and harmony ! Even the wily 
Florentine* allows, that it is advantageous ta 
have a high character for truth and uprightness 
And how can this character be in any way so 
well obtained as bj, 7 deserving it? It is the dis- 
grace of nations, that in their diplomatic con- 
cerns, the maxims of solid wisdom have not 
been always observed. 

Without going the length of admitting the 
truth of Sir Henry Wotton's light definition of 
the duties of an ambassador, is it not too often 
assumed, that the laws which bind private men, 
and which would doubtless bind the individual 
minister himself, in his private concerns, may 
occasionally be dispensed with, in the adminis- 
tration of public affairs ; and that strict truth, 
for instance, which in the ordinary transactions 
of life is allowed to be indispensable, is too fre- 
quently considered as impracticable in diplo- 
matic negotiations ? 

Don Louis De Haro, the Spanish minister, at 
the treaty of the Pyrennees, seems to have en- 
tertained just views of the value of simple in- 
tegrity in politicians, for speaking of cardinal 
Mazarin, with whom he was negotiating, he 
said, ' that man always pursued one great error 
in politics, he would always deceive.' Mazarin 
was a deep dissembler and a narrow genius ;t 
so true it is that vanity and shortsightedness 
are commonly at the bottom of dissimulation, 
though it be practised from a totally opposite 
idea; worldly politicians frequently falling into 
the error of fancying, that craft and circumven- 
tion are indications of genius ; while, in reality, 
suspicion is the wisdom of a little mind, and 
distrust the mean and inefficient substitute for 
the penetration of a great one. Many, says lord 
Bacon, who know how to pack the cards, can- 
not play them well. Many who can manage 
canvasses and factions, are yet not wise men. 
Considering the credit which sincerity stamps 
on a political character, it is so far from being 
opposed to discretion, that it constitutes the best 
part of it. True rectitude neither implies nor 
requires imprudence ; while it costs a politician 
as much trouble to maintain the reputation of a 
quality which he has not, as it would really cost 
him to acquire it. The mazes and windings, 
the doublings and intricacies of intriguing spi- 
rits, ultimately mislead them from the end they 
pursue. They excite jealousy, they rouse re- 
sentment, they confirm suspicion, they strength- 
en prejudices, they foment differences ; and thus 
call into action a number of passions, which 
commonly oppose themselves to the accomplish- 
ment of their designs. Politicians therefore 
would do well to remember the remark of the 
learned Barrow, who was as great a proficient 
in mathematics, as in morality, that ' the 
straightest line is always the shortest line, in 
morals as well as in geometry.' When the cha- 

* Machiuvel. 

t Mazarin himself had spread his own maxims to such 
trond purpose, that one of his creatures whom he intend- 
ed to send to negotiate with thednke of Savoy, implored 
ids eminence not to insist on his deceiving the <\\\kc just 
at that time, as the business was but a trifle ; because lie 
thought it would answer better to reserve the sacrifice 
of his reputation for deceiving, till some more important 
object was at stake. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



Si 



racter of integrity is once lost, falsehood itself 
loses all its uses. The known dissembler is sus- 
pected of insincerity even when he does not 
practise it, and is no longer trusted, though he 
may happen to deserve to be so. 

The character of lord Sunderland presents a 
striking instance of the political inefficacy of 
duplicity. His superior genius, so admirably 
qualified for business, availed him but little in 
securing the public esteem when it was ob- 
served, that of three successive princes, who 
severally set out with a view to establish dif- 
ferent interests, ho gained the favour of all, by 
adopting the system of each, wi*h the same ac- 
commodating veracity. His reputation for ho- 
nesty sunk, and he ceased to be trusted in the 
degree in which he came to be known. 

We sometimes hear the more decent politi- 
cians, who sanction the appenrance, and com- 
mend the outward observances of religion lament 
that religion does not produce any great effects 
upon society. And they are right, if by religion 
they mean that shell and surface, which merely 
serve to save appearances. But, is it not to be 
feared, that these very politicians sometimes dis- 
believe the reality, and the power of that religion, 
the exterior of which they allow to be decorous? 
Yet, this reality and power, believed and acted 
upon, would certainly produce more substantial 
effects than can ever rationally be expected from 
mere forms and shadows. These snge persons 
frequently lament the deficiency of morals in 
society, but never the want of religion in the 
heart. Though, to expect that morality to be 
firm, which stands on no religious foundation, 
is to expect stability from an inverted pyramid. 

Besides, it is infinitely laborious to maintain 
an undeviating course of dissimulation, a mo- 
ment's intermission of which may defeat the 
policy of years. Yet, this unremitting attention, 
this wearying watchfulness, is essential to that 
worldly policy, of which South says, that 
• folly being the superstructure, it is but reasen, 
that the foundation should be falsity. The same 
acute judge of mankind observes, that the de- 
signing politicians of the party he was combat- 
ing, seemed to act as if they thought ' that 
speech was given to ordinary men to communi- 
cate their mind, but to wise men for concealing 
it.' 

The dissembler should also remember, that 
however deeply interest and industry enable 
him to lay his plans, the interest and industry 
of others will be equally at work to detect them. 
Besides, the deepest politician can carry on no 
great schemes alone, and as all association de- 
pends on opinion, few will lend their aid, or com- 
mit their safety to one whose general want of 
probity forbids the hope of perpetual confidence, 
or of permanent security. 

Why do many politicians fail finally of the 
full accomplishment of their object? Not for 
want of genius to lay a plausible plan ; not for 
want of judgment to seize the most favourable 
occasions ; not for want of due contempt of con- 
scientious scruples in pushing those occasions; 
not for want of fearless impiety in giving full 
scope to their designs ; but from that ever wake- 
ful Providence, which if he does not dash their 
projects before they are acted, defeats the 



main intention afterwards. — Even the successful 
usurper, Cromwell, lost the confidence of his 
army, when they found in the sequel, that he 
meant to place himself on the very throne which 
he had made them believe it was his great ob- 
ject to abolish. Nor was he ever able to adorn 
his own brows with that crown, for the hope 
of which he had waded through a sea of crimes. 
The very means employed by Alexander the 
sixth, and Caesar Borgia, to destroy the cardinals, 
rebounded on themselves, and both were poison- 
ed by the very wine which they had prepared 
for the destruction of their guests. 

It is, therefore, the only safety, and the only 
wisdom, and the only sure, unfading prudence, 
instead of pursuing our own devious paths, to 
commit our concerns to God ; to walk in his 
straight ways, and obey his plain commands. 
For, after all, the widest sphere of a mere 
worldly politician is but narrow. The wisdom 
of this world is bounded by this world, the di- 
mensions of which are so contracted, and its 
duration so short, in the eye of true philosophy, 
as to strip it of all real grandeur. All the enjoy- 
ments of this world, says the eloquent South, are 
much too short for an immortal soul to stretch 
itself upon : a soul which shall persist in being, 
not only when honour and fame, but when time 
itself shall cease to be. The deepest worldly 
projector, with the widest views, and the strong- 
est energies, even when flushed with success, 
must, if his mind has never learned to shoot 
forward into the boundless eternity of an unseen 
world, feel his genius cramped, his wing flag, 
and his spirit at a stand. There seems to have 
been a spark of the immortal fire even in the 
regrets of Alexander. It is probable he would 
not have wept, because he had no more worlds 
to conquer, had he not deeply felt the sting of 
disappointment at finding no joy in having con- 
quered this, and thence inferred a kind of vague 
and shapeless idea of another. There will be 
always too vast a disproportion between the 
appetites and enjoyments of the ambitious to 
admit of their being happy. Nothing can fill 
the desires of a great soul, but what he is per- 
suaded will last as long as he himself shall last. 

To worldly minds it would sound paradoxical 
to assert that ambition is a little passion. To 
affirm that if really great views, and truly en- 
larged notions were impressed upon the soul, 
they would be so far from promoting that they 
would cure this passion. The excellent bishop 
Berkeley, beholding the ravages which ambition 
had made in his time in France, could not help 
wishing that its encroaching monarch had been 
bred to the study of astronomy, that he might 
learn from thence liow mean and little that am- 
bition is which terminates in a small part of 
what is of itself but a point, compared with that 
part of the universe which lies within our view. 

But, if astronomy shows the diminutiveness 
of that globe, fort very small portion of which 
kings contend, in comparison with the universe, 
how much nobler a cure does Christianity pro- 
vide for ambition, by showing that not this globo 
only, but the wholo universe also, 

Yea, all that it inherits shall dissolve ; 

by reminding the ambitious of the utter in-. 



56 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



sufficiency to true glory or real happiness of all 
that has been created, of all that shall have an 
end; by carrying on their views to that invisi- 
ble, eternal world, which to us shall then em- 
phatically begin to be, when all which we be- 
hold shall be no more. 

He, therefore, is the only true politician who 
uniformly makes the eternal laws of truth and 
rectitude, as revealed from heaven the standard 
of his actions, and the measure of his ambition. 
' To do justly,' is peculiarly the high and holy 
location of a prince. And both princes and 
politicians would do well to inquire, not only 
whether their scheme was planned with saga- 
city, and executed with spirit, but whether they 
have so conducted it, as to leave proper room, if 
we may so speak, for the favourable interference 
of God ; whether they have supplicated his bles- 
sing ; and given to him the glory of its happy 
issue ? Perhaps more well-meant endeavours 
fail through neglect in these respects, particu- 
larly of fervent prayer for success, than through 
any deficiency in the wisdom of the plan itself. 
But because under a fanatic usurpation, in the 
seventeenth century, hypocrites abused this 
duty, and degraded its sanctity, by what they 
profanely called seeking the Lord ; the friends 
of the restored constitution too generally took up 
the notion, that irreligion was a proof of sin- 
cerity, and that the surest way to avoid the hy- 
pocrisy, was to omit the duty. 

We cannot too strongly censure that most 
mistaken practice, which, at the period before 
mentioned, reduced the language of Scripture 
to that of common conversation; nor too warm- 
ly condemn that false taste, which, by quaint 
allusions, forced conceits, and strained allego- 
ries, wrested the Bible to every ordinary pur- 
pose, and debased its dignity, by this colloquial 
familiarity. But is there no danger of falling 
into the opposite error ? If some have unseason- 
ably forced it into the service, on occasions to 
which it could never apply ; may not others ac- 
quire the habit of thinking it seasonable on no 
occasion at all ? 

Again — how strangely do we overlook the 
consummate wisdom, as well as goodness of 
God, in having made that practice of prayer the 
instrument of obtaining his blessing, which is 
so powerfully operative in purifying and elevat- 
our own hearts. Politicians, with all their sa- 
gacity, would do well to learn, that it is likewise 
one of the many beneficial effects of prayer, that 
it not only reasonably increases our hopes of 
success, but teaches us to acquiesce in disap- 
pointment. They should learn also, not to won- 
der, if God refuses to answer those prayers, 
which are occasionally put up on great public 
emergencies, when those who offer them do not 
live in the exercise of habitual devotion. They* 
should take it as an axiom of good experience 
from the incomparable Hooker, that ' All things 
religiously begun are prosperously ended ; be- 
cause whether men, in the end, have that which 
religion allowed them to desire, or that which 
it teacheth them contentedly to suffer, they are, 
in neither event, unfortunate.' 

Nor will a truly pious prince ever be even- 
tually defeated in his designs ; he may not in- 



deed be successful in every negotiation, he may 
not be victorious in every battle ; yet in hia 
leading purpose he will never be disappointed. 
For his ultimate end was to act conscientiously, 
to procure the favour of God, to advance the best 
interests of his people, and to secure his own 
eternal happiness. — Whatever the event may 
be to others, to himself it must be finally good. 
The effect of righteousness is peace. Mark the 
perfect man, and behold the upright, for the end 
of that man is peace. And, to conclude in the 
words of the able and profound Barrow — ' If 
God shall not cease to be ; if he will not let go 
the reins; iF 1ms word cannot deceive; if the 
wisest men are not infatuated ; if the common 
sense of mankind is not extravagant ; if the main 
props of life, if the great pillars of society do not 
fail; — he that walketh uprightly doth proceed 
on sure grounds.' 



CHAP. XX. 

On the true arts of Popularity. 

Cicero says, ' that it is the property of justice 
not to injure men, and of politeness not to offend 
them.' True Christianity not only unites, but 
perfects both these qualities ; and renders them, 
thus associated and exalted, powerful instru- 
ments, especially in princes, for the acquisition 
of popularity. 

The desire of praise and reputation is com- 
monly the first motive of action in second rate, 
and a secondary motive in first rate characters. 
That, in the former case, men who are not 
governed by a higher principle, are often so 
keenly alive to human opinion, as to be re- 
strained by it from such vices as would disturb 
the peace of society, is an instance of the useful 
provision made by the great Governor of all 
things for the good order of the world. 

But in princes, none of whose actions are in- 
different, who are ' the observed of all obser- 
vers,' reputation cannot be too highly prized. A 
negligence respecting public opinion, or a con- 
tempt for the judgment of posterity, would be 
inexcusable in those, whose conduct must, in no 
inconsiderable degree, give, in their own time, 
the law to manners, and whose example will 
hereafter be adduced, by future historians, 
either to illustrate virtue, or to exemplify vice, 
and to stimulate the good or evil, monarchs yet 
unborn. 

1 A prince,' however, as a late eloquent states- 
man* observed in his own case, ' should love 
that fame which follows, not that which is pur- 
sued.' He should bear in mind, that shadows 
owe their being to substances ; that true fame 
derives its existence from something more solid 
than itself, that reputation is not the precursor, 
nor the cause, but the fruit and effect of merit- 
But though, in superficial characters, the 
hunger of popularity is the mainspring of ac- 
tion : and though the vain-glorious too often ob- 
tain, what they so sedulously seek, the acclama« 

* The first earl of Mansfield. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



57 



tlons of the vulgar ; yet a temperate desire to 
be loved and esteemed is so far from being 1 a 
proof of vanity, that it even indicates the con- 
trary propensity : for reasonably to wish for the 
good opinion of others, evinces that a man does 
not overvalue and sit down contented with his 
own. It is an over estimation of himself, an 
undue complacency in his own merit, which is 
one of the causes of his disdain of public opin- 
ion. In profligate characters, another cause is, 
that, anticipating the contempt which they must 
Oe aware, they have deserved, they are willing 
to be beforehand with the world in proclaiming 
their disdain of that, reputation which they know 
that their course of life has made unattainable. 

Pagan philosophy, indeed, overrated the ho- 
nour which cometh from man. But even the sa- 
cred scripture, which, as it is the only true foun- 
tain, is also the only just standard of all excel- 
lence, does not teach us to despise, but only not 
to set an undue value upon it. It teaches us to 
estimate this honour in its due order and just 
measure ; and above all, it exhorts us to see that 
it be sought on right grounds ; to take care that 
it tempt not to vanity, by exciting to trifling 
pursuits ; nor to vice, by stimulating to such as 
are base; nor to false honour, by seeking it in 
the paths of ambition. A prince must not be 
inordinate in the desire, nor irregular in the 
pursuit, nor immoderate in the enjoyment, nor 
criminally solicitous for the preservation of 
fame ; but he must win it fairly, and wear it 
temperately. He should pursue it not as the ul- 
timate end of life, but as an object, which, by 
making the life honourable makes it useful. It 
must not, however, be omitted that the scriptures 
exhort, that when reputation can only be attain- 
ed or preserved by the sacrifice of duty, it must 
then be renounced ; that we must submit to the 
loss even of this precious jewel, rather than by 
retaining it, wound the conscience, or offend 
God. Happily, however, in a country in which 
religion and laws are established on so firm a 
basis, a prince is little likely to be called to such 
an absolute renunciation, though he may be call- 
ed to many trials. 

But all these dangers being provided for, and 
all abuses guarded against, the word of God does 
not scruple to pronounce reputation to be a va- 
luable possession. In a competition with riches, 
the pre-eminence is assigned to a good name ; 
and wisdom, that is, Religion in the bold lan- 
guage of eastern imagery, is described as bear- 
ing honour in her left hand. Nor has the sacred 
volume been altogether silent, respecting even 
that posthumous renown which good princes 
may expect in history. That the memory of the 
just shall be blessed, was the promise of one 
who was himself both an author and a monarch. 
And that the righteous shall be had in everlast- 
ing remembrance, was the declaration of another 
royal author.* 

A desire of popularity is still more honest in 
princes than in other men. And when the end 
for which it is sought, and the means by which 
it is pursued are strictlv just, the desire is not 
only blameless, but highly laudable. Nor is it 
ever censurable, except where the affection of 

* See an admirable sermon of Dr. Barrow, on the re- 
ward of honouring God. 
Vol. II. 



the people is sought, by plausible means, for per 
nicious purposes. On the part of the people at- 
tachment is a natural feeling, which nothing 
but persevering misconduct in their rulers can 
ever wear out. A prince should learn not to 
listen to those flatterers who would keep hirn ig- 
norant of the public opinion. The discontents 
of the people should not be stifled before they 
reach the royal ear ; nor should their affection 
be represented as a fund which can never be 
drained. It is a rich and precious stock, which 
should not be too often drawn upon. Impru- 
dence will diminish, oppression will exhaust it. 
A prince should never measure his rights over 
a people by the greatness of their attachment ; 
the warmth of their zeal being a call for his 
kindness, not a signal for his exactions. Im- 
provident rigour would wear out that affection, 
which justice would increase, and consideration 
confirm. 

Britons, in general, possess that obsequium 
erga reges, which Tacitus ascribes to the Swedes. 
While they passionately love liberty, they also 
patiently bear those reasonable burdens which 
are necessary in order to preserve it. But this 
character of our countrymen seems, not to have 
been so well understood, at least not so fairly 
represented, by one of their own sovereigns, as 
by a foreigner and an enemy. The unfortunate 
James calls them 'a fickle, giddy, and rebellious 
people.' If the charge were true, he and his 
family rather made, than found them such. 
Agricola had pronounced them to be a people, 
' who cheerfully complied with the levies of men, 
and tbe imposition of taxes, and with all the du- 
ties enjoined by government, provided they met 
with just and lawful treatment from their go- 
vernors.' — 'Nor have the Romans,' continues he, 
' any farther conquered them, than only to form 
them to obedience. They never will submit to 
be slaves.'* It is pleasant to behold the freest 
of nations, even now, acting up the character 
given them by the first of historians, on such 
unquestionable authority as that of their illus- 
trious invader, near two thousand years ago. 

Even the fatal catastrophe of Charles I. wa9 
not a national act, but the act of a fanatical par- 
ty. The kingdom at large beheld the deed with 
deep abhorrence, and deplored it with unfeigned 
sorrow. The fascinating manners of his son 
and successor so won the hearts of every one 
who approached him, that it required all his 
vices to alienate them. If that gracious outward 
deportment was of so much use to him, in veil- 
ing for a time the most corrupt designs, how 
essentially must it serve a prince who meditates 
only such as are beneficial ! William was not 
so happy as to find out this secret. Satisfied 
with having saved the country, he forgot that it 
was important to please it ; and he in some 
measure lost, by his forbidding manners, and 
his neglect of studying our national character, 
the hearts of a people who owed him their best 
blessings. 

Charles, the abject tool of Prance, 

Came back to smile his subjects into slaves, 
While Beljic William, with his warrior frown. 
Coldly declared them free. 

The charming frankness and noble simrjlicitv 
* Tacitus'e life of Agiicola. 



58 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



of manners which distinguished Henry IV. of 
France, gained the affections of his subjects 
more than ail the refinements of artifice could 
have done. He had established such a reputa- 
tion for sincerity, that when, on a certain occa- 
sion, he offered hostages to his mortal enemies 
the Spartans, they refused to accept them, and 
would only take his word. He frequently de- 
clared, that he would lose his crown rather than 
give, even to his worst foe, the least suspicion 
of his fidelity to his engagements. So happily 
infectious is this principle in a king, that not 
only Sully, but his other minister, Jeannin, was 
distinguished by the same strict regard to truth ; 
and the popularity both of the king and his mi- 
nisters wns proportionably great. 

The only way then for a prince to secure the 
affection of the people, is to deserve it; by letting 
them see that he is steadily consulting their in- 
terests, and invariably maintaining them. What 
but this so long preserved to Elizabeth, (hat root- 
ed regard in the hearts of her subjeets ? Cer- 
tainly no pliancy of manners, no gracious com- 
plaisance. She treated even her parliaments in 
so peremptory a manner, that they sometimes 
only bore with it from a thorough conviction 
that the interests of the country were secure in 
her hands, and its happiness as dear to her as 
her own.* These are the true foundations of 
popularity. He, who most consults the good of 
his people, will, in general, be most trusted by 
them ; he who best merits their affection, will 
be most sure to obtain it, in spite of the arts of 
a cabal, or the turbulence of a faction. 

Pagan fable relates, that when the inferior 
gods had once formed a conspiracy to bind Jupi- 
ter, Minerva advised him to send for Briareus, 
the monster with the hundred hands, to come 
to his assistance; the poets, doubtless, intimating 
by this fiction, that wisdom will always suggest 
to a prince, that his best security will ever be 
found in the read}' attachment and assistance 
of the people. And it was a good practice which 
the famous Florentine secretary! records ot the 
then king of France, that he would never allow 
any person to say, that he was of the king's party, 
which would always imply that there was an- 
other party against him; whereas the king pru- 
dently desired not to have it thought that there 
were any parties at all. And, indeed, 'wise so- 
vereigns will study carefully to repress all nar- 
rowing terms, and dividing ideas. Of such so- 
vereigns the people are the party. 

Princes will have read history with little at- 
tention if they do not learn from it, that their 
own true greatness is so closely connected with 
the happiness of their subjects, as to be insepa- 
rable from it. There they will see that while 
great schemes of conquest have always been 
productive of extreme suffering to the human 
race, in their execution, they have often led to 
ultimate dishonour and ruin to the monarchs 
themselves. Herein a pious mind will recog- 

* 'You have lived,' says lord Thomas Howard to his 
fiiend in James I.'s reign, ' lo see the trim of old times, 
and what passed in the queen's days. These things are 
no more the same ; your qieen did not tallc of her sub 
jects' love and good atf.'ctions, and in good truth she 
aimed well : our king talketh of his subjects' fear and 
subjection, &c. &c. 
MacniaveL 



iiise the goodness of the Almighty, which, not- 
withstanding the temptations and impediments 
that, in this probationary state, obstruct the pro- 
gress and render difficult the practice of virtue 
in private life, has yet held out to those, who are 
endowed with kingly power, a strong induce- 
ment to use it for the promotion of their people's 
happiness, by rendering such designs as tend to 
the gratification of many vicious appetites which 
they are most tempted to indulge, far more diffi- 
cult of execution, than such as are prompted by 
benevolent emotions, and have in view the ad- 
vancement of civil and social happiness. 

Thus, projects of conquest and ambition are 
circumscribed and obstructed by a thousand in 
herent and unavoidable difficulties. They are 
often dependent for their success on the life of a 
single man, whose death perhaps when least ex- 
pected, at once disconcerts them. Often they 
depend on what is still more uncertain, — the ca- 
price or humour of an individual. When all is 
conceived to be flourishing and successful, when 
the prosperous enterpriser fancies that he is on 
the very point of gaining the proud summit to 
which he has so long aspired ; or at the very 
moment when it is attained, and he is exulting 
in the hope of immediate enjoyment, — at once 
he is dashed to the ground, his triumphs are de. 
feated, his laurels are blasted, and he himself 
only remains, 

To point a moral, or adorn a tale, 

a lasting monument of the folly of ambition, and 
of the uncertainty of all projects of worldly 
grandeur. 

But the monarch, on the contrary, whose no- 
bler and more virtuous ambition prompts him to 
employ his superior power of promoting the in- 
ternal prosperity and comforts of his subjects, 
is not liable to such defeats. His path is plain ; 
his duty is clear. By a vigilant, prompt, and 
impartial administration of justice, his object is 
to secure to the industrious the enjoyment of 
their honest gains ; by a judicious use of his su- 
preme power, to remove difficulties and obstruc- 
tions, out of the way of commercial enterprise, 
and to facilitate its progress ; to reward and fos- 
ter ingenuity ; and to encourage and promote 
the various arts by which civilized societies are 
distinguished and embellished ; above all, to 
countenance and favour religion, morality, good 
order, and all the social and domestic virtues. A 
monarch, who makes these benevolent ends the 
objects of his pursuit, will not so easily be dis- 
appointed. The reason is obvious ; nothing de- 
pends on a single individual. His plans are 
carrying on through ten thousand channels, and 
by ten thousand agents, who, while they are all 
labouring for the promotion of their own peculiar 
object, are, at the same time, unconsciously per- 
forming their function in the great machine of 
civil society. It is not, if we may change the 
metaphor, a single plant, perhaps an exotic, in a 
churlish climate, and an unwilling soil, which 
raised with anxious care, a sudden frost may 
nip, or a sudden blight may wither ; but it is the 
widespread vegetation of the meadow, which 
abundantly springs up in one unvaried face of 
verdure, beauty and utility. While the happy 
monarch, whose large and liberal mind has pro 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



59 



jected and promoted this scene of peaceful in- 
dustry, has the satisfaction of witnessing the 
gradual diffusion of comfort; of comfort which, 
enlarging with the progress of his plans to their 
full establishment has been completed ; not like 
the successful projects of triumphant ambition, 
in the oppression and misery of subjugated 
slaves, but in the freedom and happiness of a 
contented people. 

To the above important objects of royal atten- 
tion, such a sovereign as we are contemplating, 
will naturally add a disposition for the promotion 
of charitable and religious institutions,' as well 
as of those whose more immediate object is po- 
litical utility, proportioning, with a judicious 
discrimination, the measure of support, and 
countenance, to the respective degree of excel- 
lence. To these will be superadded a beneficent 
patronage to men of genius, learning, and sci- 
ence. Royal patronage will be likely not only 
to contribute to the carrying of talents into be- 
neficial channels, but may be the means of pre- 
venting them from being diverted into such as 
are dangerous. And when it is received as an 
universally established principle, that the direc- 
tion of the best abilities to none but the soundest 
purposes, is the way to insure the favour of the 
prince, it will be an additional spur to genius to 
turn its efforts to the promotion of virtue and of 
public utility. — Such are the views, such the 
exertions, such the felicities of a patriot king, of 
a Christian politician. 



CHAP. XXI. 

The importance of royal example in promoting 
loyalty. — On false patriotism. — Public spirit. 

A wise prince will be virtuous, were it only 
through policy. The measure of his power is 
the rule of his duty. He who practises virtue 
and piety himself, not only holds out a broad 
shelter to the piety and virtue of others, but his 
example is a living law, efficacious to many of 
those who would treat written laws with con- 
tempt. The good conduct of the prince will 
make others virtuous; and ihe virtuous are al- 
ways the peaceable. It is the voluptuous, the 
prodigal, and the licentious, who are the needy, 
the unsettled, and the discontented, who love 
change and promote disturbance. If sometimes 
the affluent, and the independent, swell the cata- 
logue of public disturbers, they will frequently 
be found to be men of inferior abilities, used by 
the designing as necessary implements to ac- 
complish their work. The one set furnish mis- 
chief, the other means. Sallust has, in four ex- 
quisitely chosen words, given, in the character 
of one innovator, that of almost the whole tribe, 
Alieni appetens, sui profusus. But allegiance is 
the fruit of sober integrity ; and fidelity grows 
on the stock of independent honesty. As there 
is little public honour, where there is little pri- 
vate principle; so it is to be feared there will bef 
little private principle, at least among young 
persons of rank, where the throne holds out the 
example of a contrary conduct. 

It is true, that public virtue and public spirit , 



I are things, which all men, of all paities, and all 
characters, equally agree to extol, equally desire 
to have the credit of possessing. The reputation 
of patriotism is eagerly coveted by the most op- 
posite characters ; and pursued by the most con- 
tradictory means ; by those who sedulously sup- 
port the throne and constitution, and by those 
who labour no less sedulously to subvert them. 
Even the most factious, those who are governed 
by the basest selfishness, aspire to the dignity 
of a character, against which their leading prin- 
ciple and their actual practice constantly mili- 
tate. 

But patriots of this stamp are chiefly on the 
watch to exemplify their public spirit in their 
own restless way ; (hey are anxiously looking 
out for some probable occurrence, which may 
draw them into notice, and are more eager to 
fish for fame, in the troubled waters of public 
commotion, than disposed to live in the quiet 
exercise of those habitual virtues, which, if ge- 
neral, would preclude the possibility ofany com- 
motion at all- These innovating reformers al- 
ways affect to suppose more virtue in mankind, 
than they know they shall find, while their own 
practice commonly exhibits a low standard of 
that imaginary perfection on which their falla- 
cious reasonings are grounded. There is scarce- 
ly any disposition which leads to this factious 
spirit more than a restless vanity, because it is 
a temper which induces a man to be making a 
continual comparison of himself with others. 
His sense of his own superior merit and inferior 
fortune, will fill his mind with perpetual compe- 
tition with the inferior merit and superior for- 
tune of those above him. He will ever prefer a 
storm in which he may become conspicuous, to 
a calm in which he is already secure. Such a 
soidisant patriot does not feel for the general 
interests of his country, but only for that por- 
tion of it which he himself may have a chance 
of obtaining. Though a loud declaimer for the 
privileges of universal man, be really sees no 
part of the whole circle of human happiness, ex- 
cept that segment which he is carving for him- 
self. He does not rejoice in those plentiful dews 
of heaven which are fertilizing the general soil, 
but in those which fatten his own pastures. It 
is not,' says the admirable South, 'from the 
common, but the inclosure, from which he cal- 
culates his advantages.' 

But true public spirit is not the new-born off- 
spring of sudden occasion, nor the incidental 
fruit of casual emergency, nor the golden apple 
thrown out to contentious ambition. It is that 
genuine patriotism, which best prevents dis- 
turbance, by discouraging every vice that leads 
to it. It springs from a combination of disin- 
terestedness, integrity, and content. It is the 
result of many long cherished domestic chari- 
ties. Its seminal principles exist in a sober love 
of liberty, order, law, peace, and justice, the best 
safeguards of the throne, and the only happiness 
of the people. Instead of that selfish patriotism 
which, in ancient Rome, consisted in subverting 
the comfort of the rest of the world, the public 
ipirit of a British patriot is not only consistent 
with Christianity, but (maugre ine assertion of 
a wit already quoted)* in a good degree dictated 
• Soaine Jenyns. 



60 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



by it. His religion, so far from forbidding, even 
enjoins him to consider himself as such a mem- 
ber of the body politic, such a joint of the great 
machine, that, remembering tho defect of a pin 
may disconcert a system, he labours to fill up 
his individual part as assiduously as if the mo- 
tion of every wheel, the effect of every spring, 
the success of the whole operation, the safety of 
the entire community depended on his single 
conduct. This patriotism evinces itself by sa- 
crifices in the rich, by submission in the poor, 
by exertions in the able, strong in their energy, 
but quiet in their operation ; it evinces itself by 
the sober satisfaction of each in cheerfully fill- 
ing the station which is assigned him by Provi- 
dence, instead of aspiring to that which is point- 
ed out by ambition, by each man performing 
with conscientious strictness his own proper 
duty, instead of descanting with misleading 
plausibility, and unprofitable eloquence on the 
duties of other men. 



CHAP. XXII. 

On the graces of deportment. — Tlie dispositions 
necessary for business. — Habits of domestic 
life. 

• Those,' says lord Bacon, ' who are accom- 
plished in the forms of urbanity, are apt to please 
themselves in it so much as seldom to aspire to 
higher virtue.' Notwithstanding the general 
truth of the maxim, and the high authority by 
which it comes recommended, yet condescend- 
ing and gracious manners should have their full 
share in finishing the royal character ; but they 
should have only their due share. They should 
never be resorted to as a substitute for that 
worth, of which they are the best decoration. 
In all the graces of deportment, whatever ap- 
pears outwardly engaging, should always pro- 
ceed from something deeper than itself. — The 
fair fabric, which is seen, must be supported by 
a solid foundation which is out of sight; the 
loftiest pyramid must rise from the broadest 
base ; the most beautiful flower from the most 
valuable root; sweetness of manners must be 
the effect of benevolence of heart ; affability of 
speech should proceed from a well regulated 
temper; a solicitude to oblige should spring 
from an inward sense of the duty owing to our 
fellow-creatures; the bounty of the hands must 
result from the feelings of the heart ; the propri- 
eties of conversation, from a sound internal 
principle ; kindness, attention, and all the out- 
ward graces, should be the effect of habit and 
dispositions lying in the mind, and ready to 
show themselves in action, whenever the occa- 
sion presents itself. 

Just views of herself, and of what she owes to 
the world, of that gentleness which Christianity 
inculcates, and that graciousness which her 
station enjoins, will, taking the usual advan- 
tages into the account, scarcely fail to produce 
in the royal pupil a deportment, at once digni 



any tincture of that vanity, which is the effect 
of a mind struggling to conceal its faults ; nor 
of that pride, which is not conscious of possess- 
ing any. This genuine politeness resulting 
from illustrious birth, inherent sense, and im- 
planted virtue, will render superfluous the docu- 
ments of Chesterfield, and the instructions of 
Castiglione. 

But the acquisition of engaging manners, and 
all the captivating graces of deportment, need 
less occupy the mind of the royal person, as she 
will acquire these attractions by a sort of in- 
stinct, almost without time or pains. They will 
naturally be copied from those illustrious exam- 
ples of grace, ease, and condescending dignity, 
which fill, and which surround the throne. And 
she will have the less occasion for looking to 
remote, or foreign examples, to learn the true 
arts of popularity, while the illustrious person- 
age who wears the crown, continues to exhibit 
not only a living pattern by what honest means 
the warm affections of a people are won, but by 
what rectitude, piety, and patriotism, they may 
be preserved, and increased, under every succes- 
sion of trial, and every vicissitude of circum- 
stance. 

Among the habits which it is important for a 
prince to acquire, there is not one more essen- 
tial than a love of business. — Lord Bacon has, 
among his essays, an admirable chapter, both 
of counsel and caution, respecting despatch in 
affairs, which as it is short and pointed, the 
royal pupil might commit to memory. He ad- 
vises to measure despatch not by the time of 
sitting to business, but by the advancement of 
the business itself, and reprobates the affecta- 
tion of those, who, ' to gain the reputation of 
men of despatch, are only anxious for the credit 
of having done a great deal in a little time ; and 
who abbreviate, not by contracting, but by cut. 
ting off.' — On the other hand, procrastination 
wears out time, and accomplishes nothing. In- 
distinctness also in the framing of ideas, and 
confusion in the disorderly disposition of them, 
perplex business as much as irresolution im- 
pedes it. Julius Caesar was a model in this re- 
spect ; with all his turbulence of ambition, with 
all his eagerness of enterprise, with all his ce 
lerity of despatch, his judgment uniformly ap 
pears to have been cool and serene ; and even 
in the midst of the most complicated transac- 
tions, no perplexity is ever manifest in his con- 
duct, no entanglement in his thoughts, no con- 
fusion in his expressions. Hence, we cannot but 
infer, that an unambiguous clearness in the 
planning of affairs, a lucid order in arranging, 
and a persevering but not precipitate, despatch 
in conducting them, are the unequivocal marks 
of a superior mind. 

Yet though distribution, order, and arrange- 
ment, are the soul of business, even these must 
not be too minute, ' for he that does not divide,' 
says the great authority above cited, ' will never 
enter clearly into business, and he who divides 
too much, will not come out of it clearly.' 

A prince should come to the transaction of 
business, with a prepared, but not with a preju- 



fied and engaging. The firmest substances alon' 

are susceptible of the most exquisite polish, I diced mind : and the mind which is best fur- 
while the meanest materials will admit of being nished for the concern which it is about to inves- 
Varnished. True fine breeding never betrays J tigate, while it will be least liable to be drawn 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



61 



aside by persuasion, will be most open to truth, 
and most disposed to yield to conviction, because 
it will have already weighed the arguments, and 
balanced the difficulties. 

A great statesman of that nation to which we 
are rather apt to ascribe steadiness than rapidity, 
has bequeathed a valuable lesson to princes for 
the despatch of business. It is well known that 
De Wit assigned as the chief reason why he had 
himself been enabled to prosecute such a multi- 
plicity of concerns so easily was, by always 
doing one tiling at a time. 

It is therefore important, not only fully to 
possess the mind witli the affair which is under 
consideration, but to bestow on it an undivided 
attention, an application which cannot be di- 
verted by irrelevant or inferior objects ; and to 
possess a firmness which cannot be shaken from 
its purpose by art or flattery ; cautions the more 
necessary, as we are assured by a penetrating 
observer, that even the strong mind of Elizabeth 
was not always proof against such attacks. 
One of the secretaries of this great queen never 
came to her to sign bills, that he did not first 
take care to engage her in deep discourse about 
other weighty business, that, by thus pre-occu- 
pying her mind, he might draw off her atten- 
tion from the bills to which he wanted her sig- 
nature. 

For the private habits of life, and propriety 
of conduct to those aiound her, queen Mary, 
as described by bishop Burnet* and Fowler, 
seems to have been a model. Her goodness was 
the most unostentatious, her gentleness the most 
unaffected, her piety the most inwoven into her 
habits, her charity the best principled, and her 
generosity the most discriminating ! Vanity and 
selfrlove seem to have been not merely out- 
wardly repressed from a sense of decorum, but 
to have been inwardly extinguished ; and she 
did not want the veil of art to conceal faults 
which were not working within. She seems to 
have united consummate discretion, with the 
most conscientious sincerity. She could deny, 
says her admiring biographer, the most earnest 
solicitations, with a true firmness, when she 
thought the person for whom they were made 
did not merit them. She possessed one quality 
of peculiar value in her station, a gentle, but 
effectual method of discouraging calumny. If 
any indulged a spirit of censoriousness in her 
presence, continues he, she would ask them 
if they have read archbishop Tillotson's ser- 
mon on evil-speaking? or give them some other 
pointed, but delicate reproof. 

Princes should never forget, that where sin- 
cerity is expected, freedom must be allowed ; 
and, that they who show themselves displeased 
at truth, must not be surprised if they never 
hear it. In all their intercourse, they should 
not only be habituated to expect from others, 
but to practise themselves, the most simple 
veracity ; they should no more employ flattery, 
than exact it. It will be necessary for them to 
bear in mind, that such is the selfishness of 
the human heart, that we are not disinterested 
in our very praises ; and that, in excessive com- 
mendation, we commonly consider ourselves the 

* See especially bishop Burnet'B essay on queen Mary 



more than the person we commend. It is often 
rather a disguised effect of our own vanity, than 
any real admiration of the person we extol. 
That flattery which appears so liberal is in fact, 
one of the secret artifices of self-love ; it looks 
generous, but it is in reality covetous; and 
praise is not so much a free gift, as a mercenary 
commerce, for which we hope to receive, in re- 
turn, more than an equivalent. 

Is there not something far more cunning 
than noble, in that popular art, which Pliny re- 
commends, ' to be liberal of praise to another 
for any thing in which you yourself excel ?' — 
The motive is surely seifish, that whether yon 
deserve it or not, you may thus either way, be 
certain of securing the superiority to yourself. 
— If censure wants the tenderness of charity to 
make it useful, praise requires the modesty of 
truth, and the sanctity of justice to render it 
safe. It is observable, that in the sacred Scrip- 
ture, which we should do well always to consult 
as our model, though there is sometimes simple 
commendation, yet there is no excessive praise, 
nor even the slightest tincture of exaggeration. 

But there is a fault, the direct opposite to 
flattery, which should with equal vigilance be 
guarded against. There is nothing which more 
effectually weans attachment, and obstructs po- 
pularity, than the indulgence of intemperate 
speech, and petulent wit. And they who in 
very exalted stations, unfortunately feel a pro- 
pensity to impetuosity or sarcasm, would do 
well, if they will not repress the feeling (which 
would be the shortest way) not to let it break 
out in pointed sentences, or cutting sayings, 
sharp enough to give pain, and short enough to 
be remembered. It has this double disadvan- 
tage, every wound made by a royal hand is 
mortal to the feelings of those on whom it is 
inflicted ; and every heart which is thus wound- 
ed is alienated. Besides, it is an evil, which 
gathers strength by going.' The sayings of 
princes are always repeated, and they are not 
always repeated faithfully. Lord Bacon records 
several instances of sovereigns who ruined them- 
selves by this sententious indiscretion. The 
mischief of concise sayings, he observes, is that 
'they are darts, supposed to be shot from their 
secret intentions, while long discourses are flat, 
less noticed, and little remembered.' 



CHAP. XXIII 

On the choice of society. — Sincerity the bond of 
familiar intercourse. — Liberality. — Instances 
of ingratitude in princes. — On raising the 
tone of conversation — and of manners. 

Princes can never fall into a more fatal error, 
than when, in mixing with dishonourable so- 
ciety, they fancy, either that their choice can 
confirm merit, or their presence compensate for 
the want of it. It is, however, sometimes very 
difficult for them to discover the real character 
of those around them, because there may be a 
kind of conspiracy to keep them in the dark. 
But there is one principle of selection, which 
will in general direct them well, in the choice 



62 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



of their companions, that of choosing persons, 
who, in their ordinary habits, and in selecting 
the companions of their own hours of relaxation, 
show their regard for morality and virtue. 
From such men as these, princes may more 
reasonably expect to hear the language of truth. 
Such persons will not be naturally led to connive 
at the vices of their master, in order to justify 
their own ; they have no interest in being dis- 
honest. 

The people are not unnaturally led to form 
their judgment of the real principles and cha- 
racter of the prince, from the conduct and man- 
ners of his companions and favourites. Were 
not the subjects of the unhappy Charles 1. in 
some degree excusable for not doing full justice 
to the piety and moral worth, which really be- 
longed to his character, when they saw that 
those who were his most strenuous advocates, 
were, in genera!, avowedly profligate and pro- 
fane ? — If a monarch have the especial happi- 
ness of possessing a friend, let him be valued 
as the most precious of all his possessions. Let 
him be encouraged to discharge the best office 
of friendship, by finding, that the frankest re- 
proofs, instead of generating a formality too 
fatally indicative of decaying affection, are pro- 
ductive, even when they may be conceived to be 
misplaced, of warmer returns of cordiality. 

But kings, whether actual or expectant, must 
not hope, in general, to find this honest frank- 
ness. They must not expect to have their 
opinions controverted, or their errors exposed 
directly or openly. They should, therefore ac- 
custom themselves to hear and understand the 
still small voice, in which any disapprobation 
will be likely to be conveyed; they should use 
themselves to catch a hint, and to profit from an 
analogy : they should be on the watch to dis- 
cover the sense which is entertained of their 
own principles or conduct, by observing the lan- 
guage which is used concerning similar princi- 
ples and conduct in others. They must con- 
sider themselves as lying under special disad- 
vantages, in respect to the discovery of truth, 
wherever they are themselves concerned ; and 
must, therefore, strive to come possessed of it, 
witli proportionate diligence and caution. 

If an insinuating favourite find it more ad- 
vantageous to himself to flatter than to counsel 
his prince, counsel will be withhold, and obse- 
quiousness will be practised. The prince, in 
return, will conclude himself to be always in the 
right, when he finds that he is never opposed ; 
arid the remembrance of his faults, and the duty 
of correcting them, will be obliterated in the 
constant approbation which he is confident of 
receiving. 

Discretion is a quality so important in the 
royal person, that he should early be taught the 
most absolute controul over his own mind ! He 
should learn, that no momentary warmth of feel- 
ing should ever betray a prince into the disclo- 
•eure of any thing which wisdom or duty requires 
him to conceal. But while he is thus vigi- 
lantly careful not to commit himself, he should 
seldom appear to entertain any distrust of 
those, in whom prudence forbids him to con- 
fide. There is scarcely a more unquestion- 
able evidence of Bound sense and self-posses- 



sion, than never to seem burthened with a se- 
cret of one's own ; nor a surer mark of true po 
liteness, than not to pry curiously into that of 
another. ' The perfection of behaviour,' eayfl 
Livy, though he said it on another occasion, ' is 
for a man (he might have said a prince) to re- 
tain his own dignity without intruding on the 
liberty of another.' 

Those who have solicitations to make, should 
never have reason given them to suspect, that 
they can work their way to the royal favour by 
flatteries which sooth rather than by truths 
which enlighten. Above all a prince should 
avoid discovering such weaknesses as may en- 
courage suiters to expect success in their appli- 
cations, by such a spirit of accommodation, such 
silly compliments, servile sacrifices, and unwor- 
thy adulation, as are derogatory to his under- 
standing, and disgraceful to his character.* 

A royal person should early be taught that 
it is no small part of wisdom and virtue to repel 
improper requests. But while firm in the prin- 
ciple, as Christian duty requires, it is no viola- 
tion of that duty to be as gentle in the expres- 
sion, as christian kindness demands ; never for- 
getting the well known circumstance, t'hat of 
two sovereigns of the house of Stuart, one re. 
fused favours in a more gracious manner than 
the other granted them. It is, therefore, not 
enough that a prince should acquire the disposi- 
tion to confer favours, he should also cultivate 
the talent. He should not only know how and 
when to commend, and how and when to be- 
stow, but also how and when to refuse ; and 
should carefully study the important and happy 
art of discriminating between those whose merit 
deserves favour, and those whose necessities 
demand relief. It should be established into a 
habit, to make no vague promises, raise no false 
hopes, and disappoint no hopes which have been 
fairly raised. 

Princes should never shelter their meaning 
under ambiguous expressions : nor use any of 
those equivocal or general phrases, which may 

* It would spem superfluous to guard the royal mind 
against such petty dangers, did not history furnish so 
many instancesof their ill effects. How much the weak 
vanity of king James I. laid him open to thpse despica- 
ble flatteries, we have some curious specimens in a letter 
of lord Thomas Howard to Sir John Harrington, from 
which we extract the following passage. Jn advising 
his friend how loconduct himself in the kind's presence, 
in order !■> advance his fortune, after some other coun- 
sel, he adds, ' Touch but lightly on religion. Do not of 
yourself say, '• this is good or had :" hut if it were your 
majesty's good opinion, I mys.df should think so. In 
private discourse, the king seldom speaketh ofany man's 
temper, discretion, or good virtues ; so meddle not at all ; 
hut find out a clue to guide you to the heart, most de- 
lightful to his mind. I will .iilvise one thing : the roan 
Jennet, whereon the king rideth every day, must not be 
forgotten to be praised, and th ■ good furniture above all. 
What lost a great man much notice the other day, a 
noble did come in suit of a place, and saw the king 
mounting the roan, delivered his petition, which was 
heeded and real, but no answer given. The noble de 
parted, and c;:me to court the next day, and got no an- 
swer again. The lord treasurer was then pressed to 
move the king's pleasure touching the petition. When 
the king was asked fur answer thereto, he said in some 
wrath, -'shall a king give heed to a dirty pajicr when 
the beggar noticeth not his gilt stirrups?" Now it fell 
out. that the king had new furniture, when the noble 
saw him in the court yard, but he being over charged 
with confusion, passed by admiring the dressing of the 
horse. Thus, good night, our noble failed in bis suit.'— 
Nugae Antiquaa. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



63 



be interpreted any way, and which either from 
their ambiguity, or indeterminate looseness, will 
be translated into that language, which happens 
to suit the hopes or the fears of the petitioner. 
It should ever be remembered that a hasty pro- 
mise given to gain time, to save appearances, to 
serve a pressing emergency, or to avoid a pre- 
sent importunity, and not performed when the 
occasion occurs, does as much harm to the pro- 
miser in a political, as in a moral view. For 
the final disappointment of such raised expecta- 
tions will do an injury more than equivalent to 
any temporary advantage, which could be de- 
rived from making the promise. Even the wiser 
worldly politicians have been aware of this. 
Cardinal Richelieu, overbearing as he was, still 
preserved the attachment of his adherents by 
never violating his engagements : while Maza- 
rin, whose vices were of a baser strain, was true 
to no man, and therefore, attached to no man. 
There was no set of people on whom he could 
depend, because there was none whom he had 
not deceived. Though his less elevated capacity, 
and more moderate ambition, enabled him to be 
less splendidly mischievous than his predeces- 
sor, yet his bad faith and want of honour, his 
falsehood and low cunning, as they prevented 
all men from confiding in him during his life, 
so have they consigned his memory to perpe- 
tual detestation. 

In habituating princes to delight to confer fa- 
vours on the deserving, it should be remembered, 
that where it is right to bestow them at all, it is 
also right not to wait till they are solicited. But 
while the royal person is taught to consider mu- 
nificence as a truly princely virtue, yet an exact 
definition of what true, and especially what roy- 
al, munificence is, will be one of the most salu- 
tary lessons he can learn. Liberality is one of 
the brightest stars in the whole constellation of 
virtues ; but it shines most benignantly, when 
it does not depend on its own solitary lustre, but 
blends its rays with the confluent radiance of 
the surrounding lights. The individual favour 
must not intrench on any superior claim ; no 
bounty must infringe on its neighbouring vir- 
tues, justice, or discretion ; nor must it take its 
character from its outwardly resembling vices, 
ostentation, vanity or profusion. Real merit of 
every kind should be remunerated ; but those 
who possess merits foreign from their own pro- 
fession, though they should be still rewarded, 
should not be remunerated out of the resources 
of that profession. Nor shonld talents, however 
considerable, which are irrelevant to the profes- 
sion, be made a motive for placing a man in it. 
Louis XIV. chose father la Chaise for his con- 
fessor, because he understood something of me- 
dals ! 

There is an idea of beautiful humanity sug- 
gested to princes in the Spectator,* in a fictitious 
account of the emperor Pharamond, who made 
it his refreshment from the toils of business, and 
the fatigues of ceremony, to pass an hour or two 
in the apartment of his favourite, in giving au- 
dience to the claim of the meritorious, and in 
drying the tears of the afflicted. The entrance 
bv which the sorrowful obtained access, was 

* Number 84. 



called the gate of the uxhappv. A munificent 
prince may, in some degree, realize this idea. 
And what proportions in architecture, what mag- 
nificence in dimensions, what splendour of deco- 
ration, can possibly adorn a royal palace, so glo- 
riously as such a gate of the unhappy. 

A royal person should be early taught, by an 
invincible love of justice, and a constant exer- 
cise of kindness, feeling, and gratitude, to inva- 
lidate that maxim, that in a court les tihsens et 
les mourans ont toujnurs tort. He shonld possess 
the generosity, not to expect his favourites to 
sacrifice their less fortunate friends in order to 
make their court to him. Examples of this un- 
generous selfishness should be commented on in 
reading. Madame de Maintenon sacrificed the 
exemplary cardinal de Noailles, and the elegant 
and virtuous Racine, to the unjust resentment 
of the king, and refused to incur the risk of dis- 
pleasing him by defending her oppressed and 
injured friends. 

We have already mentioned the remuneration 
of services. In a reign where all was baseness, 
it is not easy to fix on a particular instance ; 
else the neglect manifest by Charles II. towards 
the author of Hudibras, carries on it a stain of 
peculiar ingratitude. It is the more unpardon- 
able, because the monarch had taste enough to 
appreciate, and frequently to quote with admi- 
ration the wit of Butler: a wit not transiently 
employed to promote his pleasure, or to win his 
favour ; but loyally and laboriously exercised in 
composing one of the most ingenious and ori- 
ginal, and unquestionably the most learned 
poem in the English language. A poem, which 
independently of its literary merit, did more to 
advance the royal cause, by stigmatizing- with 
unparalleled powers of irony and ridicule, the 
fanaticism and hypocrisy of the usurper's party, 
than had perhaps been effected by all the histo- 
rians, moralists, divines, and politicians put to- 
gether. It is not meant, however, to give un- 
qualified praise to this poem. From the heavy 
charges of levity, and even of profaneness, Hu- 
dibras cannot be vindicated ; and a scrupulous 
sovereign would have wished that his cause had 
been served by better means. — Such a sovereign 
was not Charles. So far from it, may it not be 
feared, that these grievous blemishes, instead of 
alienating the king from the poet, would too pro- 
bably have been an additional motive for his 
approbation of the work, and consequently, could 
not have been his reason for neglecting the au- 
thor.* 

A somewhat similar imputation of ingratitude 
towards Philip de Comnines, though on different 
grounds of service, detracts not a little from the 
far more estimable character of Louis XII. As 
it was this monarch's honourabb boast, on ano- 
ther occasion, that the king of France never re- 
sented the injuries offered to the duke ofOrleans, 
it should have been equally his care, that the 

* Dry den also materially served Hie royal cause hy 
his admirable poem of Absalom and Achiioplicl which 
determined Hie conquest of the tnries, after Ihe exclu- 
sion parliaments. But Dryden was a profligate, whom 
no virtuous monarch could patronise. Though, when 
a prince refuses to remunerate the actual services of a 
first rate genius, iiccause he is an unworthy man, it 
would be acting consistently to withhold all favour from 
those who have only the- vices without tlie talents. 



64 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



services performed for the one should never have 
been forgotten by the other. 

To confer dignity and useful elegance on the 
hours of social pleasure and relaxation, is a ta- 
lent of peculiar value, and one of which an 
highly educated prince is in more complete pos- 
session than any other human being. He may 
turn even the passing topics of the day to good 
account, by collecting the general opinion ; and 
may gain clearer views of ordinary events and 
opinions, by hearing them faithfully related, and 
fairly canvassed. Instead of falling in with the 
prevailing taste for levity and trifles, he may, 
without the smallest diminution of cheerfulness 
or wit in the conversation, insensibly divert its 
current into the purest channels. The standard 
of society may be gracefully, and almost im- 
perceptibly raised by exciting the attention to 
questions of taste, morals, ingenuity, and litera- 
ture. Under such auspicious influence, every 
talent will not only be elicited, but directed to 
its true end. Every taste for what is excellent 
will be awakened ; every mental faculty, and 
moral feeling will be quickened ; and the royal 
person by the urbanity and condescension with 
which he thus calls forth abilities to their best 
exercise, will seem to have infused new powers 
into his honoured and delighted guests. 

A prince is ' the maker of manners;' and as 
he is the model of the court, so is the court the 
model of the metropolis, and the metropolis of 
the rest of the kingdom. He should carefully 
avail himself of the rare advantage which his 
station affords, of giving through this widely 
extended sphere, the tone to virtue as well as 
to manners. He should bear in mind, that high 
authority becomes a most pernicious power, 
when, either by example or countenance, it is 
made the instrument of extending and establish- 
ing corruptions. 

We have given an instance of the powerful 
effect of example in princes, in the influence 
which the sincerity of Henry IV. of France had 
on those about him. An instance equally strik- 
ing may be adduced of the eagerness with which 
the same monarrh was imitated in his vices. 
Henry was passionately addicted to gaming, and 
the contagion of the king's example unhappily 
spread with the utmost rapidity, not only through 
the whole court, but the whole kingdom. 

And when, not gaming only, but other irre- 
gularities ; when whatever is notoriously wrong, 
by being thus countenanced and protected, be- 
comes thoroughly established and fashionable, 
few will be ashamed of doing wrong. Every 
thing-, indeed, which the court reprobates will 
continue to be stigmatized ; but unhappily, every 
thing which it countenances will cease to be 
disreputable. And that winch was accounted in- 
famous under a virtuous, would cease to be dis- 
honourable under a corrupt reign. For, while 
vice is discouraged by the highest authority, 
notwithstanding it may be practised, it will still 
be accounted disgraceful; but when that discoun- 
tenance is withdrawn, shame and dishonour will 
no longer attend it. The contamination will 
spread wider, and descend lower, and purity will 
insensibly lose ground, when oven notorious 
deviations from it are no longer attended with 
disgrace. 



Anne of Austria has been flattered by histo« 
rians, for having introduced a more refined po- 
liteness into the court of France, and for having 
multiplied its amusements. We hardly know 
whether this remark is meant to convey praise 
or censure. It is certain that her cardinal, and 
his able predecessor, had address enough to dis- 
cover, that the most effectual method of esta 
blishing a despotic government, was to amuse 
the people, by encouraging a spirit of dissipa- 
tion, and sedulously providing objects for its gra- 
tification. These dexterous politicians knew, 
that to promote a general passion for pleasure 
and idleness, would by engaging the minds of 
the people, render them less dangerous observers, 
both of the ministers and of their sovereigns 
This project, which had perhaps only a tempo- 
rary view, had lasting consequences. The na- 
tional character was so far changed by its suc- 
cess, that the country seems to have been brought 
to the unanimous conclusion, that it was plea- 
santer to amuse than to defend themselves. 

It is also worth remarking, that even where 
the grossest licentiousness may not be pursued, 
an unbounded passion for exquisite refinement 
in pleasure, and for the luxurious gratification 
of taste, is attended with more deep and serious 
mischiefs than are perhaps intended. It stag- 
nates higher energies; it becomes itself the pa- 
ramount principle, and gradually by debasing 
the heart, both disinclines and disqualifies it for 
nobler pursuits. The court of Louis XIV. exhi- 
bited a striking proof of this degrading perfection. 
The princes of the blood were so enchanted with 
its fascinating splendours, that they ignomini- 
ously submitted to the loss of all power, import- 
ance, and influence in the state, because with a 
view to estrange them from situations of real 
usefulness and dignity, they were graciously 
permitted to preside in matters of taste and 
fashion, and to become the supreme arbiters in 
dress, spectacles, and decoration.* 



CHAP. XXIV. 

On the art of moral, calculation, and making a 
true estimate of things and persons. 

A royal person should early be taught to act 
on that maxim of one of the ancients that the 
chief misfortunes of men arise from their never 
being learned the true art of calculation. This 
moral art should be employed to teach him how 

* It is humiliating to tlie dignity of a prince when 
his subjects believe that they can recommend themselves 
to his favour by such low qualifications as a nice atten- 
tion to personal appearance, and modish attire. Of this 
we shall produce an instance from another passage of 
Lord Thomas Howard's Letters to Sir John Harrington. 
'Tlv; king.' says he, 'doth admire good fashion in 
cloaths. I pray you give good heed hereunto. I would 
wish yon to be well trimmed; get a good jerkin well 
bordered, and not too short : Th; kins sailli. he liketh a 
flowing garment. Be sure it be not all of one sort, but 
diversely coloured ; the collar falling somewhat down, 
and your ruff well stiffened and bushy. We have lately 
had many gallants who hane failed in their suit for want 
of due observance in these matters. The king is nicely 
heedful of such points, and dwelleth on good looks and 
handsome accoutrements.' — Nugae Antique 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



65 



to pay the comparative value of things ; and to 
adjust their respective claims ; assigning to 
each that due proportion of time and thought to 
which each will, on a fair valuation, be found to 
be entitled. It will also teach the habit of set- 
ting the concerns of time, in contrast with those 
of eternity. This last is not one of those specu- 
lative points on which persons may differ with- 
out danger, but one in which an erroneous cal- 
culation involves inextricable misfortunes. 

It is prudent to have a continual reference not 
only to the value of the object, but also to the 
probability there is of attaining it; not only to 
see that it is of sufficient importance to justify 
our solicitude ; but also to take care, that designs 
of remote issue, and projects of distant execu- 
tion, do not supersede present and actual duties. 
Providence, by setting so narrow limits to life 
itself, in which these objects are to be pursued, 
has clearly suggested to us, the impropriety of 
forming schemes, so disproportionate in their 
dimensions, to our contracted sphere of action. 
Nothing but this doctrine of moral calculation, 
will keep up in the mind a constant sense of 
that future reckoning, which, even to a private 
individual, is of unspeakable moment; but, which 
to a prince, whose responsibility is so infinitely 
greater, increases to a magnitude, the full sum 
of which, the human mind would in vain attempt 
to estimate. This principle will afford the most 
salutary check to those projects of remote vain- 
glory, and posthumous ambition, of which in 
almost every instance, it is difficult to pronounce, 
whether they have been more idle, or more ca- 
lamitous. 

History, fertile as it is in similar lessons, does 
not furnish a more striking instance of the mis- 
chiefs of erroneous calculation, than in the cha- 
racter of Alexander. How falsely did he esti- 
mate the possible exertions of one man, and the 
extent of human life, when, in the course of his 
reign, which eventually proved a short one, he 
resolved to change the face of the world; to 
conquer its kingdoms, to enlighten its ignorance, 
and to redress its wrongs ! a chimera, indeed, 
but a glorious chimera, had he not, at the same 
time, and to the last hour of his life, indulged 
passions inconsistent with his own resolutions, 
and subversive of his own schemes. His thirty- 
third year put a period to projects, for which 
many ages would have been insufficient ! and 
the vanity of his ambition forms a forcible con- 
trast to the grandeur of his designs, — His gi- 
gantic empire, acquired by unequalled courage, 
ambition, and success, did not gradually decay 
by the lapse of time; it did not yield to the im- 
perious control of strange events and extraordi- 
nary circumstances, which it was beyond the 
wisdom of man to foresee, or the power of man 
to resist ; but naturally, but instantly, on the 
death of the conqueror, it was at once broken in 
pieces, all his schemes were in a moment abo- 
lished, and even the dissolution of his own pa- 
ternal inheritance was speedily accomplished, by 
the contests of his immediate successors. 

But we need not look back to ancient Greece 
for proofs of the danger of erroneous calculation, 
while Louis XIV. occupies the page of history. 
This descendant of fifty kings, after a triumphant 
*-eign of sixty years, having, like Alexander, 

Vol II. E 



•been flattered with the name of the great, and 
having, doubtless, like him, projected to reign 
after his decease, was not dead an hour before 
his will was cancelled ; a will not made in se 
cret, and like some of his former acts, annulled 
by its own inherent injustice, but publicly known 
and generally approved by princes of the blood, 
counsellors, and parliaments. This royal will 
was set aside with less ceremony, than would 
have been shown, in this country, to the testa- 
ment of the meanest individual. All formalities 
were forgotten ; all decencies trodden under foot. 
This decree of the new executive power became, 
in a moment, as absolute as that of the monarch, 
now so contemptuously treated, had lately been. 
No explanation was given, no arguments were 
heard, no objections examined. That sovereign 
was totally and instantly forgotten — 

whose word 

Might yesterday have stood against the world ; 
And none so poor to do him reverence. 

The plans of Caesar Borgia were so ably laid, 
that he thought he had put himself out of the 
reach of Providence. It was the boast of this 
execrable politician, that he had, by the infalli- 
ble rules of a wise and foreseeing policy, so sure- 
ly laid the immutable foundations of his own 
lasting greatness, that of the several possibilities 
which he had calculated, not one could shake 
the stability of his fortune. If the pope, his fa- 
ther, should live, his grandeur was secure ; if he 
died, he had, by his interest secured the next 
election. But this deep schemer had forgotten 
to take his own mortality into account. He did 
not calculate on that sickness, which would re- 
move him from the scene where his presence 
was necessary to secure these events ; he did 
not foresee, that when his father died, his mortal 
enemy, and not his creature, would succeed, 
and by succeeding, would defeat every thing. 
Above all he did not calculate, that, when he in- 
vited to his palace nine cardinals, for whose sup- 
per he had prepared a deadly poison, in order to 
get their wealth into his own hands — he did not, 
I say, foresee, that 

he hut taught 

Bloody instructions, which being taught, returnedj 
To plague the inventor- 
He did not think that literally 

Even-handed justice 

Would give the ingredients of the poison'd chalice 
To his own lips. 

He had left out of his calculation, that the 
pope, his father, would perish by the very plot 
which was employed to enrich him ; while he, 
Borgia himself, with the mortal venom in his 
veins, should only escape to drag on a life of 
meanness; and misery, in want, and in prison ; 
with the lossof his boundless wealth and power, 
losing all those adherents which that wealth and 
power had attracted. 

It is of the last importance, that persons of 
high condition should be preserved from enter- 
ing on their brilliant career with false princi- 
ples, false views, and false maxims. It is of the 
last importance, to teach them not to confound 



66 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



splendour with dignity, justice with success, 
merit with prosperity, voluptuousness with hap- 
piness, refinement in luxury with pure taste, de- 
ceit with sagacity, suspicion with penetration, 
prodigality with a liberal spirit, honour with 
christian principle, christian principle with fa- 
naticism, or conscientious strictness with hy- 
pocrisy. 

Young persons possess so little clearness in 
their views, so little distinctness in their percep- 
tions, and are so much inclined to prefer trie 
suggestions of a warm fancy to the sober de- 
ductions of reason, that, in their pursuit of glory 
and celebrity, they are perpetually liable to take 
up with false way-marks ; and where they have 
some general good intentions respecting the end, 
to defeat their own purposes by a misapplication 
of means ; so that, very often, they do not so 
much err through the seduction of the senses, 
as by accumulating false maxims into a sort of 
system, on which they afterwards act through 
life. 

One of the first lessons that should be incul- 
cated on the great is, that God has not sent us 
into this world to give us consummate happi- 
ness, but to train us to those habits which lead 
to it. High rank lays the mind open to strong 
temptations ; the highest rank to the strongest. 
The seducing images of luxury and pleasure, of 
splendour and of homage, of power and inde- 
pendence, are too seldom counteracted by the 
only adequate preservative, a religious educa- 
tion. The world is too generally entered upon 
as a scene of pleasure, instead of trial ; as a thea- 
tre of amusement, not of action. The high born 
are taught to enjoy the world at an age when 
they should be learning to know it ; and to grasp 
the prize when they should be exercising them- 
selves for the combat. They consequently look 
for the sweets of victory, when they should be 
enduring the hardness of the conflict. 

From some of these early corruptions, a young 
princess will be preserved, by that very super- 
eminent greatness, which, in other respects, has 
its dangers. Her exalted station, by separating 
her from miscellaneous society, becomes her 
protection from many of its maxims and prac- 
tices. From the dangers of her own peculiar 
situation she should be guarded by being early 
Jaught to consider power and influence, not as 
exempting her from the difficulties of life or in- 
airing to her a large portion of pleasures, but 
gs engaging her in a peculiarly extended sphere 
of duties, and infinitely increasing the demands 
un her fortitude and vigilance. 

The right formation of her judgment will 
much assist in her acquisition of right practical 
habits ; and the art of making a just estimate 
of men and things, will be one of the most use- 
ful lessons she will have to learn. Young per- 
sons, in their views of the world, are apt to 
make a false estimate of character, something 
in the way in which the Roman mob decided on 
that of Csesar. They are dazzled with the glit- 
ter of a shining action, without scrutinizing the 
tharacter, or suspecting the motive of the actor. 
From the scene which followed Ceesar's death, 
fliey may learn a salutary lesson. How easily 
did the insinuating Antony persuade the people, 
Jhat the man who had actually robbed them of 



their liberty, and of those privileges in defence 
of which their ancestors had shed their best 
blood, was a prodigy of disinterested generosity; 
because he had left them permission to walk in 
his pleasure-grounds ! the bequest of a few 
drachms to each, was sufficient to convince these 
shallow reasoners, that their deceased benefac- 
tor, was the most disinterested, and least selfish, 
of mankind. In this popular act they forgot, 
that he had ravaged Greece, depopulated Gaul, 
plundered Asia, and subverted the common- 
wealth ! 

The same class of ardent and indiscriminat- 
ing judges will pass over, in the popular charao 
ter of our fifth Henry, the profligacy of his mo 
rals, and the ambition of his temper, and think 
only of his personal bravery, and his splendid 
success. They will forget, in the conqueror of 
Agincourt, the abettor of superstition and cruel- 
ty, and the unfeeling persecutor of the illustri- 
ous lord Cobham. 

But, in no instance has a false judgment been 
more frequently made, than in the admired and 
attractive character of Henry IV. of France. 
The frankness of his manners, the gallantry of 
his spirit, and the generosity of his temper, have 
concurred to unite the public judgment in his 
favour, and to obtain too much indulgence to 
his unsteady principles, and his libertine con- 
duct. But the qualities which insure popularity 
too seldom stand the scrutiny of truth. Bom 
with talents and dispositions.to engage all hearts, 
Henry was defective in that radical principle of 
conscience, which is the only foundation of all 
true virtue. The renunciation of his religion 
for the crown of France, which was thought a 
master-stroke of policy, which was recommend- 
ed by statesmen, justified by divines, and even 
approved by Sully, was probably, as most acts 
of mere worldly policy, often eventually prove 
to be, the source of his subsequent misfortunes. 
— Had he preferred his religion to the crown of 
France, he had not fallen the victim of a fanati- 
cal assassin. Had he limited his desires to the 
kingdom of Navarre, when that of France could 
only be obtained by the sacrifice of his con- 
science, the heroism of his character would then 
have been unequivocal, and his usefulness to 
mankind might have been infinitely extended. 
Nor is it impossible, that those who urged the 
condition might by the steady perseverance of 
his refusal, have been induced to relinquish it ; 
and French protestantism, from his conscientious 
adherence to its principles, might have derived 
such a strength, as soon to have made it para- 
mount in the state : an event which would pro- 
bably have saved Europe from those horrors and 
agitations, with which the late century closed, 
and the present has commenced, the termination 
of which remains awfully concealed in the yet 
unrolled volume of eternal Providence. 

How much more solid, though neither sung 
by the poet nor immortalized by the sculptor,* 
was the virtue of his illustrious mother, honour- 
ably introducing, with infinite labour and ha- 
zard, the reformation into her small territory ! 

* Henry IV. was chosen hy Voltaire for the hero of 
his Epic Poem, and his statue was for a long time re- 
spected in France, when those of other kings were de 
stroyed. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



67 



•* thing, says her warm eulogist, bishop Bur- 
net, was wanting to make the queen of Navarre 
perfect, but a larger dominion. l She not only 
reformed her court, but her whole principality, 
to such a degree, that the golden age seems to 
have returned under her, or rather Christianity, 
appeared again, with its pristine purity and 
lustre. Nor is there one single abatement to 
be made her. Only her sphere was narrow.' 1 
But is not this to make greatness depend too 
much on extrinsic accident ? That sphere is 
large enough which is rounded with perfection. 
A Christian queen during her troubled life ! A 
martyr in her exemplary death, hastened, as is 
too probable, by the black devices of one, as 
much the opprobrium, as she herself was the 
glory of queens; the execrable plotter of the 
massacre of St. Bartholomew ! Happy for Ca- 
therine di Medici, and for France, of which she 
was regent during the minority of three kings, 
had her sphere been as contracted as was that 
of Jane of Navarre !* 

For want of having learned to make a just 
estimate of the relative value of actions, Louis 
XIV. while he was laying Flanders waste, and 
depopulating whole provinces, probably per- 
suaded himself, that he was actuated by pure 
charity and love of the people, because he car- 
ried in his military caleche some bags of bread 
and money, which he distributed, as he passed, 
to the famished peasantry ; beings, whose hunger 
was caused by his ambition : hunger which the 
ostentatious distribution of a few loaves and 
livres could relieve but for a moment. He 
might have given them peace, and saved his 
bread. He should have reflected, that the most 
munificent charities of a prince, commendable 
as they are in themselves, can be only local and 
partial ; and are almost nothing, in the way of 
benefit, compared with a deliverance, which it 

* Nature, perhaps, never produced a more perfect con- 
trast, than these two contemporary queens. The intel- 
lectual subtilty of Catharine's vices more resembled 
those of an infernal spirit, than of a corrupt woman. 
Shp had an exquisite genius for crimes. The arts she 
employed against those, whose destruction she medita- 
ted, were varied and applied with the nicest appropria- 
tion to their case and character : and her success was 
proportioned to her skill. Power, riches, pleasures, 
were the baits which she held out, with exact discrimi- 
nation, to different men, according as their tempers in- 
clined them to either. Her deep knowledge of mankind 
she converted to the purpose of alluring, betraying, and 
destroying all, against whom she had designs : and she 
had the ingenuity to ruin every one in his own way. 
She not only watched the vices and weaknesses, but 
the very virtues of men, in order to work with them to 
their destruction.— The excess of a good quality, the 
elevation of a virtue; was in her hands a better imple- 
ment for working the ruin of its possessor than even his 
faults. Her dissimulation was so exquisite, her patience 
in evil so persevering, that no time appeared too long 
for nourishing impious projects, and ripening them to 
perfection. Aware, at length, that that rare combina- 
tion of deceit and cruelty which met in her character 
was detected ; in order to complete the destruction of 
the protestants more signally, her son, a puppet in her 
bands, was taught to foster and caress them. Two 
Years did this pernicious Italian brood over this plot.f 
Its dire catastrophe who does not know? Queen Jane 
was poisoned, as a prologue to this bloody tragedy, a so- 
vereign to whom even the bigotted historians of the po- 
lish communion concur in ascribing all that was ele- 
gant, accomplished, and pure in woman, with all that 
was wise, heroic, learned, and intrepid in man ! 

t For a more detailed character of Catharine, Bee the 
Life of Agiippa D'Aubigne, 



was in his power to have granted them, from the 
miseries of war. In a prince, to love peace, 
is to be charitable on a grand scale. — The evils 
which he personally relieves, in consequence of 
their presenting themselves to his senses, highly 
as that species of bounty should be rated, must 
be out of all proportion few, compared, with 
those which never meet his eyes. If, by com- 
passionating the one, he soothes his own feel- 
ings, while he forgets the other, only because 
they are too remote to come in contact with 
these feelings, his charity is little better than 
self-love. 



CHAP. XXV. 

On erroneous judgment. — Character of queen 
Christina of Sweden. — Comparison of Chris- 
tina with Alfred. 

Nothing leads more to false estimates than 
our suffering that natural desire of happi- 
ness, congenial to the human heart, to mislead 
us by its eagerness. The object in itself is not 
only natural, but laudable ; but the steps which 
are supposed to lead to it, when ill regulated, 
never attain the end. Vice, of whatever kind, 
leads to inevitable misery ; yet, through a false 
calculation, even while happiness is intended, 
vice is pursued. The voluptuous will not be per- 
suaded to set bounds to their indulgencies. 
Thus they commonly destroy both health of 
body, and peace of mind ; yet the most volup- 
tuous never intend to be miserable. What a 
necessity hence arises, for early infusing right 
principles, and training to safe and temperate 
habits, when even the very' desire of happiness, 
if left merely to its instinctive movement, is 
almost certain to plunge its votary into final and 
irremediable wretchedness ! 

But in no instance is the defective judgment 
which leads to false estimates, more to be re- 
gretted, than in the case of those who apply 
themselves to pursuits, and affect hab*its foreign 
from their station ; who spend their season of 
improvement in cultivating talents, which they 
can rarely bring into exercise, to the neglect of 
those which they are peculiarly called to ac- 
quire ; who run out of their proper road in pur- 
suit of false fame, while they renounce the solid 
glory of a real, an attainable, and an appropriate 
renown. 

The danger of a prince often becomes, in 
this respect, the greater, because, while he sees 
a path open before him, suppose in the case of 
the fine arts, by which he beholds others rising 
into universal notice and celebrity, he feels, per- 
haps, a natural propensity to the same pursuits, 
and a consciousness of being able to excel in 
them. Meanwhile, even his weakest efforts are 
flattered by those around him, as the sure pre- 
sages of excellence ; and he is easily led to be- 
lieve, that if he will condescend to enter the lists, 
he is certain to attain the palm of victory. 
When we consider the amount of the temptation, 
we should be almost ready to forgive the em- 
peror Nero, had it been only in displaying his 
musical or theatrical talents, that he had d* 



63 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



parted from the line of rectitude. But to see a 
Roman emperor travelling through Greece in 
character of an artist, in order to extort the ap- 
plause of a people eminent for their taste, was 
an indication of farther evils. The infatuation 
remained to his last hour ; for, in his dying mo- 
ments, instead of thinking how Rome must re- 
joice to be rid of such a master, he only won- 
dered how the world could submit to the loss 
of such a performer. 

It is one of the many evils which result from 
indulging such misplaced propensities, that it 
produces a fatal forgetfulness of all the proper 
duties of a sovereign, and of his legitimate 
sphere of emulation. Having once eaten of the 
forbidden fruit of this meretricious praise, he 
becomes fonder of the relish, his taste is cor- 
rupted, — his views pre lowered, — his ambition 
is contracted ; and indolence conspires with 
vanity, in perpetuating his delusion, and in 
making him take up with pursuits, and gratifi- 
cations, far below the level of his high original. 

For a prince, who has formed a just estimate 
of his own exalted station, will ever bear in 
mind, that as its rank, its rights, and its pri- 
vileges, are all of a kind peculiar to itself, so 
also must be its honours. Providence has laid 
open- to a prince an elevated and capacious field 
of glory, from which subjects must be ever ex- 
cluded, by the very circumstances of their civil 
condition. A prince will but degrade himself, 
when he descends from his vantage ground, 
which he naturally occupies, to mix in the com- 
petitions of ordinary men. He engages in a 
contest in which, though failure may disgrace, 
success cannot do him honour. Monarchs, 
therefore, would do well to remember, and to 
improve upon the principle of the dignified re- 
ply of Alexander, who being asked whether he 
would not engage in the competition for the 
prize at the Olympic games, answered, ' — Yes, 
if kings are to be my competitors.' Nor per- 
haps would the high-minded answer of Alci- 
biades be unbecoming in a prince, — ' It is not 
for me to give, but to receive delight. 1 

Ever therefore, let those whose important duty 
it 13, to superintend the education of a royal 
person, labour to fix in him a just conception of 
the proprieties of his princely character. Let 
them teach him how to regulate all his judg- 
ments and pursuits, by the rule of reason, by a 
sound and serious estimate of his own condition, 
and of the peculiar duties, excellencies, and 
honours, which belong to it, on grounds no less 
of wisdom than of virtue. 

We know not how better to illustrate the na- 
ture and confirm the truth of these remarks, 
than by adducing, as an eminent instance of a 
contrary kind, the character of queen Christina 
of Sweden, the memorable tale of her false 
judgment, and perverted ambition. — Christina, 
a woman whose whole character was one mass 
of contradictions! That same defect in judg- 
ment, which, after she had, with vast cost and 
care, collected some of the finest pictures in 
Rome, led her to spoil their proportions, by 
clipping them with sheers, till they fitted her 
apartment, appeared in all she did. It led her, 
while she thirsted for adulation, to renounce, in 
abdicating her crown, the means of exacting it. 



It led her, to read almost all books, without 
digesting any ; to make them the theme of her 
discourse, but not the ground of her conduct. 
It led her, fond as she was of magnificence, to 
reduce herself to such a state of indigence, as 
robbed her of the power of enjoying it. And 
it was the same inconsistency which made her 
court the applause of men, eminent for their re- 
ligious character, while she valued herself on 
being an avowed infidel. 

This royal wanderer roamed from country to 
country, and from court to court, for the poor 
purpose of entering the lists with wits, or of dis- 
cussing knotty points with philosophers : proud 
of aiming to be the rival of Vossius, when her 
true merit would have consisted in being his 
protector. Absurdly renouncing the solid glory 
of governing well, for the sake of hunting after 
an empty phantom of liberty, which she never 
enjoyed, and vainly grasping at the shadow of 
fame, which she never attained* 

Nothing is right, which is not in its right 
place. — Disorderly wit, even disorderly virtues, 
lose much of their natural value. There is an 
exquisite symmetry and proportion in the quali- 
ties of a well-ordered mind. An ill-regulated 
desire of that knowledge, the best part of which 
she might have acquired with dignity, at her 
leisure hours : an unbounded vanity, eager to 
exhibit to foreign countries those attainments 
which ought to have been exercised in. govern- 
ing her own ; — to be thought a philosopher 
by wits, and a wit by philosophers ; — this was, 
the preposterous ambition of a queen born to 
rule a brave people, and naturally possessed of 
talents, which might have made that people 
happy. Thus it wasthat the daughter of the 
great Gustavus, who might, have adorned that 
throne for which he so bravely fought, for want 
of the discretion of a well-balanced mind, and 
the virtues of a well-disciplined heart, became 
the scorn of those, whose admiration she might 
have commanded. Herungoverned tastes were, 
as is not unusual, connected with passions 
equally ungovernable ; and there is too much 
ground for suspecting that the mistress of Mo- 
naldeschi ended with being his murderer. — It 
is not surprising that she who abdicated her 
throne should abjure her religion. Having re- 
nounced every thing else which was worth 
preserving, she ended by renouncing the pro- 
testant faith. 

It may not be without its uses to the royal 
pupil, to compare the conduct of Christina 
with that of Alfred, in those points In which 
they agreed, and those in which they exhibit- 
ed so striking an opposition. — To contrast 
the Swede, who with the advantage of a let- 
tered education, descended from the throne, 
abandoned the noblest and wisest sphere of 
action in which the instructed mind could de- 
sire to employ its store, and renounced the high- 
est social duties which a human being can be 
called to perform, with Alfred, one of the few 
happy instances in which genius and virtue 
surmounted the disadvantages of an education 
so totally neglected, that at twelve years old he 
did not even know the letters of the alphabet. 
He did not abdicate his crown, in order to cul- 
tivate his own talents, or to gratify his fanoy 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



69 



with the talents of others, but laboured right 
royally to assemble around the throne all the 
abilities of his country. Alfred had no sooner 
tasted the charms of learning, than his great 
genius unfolded itself. He was enchanted witli 
the elegancies of literature to a degree which at 
first seemed likely to divert him from all other 
objects. But he soon reflected that a prince is 
not born for himself. When therefore, he was 
actually called to the throne, did he weakly de- 
sert his royal duties, to run into distant lands, 
to recite Saxon verses, or to repeat that classic 
poetry of which he became so enamoured ? No. 
Like a true patriot he devoted his rare genius 
to the noblest purposes. He dedicated the ta- 
lents of the sovereign to the improvement of the 
people. He did not renounce his learning when 
he became a king, but he consecrated it to a 
truly royal purpose. And while the Swedish 
vagrant was subsisting on eleemosynary flattery, 
bestowed in pity to her real but misapplied abi- 
lities, Alfred was exercising his talents like the 
father of his country. He did not consider study 
as a mere gratification of his own taste. He 
knew that a king has nothing exclusively his 
own, not even his literary attainments. He 
threw his erudition, like other possessions, into 
the public stock. He diffused among the people 
his own knowledge, which flowed in all direc- 
tions, like streams from their parent fountain, 
fertilizing every portion of the human soil, so as 
to produce, if not a rapid growth, yet a disposi- 
tion both for science and virtue, where shortly 
before there had been a barbarous waste, a com- 
plete moral and mental desolation. 



CHAP. XXVI. 

Observations on the age of Louis XIV. and on 
Voltaire. 

If in the present work we frequently cite 
Louis XIV. it is because on such an occasion his 
idea naturally presents itself. His reign was so 
long; his character so prominent; his qualities 
so ostensible ; his affairs were so interwoven 
with those of the other countries of Europe, and 
especially with those of England; the period in 
which he lived produced such a revolution in 
manners ; and, above all, his encomiastic histo- 
rian, Voltaire, has decorated both the period and 
the king, with so much that is great and bril- 
liant, that they fill a large space in the eye of 
the reader. Voltaire writes as if the age of 
Louis XIV. bounded the circle of human glory ; 
as if the antecedent history of Europe were 
among those inconsiderable and obscure annals, 
which are either lost in fiction, or sunk in in- 
significance ; as if France, at the period he ce- 
lebrates, bore the same relation to the modern, 
that Rome did to the ancient world, when she 
divided the globe into two poitions, Romans and 
barbarians ; as if Louis were the central sun 
from which all the lesser lights of the European 
firmament borrowed their feeble radiance. 

But whatever other countries may do, England 
at least is able to look back with triumph to 
ages anterior to that which is exclusively deno- 



minated the age of Louis XIV. Nay, in that 
vaunted age itself we venture to dispute with 
France the palm of glory. To all they boast of 
arms, we need produce no other proof of supe- 
riority than that we conquered the boasters. To 
all that they bring in science, and it must be al- 
lowed that they bring much, or where would be 
the honour of eclipsing them ? we have to op- 
pose our Locke, our Boyle, and our Newton. 
To their long list of wits and poets, it would be 
endless, in the way of competition, to attempt 
enumerating, star by star, the countless con- 
stellation which illuminated the bright contem- 
porary reign of Anne. 

The principal reason for which we so often 
cite the conduct, and, in citing the conduct, re- 
fer to the errors of Louis, is, that there was a 
time, when the splendor of his character, his 
imposing magnificence and generosity, made us 
in too much danger of considering him as a mo- 
del. The illusion has in a good degree vanish- 
ed ; yet the inexperienced reader is not only 
still liable, by the dazzling qualities of the king, 
to be blinded to his vices, but is in danger of not 
finding out that those very qualities were them- 
selves little better than vices. 

But it is not enough for writers, who wish to 
promote the best interests of the great, to expose 
vices, they should also consider it as part of their 
duty to strip off the mask from, false virtues, 
especially those to which the highly born and 
the highly flattered are peculiarly liable. To 
those who are captivated with the shining an- 
nals of the ambitious and the magnificent ; who 
are struck with the glories with which the brows 
of the bold and the prosperous are encircled ; 
such calm, unobtrusive qualities as justice, cha- 
rity, temperance, meekness, and purity, will 
make but a mean figure ; or, at best, will be 
considered only as the virtues of the vulgar, not 
as the attributes of kings. While in the portrait 
of the conqueror, ambition, sensuality, oppres- 
sion, luxury, and pride, painted in the least of- 
fensive colours, and blended with the bright tints 
of personal bravery, gayety, and profuse libe- 
rality, will lead the sanguine and the young to 
doubt whether the former class of qualities, can 
be very mischievous, which is so blended and 
lost in the latter, especially when they find that 
hardly any abatement is made by the historian 
for the one, while the other is held up to admi- 
ration. 

There is no family in which the showy quali- 
ties have more blinded the reader, and sometimes 
the writer also, to their vices, than the princes 
of the house of Medici. The profligate Alexan- 
der, the first usurper of the dukedom of Flo- 
rence, is declared by one of his historians, San- 
doval, to be a person of excellent conduct ; and 
though the writer himself acknowledges his ex- 
treme licentiousness, yet he says, ' he won the 
Florentines by his obliging manners .•' those Flo- 
rentines whom he not only robbed of their free- 
dom, but dishonoured in the persons of their 
wives and daughters; his unbounded profligacy 
not even respecting the sanctity of convents ! 
Another writer, speaking of the house of Medici 
collectively, says, ' their having restored know, 
ledge and elegance will, in time, obliterate their 
faults. Their usurpation, tyranny, pride, perfidy, 



70 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



vindictive cruelty, parricides, and incest^ will be 
'emembered no more. Future ages will forget 
tieir atrocious crimes in fond admiration ."* 
Ought historians to teach such lessons to princes? 
Ought they to be told that ' knowledge and ele- 
gance' cannot be bought too dear, though pur- 
chased by such atrocious crimes ? — The illus- 
trious house of Medici seems to have revived in 
every point of resemblance, the Athenian cha- 
racter. With one or two honourable exceptions, 
it exhibits the same union of moral corruption, 
with mental taste ; the same genius for the arts, 
and the same neglect of the virtues ; the same 
polish and the same profligacy ; the same pas- 
sion for learning, and the same appetite for plea- 
sure ; the same interchange of spectacles and 
assassinations; the same preference of the beauty 
of a statue to the life of a citizen. 

So false are the estimates which have ever 
been made of human conduct ; so seldom has 
praise been justly bestowed in this life ; so many 
wrong actions not only escape censure, but are 
accounted reputable, that it furnishes one strong 
argument for a future retribution. This injus- 
tice of human judgment led even the pagan 
Plato, in the person of Socrates, to assign, in an 
ingenious fiction, a reason why a judgment after 
death was appointed. He accounts for the ne- 
cessity of this, by observing, that in a preceding 
period each person had been judged in his life- 
time and by living judges. The consequence was, 
that false judgments were continually passed. 
The reason of these unjust decisions, he ob- 
serves, is, that men being judged in the body, 
the blemishes and defects of their minds are 
overlooked, in consideration of their beauty, 
their high rank, or their riches ; and being also 
surrounded by a multitude who are always ready 
to extol their virtues, the judges of course are 
biassed ; and being themselves also in a body, 
their own minds also are darkened. It was 
therefore determined, that men should not be 
called to their trial till after death, when they 
shall appear before the judge, himself a pure 
ethereal spirit, stripped of that body and those 
ornamental appendages which had misled earth- 
ly judges.t The spirit of this fable is as appli- 
cable to the age of Louis XIV. as it was to that 
of Alexander, in which it was written. 

Liberality is a truly loyal virtue, a virtue too, 
which has its own immediate reward in the de- 
light which accompanies its exercise. All wealth 
is in order to diffusion. If novelty be, as has 
been said, the great charm of life, there is no 
way of enjoying it so perfectly as by perpetual 
acts of beneficence- The great become insen- 
sible to the pleasure of their own affluence, from 
having been long used to it : but, in the distri- 
bution of riches, there is always something fresh 
and reviving ; and the opulent add to their own 
stock of happiness all that their bounty bestows 
on others. It is pity, therefore,, on the mere 
score of voluptuousness, that neither Vitellius 
nor Eliogabalus, nor any of the other imperial 
gourmands, was ever so fortunate as to find out 
this multiplied luxury of ' eating with many 
mouths at once.' — Homage must satiate, intem- 
perance will cloy, splendor will fatigue, dissipa- 



* Noble's memoirs of the illustrious house of Medici. 
•V See Guardian, No. 27. 



tion exhaust, and adulation subject; but the de. 
lights of beneficence will be always new and re- 
freshing. And there is no quality in which a 
prince has it more in his power to exhibit a feint 
resemblance of that great being, whose repre- 
sentative he is, than in the capacity and the love 
of this communicative goodness. 

But, it is the perfection of the Christian vir- 
tues, that they never intrench on each other. It 
is a trite remark, yet a remark that requires to 
be repeated, that liberality loses the very name 
of virtue, when it is practised at the expense of 
j ustice, or even of prudence. It must be allowed, 
that of all the species of liberality, there is not 
one more truly royal than that which fosters 
genius and rewards letters. But the motive of 
the patron, and the resources from which his 
bounty is drawn, must determine on the merit 
of the action. Leo X. has been extolled by all 
his historians as a prodigy of generosity ; a qua- 
lity, indeed, which eminently distinguished his 
whole family : but the admiration excited by 
reading the numberless instances of his munifi- 
cent spirit that in remunerating men of talents, 
will receive a great drawback, by reflecting, he 
drew a large part of the resources necessary for 
his liberality from the scandalous sale of indul- 
gences. This included not only selling the good 
works of the saints, (of which the church had 
always an inexhaustible chest on hand,) over 
and above such as were necessary to their own 
salvation. To any affluent sinner who was rich 
enough to pay for them ; not only a full pardon 
for sins past and present of the living offender, 
but for all that were to come, however great 
their number or enormous their nature.* 

The splendid pontiff earned an immortal fame 
in the grateful pages of those scholars who tasted 
of his bounty, while by this operation of fraud 
upon folly, the credulous multitude were drained 
of their money, the ignorant tempted to the bold- 
est impiety, the vicious to the most unbounded 
profligacy, and the measure of the iniquities of 
the church of Rome was filled up. 

But Louis XIV. carried this honourable gene- 
rosity to an extent unknown before. He be- 
stowed presents and pensions on no less than 
sixty men of the most eminent talents and learn- 
ing in different countries of Europe. One is 
sorry to be compelled, by truth, to detract from 
the splendour of such liberality, by two remarks. 
In the first place, it is notorious, that the bounty 
originated from his having learned that cardinal 
Richelieu had sent large presents to many learn- 
ed foreigners, who had written panegyrics on 
him. Who can help suspecting, that the king, 
less patient or less prudent than the cardinal, 
was eager to pay beforehand for his own antici- 
pated panegyrics ? Secondly, who can help re- 
gretting, that the large sums thus liberally be- 
stowed, had not been partly subtracted from the 
expense of his own boundless self-gratifications, 
which were at the same time carried on with a 

* This munificent pope, not contented with supplying 
his own wants by this spiritual traffic, provided also for 
his relations by setting them up in the same lucrative 
commerce. His sister Magdalen's portion was derived 
from the large sphere assigned her for carrying on this 
merchandize ; her warehouse was in Saxony. More dis 
tant relations had smaller shops in different provinces 
far the sale of this popular commodity. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



71 



profusion without example ? For Louis was 
contented with bringing into action a sentiment 
which Nero even ventured to put into words, 
that there was no other use of treasure but to 
squander it. Who can forget that this money 
had been extorted from the people, by every im- 
post and exaction which Colbert, his indefatiga- 
ble minister, himself a patron of genius, could 
devise ? How ineffectually does the historian 
and eulogist of the king labour to vindicate him 
on this very ground of profusion, from the im- 
puted charge of avarice, by strangely asserting, 
that a king of France, who possesses no income 
distinct from the revenues of the state, and who 
only distributes the public money, cannot be ac- 
cused of covetousness ! an apology almost as 
bad as the imputed crime. For, where is the 
merit of any liberality which not only subtracts 
nothing from the gratification of the giver, but 
which is exercised at the positive expense of 
the public comfort ?* 

Colbert has been even preferred to Sully, for 
his zeal in diminishing peculation and public 
abuses. But though Colbert was a very able mi- 
nister, yet there was a wide difference between 
his motives of action and those of Sully, and be- 
tween their application of the public money. But, 
even the profuseness of the extortioner Fouquet, 
in squandering the revenues of the state as free- 
ly as if they had been his own private property, 
is converted by Voltaire into a proof of the great- 
ness of his soul, because his depredations were 
spent in acts of munificence and liberality ; as 
if the best possible application of money could 
atone for injustice or oppression in the acquisi- 
tion of it ! 

In how different a mould was the soul of Gus- 
tavus Adolpbus cast ! and how much more cor- 
rect were the views of that great king as to the 
true grounds of liberality ! As brave a warrior 
as Charles XII. without his brutal ferocity ; as 
liberal as Louis, without his prodigality ; as 
zealous a patron of letters as Henry VIII. with- 
out his vanity ! — He was, indeed, so warm a 
friend to learning, that he erected schools, and 
founded universities, in the very uproar of war. 
— These he endowed, not by employing his mi- 
nisters to levy taxes on the distressed people, not 
by exhausting the resources of the state, meri- 
torious as was the object to be established ; but 
by converting to these noble institutions, almost 
all his own patrimonial lands of the house of 
Vasa. 

Against the principles of Voltaire, it is now 
scarcely necessary to caution the young reader. 
His disgrace has become almost as signal as his 
offences ; his crimes seem to have procured for 
his works their just reprobation. To enter on 
a particular censure of them, mjght be only to 

* The person who now holds the reins of government 
Jn a neighbouring nation, is said successfully to have 
adopted similar measures. He early made it his studious 
care to buy up the good report of authors and men of 
talents, knowing mankind well enough to be assured, 
that this was the sure and immediate road to that fame 
for which he pants. Near spectators instantly detect 
the fallacy ; but strangers, as he foresaw, would mis- 
take the adulation of these bribed witnesses for the ge- 
neral opinion ; the asseition of the declaimer for the 
sentiment of the public. Accordingly the sycophantry 
cf the journalist has been represented as the voice of the 
people. 



invite our readers to their perusal ; and, indeed, 
a criticism on his philosophical and innumera- 
ble miscellaneous writings, pestilential as their 
general principle is, would be foreign from the 
present purpose, as there is little danger that the 
royal pupil should ever be brought within the 
sphere of their contamination. I shall therefore 
confine myself to a very few observations on 
his character of the monarch, in the work un- 
der consideration ; a work which is still most 
likely to be read, and which, notwithstanding 
its faults, perhaps, best deserves a perusal — His 
age of Louis the fourteenth. 

In summing up the king's character, he calls 
his unbounded profligacy in the variety of his 
mistresses, and the ruinous prodigality with 
which they were supported, by the cool term of 
weakness. Voltaire again does not blush to 
compliment a sovereign, whose life was one long 
tissue of criminal attachments, with having 
' uniformly observed the strictest rules of de- 
cency and decorum towards his wife.' His ran- 
cour against the Jansenists ; his unjust ambi- 
tion and arbitrary temper ; his wars, which Vol- 
taire himself allows ■ to have been undertaken 
without reason ;' his cruel ravaging of the Pa- 
latinate with fire and sword, and its wretched 
inhabitants driven from shelter to woods and 
dens, and caves of the earth ; his bloody perse- 
cution of the protestants ; these he calls by the 
gentle name of littleness ; not forgetting, in the 
true modern spirit of moral calculation, to place 
in one scale his admired qualities of whatsoever 
class, his beauty, valour, taste, generosity, and 
magnificence ; and to throw into the other, his 
crimes and vices, which being assumed to be 
only littlenesses and weaknesses, it is no wonder 
if he glories in the preponderance of his virtues 
in the balance. 

By thus reducing a mass of mischief into al- 
most impalpable frailties, and opposing to them 
with enthusiastic rapture, qualities of no real 
solidity, he holds out a picture of royalty too 
alluring to the unformed judgment of young 
and ardent readers, to whom it ought to be ex. 
plained, that this tinsel is not gold, that les bien- 
seances are not virtues, and that graces of man. 
ner are a poor substitute for integrity of heart 
and rectitude of conduct. 

By the avowal of the same author, it was in 
the very lap of pleasure, when all was one un- 
broken scene of joy, when life was one perpetual 
course of festive delight, masked balls, pageants, 
and spectacles, that the Palatinate was twice 
laid in ashes, the extermination of the Protest, 
ants decreed, and the destruction of Holland 
planned. — The latter, not by the sudden ardour 
of a victorious soldiery, but by a cool deliberate 
mandate, in a letter under the king's own hand. 
Voltaire has expressed his astonishment that 
these decrees, which he himself allows to have 
been 'cruel and merciless,' should proceed from 
the bosom of a court distinguished for softness 
of manners, and sunk in voluptuous indulgences. 
We might rather wonder at any such expres- 
sion of astonishment in so ingenious a writer, 
were we not well assured, that no acuteness of 
genius can give that deep insigHt into the hu- 
man heart, which our religion alone teaches, in 
teaching us the corruption of our nature ; much 



72 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



less can it inspire the infidel with that quick- 
ness of moral taste, which enables the true dis- 
ciples of Christianity, to appreciate, as if by a 
natural instinct, human characters. 

It is indeed obvious to all who have sound 
views of religion, and a true knowledge of man- 
kind, that this cruelty, so far from being incon- 
sistent with, actually sprung from that very 
spirit of voluptuousness, which, by concentrat- 
ing all feeling into self, totally hardens the heart 
to the happiness of others. — Who does not know 
that a soul dissolved in sensual pleasure, is na- 
turally dead to all compassion, and all kindness, 
which has not fame, or interest, or self-gratifi- 
cation, for its object ? Who are they of whom 
the prophet declares, that ' they are not moved 
by the affliction r e their brethren?' — It is they 
' who lie in beds of ivory, that chant to the sound 
of the viol, that drink wine in bowls, and anoint 
themselves with ointments.' Selfishness was 
the leading charge brought by the apostle against 
the enemies of religion. It stands foremost in 
that catalogue of sins assigned by him as the 
mark of the apostate times, that men should be 
lovers of their ownselves. 

But even without this divine teaching, Vol- 
taire might have been informed by general his- 
tory, of which he was not only an universal 
reader, but an universal writer, of the natural 
connection between despotism and licentious- 
ness. The annals of all nations bear their con- 
current testimony to this glaring truth. It 
would be endless to enumerate exemplifications 
of it from the melancholy catalogue of Roman 
emperors. Nero, who claims among the mo- 
narchs of the earth the execrable precedency in 
cruelty, was scarcely less pre-eminent in volup- 
tuousness. Tiberius was as detestable for pro- 
fligacy at Caprea, as infamous for tyranny at 
Rome. — In the history of the Mohammedan 
kings, barbarity and self-indulgence generally 
bear a pretty exact proportion to each other. — 
Sensuality and tyranny equally marked the cha- 
racter of our eighth Henry. Shall we then won- 
der, if, under Lewis, feasts at Versailles, which 
eclipsed all former splendour, and decorations 
at Trianon and Marli, which exhausted art and 
beggars invention, were the accompaniments to 
the flight, despair, and execution of the Hugo- 
nots ? So exactly did luxury keep pace with in- 
tolerance, and voluptuousness with cruelty. 

Even many of the generally admired quali- 
ties of Louis, which assumed the air of more 
solid virtues, were not sterling. His resolution 
and spirit of perseverance were nothing better 
than that obstinacy and self-sufficiency, which 
were the common attributes of ordinary charac- 
ters. Yet, this pride and stubbornness were ex- 
tolled in the measure they were persisted in, 
and in proportion to the evils of which they 
were the cause : and his parasites never failed 
to elevate these defects to the dignity of forti- 
tude, and the praise of firmness. 



CHAP. XXVII. 

Farther observations on Louis XIV. An exami- 
nation of the claims of those princes who have 
obtained the appellation of " the great." 



In considering the character of Louis XIV. in 
the foregoing chapter, we are led by the impos- 
ing appellation of the great, which has been 
conferred on this monarch, to inquire how far a 
passion for shows and pageants ; a taste for 
magnificence and the polite arts ; a fondness for 
war, the theatre of which he contrived to make 
a scene of the most luxurious accommodation ; 
together with a profuse and undistinguishing 
liberality, entitled Louis to that appellation, 
which would seem to imply the possession of all 
the heroic qualities, of which he appears to have 
been utterly destitute. 

We are aware that the really heroic virtues 
are growing into general disesteem. — The age 
of chivalry is gone .' said a great genius of our 
own time ; one who laboured, though with less 
effect, to raise the spirit of true chivalry, as 
much as Cervantes had done to lay the false. 
' The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence 
of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and he- 
roic enterprise is gone !'* 

Selfishness is scarcely more opposite to truo 
religion than true gallantry. Men are not fond 
of establishing a stan lard so much above ordi- 
nary practice. Selfishness is become so predo- 
minant a principle, especially among the rich 
and luxurious, that it gives the mind an uneasy 
sensation to look up to models of exalted and 
disinterested virtue. Habits of indulgence cloud 
the spiritual faculties, and darken those organs 
of mental vision which should contemplate truth 
with unobstructed distinctness. Thus, in cha- 
racters which do not possess one truly heroic 
virtue, superficial qualities are blindly adopted 
as substitutes for real grandeur of mind. 

But, in pursuing our inquiry into the claims 
of those princes who have acquired the title of 
the great, many difficulties occur. It requires 
not only clearness of sight, but niceness of posi- 
tion to enable us to determine. — Perhaps the 
fifty years which the church of Rome wisely 
ordained should elapse, before she allows inqui- 
ries to be made into the characters of her in- 
tended saints, previous to their canonization, 
pass away to an opposite purpose in the case of 
ambitious princes ; and the same period which 
is required to make a saint would probably un- 
make a hero, and thus annul the posthumous 
possession of that claim, which many living 
kings have put in for the title of the great. 

From all that we are able to collect of the 
annals of soobscure a period, it must be allowed, 
that the emperor Charlemagne appears to have 
had higher claims to this appellation, than many 
on whom we have been accustomed to bestow it. 
But, while this illustrious conqueror gallantly 
defeated the renowned pagan prince and his 
Saxons ; while he overthrew their temples, de- 
stroyed their priests, and abolished their wor- 

* We cannot pass over the brilliant passages of Mr. 
Burke, of which this is a part, without hazarding a cen- 
sure on the sentiment which closes it. lie winds up the 
paragraph by asserting, that under the old system, ' vice 
itself lost, half its evil by losing all its grossness.' Surely 
one of the great dangers of vice is its attractiveness 
Now, is not grossness rather repulsive than attractive ? 
So thought the Spartarts, when they exposed theii 
drunken'slaves to the eyes of their children. Had Mr. 
Burke said, that those who add grossness to it make it 
more odious, it would have been just. Not so, when ha 
declares that its absence mitigates the evil. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



73 



ship; — while he made kings in one country, and 
laws in another ; while he seems to have govern- 
ed with justice, as well his hereditary realms as 
those which he obtained by the sword ; while, 
in a subsequent engagement with the same 
pagan prince, he not oaly obtained fresh con- 
quests, but achieved the nobler victory of 
bringing his captive to embrace Christianity, 
and to become its zealous defender ; while he 
vigorously executed, in time of peace, those 
laws which he enacted even in the tumult of 
war ; and while he was the great restorer and 
patron of letters, though he could not write his 
name ; — and while as Alfred is the boast of the 
English for having been the founder of their 
constitution by some of his laws, so the French 
ascribe to Charlemagne the glory of having 
suggested, by those learned conferences which 
he commanded to be held in his presence, the 
first idea of their academies of sciences and 
letters ; — while he seemed to possess the true 
notion of royal magnificence, by employing it 
chiefly as a political instrument;* and though, 
for his various merits, the ancient Romans would 
have deified him, and the French historians 
seem to have done little less : — yet, this de- 
stroyer of paganism, this restorer of learning, 
this founder of cities, laws, schools, colleges, and 
churches, by the unprovoked murder of near 
five thousand Saxons, for no other crime but 
their allegiance to their own legitimate prince, 
must ever stand excluded, by the Christian 
censor, from a complete and unqualified right 
to the appellation of the great ; a title to which 
the pretensions of our Alfred, seem to have 
been, of all princes, the least questionable. 

Nor can we dismiss the character of Charle- 
magne, without producing him as a fresh in- 
stance of the political mischief arising from the 
private vices of princes. The licentiousness of 
this monarch's conduct, proved an irreparable 
injury to the state, the number of natural chil- 
dren which he letl behind him, being the occa- 
sion of long contentions respecting the division 
of the empire. 

In not a few respects the emperor Charles V. 
possesses a considerable claim to the name of 
great, while yet there is an invincible flaw in 
his title. — So eminent in the field as to have 
equalled the most skilful, and to have vanquish- 
ed the most successful generals of his age. — 
So able in the cabinet, that he formed plans with 
as much wisdom, deliberation, and foresight, as 
he afterwards executed them with promptitude 
and vigour ; and constantly manifesting a pru- 
dence which secured his superiority over his 
pleasure-loving contemporaries, the unguarded 
Francis, and the jovial Henry. But his prin- 
cipal claim to greatness arises from that spe- 
cies of wisdom, which his admirable historian 
allows him to have possessed in the highest de- 
gree ; that science, which of all others, is the 
most important in a monarch, ' the exact know- 
ledge of mankind, and the great art of adapting 
their talents to the departments which he allot- 
ted them. So that he employed,' continues 
Robertson, 'no general in the field, no minister 

* See the extraordinary account of Charlemagne's 
splendid reception of the ambassadors from the emperor 
of the East. 



in the cabinet, no ambassador to a foreign court, 
no governor of a province, whose abilities were 
inadequate to the trust reposed in him.' Yet, 
the grandeur of Charles, consisted entirely in 
the capacity of his mind, without any conso- 
nant qualities of the heart. And it was the mis- 
fortune of this renowned politician and warrior 
to fail of the character of true greatness alike 
when he pursued, and when he renounced hu- 
man glory ; to err, both when he sought hap- 
piness in the turmoil of war and politics, and 
when he at last looked for it, in the quiet shel- 
ter of religious retreat. In the latter, his ob- 
ject was indeed far more pure ; but his pursuit 
was almost equally mistaken. In the bustling 
scenes of life, he was sullen, cruel, insidious, 
malignant ; the terror of mankind by his ambi- 
tion, the scourge of protestantism by his intoler- 
ance. In his solitude he was the tormentor of 
himself, by unhappily mistaking superstitious 
observances for repentance, and uncommanded 
austerities for religion. 

Who can figure to himself a more truly piti- 
able state, than that of a capacious mind, which, 
after a long possession of the plenitude of power, 
and an unbounded field for the indulgence of 
ambition, begins to discover the vanity of its 
loftiest aims, and actually resolves to renounce 
its pursuits, but without substituting in its stead 
any nobler object, without replacing the dis- 
carded attachment with any better pursuit, or 
any higher hope ? To abandon what may almost 
be called the empire of this world, without a 
well-grounded expectation of happiness in the 
world to come ! To renounce the full-blown 
honours of earthly glory, without any reason- 
able hope of that glory which fadeth not away ; 
this perhaps is, of all human conditions, that 
which excites the deepest commiseration in the 
bosom of a Christian ! 

There are few things which more strikingly 
evince the value of true religion than the des- 
pondency and misery experienced by great, but 
perverted minds, when after a long and success- 
ful course of ambition, they are thus brought to 
a deep feeling of its emptiness. Alexander 
weeping for more worlds ! Dioclesian weary 
of that imperial power, which had been exer- 
cised in acts of tyranny and persecution; abdi- 
cating his throne, and retiring to labour in a 
little garden at Salona forgetting that solitude 
requires innocence to make it pleasant, and 
piety to make it profitable ! And though the re- 
treat was voluntary, and though he deceived 
himself in the first moments of novelty, by de- 
claring that he found more pleasure in culti- 
vating cabbages, than in governing Rome ; yet, 
he soon gave the lie to this boast, by terminat- 
ing his life in a way more congenial to the 
manner in which it had been spent, by poison, 
or madness, or, as some assert, by both ! — The 
emperor Charles, after having, for a long series 
of years, alarmed and agitated Europe by his 
restless ambition, yet, just when its objects were 
accomplished, flying to a gloomy retreat, de- 
voting himself to severe austerities, and useless 
self-discipline, and mournfully acting the weak, 
but solemn farce of his own living funeral ! 

How does the reflecting mind regret that 
these great, but misguided princes, Charles 



74 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



especially, in whose heart deep remorse seems 
to have been awakened, should fail finally of 
that only consolation which could have poured 
balm into their aching bosoms, and administer- 
ed relief to their lacerated consciences ! Had 
Charles, instead of closing his days with igno- 
rant and bigoted monks, been surrounded by 
enlightened Christians, they would have pre- 
vented his attempting to heal his wounded spirit 
by fruitless and unexpiating self-inflictions. In- 
stead of ' laying this flattering unction to his 
soul,' he might have been led to sound and 
rational repentance. His weary and heavy- 
laden spirit might have been conducted thither, 
where alone true rest is to be found. He might 
have been directed to the only sure source of 
pardon for sin, and have closed his guilty and 
oerturbed life with a hope full of immortality. 
jfeace might have been restored to his mind, 
not by lessening his sense of his own offences, 
but on the only true ground, by exalting the 
mercies of God, as displayed in the Christian 
dispensation. 

It must be confessed, however, that there 
seems to be something sublime in the motive of 
his abdication, as far as related to himself. Yet, 
might he not far better have made his peace 
with heaven, by remaining on a throne, where 
he would have retained the power of making 
some compensation to the world, for the wrongs 
which he had done it ; and of holding out his 
protection to the reformed faith, of which he 
had been so unrelenting an enemy, and to 
which his dying sentiments are suspected to 
have been favourable ? 

From a view of such striking examples, one 
important lesson is held out to princes, in the 
bloom of life, who have yet their path to choose 
in the world that lies before them. It is this. — 
Though it is good to repent of ambition and in- 
justice, it is still better never to have been guilty 
of either. 

If we were to estimate the true greatness of 
a prince, not so much by the virtues attached to 
his own personal character, as by the effects 
which the energy of that character, produced 
on the most enormous empire in the world, 
there is, perhaps, no monarch, ancient or mo- 
dern, who could produce a fairer claim to the 
title of great, than Peter the first, emperor of 
Russia. It was said of Augustus, that he had 
found Rome built of brick, and had left it of 
marble. It may be said, with more truth of 
Peter, that he found Muscovy a land of savages, 
and left it a land of men ; of beings at least 
rapidly advancing, in consequence of his exer- 
tions, to that character. 

This monarch early gave many of those sure 
indications, of a great capacity, which consist in 
catching from the most trivial circumstances 
hints for the most important enterprises. The 
casual sight of a Dutch vessel from a summer 
house on one of his lakes, suggested at once 
to his creative mind the first idea of the navy 
of Russia. — The accidental discourse of a fo- 
' eigner, of no great note, in which he intimated 
Jhat there were countries in a state of know- 
«dge, light, and comfort, totally dissimilar to 
ihe barbarism and misery of Russia, kindled 
fe the czar an instantaneous wish to see and 



judge of this difference for himself; not merely 
as a matter of curiosity, but with a resolution 
to bring home whatever advantages he might 
find abroad. With the same instinctive great- 
ness, his natural dread of the sea, which was 
extreme, was made at once to give way, when 
voyages of improvement were to be made abroad, 
or a marine established at home. 

Having resolved to procure for his country 
this necessary instrument of strength and de- 
fence, a navy ; fired by true genius and genuine 
patriotism, he quitted for a time his throne and 
country, not like Sesostris, Alexander, or Ceesar, 
to despoil other nations, but to acquire the best 
means of improving his own. Not like Nero, 
to fiddle to the Athenians ; not like Dioclesian 
to raise coleworts in Dalmatia ; nor like Charles 
V. to bury himself in a monastic cell in Spain, 
torturing his body for the sins of his soul ; not 
like Christina, to discuss at Rome, and intrigue 
at Versailles; — but having formed the grand 
design of giving laws, civilization, and com- 
merce to his vast unwieldy territory ; and being 
aware that the brutal ignorance of his barbar- 
ous subjects wanted to be both stimulated and 
instructed ; he quitted his throne for a time only 
that he might return more worthy to fill it. He 
travelled not to feast his eyes with pictures, or 
his ears with music, nor to dissolve his mind in 
pleasures, but to study laws, politics, and arts. 
Not only to scrutinize men and manners with 
the eye of a politician, which would have suf- 
ficed for a monarch of a polished state ; but, re- 
membering that he reigned over a people rude, 
even in the arts of ordinary life, he magnani- 
mously stooped, not only to study, but to prac- 
tice them himself. He not only examined docks 
and arsenals with the eye of an engineer, but 
laboured in them with the hand of a mechanic. 
He was a carpenter in Holland, a shipwright in 
Britain, a pilot in both- His pleasures had a 
relish of his labours. The king of England, 
apprised of his taste, entertained him, not with 
a masquerade, but a naval combat. Previous to 
this, he had entered upon his military career in 
Russia, where he set out by taking the lowest 
situation in his own regiment, and would accept 
no rank, but as he obtained it by deserving it. 
Accordingly, he filled successively every station 
in the army from the drummer to the general ; 
intending hereby to give his proud and ignorant 
nobility a living lesson, that desert was the only 
true road to military distinctions. 

We must not determine on the greatness of a 
sovereign's character entirely by the degree of 
civilization, morals, and knowledge, which his 
people may be found to have reached after his 
death : but, in order to do full justice to his cha- 
racter, we must exactly appreciate the state in 
which he found, as well as that in which he left 
them. For though they may be still far behind 
the subjects of neighbouring states, yet that 
measure of progress which they will have made, 
under such a monarch as Peter, will reflect 
greater honour on the king, than will be due to 
the sovereign of a much more improved people, 
who finds them already settled in habits of de. 
cency and order, and in an advanced slate of 
arts, manners and knowledge. 

The genius of Peter was not a visionary go 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



75 



nius, indulging romantic ideas of chimerical 
perfection, but it was a great practical under- 
standing, realizing by its energy whatever his 
genius had conceived. Patient under difficul- 
ties, cheerful even under the loss of battles, from 
the conviction that the rough implements, with 
which he must hereafter work his way to vic- 
tory, could only learn to conquer by being first 
defeated, he considered every action in which 
he was worsted, as a school for his barbarians. 
It was this perseverance under failures, which 
paved the way for the decisive victory at Pulto- 
wa, the consummation of his military character. 
His conduct to the Swedish officers, his prison- 
ers, was such as would have done honour to a 
general of the most polished state. 

He manifested another indisputable proof of 
greatness in his constant preference of utility to 
splendor, and in his indifference to show and de- 
coration. The qualities which this prince threw 
away, as beneath the attention of a great mind, 
were precisely such as a tinsel hero would pick 
up, on which to build thereputation of greatness. 
The shreds and parings of Peter would make a 
Louis. 

With this truly vigorous and original mind, 
with an almost unparalleled activity and zeal, 
constantly devoted to all the true ends which a 
patriot king will ever keep in view — it is yet 
but too obvious, why the emperor Peter failed 
of completely deserving the title of the great. 
This monarch presents a fresh exemplification 
of the doctrine which we have so frequently 
brought forward, the use which Providence 
makes of erring men to accomplish great pur- 
poses. He affords a melancholy instance how 
far a prince * may reform a people, without re- 
forming himself.' A remark, indeed, which 
Peter had the honesty and good sense to make, 
but without having the magnanimity to profit by 
his own observation. Happy for society that 
such instruments are raised up ! Happy were 
it for themselves, if a still higher principle di- 
rected their exertions ; and if, in so essentially 
serving mankind, they afforded a reasonable 
ground of hope, that they had saved themselves! 

This monarch, who like Alexander, perpetu- 
ated his name by a superb city which he built : 
who refined barbarism into policy, who so far 
tamed the rugged genius of an almost polar 
clime, as not only to plant arts and manufac- 
tures, but colleges, academies, libraries, and ob- 
servatories, in that frozen soil, which had hi- 
therto scarcely given any signs of intellectual 
life ! who improved, not only the condition of 
the people, but the state of the church, and con- 
siderably raised its religion, which was before 
scarcely Christianity ; — this founder, this patriot, 
this reformer, was himself intemperate and vio- 
lent, sensual and cruel, a slave to passions and 
appetites as gross as could have been indulged 
by the rudest of his Muscovites before he had 
civilized them ! 

If the true grandeur of a prince consists not 
in adding to his territory by conquests ; not in 
enriching it by plunder ; not in adorning it by 
treasures wrung from the hard hand of indus- 
try ; but in converting a neglected waste into a 
cultivated country ; in peopling and rendering 
fruitful a land desolated by long calamities •• in 



preserving peace in his small state, when all the 
great states of Europe were ravaged by war ; in 
restoring plenty to a famished people, and raising 
a depressed nobility to affluence ; in paying the 
debts of a ruined gentry, and giving portions to 
their daughters ; in promoting virtue, literature, 
and science ; in making it the whole object of 
his reign to render his subjects richer, happier, 
and better than he found them ; in declaring 
that he would not reign a moment longer than 
he thought he could be doing good to his people, 
— then was Leopold, sovereign of the small 
dukedom of Lorrain, more justly entitled to the 
appellation of the great, than the Alexanders, 
the Csesars, and the Louises, who filled the page 
of history with praises, and the world with 
tears.* 

If Gustavus Adolphus put in his undisputed 
claim to the title of the great, it is not merely on 
the ground of his glorious victories at the battle 
of Leipsic and Lutzen, but because that amidst 
the din of arms, and the tumult of those battles, 
he was never diverted from snatching some por- 
tion of every day for prayer, and reading the 
Scriptures. It is because, with all his high spi- 
rits, he was so far from thinking that it dero- 
gated from the dignity of a gentleman, or the 
honour of an officer, to refuse a challenge, that 
he punished with death whoever presumed to 
decide a quarrel with the sword ; to prevent the 
necessity of which, he made a law that all dis- 
putes should be settled by a court of honour.t 
He deserved the appellation of great, when he 
wished to carry commerce to the West Indies, 
that he might carry thither also by those means, 
the pure doctrines of the reformation. He de- 
served it, when he invited by an edict all the 
persecuted protestants from every part of Eu- 
rope, to an asylum in Sweden, offering them not 
only an immunity from taxes, but full permission 
to return home when the troubles of their re- 
spective countries should be healed. 

When such was the union of piety and hero- 
ism in the gallant monarch himself, it was the 
less wonderful to find the same rare combination 
in the associates of his triumphs. Hence the 
pious meditations of the celebrated leader of the 
Scotch bfigadet in the service of Gustavus ! 
Compositions of which would be scarcely a dis- 
credit to a father of the church, and which ex- 
alts his character as highly in a religious and 
moral view, as it was raised, by his bravery and 
skill in war, in the annals of military glory. 

If Alexander deserved the title in question it 
was when he declared in a letter to his immortal 
master, that he thought it a truer glory to excel 
in knowledge than in power. It was in that 
equally moral and poetical reprehension of those 
flatterers who had ascribed divine honours to 
him, when, on the bleeding of his wounds, he 
said, Look ! this is my blood ! This is not that 

* See Siecle de Louis XIV. for a fuller account of 
Leopold. 

fThe king of France, at this same military period, 
severely prohibited duelling, the practice of which he 
•was so far from considering as an indication of courage, 
that he took a solemn oath to bestow rewards on such 
military men as had the courage to refuse a challenge. It 
was an indication that this prince understood wherein 
true magnanimity consisted. See also sir Francis Ba- 
con's charge, when attorney general against duels. 

t Monro. 



76 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



divine liquor of which Homer speaks, which ran 
from the hand of Venus when Diomedes pierced 
it ! His generous treatment of the family of 
the conquered Darius was, perhaps, eclipsed by 
the equally magnanimous, and more disinterest- 
ed moderation of our own heroic Edward, the 
black prince, to the captive king of France. The 
gallant prince seems to have merited, without 
obtaining the appellation of the great. 

But, if splendid parade, and costly magnifi- 
cence be really considered as unequivocal proofs 
of exalted greatness, then must the Trajans, the 
Gustavuses, the Alfreds, the Peters, the Willi- 
ams, and the Elizabeths, submit their claims to 
this appellation to those of Louis XIV. Louis 
himself must, without contest, yield the palm of 
greatness to pope Alexander the sixth, and 
Ceesar Borgia; and they, in their turn, must 
hide their diminished heads, in reverence to the 
living exhibitor of the late surpassing pomp and 
unparalleled pageantry in a neighbouring na- 
tion, displayed in the most gorgeous and costly 
farce that was ever acted before the astonished 
and indignant world ! 

If, to use the very words of the historian and 
panegyrist of Louis, ' to despoil, disturb, and 
humble almost all the states of Europe,' — if this 
appeared in the eyes of that panegyrist a proof 
of greatness ; in the eye of reason and humanity, 
such a course of conduct will rather appear in- 
solence, injustice, and oppression. Yet, as such 
irreligious authors commonly connect the idea 
of glory with that of success, they themselves 
ought not to vindicate it even on their own prin- 
ciple of expediency ; since this passion for false 
glory, carried to the last excesss, became, at 
length, the means of stirring up the other Eu- 
ropean powers ; the result of whose confederacy 
terminated in the disgrace of Louis. 

If ever this vain-glorious prince appeared 
truly great, it was in his dying speech to his in- 
fant successor, when, taking him in his arms, 
he magnanimously intreated him not to follow 
his example, in his love of wars and his taste for 
expense ; exhorting him to follow moderate 
counsels, to fear God, reduce the taxes, spare 
his subjects, and to do whatever he himself had 
not done to relieve them. 

In like manner, our illustrious Henry V. in 
the midst of his French conquests, conquests 
founded on injustice (unpopular as is the asser- 
tion to an English ear) never so truly deserved 
to be called the great as in that beautiful in- 
stance of his reverence for the laws, when he 
submitted, as prince of Wales, to the magistrate 
who put him under confinement for some irre- 
gularities ; as when, afterwards, being sovereign, 
he not only pardoned, but commended and pro- 
moted him. 

If ever Henry IV. of France, peculiarly de- 
served the appellation of great, it was after the 
victory at Coutras, for that noble magnanimity 
in the very moment of conquest, which compel- 
led a pious divine, then present, to exclaim — 
1 Happy and highly favoured of heaven is that 
prince, who sees at his feet his enemies humbled 
by the hand of God ; his table surrounded by 
his prisoners, his room hung with the ensigns 
of the vanquished without the slightest emotion 
»f vanity or insolence ! who can maintain in the 



midst of such glorious successes, the same mo- 
deration with which he has borne the severest 
adversity !' — He deserved it, when as he was 
besieging Paris, which was perishing with fa- 
mine, he commanded the besiegers to admit 
supplies to the besieged. — He deserved it at the 
battle of Irvi, not when he gallantly ordered his 
soldiers to follow his white plume, which would 
be the signal of victory, nor afterwards when 
that victory was complete; but it was, when 
just before the engagement, he made a solemn 
renunciation of his own might and his own wis- 
dom, and submitted the event to God in this in- 
comparable prayer. 

' O Lord God of Hosts, who hast in thy hand 
all events ; if thou knowest that my reign will 
promote thy glory, and the safety of thy people ; 
if thou knowest that I have no other ambition, 
but to advance the honour of thy name, and the 
good of the state, favour O great God, the justice 
of my arms. But if thy good Providence has 
decreed otherwise ; if thou seest that I should 
prove one of those kings whom thou givest in 
thine anger ; take from me, O merciful God, my 
life and my crown. Make me this day a sacra- 
fice to thy will ; let my death end the calamities 
of my country, and let my blood be the last that 
shall be spilt in this quarrel.' — 
O si sic omnia! 



CHAP. XXVIII. 

Books. 

Conversation, says the sagacious Verulam, 
'makes a ready man.' It is, indeed, one of the 
practical ends of study. It draws the powers 
of the understanding into exercise, and brings 
into circulation the treasures which the memory 
has been amassing. Conversation will be always 
an instrument particularly important in the cul- 
tivation of those talents which may one day be 
brought into public exercise. And as it would 
not be easy to start profitable topics of discourse 
between the pupil and those around her, without 
inviting some little previous introduction, it 
might not be useless to suggest a simple prepa- 
ration for the occasional discussion of topics, 
somewhat above the ordinary cast of familiar 
intercourse. 

To burthen the memory with a load of dry 
matter would, on the one hand, be dull ; and with 
a mass of poetry, which she can have little oc- 
casion to use, would, on the other, be superfluous. 
But, as the understanding opens, and years ad- 
vance, might she not occasionally commit to 
memory, from the best authors in every depart- 
ment, one select passage, one weighty sentence, 
one striking precept, which in the hours devoted 
to society and relaxation, might form a kind of 
thesis for interesting conversation? For in- 
stance, a short specimen of eloquence from 
South, or of reasoning from Barrow ; a detached 
reflection on the analogy of religion to the con- 
stitution of nature from Butler ; a political cha- 
racter from Clarendon ; a maxim of prudence 
from the proverbs ; a precept of government 
from Bacon ; a moral document from the Ram- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



77 



bier; a passage of ancient history from Plu- 
tarch ; a sketch of national manners from Gold- 
smith's Traveller, or of individual character 
from the Vanity of Human Wishes ; an apho- 
rism on the contempt of riches from Seneca, or 
a paragraph on the wealth of nations from Adam 
Smith ; a rule of conduct from sir Mathew Hale, 
or a sentiment of benevolence from Mr. Addi- 
Bon ; a devout contemplation from bishop Hall, 
or a principle of taste from Quintilian ; an opi- 
nion on the law of nations from Vattel, or on 
the law of England from Blackstone. 

Might .not anyone of the topics thus suggest- 
ed by the recitation of a single passage, be made 
the ground of a short rational conversation, 
without the formality of a debate, or the solemni- 
ty of an academical disputation ? Persons na- 
turally get a custom of reading with more sedu- 
lous attention, when they expect to be called up- 
on to produce the substance of what they have 
read ; and in order to prevent desultory and un- 
settled habits, it would be well on these occa- 
sions, to tie the mind down to the one selected 
topic, and not to allow it to wander from the 
point under consideration. This practice, stea- 
dily observed would strengthen the faculties of 
thinking, and reasoning, and consequently high- 
ly improve the powers of conversation. 

Of books, a considerable number, besides 
those in the foregoing passage, has already been 
suggested. But though we have ventured to 
recommend many works which seemed peculiar- 
ly applicable to the present purpose, we do not 
presume to point out any thing like a systematic 
course of reading. This will be arranged by far 
abler judges, especially in that most important 
instance, the choice of books of divinity. In a 
language so abounding as the English in the 
treasures of theological composition, the diffi- 
culty will consist, not in finding much that is 
excellent, but in selecting that which unites the 
most excellences. 

Of elementary books which teach the first ru- 
diments of Christianity, there is no doubt but 
the best use has been already made. In aid of 
these, the deepest and most impressive know- 
ledge will be communicated to the mind, by fa- 
miliar colloquial explanation of every portion of 
Scripture, daily, as it is read. Such an habitual, 
and, at the same time, clear and simple exposi- 
tion, would tend to do away the most material 
of those difficulties and obscurities, with which 
the sacred writings are charged, and which are 
pleaded as a. reason for not putting them, in their 
genuine form, into the hands of youth. There 
is no book whatever which affords more matter 
for interesting and animated conversation, and 
for variety, there is no book which is at all com- 
parable to it. It were to be wished that the sa- 
cred volume were not too generally made to give 
way to histories and expositions of the Bible. 
These last are excellent subordinate aids ; but 
it is to be feared that they are sometimes almost 
exclusively adopted, to the neglect of the Bible 
itself. Thus the mere facts and incidents being 
retained, separated from the doctrines, senti- 
ments, and precepts which, like a golden thread, 
run through every part of the history, and are 
every where interwoven with its texture ; and 
the narrative being also stripped of its venerable 



phraseology and touching style, the Bible ia 
robbed of its principal charm ; and the devotional 
and historical ideas being thus separated, the 
impression both on the memory and the feelings 
becomes much weakened. — Our remarks on the 
Scripture itself we shall reserve for a future 
chapter. 

It has been a rule observed throughout this 
work, to forbear naming living authors, except 
incidentally in one or two instances. This rule, 
which was adopted from delicacy, is at present 
become inconvenient, as it prevents our giving 
highly merited commendation to various reli- 
gious works, of almost every description ; to 
critical as well as practical elucidations of Scrip- 
ture ; — to treatises on the internal principles, 
and on the duties of religion ; on the efficacy, as 
well as the evidences of Christianity ; — works 
not less admirable in point of composition, than 
estimable for their substantial worth ; and which 
will inevitably be adopted, as the royal educa- 
tion advances. 

We would only presume to offer one remark 
on the study of divines, whether ancient or mo- 
dern. A luminous style, and a perspicuous ex- 
pression, will cast a lustre on the brightest 
truths, and render grave and serious subjects 
more engaging and impressive. To the young, 
these attractions are particularly necessary. Yet, 
in the discourses to be perused, one principle of 
selection should be observed. The graces of lan- 
guage should never be considered as an equiva- 
lent for a sound principle. Dissertations or ser- 
mons, should not be preferred for having more 
smoothness than energy, for being more alluring 
than awakening, nor because they are calculated 
to make the reader satisfied rather than safe. 
The distinguishing characters of Christianity, 
both in doctrine and practice, should always be 
considered as the most indispensable requisite. — 
For the absence of the great fundamental truths 
of our religion, no ingenuity of thought, no ele- 
gance of style, no popularity of the author can 
atone. A splendid diction is' a pleasing orna- 
ment, but it should never be used as an instru- 
ment for lowering the standard of religious 
truth. Happily we are not wanting in divines, 
living and dead, who unite all the required ex- 
cellences. 

Of moral writers we shall speak hereafter. 
Next to history, biography must be considered 
as useful. Those who have properly selected, 
and judiciously written the lives of eminent per. 
sons, have performed the office of instruction, 
without assuming the dignity of instructors. 
Well-chosen, and well-written lives would form 
a valuable substitute for no small portion of those 
works of imagination, which steal away the 
hearts and time of our youth. Novels, were 
there no other objection to them, however inge- 
niously they may be written, as they exhibit 
only fictitious characters, acting in fictitiou9 
scenes, on fictitious occasions, and being some- 
times the work of writers, who rather guess 
what the world is than describe it from their 
own knowledge, can never give so just or vivid 
a picture of life and manners, as is to be found 
in the memoirs of men who were actual per- 
formers on the great stage of the world. We 
i may apply to many of these fabricators of ad 



78 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ventures what lord Bacon says, when he regrets 
that philosophers, ignorant of real business, 
chose to write about legislation, instead of states- 
men, whose proper office it was. — ' They -make,' 
says he, 'imaginary laws for imaginary com- 
monwealths.' 

Of this engaging species of literature, biogra- 
phy, it is to be regretted, that we do not possess 
more lives of distinguished men, written with a 
view to moral instruction, in the manner of those 
of bishop Burnet, and Isaac Walton. The lives 
of the bishop are seriously instructive, as well 
as highly interesting. Of Walton's it is diffi- 
cult to say, whether they are more amusing or 
informing. 

Voyages and travels will also form a very ne- 
cessary class of books ; but some of the more 
recent works of this kind are so interlarded with 
infidelity, and under the mask of ridiculing po- 
pery, aim such mischievous side-strokes at 
Christianity itself; and many, especially of the 
modern French travels, are exceptionable, not 
only for their impiety, but also on so many other 
accounts, that they will require to be selected 
with the nicest discrimination. Our own lan- 
guage, however, can boast many valuable works 
of this kind, which are clear of these offences. 
Voyages of discovery, though perhaps less in- 
teresting to ordinary readers will be peculiarly 
suited to the royal pupil ; especially those which 
have been undertaken, greatly to his honour, by 
command of his present majesty, and which 
contain the discoveries actually made in the 
hitherto unexplored parts of the southern hemis- 
phere. 

Telemachus. 

Among worKS of imagination, there are some 
peculiarly suited to the royal pupil. She should 
never, it is presumed, peruse any authors below 
those who have always been considered, as 
standards in their respective departments. With 
the talents which she is said to possess, she will 
soon be competent to understand great part of 
a work, which, though it ranks in the very first 
class of this species of composition, has, it is to 
be feared, fallen into unjust disregard from its 
having been injudiciously employed by teachers 
as the first book in acquiring the French lan- 
guage. The fine sentiments which it contains 
have been overlooked, while only the facility of 
the style has been considered. — Telemachus is 
a noble political romance, delightful to every 
reader, but specifically adapted to what indeed 
was its original object, the formation of a cha- 
racter of a prince. It is free from the moral 
defects of the classic poets, whose very deities 
are commonly exhibited with a grossness dan- 
gerous to the modesty of youth. Fenelon, while 
with a true taste, he never puts any thing into 
their mouths incompatible with the Grecian fa- 
ble, never fails to give the imperfect pagan mo- 
ral a tincture of Christian purity. The finest 
precepts are illustrated by the most instructive 
examples ; and every royal duty is, as it were, 
personified. His morality is every where found- 
ed on the eternal principles of truth and justice. 
He refers all goodness to God, as its origin and 
end. He exhibits a uniform lesson of the duty 
of sacrificing private interest to public good, and 



of forgetting ourselves in the love of our coun- 
try. Ho reconciles the soundest policy with the 
most undeviating integrity, and puts to shame 
those otherwise admirable writers of our own 
time, who have laboured to establish the danger, 
ous doctrine of expediency at the expense of im- 
mutable justice and everlasting truth. From Tele- 
machus she will learn, that the true glory of a 
king is to make his people good and happy ; that 
his authority is never so secure as when it is 
founded on the love of his subjects; and that the 
same principles which promote private virtue, 
advance public happiness. He teaches carefully 
to distinguish between good and bad govern- 
ments ; delivers precepts for the philosophical, 
the warlike, the pacific, and the legislative king ; 
and shows the comparative value of agriculture, 
of commerce, of education, and of arts ; of pri- 
vate justice, and of civil polity. His descrip- 
tions, comparisons, and narratives, instead of be- 
ing merely amusing, are always made to an- 
swer some beneficial purpose. And, as there 
is no part of public duty, so there is scarcely 
any circumstance of private conduct, which has 
been overlooked. The dangers of self-confidence; 
the contempt of virtuous counsels ; the perils of 
favouritism ; the unworthiness of ignoble pur- 
suits; the mischiefs of disproportionate con- 
nexions; the duty of inviolable fidelity to en- 
gagements, of moderation under the most pros- 
perous, and of firmness under the most adverse 
circumstances; of patience and forbearance, of 
kindness and gratitude ; all these are not so 
much animadverted on, as exemplified in the 
most impressive instances. 

Children love fiction. It is often a misleading 
taste. Of this taste Fenelon has availed him- 
self, to convey, under the elegant shelter of the 
Greek mythology, sentiments and opinions 
which might not otherwise so readily have made . 
their way to the heart. The strict maxims of 
government, and high standard of public virtue, 
exhibited in Telemachus, excited in the jealous 
mind of the reigning king of France, a dread 
that if those notions should become popular, 
that work would hereafter be considered as a 
satire on his own conduct and government, on 
his fondness for grandeur, for pleasure, for glory, 
and for war : so that it has been supposed pro- 
bable, that Fenelon's theological works, for 
which he was disgraced, were only made the 
pretext for punishing him for his political writ 
ings. 

The Cyropoedia of Xenophon it may be 
thought out of date to recommend ; but genius 
and virtue are never antiquated. This work 
may be read with advantage, not as an entirely 
authentic history, which is a more than doubt- 
ful point, but as a valuable moral work, exhi- 
biting a lively image of royal virtue and show- 
ing, in almost all respects, what a sovereign 
onght to be. — The princes of Xenophon and of 
Fenelon are models. The 'JPrince' of Machi- 
avel is a being elaborately trained in every art 
of political and moral corruption. The lives 
of the pupils are the best comments on the 
works of the respective authors. Fenelon pro- 
duced ' Telemaque' and the duke of Bur- 
gundy. — Machiavel, ' II Principe' and Coesar 
Borgia ! 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



79 



CHAP. XXIX. 

Of periodical essay writers, particularly Addi- 
son and Johnson. 

To hardly any species of composition has the 
Bfitish public been more signally indebted than 
to the periodical Essay ; and, perhaps, it was 
only from the British press, that such a publi- 
cation could have issued. The attempt to ex- 
cite mental appetite, by furnishing, from day 
to day, intellectual aliment of such peculiar 
freshness, must have been fatally obstructed by 
any jealousy of superintendance, or formality 
of licensing. The abuse of the press is to be 
deplored as a calamity, and punished as a crime. 
But let neither prince nor people forget the pro- 
vidential blessings which have been derived to 
both from its constitutional liberty. As this 
was one of the invaluable effects of the revolu- 
tion in ] 688, so perhaps no other means more 
contributed to carry the blessings of that period 
to their consummate establishment, in the ac- 
cession of the house of Brunswick. 

The two writers who have most eminently 
distinguished themselves in this path of litera- 
ture, are Addison and Johnson. At a period 
when religion was held in more than usual con- 
tempt, from its having been recently abused to 
the worst purposes ; and when the higher walks 
of life still exhibited that dissoluteness which 
the profligate reign of the second Charles had 
made so deplorably fashionable, Addison seems 
to have been raised by Providence for the double 
purpose of improving the public taste, and cor- 
recting the public morals. As the powers of 
the imagination had, in the preceding period, 
been peculiarly abused to the purposes of vice, 
it was Addison's great object to show that wit 
and impurity had no necessary connexion. He 
not only evinced this by his reasonings, but he 
eo exemplified it in his own compositions, as to 
become in a short time more generally useful, 
by becoming more popular than any English 
writer who had yet appeared. This well-earned 
celebrity he endeavoured to turn to the best of 
all purposes ; and his success was such as to 
prove, that genius is never so advantageously 
employed as in the service of virtue, nor in- 
fluence so well directed as in rendering piety 
fashionable. At this distance, when almost 
all authors have written the better, because Ad- 
dison wrote first, and when the public taste 
which he refined has become competent through 
that refinement, to criticise its benefactor, it is 
not easy fully to appreciate the value of Addi- 
son. To do this, we must attend to the pro- 
gress of English literature, and make a com- 
parison between him and his predecessors. 

But noble as the views of Addison were, and 
happily as he has, in general, accomplished 
what he intended ; the praise which justly be- 
longs to him must be qualified by the avowal, 
that it does not extend to every passage he has 
written. From the pernicious influence of 
those very manners which it was his object to 
correct, some degree of taint has occasionally 
affected his own pages, which will make it 
necessary to guard the royal pupil from a wholly 



promiscuous perusal. It is however, but justice 
to add, that the few instances referred to, how* 
ever exceptionable, are*of such a kind as to ex- 
pose him to the charge rather of inadvertence, 
or momentary levity, than of any unfixedness 
of principle, much less of any depravity of heart. 
Of all the periodical works, those of Johnson, 
in point of strict and undeviating moral purity, 
unquestionably stand highest. Every page is 
invariably delicate. It is, therefore, the rare 
praise of this author, that the most vigilant pre- 
ceptor may commit his voluminous works into 
the hands of even his female pupil, without 
caution, limitation, or reserve : secure that she 
cannot stumble on a pernicious sentiment, or 
rjse from the perusal with the slightest taint of 
immorality. Even in his dictionary, moral rec- 
titude has not only been scrupulously main- 
tained, but, as far as the nature of the work 
would admit, it has been assiduously inculcated. 
In the authorities which he had adduced, he has 
collected, with a discrimination which can 
never be enough admired, a countless multitude 
of the most noble sentences which English lite- 
rature afforded ; yet he has frequently content- 
ed himself with instances borrowed from in- 
ferior writers, when he found some passage, 
which at once served his purpose, and that of 
religion and morality ; and also, as he declared 
himself, lest he should risk contaminating the 
mind of the student, by referring him to authors 
of more celebrity, but less purity. When we 
reflect how fatally the unsuspected title of 
Dictionary has been made the vehicle for pol- 
luting principle, we shall feel the value of this 
extreme conscientiousness of Johnson. 

Still, however, while we ascribe to this ex- 
cellent author all that is safe, and all that is 
just, it is less from Johnson than from Addison 
that we derive the interesting lessons of life 
and manners ; that we learn to trace the exact 
delineations of character, and to catch the vivid 
hues, and varied tints of nature. It is true, 
that every sentence of the more recent moralist 
is an aphorism, every paragraph a chain of 
maxims for guiding the understanding and 
guarding the heart. But when Johnson de- 
scribes characters, he rather exhibits vice and 
virtue in the abstract, the real existing human 
being : while Addison presents you with actual 
men and women; realjtgi figures, compounded 
of the faults and the excellencies, the wisdom 
and the weaknesses, the follies and the virtues 
of humanity. — By the Avarus, the Ebulus, the 
Misellus, the Sophron, the Zosima, and the 
Viator of Johnson, we are instructed in the 
soundest truths, but we are not struck by any 
vivid exemplification. We merely hear them, 
and we hear them with profit, but we do not 
know them^ Whereas with the members of the 
Spectator's club we are acquainted. Johnson's 
personages are elaborately carved figures that 
fill the niches of the saloon ; Addison's are the 
living company which animate it : Johnson's 
have more drapery ; Addison's more counte- 
nance, Johnson's gentlemen and ladies, scholars 
and chambermaids, philosophers and coquets, 
all argue syllogistically, all converse in the 
same academic language ; divide all their sen. 
tences into the same triple members, turn every 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



80 

phrase with the same measured solemnity, and 
round every period with the same polished 
smoothness. Addison's talk learnedly or light- 
ly, think deeply, or prate flippantly, in exac,t 
accordance with their character, station, and 
habits of life. 

What reader, when he meets with the descrip- 
tion of Sir Roger de Coverly, or Will Wimble, 
or of the Tory fox-hunter in the Freeholder 
does not frame in his own mind a living image 
in each, to which ever after he naturally recurs, 
and on which his recollection, if we may so 
speak, rather than his imagination, fastens, as 
on an old intimate ? The lapse of a century, 
indeed, has induced a considerable change in 
modes of expression and forms of behaviour. 
But though manners are mutable, human na- 
ture is permanent. And it can no more be 
brought as a charge against the truth of Ad- 
dison's characters that the manners are changed, 
than it can be produced against the portraits of 
sir Peter Lely and Vandyck, that the fashions 
of dress are altered. The human character, like 
the human figure, is the same in all ages ; it is 
only the exterior and the costume which vary. 
Grace of attitude, exquisite proportion, and 
striking resemblance, do not diminish of their 
first charm, because ruffs, perukes, satin dou- 
blets, and slashed sleeves are passed away. 
Addison's characters may be likened to that 
expressive style of drawing, which gives the 
exact contour by a few careless strokes of the 
pencil. They are rendered amusing, by being 
in some slight degree carricatures ; yet, all is 
accurate resemblance, nothing is wanton ag- 
gravation. They have, in short, that undis- 
cribable grace which will always captivate the 
reader in proportion to the delicacy of his own 
perceptions. 

Among the benefits which have resulted from 
the writings of Addison, the attention first 
drawn to Paradise Lost by his criticisms was 
not one of the least. His examination of that 
immortal work, the boast of our island, and of 
human nature, had the merit of subduing the 
violence of party-prejudice, and of raising its 
great author to an eminence in the minds of 
his countrymen, corresponding to that which 
he actually held, and will hold, on the scale of 
genius, till time shall j#uio more.* 

If the critical wriH^s of Addison do not 
possess the acuteness of Dryden, or the vigour 
of Johnson, they are familiar and elegant, and 

* Milton has dropt his mantle on a poet, inferior in- 
deed to himself, in the loftiness of his conceptions, the 
variety of his learning, and the structure of his verse ; 
but the felicity of whose genius is only su rprassed by the 
elevation of his piety; whose devout effusions are more 
penetrating, and almost equally sublime; and who, in 
his moral and pathetic strokes, familiar illusions, and 
touching incidents, comes more home to the bosom than 
even his immortal master. When we observe of this 
fine spirit that he felt the beauties of nature with a 
lover's heart, beheld them with a poet's eye, and deli- 
neated them with a painter's hand ;— that the minute 
accuracy of his lesser figures, and the exquisite finish- 
ing of his rural groups, delight the fancy, as much as the 
sublimity of his nobler images exalt the mind ;-^that in 
spite of faults and negligencies, and a few instances of 
ungraceful asperity, he gratifies the judgment as much 
as he enchants the imagination ; that he directs the 
feelings to virtue, and the heart to heaven. Need we 
designate the sketch by affixing to it the name of Cow- 
par. 



serve to prepare the mind for more elaborate 
investigation. If it be objected, that he deals 
too much in gratuitous praise and vague admi- 
ration, it may be answered, that the effect pro- 
duced by poetry on the mind cannot always 
be philosophically accounted for ; and Addison 
was too fair, and, in this instance, too cordial 
a critic to withhold expressions of deligfct, 
merely because he could not analyse the causes 
which produced it. — At any rate, it must be 
allowed, that he who wrote those exquisite Es- 
says on the Pleasures of the Imagination, could 
not be superficial through penury. It is allow- 
ed, that the criticisms of Johnson are, in gene- 
ra), much more systematic ; they possess more 
depth, as well as more discrimination ; but they 
are less pleasing, because they are not equally 
good natured. They are more tinctured with 
party spirit, and breathe less generous and vo- 
luntary admiration. But no critic has been 
more successful in laying open the internal 
structure of the poet ; — though he now and then 
handles the knife so roughly as to disfigure 
what he means to dissect. His learning was evi- 
dently much deeper, as well as better digested, 
than that of Addison, and the energy of his un 
derstanding was almost unrivalled. He there- 
fore, discovers a rare ability in appreciating, 
with the soundest and most sagacious scrutiny, 
the poetry of reason and good sense ; in the 
composition of which ho also excels. — But to 
the less bounded excursions of high imagina- 
tion, to the bolder achievements of pure inven- 
tion he is less just, because less sensible. He 
appears little alive to that species of writing, 
whose felicities consist in ease and grace, to the 
floating forms of ideal beauty, to the sublimcr 
flights of the lyric muse, or to finer touches of 
dramatic excellence. He would consequently 
be cold in his approbation, not to say perverse in 
his discussion of some of these species of beauty, 
of which, in fact, his feelings were less suscep- 
tible. 

He had, however, that higher perfection 
which has been too rarely associated with those 
faculties, the most discerning taste and the 
liveliest relish, for the truest as well as the 
noblest species of the sublime and beautiful. I 
mean that which belongs to moral excellence. 
Where this was obvious, it not only conquered 
his aversion, but attracted his warm affection. 
It was this which made him the ardent eulogist 
of Watts, in spite of his non-conformity, and even 
the advocate of Blackmore, whom it must have 
been natural for him to despise as a bad poet, 
and to hate as a whig. It is this best of tastes 
which he also most displays in that beautiful 
eulogium of Addison, to which in the present 
comparison, it would be injustice to both, not to 
refer the reader. 

His Tour to the Hebrides exhibits a delight- 
ful specimen of an intellectual traveller, who ex- 
tracts beauty from barrenness, and builds up a 
solid mass of instruction with the most slender 
materials. He leaves to the writer of natural 
history, whose proper province it is, to run over 
the world in quest of mosses and grasses, of mi- 
nerals and fossils. Nor does he swell his book 
with catalogues of pictures which have neither 
novelty nor relevancy ; nor does he copy, from 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



81 



preceding 1 authors, the ancient history of a coun- 
try of which we only want to know the existing 
state ; nor does he convert the grand scenes 
which display the wonder of the Creator's power 
into doubts of his existence, or disbelief of his 
government: but fulfilling the office of an in- 
quisitive and moral traveller, he presents a live- 
ly and interesting view of men and things ; of 
the country which he visited, and of the persons 
with whom he conversed. And though his in- 
veterate Scottish prejudices now and then break 
out, his spleen seems rather to have been exer- 
cised against trees than men. Towards the lat- 
ter, his seeming illiberality has in reality more 
of merriment than malice. In his heart he re- 
spected that brave and learned nation. — When 
he is unfair, his unfairness is often mitigated 
by some stroke of humour, perhaps of good hu- 
mour, which effaces the impression of his se- 
verity. Whatever faults may be found in the 
Tour to the Hebrides, it is no small thing, at 
this period, to possess a book of travels entirely 
pure from the lightest touch of vanity or impu- 
rity, of levity or impiety. 

His Rasselas is a work peculiarly adapted to 
the royal pupil; and though it paints human 
life in too dark shades, and dwells despondingly 
on the unattainableness of human happiness, 
these defects will afford excellent occasions for 
the sagacious preceptor to unfold, through what 
pursuits life may be made happy by being made 
useful ; by what superinduced strength the bur- 
thens of this mortal state may be cheerfully 
borne, and by what a glorious perspective its 
termination may be brightened. 

The praise which has been given to Addison 
as an essayist can rarely be extended to many 
of his coadjutors. Talent more or less we every 
where meet with, and very ingenious sketches 
of character ; but moral delicacy is so often, and 
sometimes so shamefully violated, that (whatever 
may have been the practice,) the Spectator ought 
to be accounted an unfit book for the indiscrimi- 
nate perusal of youth.* 

However the collection of periodical papers, 
entitled The Freeholder, may be passed over by 
common readers, it would be unpardonable not 
to direct to them the attention of a royal pupil. 
The object at which they aim, the strengthening 
of the Hanoverian cause against the combined 
efforts of the house of Stuart and the French 
court, makes them interesting ; and they exhi- 
bit an exquisite specimen of political zeal with- 
out political acrimony. They abound in strokes 
of wit; and the Tory Fox hunter is perhaps 
next to the Rural Knight in the Spectator, one 
of the most entertaining descriptions of charac- 
ter in our language. Of these, as well as of 'his 
other essays, it may be said, that in them the 
follies, the affectations, and the absurdities of 
life are pourtrayed with the lightest touches of 
the most delicate pencil ; that never was ridi- 
cule more nicely pointed, nor satire more play- 
fully inoffensive. 

In the Guardian there is hardly any thing 
that is seriously exceptionable ; and this work 
is enriched with some essays that are not to be 
placed beneath even those of Addison. It will 

• Happily all Addison's papers have been selected by 
Ticfeell, in his edition of Addison's works. 

Vol. II. F 



be obvious, that we allude to the papers ascribed 
to bishop Berkeley. These essays bear the 
marks of a mind at once vigorous and correct, 
deep in reflection, and opulent in imagery. 
They are chiefly directed against the free-think- 
ers, a name by which the infidels of that age 
chose to call themselves. And never, perhaps, 
has that wretched character been more admira- 
bly illustrated than in the simile of the fly on 
St. Paul's cathedral. 

Another difference between Addison and John- 
son is, that the periodical writings of the former 
are those in which the powers of his mind ap- 
pear to most advantage. Not so in the case of 
Johnson. Solidly valuable as the Rambler must 
be accounted in the point of celebrity, it proba- 
bly owes much more to its author than it has 
conferred on him. A forbidding stateliness, a 
rigid and yet inflated style, an almost total ab. 
sence of case and cheerfulness, would too proba- 
bly bring neglect on the great and various ex- 
cellencies of these volumes, if they had been the 
single work of their author. But his other 
writings, and, above all, that inexhaustible fund 
of pleasure and profit, the Lives of the Poets, 
will secure perpetuated attention to every work 
which bears the name of Johnson. On the 
ground of distinct attractiveness, the Idler is the 
most engaging of Johnson's perodical works : 
the manner being less severe, and the matter 
more amusing. 

The Adventurer^ perhaps, on account of its 
interesting tales, and affecting narratives, is, of 
all others of its class, the most strictly suitable 
to youth. It also contains much general know- 
ledge, elegant criticism, and various kinds of 
pleasing information. In almost all these works, 
the Eastern Tales, Allegories, and Visions, are 
interesting in the narrative, elevated in the sen- 
timent ; pure in the descriptions, and sublime 
in the moral ; they convey lessons peculiarly 
appropriated to the great, most of the fictitious 
personages who are made the vehicles of instruc- 
tion, being either princes or statesmen. 

If we advert to religion, the praise of Addison 
in this infinitely important instance must not be 
omitted. Johnson never loses sight of religion ; 
but on very few occasions does he particularly 
dwell upon it. In one or two passages* only 
has he given vent to his religious feelings ; and 
his sentiments are so soundly, indeed so sub- 
limely excellent, that it is impossible not to re- 
gret the scantiness with which he has afforded 
them. But Addison seems to delight in the sub- 
ject, and, what is remarkable, his devout feel- 
ings seem to have much transcended his theolo- 
gical accuracy. To the latter, exception might 
justly be taken in one or two instances ;t to the 
former, never. If it were to be asked, where 
are the elevating, ennobling, felicitating effects 
of religion on the human mind as safely stated, 
and as happily expressed, as in any English au- 
thor ? perhaps a juster answer could scarcely 
be given than — in the devotional papers of Ad- 
dison. 

• 

• Number VII. in the Rambler ; paper on affliction 
in the Idler; and the noble passage in the account of 
Iona. 

t See particularly that very exceptionable paper in the 
Spectator, No. 459.— Also another on Superstition and 
Enthusiasm. 



82 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



CHAP. XXX. 

Books of Amusement. 

As the royal person will hereafter require 
books of amusement, as well as instruction, it 
will be a task of no small delicacy to select such 
as may be perused with as much profit, and as 
little injury, as is to be expected from works of 
mere entertainment. Perhaps there are few 
books which possess the power of delighting the 
fancy, without conveying any dangerous lesson 
to the heart, equally with Don Quixote. 

It does not belong to our subject to animad- 
vert on its leading excellence ; that incompara- 
ble delicacy of satire, those unrivalled powers 
of ridicule, which had sufficient force to reclaim 
the corrupted taste, and sober the distempered 
imagination of a whole people. This, which on 
its first appearance was justly considered as its 
predominant merit, is now become less interest- 
ing ; because the evil which it assailed no longer 
existing, the medicine which cured the mad is 
grown less valuable to the same ; yet Don Quix- 
ote will be entitled to admiration on imperisha- 
ble grounds. 

Though Cervantes wrote between two and 
three hundred years ago, and for a people of a 
national turn of thinking dissimilar to ours ; yet 
that right good sense, which is of all ages, and 
all countries, and which pervades this work 
more almost than even its exquisite wit and hu- 
mour ; those masterly portraits of character ; 
those sound maxims of conduct ; those lively 
touches of nature ; those admirably serious les- 
sons, though given on ridiculous occasions ; 
those penetrating strokes of feeling ; those so- 
lemnly sententious phrases, tinctured with the 
characteristic absurdity of the speaker, without 
any injury to the truth of the sentiment ; that 
fixture of the wise and the ludicrous, of action 
always pitiably extravagant, and of judgment 
often exemplarily sober. In all these excellences 
Don Quixote is without a parallel. 

How admirable (to produce only one instance 
out of a thousand) is that touch of human na- 
ture, where the knight of .La Mancha having 
bestowed the most excessive and high-flown 
compliments on a gentleman whom he encoun- 
tered when the delirium of chivalry raged most 
strongly in his imagination ! — The gentleman, 
who is represented as a person of admirable 
sense, is led by the effect which these compli- 
ments produced on his own mind, to acknow- 
ledge the weakness of the heart of man, in the 
foolish pleasure it derives from flattery. ' So 
bewitching is praise,' says he, ' that even I have 
the weakness to be pleased with it, though at 
the same time, I know the flatterer to be a mad- 
man.' 

Wit, it has been said, is gay, but humour is 
grave. It is a striking illustration of this opi- 
nion, that the most serious and solemn nation 
in the world has produced the work of the most 
genuine humour. Nor is it easy to express how 
admirably the pomp and stateliness of the Spa- 
nish language are suited to the genius of this 
work. It is not unfavourable to the true heroic, 
but much more especially it is adapted to the 
mock dignity of the sorrow ful_knight. It is ac- 



commodated to the elevation of the fantastic he- 
ro's tiptoe march, when he is sober, and still 
more to his stilts, when he is raving. 

The two very ingenious French and English 
novelists, who followed Cervantes, though with 
unequal steps even as to talent, are still farther 
below their great master boih in mental and 
moral delicacy. Thoagh the scenes, descrip- 
tions, and expressions of Le Sage, are far less 
culpable, in point of decency, than those of his 
English competitor; yet both concur in the same 
inexpiable fault, each labouring to excite an in- 
terest for a vicious character, each making the 
hero of his tale an unprincipled profligate. 

If novels are read at all in early youth, a prac- 
tice which we should think, ' more honoured in 
the breach than the observance,' we should be 
tempted to give the preference to those works 
of pure and genuine fancy, which exercise and 
fill the imagination, in preference to those which, 
by exhibiting passion and intrigue in bewitch- 
ing colours, lay hold too intensely on the feel- 
ings. We should even venture to pronounce 
those stories to be most safe, which, by least as- 
similating with our own habits and manners, 
are less likely to infect and soften the heart, by 
those amatory pictures, descriptions, and situa- 
tions, which too much abound, even in some of 
the chastest compositions of this nature. The 
young female is pleasantly interested for the fate 
of Oriental queens, for Zobeidc, or the heroine 
of Alamoran and Hamet ; but she does not put 
herself in their place ; she is not absorbed in 
their pains or their pleasures ; she does not iden- 
tify her feelings with theirs, as she too probably 
does in the case of Sophia Western and the prin- 
cess of Cleves. — Books of the former description 
innocently invigorate the fancy, those of the 
latter convey a contagious sickliness to the mind. 
The one raises harmless wonder or inoffensive 
merriment : the other awaken ideas, at best un- 
profitable. From the flights of the one, we are 
willing to descend to the rationality of common 
life ; from the seduction of the other, we aro dis- 
gusted at returning to its insipidity. 

There is always some useful instruction in 
those great original works of invention, whether 
poetry or romance, which transmit a faithful 
living picture of the manners of age and country 
in which the scene is laid. It is this which, in- 
dependently of its other merits, diffuses that in- 
expressible charm over the Odyssey : a species 
of enchantment which is not afforded by any 
other poem in the world. This, in a less degree, 
is also one of the striking merits of Don Quixote. 
And this after having soared so high, if we may 
descend so low, is the principal recommendation 
of the Arabian Tales. These Tales also, though 
faulty in some respects, possess another merit 
which we should be glad to see transferred to 
some of the novels of a country nearer home. 
We learn from theso Arabian stories, and indeed 
from most of the works of imagination of the 
Mahometan authors, what was the specific reli- 
gion of the people about whom they write : how 
much they made religion enter into the ordinary 
concerns of life ; and how observant persons 
professing religion were of its peculiarities and 
its worship. 

It is but justice to observe, how far more deep- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



83 



ly mischievous the French novel writers are, 
than those of our own country ; they not only 
seduce the heart through the senses, and corrupt 
it through the medium of the imagination, but 
fatally strike at the very root and being of 
all virtue, by annihilating all belief in that reli- 
gion, which is its only vital source and seminal 
principle. 

Shakspeare. 

But lessons of a nobler kind may be extracted 
from some works which promise nothing better 
than mere entertainment; and which will not, 
to ordinary readers, appear susceptible of any 
nigher purpose. In the hands of a judicious 
preceptor, many of Shakspeare's tragedies, espe- 
cially of his historical pieces, and still more such 
as are rendered peculiarly interesting by local 
circumstances, by British manners, and by the 
introduction of royal characters who once filled 
the English throne, will furnish themes on which 
to ground much appropriate and instructive con- 
versation. 

Those mixed characters especially, which he 
has drawn with such a happy intuition into the 
human mind, in which some of the worst ac- 
tions are committed by persons not destitute of 
good dispositions and amiable qualities, but over- 
whelmed by the storm of unresisted passion, 
sinking under strong temptation, or yielding to 
powerful flattery, are far more instructive in the 
perusal than the ' faultless monsters,' or the he- 
roes of unmixed perfection of less skilful dra- 
matists. — The agitations, for instance of the 
timorous Thane, a man not destitute of generous 
sentiments ; but of a high and aspiring mind, 
stimulated by vain credulity, tempting opportu- 
nity, and an ambitious wife. — Goaded by the 
woman he loved to the crime he hated, — grasp- 
ing at the crown, but abhorring the sin which 
was to procure it ; — the agonies of guilt com- 
bating with the sense of honour — agonies not 
merely excited by the vulgar dread of detection 
and of punishment whichVould have engrossed 
an ordinary mind, but sharpened by unappeasa- 
ble remorse : which remorse, however, proves 
no hindrance to the commission of fresh crimes, 
— crimes which succeed each other as nume- 
rously, and as rapidly, as the visionary progeny 
of Banquo. — At first, 

What he would highly, he would holily : 

But a familiarity with horrors soon cured this 
delicacy ; and in his subsequent and multiplied 
murders, necessity became apology. The whole 
presents an awful lesson on the terrible conse- 
quences of listening to the first slight sugges- 
tion of sin, and strikingly exemplifies that from 
harbouring criminal thoughts, to the forming 
black designs, and perpetrating the most atro- 
cious deeds, the mind is led by a natural pro- 
gress, and an unresisted rapidity. 

The conflicting passions of the capricious 
Lear ! tender and affectionate in the extreme, 
but whose irregular affections were neither con- 
trouled by nature, reason, or justice ; a charac- 
ter weak and vehement, fond and cruel ; whose 
kindness was determined by no principle, whose 
mind was governed by no fixed sense of right, 



but vibrating with the accident of the momen^ 
and the caprice of the predominant humour 
sacrificing the virtuous child, whose sincerity 
should have secured his affection, to the prepos- 
terous flattery of her unnatural sisters — These 
highly wrought scenes do not merely excite in 
the reader a barren sympathy for the pangs of 
self-reproach, of destitute age, and suffering 
royalty, but inculcate a salutary abhorrence of 
adulation and falsehood; a useful caution against 
partial and unjust judgment ; a sound admoni- 
tion against paternal injustice and filial ingra- 
titude. 

The beautiful and touching reflection of 
Henry IV. in those last soul-searching moments, 
when the possession of a crown became nothing, 
and the unjust ambition by which he had ob- 
tained it every thing — Yet, exhibiting a prince 
still so far retaining to the last the cautious po- 
licy of his character, as to mix his concern for 
the state, and his affection for his son, with the ' 
natural dissimulation of his own temper; and 
blending the finest sentiment on the uncertainty 
of human applause and earthly prosperity, with 
a watchful attention to confine the knowledge 
of the unfair means by which he had obtained 
the crown to the heir who was to possess it ; — 
the wily politician predominating to the last 
moment, and manifesting rather regret than re- 
pentance : — disclosing that the assumed sanctity 
with which he had been preparing for a crusade, 
was only a project to check those inquiries into 
his title to the crown to which peace and rest 
might lead ; and exhorting the prince, with a 
foreseeing subtlety which little became a dying 
monarch, to keep up quarrels with foreign pow- 
ers, in order to wear out the memory of domes- 
tic usurpation ; — all this presents a striking ex- 
hibition of a superior mind, so long habituated 
to the devious paths of worldly wisdom, and 
crooked policy, as to be unable to desert them, 
even in the pangs of dissolution. 

The pathetic soliloquies of the repentant Wol- 
sey fallen from the pinnacle of wealth and 
power, to a salutary degradation ! A disgrace 
which restored him to reason, and raised him to 
religion ; which destroyed his fortune but res- 
cued his soul : — his counsels to the rising states- 
man Cromwell, on the perils of ambition, and 
the precariousness of royal favour ; the vanity 
of all attachment which has not religion for its 
basis ; the weakness of all fidelity which has 
not the fear of God for its principle ; and the 
perilous end of that favour of the courtier, which 
is enjoyed at the dear price of his ' integrity to 
Heaven !' — 

The pernicious power of flattery on a female 
mind, so skilfully exemplified in that memorable 
scene in which the bloody Richard conquers the 
aversion of the princess Anne to the murderer 
of her husband, and of all his royal race ! The 
deplorable error of the feeble-minded princess, 
in so far forgetting his crimes in his compli- 
ments, as to consent to the monstrous union 
with the murderer ! Can there be a more strik- 
ing exemplification of a position we have ven- 
tured so frequently to establish, of the dangers 
to which vanity is liable, and of the miseries to 
which flattery leads ? 

The reflections of Henry VI. and of Richard 



84 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



II. on the cares and duties, the unsatisfactori- 
ness and disappointment attending great situa- 
tions, the vanity of human grandeur while en- 
joyed, and the uncertain tenure by which it is 
nel-d ! These fine soliloquies preach powerfully 
to the hearts of all in high stations, but most 
powerfully to those in the highest. 

The terribly instructive death-bed of cardinal 
Beaufort, whose silence, like the veil in the cele- 
brated picture of the sacrifice of Iphigenia by 
Timanthes, thrown over the father's face, pene- 
trates the soul more by what it conceals, than 
could have been effected by any thing that its 
removal might have discovered. 

These, and a thousand other instances, too 
various to be enumerated, too obvious to require 
specifying, and too beautiful to stand in need of 
comment, may, when properly selected, and ju- 
diciously animadverted on, not only delight the 
imagination, and gratify the feelings, but carry 
instruction to the heart. 

The royal pupil may discern in Shakspeare 
an originality which has no parallel. He exhi- 
bits humour the most genuine, and, what is far 
more extraordinary, propriety of sentiment, and 
delicacies of conduct, where, from his low op- 
portunities, failure had been pardonable. A 
fidelity to character so minute, that it seems ra- 
ther the accuracy of individual history, marking 
the incidental deviations, and delineating the 
casual humours of actual life, than the invention 
of the poet. Shakspeare has seized every turn 
and flexure of the ever-varying mind of man in 
all its fluctuating forms ; touched it in all its 
changeful shades ; and marked it in all its nicer 
gradations, as well as its more abrupt varieties. 
He exhibits the whole internal structure of man ; 
uniting the correctness of anatomy with the ex- 
actness of delineation, the graces of proportion, 
and often the highest beauty of colouring. 

But with these excellences, the works of this 
most unequal of all poets contain so much that 
is vulgar, so much that is absurd, and so much 
that is impure ; so much indecent levity, false 
wit, and gross description, that he should only 
be read in parcels, and with the nicest selection. 
His more exceptionable pieces should not be 
read at all ; and even of the best much may be 
omitted. But the qualified perusal here suggest- 
ed, may on account of his wonderful acquaint- 
ance with the human heart, be attended with 
peculiar advantages to readers of the class in 
question, one of whose chief studies should be 
that of mankind, and who from the circum- 
stance of station and sex, have few direct and 
safe means of acquiring a knowledge of the 
world, and an acquaintance with the various 
characters which compose it. 

To the three celebrated Greek tragedians we 
have already adverted, as uniting with the lofti- 
est powers of genius, a general prevalence of 
virtuous, and often even of pious sentiments. 
The scenes with which they abound, of merito- 
rious, of suffering, of imprudent, of criminal, of 
rash, and of penitent princes ; of royalty under 
every vicissitude of passion, of character, and 
circumstance, will furnish an interesting and 
not unprofitable entertainment. And Mr. Potter 
has put the English reader in possession of these 
ancient bards, of Eschylus especially, in a 



manner highly honourable to his own taste and 
learning. 

Most of the tragedies of Racine are admira- 
bly written, and are unexceptionable in almost 
all respects. They possess, though conveyed in 
the poor vehicle of French versification,* all the 
dramatic requisites, and to their autiior we can 
safely ascribe one merit, superior even to that 
of the critical exactness with which he has re- 
gulated the unities of his plays by Aristotle's 
clock ; we mean his constant care not to offend 
against modesty or religion. His Athalie exhi- 
bits at once, a chief d'oeuvre of the dramatic art, 
a proof of what exquisite poetic beauties the Bible 
histories are susceptible ; a salutary warning to 
princes on the miseries attendant upon treache- 
ry, impiety, and ambition ; and a lively instance 
of not only the private value but the great po- 
litical importance of eminently able and pious 
ministers of religion. 

If the Italian language should form a part of 
the royal education, we might name Metastatio 
as quite inoffensive in a moral view, though ne- 
cessarily mixing something of the flimsy tex- 
ture of the opera with the severer graces of 
Melpomene. — His muse possesses an equable 
and steady pinion : if she seldom soars into sub- 
limity, she never sinks to meanness ; she is ra- 
ther elegant and pleasing, than vigorous or lofty. 
His sacred dramas are particularly excellent, 
and are scarcely less interesting to the reader 
of taste than of piety. They also exempt from 
a certain monotony, which makes his other 
pieces too much to resemble each other. 

It is with no small regret that, persuaded as 
we are that England is the rich native soil of 
dramatic genius, we are driven to the painful 
necessity of recommending exotics in prefer- 
ence to the indigenous productions of our own 
fruitful clime. The truth is, that though we 
possess in our language admirable single pieces, 
yet our tragic poets have afforded scarce any 
instances, except Milton in his exquisite Comus 
and Samson Agoniste's, and Mason in his chaste 
and classic dramas, in which we can conscien- 
tiously recommend their entire unweeded vo- 
lumes, as never deviating from that correctness 
and purity which should be the inseparable at- 
tendant on the tragic muse.t 

We shall, indeed, find not only that virtuous 
scenes, and even pious sentiments, are scattered 
throughout most of our popular tragedies, but 
that the general moral also is frequently strik- 
ing and impressive. Its end, however is often 
defeated by the means employed to accomplish 
it. In how many, for instance, of the favourite 
tragedies of Rowe and Otway, which are most 
frequently acted, do we find passages, and even 

* It is a curious circumstance in the history of French 
dramatic poetry, that the measure used by their best 
poets in their sublimest tragedies is the anapaestic, 
which, in our language, is not only the lightest and most 
undignified of all the poetic measures, but is still more 
degraded by being chiefly applied to burlesque subjects. 
It is amusing to an English ear, to hear the Brutus of 
Racine, theCid of Corneille, and the Orosmane and 
Orestes of Voltaire, declaim, philosophize, sigh, and rave 
in the precise measure of 

A cobler there was, and he Iiv'd in a stall 

t Thompson's tragedies furnish the best exception to 
this remark of any with which the author is acquainted. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



85 



whole scenes of a directly contrary tendency ; 
passages calculated to awaken those very pas- 
sions which it was the professed object of the 
author to counteract ? 

First raising a combustion of desire. 

With some cold moral they would quench the fire. 

When we contrast the purity, and I had almost 
said, the piety of the works of the tragic poets 
of pagan Greece, and even the more select ones 
of popish France, with some of the pieces of 
the most shining bards of protestant Britain, do 
they not all appear to have been in an inverse 
ratio with the advantages which their authors 
enjoyed ? 

It may be objected, that in speaking of poetic 
composition, we have dwelt bo long, and almost 
so exclusively on the drama. It would, indeed, 
have been far more pleasant to range at large 
through the whole flowery fields of the muses, 
where we could have gathered much that is 
sweet, and much that is sslutary. But we 
must not indulge in excursions which are 
merely pleasurable. We have on all occasions 
made it a point not to recommend books be- 
cause they are pleasant or even good, but be- 
cause they are appropriate. And as it is noto- 
rious 



-that gorgeous tragedy 



With sceptred palls comes sweeping by 
Presenting Thebes' or Pelops' line : 

that she prefers the splendid scenes of royal 
courts to the retired courts of private life ; that 
she delights to exemplify virtue, to designate 
vice, or dignify calamity, by choosing her per- 
sonages among kings and princes, we therefore 
thought it might not be altogether unuseful, in 
touching on this topic, to distinguish between 
such authors as are safe, and such as are dan- 
gerous ; by mentioning those of the one class 
with deserved commendation, and by generally 
passing over the names of the others in silence. 



CHAP. XXXI. 

Boohs of instruction, Sfc. Lord Bacon, Sfc. 

In the • prophet of unborn science,' who 
brought into use a logic almost entirely new, 
and who rejected the study of words for that of 
things, the royal pupil may see the way, rarely 
used before his time, of arguing by induction ; 
a logic grounded upon observation, fact, and ex- 
periment. To estimate the true value of Lord 
Bacon, we should recollect what was the state 
of learning when he appeared ; we should re- 
member with what a mighty hand he overthrew 
the despotism of that absurd system which had 
kept true knowledge in shackles, arrested the 
progress of sound philosophy, and blighted the 
growth of the human intellect. 

His first aim was to clear the ground, by 
rooting out the preconceived errors, and obsti- 
nate projudices, which long prescription had 
established ; and then to substitute what was 
useful, in place of that idle and fruitless specu- 
lation which had so long prevailed. — He was 



almost the first rational investigator of the laws 
of nature, who made genuine truth and sound 
knowledge, and not a barren curiosity and an 
unprofitable ingenuity the object of his pursuit. 
His instances are all said to be collected with 
as much judgment, as they are recorded with 
simplicity. He teaches the important art of 
viewing a question on all sides, and of eliciting 
truth from the result ; and he always makes rea- 
soning and experiment go hand in hand, mu- 
tually illustrating each other. 

One principal use of being somewhat ac- 
quainted with this great author is, to learn that 
admirable method and order which he uniformly 
observes. So excellent is the disposition he 
makes, that the reader is not lost, even in that 
mighty mass of matter in which he arranges 
the arts of history, poetry, and philosophy, 
under their three great corresponding faculties, 
of memory, imagination, and understanding. 
This perspicuous clearness of distribution ; this 
breaking up his subject into parts, without 
losing sight of that whole to which each portion 
preserves its exact subordination, enables the 
reader to follow him without perplexity, in the 
wide stretch and compass of his intellectual re- 
searches. 

With the same admirable method he has 
also made a distribution of the several branches 
of history. He separates it into three divisions 
— chronicles, or annals, lives, and relations • 
assigning in his luminous way, to each its re- 
spective properties. Lives of individuals, he is 
of opinion, exhibit more faithful and lively nar- 
ratives of things ; and he pronounces them ca- 
pable of being more safely and advantageously 
transferred into example, than general history. 
He assigns a great degree of usefulness to 
special relation of actions, such as Cataline's 
conspiracy, and the expedition of Cyrus ; con- 
ceiving them to be more pleasant by presenting 
a subject more manageable, because more 
limited. And as a more exact knowledge and 
full information may be obtained of these indi- 
vidual relations, the author, he observes, is not 
driven like the writer of general history, to fill 
up chasms and blank spaces, out of his own im 
agination.* 

* There is one instance in which even this great au- 
thor has poorly executed his own ideas. After so ably 
laying down the outline of history, he has shown little 
skill, in an individual instance, in filling it up» Few 
writers have more remarkably failed, than Lord Bacon 
in his history of Henry VII. It is defective in almost 
all the ingredients of historic composition ; neither pos- 
sessing majesty nor dignity on the one hand, nor ease 
and perspicuity on the other. There is a constant aim 
at wit and pleasantry, with a constant failure in both. 
The choice of matter is injudicious; great circumstances 
are often slightly touched, while he enlarges upon 
trifles. The history is feeble narrative ; the style is 
affected declamation ; loaded, as if in defiance of Quin- 
tilian's precept, with those double epithets, which, as 
that noblest of criiics observes, when each does not fur- 
nish a fresh idea, is as if every common soldier in an 
armv should carry a footman, increasing the incum- 
brance without adding to the strength. The history of 
Henry VII. wants perspicuity, simplicity, and almost 
every grace required of the historic muse. And what is 
more strange, we neither discover in this work the deep 
politician, the man of business, the man of genius, or 
the man of the world. It abounds with those colloquial 
familiarities, we had almost said vulgarisms, with 
which the works of that reign are generally iufected, 
but which we do not expect in this great author Bad 



86 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Politics he arranges with the same methodi- 
-al order, dividing them into three several parts, 
•-the preservation of a state, its prosperity, and 
' s enlargement. Of the two former branches, 
allows that preceding authors had already 
treated, but intimates that he himself was the 
first who had discussed the latter. As political 
economy will hereafter form an important branch 
of study for the royal pupil, we are, happily, not 
wanting in very able modern authors, who, 
living in our time, are likely to be more exten- 
sively useful, from their intimate acquaintance 
with existing circumstances, and with the revo- 
lutions which have led to them. 

Nothing seems to have been too great, or too 
small, for the universal mind of Bacon ; nothing 
too high for his strong and soaring wing; no- 
thing too vast for his extensive grasp; nothing 
too deep for his profound spirit of investigation ; 
nothing too minute for his microscopic discern- 
ment. Whoever dives into the depths of learn- 
ing, or examines the intricacies of politics, or 
explores the arcana of nature, or looks into 
the mysteries of' art, or the doctrines of re- 
ligion, or the scheme of morals, or the laws 
of jurisprudence, or the decorums of court, or 
the duties of public conduct, or the habits of 
domestic Jife; whoever wanders among the 
thorns of metaphysics, or gathers the flowers 
of rhetoric, or plucks the fruits of philosophy, 
will find that this noble author has been his pre- 
cursor ; and that he himself can scarcely deviate 
into any paih which Bacon has not previously 
explored 

Nor did the hand which so ably treats on the 
formation of states, disdain to arrange the plants 
of the field, or the flowers of the parterre ; nor 
•was the statesman, who discoursed so largely 
and so eloquently on the methods of improving 
kingdoms, or the philosopher, who descanted 
on the means of augmenting science, above 
teaching the pleasing art to select the sheltered 
spot for the tender exotic, to give minute instruc- 
tions for polishing ' the dry smooth-shaven green,' 
for raising a strawberry, or cultivating a rose. 

His moral essays are fraught with familiar 
wisdom, and practical virtue. With this in- 
tellectual and moral treasure the royal pupil 
cannot be too intimately conversant. His other 
writings are too voluminous, as well as too 
various and too scientific, to be read at large; 
and it is become the less necessary, the works 
of Bacon having been the grand seed-plot, out 
of which all the modern gardens of philosophy, 
science, and letters, have been either sown or 
planted. 

It is with deep regret we add, that after ad- 
miring in the works of this wonderful man to 
what a pitch the human mind can soar, we may 
see, from a few unhappy instances in his con- 
duct, to what debasement it can stoop. While 
his writings 6tore the mind with wisdom, and 
the heart with virtue, we may, from his prac- 
tice, take a melancholy lesson on the impcrfec- 

gell has published in the Guardian, a collection of 
numberless passages from this history, exemplifying 
almost every kind of literary defect ; not with an invi- 
dious ensign to injure so great a name, but lest the au- 
thority of that name should sanction bad writing. The 
present criticism is offered, lest it should sanction bad 
taste. 



tion of human excellence, by the mortifying 
consideration of his ingratitude as a friend, his 
adulation as a courtier, and his venality as a 
chancellor. 

Of the profound and various works of Locke, 
the most accurate thinker, and justest reasoner, 
which this or perhaps any other country has 
produced, we would particularly recommend the 
short but very valuable treatise on the Con- 
duct of the Understanding. It contains a fa- 
miliar and popular illustration of some impor- 
tant discoveries in his most distinguished work, 
the Essay on the Human Understanding, par- 
ticularly that great and universal law of nature, 
'the support of so many mental powers (that of 
memory under all its modifications) and which 
produces equally remarkable effects in the in- 
tellectual, as that of gravitation does in the 
material world, the association of ideas.' — A 
work of which even the sceptical rhapsodist, 
lord Shaftsbury, who himself possessed much 
rhetoric and little logic, pronounced, that 'it 
may qualify men as well for business and the 
world, as for the sciences and the university.' 

There are few books with which a royal per- 
son ought to be more thoroughly acquainted, 
than with the famous work of Grotius on the 
Rights of War and Peace. In this work the 
great principles of justice are applied to the high- 
est political purposes ; and the soundest reason 
is employed in the cause of the purest humanity. 
This valuable treatise owed its birth to the cir- 
cumstance of the author, a statesman and am- 
bassador, having, as he himself observes, per- 
sonally witnessed in all parts of the Christian 
world, ' such an unbridled licentiousness with 
regard to war, as the most barbarous nations 
might blush at.' ' They fly to arms,' says he 
' on frivolous pretences ; and when once they 
have them in their hands, they trample on all 
laws, human and divine, as if from the time of 
their assumption of arms they were authorized 
so to do.' 

In the course of the work he inquires, with 
a very vigorous penetration, into the origin of 
the rights of war, its different kinds, and the 
extent of the power of the sovereign. He 
clearly explains the nature and extent of those 
rights, the violation of which authorizes the 
taking up arms. And finally, after having ably 
descanted on all that relates to war in its begin- 
ning, and its progress, he as ably enlarges on 
the nature of those negociations and treaties of 
peace which terminate it.* 

With an intrepidity worthy of his genius, he 
was not afraid of dedicating a book containing 
such bold and honest doctrines to a king of 
France. This admirable treatise was found in 
the tent of the great Gustavus after his death. 
It had been one of the principal objects of his 

* The censure frequently expressed in these volumes, 
against princes who inconsiderately engage in war, can 
never apply to that in which we are involved A war, 
which, on the part of the enemy, has levelled the just 
fences Which separated nations, and destroyed the good 
faith winch united them. A war, which on our part 
was entered upon, not for conquest but existence ; not 
from ambition but necessity ; not for revenge but jus- 
tice ; not to plunder other nations but to preserve our 
own. And not exclusively, even to save ourselves, but 
for the restoration of desolated nations, and the finai 
safety and repose of the whole civilized world. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



87 



Itudy. The Swedish mouarch knew how to 
«hoose his books and his ministers. He studied 
Crotius, and he employed Oxenstiern. 

If the royal person would peruse a work, 
Ivhich to the rhetoric of ancient Greece, and the 
♦atriot spirit of ancient Rome, unites the warmth 
of cotemporary interest and the dearness of 
domestic feeling ; in which to the vigour of a 
Tapid and indignant eloquence, is superadded 
Hie widest extent of general knowledge, and the 
deepest political sagacity '. — a work 

Where old experience doth attain, 
To something like prophetic strain : 

a work which first unlocked the hidden springs 
of revolutionary principles; dived into the com- 
plicated and almost unfathomable depths of po- 
litical, literary, and moral mischief; penetrated 
the dens and labyrinths, where Anarchy who 
long had been mysteriously brooding, at length 
hatched her baleful progeny ; — laid bare to view 
the dark recesses, where sacrilege, murder, trea- 
son, regicide, and atheism were engendered. — 
If she would hear the warning voice which first 
sounded the alarm in the ears of Britain, and 
which, by rousing to a sense of danger, kindled 
the spirit to repel it, which, in Englishmen, is 
always but one and the same act, she should 
peruse Mr. Burke's Reflections on the French 
Revolution. 

It was the peculiar felicity of this great, but 
often misguided man, to light at last upon a sub- 
ject, not only singularly congenial to the turn 
of his genius, but of his temper also. The ac- 
complished scholar, the wit of vivid imagination, 
the powerful orator rich in imagery, and abound- 
ing in classie allusion, had been previously dis- 
played to equal advantage in his other works, 
but with considerable abatements, from preju- 
dices which sometimes blinded his judgment, 
from avehemence which often clouded his bright- 
ness. He had never wanted genius : it would 
be hard to say he had ever wanted integrity ; — 
but he had often wanted that consistency which 
is so necessary to make the parts of a great cha- 
racter cohere to each other. A patriot, yet not 
unfrequently seeming to act against the interests 
of his country ; a senator, never heard without 
admiration, but sometimes without effect ; a 
statesman, often embarrassing his adversaries, 
without always serving his friends, or advancing 
his cause. But in this concentration of his 
powers, this union of his faculties and feelings, 
the Reflection on the French Revolution, his im- 
petuosity found objects which rendered its exer- 
cise not only pardonable but laudable. That 
violence, which had sometimes exhausted itself, 
Unworthily in party, or unkindly on individuals, 
Bow found full scope for its exercise, in the un- 
restrained atrocities of a nation, hostile not only 
Jo Britain but to human nature itself. A nation 
not offending from the ordinary impulse of the 
passions, which might have been repelled by the 
ordinary means of resistance, but ' committing 
he oldest crimes the newest kind of way,' and 
uniting the bloody inventions of the most selfish 
ambition, and the headlong appetites of the most 
unbridled vices, with all the exquisite contri- 
vances of gratuitous wickedness. And happily 
for his fame, all the successive actors in the re- 



volutionary drama took care to sin up to any in- 
temperance of language which even Mr. Burke 
could supply. 



CHAP. XXXII. 

The Holy Scriptures.— The Old Testament. 

In speaking of the nature and evidences ot 
revealed religion, it was impossible to avoid au 
ticipating the subject of this chapter, as it is from 
the Holy Scriptures alone that the nature of our 
divine religion can be adequately ascertained , 
and as it is only in that sacred volume that we 
can discover those striking congruities between 
Christianity, and all the moral exigencies of 
man, which form so irresistible an evidence of 
its coming from that God, ' who is above all and 
through all, and in us all.' 

There are, however, some additional points of 
view in which the Holy Scripture ought to be 
considered. It is doubtless most deeply inte- 
resting, as it contains in it that revelation from 
heaven which was ' to give light to them that 
sat in darkness and the shadow of death, and to 
guide our feet into the way of peace. But while 
we joyfully follow this collected radiance, we 
may humbly endeavour to examine the appara- 
tus itself by which those beams of heaven are 
thrown on our path. Let us then consider the 
divine volume somewhat more in detail, endea- 
vouring at the same time not to overlook those 
features which it presents to the critic, or philo- 
logist. We do not mean to him who, while he 
reads, affects to forget, that he has in his hands 
the book of God, and therefore indulges his per- 
verse or profligate fancy, as if he were perusing 
the poems of Homer or Hafez. But we mean 
the Christian critic, and the Christian philolo- 
gist ; characters, it is true, not very common, 
yet through the mercy of God so exemplified in 
a few nobler instances, even in our own days, as 
to convince us, that in the formation of these vo- 
lumes of eternal life, no faculty, no taste, no im- 
pressible point in the mind of man, has been left 
unprovided for. They show us, too, what an 
extensive field the sacred Scriptures furnish for 
those classical labours, of which they possibly 
were deemed scarcely susceptible before the ad- 
mirable Lowth gave his invaluable Prelections. 

The first circumstance which presents itself, 
is the variety of composition which is crowded 
into these narrow limits. Historical records 
extending through thousands of years ; — poetry 
of almost every species ; — biographic memoirs 
of that very kind which the modern world agrees 
to deem most interesting ; epistolary corres- 
pondence which even for excellence of manner 
might challenge a comparison with any compo- 
sition of that nature in the world ; and lastly, 
that singular kind of writing, peculiar to this 
sacred book, in which the veil that hides futurity 
from man is penetrated, remote occurrences so 
anticipated, as to imply a demonstration that 
God alone could have communicated such know, 
ledge to man. 

In the historic parts, we cannot but be struck 
with a certain peculiar consciousness of accurate 



88 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



knowledge, evincing itself by its two grand cha- 
racteristics, precision and simplicity. They are 
not the annals of a nation which are before us, 
so much as the records of a family. Truth is 
obviously held in supreme value, since, even 
where it is discreditable, there is not the slight- 
est attempt to disguise it. The affections are 
cordially at work ; but they are more filial than 
patriotic, and more devout than filial. To these 
writers the God of their fathers is of more im- 
portance than their fathers themselves. They 
therefore preserve, with the greatest care, those 
transactions of their ancestors, which were con- 
nected with the most signal interferences of 
heaven; and no circumstance is omitted, by 
which additional motives might be afforded for 
that habitual reverence, supreme love and un- 
shaken confidence, towards the Eternal Father, 
which constituted the pure and sublime religion 
of this singly enlightened people. What Moses 
magnificently expresses in the exordium of that 
noble ode, the 90th psalm, contains the central 
principle which all their history was intended to 
impress. ' Lord, thou hast been our dwelling- 
place from one generation to another ; before the 
mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst 
made the earth and the world ; even from ever- 
lasting to everlasting, Thou art God.' 

Other nations have doubtless made their his- 
tory subservient to their mythology ; or rather, 
being ignorant of the facts ; they have at once 
gratified their national vanity, and indulged 
their moral depravity in imagining offensive and 
monstrous chimeras. But do these humiliating 
infatuations of human kind, universal as they 
have been, bear any shadow of analogy to the 
divinely philosophic grandeur of Hebrew piety ? 
All other mythologic histories degrade our na- 
ture. This alone restores its primeval dignity. 
The pious Jews were doubtless the greatest 
zealots on earth. But for whom ? ' For no grisly 
terror,' ' nor execrable shape,' like all other Ori- 
entalists, ancient and modern ; no brute like the 
Egyptians, nor deified monster worse than brute, 
like the Greeks and Romans. But it was for 
Him, whom philosophers in all ages have in vain 
laboured to discover ; of whose character, never- 
theless, they have occasionally caught some faint 
idea from those very Jews, whom they have de- 
spised, and who, in the description even of the 
heathen Tacitus, awes our minds, and claims the 
natural homageofour hearts. — 'The Egyptians,' 
says that unbribed evidence, in the midst even 
of an odious representation of the Jewish nation, 
' venerate various animals, as well as likenesses 
of monsters. The Jews acknowledge, and that 
with the mind only, a single Deity. They ac- 
count those to be profane, who form images of 
God of perishable materials, in the likeness of 
men. There is the one supreme eternal God, 
unchangeable, immortal. They therefore suffer 
no statues in their cities, and still less in their 
temples. They have never shown this mark of 
flattery to their kings. They have never done 
this honour to the Csesars.'* 

What then was zeal for such worship as this, 
but the purest reason, and the highest magnani- 
mity ? And how wise as well as heroic do they 

Tacitus Hist. Lib. v. 5. 



appear who made no account of life in such a 
cause ? * O king,' say they, 'we are not careful 
to answer thee in this matter. Our God whom 
we serve is able to deliver us, and he will deliver 
us out of thine hand ! But if not, be it known 
unto thee, that we will not serve thy gods, nor 
worship the golden image which thou hast set up.' 
Of such a religion as this, what can be more 
interesting than the simple, the affectionate his- 
tory ? it is not men whom it celebrates ; it is 
'Him who only hath immortality, whodvvelleth 
in the light which no man can approach unto.' 
And how does it represent him? That single 
expression of the patriarch Abraham will fully 
inform us : ' Wilt thou also destroy the righte- 
ous with the wicked ? That be far from thee I 
Shall not the Judge of ail the earth do right.' A 
sentiment, short and simple as it is, which car- 
ries more light to the mind, and more consola- 
tion to the heart, than all the volumes of all the 
philosophers. 

But what was the moral efficacy of this reli- 
gion? Let the youthful Joseph tell us. Let 
him, at the moment of his victory over all that 
has most effectually subdued human nature, dis- 
cover to us where his strength lay. ' How,' 
says he, ' shall I do this great wickedness, and 
sin against God.' 

Of the lesser excellences of these historic re- 
cords, little on the present occasion can, and, 
happily, little needs be'said. If the matter is 
unmixed truth, the manner is unmixed nature. 
Were the researches of Sir William Jones, and 
those who have followed him in the same Irack, 
valuable on no other account, they would be in- 
estimable in this respect, that through what they 
have discovered and translated, we are enabled 
to compare other eastern compositions with the 
sacred books of the Hebrews; the result of 
which comparison, supposing only taste and 
judgment to decide, must ever be this, that in 
many instances, nothing can recede farther from 
the simplicity of truth and nature than the one, 
nor more constantly exhibit both than the other. 
This assertion may be applied with peculiar 
justness to the poetic parts of the Old Testament. 
The character of the eastern poetry, in general, 
would seem to be that of floridness and exube- 
rance, with little of the true sublime, and a con- 
stant endeavour to outdo rather than to imitate 
nature. The Jewish poetry seems to have been 
cast in the most perfect mould. The expressions 
are strictly subordinate to the sense ; and while 
nothing is more energetic, nothing is more sim- 
pie and natural. If the language be strong, it 
is the strength of sentiment allied with the 
strength of genius, which alone produces it. For 
this striking dissimilarity the difference of sub- 
ject will account. There is one God. — This is 
perfect simplicity. He is omniscient, omnipo- 
tent, infinite, and eternal. — This is sublimity 
beyond which nothing can rise. What evinces 
this to be the real source of excellence in He- 
brew poetry is, that no instance of the sublime, 
in the whole compass of human composition, will 
bear a comparison with what the Hebrew poets 
say of the Almighty. For example : what in 
all the poetry, even of Homer, is to be compared 
with this passage of David — ' Whither shall I 
go from thy Spirit, or whither 6hajl I flee from 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



89 



thy presence ? if I climb up into heaven thou 
art there ; if I make my bed in hell thou art 
there ; if I take the wings of the morning, and 
dwell in the utmost part of the sea, even there 
shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall 
hold me.' 

It is a peculiarity of Hebrew poetry, that it 
alone, of ail the poetry we know of in the world, 
retains its poetic structure in the most literal 
translation ; nay, indeed, the more literal the 
translation, the less the poetry is injured. The 
reason is, that the sacred poetry of the Hebrews 
does not appear to depend on cadence or rhythm, 
or any thing merely verbal, which literal trans- 
lation into another language necessarily destroys ; 
but on a method of giving to each distinct idea 
a two-fold expression, so that when the poetry 
of the Old Testament is perfect, and not injured 
by erroneous translation, it exhibits a series of 
couplets, in which the second member of each 
couplet repeats the same, or very nearly the 
same sense, in a varied manner — As in the be- 
ginning of the 95th psalm : 

O come let us sing unto the Lord, 

Let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation ; 

Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving, 

And show ourselves glad in him with psalms : 

For the Lord is a great God, 

And a great king above all gods: 

In his hands are the deep places of the earth, 

And the strength of the hills is his also. 

The motive for adopting such a structure we 
easily conceive to have been, that the composi- 
tion might be adapted to responsive singing. 
But, can we avoid acknowledging a much deeper 
purpose of infinite wisdom, that that poetry which 
was to be translated into all languages, should 
be of such a kind as literal translation could not 
decompose ? 

On the subject of Hebrew poetry, however, it 
is only necessary to refer the reader to bishop 
Lowth's work already mentioned, and to that 
shorter, but most luminous discourse on this 
subject, prefixed to the same excellent author's 
translation of Isaiah. 

Moral philosophy in its truest and noblest 
sense, is to be found in every part of the Scrip- 
tures. Revealed religion being, in fact, that 'day 
spring from on high,' of whose happy effects the 
Pagan philosophers had no knowledge, and the 
want of which they were always endeavouring 
to supply by artificial but most delusive contri- 
vances. But the portion of the sacred volume 
which is most distinctly appropriated to this sub- 
ject are the books of Ecclesiastes and Proverbs. 
In the former of these, amid some difficult pas- 
sages, obscured to us by our ignorance of an- 
cient nations and manners, there are some of the 
deepest reflections on the vanity of all things 
earthly, and on the indispensable necessity of 
sincere religion, in order to our ease and happi- 
ness, that ever came from the pen of man. It 
asserts the immortality of the soul, of which 
some have supposed the Jews ignorant, in terms 
the most unequivocal. ' Then shall the dust re- 
turn to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall 
return to God who gave it. 1 And it ends with a 
corollary to which every human heart one-lit to 
respond, because all just reflections lead to it. — 
' Let us hear the conclusion of the whole mat- 

Voi.. IL 



ter ; fear God, and keep his commandments, for 
this is the whole of man. — For God will bring 
every work into judgment, with every secret 
thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil.* 
The Proverbs are an invaluable summary of 
every species of practical wisdom. The first 
nine chapters being a discourse on true wisdom, 
that is, sincere religion, as a principle, and the 
remainder a sort of magazine of all its varied 
parts, civil, social, domestic, and personal, in 
this world ; together with clear and beautiful 
intimations of happiness in a life to come. A3 
for example : — ' The path of the just is as a 
shining light which shineth more and more unto 
the perfect day.' Here, one of the most delight- 
ful objects in nature, the advancing dawn of the 
morning, is educed as an emblem of that grow- 
ing comfort and cheerfulness which inseparably 
attend a life of piety. What then, by inevitable 
analogy, is that perfect day in which it is made 
to terminate, but the eternal happiness of heaven ? 
Both these books, with the greater part of the 
Psalms, have this suitable peculiarity to the pre- 
sent occasion, that they issued from a royal pen. 
They contain a wisdom, truly, which belongs to 
all ; but they also have much in them which 
peculiarly concerns those, who, by providential 
destination, are shepherds of the people. The 
101st psalm, in particular, may be considered as 
a kind of abridged manual for princes, especially 
in the choice of their company. 



CHAP. XXIII. 

The Holy Scriptures. — The New Testament 

The biographic part of the New Testament 
is above all human estimation, because it con- 
tains the portraiture of ' him in whom dwells 
the fulness of the Godhead bodily.' — If it were, 
therefore, our hard lot to say what individual 
part of the Scriptures we should wish to rescue 
from an otherwise irreparable destruction, ought 
it not to be that part which describes to us the 
conduct and preserves to us the instructions of 
God manifest in the flesh ? Worldly Christians 
have affected sometimes to prefer the Gospel to 
the rest of the New Testament, on the intimated 
ground that our Saviour was a less severe pre- 
ceptor, and more of a mere moralist than his in- 
spired followers, whose writings make up the 
sequel of the New Testament. But never sure- 
ly was there a grosser delusion. If the object 
be to probe the heart of man to the centre ; to 
place before him the terrors of that God, who to 
the wicked ' is a consuming fire ;' to convince 
him of that radical change which must take 
place in his whole nature, of that total conquest 
which he must gain over the world and him- 
self, before he can be a true subject of the Mes- 
siah's spiritual kingdom ; and of the desperate 
disappointment which must finally await all 
who rest in the mere profession, or even the 
plausible outside of Christianity ; it is from our 
Lord's discourses that we shall find the most re- 
sistless means of accomplishing each of these 
awfully important purposes. 

To the willing disciple our Saviour is in 



90 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



deed the gentlest of instructors ; to the contrite 
penitent he is the most cheering- of comforters ; 
to weakness he is most encouraging ; to infirmi- 
ty, unspeakably indulgent ; to grief or distress 
of whatever sort, he is a pattern of tenderness. 
But in all he says or does, he has one invariable 
object in view, to which all the rest is but sub- 
servient. He lived and taught, he died and rose 
again, for this one end, that he might ' redeem 
us from all iniquity, and purify unto himself a 
peculiar people zealous of good works.' His uni- 
form declarations therefore, are — ' Ye cannot 
serve God and Mammon. — Where your treasure 
is, there will your heart be also.' — ' If thy right 
eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from 
thee.' ' Except a man deny himself, and take 
up his cross daily and follow me, he cannot be 
my disciple.' 

To corrupt human nature these lessons can 
never be made engaging. Their object is to 
conquer, and finally to eradicate that corrup- 
tion. To indulge it, therefore, in any instance, 
is wholly to reject them ; since it is not with 
particular vices that Christ contends, nor will 
he be satisfied with particular virtues. But he 
calls us, indispensably to a state of mind, which 
contains, as in a root or principle, all possible 
virtue, and which avoids, with equally sincere 
detestation, every species of evil. But to human 
nature itself, as distinct from its depravity, to 
native taste, sound discriminating sense, just 
and delicate feeling, comprehensive judgment, 
profound humility, and genuine magnanimity 
of mind, no teacher upon this earth ever so 
adapted himself. In his inexhaustible imagery, 
his appropriate use of all the common occur- 
rences of Hfe, his embodying the deepest wisdom 
in the plainest allegories, and making familiar 
occurrences the vehicle of most momentous in- 
struction, in the dignified ease, with which he 
utters the profoundest truths, the majestic se- 
verity which he manifests where hollow hypo- 
crisy, riarrow bigotry, unfeeling selfishness, or 
any clearly deliberate vice called forth his holy 
indignation; in these characters we recognise 
the purest, and yet most popular, the most awful, 
and yet the most amiable of all instructors. And 
when we read the Gospels with rightly prepared 
hearts, we see him with our mind's eye, as he 
actually was in this world, scarce less effectu- 
ally than those who lived and conversed with 
him. We too, ' behold his glory, the glory as 
of the only begotten of the Father full of grace 
and truth.' 

The acts of the Apostles belong in some de- 
gree to the biographic class. Where the matter 
of a work is of the deepest moment the more 
agreeableness of its manner is of less impor- 
tance. But where a striking provision has been 
made for pleasure, as well as benefit, it would 
be ingratitude as well as insensibility not to no- 
tice it. It is indeed impossible for a reader of 
taste, not to be delighted with the combination 
of excellences, which this short but most event- 
ful narrative exhibits- Nothing but clearness 
and accuracy appear to be aimed at, yet every 
thing which can give interest to such a work is 
attained. Neither Xenophon nor Caesar could 
stand a comparison with it. St. Luke in this 
piece has seen every thing so clearly has un 



derstood it so fully, and has expressed it so ap- 
positely, as to need only a simple rendering of 
his own exact words in order to his having, in 
every language, the air of an original. 

The epistolary part of the New Testament is, 
perhaps, that with which the generality of read- 
ers are least acquainted. Some profess to be 
discouraged by the intricacy of the sense, parti- 
cularly in the writings of St. Paul ; and others 
fairly acknowledge that they conceive this part 
of the Scripture to bo of less moment, as being 
chiefly occupied in obsolete controversies pecu- 
liar to the time in which they were written, 
consequently uninteresting to us. Though our 
limits do not admit of a particular reply to those 
unfounded prejudices, yet we cannot forbear re- 
gretting, what appears to be a lamentable igno- 
rance of the nature and design of Christianity, 
which distinguishes our times, and which has 
given rise to both these suppositions. They, for 
example, who regard religion but as a more sub- 
limated system of morality, and look for nothing 
in the Scripture but rules of moral conduct, must 
necessarily feel themselves at a stand, when 
something infinitely deeper seems to present it- 
self before them. But if it were first fully known, 
what the Christianity of the Apostles actually 
was, their sentiments would soon become intel- 
ligible. They treat of Christianity as an inward 
principle still more than as a rule of conduct. 
They by no means neglect the latter ; but the 
former is their leading object. In strict ob- 
servance of that maxim, so variously given by 
their divine master — ' Make the tree good and 
its fruit will be good.' — They accordingly de- 
scribe a process, which, in order to real good- 
ness, must take place in the depths of the heart. 
They detect a root of evil which disqualifies 
man for all real virtue, and deprives him of all 
real happiness. And they describe an influence 
proceeding from God himself, through a divine 
Mediator, ready to be communicated to all who 
seek it, by which this evil nature is overcome, 
and a holy and heavenly nature formed in its 
room. They describe this change as taking 
place by means of the truths and facts revealed 
in the Gospel, impressing themselves by the 
power of God's holy Spirit upon the mind and 
heart; in consequence of which new desires, 
new tastes, new powers, and new pursuits suc- 
ceed. Things temporal sink down into com- 
plete subordination, to things eternal ; and su- 
preme love to God and unfeigned charity to 
man, become the master passions of the soul. 
These are the subjects which are chiefly dwelt 
on in the Epistles, and they will always in a 
measure be unintelligible to those who do not 
4 receive the truth in the love of it.' Even in 
many human pursuits, actual practice is indis- 
pensable to a clear understanding of the prin 
ciples. 

If this be a fair state of the case, ought we noi 
to study these portions of Scripture with an at- 
tention suitable to their acknowledged depth, 
instead of attempting to force a meaning upon 
them, at the expense of common sense, in order 
to make them seem to correspond with our su 
perficial religion ? Should we not rather endea. 
vour to bring our religion to a conformity with 
their olain and literal import ? Such attempts. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



91 



sincerely made, would soon give clearness to the 
understanding ; and a more than philosophic 
consistency, as well as a more than human ener- 
gy, would be found there, where all before had 
seemed perplexed and obscure. — We do not, 
however, deny, that the Epistles contain more 
reference than the Gospels to Jewish customs, 
and to a variety of local and temporary circum- 
stances not well understood by us. Yet, though 
written to individual men, and to particular 
churches ; not only general inferences, applica- 
ble to us may be drawn from particular instruc- 
tions, but by means of them, the most important 
doctrines are often pointedly exhibited. 

Where this truly Christian discernment is 
exercised, it will be evident how much it softens 
and enlarges the heart! how it extends and il- 
uminates the mental view ! how it quickens and 
invigorates the feeling ! how it fits the mind for 
at once attending to the minutest, and compre- 
hending the vastest things ! In short, how pure, 
how wise, how disinterested, how heavenly, — we 
had almost said how morally omnipotent it makes 
its complete votary ! 

On this head we will add but one remark 
more. Even through the medium of a transla- 
tion, we observe a remarkable difference of man- 
ner in the apostolic writers. — There is indeed a 
very close resemblance between the views and 
topics of St. Paul and St. Peter, though with 
much difference of style. But St. James and 
St. John differ from both these, and from each 
other, as much as any writers could, who agree 
cordially in one general end. The Christian 
philosopher will be able to account for this dif- 
ference by its obvious correspondence with what 
he sees daily in natural tempers. In St. John 
he will discover the cast and turn of a sublimely 
contemplative mind, penetrating the inmost 
springs of moral action, and viewing the heart 
as alone secured and perfected by an habitual 
filial reverence to, and, as he expresses it, 'com- 
munion with the Father of spirits.' In St. James 
he will see the remarks of a plain and more 
practical mind, vigilantly guarding against the 
deceits and dangers of the world, and somewhat 
jealous lest speculation should, in any instance, 
be made a pretext for negligence in practice. 
And lastly, he will perhaps recognise in St. 
Paul, that powerful character of mind, which, 
being under the influence of no particular tem- 
per, but possessing each in its full strength, and 
all in due temperament, gives no colouring to 
any object but what it actually possesses, pur- 
sues each valuable end in strict proportion to 
its worth, and varies its self-directed course, in 
compliance with no attraction, but that of truth, 
of fitness, and of utility. In such a variety, 
then, he will find a new evidence to the truth of 
Christianity, which is thus alike attested by wit- 
nesses the most diversified ; and he will, with 
humble gratitude, adore that condescending wis- 
dom and goodness, which has thus, within the 
sacred volume itself, recognised, and even pro- 
vided for, those distinctions of the human mind, 
for which weak mortals are so unwilling to make 
allowance in each other. 

The prophetic part is mentioned last, because 
it peculiarly extends itself through the whole of 
the divine volume. It commences with the first 



encouraging promise which was given to man 
after the primeval transgression, and it occupies 
the last portion of the New Testament. It might 
naturally have been expected, that in a revela- 
tion from the sovereign of all events, the future 
designs of Providence should be so far intimated, 
as clearly to evince a more than human fore- 
sight, and by consequence a divine origin. It 
might also have been thought probable, that 
those prophecies should embrace so extended a 
series of future occurrences, as to provide for 
successive confirmations of the revelation, by 
successive fulfilments of the predictions. And 
lastly, it might be thought reasonable, that while 
such intimations should be sufficiently clear to 
be explained by the actual event, they should 
not be so explicit as to gratify curiosity respect- 
ing future contingencies ; such an anticipation 
of events being clearly unsuitable to that kind 
of moral government under which the author of 
our nature has placed us. 

It is conceived that such precisely are the cha- 
racters of those predictions which are so nume- 
rous in the Scripture. They point to a continued 
succession of great occurrences ; but, in gene- 
ral, with such scattered rays of light, as to fur- 
nish few materials for premature speculation. 
Even to the prophet himself the prospect is pro- 
bably enveloped in a deep mist, which while he 
looks intently, seems for a short space to open, 
and to present before him certain grand objects, 
whose fleeting appearances he imperfectly catch- 
es, but whose connexion with, or remoteness 
from, each other he has not sufficient light to 
distinguish. 

These remarks, however, apply most strictly 
to prophecies of remote events. — When nearer 
occurrences are foretold, whether relating to the 
Jewish nation, or to the countries in its neigh- 
bourhood, there is often a surprising clearness, 
as if in these cases, the intention was to direct 
conduct for the present, as well as confirm faith 
by the result. And in a few important instances, 
even distant futurity is so distinctly contem- 
plated, as to make such predictions a permanent, 
and to every candid reader, an inefragable evi- 
dence, that a volume so undeniably ancient, and 
yet so unequivocally predictive, can be no other 
than divine. 

Of this last class of prophecies, as most di- 
rectly interesting, it may not be useless to point 
out the following striking examples. — The de- 
nunciation by Moses of what should be the final 
fate of the Jews, in case of obstinate disobedi- 
ence.* — Isaiah's astonishing picture of the suf- 
ferings, death, and subsequent triumph of the 
Redeemer ;t a prediction upon which every kind 
of sophistry has been tried in vain. The dream 
of Nebuchadnezzar, with Daniel's interpreta- 
tion ;t a prophecy which contains in it an abso- 
lute demonstration of revealed religion. Daniel's 
own vision of the four empires, and of that divine 
one which should succeed them.§ His amazing 
prophecy of the seventy weeks,|| which, however 
involved in obscurity as to niceties of chronolo 
gy, is in clearness of prediction a standing mi 
racle ; its fulfilment in the death of the Messiah 
and the destruction of Jerusalem, being as self 



* Deut. xxviii. 
§ Daniel, vii, 



t Isaiah, liii. 
|j Daniel, ix. 



I Daniel, ii. 



99 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



evident as that Caesar meant to record his own 
actions in his Commentaries. To these I would 
add, lastly, that wonderful representation of the 
papal tyranny in the Apocalypse,* which, how- 
ever, involving- some obscure circumstances, is 
nevertheless so luminous an instance as to pre- 
clude the possibility of evasion. The extreme 
justness of the statement respecting papal Rome 
must force itself on every mind at all acquainted 
with the usual language of the Old Testament 
prophets, and with the authentic facts of eccle- 
siastical history. 

Among circumstantial prophecies of near 
events may be reckoned Jeremiah's prediction 
of the taking of Babylon, t by the king of the 
Medes, on which the history of the event, as 
given by Xenophon in the Cyropedia, is the best 
possible comment. The prophecy of the fall of 
Tyre in Ezekiel,t in which there is the most re- 
markable detail of the matter of ancient com- 
merce that is perhaps to be any where found. 
But of all such prophecies, that of our Saviour, 
respecting the destruction of Jerusalem, as given 
in repeated parables and express denunciations, 
is most deeply worthy the attention of the Chris- 
tian reader. 

A question has been started among scholars 
respecting the double sense of prophecy ; but it 
seems astonishing to any plain reader of the Bi- 
ble how it could ever become a matter of doubt. 
— What can be more likely, for instance, than 
that some present event in which David was in- 
terested, perhaps his inauguration, suggested to 
him the subject of the second psalm ? Yet what 
can be more evident than that he describes a 
dominion infinitely beyond what can be attri- 
buted to any earthly potentate ? The fact seems 
to be, that the Jewish dispensation being, in its 
most leading parts, a prefiguration of the chris- 
tian dispensation and the most celebrated per- 
sons, as well as events, being typical of what 
was to come, the prophetic spirit could not easily 
contemplate the type without being carried for- 
ward to its completion. And, therefore, in al- 
most every case of the kind the more remote ob- 
ject draws the attention of the prophet as if in- 
sensibly, from the nearer, — the greatness of the 
one naturally eclipsing the comparative little- 
ness of the other. This occurs in such a num- 
ber of instances as to form one of the most pro- 
minent characters of prophecy. 

Wc shall conclude the subject with observing 
on that over-ruling Providence which took care 
that the Scriptures of the Old Testament should 
be translated into the Greek language, before 
the original dialect became obscure, by which 
means, not only a most important preparation 
was made for the fuller manifestation which 
was to follow ; but the sense of the Scriptures, 
in all important instances, was so unequivocally 
fixed, as to furnish both a guide for the learned 
Christian in after-times, and a means of con- 
fronting Jewish misrepresentations with the in- 
disputable acknowledgments of earlier Jews, 
better used to the language, and uninfluenced 
by any prejudice. And, may we add, that the 
choice of the Greek for the original language 
of the New Testament, is not less worthy of at- 

• Chap. xvii. f Jeremiah 1. and li. 

1 Ezekiel xxvi. and xxvii. 



tention ? By that wise and gracious arrange- 
ment every lineament and every point of our 
divine religion has acquired an imperishable 
character ; since the learned have agreed, that 
no language is so capable of expressing every 
minute distinction and shade of thought and 
feeling, or is so incapable of ever becoming equi- 
vocal : the works which have been composed in 
it, ensuring its being studied to the end of the 
world. 



CHAP. XXXIV. 

On the abuse of terms. — Enthusiasm. — Supersti 
tion. — Zeal for religious opinions no proof of 
religion. 

To guard the mind from prejudice is no unim- 
portant part of a royal education. Names govern 
the world. They carry away opinion, decide one 
character, and determine 'practice. Names, 
therefore, are of more importance than we are 
aware. We are apt to bring the quality down 
to the standard which the name establishes, and 
our practice rarely rises higher than the current 
term which we use when we speak of it. 

The abuse of terms has at all times been an 
evil. To enumerate only a few instances. We 
do not presume to decide on the measure which 
gave birth to the clamour, when we assert, that 
in the progress of that clamour, greater violence 
has seldom been offered to language than in the 
forced union of the two terms, Liberty and Pro- 
perty.* A conjunction of words, by men who 
were, at the same time labouring to disjoin the 
things. If liberty, in their sense, had been esta- 
blished, property would have had an end, or ra- 
ther would have been transferred to those, who, 
in securing what they termed their liberty, 
would have made over to themselves that pro- 
perty, in the pretended defence of which the out- 
cry was made. At a more recent period, the 
term equality has been substituted for that of 
property. The word was altered, but the prin- 
ciple retained. And, as the preceding clamour 
for liberty was only a plausible cover for making 
property change hands, so it has of late been 
tacked to equality, with a view to make power 
change hands. Thus, terms the most popular 
and imposing, have been uniformly used as the 
watch-words of tumult, plunder, and sedition. 

But the abuse of terms, and especially their 
unnecessary adoption, is not always limited to 
the vulgar and the mischievous. It were to be 
wished that those persons of a better cast, who 
are strenuous in counteracting the evils them- 
selves, would never naturalize any terms which 
convey revolutionary ideas. In England, at least, 
let us have no civic honours, no organization of 
plans. 

There are perhaps few words which the reign, 
ing practice has more warped from its legiti- 
mate meaning and ancient usage than the term 
proud. Let us try whether Johnson's definition 
sanctions the adopted use. — • Proud,' says that 
accurate philologist, ' means, elated — haughty — 
daring — presumptuous — ostentatious,'' &c. &c 
1 » By Wilkes, and his faction. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



93 



Yet do we not continually hear, not merely the 
journalist and the pamphleteer, but the legisla- 
tor and the orator, sages who give law, not to 
the land only, but to the language, using the 
term exclusively, in an honourable sense. — 
4 They are proud to acknowledge, ■ proud to con- 
fess.' Instead of the heart-felt language of 
gratitude for a deliverance or a victory, we hear 
of 'a proud day, 1 'a proud circumstance,' — 'a 
proud event,' thus raising to Che dignity of vir- 
tue, a term to which lexicographers and moral- 
ists have annexed an odious, and divines an un- 
christian sense. If pride be thus enrolled in 
the list of virtues, must not humility by a natu- 
ral consequence be turned over to the catalogue 
of vices? If pride was made for man, has not 
the Bible asserted a falsehood ? 

In the age which succeeded to the reforma- 
tion, * holiness' and ' practical piety' were the 
terms employed by divines when they would in- 
culcate that conduct which is suitable to Chris- 
tians. The very words conveyed a solemnity to 
the mind, calculated to assist in raising it to the 
prescribed standard. But those very terms be- 
ing unhappily used, during the usurpation, as 
masks to cover the worst purposes, became, un- 
der Charles, epithets of ridicule and reproach; 
and were supposed to imply hypocrisy and false 
pretence. And when, in a subsequent period, 
decency resumed her reign, and virtue was 
countenanced, and religion respected : yet mere 
decorum was too often substituted for religious 
energy, nor was there such a general superiority 
to the dread of censure, as was sufficient to re- 
store the u se of terms, which hypocrisy had 
abused, and licentiousness derided.* 

Indifference in some assumed the name of 
moderation, and zeal in others grew cool, or was 
ashamed to appear warm. The standard of lan- 
guage was either let down to accommodate it- 
self to the standard of practice, or piety itself 
' was taken some notes lower, to adapt it to the 
established phraseology. Thus, morality, for 
instance, which heretofore, had only been used 
(and very properly) as one name amongst many, 
to express right conduct, now began to be erect- 
ed into the exclusive term. The term itself is 
most unexceptionable. Would that all who adopt 
it, acted up to the rectitude which it implies ! 
but, partly from its having been antecedently 
used to express the pagan virtues ; partly from 
its having been set up by modern philosophers, 
as opposed to the peculiar graces of Christianity, 
and consequently converted by them into an in- 
strument for decrying religion ; and partly be- 
cause many who profess to write theories of 

* It is however to be observed, that at no period, per- 
haps, in English history, was there a more strict atten- 
tion to public morals, or a more open avowal of religion, 
than during the short reign of queen Mary. Nothing 
was with that excellent princess, so momentous an ob- 
ject, as that religion might attain its just credit, and dif- 
fuse its effectual influences through society. Upon this 
her deepest thoughts were fixed ; to this her most assi- 
duous endeavours were directed. And it was not wholly 
in vain. A spirit of pious activity spread itself both 
through clergy and laity. Religious men took fresh 
courage to avow themselves, and merciful men laboured 
in the cause of humanity with increased zeal and suc- 
cess. It seems to have been under this brief, but auspi- 
cious government, that the dissolute habits of the two 
former reigns received their first effectual check. 



morality, have founded them on a mere worldly 
principle, we commonly see it employed, not in 
its own distinct and limited meaning, but, on 
the contrary, as a substitute for that compre- 
hensive principle of elevated, yet rational piety, 
which forms at once the vital spring and essen- 
tial characteristic of Christian conduct. 

It is necessary also to apprise those whose 
minds we are forming, that when they wish to 
inquire into the characters of men, it is of im 
portance to ascertain the principles of him who 
gives the character, in order to obtain a fair 
knowledge of him of whom the character is 
given. To exemplify this remark by the term 
enthusiasm. While the wise and "temperate 
Christian deprecates enthusiasm as highly per- 
nicious, even when he hopes it may be honest — • 
justly ascribing it to a perturbed and unsound, 
or at least, an over eager and weak mind — the 
irreligious man, who hates piety, when he fan- 
cies he only hates fanaticism, applies the term 
enthusiast to every religious person, however 
sober his piety, or however correct his conduct. 

But even he who is far from remarkable for 
pious ardors, may incur the stigma of enthu- 
siasm, when he happens to come under the cen- 
sure of one who piques himself on still greater 
latitude of sentiment. Thus, he who professes 
to believe in ' the only begotten Son of God as 
in glory equal with the Father,' will be deemed 
an enthusiast by him who embraces the chilling 
doctrines of Socinus. And we have heard, as 
if it were no uncommon thing, of a French phi- 
losopher of the highest class, accounting his 
friend un peu fanatique, merely because the lat- 
ter had some suspicion that there was a God. 
In fact we may apply to enthusiasm, what has 
been said on another occasion : 

Ask where's the North— At York 'tis on the Tweed, 
In Scotland at the Orcades ; and there, 
At Greenland, Zembla 

But it may be asked, has religious enthusiasm, 
after all, no definite meaning ? or are religion 
and frenzy really so nearly allied, that no clearly 
distinctive line can be drawn between them ? 
One of our most eminent writers has told us, 
that ' enthusiasm is a kind of excess in devotion, 
and that superstition is the excess, not only of 
devotion, but of religion in general.' A strange 
definition ! For what is devotion ; and what is 
religion, if we cannot be in earnest in them 
without hazarding our rationality, which, how- 
ever, must be the case, if this definition were- 
accurate ? For if the excess of devotion were 
enthusiasm, and the excuse of religion were su- 
perstition, it would follow, that to advance in 
either would be to approximate to fanaticism. 
Of course, he who wished to retain his mental 
sanity, must listen with caution to the apostolic 
precept, of growing in grace. 

But, with all due respect to Mr. Addison, may 
we not justly question whether there can be such 
a thing as an excess of either devotion or reli- 
gion, in the proper sense of the terms ? We 
never seriously suppose that any one can be too 
wise, too pure, or too benevolent. If at any time 
we use a language of this apparent import, we 
always conceive the idea of some spurious inter, 
mixture, or injudicious mode of exercise. But 



94 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



when we confine our thoughts to the principle 
itself, we do not apprehend that we can become 
too predominant, — to be too virtuous, being just 
as inconceivable as to be too happy. 

iMow if this he true of any single virtue, must 
it not hold equally good respecting the parent 
principle of all virtue ? — What is religion, or 
devotion (for when we speak of either, as a 
principle, it is, in fact, a synonyme of the other) 
but the ' so loving what God has commanded, 
and desiring what he has promised, as that, 
among the sundry and manifold changes of the 
world, our hearts may surely there be fixed, 
where true joys are to be found ?' Now can 
there be excess in this? We may doubtless 
misunderstand God's commands, and miscon- 
strue his promises, and, in either way, instead 
of attaining that holy and happy fixedness of 
heart, become the victims of restless perturba- 
tion. But if there be no error in our apprehen- 
sion, can there be any excess in our love ? What 
does God command ? Every thing that tends to 
**ur personal, social, political, as well as eternal 
well-being. Can we then feel too deep love for 
the sum of all moral excellence ? But what does 
God promise? Guidance, protection, all neces- 
sary aids and influences here ; and hereafter, 
' fulness of joy and pleasures at his right hand 
for evermore.' Can such blessings as these be 
too cordially desired ? Amid 

The heartaclis and the thousand natural shocks 
Which flesh is heir to, 

can our hopes of future happiness be too cheer- 
ing, or our power of rising above the calamities 
of mortality be too habitual, or too effectual? 
Such are the questions obviously suggested by 
the supposition of such a thing as excess in re- 
ligion. And doubtless the answer of every 
serious and reflecting mind must be, that in 
'pure and undefiled religion,' in 'loving the 
Lord our God with all our heart, with all our 
mind, with all our soul, and with all our strength, 
and our neighbour as ourselves,' the idea of 
excess is as incongruous and inadmissible, as 
that of a happy life being too long, or of the 
joys of heaven being less desirable because they 
are eternal. 

But if, instead of cultivating and advancing 
in this love of God and man, — instead of loving 
what God has really commanded, and desiring 
what he has clearly promised in his holy word, 
— this word be neglected, and the suggestions 
of an ardent, or of a gloomy fancy be substituted 
in its room, then the person becomes in the 
strictest and truest sense, a fanatic ; and as his 
natural temperament may happen to be san- 
guine or saturnine, he rises into imaginary rap- 
tures or sinks down into torturing apprehen- 
sions, and slavish self-inflictions. 

Here then, if I am not mistaken, we may 
discover the real nature of both enthusiasm and 
superstition. It is not excess of devotion which 
constitutes the one, nor excess of religion in 
general which leads to the other. But both are 
the consequence of a radical misconception of 
-eligion. Each alike implies a compound of 
ignorance and passion ; and as the person is 
disposed to hope or fear, he becomes enthusias- 
tical on the one hand, or superstitious on the 



other. He in whom fear predominates, moat 
naturally mistakes what God commands, and 
instead of taking that law for his rule, ' whose 
seat is the bosom of God, and whose voice the 
harmony of the world,'* in a most unhappy 
manner, becomes a law unto himself, multiply, 
ing observances, which have nothing to recom- 
mend them, but their irksomeness or uncouth- 
ness; and acting, as if the way to propitiate his 
Maker were by tormenting himself. He/j&n the 
contrary, in whom the hopeful passions arc pre- 
valent, no less naturally misconceives what 
God has promised and pleases himself with the 
prospect, or persuades himself into the imagi- 
nary possession, of extraordinary influences 
and supernatural communications. Both, it is 
evident, mean to pursue religion, but neither 
has sufficient judgment to ascertain its real 
nature. Perhaps, in general, some mental mor- 
bidness is at the bottom, which, when of the 
depressive kind, disposes to the superstitious 
view of religion, and when, of the elevating 
kind, to the enthusiastical. 

Religion, the religion of the Scriptures, is 
itself an exquisite temperament, in which all 
the virtues, of which man is capable, are har- 
moniously blended. He, therefore, who studies 
the Scriptures, and draws thence his ideas and 
sentiments of religion, takes the best method to 
escape both enthusiasm and superstition. Even 
infidelity is no security against either. But it 
is absolutely impossible for an intelligent vo- 
tary of scriptural Christianity to be in any re- 
spect fanatical. True fanatics, therefore, are 
apt to neglect the Scriptures, except so far as 
they can turn them to their'own particular pur- 
pose. The Romish church, for example, be- 
came negligent of the Scriptures, nearly in pro- 
portion as it became superstitious. And every 
striking instance of enthusiasm, if inquired into, 
will be found to exemplify the same dereliction. 
In a word, Christianity is eternal truth, and 
they who soar above truth, as well as they who 
sink below it, equally overlook the standard by 
which rational action is to be regulated : where- 
as to adhere steadily to this, is to .avoid all ex- 
tremes, and escape, not only the tendency to- 
ward pernicious excess, but any danger of fall- 
ing into it. 

Did we accustom ourselves to exact defini- 
tions, we should not only call the disorderly 
religionist an enthusiast ; we should also feel, 
that if irrational confidence, unfounded expec- 
tations, and assumptions without a basis, be 
enthusiasm, then is the term most justly appli- 
cable to the mere worldly moralist. For does 
not he wildly assume effects to be produced 
without their proper means, who looks for vir- 
tue without piety, for happiness without holi- 
ness ; for reformation without repentance ; for 
repentance without divine assistance ; for divine 
assistance without prayer ; and for acceptance 
with God without regard to that Mediator, whom 
God has ordained to be our great high priest ? 

But, while accuracy of definition is thus re- 
commended, let it not be forgotten, that there 
is need on all sides of exercising a candid judg- 
ment. Let not the conscientious Christian sus- 

* Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity, conclusion of the 
first book. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



95 



pect, that the advocate for morality intends by 
the term to depreciate religion, unless it appear 
that he makes morality the root as well as the 
produce of goodness. — Nor let the moralist, 
whose affections are less lively, and whose views 
are less elevated, deegi the religious man a 
fanatic, because he sometimes adopts the lan- 
guage of Scripture to express feelings to which 
human terms are not always adequate. We 
mean not to justify, but to condemn, as a gross 
defect of good sense, as well as of taste and 
elegance, that ill-conditioned phraseology, which, 
by disfiguring the comeliness of piety, lessens its 
dignity, and injures its interests. Doubtless, 
a good understanding cannot be more usefully 
exercised, nor can the effects of mental cultiva- 
tion be better shown, than in bringing every 
aid of a sound judgment, and every grace of a 
correct style into the service of that divine re- 
ligion, which does not more contain all that is 
just and pure, than it coalesces with all that is 
'lovely, and of good report.' 

The too frequent abuse of such terms as mo- 
deration, candour, toleration, Sfc. should be 
pointed out to those whose high station pre- 
vents their communication with the world at 
large. It should be explained, that moderation, 
in the new dictionary, means the abandonment 
of some of the most essential doctrines of Chris- 
tianity. — That candour in the same school of 
philology, denotes a latitudinarian indifference, 
as to the comparative merits of all religious 
systems. — That toleration signifies such a low 
idea of the value of revealed truth, and perhaps 
such a doubt even of its existence, as makes a 
man careless, whether it be maintained or 
trampled on, vindicated or calumniated. — A 
toleration of every creed generally ends in an 
indifference to all, if it does not originally 
spring from a disbelief of all. Even the noble 
term rational, which so peculiarly belongs to 
true religion, i3 frequently used to strip Chris- 
tianity of her highest attributes and her sub- 
limest energies, as if in order to be rational, 
divine influences must be excluded. Or, as if 
it were either suitable to our necessities, or 
worthy of God, that when he was giving ' his 
word to be a light to our paths,' he should make 
that light a kind of moral moonshine, instead of 
accompanying it with such a vital warmth, as 
might invigorate our hearts, as well as direct 
our footsteps. 

Though it would be absurd for a prince to 
become a wrangling polemic like Henry VIII. 
or ' a royal doctor,' like the first James ; yet he 
should possess so much information, as to be, 
enabled to form a reasonable judgment between 
contending parties, and to know the existing 
state of religion. And, that he may learn to de- 
tect the artifices of men of loose principles, he 
should bo apprised, that the profane and the 
pious do not engage on equal terms. That the 
carelessness of the irreligious gives him an ap- 
parent air of good humour, and his levity the 
semblance of wit and gayety ; while his Chris- 
tian adversary ventures not to risk his soul for 
a bon-mot, nor dares to be witty on topics which 
concern his eternal interests. 

It will be important, on the other hand, to 
show that it ia very possible to be zealous for 



religious opinions, without possessing any re- 
ligion ; nay, that a fiery religious zeal has been 
even found compilable with the most flagitious 
morals. The church of Rome so late as the 
sixteenth century, presented numberless ex- 
amples of men, whose lives were a tissue of 
vices, which cannot so much as be named, who 
yet, at the risk of life, would fight in defence of, 
a ceremony, for the preservation of a conse 
crated vase, or a gift devoted to a monastery. 

To show that it is possible to be zealous for 
religious opinions, without being religious, we 
need not look back to the persecuting powers 
of Pagan or Papal Rome; nor need we select 
our instances from the disciples of Dominic ; 
nor from such monsters as Catharine di Medici ; 
nor from such sanguinary bigots as the narrow- 
souled Mary, nor the dark-minded Philip. Ex- 
amples from persons less abhorrent from hu- 
man feelings, more mixed characters, the dark 
shades of whose minds are blended with lighter 
strokes, and whose vices are mitigated with 
softer qualities, may be more properly consider- 
ed, as approaching nearer to the common stand- 
ard of human life. 

That a prince may be very zealous for re- 
ligious opinions and observances, and yet be so 
defective in moral virtue, as to be both person- 
ally and politically profligate, is exemplified in 
our second James, who renounced three king, 
doms for his religion, yet neither scrupled to 
live in the habitual violence of the seventh com- 
mandment, nor to employ the inhuman Jefferies 
as his chancellor. 

Harlai, archbishop of Paris, distinguished 
himself by his zeal in attacking heresy : so all 
religion was called except that of the Jesuits. 
His activity proceeded from no love of piety, 
but from a desire to make his way at court, 
where zeal, just then, happened to be the fash- 
ion. His religious activity however, neither 
prevented, nor cured, the notorious licentious- 
ness of his moral conduct.* The king, his 
master, fancied, that to punish Jansenism, was 
an indubitable proof of religion ; but to persecute 
protestantism, he conceived to be the consum 
mation of piety. What a lesson for princes, to 
see him, after the revocation of the edict of 
Nantz, gratefully swallowing the equally false 
and nauseous compliments of his clergy, for 
having, to borrow their own phrase, without 
violent hands made the ichole kingdom of one 
opinion, and united all his subjects to the faith of 
Rome ! Iniquitous flattery, when four millions 
of those subjects were either groaning under 
torture, or flying into exile; turning infidels, if 
they resolved to retain their property ; or chain- 
ed to the gallies, if they preferred their con- 
science to their fortune ! 

As the afflicted Hugonots were not permitted 
to carry their complaints to the foot of the 
throne, the deluded king fancied his bloody 
agents to be mild ministers, and the tortured 
protestants to be mischievous heretics. But, 

* It was a fact well known at the court of Versailles, 
that madame tie Montespan. during the long period in 
which she continued the favourite mistress of the king, 
by whom she had seven children,) was so strict, in her 
religious observances, that, lest she should violate the 
austerity of fasting, her bread, during Lent, was con 
atantly weighed. 



36 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



though the kingdom was, in many parts, nearly 
depopulated by exile and executions, the sword, 
as usual, made not one proselyte. The subjects 
were tortured, but they were not converted. 
The rack is a bad rhetorician. The gallies may 
harrass the body, but do not convince the under- 
standing, nor enforce articles of faith.* 

Under all these crimes and calamities, Louis, 
as a French memorialist observes, was not 
ashamed to hear, what Boileau was not ashamed 
to sing, 

L'Univers sous ton regne a-t-ildes Malheureux? 

Colbert, who was a wise man, might have taught 
his royal master, that in this persecution there 
was as little policy as piety, and that he was not 
only injuring his conscience, but his country. 
By banishing so many useful subjects, he impo- 
verished the state doubly, not only by robbing 
it of the ingenuity, the manufactures, and the 
labours of such multitudes, but by transferring 
to hostile countries all the industry and talents 
which he was driving from his own. If the 
treachery of detaining the protestants under 
false promises, which were immediately violated, 
is to be charged on Louvois, the crime of blindly 
confiding in such a minister is to be charged on 
the king. 

How little had this monarch profited, by the 
example given, under similar circumstances, by 
Louis XII. When some of the pious Waldenses, 
while they were improving his barren land in 
Provence by their virtuous industry, had been 
grievously persecuted, through false representa- 
tions; that prudent prince commanded the strict- 
est inquiry to be made into their real character ; 
the result was, that he was so perfectly convinced 
of their innocence, that he not only protected 
them during the rest of his reign, but had the 
magnanimity to declare, that ' they were better 
men than himself and his catholic subjects.' 

Happy had it been for himself and for the 
world, if the emperor Charles V. had instituted 
the same inquiries ! Happy, if in the nieridian 
of his power he had studied the character of 
mankind to as good purpose, as he afterwards, 
in his monastic retreat, studied the mechanism 
of watches ! Astonished to find, that after the 
closest application, he never could bring any two 
to go just alike, he expressed deep regret at his 
own folly, in having bestowed so much time and 
pains in the fruitless attempt of bringing man- 
kind to an exact uniformity in their religious 
opinions. But, the discovery was made too late ; 
he ended where he should have begun. 



HAP. XXXV. 

The Reformation. 

In order to increase the royal pupil's reverence 
for Christianity, before she is herself able to ap- 

* Louvois and his master would have done wisely to 
have adopted the opinion of those two great ministers of 
Henry IV. who, when pressed to persecute, replied that 
they thought ' it better to have a peace which had two 
religions, than a war which had none.' 



preciate its value, she should be taught, that it 
did not steal into the world in the days of dark- 
ness and ignorance, when the spirit of inquiry 
was asleep; but appeared in the most enlightened 
period of the Roman empire. That its light 
dawned, not on the remoter regions of the earth, 
but on a province of that empire, whose peculiar 
manners had already attracted much notice, and 
whose local situation placed it particularly with- 
in the view of surrounding nations. Whereas 
the religion of Mahomet and the corruptions of 
popery, which started up almost together, arose 
when the spirit of investigation, learning, and 
philosophy, had ceased to exert itself. That, 
durino- those dark ages, both Christianity and 
human learning were nearly extinguished ; and 
that, as both had sunk together, so both together 
awoke from their long slumber. The restora- 
tion of letters was the restoration of religion al- 
so ; the free access to the ancient authors being 
one grand instrument of the revival of pure 
Christianity. 

The learning which existed in the church an- 
tecedently to the Reformation, was limited to 
very few, and was in the general, but meagre 
and superficial ; and the purposes to which it 
was confined, formed an effectual obstacle to 
substantial improvement. Instead of being em- 
ployed in investigating the evidences of Chris- 
tianity, or in elucidating the analogy of Christian 
principles, with the laws of the natural, and the 
exigencies of the moral world, it was pressed 
into the service of what was called school divi- 
nity ; a system, which perhaps had providen- 
tially been not without its uses at a previous 
period, especially when under the discretion of 
a sound and upright mind, as having served 
both to elicit and exercise the intellect of a ruder 
age. Study and industry, however they may be 
misapplied, are always good in themselves ; and 
almost any state is better than hopeless inanity. 
These schoolmen perhaps sustained the cause 
of Religion, when she might utterly have sunk, 
though with arms little suited to make their 
support effectual, or to produce solid practical 
benefit, either to the church or the people. Some 
of the earlier scholastic divines, though tedious, 
and somewhat trifling, were, however, close rea- 
soners, as well as pious men, though they after- 
wards sunk in rationality, as they increased in 
quibbling and subtlety. Yet, defective as their 
efforts were, they had been useful, as they had 
contributed to oppose infidelity, and to keep 
alive some love of piety and devotion, in that 
season of drowsy inactivity. But, at the period 
to which we refer, their theology had become 
little better than a mazy labyrinth of trivial, and 
not seldom of pernicious sophistry. Subtle dis- 
quisitions, metaphysical niceties, unintelligible 
obscurities, and whimsical distinctions, were 
substituted in. the place of revealed truth ; for 
revealed truth was not sufficiently intricate for 
the speculations of those puzzling theologians, 
of whom Erasmus said, that, ' they had brought 
it to be a matter of so much wit to be a Chris- 
tian, that ordinary heads were not able to reach 
it' — And, as genuine Christianity was not suffi- 
ciently ingenious for these whimsical doctors, 
neither was it sufficiently pliant and accommo- 
dating to suit the corrupt state of public morals 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



97 



Almost entirely overlooking- the Scriptures, 
the school-men had built schemes and systems 
on the authority of the fathers, some of them 
spurious ones. The philosophy of Aristotle had 
also been resorted to for some of the chief mate- 
rials of the system ; so that as the author of the 
History of the Council of Trent informs us, ' if 
it had not been for Aristotle, the church had 
wanted for many articles of faith.' 

The early reformers defeated these sophisters, 
by opposing to their unsubstantial system, the 
plain unadulterated Bible. The very text of 
holy Scripture, and the most sober, rational, and 
simple deductions from thence, furnished the 
ground work of their arguments. And to this 
noble purpose they applied that sound learning 1 , 
which Providence had caused to revive just at 
the necessary period. Their skill in the Greek 
and Hebrew languages enabled them to read the 
original Scriptures, and to give correct transla- 
tions of them to the public. And, in this respect, 
they had an important advantage over the school 
divines, who did not understand the language in 
which their master Aristotle had written. It is 
no wonder, if an heterogeneous theology should 
have been compounded out of such discordant 
materials as were made up from spurious fa- 
thers, and an ill-understood pagan philosopher. 
The works of this great author, which, by an 
inconsistency not uncommon in the history of 
man, had not long before been prohibited by a 
papal decree, and burnt by public authority, 
came, in the sixteenth century, to be considered 
as little less than canonical ! 

But this attachment to sophistry and jargon 
was far from being the worst feature of the pe- 
riod in question. The generality of the clergy 
were sunk into the grossest ignorance, of which 
instances are recorded scarcely credible in our 
day of general knowledge. It is difficult to say 
whether the ecclesiastics had more entirely dis- 
carded useful learning, or Scripture truth. In 
the place, therefore, of the genuine religion of 
the Bible, they substituted false miracles, lying 
legends, purchased pardons, and preposterous 
penances. A procedure which became the more 
popular, as it introduced a religion which did 
not insist on the inconvenient appendage of a 
good life ; those who had money enough, easily 
procured indemnity for a bad one ; and to the pro- 
fligate and the affluent, thepurchase of good works 
was certainly more agreeable than the practice. 

We are far from asserting, that there were no 
mixtures of infirmity in the instruments which 
accomplished the great work of the reformation. 
They were fallible men. But it is now evident 
to every sincere inquirer, that many of their 
transactions, which have been represented by 
their adversaries as corrupt and criminal, only 
appeared such to those who did not take their 
motives, and the critical circumstances of the 
times, into the account, or who had an interest 
in misrepresenting them. Many of those ac- 
tions, which, through false colourings were 
made to appear unfavourable, arc now clearly 
proved to have been virtuous and honourable ; 
especially when we take the then situation of 
things, and the flagitious conduct of the priests 
and pontiffs with whom they had to deal into 
the account. 

Vol. II. G 



Mr. Hume has been among the foremost to 
revive and inflame the malignant reports re- 
specting them. He allows indeed the inflexible 
intrepidity icitli which they hraved dangers, tor- 
tures, and even death itself. But still they were, 
in his estimation, the ' fanatical and enraged re- 
formers.' And he carefully sucgests, through 
the course of history, that fanaticism is the cha- 
racteristic of the protestant religion. The terms 
'protestant fanaticism,' and 'fanatical churches,' 
he repeatedly uses. He has even the temeiity 
to assert, in contradiction to all credible testi- 
mony, that the reformers placed all merit in a 
mysterious species of faith, in inward virion, 
rapture, and ecstacy.' A charge, to say nothing 
of truth and candour, unworthy of Mr. Hume's 
good sense, and extensive means of information 
For there is no fact better known, than that 
these eminently wise men never pretended to 
illuminations and impulses. What they under- 
took honestly, they conducted soberly. They 
pretended to no inspiration ; they did not even 
pretena to introduce a new, but only to restore 
to its primitive purity 'the old religion.' They 
respected government, practiseu and taught sub- 
mission to civil rulers, and desired only the 
liberty of that conscience which God has made 
free.* 

But though in accomplishing the great work 
of the reformation, reason and human wisdom, 
were most successfully exercised ; though the 
divine interference was not manifested by the 
working of miracles, or the gift of supernatural 
endowments : yet who can doubt, that this great 
work was directed by the hand of heaven, especi- 
ally when we consider the wonderful predisposi- 
tion of causes, the extraordinary combination of 
circumstances, the long chain of gradual but con- 
stantly progressive occurrences, by which this 
grand event was brought about ? The succes 
sive as well as contemporary production of sin- 
gular characters, calculated to promote its gene- 
ral accomplishment, and each peculiarly fitted 
for his own respective wotk ! So many uncon- 
scious or unwilling instruments made subservi- 
ent to one great purpose ! — Friends and ene- 
mies, even Mussulmen and popes, contributing, 
certainly without intending it, to its advance- 
ment ! — Mahomet banishing learning from the 
east, that it might providentially find a shelter 
in these countries, where the new opinions were 
to be propagated ! — Several successive sovereign 
pontiffs, collecting books and patronizing that 
literature which was so soon to he directed 
against their own domination ! — But above all, 
the multiplication of contemporary popes, weak- 
ening the reverence of the people, by occasioning 
a schism in the church, and exhibiting its seve- 
ral heads Wandering about, under the ludicrous 
circumstance of each claiming infallibility for 
himself, and denying it to his competitor ! — In- 
fallibility, thus split, was discredited, and in a 
manner annihilated. — To these preparatory cir- 
cumstances we may add the infatuation, or ra- 

* See an excellent appendix to Mosheim's Ecclesiasti- 
cal History, vol. iv. pau'i" 136, on the spirit of the re 
formers, and the injustice of Mr. Hume, by Hint truly 
elegant, candid, and accomplished scholar, ami molt 
amiable man, the late Rev Dr. Archibald Macleine, 
The lover and the love of human kind 



98 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ther judicial blindness, of the papal power : the 
errors, even in worldly prudence, committed by 
Leo, a pontiff otherwise of admirable talents ! — 
The half measures adopted, at one time, of inef- 
ficient violence ; at another, of ineffectual lenity! 

The temporary want of sagacity in an eccle- 
siastical court, which was usually remarkable 
for political acuteness ! — The increasing apti- 
tude of men's minds to receive truth, in propor- 
tion as events occurred to mature it ! — Some 
who loved learning, and were indifferent to re- 
ligion, favouring the reformation as a cause 
connected with good letters ; the old doctrines 
becoming united with the idea of ignorance, as 
the new ones were with that of knowledge ! — 
The preparatory invention of printing, without 
which the revival of learning would have been 
of little general use, and the disporsion of the 
Scriptures slow, and inconsiderable ! — Some 
able and keen-sighted men, working vigorously 
from a perception of existing abuses, who yet 
wanted sufficient zeal for the promotion of reli- 
gious truth ! 

The pointed wit, the sarcastic irony, and 
powerful reasoning of Erasmus, together with 
his profound theological learning, directed 
against the corruptions of the Church, with such 
force as to shake the credit of the clergy, and to 
be of the utmost service to that cause, which he 
wanted the righteous courage systematically to 
defend !* The unparalleled zeal, abilities, and 
integrity of Luther ! His bold genius, and ad- 
venturous spirit, not contenting itself, as the 
other reformers had done, with attacking noto- 
rious errors, and stigmatising monstrous abuses; 
but sublimely exerted in establishing, or rather 
restoring the great fundamentals of Christianity! 
While Erasmus, with that truly classic taste of 
which he was the chief reviver, so elegantly sa- 
tirized the false views of God and religion, 
which the Romish church entertained, Luther's 
aim was to acquire true Scriptural notions of 
both. Ridicule served to expose the old religion, 
but something nobler was necessary to establish 
the new. — It was for Erasmus to shake to its 
foundation the monstrous system of indulgences; 
it remained for Luther to restore, not to invent, 
the doctrine of salvation by remission of sins 
through a Mediator. — While his predecessors, 
and even coadjutors, had been satisfied by pull- 
ing down the enormous mass of corruptions, the 
mighty hand of the Saxon reformer not only re- 
moved the rubbish, but erected a fair fabric of 
sound doctrine in its place. The new edifice 
arose in its just symmetry, and derives impreg- 
nable strength, in consequence of its having 
been erected on a broad foundation. Nothing 
short of the ardour of Luther could have main- 
tained this great cause in one stage, while 
perhaps the discreet temperance of Melancthon 
was necessary to its support in another ! The 
useful violence of Henry in attacking the people, 

* Every elegant scholar must naturally be an admirer 
of Erasmus. We should be sorry to incur the censure 
of any such by regretting, that the wit and indignation 
of this fine genius sometimes carried him to great 
lengths. Impiety, doubtless, was far from his heart. 
yet in some of his Colloquies, when he only professed to 
attack the errors of popery, religion itself is wounded by 
strokes which have such a tendency to profane ness, as 
to give pain to the sober reader. 



with a zeal as furious as if he himself had nwt 
been an enemy to the reformation, exhibiting a 
wonderful illustration of that declaration of the 
Almighty, that the fierceness of man shall turn 
to his praise ! — The meek wisdom of Cranmer, 
by which he was enabled to moderate the other- 
wise uncontrolable temper of his royal master! 
— The undaunted spirit and matchless intrepid- 
ity of Elizabeth, which effectually struggled for 
and finally established it ! These, and a thou- 
sand other concurring circumstances, furnish 
the most unclouded evidence, to every mind not 
blinded by prejudice, that the divine Author of 
Christianity, was also, though by the agency 
of human means and instruments, the Restorer 
of it. 



CHAP. XXXVI. 

On the importance of religious institutions and 
observances- — They are suited to the nature 
of Christianity, and particularly adapted to 
the character of man. 

That torrent of vices and crimes which the 
French revolution has disembogued into society, 
may be so clearly and indisputably traced to 
the source of infidelity, that it has, in a degree 
become fashionable to profess a belief in the 
truths, and a conviction of the value of Chris- 
tianity. But, at the same time, it has too natu- 
rally happened, that we have fallen into the ha- 
bit of defending religion, almost exclusively, on 
political and secular grounds ; as if Christianity 
consisted merely in our not being atheists or 
anarchists. A man, however, may be removed 
many stages from the impiety of French infi- 
dels, and yet be utterly destitute of real religion. 

Many, not openly profane, but even entertain- 
ing a respect for the political uses of religion, 
have a way of generalizing their ideas, so as to 
dismiss the revelation from the account. — Others 
again, who in this last respect agree with the 
former class, affect a certain superiority over 
the low contracted notions of churchmen and 
collegians. These assert, that, if virtue be prac- 
tised, and public order preserved, the motive 
on which the one is practised, and the other 
maintained, is not worth contending for. Many 
there are, who, without formally rejecting Chris- 
tianity, talk of it at large, in general, or in the 
abstract. — As if it were at once to exempt them- 
selves from the trouble of religion, and to escape 
the infamy of Atheism, these men affect to think 
so high of the Supreme Being, whose temple is 
universal space, that he needs not to be wor- 
shipped in temples made with hands. And for- 
getting that the world which he thought it 
worth while to create, he will certainly think it 
worth while to govern, they assert, that he is 
too great to attend to the concerns of such petty 
beings as we are, and too exalted to listen to our 
prayers. — That it is a narrow idea which we 
form of his attributes, to fancy that one day or 
one place is more acceptable to him than ano- 
ther. — That all religions are equally pleasing 
to God, provided the worshipper be sincere. — 
That the establishment of a public ministry ia 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



99 



perhaps a good expedient of political wisdom, 
for awing the vulgar ; hi* that every man is 
his own priest. — That all errors of opinion are 
innocent ; and that the Almighty is too just to 
punish any man for merely speculative tenets. 

But, these lofty contemners of institutions, ob- 
servances, days, ordinances, and priests, evince, 
by their very objections, that they are not more 
ignorant of the nature of God, as ho has been 
pleased to reveal himself in Scripture, than of 
the character of man, to whose dispositions, 
wants, desires, distresses, infirmities, and sins, 
the spirit of Christianity, as unfolded in the 
Gospel, is so wonderfully accommodated. This 
admirable congruity would be of itself sufficient, 
were there no other proof to establish the divine 
authority of our religion. — Private prayer, pub- 
lic worship, the observation of the Sabbath, a 
standing ministry, sacramental ordinances, are 
all of them so admirably adapted to those sub- 
limely mysterious cravings of the mind, which 
distinguish man from all inferior animals, by 
rendering him the subject of hopes and fears, 
which nothing earthly can realize or satisfy, 
that it is difficult to say, whether these sacred 
institutions most bespeak the wisdom or the 
goodness of that supreme benefactor, who alone 
could have thus applied a remedy, because he 
alone could have penetrated the most hidden re- 
cesses of that nature which required it. Reli- 
gion, in fact, is not more essential to man, than, 
in the present state of things, those appointments 
are essential to religion. And, accordingly, we 
see, that when they are rejected, however its un- 
profitable generalities may be professed, religion 
itself, practically, and in detail, is renounced. 
Nor can it be kept alive in creatures so abound- 
ing in moral, and so exposed to natural evil, by 
mere metaphysical distinctions, or a bare intel- 
lectual conception of divinity. In beings whose 
minds are so liable to wander, religion to be sus- 
tained, requires to be substantiated aw\ fixed, to 
be realized and invigorated. Conscious of our 
own infirmity, we ought to look for every out- 
ward aid to improve every internal grace; and 
consequently ought gladly to submit to the con- 
trol of habits, and the regularity of institutions. 
Even in the common pursuits of life, our fugi- 
tive and unsteady thoughts require to be tied 
down by exercises, duties, and external circum- 
stances. And while the same expedients are no 
less necessary to insure the outward observances 
of religion, instead of obstructing, they promote 
its spirituality ; for they are not more fitted to 
attract the senses of the ignorant, than they are 
to engage the thoughts, and fix the attention, of 
the enlightened. While, therefore, in order to 
get rid of imaginary burdens, and suspected pe- 
nalties, men are contending for a philosophical 
religion, and an imaginary perfection, of which 
the mind, while incorporated with matter, is 
little capable, they lose the benefit of those salu- 
tary means and instruments, so admirably adapt- 
ed to the state of our minds, and the constitution 
of our nature. Means and instruments, which, 
on a sober inquiry into their origin, will be found 
as awfully sanctioned, as they are obviously 
suitable ; — in a word, which will be found, and 
this, when proved, puta,au end to the controver- 
sy, to be the appointments of God himself. 



The Almighty has most certainly declared, 
that he will be worshipped in spirit arid in truth 
But does it therefore follow, that he will not be 
worshipped in churches 1 — We know that all our 
days are his, and for the use of all we are ac- 
countable to him. But, does this invalidate the 
duty of making Sunday more peculiarly his ? — 
We are commanded to ' pray without ceasing ; 
in every thing to give thanks ;' that is to carry 
about with us a heart disposed to pray, and' a 
spirit inclined to thankfulness ; but is this any 
argument against our enjoining on ourselves cer- 
tain stated times of more regular prayer, and 
fixed periods of more express thanksgiving ? Is 
it not obvious, that the neglect of the religious 
observance of Sunday, for example, results, in 
fact, from an irreligious state of the heart, how- 
ever gravely philosophic reasons for the omis- 
sions may be assigned ? Is it not obvious also, 
that the very recurrence of appointed seasons 
serves to stir up to the performance of the duties 
allotted to them ? The philosopher may deride 
this as a mechanical religion, which requires to 
have its springs wound up, and stand in need of 
external impulses to set it a-going. But the 
Christian feels, that though he is neither to re- 
gulate his devotions by his crucifix, nor to cal- 
culate them by his beads, yet, while his intel- 
lectual part is encumbered with a body, liable 
to be misled by temptation without, and impeded 
by corruption within, he stands in need of every 
supplemental aid to remind, to restrain, and to 
support him. These, therefore, are not helps 
which superstition has devised, or fallible man 
invented. Infinite wisdom, doubtless, foreseeing 
that what was left dependent on the choice of 
mutual human will to be observed, would pro- 
bably not be observed at all, did not leave such 
a duty to such a contingency, but established 
these institutions as part of his written word ; 
the lawgiver himself also sanctioning the law 
by his own practice. 

It would be well if these men of large views 
and philosophical conceptions, would consider 
if there be nothing in the very structure of the 
human mind, we had almost said, in the very 
constitution of nature, which might lead us to 
expect, that religion would have those grosser, 
and more substantial parts and relations, which 
we have represented ; instead of being that en- 
tirely thin and spiritual essence, of which they 
vainly dream. It was reserved for a philosopher 
of our own nation to show, that the richest pos- 
sessions of the most capacious mind are only 
the well arranged and variegated ideas which 
originally entered in through the medium of the 
senses, or which we derive from contemplating 
the operations of our own minds, when employed 
on those ideas of sensation. But, if material 
bodies are the sources whence general know- 
ledge is derived, why is every thing to be incor- 
poreal which respects religion ? If innate ideas 
have no existence in the human mind, why are 
our religious notions not to be derived from ex- 
ternal objects? 

Plato, the purest of heatnen philosophers, and 
the nearest to those who derived their light from 
heaven, failed most essentially in reducing his 
theory to practice. He seems to have supposed 
that we possess certain ready-framed notions of 



100 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



every thing essential to moral happiness ; and 
that contemplation of the chief good, and sub- 
juration of animal nature, were all that was 
necessary to moral perfection. Is it not then 
most worthy of attention, that the holy Scrip- 
ture differs from the plan of the Grecian sage, 
just where he himself differs from truth and 
nature, as developed by their most accurate ob- 
server, the sagacious and venerated Locke ? 
Man, according to this profound reasoner, de- 
rives the original stock of his ideas from ob- 
jects placed in his view, which strike upon his 
senses. Revelation as if on this very principle, 
presents to man impressive objects. From the 
creation to the deluge, and still more from the 
call of Abraham, when we may say that our 
religion commences, to the giving of the Holy 
Ghost, after our Saviour's ascension, the period 
in which we may deem its character completed, 
we are instructed in a great measure, by a 
series of facts. — In the earlier period, especially, 
we do not meet with theoretic descriptions of 
the divine nature ; but we see the eternal God 
himself, as with our mind's eye, visibly mani- 
festing himself to the patriarchs, exemplifying 
his attributes to their senses, and by interpo- 
sitions the most impressive, both in a way of 
judgment and of mercy, training them to ap- 
prehend him ; in the mode of all others the most 
accommodated to the weakness of human nature. 

Thus we see a religion, in some degree a 
matter of fact religion, growing gradually to its 
completion ; until ' he, who, at sundry times 
and in divers manners, had spoken to the fathers 
by the prophets, spoke in these last days by his 
Son.' 

And thus we observe the first preachers of 
Christianity, not philosophising on abstract 
truths, but plainly bearing witness to what had 
been transacted in their presence. — ' The Word 
was made flesh, and dwelt among us, and we 
beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begot- 
ten of the Father.' And again — ' That which 
we have seen and heard, declare we unto you.' 

This then is the particular characteristic of 
Christianity, that from its origin till its final 
consummation, it considers man critically as he 
is; and, that is, not as he was deemed by the 
most enlightened sages of earlier times, but as 
he has been discovered to be, by one of the most 
penetrating; minds in the world, seventeen nun- 
dred years after the christian era. To this, now 
universally acknowledged notion of man, every 
thing is adapted, both in what is recorded and 
what is enjoined in the Scripture. Every obser- 
vance relates to facts, and is fitted to impress 
them. To strip Christianity, therefore, of any 
of the observances, which are really of scrip- 
tural appointment, would be to sublimate it 
into philosophical inefficacy. In common life 
we see the affections little engaged in abstract 
speculation. They then only are moved when 
those sensible images, which the laws of nature 
have made moving, are aptly presented to them. 

What, for example, could all the mathematical 
truth in the world do, in exciting our affections, 
compared with a tale of human misery, or hu- 
man magnanimity, even though known to be 
fabricated for our amusement ? — When Christi- 
anity then is so obviously, in a great measure, 



a business of the affections, that wo are then 
only under its influence when we love and de- 
light in, as well as assent to, or reason upon its 
principles ; — shall we cavil at that religion 
which alone accomplishes its end, on account of 
those very features of it, which, on every ground 
of philosophy, and by every proof of efficacy, 
were the fact to be candidly investigated, ren- 
der it such as it must be, in order to answer its 
purpose ? 

There cannot be a more conclusive internal 
evidence of our holy religion than this, that in 
every principle which is established, in every 
lesson which it inculcates, and in every ex- 
ample which it offers ; there is throughout 
one character that invariably prevails, which is, 
the truest and soundest good sense. The Scrip- 
ture, while in the main so plain and simple, 
' that he may run that readeth,' has accord- 
ingly been ever most prized by its profoundest 
and most sagacious readers. And the longer 
and more attentively such persons have studied 
it, the higher has their estimation risen. We 
will not adduce cases from that constellation of 
shining lights, the learned churchmen, whose 
testimony might be objected to, from the very 
circumstance which ought to enhance its value, 
their professional attachment, because the name 
of Bacon, Boyle, and Locke is sufficient. 

It will be found on the most impartial scru- 
tiny, that that plan or practice which is clearly 
opposed to Scripture, is no less really hostile to 
right reason, and to the true interests of man. 
And it is scarcely to be doubted, that if we could 
investigate the multiform history of individuals 
in the Christian world, it would be indisputable, 
that a deep impression of scripture facts and 
principles had proved, beyond comparison, the 
most successful preservative against the worst 
evils of human life. Doubtless it has been 
found most difficult to retain such an impres- 
sion amid the business, and pleasures, and en- 
tanglements of the world, but, so far as it has 
been retained, it has been uniformly the pledge 
of regularity in the conduct, peace in the mind, 
and an honourable character in society. Thus 
much by way of introduction to the following 
chapter. 



HAP. XXXVII. 

Of the established church of England. 

ChristiaNitv then only answers its end, when 
it is established as a paramount principle in the 
heart, purifying the desires and intentions, 
tranquillizing the temper, enlarging the affec- 
tion, and regulating the conduct. But, though 
this alone be its perfect work, it has subordinate 
operations, which are not only valuable for 
their direct results, but seem in the order of 
Providence, to be preliminary to its moic in- 
ward and spiritual efficacy. 

When we observe how extensive is the out 
ward profession of Christianity, and how ob- 
viously limited is a consistently Christian prac- 
tice ; the first emotion of a serious mind is na- 
turally that of regret. But a more considerate 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



101 



view will give occasion to other feelings. It 
will be seen, that that outward profession of 
our holy religion, which is secured by an estab- 
lishment, is an inestimable blessing to a com- 
munity ; that the public benefits which result 
from it are beyond reckoning, besides the far 
greater utility of affording to each individual 
that light of information, and those means of 
religious worship, which duly used, will insure 
his eternal salvation. 

That there should therefore be a visible as 
well as an invisible church, an instituted, as 
well as a personal religion, and that the one 
. should embrace whole communities, while the 
other may extend to a comparative few, appears 
not only the natural consequence of Christianity, 
as a religious profession, spreading through so- 
ciety, and necessarily transmitted from father 
to son ; but it seems also that kind of arrange- 
ment which divine wisdom would sanction, in 
order to the continuance of Christianity in the 
world. 

Thus much would rational reflection dictate 
on a view of the case; but we are not left to 
our own mere reasonings. What in itself ap- 
pears so probable, our Saviour has intimated to 
us an essential part of tie divine plan, in several 
of his parables. What is the leaven hid in the 
three measures of meal, but real Christianity 
operating in those happy individuals whose 
hearts and lives are governed by its influence ? 
And what again is the mass of meal with which 
the leaven is blended, but the great body of 
mankind, who, by God's gracious Providence, 
have been led to assume the Christian profes- 
sion, and thus to constitute that visible church, 
whose mixed character is again shown in the 
subsequent parables of the net cast into the sea, 
as well as in that of the wheat and the tares. 

If, then, the public profession of Christianity 
be thus explicitly sanctioned by the divine 
wisdom : if also, our own daily experience 
shows it to be most beneficial to society, as well 
as obviously conducive to the inward and spiri- 
tual purposes of our religion; we must admit, 
that the establishment which evidently secures 
such profession, is an object of inestimable value. 
It was necessary in the order of nature, that 
what was to impregnate the world, should be 
first itself prepared and proved. For three cen- 
turies, therefore, it pleased God to leave Chris- 
tianity to make its way, by its own mere 
strength, that by its superiority, both to the 
allurements and the menaces of the world, to 
all that could be desired, and to all that could 
be suffered by man, its true nature, and its 
genuine energy, might be for ever demonstrat- 
ed ; and its efficacy to assimilate, at length, the 
whole world to itself, be evinced, by its restless 
growth, in circumstances the most apparently 
desperate. 

During this period, therefore, such instru- 
ments alone were used as might serve to evince 
more clearly, that the ' excellency of the power 
was of God, and not of men.' But when the 
season had arrived when the intermixture was 
to be extensively promoted, then another and 
very different agencv was resorted to; when 
the world was to be brought into the visible 
Church, then the powers of the world received 



that impulse from the hand of heaven, which 
made them, in a deeper sense than ever before, 
' ministers of God for good.' — Then, for the first 
time, kings and princes embraced the profes- 
sion of Christianity, and enjoined it by laws 
and edicts, as well as by still better methods, on 
the great body of their subjects. 

How far the national changes which then took 
place were voluntary or necessitated, there is 
no occasion for us to inquire. — ' The good which 
is done upon the earth, God doeth it himself.' 
Arid what good, next to the actual giving of the 
Gospel, has been greater than the providential 
blessing of the leaven of Christianity with the 
great mass of human society ? If the first gene- 
ration of those nominal Christians were even 
pagans in their hearts, that did not lessen the 
greatness of the benefit to posterity. They 
passed away, and their paganism passed away ' 
with them : and the light of Christianity, in- 
valuable in its immediate, but infinitely more 
so in its ultimate consequences, became the 
entailed possession of these European nations, 
under the double guarantee of popular attach- 
ment and political power. , 

Such was the providential origin of religious 
establishments. Let those who object to them, 
only keep in their view, that chain of events by 
which the Christian profession was made na- 
tional in any country ; let them also inquire the 
fate of Christianity in those countries, where 
either no such establishments took place, or 
where they were overthrown by the ascendancy 
of the Mahometan potentates. Lastly, let them 
reflect on the benefit and the comtbrt of that 
one single effect of ' kings becoming nursing- 
fathers, and queens nursing-mothers,' of the 
visible Church, the legal enforcement of the 
Christian Sabbath, — and then see on what 
grounds, as friends to good order, as honest 
citizens, or as consistent Christians, they can 
oppose or condemn so essential and so effectual 
an instrument of the best blessings which hu- 
man kind can enjoy ? 

If then the national establishment of Christi- 
anity, even under the most disadvantageous 
circumstances, became the source of invaluable 
benefits and blessings ; what estimate ought to 
be formed of that Christian establishment in par- 
ticular, which, on the most impartial survey 
of all similar institutions which have been 
known in the Christian world, will be found the 
most admirably fitted for its purpose ? 

The established church of England may not, 
it is true, bear a comparison with theoretic per- 
fection, nor will it gain the approbation of those 
who require that a visible should possess the 
qualities of an invisible church, and that every 
member of a national institution should equal 
in piety, certain individual Christians; nor, in 
any point of view, can its real character be as. 
certained, or its just claims be established, ex- 
cept it be contemplated, as a fixed institution^ 
existing from the period of the reformation to 
the present day, independently of the variations 
and discordances of the successive multitudes 
who adhered to it. 

Let it then, under this only fair notion of it, 
be compared with all the other national churches 
of the reformation, and, on such a comparative 



102 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



view, its superiority will be manifest. The 
truth is, our church occupies a kind of middle 
place ; neither multiplying ceremonies, nor af- 
fecting 1 pompousness of public worship with the 
Lutheran church, nor rejecting all ceremonies 
and all liturgical solemnity with the church of 
Geneva ; — a temperament thus singular, adopted 
and adhered to, in times of unadvanced light 
and much polemical dissonance, amid jarring 
interests and political intrigues, conveys the 
idea of something more excellent than could 
have been expected from mere human wisdom. 

A national establishment is ill-fitted for its 
purpose, if it present nothing striking to the ex- 
ternal senses or imagination. In order to answer 
its design, it ought at once to be so outwardly 
attractive, as to attach the great mass of pro- 
fessing Christians to its ordinances ; and yet the 
substance of these ordinances should be so solid 
and rational, and so spiritual, as to be fitted to 
the farther and still more important purpose of 
infusing inward vital Christianity. These cha- 
racters, we conceive, are exhibited in the Angli- 
can church, in a degree unexampled in any other 
Christian establishment. She alone avoids all 
extremes. Though her worship be wisely po- 
pular, it is also deeply spiritual ; though simple, 
it is sublime. She has rejected pompous cere- 
monies, but she has not therefore adopted an 
offensive negligence. In laying aside all that 
was ostentatious, she retained all that is solemn 
and affecting. Her reasonable service peculiarly 
exemplifies the apostle's injunction of praying 
with the understanding as well as with the 
heart. To botli these the chief attention is di- 
rected while the imagination and the senses are 
by no means excluded from regard. It is our 
Saviour's exquisitely discriminating rule applied 
to another subject. ' These' says he, (the 
weightier matters,) ' ye ought to have done, and 
not to leave the others undone.'' 

If these remarks had nothing but opinion to 
support them, a different opinion might no less 
fairly be opposed to them. But let a matter of 
fact question be asked. Which of the protestant 
establishments has best answered its end : In 
other words — in which of the protestant coun- 
tries in Europe, have the fundamental truths of 
Scripture been most strictly adhered to, and the 
Christian religion most generally respected ? 
If we inquire into the present circumstances of 
protestant Europe, shall we not find that, in one 
class of churches on the continent, the more 
learned of the clergy commonly become Socini- 
ans ; while, among the clergy of the other, there 
appears a strange tendency towards absolute 
deism ? Amongst the laity of both churches, 
French principles, it may be feared, have so 
much prevailed, as to become in a great mea- 
sure their own punishment. For to what other 
cause but a departure from the faith of their fa- 
thers, can we ascribe their having so totally lost 
the ardour and resolution, which once distin- 
guished their communities ? Infidelity takes 
from the collective body its only sure cement, 
and from the individual his only certain source 
of courage. It leaves the mass of the people 
without that possession to be defended, in which 
all ranks and degrees are alike interested ; and 
takes from the individual that one principle 



which alone can, at all times, raise a human be- 
ing above his natural weaknesses, and make 
him superior both to pleasure and pain. While 
religion was an object with the people alluded 
to, it inspired the lowest, as well as the highest, 
with a zeal to defend their country against in- 
vaders who, if predominant, would have robbed 
them of their religious liberty. But now, con- 
cern for religion being too generally cooled, they 
prefer the most disgraceful ease to exertions 
which would necessarily demand self-denial and 
might deprive them of that only existence for 
which infidels can be concerned. 

Why is it otherwise in England ? Why are 
not we also overspread with pernicious princi- 
ples and sunk in base pusillanimity? — The Ger- 
mans were once as brave, the Swiss once as re- 
ligious as any of us ; but bravery and religion 
seem, as far as we can learn, to have abandoned 
some of those countries together. In England, 
blessed be God ! things present a very different 
aspect. We have indeed much to lament, and 
much, very much to blame ; but infidelity does 
not triumph, nor does patriotism decline. Why 
is it thus ? Is it not because the temperament 
of the English establishment has left no room 
for passing from one extreme to another ; be- 
cause its public service is of that stirring excel- 
lence, which must ever be attractive to the im- 
pressible mind, edifying to the pious mind, un- 
impeachable by the severest reasoner, and awful 
even to the profligate ? 

For, in enumerating the merits of our admi- 
rable establishment, we must not rest in the su- 
periority of her forms, excellent as they are, but 
must extend the praise, where it is so justly due, 
to the still more important article of her doc- 
trines. For after all, it is her luminous exhibi- 
tion of Christian truth, that has been the grand 
spring and fountain of the good which she has 
produced. It is the spirituality of her worship, 
— it is the rich infusion of Scripture,* — it is the 
deep confessions of sin, — it is the earnest invo- 
cations of mercy, — it is the large enumeration 
of spiritual wants, and the abundant supply of 
correspondent blessings, with which her liturgy 
abounds, that are so happily calculated to give 
the tone of piety to her children. 

In forming this invaluable liturgy, there was 
no arrogant self-conceit on the one ha-nd, no re- 
linquishment of strict judgment on the other. 
The errors of the Romish church were to be re- 
jected, but the treasures of ancient piety which 
she possessed, were not to be abandoned. Her 
formularies contained devotional compositions, 
not more venerable for their antiquity, than va- 
luable for their intrinsic excellence, being at 
once simple and energetic, perspicuous and pro- 
found. What then was more suitable to the so- 
ber spirit of reformation, than to separate those 
precious remnants of ancient piety from their 
drossy accompaniments, — and, while these last 
were deservedly cast away, to mould the pure 
gold which remained into a new form, fitted at 
once to interest, and edify the public mind ? 



* Of the vast importance of thi? one circumstance, an 
early proof was given. 'Cranmer,' says the learned au- 
thor or the Elements ofChristian Theology, ' found the 
I«M>p!:- so improved by hearing the Epistles and Gospels, 
as to be brought to bear the alterations he had provided. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



103 



It is worthy of observation, that in all reforms, 
whether civil or religious, wise and good men 
prove themselves to be such, by this infallible 
criterion, that they never alter for the sake 
of altering, but in their zeal to introduce im- 
provements, are conscientiously careful to depart 
no further from established usages, than strict 
duty and indispensable necessity require. 

Instead, therefore, of its being any stigma on 
our church service, that it was collected from 
breviaries and missals, it adds substantially to 
its value. The identity of true Christian piety, 
in all ages, being hereby demonstrated, in a way 
as satisfactory to the judgment, as it is interest- 
ing to the heart. In such a procedure, Christian 
liberty was united with Christian sobriety ; pri- 
mitive piety with honest policy. — A whole com- 
munity was to be attached to the new mode of 
worship, and, therefore, it was expedient to break 
their habits no more than Christian purity de- 
manded. They only, however, who actually 
compare those of our prayers which are selected 
from Romish formularies, with the originals, 
can form a just idea with what discriminative 
judgment the work was executed, and what rich 
improvements are often introduced into the En- 
glish collects, so as to heighten the sentiment, 
yet, without at all impairing the simplicity. In- 
deed, the wisdom and moderation of the founders 
of our church were equally conspicuous in the 
whole of their proceedings ; never strenuously 
contending for any points, not even in that sum- 
mary of Christian doctrines, which was to be 
the established standard, but for such as affect- 
ed the grand foundations of faith, hope and cha- 
rity. 

How honourable to our reformers, and to the 
glorious work in which they so successfully la- 
boured, that in the very first formation of the 
English church, that care to distinguish between 
essentials and non-essentials should be so strictly 
exercised, which the brightest philosophical lu- 
minary in his own, or perhaps in any age, some 
years after, so strongly recommended, and so 
beautifully illustrated. ' We see Moses,' says 
lord Bacon, ' when he saw the Israelite and the 
Egyptian fight, he did not say, why strive ye ? 
but drew his sword and slew the Egyptian. But 
when he saw two Israelites fight, he said, you 
are brethren, why strive you? If the point of 
doctrine be an Egyptian, it must be slain by the 
sword of the Spirit ; but if it be an Israelite, 
though in the wrong, then why strive you ? We 
see of the fundamental points Christ penneth the 
league thus : he that is not aginst us is for us.'* 
But of points not fundamental thus, — he that is 
not against vs is xoitli us. 

To the eternal praise then of our reformers, 
as well as with the deepest gratitude to God, be 
it said, that in their concern for matters of faith, 
in which concern they yielded to none of their 
contemporaries, they intermingled a charity in 
which they have excelled them all. And, in 
consequence of this radical and truly Christian 
liberality, a noble spirit of tolerance has ever 
been the characteristic of genuine Church of 
England divines : of those, I mean who have 
cordially agreed with the first reforme/s, and 

* Lord Bacon on the Advancement of Learning, book 
second. 



wished no deviation from their principles, either 
in doctrine or in worship; desiring neither to 
add to, nor diminish, the comely order which 
they had established in the public service ; nor 
to be dogmatical where they had been enlarged ; 
nor relaxed where they had been explicit: yet 
ready at all times to indulge the prejudices of 
their weaker brethren, and to grant to others 
that freedom of thought, of which, in their own 
case, they so fully understood the value. Our 
first reformers were men of eminent piety, and, 
happily for the interests of genuine religion, far 
less engaged in controversy than the divines of 
the continent. Even those of their own nation, 
who differed from them in lesser points, and with 
whom they did debate, were men of piety also, 
and entirely agreed with them in doctrines. 
Hence, the strain of preaching in our Church 
of England divines, became less polemical and 
more pious and practical, than that of the clergy 
of other churches. To this end the book of Ho- 
milies was highly conducive, being an excellent 
model which served to give the example of use- 
ful and practical preaching. In this most im- 
portant particular, and in that of deep and con- 
clusive reasoning, we may assign the decided 
superiority to English divines, above all those 
of the continent, though the latter may perhaps, 
in some instances, dispute with them the palm 
of eloquence. 

From divines of the above character, happily 
never wanting in any age, our national establish- 
ment has ever derived its best strength at home, 
and its honour and credit in foreign countries. 
These have made the Anglican church looked 
up to by all the churches of the reformation. 
Their learning has been respected, their wisdom 
has been esteemed, their liberality has been loved 
and honoured, their piety has been revered, by 
all of every protestant communion who were ca- 
pable of discerning and improving excellence ; 
nay, even in the Romish communion, they have 
sometimes excited a degree of estimation, which 
nothing could have called forth but the most in- 
disputable superiority. 

But, it is not only in the clerical order that 
the kindly influences of the English establish- 
ment have been nmnifest ; they appear in the 
brightest point of view, in those illustrious lay- 
men whose labours have contributed not less to 
raise the British name, than the achievements, 
unexampled as they have been, of our armies or 
our navies. On account of these men, we have 
been termed by foreigners, a nation of philoso- 
phers ; and, for the sake of their writings, Eng- 
lish has become not so much a fashionable as, 
what is far more honourable, a kind of learned 
language in almost every country in Europe. 
Yet, in no wr.ters upon earth, has a sense of 
religion been more evidently the very key-stone 
of their excellence. This it is which gives them 
that sobriety of mind, that intellectual conscien- 
tiousness, that penetrating pursuit, not of sub- 
tlety, but of truth ; that decorous dignity of lan- 
guage, that cordiality as well as sublimity of 
moral sentiment and expression, which have 
procured for them, not merely the suffrage of 
the understanding, but the tribute of the heart. 

And let it be attentively inquired, how they 
came by this rare qualification ? how it happen. 



104 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ed, that in them, so much more strikingly than 
in the learned and philosophical of perhaps any 
otlier nation, increase of knowledge did not ge- 
nerate scepticism, nor the consciousness of their 
mental strength inspire them with contempt for 
the religion of their country? Was it not, that 
that religion was so modified, as equally to en- 
dear itself to the vivid sensibility of youth, the 
quick intelligence of manhood, the matured re- 
flection of age and wisdom ? That it did not on 
the one hand conceal the beauty and weaken the 
sense of vital truth, by cumbrous and unneces- 
sary adjuncts; — nor on the other hand withhold 
from it that graceful drapery, without which, in 
almost all instances, the imagination, as it were, 
instinctively, fetuses to perform its appropriate 
function of conveying truth to the heart ! — And 
further, have not the above invaluable effects 
been owing to this also, that the inherent spirit 
of christian tolerance, which has been described 
as distinguishing our communion from every 
other national communion in the world, by al- 
lowing to their minds every just claim, has 
taken the best possible method of preventing in- 
tellectual licentiousness ? In fine, to what other 
causes than those just stated, can we ascribe it, 
that this country above all others, has been the 
seat of philosophy, unbounded in its researches, 
yet modest in its assumptions, and temperate in 
its conclusions ? — Of literary knowledge, not 
only patiently pursued, and profoundly explored, 
but wisely digested and usefully applied ? — Of 
religion, in its most rational, most influential, 
most christian shape and character; — not the 
dreary labour of superstition, not the wild deli- 
rium of fanaticism, but the infallible guide of 
reason, the invincible guard of virtue, the enjoy- 
ment of present peace, and the assurance of fu- 
ture happiness ? 

But whatever providential causes have hither- 
to contributed among us to restrain infidelity 
aqd profaneness, have we no reason to fear that 
their operations are growing less and less pow- 
erful? And should we not bear in mind, that 
it is not the form of our church establishment, 
incomparable as that is, which can alone arrest 
the progress of danger, if there should arise any 
declension of zeal in supporting its best inter. 
ests, if ever there should be found any lack of 
knowledge for zeal to work with. The charac- 
ter also of the reigning prince will always have 
a powerful effect either in retarding or accele- 
rating the evil. 

One of our most able writers on history and 
civil society,* is perpetually inculcating that no 
political constitution, no laws, no provision made 
by former ages, can ever secure the actual en- 
joyment of political happiness and liberty, if 
there be not a zeal among the living for the fur- 
therance of these objects. Laws will be mis- 
construed and fall into oblivion and ancient 
maxims will be superseded, if the attention of 
the existing generation be not alive to the subject. 

Surely it may be said, at least with equal 
,ruth, that no excellence of our religious esta- 
, ishment, no orthodoxy in our articles, no, not 
vven that liturgy on whose excellences we have 
elighted to expatiate, can secure the mainte- 
uance of true religion, but in proportion as the 
* Ferguson. 



religious spirit is maintained in our clergy; m 
proportion as it is diffused among the people ; in 
proportion as it is encouraged fiom the throne. 

If such then be the value, and such the re- 
sults of the English ecclesiastical establishment, 
how high is the destiny of that personage whom 
the laws of England recognise as its supreme 
head on earth! How important is it, that the 
prince, charged with such unexampled trust, 
should feel its weight, should understand its 
grand peculiarities, and be habitually impressed 
with his own unparalleled responsibility. To 
misemploy, in any instances, the prerogative 
which this trust conveys, is to lessen the stabi- 
lity, and counteract the usefulness of the fairest 
and most beneficial of all the visible fabrics, 
erected in this lower world ! But what an ac- 
count would that prince, or that minister have 
to render, who should systematically debase this 
little less than divine institution, by deliberately 
consulting, not how the Church of England 
may be kept high in public opinion, influential 
on public morals, venerable through the meek 
yet manly wisdom, the unaffected yet unble- 
mished purity, the energetic yet liberal zeal of 
its clergy ; — but, how it may be made subservi- 
ent to the trivial and temporary interests of the 
prevalent party, and the passing hour ? 

Besides the distribution of dignities, and the 
great indirect influence which this affords the 
prince, in the disposal of a vast body of prefer- 
ment ; his wisdom and tenderness of conscience 
will be manifested also in the appointment of 
the chancellor, whose church patronage is im- 
mense. And in the discharge of that most im- 
portant trust, the appointment of the highest dig 
nitaries, the monarch will not forget, that his 
responsibility is proportionably the more awful, 
because the exercise of his power is less likely 
to be controulcd, and his judgment to be thwart- 
ed, than may often happen in the case of his 
political servants. 

Nor will it, it is presumed, be deemed imper- 
tinent to remark, that the just administration 
of this peculiar power may be reasonably ex- 
pected as much, we had almost said even more, 
from a female, than from a monarch of the otlier 
sex. The bishops chosen by those three judi- 
cious queens, Elizabeth, Mary, and Caroline, 
were generally remarkable for their piety and 
learning. And let not the writer be suspected 
of flattering either the queen or the bishop by 
observing, that among the wisdom and abilities 
which now adorn the bench, a living prelate 
high in dignity, in talents, and in Christian vir- 
tue, is said to have owed his situation to the 
discerning eye of his present majesty. 

What an ancient cannon, cited by the judi- 
cious Hooker, suggests to bishops on the sub 
ject of preferment is equally applicable to kings 
— It expressly forbiddeth them to be led by hu 
man affection in bestowing the things of God.* 



CHAP. XXXVIII. 

Superintendence of Providence manifested in 
the local circumstances and in the civil ana 
religious history of England. 

* TlK Ecclesiastical Polity. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



105 



Among the various subjects on which the 
mind of the royal pupil should be exercised, 
there is none more appropriate, than that which 
might, perhaps, be most filly denominated, the 
providential History of England. That it lias 
not hitherto engaged attention, in any degree 
suitable to its importance, is much more an 
apology for its being, in the present instance, 
specially adverted to, than reason for its being 
any longer neglected. 

The marks of divine interference, in the ge- 
neral arrangement of states and empires, are 
rendered so luminous by the rays which Scrip- 
ture prophecy has shed upon them, as to strike 
every mind which is at once attentive and can- 
did, with a force not to be resisted. But, while 
this indisputable truth leads us necessarily to 
infer, that a like superintendance to that which 
is over the whole, acts likewise respecting all 
the separate parts ; the actual tracing this su- 
perintendence, in the occurrences of particular 
nations, must, in general, be a matter of diffi- 
culty and doubt, as that light of prophecy, which 
falls so brightly on the central dome of the 
temple, cannot reasonably be hoped for, when 
we turn into the lateral recesses. 

There are instances, however, in which God's 
providential works shine so clearly ' by their 
own radient light,' as to demonstrate the hand 
which fashioned, and'the skill which arranged 
them. And though others are of a more doubt- 
ful nature ; yet, when the attainments of any 
one particular nation become matter of general 
influence, so that what was, at first, the fruit of 
merely local labour, or the effect of a peculiar 
combination of local circumstances, becomes 
from its obvious utility or intrinsic excellence 
an object to other surrounding countries, and 
grows at length into an universal benefit ; — in 
such a distinction, we can hardly forbear to 
trace something so like a consistent plan of ope- 
rations that the duty of observing and acknow- 
ledging it, seems incumbent on such communi- 
ties as appear to have been thus signally favour- 
ed. What advantage, for instance, has the 
whole civilized world derived from the philoso- 
phizing turn of the ancient Greeks ! How 
widely extensive, and how durable has been its 
influence. 

Of what importance are the benefits, which 
the politic spirit of the Roman empire diffused 
among the countries of Europe, most of which, 
to this day, acknowledge the hand that reared 
them from barbarism, by still retaining those 
laws which that hand transcribed for them, as 
if Rome were allowed to do that for men's cir- 
cumstances, which Greece was permitted to 
effect for their minds ! 

But a third instance is encumbered with less 
difficulty, — the designation of Judea to be the 
local source of true religion. In this small pro- 
vince of the Roman empire, what a scene was 
transacted, and from those transactions, what a 
series of consequences have followed, and what 
a system of influences has been derived, operat- 
ing, and still to operate on individuals — commu- 
nities — nations, in ways, and with effects, the 
happiest, or most awful, as they are embraced 
or rejected ; and leading to results not to be 
calculated even as to this world, — but wholly in- 



conceivable, as to that future world where all 
the deep purposes of God are to have their per- 
fect consummation. 

But, if such has been the method of Provi- 
dence in those great designs, which have here- 
tofore been carried on in the world, can we sup- 
pose that the same plan is not substantially pur- 
sued in his present arrangements? Are not 
blessings still to be conferred on society ? Bless- 
ings, yet in general unknown, and greater mea- 
sures of those which are already in part attain- 
ed ? — How rare, for example, has been hitherto 
the blessing of complete civil government — of 
such a political system as combines the apparent 
contrarieties of public security with personal 
liberty ! An object aimed at by Are wisest legis- 
lators of earlier times, but regarded by them as 
a beautiful theory, incapable of being realized ! 
Still more — How limited is the attainment of 
religious truth of well-weighed well-digested re- 
ligious belief — and of well-conceived, well-regu- 
lated divine worship ! Christianity exists in the 
Scripture, like virgin gold in the mine; but how 
few, comparatively, have been able to extract it 
without loss, or to bring it into public circula- 
tion without deplorable alloy ! How erroneous, 
in most instances, are those modes and exercises 
of it, which are adopted by states and govern- 
ments ; and how seldom does it seem rightly 
apprehended, even by the most enlightened indi- 
viduals ! To suppose things will always remain 
in this state, is little short of an imputation on 
divine wisdom. But, in the mean time, how dis- 
astrous are the consequences to individuals and 
to society ! 

If there be then a country, long and signally 
distinguished in both these important instances 
— in the former, so as to have been the object 
of universal admiration ; — in the latter, so as to 
have been looked up to by all the most enlight- 
ened parts of the Christian world. — If there be 
such a country, can we help regarding its su- 
periority to other countries as the result of a 
providential destination, as clear as that which 
allotted philosophy to ancient Greece, and civil 
polity to ancient Rome ? — And may it not even 
be added, as really divine, though not miracu- 
lous, as that which gave true religion to ancient 
Judea. 

If England be this community, if England be 
the single nation upon earth, — where that check- 
ed and balanced government, — that tempera- 
ment of monarchic, aristocratic and popular 
rule, which philosophic statesmen, in ancient 
times, admired so much in theory, has been 
actually realized — If it be also distinguished by 
a temperament in religious concerns little less 
peculiar, is not every thinking member of such 
a community bound to acknowledge with deep, 
est gratitude, so extraordinary a distinction ? 
And what employment of thought can be more 
interesting than to trace the providential means 
by which such unexampled benefits and bless- 
ings have been conferred upon our country ! 

To enter at large into so vast a subject, would 
be an impracticable attempt, on such an occa- 
sion as the present. It would itself furnish mate- 
rials for a volume rather than for a few pages;* 

* The train of thought pursued in this and the follow- 
ing cbapter, as well as some of the thoughts themselves, 



106 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



and to treat it with justice would be a task, to 
which the best informed and profoundest mind 
would alone be competent. A few scattered 
observations, therefore, are all that we can pre- 
tend to offer, not however without hope, that 
they will excite to a deeper and more extended 
investigation. We are told by St. Paul, that 
' he who made of one blood all nations, fixed 
not only the time before appointed (the epochs 
of their rise and fall) but also the bounds of 
their habitation.' The result of this created 
arrangement, respecting the greater divisions 
of the earth, Europe, Asia, and Africa, separated, 
yet connected by that inland ocean the Medi- 
terranean Sea. have been already noticed. But, 
nothing has reen more pregnant in its conse- 
quences in this general plan than the insulated 
situation of Great Britain, with respect to our 
national circumstances. — If we are at this day 
free, while so many neighbouring nations are 
enslaved. — If we stand erect, while they are 
trampled on — let us not entirely attribute it to 
any superiority in ourselves, of spirit, of wis- 
dom, or strength ; but let us also humbly and 
gratefully ascribe it to that appointment of the 
Creator, which divided us from the continent 
of Europe. Had we been as accessible to the 
arms of France, as Holland, Switzerland, or the 
Austrian Netherlands, we might perhaps have 
been involved in the same calamities. But we 
cannot stop here. The entire series of our his- 
tory, as a nation, seems in a great measure to 
have been derived from this source ; and every 
link in the chain of our fortune bears some sig- 
nificant mark of our local peculiarity. With- 
out this, where would have been our commer- 
cial opulence or our maritime power? If we 
had not been distinct as a country we had not 
been distinct as a people. We might have im- 
bibed the taints, been moulded by the manners, 
and immerged in the greatness of our more pow- 
erful neighbours. It was that goodness which 
made us an island, that laid the foundation of 
our national happiness. It was by placing us 
in the midst of the waters that the Almighty 
prepared our country for those providential 
uses to which it has served and is yet to serve 
in the great scheme of his dispensations. Thus, 
then, we behold ourselves raised as a nation 
above all the nations of the earth by that very 
circumstance which made our country be re- 
garded, two thousand years ago, only as a recep- 
tacle for the refuse of the Roman empire ! 

To this, evidently, it has been owing, that c 
amongst us, the progress of society, from bar- 
barianism to high improvement, has not only 
been more regular, but more radical and entire, 
as to all the portions and circumstances of the 
body politic, than in any instance with which 
we are acquainted. Shut in from those deso- 
lating blasts of war which have ever and anon 
been sweeping the continent, the culture of our 

both here, and in one or two former passages may per- 
haps be recognized by the Rev. and learned Doctor Mil- 
ler, late fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, as akin to 
those views of providential history, which he has given 
in a course of lectures in that college. The author 
gladly acknowle Iges having received, through a friend, 
a fi'w valuable hints from this source, of which it is 
earnestly hopyd the public may in due time be put in full 
possession 



moral soil has been less impeded, and the seeds 
which have been sown have yielded ampler, as 
well as maturer harvests. We have had our 
vicissitudes — but in a manner peculiar to our- 
selves. They seem clearly providential, and 
not fortuitous ; since it is certain that the agita- 
tions which we have experienced, and the ap- 
parent calamities which we have suffered have 
been, in almost e\ery instance, signally condu- 
cive to our advancement. When England be- 
came possessed by the Saxons, she appeared 
only to be sharing the fate of other European 
countries ; all of which, about that period, or 
soon after, became the prey of similar hordes 
of invaders. But a difference of result, in our 
particular instance, arising chiefly from our 
insular situation, after some time, presents it- 
self to us, as already marking that happy des. 
tination with which Providence intended to fa- 
vour us. 

It has been observed by historians, that when 
an army of those northern invaders took pos- 
session of any country, they formed their estab- 
lishment with a view of self-defence, much more 
than to civil improvement. They knew not 
how suddenly they might be attacked by some 
successful army of adventurers ; and therefore 
says Dr. Robertson, ' a feudal kingdom resem- 
bles a military establishment, rather than a 
civil institution.' ' Such a policy,' adds the 
same historian, ' was well calculated for defence, 
against the assaults of any foreign power ; but 
its provisions for the interior order and tran- 
quillity of society, was extremely defective ; the 
principles of disorder and corruption being dis- 
cernible in that constitution under its best and 
most perfect form.'* 

To this ' feudal system,' however, the newly 
established potentates of the continent seem to 
have been impelled by necessity; but an inevi- 
table consequence was, that that taste for liberty, 
which had animated their followers in their 
native forests, could no longer be cherished, 
and was of course doomed to extinction. 

Iu Britain alone such a necessity did not 
exist. The possession of the country being 
once accomplished, its tenure was comparatively 
secured by the surrounding ocean. Defence 
was not to be neglected ; but danger was not 
imminent. Thus no new habit was forced on 
the new settlers, so as to expel their original 
propensities ; and accordingly whatever means 
of safety they might have resorted to against 
each other, during the multiplicity of these 
governments, we see at the distance of four 
centuries, Alfred, turning from successful war- 
fare against invaders, to exercise that consum- 
mate wisdom, with which his mind was en- 
riched, in systematizing those very aboriginal 
principles of Saxon liberty. A civil polity was 
thus erected, which was not only in its day the 
most perfect scheme of government that had yet 
existed, but it also was formed of such materials, 
and established on such a solid foundation, as 
never after to be wholly demolished ; until at 
length, it has been gradually wrought into that 
magnificent fabric, which, through the bless- 

* Robertson's View of the State of Europe, prefi.xed 
to Charles V. Sect. 1. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



lOt 



ing of heaven, is at this day the glory and the 
defence of our island. 

In these rudiments, then, of the first English 
constitution, let us gratefully recognize the first 
most striking indication of a particular provi- 
dence presiding over our country. A genius, 
the first of his age, is raised in a remote and 
insulated part of Europe, — where at first view, 
it might be thought his talents must be destitute 
of their proper sphere of action. But in what 
other European country could his enlarged 
views have been in any adequate degree re- 
alized ? — Where the feudal government was 
established, such wise and liberal arrangements 
as those of Alfred were necessarily precluded ; 
at least thsy could not have been introduced, 
without stripping such a government of its 
essential characters ; Alfred's system being as 
strictly civil, as the other was military. He 
provided sufficiently for external safety, but it 
was internal security and tranquility to which 
his exquisite policy was peculiarly directed. 
And from its correspondence with right reason, 
with the native spirit of the people, and with 
the local circumstances of the country, it so 
rooted itself in the English soil, as to out-live 
all the storms of civil discord, as well as the 
long winter of the Norman tyranny. 

Is it not then remarkable that, when such a 
concurrence of favourable circumstances exist- 
ed in that very sequestred spot should arise an 
individual, so precisely fitted to turn them to, 
what appears, their allotted purpose ? Had there 
not been an Alfred to accomplish the work, all 
these capabilities might soon have vanished, and 
our national happiness never have been realized. 
On the other hand, had Alfred lived without his 
appropriate sphere of action, he would no doubt 
have been a successful warrior, a gracious 
prince, and clearly, as far as the state of men's 
minds admitted, a friend to letters, and such 
rude arts as were then in use ; but he would not 
have been venerated, at the distance of a thou- 
sand years as the founder of the bast scheme of 
laws, and the happiest system of government, 
that the world ever saw. Such a correspon- 
dence, then, of so distinguished an agent to so 
apt a sphere of action, and attended with results 
so permanent, so beneficial, and so widely in- 
fluential on human society, was surely far above 
fortuitous coincidence. Was it not, on the con- 
trary, an adaptation so self-evident, as can only 
be ascribed to the special interference of over- 
ruling Providence ? 

It is true, that by the Norman conquest, the 
benefits derived from this wise and happy es- 
tablishment appeared for the'time overwhelmed 
by a threefold tyranny, — regal, feudal, and ec- 
clesiastical. But this, on an attentive view, 
will appear no less to have been over-ruled for 
good. To repress for the purpose of excitement, 
and to employ gross admixtures in order to 
higher purification, are procedures congruous 
with all the laws of nature. 

In a constitution formed in so dark an age, 
and adapted to so rnde a people, there could be 
little more than the crude elements of such a 
political system, as more advanced times would 
require. Yet had the enjoyment of tiiose earlier 
privileges remained undisturbed, nothing better 



might have been aimed at ! and instead of that 
progressive advance, with which we have been 
blessed, our nation might, at this day, have only 
been distinguished by a blind and stupid attach- 
ment to some obsolete forms of liberty, from 
which all substantial worth had long since de- 
parted. For the prevention of such an evil, 
human foresight could make no provision ; and 
we may now look back with wonder, on the 
wisdom, as well as efficacy of the process. The 
original plan was guarded by the same gracious 
hand, until the habits induced by it were fixed 
in the minds of Englishmen ; — then it was sus- 
pended, that they might struggle to regain it ; 
and by the activity thus excited, and more and 
more elicited by new competitions, they might 
at length attain to the highest civil and political 
happiness, which has been enjoyed in this im- 
perfect state of being. 

But on a yet more enlarged view of our na- 
tional progress, shall we not be led to conclude, 
that something more than the improvement of 
our political constitution was in the design of 
Providence, when the Norman dynasty became 
possessed of the throne? A far more important 
reformation, than that of human laws, or poli- 
tical systems was at length to take place. And 
in this great ecclesiastical revolution, England 
was intended to act a conspicuous part. For 
this, even these preparatory steps would be ne- 
cessary. And may we not clearly trace such 
steps from the epoch of which we are speaking ? 
The encroachments of the papal see had, till 
then, been comparatively little felt in England. 
But the Norman princes introduced foreign 
bishops, who exercised in the church as galling 
a dominion, as that of their royal patrons in the 
state. 'The consciences of men,' says Sir 
William Blackstone, ' were enslaved by sour 
ecclesiastics, devoted to a foreign power and 
unconnected with the civil state under which 
they lived ; who now imported from Rome, for 
the first time, the whole farrago of superstitious 
novelties, which had been engendered by the 
blindness and corruption of the times, between 
the first mission of Augustine the monk, and 
the Norman conquest.'* 

Had these pernicious practices been gradually 
and insensibly introduced, as they were in most 
countries on the continent, they would have 
been inevitably combined with the common ha- 
bits of the people. But being thus suddenly and 
forcibly imposed, in conjunction too with such 
a mass of political grievances, their almost ne- 
cessary tendency was to excite a spirit of resist- 
ance. We accordingly find, that in every ad- 
vance which was made towards regaining a free 
government, a conquest was gained over some 
instances of ecclesiastical as well as of political 
tyranny; than which, what more effectual course 
could the most sagacious foresight have pursu- 
ed, for rousing the national mind from the dead 
drowsiness of superstition, aad preparing it to 
give a cordial reception to that light of religious 
truth, which, when the proper season should 
arrive, was to beam forth with peculiar bright- 
ness on this favoured country ? 

But it is not only in its encroachments and 

* Blackstone's Commentaries, vol. iv. last chap. 



108 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



severities that we are to regard the Norman go- 
vernment as an instrument of Providence. It, 
doubtless, was ttie means of much direct and 
positive good. The minds of Englishmen need- 
ed improvement, still more than their civil con- 
stitution. Alfred had attempted to sow the seeds 
of learning, as well as of jurisprudence, amongst 
his co.unlrymen ; but to inspire a barbarous peo- 
ple with a love of literature, was what neither 
he nor his master, Charlemagne, was able in 
any great degree to accomplish. An advance 
of general civilization was necessary to strike 
out such a disposition ; and it was not until to- 
ward the beginning of the 12th century, that 
any part of Western Europe appeared to have 
been visited with the dawn of an intellectual 
day. A connexion, therefore, with the continent 
previously to that period, could not have served 
the moral, and might have injured the political 
interests of our island. But that it should, just 
at that time, be brought into such circumstances, 
as should ensure its participation in all the men- 
tal acquirements, of the neighbouring countries, 
appears evidently to bespeak the same superin- 
tendence, as in the instances already noticed. 

It is, however, in the great event of the En- 
glish reformation, that we perceive, as has been 
already observed,* the most striking marks of 
divine direction ; and it seems to discover to us, 
why it has pleased God to distinguish us by so 
many previous instances of favour. We were 
not only to be blessed with the light of truth 
ourselves, but we were to be in some sort, ' a city 
set upon a hill.' The peculiar temperament of 
the English protestant establishment, which 
places it in a kind of middle line between the 
churches of the continent, has been also noticed 
in a former chapter. But is it not evident, that 
our national church, humanly speaking, derived 
that temperament from a previously formed na- 
tional character? 'The English,' says Voltaire, 
' into whom nature has infused a spirit of inde- 
pendence, adopted the opinion of the reformers, 
but mitigated them, and composed from them a 
religion peculiar to themselves.'t It is seldom, 
that, on such a subject, this acute but most per- 
verted pen has so justly described the fact. But, 
what a striking testimony is this, not only to the 
worth of that national character, which thus dis- 
tinguished itself from the whole Christian world, 
but also to the depth of that Divine wisdom, 
which made so many remote and unconnected 
contingences work together in producing so va- 
luable a result ! 

In establishing a religion, which is founded 
on truth, and which consists essentially in the 
love of God and man, what more suitable dispo- 
sitions could there be provided, than an indepen- 
dent spirit and a mitigating temper ? That both 
these were eminently exemplified by our vene- 
rable reformers, need not here be proved. Nor 
is it necessary to enlarge upon the obvious ten- 
dency of the English laws and constitution, to 
form such dispositions in those who lived within 
their influence. If this tendency were doubtful, 
a striking fact in after times might serve to il- 
lustrate it. I mean, that steady zeal with which 
all the great constitutional lawyers, during the 

• Chap xxxv. 

t Siecle de Louis XIV. chap, xxxii. 



agitations of the seventeenth century, endea- 
voured to preserve to the English church esta- 
blishment that very temperament, which had so 
happily entered into its first formation. Nor can 
we pass over the care which was taken, in the 
very occurrences of the reformation, for adapt- 
ing it to the independent spirit of the English, 
and also for perpetuating, in the establishment 
itself, that mild and mitigating temper which 
had influenced its first founders. 

It was indispensable that the change in the 
church establishment should be accomplished by 
the paramount powers of the state ; they alone 
being either legally, or naturally competent. 
But no act of a king or council, or even of a par- 
liament, was adequate to effect in the minds of 
the English public, that rational and cordial ac- 
quiescence in the new state of things, without 
which it must have been inefficient, as to influ- 
ence, and insecure as to duration. 

But for this, Providence itself made admirable 
provision. The pious and amiable Edward was 
kept upon the throne, until all that was neces- 
sary to be done, in an external and political way 
had been effected. — Then, for a time, the old 
system was permitted to return, with all its hor- 
rible accompaniments, in order, as it should 
seem, that the protestant church of England 
might not rest upon human laws alone, but might 
appear to have originated in the same essentia! 
principles with those of the apostolic church, 
and to have been constituted by men of a like 
spirit, who, when called to it, were similarly pre- 
pared to seal their testimony with their blood. 

The service that these illustrious men had 
done, by their temperate wisdom, and admirable 
judgment, in the reign of Edward, in compiling 
such a liturgy, and establishing such a worship, 
and such a form of doctrine, is ever to be held 
in grateful remembrance. But their passive 
virtue, their primitive heroism, in patiently, and 
even joyfully dying for those truths which they 
had conscientiously adopted ; this it was which 
established protestantism in the hearts of the 
English populace ! They saw the infernal cru- 
elty of the popish leaders, and the calm magna- 
nimity of the protestant martyrs. They saw 
these holy men, whose connexion with secular 
politics might be thought to have corrupted 
them, and whose high station in society might 
be supposed to have enervated them, facing 
death in its most dreadful form, with more than 
human tranquillity ! They saw all this, and the 
impression made upon them was like that which 
was made on the Israelites at Mount Carmel, by 
the event of the memorable contest between the 
priests of Baal, and. the prophets of the Lord. 
Accordingly on the death of Mary, the accession 
of Elizabeth excited universal joy. — The acqui- 
escence of the people in the changes made by 
Henry, and even by Edward, were little more 
than acts of necessity, and therefore implied no 
revolution in the general opinion. But now it 
was evinced, by every possible proof, that a tho- 
rough detestation of popery had extended itself 
through the whole community. • Were we to 
adopt,' says Goldsmith, ' the maxim of the ca- 
tholics, that evil may be done for the production 
of good, one might say, that the persecutions in 
Mary's reign were permitted only to bring the 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



109 



kingdom owr to the p*otestant religion. The 
people had formerly been compelled to embrace 
it, and their fears induced them to conform, but 
now almost the whole nation were protestants 
from inclination.' Nothing- can surely be more 
just than the substance of this sentiment. The 
lively writer seems only to have forgotten that 
we may ascribe to divine Providence the per- 
mission of evil, in order to a greater good, with- 
out sanctioning any maxim, revolting in theory, 
or dangerous in practice. 



CHAP. XXXIX. 

The same subject continued. Tolerant spirit of 
the church. Circumstances which led to the 
revolution — And to the providential succession 
of the house of Hanover. 

The circumstances attending the reformation, 
which has been most regretted, was, that a por- 
tion of the protestants were dissatisfied with it, 
as not coming up to the extent of their ideas ; 
and that this laid the foundation of a system of 
dissent, which broke the uniformity of public 
worship, and led, at length, to a temporary over- 
throw, both of the ecclesiastical and civil con- 
stitution. 

On these events, as human transactions, our 
subject does not lead us to enlarge. If the above 
remarks, with those in a foregoing chapter, on 
the peculiar characters of the English establish- 
ment be just, these persons, however conscien- 
tious, were opposing, without being aware of it, 
an institution which, from its excellent tendency 
and effects, seems to have been sanctioned by 
Providence? But may not even their opposition, 
and subsequent dissent, be considered in the 
same light as those other transactions, which 
have been mentioned ; that is, as permitted by 
the all-wise Disposer, in order to beneficial re- 
sults, which could not in the nature of thing's, 
according to our conception, have been equally 
produced through any other instrumentality ! 
For example : did it not supply the aptest means, 
which we can conceive, for answering the im- 
portant purpose, which was mentioned above — 
the perpetuating in the establishment itself, that 
mild and mitigating temper, which had so sig. 
nalhj influenced its first founders. 

If Christian virtue be, in every instance, the 
result, and the reward, of conflict ; and if each 
virtue be formed, as it were, out of the ruins of 
the opposite vice ; then may we not deem it mo- 
rally certain, that a Christian community, which 
' God delighted to honour,' should, as well as in- 
dividuals, have an opportunity suitable to its 
circumstances, of not being 'overcome of evil,' 
but of 'overcoming evil with good?' And would 
it not, therefore, appear probable that, though it 
should possess that political strength, and that 
portion of outward dignity, which might be ne- 
cessary to its efficiency as a national establish- 
ment, it should also have some opposition to en- 
counter, some trials to sustain, some calumnies 
to surmount, some injuries to forgive ? Would 
not such circumstances strengthen its claim to 
being deemed an integral part of the church 



militant ? and would they not fit it for answer- 
ing all the purposes of a Christian establishment, 
far better than if it had possessed that exclusive 
ascendancy, which should leave no room for the 
exercise of passive, and almost supersede the ne- 
cessity even of active virtue ? 

That the schism of which we speak, was per- 
mitted by Providence, for some such purpose as 
that just described, appears probable, from the 
agreement of such an intention with that wise 
and temperate plan by which the reformation 
had been effected ; from the obvious consistency 
of providing for the continuance of that mode- 
rate and mitigating temper of the first reform- 
ers; and, above all, because it is evident that 
the event in question has actually answered this 
valuable purpose : the most eminent divines of 
our church having been generally as much dis- 
tinguished for candour towards those who differ- 
ed from them, as for ability and firmness in 
maintaining their own more enlarged mode of 
conduct. 

That they could not have so fully manifested 
these amiable and truly Christian qualities, in a 
state of things where there was nothing to call 
them forth, is self-evident ; and it is almost as 
certain, that even their possession of such vir- 
tues must depend upon their having had motives 
to exercise them. We accordingly perceive, in 
the lives and writings of the great luminaries of 
our church, not only a happy prevalence of li- 
beral principles, and charitable feelings, but also 
the very process, if we may so speak, by which 
these principles and feelings were formed. From 
having continually in their view a set of persons, 
who had substantially the same faith, yet differ- 
ed in modes of worship, we see them acquiring 
a peculiar habit of distinguishing between the 
essentials and circumstantials of religion. Their 
judgment becomes strong, as their charity be- 
comes enlarged, and above all other divines, 
perhaps, they investigate religion as philoso- 
phers, without injury to the humility of their 
faith, or the fervency of their devotion. In al- 
most every other communion (though with some 
admirable exceptions) deep contemplative piety 
often appears associated with some sentiment or 
practice, which is apt to abate our estimation of 
the rationality of the party, or if rationality be 
preserved, there is too often some diminution of 
the pious affections. And what proves, that, 
from the seeming evil of which we have spoken, 
God has by his overruling influence deduced 
this good, is, that the completest spirit of tolera- 
tion, and this high description of character, have 
not been commonly united, but that seasons 
which peculiarly called forth in churchmen the 
exercise of Christian forbearance, were also sin- 
gularly fruitful in examples of this sublime and 
philosophic piety.* 

In fact, whether we consider the circum- 
stances under which the church of England 
was formed, the language in which she ex- 
presses her sense of the Christian doctrines, the 
spirit which pervades all her formularies, or the 
temper which has distinguished the first found- 
ers, and all their genuine successors; she evi- 
dently appears designed by Eternal Wisdom to 

* See bishop Burnet's history of his own times. 



no 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



have been a toierant church ; and by being such, 
to be the means of serving the great cause of 
Christianity, in certain important instances ; 
whicli could only be accomplished in a state of 
religious liberty. In too many other Christian 
countries, the established religion has appeared 
to rest entirely upon a political foundation. In 
consequence of this, men of lively talents have 
too generally, in such countries, become infidels. 
In England, ihe tolerant nature of the church 
establishment, in honourably maintaining, and 
giving the highest reverence to a national 
form of worship, but allowing individuals their 
unrestrained choice, has left religion itself to 
be a matter of reason and conviction, as really 
as it was in the primitive times; and the con- 
sequence has been, that reason and conviction 
have signally done their part. Infidels have 
made their utmost efforts, with every aid that 
perverted talents and misapplied learning could 
give them ; but all they could accomplish, has 
been to call forth far more powerful minds to 
defeat them with their own weapons ; and to 
demonstrate, that though the divine religion of 
the Gospel leans on political support, for the 
sake of greater public utility, yet its appropriate 
strength is that of invariable reason, irrefragible 
truth, and self-evident excellence. 

And while the English establishment has thus 
served the general interests of religion, she has 
most substantially served herself. Making her 
appeal to reason, she has been estimated accord- 
ingly ; and what she has not endeavodred to ex- 
tort by force, has been greatly yielded to her 
from rational attachment. It was natural, that 
the toleration which was given, should, in so 
exclusive a community, be largely made use of. 
But this leaves room for the establishment to 
try its comparative fitness to attach more minds, 
in which, be it said without invidiousness, the 
result has at all times been such, as signally to 
strengthen whatever has been adduced to illus- 
trate the high providential uses of the establish- 
ed church of England. 

Still, however, as the natural and proper ten- 
dency of the very best things may be thwarted 
by opposite influences, we ought to be aware 
that the genuine tendency of the establishment 
to attach men's minds, and recommend itself 
by its own excellence, should not be trusted in 
so confidentially, as that any of those to whom 
this precious deposit is committed should, from 
an idea that its influence cannot be weakened, 
become supine, while its enemies are alive and 
active. We do' not mean, that they should op- 
pose the adversaries of the church by acrimo- 
nious controversy, but by the more appropriate 
weapons of activity and diligence. We may 
reasonably presume, that the Almighty having 
wrought such a work for us at the Reformation, 
will still continue his blessing, while the same 
means are employed to maintain, which were 
used to establish it. But to this end every aid 
should be resorted to, every method should be 
devised, by which the great mass of the people 
may be brought to the public worship of the 
church. To one most important means we have 
already adverted,* and it cannot be too much 

* Chap, xvjii. 



insisted on — that the lower classes, among which 
the defection is greatest, should betimes receive 
an impression on their minds, not only of God's 
goodness and mercy, but of his power and su- 
premacy ; and also, that God is the real original 
authority by which ' kings reign, and princes 
decree justice ;' by which obedience and loyalty 
to government are enforced, and all the subor- 
dinate duties of life required of them. It is from 
the pulpit, undoubtedly, that every duty, both to 
God and man, is best inculcated, and with a 
power and sanction peculiar to itself; and it is 
the clergy that must prepare for God faithful 
servants and true worshippers ; and for the king 
a willing and obedient people. 

But the clergy, however zealous, pious, and 
active, cannot find time to do all that might be 
done. A people might be prepared for the clergy 
themselves. The minds of children should be 
universally familiarized with the moving stories, 
and their affections excited by the amiable cha- 
racters in the Bible. When the beautiful alle- 
gories of the New Testament have been not only 
studied, but properly interpreted to them ; when 
their memories have been stored with such sub- 
jects and passages as constantly occur in preach- 
ing, the service of the church, by becoming 
more intelligible, will become more attractive. 
And as we have already observed, with their re- 
ligious instructions, there should be mixed a 
constant sense of their own church, the privi- 
leges belonging to it, the mischief of departing 
from it, the duties which lie upon them as mem- 
bers of it. They should be taught the nature 
of the government of this church, the authority 
from which it is derived, and their duty and ob- 
ligations, not as children only, but through life 
to its ministers. They should be taught what 
all the offices and institutions of the church 
mean ; that none of them are empty ceremonies, 
but arrangements of genuine wisdom, and to be 
valued and used accordingly. 

We will venture to say, that were such a 
mode of training the lower classes every where 
adopted, they would then, not occasionally, fall 
in with the stream on Sundays, and be mixed, 
they know not why, with a congregation of 
customary worshippers ; but they would come 
with ability to understand, and dispositions to 
prefer the established mode of worship ; their 
ideas and sentiments would readily mix and as- 
similate with what they saw and heard. And 
thus an habitual veneration, both for the church 
and its pastors, would be an additional prepara- 
tion for the gradual influence of real religion on 
their minds. But while these modes of instruc- 
tion may be maintained by the leisure and the 
liberality of the laity, the clergy must be the 
life, and soul and spirit of them. 

But to return. — Perhaps, in a fair view of the 
importance of that truly Christian liberty, which 
ever since the revolution of 1G88 has been esta- 
blished in England, it might be doubted, whether 
this was not the ultimate object, on account of 
which, the civil rights of the English communi- 
ty were so providentially fostered. Certain it 
is, that at every period of our history when an 
advance is made in civil matters, some step ap- 
pears generally to have been gained in ecclesi- 
astical concerns also : and the completion of the 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Ill 



one is equally that of the other. But it seems 
as if the distinct agency of Providence, in bring- 
ing our church to that avowed and established 
tolerance, which was alike congenial to its spi- 
rit, and necessary to its purpose, is even more 
remarkable than that series of interpositions 
which has been referred to in the civil history 
of the country. And let it not be forgotten, that 
the toleration of our church is connected with 
our national love of civil liberty, and that the 
state also is tolerant.* 

The long reign of queen Elizabeth seems to 
have been designed for the purpose of consoli- 
dating and perpetuating the great work which 
had been accomplished. During that period, all 
the energies of the prerogative were exercised 
for the exclusive maintenance of the established 
religion. And may we not believe, that this was 
necessary, till the new order of things should 
have established itself in the habits of the people. 

That neither civil nor religious liberty was 
fully enjoyed in England till the revolution, will 
not be denied. And that the weak, and some- 
times most erroneous conduct of the race of 
Stuart was providentially over-ruled, so as to 
lead to that glorious consummation, is equally 
obvious. May we not then suppose, that this 
family was brought upon the throne for this 
purpose, when we see, that when that object 
was ripe for accomplishment, the family, in its 
male line, was excluded from the sovereignty, 
on the clearest grounds of invincible necessity, 
and hopeless bigotry ; an event, the occasion 
for which was as much to be deplored, as its 
motives are to be revered, and its consequences 
to be gloried in. This revolution was one of 
those rare and critical cases, which can never 
be pleaded as a precedent by discontent or dis- 
affection. It was a singular instance when a 
high duty was of necessity superseded by a 
higher; and when the paramount rights of law 
and conscience united in urging the painful but 
irresistible necessity. 

God has made human society progressive, by 
the laws of nature, as well as by the order of 
Providence. At some periods, this progress 
seems accelerated. It is, doubtless, the wisdom 
of those who preside over communities, to mark 
all such periods, -and instead of resisting, to re- 
gulate the progress. This did not the unfortu- 
nate house of Stuart. Their political error»s 
shall not here be enumerated. Probably they 
would have been preserved from them if they 
had not fought against divine Providence, in se- 
veral instances. The spirit of the English re- 
formation was that of rational but strict piety. 
This strictness, the conduct both of James and 
even of the first Charles, had a tendency to ex- 
tinguish, by sanctioning, and, in a degree, en- 
joining the profanation of the Lord's day. The 
order of public worship, as established by the 
reformers, was sufficiently majestic ; — no deco- 
rous circumstance being wanting, no exception- 
able ceremonies being admitted. Instead of 
wisely and steadily guarding this admirable ar- 
rangement from encroachments, the unfortunate 
Charles endeavoured to bring back these genu- 

* It is to be lamented that there was a most unhappy 
instance of departure from this spirit in the reign of 
Charles II. 



flections, and other ceremonies which the first 
reformers had discarded ; and enforced these in- 
novations by a severity, still more abhorrent 
from the temper of the Anglican church Un- 
der such mismanagement, these dissentient 
principles, which existed since the reformation, 
were fanned into that furious flame, from which 
the English constitution in church and state 
seems U> have como forth unhurt, only because 
the designs of over-ruling Providence required 
their preservation. 

The second Charles, untaught by the calami- 
ties of his virtuous but misguided father, disre- 
garded all principle in his public, and outraged 
all decency in his private conduct. His reign 
was a continual rebellion against that Provi- 
dence, which had destined the English nation 
to exemplify, both good government and good 
morals, to the surrounding world. Perhaps, 
however, nothing short of the enormities of him- 
self, and the misconduct of his successor, could 
have been sufficient to impel the English, after 
the miseries they had so lately experienced from 
anarchy, to the vindication of their just, consti- 
tutional rights. And probably again, they would 
not have possessed that temper, which kept 
them from demanding more than their just 
rights, if they had not received that previous 
discipline from the hand of heaven. It is worthy 
of notice, that when the house of Stuart was 
dispossessed of the throne of England, that same 
Providence caused a respite in favour of those 
two*" princesses who had not participated in the 
vices of their father's house. Of these, the elder 
was made a chief instrument in the great work 
which was to be accomplished. She was a cor- 
dial protestant, and a pious Christian : and we 
cannot doubt, but her marriage with that prince, 
who was appointed to perfect our liberties, was 
a special link in the chain of intermediate 
causes. She became a true English sovereign : 
a lover of the establishment, and an example of 
christian charity. Strictly and habitually de- 
vout amid all the temptations of a court, she 
was prepared to meet death with almost more 
than resignation. 

The character of her sister was much less 
impressive ; her good qualities being better 
fitted for a private life than a throne. It would 
be hard to charge her with inheriting the faults 
of her ancestors, from all the grosser instances 
of which she was clearly exempt. Yet there 
certainly appears, in her attachment, much of 
that weak subjection of mind, (and a little, it 
may be feared of that dissimulation too,) which 
had been so manifest in some former monarchs 
of her family. Yet even this weakness was 
overruled to great purposes. Had her attach- 
ment to the duchess of Marlborough been more 
moderate, the duke might not have possessed 
that supreme authority, which enabled him to 
humble, by so unexampled a series of victories, 
that power which had been the scourge of pro- 
testantism, and the pest of Europe. And had 
her temper been less mutable, it might not have 
been so easy to accomplish a peace, when the 
reasonable ends of war had been so fully an- 
swered 

* Mary and Anne. 



112 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



It would almost seem that the issue of this 
princess was deemed by Providence too central 
a branch of the Stuart family, to be entrusted 
with the newly renovated constitution. A more 
distant connexion had already been specially 
trained for this most important trust, though 
with little apparent probability of being called 
to exercise it, the princess Anne having been 
no less than seventeen times pregnant. The 
death of the duke of Gloucester, the last of her 
family, at length turned the eyes of the English 
public towards the princess Sophia ; from hence- 
forth she and her issue were recognized as pre- 
sumptive heirs to the crown. Many of the 
events which occurred during the last years of 
queen Anne's reign, served not a little to en- 
hance to all who were cordially attached to the 
English constitution, the providential blessing 
of so suitable a succession. 

A more remarkable event is scarcely to be 
found in the annals of the world. Nothing 
could be more essential to the interests of 
British liberty, than that they, who were con- 
cerned for its maintenance, should be possessed 
of the promptest and most unexceptionable 
means of filling the vacant throne. No prince 
was fitted to their purpose, who was not zeal- 
ously attached to thfe protestant religion ; and it 
was desirable that he should, at the same time, 
possess such a title, on ground of consanguinity, 
as that the principle of hereditary monarchy 
might be as little departed from as the exi- 
gencies of the case would admit. For the se- 
curing of both these radical objects, what an 
adequate provision was made in the princess 
Sophia, and her illustrious offspring ! The con- 
nexion thus near was made interesting by every 
circumstance which could engage the hearts 
of English protestants. The princess Sophia 
was the only remaining child of that only re- 
maining daughter of James the first, who being 
married to one of the most zealous protestant 
princes of the empire, became his partner in a 
series of personal and domestic distress, in 
which his committing himself, on the cause of 
the protestants of Bohemia, involved him and 
his family for near half a century. In her, all 
the rights of her mother, as well as of her father, 
were vested ; and while by the eleetorial dignity, 
(of which her father had been deprived) being 
restored to her husband, the duke of Hanover, 
she seemed, in part, compensated for the afflic- 
tions of her earlier life, — her personal character, 
in which distinguished wit and talents were 
united with wisdom and piety,* both these last 
probably taught her in the school of adversity, 
procured for her the admiration of all who knew 
her, as well as the veneration of those whose 
religious sentiments were congenial with her 
own. 

Such was the mother of George the first ! 
She lived, enjoying her bright faculties to a 
very advanced age, to see a throne prepared 
for her son far more glorious than that from 
which her father had been driven ; or, what to 
her excellent mind was still more gratifying, 

* See M. Chevreau's character of the Princess Sophia, 
quoted by Addison. Freeholder, No. 30. See also her 
two letters to Bishop Burnet, in his life annexed to his 
own. times. 



she saw herself preserved, after the extinction 
of all the other branches of her paternal house, 
to furnish in the most honourable instance pos- 
sible, an invaluable stay and prop for that cause, 
on account of which her parents and their chil- 
dren seemed, for a time, to have 'suffered the 
loss of all things.' 

Whether, then, we consider the succession 
of the house of Hanover, as the means of finally 
establishing our civil and religious constitution, 
which then only can be regarded as having at- 
tained a perfect triumph over every kind of 
oppression ; — or whether we view it as a most 
signal act of that retributive goodness which 
has promised ' that every one who forsaketh 
house, or brethren, or lands, for his sake, shall 
receive manifold more even in this present 
life.' I say, in whichsoever light we con- 
template it, — especially if we connect it with" 
the series of events in England, — and, above all, 
compare it with the fate of the family from 
which the parent princess had sprung — but 
which, after being chastised to no purpose, was 
rejected, to make room for those, who had suf- 
fered in so much nobler a cause, and with so 
much better effect, — what can we say, but with 
the Psalmist, ' that promotion cometh neither 
from the east, nor from the west, nor yet from 
the south. But God is the judge ; he putteth 
down one, and setteth up another. For in the 
hand of the Lord there is a cup, and the wine 
is red ; it is full mixed, and he poureth out of 
the same. But as for the dregs thereof, all the 
wicked of the earth shall wring them out, and 
drink them. All the horns also of the wicked 
shall be cut off, but the horns of the righteous 
shall be exalted.' 

Another less momentous, yet highly interest- 
ing instance of providential remuneration, con- 
nected with this great event, must not be passed 
over. It shall be given in the words of a living 
and a near observer. * A wife,' says bishop 
Burnet, ' was to be sought for prince Charles 
(the emperor's brother, whom the allies wished 
to establish on the Spanish throne) among the 
protestant courts, for tlrere was not a suitable 
match in the popish courts. He had seen the 
princess of Anspach, and was much taken 
with her, so that great applications were made 
to persuade her to change her religion ; but she 
could not be prevailed on to buy a crown at so 
dear a rate. And soon after, she was married 
to the prince Electoral of Brunswick ; which 
gave a glorious character of her to this nation. 
And her pious firmness is like to be rewarded, 
even in this life, by a much better crown than 
that which she rejected.'* Surely this portion 
of our queen Caroline's history deserves to be 
had in perpetual remembrance ! 

The same prelate speaking of king William, 
says, * I considered him as a person raised up 
by God, to resist the power of France, and the 
progress of tyranny and persecution. The thirty 
years, from the year 1672 to his death, in which 
he acted so great a part, carry in them so many 
amazing steps of a glorious and distinguishing 
Providence, that in the words of David he may 
be called, — The man of God's right hand, whom 
he made strong for himself.' 

* Burnet's own times, 1707. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



113 



But if there were just grounds for this re- 
mark respecting this particular period, and this 
individual personage : what shall we say of the 
entire chain of providences, which runs through 
our whole national history, from the landing of 
our Saxon ancestors to the present hour ? May 
it not be confidently asked, Is there at this day 
a nation upon earth, whose circumstances ap- 
pear so clearly to have been arranged, and bound 
together, by the hands of him, ' who does what- 
soever he pleases, both in heaven and earth ?' 

That the purposes of this great scheme have, 
as yet been most inadequately answered, as far 
as our free agency is concerned, is a deep 
ground for our humiliation, but no argument 
against the reality of providential direction. The 
Sacred history of the Jews, the only people who 
have been more distinguished than ourselves, 
presents to us not only their unparalleled obli- 
gations to the Almighty, but also a series of such 
abuses of those mercies, as at length brought 
upon them a destruction as unexampled as 
their guilt. The great purposes of heaven can- 
not be frustrated ; but the instrument which em- 
barrassed the process may, too surely, be ex- 
cluded from any share in the beneficial results, 
and be, on the contrary, the distinguished vic- 
tim of indignation. Thus Judea, in spite of 
all its apostacies, was made subservient to its 
original object. In spite of the barrenness of 
the parent tree, the mystic branch was made 
to spring from its roots ; but this purpose being 
once served, the tree itself, nourished as it had 
been with the chief fatness of the earth, and 
with the richest dews of heaven, was ' hewn 
down and cast into the fire.' 

Let England, let those especially of rank and 
influence, and, above all, let the personage 
whose high, but most awful trust it may be to 
have the delegated oversight of this vineyard, 
which God has ' fenced and planted with the 
choicest vine;' let all feel the weight of their 
responsibility, and avert those judgments which 
divine justice may deem commensurate to our 
abused advantages ! 

We have been the object of admiration to the 
whole civilized world ! Such have been the 
blessings conferred upon us, and such have been 
the bright lights, from time to time, raised up 
among us, that it could not be otherwise. But 
what would the effect have been, if our unexam- 
pled constitution, correspondent to its native 
design, had called forth, not the unblushing, 
because unpunishable, baseness of party pro- 
fligacy, but the unfettered, disinterested, unani- 
mous, exertion of commanding talent, of ener- 
getic application, and of invincible virtue ! if a 
solicitude to digest the principles, to imbibe the 
spirit, and to exemplify the virtues of our illus- 
trious worthies had been as assiduously excited 
by preceptors in their pupils, and by parents 
in their children, as a blind admiration of them, 
or a blinder vanity on account of them : — if those 
worthies had been as sedulously imitated, as 
they have been loudly extolled ; and above all, 
if our national church establishment had been 
as universally influential, as it is intrinsically 
admirable in its impressive ordinances, its be- 
nignant spirit, and its liberal, yet unadulterated 
doctrines : — We mean not, if these effects had 
H 



been produced to any improbable Utopian extent, 
but in that measure, which was, in the nature 
of things, possible, and which the moral Gover- 
nor of the Universe had an equitable right to 
look for. — If this had been realized, who can 
say what evils might have been prevented, what 
good might have been accomplished? How 
might protestantism have spread through Eu- 
rope, did our national morals keep pace with 
our profession ? How happily might the sound 
philosophy of the English school, when thus 
illustrated, have precluded the impious princi- 
ples and the blasphemous language of Voltrire 
and his licentious herd ! And how would the 
widely diffused radiance of our then unclouded 
constitution have poured even upon surrounding 
countries so bright a day, as to have made ra- 
tional liberty an object of general, but safe pur- 
suit, and left no place for those works of dark- 
ness by which France has degraded herself, 
and outraged human nature ! 

Shall we then persevere in our inattention to 
the indications of Providence? Shall we persist 
in our neglect or abuse of the talents committed 
to us ? Shall we be still unconscious that all our 
prosperity hangs suspended on the sole will of 
God, and that the moment of his ceasing to sus- 
tain us, will be the moment of our destruction ? 
And shall not this be felt particularly by those 
who, by being placed highest in the community, 
would, in such a ruin, be the most signal vic- 
tims, so they may now do most toward averting 
the calamity ? On the whole, what is the almost 
audible language of heaven to prince and peo- 
ple, to nobles and commoners, to church and 
state, but that of the great Author of our religion 
in his awful message to the long since desolated 
churches of Asia ? ' Repent, or else I will come 
unto thee quickly, and will fight against thee 
with the sword of my mouth ; and I will kill 
thy children with death, and all the churches 
shall know that I am he that searcheth the 
reins and hearts, and I will give to ever} - one 
of you according to your works.' 



CHAP. XL. 

On Christianity as a principle of action, es- 
pecially as it respects supreme rulers. 

Christianity is not an ingenious theory, a 
sublime but impracticable speculation, a fanci- 
ful invention to exercise the genius or sharpen 
the wit ; but it is a system for common appre- 
hension, for general use, and daily practice. It 
is critically adapted to the character of man, 
intelligible to hrs capacity, appropriated to his 
exigencies, and accommodated to his desires- 
It contains, indeed, abstruse mysteries to exercise 
his faith, to inure him to submission, to habi- 
tuate him to dependence ; but the sublimest of its 
doctrines involve deep practical consequences. 

Revelation exhibits what neither the philoso- 
phy of the old, nor the natural religion of the 
modern sceptic, ever pretended to exhibit, a com- 
pact system of virtues and graces. Philosophy 
boasted only fair ideas, independent virtues, and 
disconnected duties. Christianity presents an 



114 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



unmutilated ichole, in which a few simple but 
momentous premises induce a chain of conse- 
quences commensurate with the immortal na- 
ture of man. It is a scheme which not only 
displays every duty, but displays it in its just 
limitation and relative dependence; maintaining 
a lovely symmetry and fair proportion, which 
arise from the beautiful connexion of one virtue 
with another, and of all virtues with that faith 
of which they are the fruits. 

But the paramount excellence of Christianity 
is, that its erFects are not limited, like the virtues 
of the Pagans, to the circumscribed sphere of 
this world. Their thoughts and desires, though 
they occasionally appeared, from their sublimity, 
to have been fitted, for a wider range, were in a 
great measure shut in by the dark and narrow 
bounds of the present scene. At most, they ap- 
pear to have had but transient glimpses of eva- 
nescent light, which, however, while they lasted, 
made them often break out into short but spirit- 
ed apostrophes of hope, and even triumph. The 
Stoics talked deeply and eloquently of self-denial, 
but never thought of extending, by its exercise, 
their happiness to perpetuity. Philosophy could 
never give to divine and eternal things, sufficient 
distinctness or magnitude to induce a renuncia- 
tion of present enjoyment, or to insure to the 
conqueror, who should obtain a victory over this 
world, a crown of unfading glory. It never was 
explained, except in the page of Revelation, that 
God was himself an abundant recompence for 
every sacrifice which can be made for his sake. 
Still less was it ascertained, that, even in this 
life, God is to the good man his refuge and his 
strength, ' a very present help in time of trou- 
ble.' There is more rational consolation for 
both worlds, in these few words of the Amighty 
to Abraham, ' Fear not, I am thy shield, and thy 
exceeding great reward,' than in all the happy 
conjectures, and ingenious probabilities, of all 
the philosophers in the world. 

The religion, therefore, which is in this little 
work meant to be inculcated, is not the gloomy 
austerity of the ascetic ; it is not the fierce into- 
lerance of the bigot, it is not the mere assent to 
historical evidence, nor the mere formal obser- 
vances of the nominal Christian. It is not the 
extravagance of the fanatic, nor the extermi- 
nating zeal of the persecutor : though all these 
faint shadows, or distorting caricatures have 
been frequently exhibited as the genuine por- 
traits of Christianity ; by those who either never 
saw her face, or never came near enough to de- 
lineate her fairly, or who delighted to misrepre- 
sent and disfigure her. 

True religion is, on the contrary, the most so- 
ber, most efficient, most natural, and therefore 
most happy exercise of right reason. It is, in- 
deed, rationally made predominant by such an 
apprehension of what concerns us, in respect to 
our higher nature, as sets us above all undue 
attraction of earthly objects ; and in a great 
measure, frees the mind from its bondage to the 
body. It is that inward moral liberty which 
gives a man the mastery over himself, and ena- 
bles him to pursue those ends which his heart 
and his conscience approve, without yielding to 
any of those warping influences, by which all, 
except genuine Christians, must be, more or less, 



led captive. In a word, it is the influentia. 
knowledge of Him, whom to know is wisdom — 
whom to fear is rectitude — whom to love is hap- 
piness. A principle this, so just in rational 
creatures to their infinite owner, benefactor, and 
end ; so demanded by all that is perceivable in 
outward nature, so suggested by all that is right, 
and so required by all that is wrong in the hu- 
man mind, that the common want of it, which 
almost every where presents itself, is only to be 
accounted for on the supposition of human na- 
ture being un-der some unnatural perversion, 
some deep delirium, or fatal intoxication ; which 
by filling the mind with sickly dreams, renders 
it insensible to those facts and verities, of which 
awakened nature would have the most awful and 
most impressive perception. 

Thus, to awaken our reason, to make us sen 
sible of our infatuation, to point us to our true 
interest, duty, and happiness, and to fit us for 
the pursuit, by making us love both the objects 
at which we are to aim, and the path in which 
we are to move, are the grand purposes of the 
Christian dispensation. If moral rectitude be 
an evil ; if inward self-enjoyment be a grievance, 
if a right estimate of all things be folly ; if a 
cheerful and happy use of every thing, according 
to its just and proper value, be misery ; if a su- 
preme, undeviating attachment to every thing 
that is true and honest, and pure, and just, and 
lovely, and of good report, be weakness : in short, 
if the true relish for every thing substantially 
useful, every thing innocently pleasant in life, 
with the prospect, when life is ended, of felicity 
unspeakable and eternal, be moping melancholy, 
then, and not otherwise, ought the religion of 
the New Testament to be treated with neglect, 
or viewed with suspicion ; as if it were hostile 
to human comfort, unsuitable to high station, or 
incompatible with any circumstances which 
right reason sanctions. 

The gospel is, in infinite mercy, brought with- 
in the apprehension of the poor and the igno- 
rant ; but its grandeur, like that of the God who 
gave it, is not to be lowered by condescension. 
In its humblest similitudes, the discerning mind 
will feel a majestic simplicity, identical with 
that of created nature ; and in its plainest les- 
sons, an extent of meaning which spreads into 
infinitude. When we yield ourselves to its in- 
fluences, its effects upon us are correspondent to 
its own nature. It lays the axe to the root of 
every kind of false greatness, but jt leaves us in 
a more confirmed, and far happier enjoyment of 
all which really gives lustre to the character, 
which truly heightens the spirit, which strength- 
ens, ennobles, and amplifies the mind. It an- 
nounces to us a spiritual sovereign, to whose 
unseen dominion the proudest potentates of tha 
earth are in unconscious, but most real subjec- 
tion; but who, notwithstanding his infinite great- 
ness, condescends to take up his residence in 
every human heart that truly yields to his influ- 
ence; suppressing in it every unruly and unhap- 
py passion ; animating it with every holy and 
heavenly temper, every noble and generous vir- 
tue ; fitting it for all the purposes of Providence, 
and fortifying it against calamities, by a peace 
' which passeth all understanding.' 

That this is a view of Christianity, founded 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



115 



in irrefragable fact, and peculiarly demanding 
our regard, appears from the uniform language 
of its divine author, respecting himself and his 
mission, on all occasions where a summary an- 
nunciation was fitting. It is a spiritual king- 
dom, on the eve of actual establishment, of which 
he gives notice. To this ultimate idea, the other 
great purposes of his incarnation are to be re- 
ferred. They over whom he means to reign are 
attainted rebels. He, therefore, so fulfils every 
demand of that law which they had violated, as 
to reverse the attainder, on grounds of eternal 
justice. They were, also, captives to a usurper, 
whose mysterious, power he has so broken as to 
disable him from detaining any who are cor- 
dially willing to break their bonds. And having 
thus removed all obstacles, he offers privileges 
of infinite benefit; and demands no submission ; 
no dereliction, no observance, but what, in the 
very nature of things, are indispensable to the 
recovery of moral health, moral liberty, and mo- 
ral happiness : and what He, by the giacious in- 
fluences of his ever-present Spirit, will render, 
not only attainable, but delightful to the honest 
and humble heart. 

The royal person, then, should early and con- 
stantly be habituated to consider herself as pecu- 
liarly under the government, and in a most espe- 
cial manner needing the protection and guidance 
of this Almighty Sovereign ; looking to his word 
for her best light, and to his Spirit for her best 
strength ; performing all that she undertakes, 
in the manner most perfectly conformed to his 
laws, and most clearly subservient to the inte- 
rests of his spiritual kingdom ; submitting all 
events to his wisdom, and acknowledging no less 
his particular than his general Providence ; and, 
above all, praying daily for his support, depend- 
ing on his goodness for success, and submitting 
to his will in disappointment. In fact, to none, 
in so eminent a sense as to princes, does that sen- 
timent of an inspired instructor belong : ' Not 
that we are sufficient of ourselves, to think any 
thing as of ourselves ; but our sufficiency is of 
God.' 

She should practically understand, that reli- 
gion, though it has its distinct and separate du- 
ties, yet it is not by any means a distinct and 
separate thing, so as to make up a duty of itself, 
disconnected with other duties, but that it is a 
grand, and universally governing principle.which 
is to be the fountain of her morality, and the 
living spring of all her actions : that religion is 
not merely a thing to be retained in the mind, 
as a dormant mass of inoperative opinions, but 
which is '-> be brought, by every individual, into 
the detail of every day's deeds : which, in a 
prince, is to influence his private behaviour, as 
well as his public conduct ; which is to regulate 
his choice of ministers, and his adoption of mea- 
sures ; which is to govern his mind, in making 
war and making peace ; which is to accompany 
him, not only to the closet, but to the council ; 
which is to fill his mind, whether in the world 
or in retirement, with an abiding sense of the 
vast responsibility which he is under", and the 
awful account to which he will one day be call- 
ed, before that Being, who lodges the welfare of 
so many millions in his hands. In fine, to bor- 
row the wo'ds of the pious archbishop Seeker, 



' It ought to be explicitly taugnt, aud much dwelt 
upon, that religion extends its authority to every 
thing : to the most worldly, the commonest, the 
lowest' (and surely, still more the highest earth- 
ly) ' things ; binding us to behave reasonably, 
decently, humbly, honourably, meekly, and kind- 
ly in them all ; and that its interfering so far, 
instead of being a hardship, is a great blessing 
to us, because it interferes always for our 
good.' 

Parasites have treated some weak princes, as 
if they were not of the same common nature 
with those whom they govern ; and as if, of 
course, they were not amenable to the same 
laws. Christianity, however, does not hold out 
two sorts of religion, one for the court, and one 
for the country ; one for the prince, and another 
for the people. Princes, as well as subjects, who, 
' by patient continuance in well-doing, seek for 
glory, and honou'r, and immortality,' shall reap 
1 eternal life.' As there is the same code of laws, 
so there is the same promise annexed to the ob- 
servance of them. ' If thou wilt enter into life, 
keep the commandments.' There are no exempt 
cases. The maxim is of universal application. 
There will be no pleading of privilege on that 
day, when the dead, small and great, shall 
stand before God ; when they shall be 'judged 
out of those things which are written in the 
book of God's remembrance, according to their 
works.' 

So far from a dispensation of indulgences be- 
ing granted to princes, they are bound even to 
more circumspection. They are set on a pinna- 
cle, the peculiar objects of attention and imita- 
tion. Their trust is of larger extent, and more 
momentous importance. — Their influence in- 
volves the conduct of multitudes. Their exam- 
ple should be even more correct, because it will 
be pleaded as a precedent. Their exalted sta- 
tion, therefore, instead of furnishing excuses for 
omission, does but enlarge the obligation of per- 
formance. They may avail themselves of the 
same helps to virtue, the same means for duty ; 
and they have the same, may we not rather say, 
they have even a stronger assurance of divine 
aid, since that aid is promised to be proportioned 
to the exigence ; and the exigencies of princes 
are obviously greater than those of any other 
class of men. 

Power and splendor are not to be considered 
as substitutes for virtue, but as instruments for 
its promotion, and means for its embellishment. 
The power and splendor of sovereigns are con- 
firmed to them by the laws of the state, for the 
wisest and most beneficial purposes. But the.^j 
illustrious appendages are evidently not meant 
for their personal gratification, but to give iin- 
pressiveness and dignity to their station ; to be 
suitable and honourable means of supporting an 
authority, which Providence has made indis- 
pensable to the peace and happiness of society ; 
and on the adequate energy of which, the secu- 
rity and comfort of all subordinate ranks, ia 
their due gradations, so materially depend. 

Can we hesitate to conclude, that at the last 
great audit, princes will be called to account, 
not only for all the wrong which they have done, 
but for all the right which they have neglected 
to do ? Not only for all the evil they have per 



116 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



petrated, but for all that they, wilfully, have per- 
mitted? For all the corruptions which they have 
sanctioned, and all the good which they have 
discouraged? It will be demanded whether 
they have employed royal opulence, in setting 
an example of wise and generous beneficence, 
or of contagious levity and voluptuousness ? 
Whether they have used their influence, in pro- 
moting objects clearly for the public good, or in 
accomplishing the selfish purposes of mercenary 
favourites? And whether, on the whole, their 
public and private conduct tended more to dif- 
fuse religious principle, and sanction Christian 
virtue, or to lend support to fashionable profli- 
gacy, and to undermine national morality ? 

At the same time it is to be remembered, that 
they will be judged by that omniscient Being, 
who sees the secret bent and hidden inclinations 
of the heart; and who knows that the best 
prince cannot accomplish all the good he wishes, 
nor prevent all the evil he disapproves : — by that 
merciful Being, who will recompense pure de- 
sires and upright intentions, even where pro- 
vidential obstacles prevented their being carried 
into execution — by that compassionate Being, 
who sees their difficulties, observes their trials, 
weighs their temptations, commisserates their 
dangers, and takes most exact cognizance of 
circumstances, of which no human judge can 
form an adequate idea. Assured, as we are, that 
thi-s gracious method of reckoning will be ex- 
tended to all, may we not be confident, that it 
will be peculiarly applied, where the case most 
expressly stands in need of it ? And may we 
not rest persuaded, that if there is a spectacle 
which our Almighty Ruler beholds with pecu- 
liar complacency on earth, and will recompense 
with a crown of distinguished brightness in 
heaven, it is a sovereign doing justly, loving 

MERCY, AND WALKING HUMBLY WITH GoD. 

But is religion to be pursued by princes only 
as a guide of conduct, a law by which they are 
to live and act : as a principle which, if culti- 
vated, will qualify them for eternal felicity ? 
These are invaluable benefits, but they do not 
wholly express all that princes in particular need 
from religion. — They, in an eminent degree, re- 
quire consolation and support for this life, as 
well as a title to happiness in the life to come. 
They, above all human beings, need some pow- 
erful resource to bear them up against the agi- 
tations and the pressures, to which their high 
station inevitably exposes them. 

To whom on this earth are troubles and heart- 
achs so sure to be multiplied, as to princes, espe- 
cially to those of superior understanding and 
sensibility ? Who, of any other rank are exposed 
to such embarrassing trials, such difficult dilem- 
mas ? We speak not merely of those unfortu- 
nate monarchs, who have undergone striking 
vicissitudes, or who have been visited with ex- 
traordinary calamities ; but of such also whom 
the world would rather agree to call prosperous 
and happy : — Yet let him who doubts this ge- 
neral truth, read the accounts given by all our 
historians of the last yeais of king William, and 
the last months of queen Anne ; and then let 
him pronounce what could be more trying, than 
those disappointments and disgusts which sunk 
into the very soul of the one, or those cares and 



agitations which finally destroyed the peace of 
the other. 

If there be then any secret in the nature of 
things, and clearly infallible remedy by which 
such distresses may be assuaged, by which self, 
command, self-possession, and even 6elf-enjoy 
ment may be secured in the midst of the great- 
est trials to which mortality is liable, — would 
not this be an object to which the view of princes, 
even above all the rest of mankind, should bo 
directed ; and in comparison of which, they 
might justly hold cheap all the honours of their 
birth, and all the prerogatives of their rank? 

Christian piety, when real in itself, and when 
thoroughly established in the heart and in the 
habits, is this secret. When the mind is not 
only conscientiously, but affectionately religious; 
when it not only fears God, as the Almighty 
Sovereign, but loves and confides in him, as the 
all-gracious Father, not merely inferred to be 
such, from the beauty and benignity apparent 
in the works of nature, but rationally understood 
to be such from the discoveries of divine grace 
in the word of God ; — and let us add, no less ra- 
tionally felt to be such, from the transforming 
influence of that word upon the heart : then, 
acts of devotion are no longer a penance, but a 
resource, and a refreshment ; insomuch that 
the voluptuary would as soon relinquish those 
gratifications for which he lives, as the devout 
Christian would give up his daily intercourse 
with his Maker. But it is not in stated acts 
merely that such devotion lives, — it is an ha- 
bitual sentiment which diffuses itself through 
the whole of life, purifying, exalting and tran- 
quilizing every part of it, smoothing the most 
rugged paths, — making the yoke of duty easy, 
and the burden of care light. It is a perennial 
spring in the very centre of the heart, to which 
the wearied spirit betakes itself for refreshment 
and repose. 

In this language there is no enthusiasm. It 
is in spite of the cold raillery of the sceptic, the 
language of truth and soberness. — The Scrip- 
tures ascribe to Christian piety this very efficacy; 
and every age and nation furnish countless 
instances of its power to raise the human mind 
to a holy heroism, superior to every trial ! ' Were 
there not,' says the sober and dispassionate Til- 
lotson, ' something real in ths principles of reli- 
gion, it is impossible that they should have so 
remarkable and so regular an effect, to support 
the mind in every condition, upon so great a 
number of persons, of different degrees of un- 
derstanding, of all ranks and conditions, young 
and old, learned and unlearned, in so many dis 
tant places, and in all ages of the world, the 
records whereof have come down to us. I say 
so real, and so frequent, and so regular an effect 
as this, cannot with any colour of reason, be 
ascribed either to blind chance or mere imagi- 
nation, but must have a real and regular, and 
uniform cause, proportionable to so great and 
general an effect.'* 

We are persuaded that if the subject of this 
chapter be considered with an attention equal to 
its importance every other virtue will spring up, 
as it were spotaneously, in the mind, and a high 
degreee of excellence, both public and private, 
* Sermon XI. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



117 



be instinctively pursued. In such a case, how 
happy would be the distinguished individual, 
and how inconceivably benefited and blessed 
would be the community ! 

Pious sovereigns are at all times, the richest 
boon which heaven can bestow on a country. 
The present period makes us more than ever 
sensible of their importance. A period in which 
law has lost its force, rank its distinction, and 
order its existence ; in which ancient institu- 
tions are dissolving, and new powers, of unde- 
Bcribed character, and unheard of pretension, 
are involving Europe in contests and convul- 
sions, of which no human foresight can antici- 
pate the end. In what manner we may be 
affected by this unprecedented state of things, 
what perils we may have to face, what difficul- 
ties to struggle with, or what means of final ex- 



trication may be afforded us, it is not in man to 
determine. But certain it is, that even in the 
most threatening circumstances, the obvious, 
unaffected, consistent piety of the sovereign will 
do more to animate and unite a British public, 
than the eloquence of a Demosthenes, or the 
songs of a Tyrtseus; and it will be as sure a 
pledge of eventful success, as either the best dis- 
ciplined armies or the most powerful navies. 
Who can say how much we are indebted for our 
safety hitherto to the blessing of a king and 
queen who have distinguished themselves above 
all the sovereigns of their day, by strictness of 
moral conduct and by reverence for religion ? 
May their successors, to the latest posterity, 
improve upon, instead of swerving from their 
illustrious example 



CHRISTIAN MORALS. 

In moral actions, Divine law holdeth exceedingly the law of Reason to guide a man's life ; but 
in supernatural it alone guideth. — Hooker. 



As a slight memorial of sincere esteem and cordial friendship, this little sketch of 

CHRISTIAN MORALS 

Is, with strict propriety, Inscribed 

TO THE REV. THOMAS GLSBORNE, 

Of Yoxall Lodge : 

IN HIS WRITINGS AND IN HIS LIFE, A CONSISTENT CHRISTIAN MORALIST 



PREFACE. 

Mr. Pope, in his Essay on Criticism, has asserted, that the ' last and greatest art' of literary 
composition is ' the art to blot.' With a full conviction of the difficulty and the duty of this art, 
the Author of the following pages ventures to insist, even in contradiction to this high authority, 
that there is, in writing, an art still more rare, still more slowly learned, still more reluctantly 
adopted — the art to stop. 

But when shall this difficult, but valuable, art be resorted to ? At what precise moment shall 
we begin to reduce so wholesome a theory to practice ? It may be answered — at the period 
when time may reasonably be suspected to have extinguished the small particle of fire which the 
fond conceit of the author might tempt him to fancy he once possessed. 

But how is he to ascertain this critical moment of extinction ? His own eyes, always dim in 
the discernment of his own faults, may have become quite blind. His friends are too timid, or 
too tender, to hazard the perilous intimation. If his enemies, always kindly ready to perform 
this neglected office of friendship, proclaim the unwelcome truth, they are probably not believed. 
The public, then, who are neither governed by the misleadings of affection, nor influenced by the 
hostility of hatred, would seem to be the proper arbiters, the court from whose decision there 
should lie no appeal. 

But if, through generous partiality to good intentions, or habitual kindness to long acquaint 
ance, that the public, instead of checking, continue to cherish, the efforts which they have been 
accustomed to indulge, and the author be tempted still to persist in writing, may he not be in 
imminent danger of wearing out the good humour of his protectors, by a successive reproduction 
of himself— of abusing their kindness, by the vapid exhibition of an exhausted intellect? 

May the writer of the following pages, without incurring too heavily the imputation of vanity, 
be permitted to observe, that there is a sense in which the favour she has uniformly experienced 
is honourable to that public who have conferred it ? Their indulgence has never been purchased 



118 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



by flattery , their support has never been in payment for softening errors that require, not to be 
qualified, but combated ; has never been a reward for incense offered to the passions, for senti- 
ments accommodated to whatever appeared to be defective tn any reigning opinion, in any pre- 
vailing practice. They have received with approbation unvarnished truth, and even borne with 
patience bold remonstrance. In return, she is willing to hope, that she has paid them a more 
substantial respect, by this hazardous sincerity, than if she had endeavoured to conciliate their 
regard by indirect arts and unworthy adulation. 

Next to injure any reader, her deepest regret would be to offend him ; but when the questions 
agitated are of momentous concern, would not disguising truth, or palliating error, be, as to the 
intention, the worst of injuries, however powerless the writer might be in making a bad inten- 
tion effectively mischievous ? Sincere, therefore, as would be her concern, if any stroke of her 
pen 

Should tend to make one worthy man her foe, 

yet the feeling of having contributed to mislead a single youthful mind, by the suppression of a 
right, or the establishment of a false principle, would be more painful than any censures which 
an imprudent honesty might draw down upon her. 

If the humble work now presented to the world, be of little use to the reader, the writer is 
willing to hope it may not be altogether unprofitable to herself. If it induce her more strenu- 
ously to cultivate the habit of rendering speculation practical, if it should dispose her to adopt 
more cordially what she is so prompt to recommend, she will then have turned to some little ac- 
count the hours of pain and suffering under which it has been composed. 

She does not, however, absurdly presume to plead pain and suffering as an apology for defects 
in a work which she was at liberty not to have undertaken ; for, with whatever other evils sick- 
ness may be chargeable, it imposes on no one the necessity of adding one more to the countless 
catalogue of indifferent books. 

Barley Wood, December, 10th, 1812 



CHRISTIAN MORALS. 



CHAP. I. 



On the writers of pious books. 

All the things in this world carry in them 
such evident marks of imperfection, are so liable 
to be infected with error, good is separated 
from evil by such slight partitions, and the de- 
flection from what is right is so easy, that even 
undertakings which should seem most exempt 
from danger are yet insecure in their conduct, 
and uncertain in their issue. Writing a soundly- 
religious book might seem to put in the claim 
of an exempt case; but does experience prove 
that the exemption is infallible ? The employ- 
ment is good, the motive is likely to be pure ; 
the work may be unexceptionable in its ten- 
dency, and useful in its consequences. But is 
it always beneficial to the writer in the propor- 
tion in which he intends it to be profitable to 
the reader ? Even if the reader, is his own im- 
provement always the leading aim ? Does a criti- 
cal spirit never diminish the benefit which the 
book was calculated to convey ? If he is con- 
vinced by the more essential truths it imparts, 
is not some trivial disagreement of opinion, in a 
matter on which persons may differ without any 
charge against the piety of either, made to de- 
feat all the ends of improvement! Is not an in- 
significant, perhaps an ill founded objection, 
eufferod to invalidate the merit of the whole 
work ! Is not this eagerly detected fault tri- 
umphantly kept in the fore-ground, while all 
that is valuable is overlooked and its efficacy 
defeated ; the criticism being at once intended 
to give prominence to the error of the writer 
and the sagacity of the critic ? Another reader 
is probably searching for brilliancy when he 



should be looking for truth, or he is only seek- 
ing a confirmation of his own opinions, when 
he should have been looking for their correction. 

As to the writer, is he not in danger of being 
absorbed in the mechanical part of his work, 
till religious composition dwindles into a mere 
secular operation ? May he not be diverted 
from his main object by an over-attention to 
elegance, to correctness, to ornament ; — all 
which indeed are necessary ; for if he would 
benefit he must be read, if he would be read 
he must please, if he would please he must 
endeavour to excel ; — but may he not, in tak- 
ing some, take too much pains to please, and 
so become less solicitous to benefit, to the injury 
both of his reader and himself? May not the 
very lopping and pruning his work, the flowers 
which he is anxiously sticking into it, the little 
decorations with which he is setting off those 
parts which he fears may be thought dry and 
dull, raise a sensation in his mind not unlike 
that which a vain beauty feels in tricking out 
her person ? May he not, by too much con- 
fidence in his own powers, be blind to errors 
obvious to all but himself; or else may he not 
use the file too assiduously, and by over-labour 
in smoothing the asperities of his style, diminish 
the force of his meaning, and polish honest 
vigour into unprofitable elegance ? 

Some indeed have been so indulgent to au- 
thors under their many difficulties, as to allow 
them a certain mixture of inferior excitement, 
as an under help to assist such motives as are 
more pure. If they did not feel a little too full 
of their work, when it was under their hand, it 
has been said, they would not devote to it the 
full force of their mind. This anxiety, or 
rather this absorption, it is presumed, lasts no 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



119 



longer than till the immediate object is accom- 
plished. It retreats indeed, but waits for the 
author, seizes him again with undiminished 
force on his next undertaking. If he fancied 
that his former subject was all in all while 
his mind was intent upon it, that preference, 
like the fondness of an animal for its young, 
which is lost when they no longer need its fos- 
tering care, is transferred to the next. 

As this ardour in a rightly-turned mind will 
not be sufficiently durable to ripen into vanity, 
but will cool as soon as the end for which it 
was exerted is answered ; it will not materially 
injure the conscientious writer ; for he will 
probably, when the impetus is taken off, as 
much undervalue his work, as he had before 
over-rated it. But woefully deficient in hu- 
mility is that author, whose enthusiasm does 
not subside, when it is no longer necessary to 
keep alive the spirit of his undertaking ! Con- 
victed indeed will he be of vanity, who persists 
in thinking his work as glowing, as when, with 
a judgment dazzled by his ardour, he viewed it 
hot, and fresh-drawn from the furnace ! 

But perhaps when a man engages in any little 
service, if he did not in some degree exaggerate 
its value, in his hope of its utility, he would 
want one motive for attempting it. Is it not 
therefore a smaller evil that he should a little 
magnify its importance to his imagination, than 
that complete hopelessness should totally deter 
him from all enterprise ? Natural indolence is 
in many, too powerful a subduer even of re- 
ligious exertion, to allow them to work without 
hope. If hope flatters, she at least supports ; 
thus something is achieved which else would 
not have been done at all. Again, the timid 
writer forsees that many objections may be 
raised to his work. This would amount to a 
disqualifying dejection, did he not take comfort 
in the chance that his censors may possibly dis- 
agree among themselves as to the points de- 
serving criticism, and that one may even com- 
mend what another condemns. Thus his mind 
is kept in a just equilibrium ; without the expec- 
tation of censure, he would be vain ; without 
some hope of approbation, even the purity of 
his intention might not always secure him 
from despondency. 

But though no mixed motives or human feel- 
ings in the author ought to interfere with those, 
of the reader, who has only to do with the book, 
and not with the man, it is of no small moment 
to himself, that both feelings and motives be 
pure. It is of the last importance that he do 
not impose on himself the belief, that he has 
only the honour of religion at heart, when lite- 
rary renown, or victory over an adversary, may 
be the prodominating principle. He will also 
be careful that his best endowments be not con- 
verted into implements of injury ; he will be 
cautious that his learning, which is so useful to 
arm his zeal, do not help to encumber it ; that 
his prudence, which is so necessary to moderate, 
do not extinguish it. 

But if he comes off clear from these tempta- 
tions, other and greater lurk behind. He should 
bear in mind, that in composing a religious 
work for the public, he is producing the best 
part of himself: that he is probably exhibiting 



himself to others as much better than he is ; 
for whatever be the faults of his own character, 
it is his bounden duty to conduct his reader to 
the highest approach to excellence. Indepen. 
dent of his general defects, he is at least carefully 
keeping out of sight every vain thought which 
may have stolen upon him while writing, every 
evil temper which may have assailed him, every 
temptation to indulge too ardent a wish that his 
book may procure praise for himself, as well as 
benefit to his readers. To flatter himself inor- 
dinately on this head, as well as in over-antici- 
pating the great effects it will produce, is not, 
perhaps, the smallest of his dangers. That very 
self knowledge which he has perhaps been in- 
culcating on others, would preserve him from 
an undue estimation both of himself and his 
book. 

It was the sneer of a witty, but discouraging 
satyrist, that, 'To mend the world 's a vast de- 
sign.' It is, indeed, a design from which the 
purity of his motive may not always secure the 
humility of the author. Yet modestly to aim at 
ameliorating that little portion of it which lies 
within his immediate sphere, is a duty out of 
which he should not be laughed by wits and epi- 
gramatists. Instead of indulging unfounded 
hopes of improbable effects, the Christian writer 
will be humbled at the mortifying reflection, what 
great and extensive evil the most insignificant 
bad men may effect, while so little comparative 
good can be accomplished by the best. But it is 
to be regretted, that even religion is no sure pro- 
tection against the intrusion of vanity, that it 
does not always secure its possessor fiom over- 
rating his own agency, from fondly calculating 
on the unknown benefits which, by his project- 
ed work, he is preparing for mankind. A pious 
Welch minister, many years ago, being about 
to publish a sermon, previously consulted the 
writer of these pages how many thousand copies 
he ought to print. He felt not a little shocked 
at her advising him to reduce his thousands to 
hundreds, scores she did not dare advise. As 
she had foreseen, not half a dozen were sold, ex- 
cept a few, charitably taken off his hands by 
his friends. At her return soon after, from the 
metropolis, he hastened to her with all the ar. 
dour of impatience, and seriously inquired, 
whether she had observed any material reforma- 
tion at the court end of the town, since the pub- 
lication of the discourse. 

Among the many unsuspected but salutary 
checks to the vanity of a pious writer, it will 
not be the least, that his very popularity may 
make the intrinsic value of his work questiona- 
ble ; that he may be indebted for its favourable 
reception, not to its excellencies, but its defects, 
not to the deep, but to the superficial views he 
has taken of religion , that it may be more ac. 
ceptable only because it is less searching ; that 
if he has pleased, it may be owing to his having 
been more cautious than faithful. If there is 
reason to suspect that success arises from his 
having skimmed the surface of truth, when he 
ought to have penetrated its depths, that he has 
reconciled the reader to Christianity and to him- 
self by a disingenious discretion, by trimming 
between God and the world, by concealing truths 
he ought to have brought forward, or by palliat- 



120 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ing those he durst not disavow : popularity thus 
obtained will afford ground of humiliation rather 
than of triumph. In avoiding these, and all si- 
milar errors, he will also not fail to bear in mind, 
that He who gave the talents, gave also the 
right bent to the use of them, and that, there- 
fore, he has no more ground for boasting of the 
application than of the possession. 

When he is called upon by the nature of his 
subject to expatiate strongly on this vice, or to 
point out the danger of that error, does he never 
feel a sort of conscious superiority to certain in- 
dividuals of his acquaintance, who may be in- 
fected with either, and, for a moment, be tempt- 
ed to sit rather in the seat of the scorner, than 
in that of the counsellor ? On such occasions, 
there is nothing which he will more carefully 
watch, than the temper of his own mind. When 
duty compels him to be severe against any false 
opinion, or wrong practice, he will be cautious 
not to mix with his just censure, any feeling of 
disdain, any sentiment of indignation, against 
any individual whom he may bear in mind ; nor 
will he indulge the unworthy wonder how such 
or such a person will be mortified at the expo- 
sure of a fault to which he is addicted. Nor will 
he harbour in his bosom an uncharitable vehe- 
mence against those whom the reproof may 
suit, nor a secret self-complacent certainty, that 
if any thing can do them good, this must do it ; 
that though they hear not Moses and the Pro- 
phets, they cannot but listen to his pointed ad- 
monitions — that they can never stand out against 
such persuasions as he has to offer — never re- 
sist such arguments as he has prepared for their 
conviction. 

But what is still a more serious danger, has 
he never been tempted to overlook his own faults 
while he has been exposed to those of others ; 
and this, though the failing he is condemning, 
may be peculiarly his own ? With just indig- 
nation against the offences he is reproving, has 
he never once forgotten to mingle tender com- 
passion for the offender, remembering, that he 
himself is sinful dust and ashes; that he also 
stands in need of infinite mercy, and has been 
only rescued by that mercy from being on a 
level with the worst objects of his just disappro- 
bation. 

It would, notwithstanding, be the highest de- 
gree of unfairness, to prefer a charge of injus- 
tice, hypocrisy, or even inconsistency, against 
an author, because his life in some respects, falls 
short of the strictness of his writings. It is a 
disparity almost inseparable from this state of 
frail mortality. He may have fallen into errors, 
and yet deserve to have no heavier charge 
brought against him than he has brought against 
others. Infirmity of temper, inequality of mind, 
a heart though fearing to offend God, yet not 
sufficiently dead to the world ; — these are the 
lingering effects of sin imperfectly subdued, in 
a heart which yet longs, prays, and labours for 
a complete deliverance from all its corruptions. 

When a pious writer treats on any awful to- 
pic, he writes under a solemn conviction of its 
vast importance ; he trembles at the idea of not 
beinjr entirely faithful, of not being valiant for 
the truth, of not being honestly explicit, of not 
declaring the whole counsel of God. His own 



heart is deeply impressed with the dignity of 
his subject, and he deprecates the thought of 
shrinking from the boldest avowal of every truth, 
or of withholding the most powerful enforce- 
ment to the practice of every virtue. He is ap- 
prehensive lest, on the one hand, when he assails 
vice or error, he should appear to indulge a vio- 
lent or vindictive spirit, and be magisterially 
lifting his fallible self into the chair of authority; 
lest his attack on the vice might be construed 
into uncharitableness to the man. On the other 
hand, he is fearful lest by being more forbearing 
he should be less upright ; lest if he tried to 
soften he should deceive ; lest, by indulging too 
much a spirit of conciliation, he should compro- 
mise truth for human favour. — Honest though 
imperfect, sincere though fallible, he endeavours 
to bring his principles, his faith, and his convic- 
tions, into full operation ; he warmly declares 
what he cordially feels, and faithfully testifies 
what he firmly believes. 

But when he comes to act, he is sometimes 
brought to be too keenly sensible of the very 
fault in himself, against which he has been cau- 
tioning others ; deeply does he lament that he 
feels strong remains in himself of that corruption 
of which it was not the less his duty to direct 
his attacks. Some temptation presses him, some 
infirmity cleaves to him. These unsubdued 
frailties prove that he is a man, but they do not 
prove that he is a hypocrite. The truth is, the 
religious writer is sometimes thought worse than 
other men, because his book was considered as 
a pledge that he should be better. It was ex- 
pected that the faults he described he would 
avoid ; the passions he had blamed he would 
suppress ; the tempers he had exposed he would 
have subdued. Perhaps it will commonly be 
found that the reader had expected too much and 
the writer had done too little. 

The writer on religious topics is however the 
person who of all others ought to watch, himself 
most narrowly. He has given a public pledge 
of his principles. He has held out a rule, to 
which, as others will be looking with a critical 
eye to discover how far his conduct falls short 
of it, so he should himself constantly bear in 
mind the elevation of his own standard ; and he 
will be more circumspect from the persuasion, 
that not only his own character but that of reli- 
gion itself will suffer by his departure from it. 
The consciousness of the inferiority of his prac- 
tice to his principles, if those principles arc truly 
scriptural, will furnish him with new motives to 
humility. The solemn dread lest this inconsis- 
tency should be produced against him at the last 
day, is a fresh incentive to higher exertions, 
stirs him up to augmented vigilance, quickens 
him to more intense prayer. He experiences at 
once the contradictory feeling of dreading to ap- 
pear better than he really is, by the high tone 
of piety in his compositions, or of making others 
worse by lowering that tone in order to bring 
his professions nearer to the level of his life. 
Perhaps the most humiliating moment he can 
ever experience is, when by an accidental glance 
at some former work he is reminded how little 
he himself has profited by the very arguments 
with which he may have successfully combated 
some error of the reader ; when he feels how 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



121 



much his own heart is still under the dominion 
of that wrong- temper of which he lias forci- 
bly exposed the turpitude to the conviction of 
others. 

There is, however, no personal reason which 
could ever justify his holding- out an inferior 
standard. If there is any point in which he 
eminently excels, he has the best of all possible 
reasons for pressing it upon others — his own ex- 
perience of its excellence. If there be any in 
which he unhappily fails, he is clearly justified 
in recommending it from the humbling sense of 
his own deficiency in it. Thus he will in either 
case enforce truth with equal energy, from causes 
diametrically opposite. Is it not then obvious 
that as there is no vanity in insisting on a virtue 
because the writer possesses it, so there is no 
hypocrisy in recommending a quality because 
he himself is destitute of it? 

But if, through the so frequently alleged im- 
perfection attached tohumanity, christian writers 
do not always attain to the excellence they sug- 
gest, let us not therefore infer that their princi- 
ples are defective, their aims low, or their prac- 
tical attainments mean. Let us not suspect 
that it is not the endeavour of their life, as much 
as the desire of their heart, to maintain a con- 
duct which shall not discredit their profession. 
Above all-, let us be cautious of concluding- that 
they do not believe what they teach, because 
they have passions like other men ; provided we 
observe them struggling with those passions, 
and making a progress in their conquest over 
them, though that progress be impeded by na- 
tural infirmity, though it be obstructed by occa- 
sional irritation. The triumphant detector of 
the discordance between the author and his book 
knows not the secret regrets, hears not the fer- 
vent prayers, witnesses not the penitential sor- 
rows, which a deep sense of this disagreement 
produces in the self-abasing heart. To instance 
in a familiar case : — In the heat of conversation 
with the author, he has probably marked an im- 
patient word, a hasty expression, a rash judg- 
ment ; these he treasures up, and produces 
against him ; but he does not hear, in the writer's 
nightly review of the errors of that day, his self 
rebuke for this unsubdued impetuosity, his reso- 
lutions against it, the earnest prayer which per- 
haps at this moment is carrying forward the 
gradual subjugation of his temper. 

Yet his reputation might suffer in another 
way ; for if the critic could hear these humbling 
confessions of the writers in question, he would 
be ready to conclude that they were ' Sinners 
above all the Galileans.' Whereas the truth 
most probably is, that they are so alive to the 
perception of the evil of their own hearts, that 
things which would be slight faults in the esti- 
mation of the accuser, to them appear grave 
offences. Things which they lament as evils 
of magnitude, would to the less tender con- 
science be impalpable, imperceptible. For in- 
stance, — While the caviller would call even the 
omission of prayer a venial fault ; they would 
call a heartless prayer a sin ; where the one 
would think all was well if the literal perform- 
ance had not been neglected, the other would be 
uneasy under the exterior observance, if he felt 
that the spirit had not accompanied the form. 

Vol. II 



The reprover might even accuse the serious 
Christian of absurdity, should he have overheard 
him humbling himself for something which was 
obviously a virtue. He was not, however, so 
preposterously humble, as to make the virtue the 
ground of his regret — he was abasing himself 
for some vanity, which like an excrescence had 
grown out of it, some inattention which like a 
poison had mixed with it. When a humble man 
meditates on his vices, and an irreligious man 
on his virtues, the vices of the one might be 
sometimes deemed as unsubstantial as the vir- 
tues of the other actually are. 

The writer of good books, in common with 
other authors, is exposed to one danger from 
which other men are exempt, that of being so 
immediately the object of his own attention. 
This may lead him to be too full of himself. His 
intellect is even more constantly before his eyes 
than the form and face of the beauty are before 
her's. But if in this exercise he may be tempt- 
ed to think too well of his understanding, the 
mischief will be counteracted by the advantage 
which such a close view may bring to his heart. 
The faults he reprehends in general, will bring 
his own faults more forcibly before him, and it 
will be a humbling consideration which he will 
not fail to press home on himself, to reflect, that 
he is better able to penetrate into the recesses 
of the erring hearts of others, from the sympa- 
thies of his own. Repeated and successful pains 
have been taken by some popular wits,* in whom 
levity has answered the end of malice, to lower 
the value of pious instruction, by exposing the 
discrepancy between the exhortation and the ex- 
horter. They have ingeniously invented cases 
and situations in which the clergyman is preach- 
ing powerfully and efficaciously on the duty of 
submission to the divine will ; immediately after 
which, they contrive to betray him into a pa- 
roxysm of overwhelming impatience at some 
great domestic calamity of his own. This as it 
tends to make the infirmity of sincere Christians 
a matter of triumph, could only have been done 
with a view to make them ridiculous ; a laugh 
is cheaply though not very honourably raised, 
and the insignificance or hollowness of religious 
instruction perhaps indelibly stamped on the 
mind of the young reader. But supposing the 
circumstances to have been real, ought the frail 
affections, ought the conscious infirmity of these 
good men to have let them to withhold from 
their audiences the necessity of christian resig- 
nation ? Such instances of natural feeling in 
certain stages of a progressive piety, neither 
prove religion to be powerless, nor its professor 
deceitful. Was the fervent, but fallible apostle, 
who in a moment of infirmity denied his master, 
a hypocrite, when he said, ' though all the world 
should be offended, yet will not I ?' 

Yet is this captious spirit an additional reason 
why the pious writer should guard against ex- 
cesses in feeling, which, if the reader could wit- 
ness, he would exultingly reiterate the vulgar 
but melancholy truism : How much easier it is 
to preach than to practice ! How gladly would 
he have brought the conduct to confront the 
counsel, and have missed all the benefit of the 
discourse, by the disclosure of the failing ! 
* Goldsmith Yielding, &c. &r. 



122 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



But allowing the worst — granting that the 
writer is not in all points exemplary ; if we re- 
solve never to read a work of instruction because 
the author had faults, Lord Bacon's inexhausti- 
ble mind of intellectual wealth might have still 
lain unexplored. Luther, the man to whom the 
protestant world owes more than to any other 
uninspirad being, might remain unread, because 
he is said to have wanted the meekness of Me- 
lancthon. Even the divine instructions conveyed 
in the book of Ecclesiastes would have been 
written in vain. 

It is not necessary that the writer under con- 
sideration should, like the sacred penman, cri- 
minate himself. Their ingenuous self-abasement 
added weight to the truth of their general testi- 
mony, and was doubtless directed by the holy 
Spirit, as well for this purpose, as for the humi- 
liation of the offending historian. But above all 
it is calculated to show that the renovation of 
hearts so imperfect was the work of the Spirit 
of God. 

Though the pious writer in these days is not 
called upon to exercise this self-disparaging 
egotism, yet let not his silence on this head be 
attributed to a desire that he may be thought a 
belter man than Moses, who heroically perpe- 
tuated the memory of that offence which was an 
inhibition to his entering the land of promise — 
nor than David, the recorder of his own sins, the 
enormity of which could only be exceeded by 
the intensity of his repentance — nor than saint 
Paul, who published himself to have been a blas- 
phemer and a persecutor. If the best men 
among us have, through the preventing grace 
of God, been preserved from the signal offences 
of prophets and apostles, they will themselves 
be the foremost to acknowledge how, beyond all 
comparison, they are below them, in that de- 
votedness of spirit, that contempt of earthly 
things, and that annihilation of self, which so 
eminently characterized those inspired servants 
of God. 

But suppose we were to go farther — even if 
it could be proved that some individual charge 
had not been altogether unfounded. Even this 
possible evil in the man, would not invalidate 
the truths he has been teaching. Balaam, though 
a bad man, prophesied truly. Erasmus, whose 
piety is almost as doubtless, as his wit and learn- 
ing were unquestionable, yet by throwing both 
into the right scale, was a valuable instrument 
in effecting the great work in which he was 
concerned. Erasmus powerfully assisted the 
reformation, though it is not quite so clear that 
the reformation essentially benefited Erasmus. 
If then the writer advances unanswerable ar- 
guments in the cause of truth, if he impressively 
enforces its practical importance, his character, 
even if defective, should not invalidate his rea- 
soning. Though we allow that even to the 
reader it is far more satisfactory when the life 
illustrates the writing, yet we must never bring 
the conduct of the man as any infallible test of 
the truth of this doctrine. Allow this, and the 
reverse of the proposition will be pleaded against 
us. Take the opposite case. Do we ever pro- 
duce certain moral qualities which Hobbes, 
Bayle, Hume, and other sober sceptics possess- 
ed, as arguments for adopting their opinions ? — 



Do we infer as a necessary consequence, tha. 
their sentiments are sound, because their livei 
were not flagitious ? 

But though it is an awful possibility, that the 
same work may at once promote God's glory, 
and prove a danger to the instrument that pro- 
motes it — that the opulence of the very mind 
which is advancing religion, may be used by 
the owner to his hurt — that he may be so ab- 
sorbed in it as a business, that he may lose sight 
of his end — that he may neglect personal, while 
he is advancing public religion — or be so anxi- 
ous for the success of his work, that he cannot 
commit the event to heaven : let us thankfully 
profit by the truths he teaches : bless God that 
he has been useful to us ; and pray that his er- 
rors may not be imputed to him. 

Many a sincere Christian will confess that 
when he is writing in an animated strain in the 
cause of religion, there are moments in which, 
from imbecility of mind or infirmity of body, or 
failure of animal spirits, while he is promoting 
the spiritual interests of others, he is inwardly 
lamenting his own deadness to the very things 
on which he is insisting. He however perse- 
veres ; like the army of Gideon, ' faint yet pur- 
suing,' he suffers not the feeling to obstruct the 
act, till, as a reward for his perseverance, the 
act brings back the feeling. Were it suspected 
that some of his most approved pages were 
written under this declension of zeal, what a 
clamour would be raised against his inconsist- 
ency, when his merit — if we dare use the word 
merit — consists in overcoming the languor of 
his spirit, and in acting as if he felt it not. His 
depression may in fact have been augmented by 
his humility. He has trembled lest the solemnity 
with which he has been calling upon others, 
should not stir up his own feelings ; lest the ar- 
guments which were intended to alarm the 
reader, should leave his own heart cold and un- 
affected. 

While it is of the nature of scientific princi- 
ples to adapt themselves only to one particular 
bent of mind, and of the inventive powers to ad- 
dress persons of imagination only : it is the 
character of Christianity, and should be the aim 
of the Christian writer, to accommodate their 
instructions to every class of society, to every 
degree of intellect, to every quality of mind, to 
every cast of temper. Christianity does not in- 
terfere with any particular form of study, any 
political propensity, any professional engage- 
ment, any legitimate pursuit. It claims to in- 
corporate itself with the ideas of every intelli- 
gent mind which lies open to receive it; it infuses 
itself, when not repelled, into the character of 
every individual, as it originally assimilated it- 
self to that of every government, without sacri- 
ficing any thing of its specific quality, without 
requiring any mind of a peculiar make for its 
reception. 

Without altering its properties by any infu- 
sions of his own, a judicious writer will always 
consider how he may render it most acceptable 
to the capacity of the general recipient. To 
exclude reason from religion, he knows is not 
the way to attract argumentative men (o inquire 
into its truth ; — to exclude elegance from its ex- 
hibition, is not the probable method to invite 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



123 



men of taste to speculate on its beauty. If how- 
ever the writer possess little of the graces which 
embellish truth, if he cannot adorn it with those 
charms which, though they add nothing to its 
lustre, yet attract to its contemplation ; still 
plain sense and unaffected piety may contribute 
to the production of a work which may prove 
useful to a large and valuable proportion of 
readers. But here if genius is not essential, 
good taste is never to be dispensed with. A 
sound judgment will be requisite to prevent 
piety from being repulsive to readers who have 
been accustomed to view other intellectual sub- 
jects exhibited in all the properties of which 
they are severally susceptible. Let them not 
see a subject of this transcendent importance, 
injured by any debasing mixture, disfigured by 
any coarseness of language, nor degraded by 
any vulgar associations. 

On the other hand, while some object so stre- 
nuously against the introduction of the affec- 
tions into religion, what are we to understand 
from it, but that in the opinion of the objectors, 
a man will write the better because he does not 
feel his subject, — that he will teach religion 
more safely to others, from not having felt its 
influence on his own heart, — that he will make 
a deeper impression by writing from books than 
from himself, or rather that making an impres- 
sion at all is a dangerous thing, — that it is of 
the nature of enthusiasm, proceeding from it, 
and productive of it ! — that therefore it is better 
that the reader should not be impressed, but 
only informed. 

But the sound and sober Christian takes the 
best precaution against infusing a fanatical spi- 
rit by not possessing it. He cannot communi- 
cate the distemper of which he is not sick. He 
cautiously avoids it on a double ground. He 
knows that enthusiasm and superstition are not 
only mischievous in their nature, but that they 
furnish the profane with a plausible argument 
agaivist religion itself. He remembers, and ap- 
plies the observation, that to some pagan poets, 
especially Lucretius, these errors supplied Athe- 
ism with her most powerful arms. But though 
he allows that enthusiasm is dangerous, he con- 
tinues to write like one who knows that it is 
not the exclusive danger of the age ; like one 
who is convinced that frenzy is not the only dis- 
temper in our spiritual bills of mortality : like 
one whose heart is warmed, not by animal pul- 
sation, but by those quickening oracles of truth, 
which carry in them ' the demonstration of the 
Spirit and of power;' like one who feels that re- 
ligion is not a misleading fire, but an animating 
principle which at once enlarges his views, ele- 
vates his aims, and ennobles his character. 

But to return to the reader- If we had no 
higher reason to aim at improvement in piety, 
one would almost think that the mere feelings 
qf gratitude and good-nature might tempt to 
show our affection to our pious benefactors, by 
profiting from their exhortations, their councils, 
their persuasions. It might almost touch a heart 
dead to superior considerations, to reflect how 
many departed worthies have wasted their 
strength, as to us, in vain. Among the witnesses 
who will appear against us in the great day of 
account, they will stand the foremost Let us 



tremble as we figure to ourselves out unwilling 
accusers in that band of holy men, who earnestly 
sought to draw us, not to themselves, but to 
those treasures of inspiration, of which they 
were the faithful expositors ; to the Prophets 

and Apostles, 'to Jesus the mediator of 

the new covenant, and to God the judge of 
all.' 

And is it not a cruel return to refuse those 
who still meekly wait the effect of their labours 
upon earth, the honest gratification of seeing 
that we have derived some little advantage from 
their exertions ? Let us show them that they 
have not offered up the fervent prayers which 
doubtless accompanied their unwearied labours 
to no end. While so many saints are now re- 
joicing in heaven, in the society of those whom 
their holy labours were made instrumental in 
bringing thither ; let us not give those who are 
still zealously devoting their talents to the same 
glorious purpose upon earth, sad cause to lament 
the total inefficacy of their endeavours — to re- 
gret that they are sent to them who will not 
hear, or who remain as if they had not heard — 
to suspect that if we do give them a patient 
hearing, it is for the sake of their style, their 
rhetoric, their good taste ; but that when their 
eloquence opposes our corruptions, when their 
arguments cross our inclinations, when their 
persuasions trench upon our passions, or their 
remonstrances interfere with our vanity, we are 
insensible to the voice of the charmer ; or if we 
forgive their piety for the sake of their talents, 
we seldom go further than forgiveness. 



CHAP. II. 

On Providence. 

It is not easy to conceive a more deplorable 
state of mind, than to live in a disbelief of God's 
providential government of the world. To be 
threatened with troubles, and to see no power 
which can avert them ; to be surrounded with 
sorrows, and discern no hand which can redress 
them ; to labour under oppression or calumny, 
and believe there is no friend to relieve, and no 
judge to vindicate us ; to live in a world, of 
which we believe its ruler has abdicated the 
throne, or delegated the direction to chance ; to 
suspect that he has made over the triumph to 
injustice, and the victory to impiety ; to suppose 
that we are abandoned to the casualties of na- 
ture, and the domination of wickedness ; to be- 
hold the earth a scene of disorder, with no su- 
perintendent to regulate it ; to hear the storms 
beating, and see the tempests spreading desola- 
tion around, with no influence to direct, and no 
wisdom to control them : all this would render 
human life a burden intolerable to human feel- 
ing. Even a heathen, in one of those glimpses 
of illumination which they seemed occasionally 
to catch, could say, it would not be worth while 
to live in a world which was not governed by Pro- 
vidence. 

But, as soon as we clearly discern the mind 
which appoints, and the hand which governs, 
all events, we begin to see our way through 



124 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



them : as soon as we are brought to recognize 
God's authority, and to confide in his goodness, 
we can say to our unruly hearts, what he said 
to the tempestuous waves, Peace, be still. 
Though all is perplexity, we know who can re- 
duce confusion into order : once assured of the 
protection of the Supreme Intelligence, we shall 
possess our souls in patience, and resign our 
will with submission. As soon as this convic- 
tion is fully established, we become persuaded 
that a being of infinite love would never have 
placed us in a scene beset with so many trials, 
and exposed to so many dangers, had he not in- 
tended them as necessary materials by which, 
under his guidance, we are to work out our 
future happiness ; — as so many warnings not to 
set up our rest here ; — as so many incentives to 
draw us on in pursuit of that better state to 
which eternal mercy is conducting us through 
this thorny way. 

To keep God habitually in view, as the end 
of all our aims, and the disposer of all events — 
to see him in all our comforts, to admire the be- 
nignity with which he imparts them — to adore 
the same substantial, though less obvious mercy, 
mi our afflictions — to acknowledge at once the 
unwillingness with which he dispenses our tri- 
als, and the necessity of our suffering them — to 
view him in his bounties of creation, with a love 
which makes every creature pleasant — to re- 
gard him in his providential direction with a 
confidence which makes every hardship support- 
able — to observe the subserviency of events to 
his eternal purposes : all this solves difficulties 
otherwise insuperable, vindicates the divine con- 
duct, composes the intractable passions, settles 
the wavering faith, and quickens the too reluc- 
tant gratitude. 

The fabled charioteer, who usurped his fa- 
ther's empire for a day, is not more illustrative 
of their presumption, who, virtually snatching 
the reins of government from God, would involve 
the earth in confusion and ruin, than the denial 
which the ambitious supplicant received to his 
mad request, is applicable to the goodness of 
God in refusing to delegate his power to his 
creatures : My son, the very tenderness I show 
in denying so ruinous a petition, is the purest 
proof that I am indeed thy father. 

Sounds to which we are accustomed, we fancy 
have a definite sense. But we often fancy it 
unjustly; for familiarity alone cannot give 
meaning to what is in itself unintelligible. Thus 
many words, without any determinate and pre- 
cise meaning, pass current in common dis- 
course. Some talk of those chimerical beings, 
nature, fate, chance, and necessity, as positively 
as if they had a real existence, and of almighty 
power ai-d direction as if they had none. 

In speaking of ordinary events as fortuitous, 
or as natural, we dispossess Providence of one 
half of his dominion. We assign to him the 
credit of great and avowedly supernatural ope- 
rations, because we know not how else to dis- 
pose of them. For instance : We ascribe to him 
power and wisdom in the creation of the world, 
while we talk as if we thought the keeping it in 
order might be effected by an inferior agency. 
We sometimes speak as if we assigned the go- 
vernment of the world to two distinct beings : 



whatever is awful only, and out of the common 
course, we ascribe to God, as revolutions, volca- 
noes, earthquakes. We think the dial of Ahaz 
going backward, the sun stationary on Gibeon, 
marvels worthy of Omnipotence : but when we 
stop here, it is not virtually saying, that to 
maintain invariable order, unbroken regularity, 
perpetual uniformity, and systematic beauty in 
the heavens and the earth, does not exhibit 
equally striking proofs of infinite superintend- 
ence. 

Many seem to ascribe to chance the common 
circumstances of life, as if they thought it would 
be an affront to the Almighty to refer them to 
him ; as if it were unbecoming his dignity to 
order the affairs of beings whom he thought it 
no derogation of that dignity to create. It looks 
as if, while we were obliged to him for making 
us, we would not wish to encumber him with 
the care of us. But the gracious Father of the 
universal family thinks it no dishonour to watch 
over the concerns, to supply the wants, and dis- 
pose the lot of creatures who owe their exist- 
ence to his power, and their redemption to his 
mercy. He did not create his rational subjects 
in order to neglect them, or to turn them over 
to another, a capricious, an imaginary power. 

We do not it is true, so much arraign his ge- 
neral providence, as his particular appointments. 
We will allow the world to be nominally his, if 
he will allow us our opinion in respect to his 
management of certain parts of it. Now, that 
he should not put forth the same specific energy 
individually to direct as to create, is supposing 
an anomaly in the character of the all-perfect 
God. — Whatever was his design in the forma- 
tion of the world and its inhabitants, the same 
reason would beyond a doubt, influence him in 
their superintendence and preservation. — David, 
in describing the simple grandeur of omnipotent 
benignity, sets us a beautiful pattern. He does 
not represent the belief of God's providential 
care as an effort, but describes our continual 
sustenance as the necessary unlaboured effect 
of infinite power and goodness. He openeth 
his hand, and filleth all things living with plen- 
teous ness ; thus making our blessings rather, as 
it were, a result than an operation. 

And as we are not under the divided control 
of a greater and a subordinate power, so neither 
are we, as the Persian mythology teaches, the 
subjects of two equal beings, each of whom dis- 
tributes respectively good and evil according to 
his peculiar character and province. Nor are 
we the sport of the conflicting atoms of one 
school, nor of the fatal necessity of another. 
There is one omnipotent, omniscient, perfect, 
supreme Intelligence, who disposes of every per- 
son and of every thing according to the counsel 
of his own infinitely holy will. ' The help that 
is done upon earth, God doth it himself.' The 
comprehensive mind, enlightened by Christian 
faith, discovers the same harmony and design 
in the course of human events, as the philoso- 
pher perceives in the movements of the material 
system. 

Without a thorough Conviction of this most 
consolatory doctrine, what can we make of the 
events which are now passing before our eyes ? 
What can we say to the perplexed state of an 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



125 



almost desolated world ? There is no way of 
disentangling the confusion but by seeing God 
in every thing. Not to adore his providence as 
having some grand scheme which he is carrying 
on, some remote beneficial end in view, some 
unrevealed design to accomplish, by means not 
only inscrutable, but seemingly contradictory, 
is practical atheism. To contemplate the events 
which distract the civilized world, the tyranny 
which tears up order and morality by the roots ; 
to behold the calamities of some, the crimes of 
others — such blackness gathering over the heads 
of some countries, such tempests bursting over 
those of others — these scenes must subvert the 
faith, must extinguish the hope, of all who do 
not firmly believe that the same power which 
' stilleth the raging of the sea and the noise of 
the waves,' can in his own good time also still 
the madness of the people ; will in his appointed 
season enable us to say, l And where is the fury 
of the oppressor ?' He may, and we know not 
how soon, enable us to ask, ' Where is the man 
thai made the earth to tremble — that did shake 
kingdoms — that made the world a wilderness 
that destroyed the cities thereof— that opened 
not the house of his prisoners ?' Yes — disor- 
ganized as the state of the world appears to be, 
let us be assured that it is not turned adrift, that 
things are not left to goon at random. Though 
the people are rebellious, the Sovereign has not 
renounced his dominion over them. The most 
oppressive and destructive agents are his myste- 
rious ministers : they are carrying on, though 
unconsciously, his universal plan — a plan, which 
though complicated is consistent; though ap- 
parently disorderly will be found finally harmo- 
nious. 

In some pieces of mechanism we have observed 
different artists employed in different branches 
of the same machinery ; in this division of la- 
bour, each man performs his allotted portion, in 
utter ignorance perhaps, not only of the portions 
assigned to the others, but also of the ultimate 
application of his own. Busy in executing his 
single pin, or spring, or wheel, it is no part of 
his concern to understand the work assigned to 
others, still less to comprehend the scheme of 
the master. But though the workman is igno- 
rant how the whole is to be arranged, the ma- 
chine would have been incomplete without his 
seemingly inconsiderable contribution. In the 
mean time, the master unites, by apt junctures 
and articulations, parts which were not known 
to be susceptible of connexion ; combines the se- 
parate divisions without difficulty, because the 
several workmen have only been individually 
helping to accomplish the original plan which 
had previously existed in his inventive mind. 

The prescience of God is among his peculiar- 
ly incommunicable attributes. Happy is it for 
us indeed that it is as incommunicable, for if 
any portion of it were imparted to us, how in- 
conceivably would the distress of human life be 
aggravated ! But if we allow his omniscience, 
we cannot doubt his Providence. He would not 
foresee contingencies, Jbr which he could not 
provide. His attribut™ are in fact so inter- 
woven that it is impossible to separate them. 
His omniscience foresees, his understanding, 
which is infinite, arranges, his sovereignty de- 



crees, his omnipotence executes the purposes of 
his will. — His wisdom may see some things to 
be best for a while to answer certain temporary 
purposes, which would not be good for a conti- 
nuance. When the present appointment shall 
have answered the end to which it was deter- 
mined, a new one, to which that was prepara- 
tory, takes place. The two arrangements may 
appear to us not to be of a piece, to be even con- 
tradictory ; while yet this determination and 
this succession are perfectly consistent in the 
mind of a being who sees all things at once, and 
calls things that are not as though they were 
God's views of all men and all events through- 
out all ages, is one clear, distinct, simultaneous 
view. Infinite knowledge takes in present, past, 
and future, in one comprehensive survey, pierces 
through all distance at a glance, and collects all 
ages into the focus of the existing moment. 

Once thoroughly grounded and established in 
this faith and sense of the divine perfections, we 
shall never look upon any thing to be so mon- 
strous or so minute, so insignificant or so ex- 
horbitant, as to he out of the precincts and con- 
trol of eternal Providence. We shall never re- 
duce, if the allusion be forgiven, the powers of 
omnipotence to a level with that of some Indian 
rajah who has a territory too unwieldy for his 
management, or of an emperor of China who has 
more subjects than one monarch can govern. 

We ask why evil rulers are permitted ? — We 
answer, though rather mechanically, our own 
question, by acknowledging that they are the 
appointed scourges of divine displeasure. Yet 
God does not delegate his authority to the op- 
pressor, though he employs him as his instru- 
ment of correction ; he still keeps the reins in 
his own hand. And besides that an offending 
world stood in need of the chastisement, these 
black instruments who are thus allowed to ra- 
vage the earth, may be, in the scheme of Provi- 
dence, unintentionally preparing the elements 
of moral beauty. When divine displeasure lias 
made barren a fruitful land ' for the wickedness 
of them that dwell therein,' the ploughshare and 
the h trrow, which are sent to tear up the un- 
productive soil, know not that they are providing 
for the hand of the sower, who is following their 
rude traces in order to scatter the seeds of future 
riches and fertility. 

Or take the conflagration of a town. — They 
whose houses are burnt, are objects of our ten- 
derest commiseration. Tiie scene, if we beheld 
it, would alike excite our terror and our pity. 
But, after we have mourned over the devasta- 
tion, and seen that despair is fruitless, at length 
necessity impels to industry ; we see a new and 
fairer order of things arise ; the convenience, 
symmetry, and beauty which spring out of the 
ashes make us eventually not only cease to re- 
gret the deformity and unsightliness to which 
they have succeeded, but almost reconcile us 
to the calamity which has led to the improve- 
ment. 

Often have the earthquake, the hurricane, the 
bolt of heaven, kindling and throwing far and 
wide its baleful light on this earthly stage, real- 
ized in their ultimate effects this image. And 
we are reminded of a future general conflagra- 
tion, ' when the elements shall melt with fervent 



126 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



heat, and the earth itself shall be burned up,' 
which is to prove only the signal and the pre- 
paratory scene for a new heaven and a new earth 
wherein dwelleth righteousness. Let us, in 
every stage leading to this final ' restitution of 
all things,' wait with patience for its sure com- 
pletion. Let us, in the mean time, give credit 
to the great Author of the book of Fate for the 
consistency of its catastrophe ! 

When we peruse the compositions of a human 
author, we look for unity and consistency in his 
whole plan ; we expect connexion and relation 
between its several parts, and an entireness in 
the general combination. We are not so much 
delighted with a fine passage incidentally intro- 
duced, a short episode, of which we discern at 
once the rise and the end, and take in all the in- 
cidents and beauties at a single glance, as we 
are with the judgment which discovers itself in 
the distribution of the whole work, and the skill, 
not without difficulty discerned, which arranges, 
connects, and, as it were, links together the se- 
veral divisions. Yet do we not sometimes pre- 
sume to insinuate as if the great Author of all 
created nature cannot reduce the complexity of 
its parts into one consistent whole ? Do we not 
intimate objections as if there were no concert, 
no agreement in the works of the Almighty 
mind ? Do not the same persons who can speak 
in raptures of a perfect poem, a perfect scheme 
of reasoning, a perfect plan in architecture, yet 
presume to suspect that the concerns of the uni- 
verse are carried on with less system, and on 
a more imperfect design, than the rude sketches 
of a frail creature, who is crushed before the 
moth? 

But if we go so far as to leave to God the di- 
rection of the natural world, because we know 
not well, after all, to whom else to commit its 
management, yet we frequently make little scru- 
ple to take the government of the moral world 
into our own hands. If we consent to his ruling 
matter, we reluctantly allow that he governs 
mind. We reason as if we suspected that the 
passions of men lay beyond his controul, and 
that their vices have overturned his dominion. 
But we should particularly call to mind what is 
the daily language of our lips, not only that His 
is ' the kingdom,' but that the ' power' is the 
source, and 'the glory' the result of his admi- 
nistration. He does not, it is true, by an arbi- 
trary compulsion of men's minds, rob them of 
that freedom by which they offend him, nor by 
a force on their liberty, prevent those sins and 
follies which, if he arbitrarily hindered, he would 
convert rational beings into mechanical ones ; 
but he turns their sins and follies to such uses, 
that while by the voluntary commission of them 
they are bringing down destruction on their own 
heads, they are not impeding his purposes. 

Nor does Providence, in his wide arrange- 
ments, exclude the operation of subordinate 
causes and motives, but allows them to assist the 
greater, and thereby to work his will; as subal- 
terns in the battle contribute severally their share 
to the victory, while, like those inferior causes, 
they are compelled to keep their ranks, and not 
to aspire to the command. As we have a higher 
end, we must have a Supreme direction to our 
aims. Yet a lower end is sometimes made a 



means to a higher, and assists its object without 
usurping its place. Some who begin by abstain- 
ing from evil, or set about doing good from a 
principle not entirely pure, are graciously led to 
the principle by doing or forbearing the action; 
and are finally landed at the higher point, from 
beginnings far below those at which we might 
rashly have asserted they could only set out with 
any hope of success. 

Though this may not very frequently occur, 
yet as it is by means God works, rather than by 
miracles ; and as the world does not overflow 
with real piety, what a chaos would this earth 
become, if God did not permit inferior motives 
to operate to a certain degree for the general 
good ! Many whom the utmost stretch of cha- 
rity cannot induce us to believe that they are 
acting from the purest principles, are yet con- 
tributing to the comfort and good order of socie- 
ty. Though they are sober only from a regard 
to their health, yet their temperance affords a 
good example ; though they are prudent from no 
higher motive than the love of money, yet their 
frugality keeps them within the same bounds as 
if they were influenced by a better motive ; 
though they may be liberal only to raise their 
reputation, yet their liberality feeds the hungry ; 
though they are public-spirited merely from am- 
bition, yet their patriotism, by rousing the spirit 
of the country, saves it. If such right actions, 
performed from such low motives, can look for 
no future retribution ; — if, being done without 
reference to the highest end, they do not advance 
the eternal interests of the doer, nor the glory 
of God, they are yet his instruments for pro- 
moting the good of others, both by utility and 
example. On this ground we may be thankful 
that there is so much refinement, generosity, and 
politeness among the higher orders of society, 
while we confess that tear away the action from 
its motive, sunder their virtue from its legiti- 
mate reference, the act and the virtue lose their 
present character and their ultimate reward. 

The means by which an infinitely wise God 
often promotes the most important plans, are 
apt illustrations of the blindness and obliquity 
of man's judgment. May we be allowed to of- 
fer an instance or two, in which human wisdom 
would probably have taken a course, in the ap- 
pointment of instruments and events, directly 
opposite to that pursued by infinite wisdom? 
What earthly judge, if he had been questioned 
as to means likely to produce one of the strong- 
est evidences of the truth of Christianity to un- 
believers, but would have named an agreement 
between Jews and Christians, as its fullest cor- 
roboration ? If we ourselves had an important 
cause depending — for instance, the ascertaining 
our right to a litigated estate ; — If the success 
of the trial depended on the testimony of the 
witnesses, and on the authenticity of our titled 
deeds, whose testimony should we endeavour to 
obtain ; into whose hands should we wish our- 
selves to be committed ? According to all hu- 
man prudence should we not desire witnesses 
who had no known hostility to us ; should we not 
object to a jury of avowed enemies ; and should 
we not refuse to lodge our records in the hands 
of our opponents ? 

But His wisdom, in whose sight ours is folly, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



12- 



has seen fit to make one of the most striking 
proofs of the truth of Christianity depend on the 
living miracle of the enmity of the Jews ; ' to 
them also were committed the oracles of God,' 
so that to both their ancient testimony and their 
present opposition we are to look for the most 
striking proofs of a religion they hold with per- 
petual hatred. And now that Christianity is 
actually made to stand upon such evidence, what 
test can be more satisfactory ? Reason itself 
owns its validity ; for what collusion can now be 
charged upon the concurrent witnesses of Chris- 
tianity, when each party in court is decidedly 
at variance with the other ? Who can ration- 
ally question the strength of that title which is 
contained in their genuine archives — that evi- 
dence resulting from their hereditary denial of 
facts, of which they persist to reverence the pre- 
dictions ? Where can we more confidently look 
for the truth of a religion they detest, than to 
the verifications conferred on it by their original 
history, their irreversible antipathy their actual 
condition, and existing character 1 

To venture another specimen. If we had 
presumed to point out instruments for the de- 
struction of Jerusalem, we should probably have 
thought none so appropriate as Constantine ; we 
might have supposed the first christian emperor 
would have been the fittest avenger of the Re- 
deemer's blood. Omniscience selected for the 
awful retribution a pagan prince, a virtuous one 
it is true, but one who seems to have no personal 
interest in the business, one to whom Jews and 
Christians, as such, were alike indifferent. While 
this utter desolation was the obvious accomplish- 
ment of a prophecy, which was to be a lasting 
evidence of the truth of our religion, the choice 
of the destroyer was one of those ' secret things 
which belong to God,' and is only to be alleged 
as a proof that ' his ways are not our ways.' 

We will advert to another event, the most im- 
portant since the incarnation of him whose pure 
worship it has restored — the reformation. This 
occurrence is a peculiarly striking instance of 
our ignorance of the operations of supreme wis- 
dom, and of the means which, to our short sight, 
seem fit or unfit for the accomplishment of his 
purposes. If ever the hand of providence was 
conspicuous as the meredian sun, it was so in 
this mighty work — it was so in the selection of 
apparently discordant instruments — it was so, 
in over-ruling the designs of some, to a purpose 
opposite to their intention, in making the errors 
of others contribute to the general end. If this 
grand scheme had been exposed to our review 
for advice, if we had been consulted in its forma- 
tion and its progress, how should we have criti- 
cised both the plan and its conductors ? How 
should we have censured some of the agents as 
inadequate, condemned others as ill chosen, re- 
jected one as unsuited, another as injurious ! 
One critic would have insisted that the vehe- 
mence of Luther would mar any enterprise it 
might mean to advance ; that so impetuous a 
projector would inevitably obstruct the establish- 
ment of a religion of meekness. Another would 
have pronounced, that among the human facul- 
ties, wit was, of all others, the least likely to as- 
sist the cause of piety ; yet did Erasmus, by his 
exouisite satires on the ignorance and supersti- 



tion of the priests, as completely contradict thi* 
opinion, as Luther, by his magnanimity and he- 
roic perseverance, triumphantly overturned the 
other. This inconsiderate, blustering Henry, 
the human counsellor would have said, will ruin 
the cause, by uniting his hostility to the reform- 
ers, with his inconsistent resistance to the papal 
power ; and yet this cause, his very perverseness 
contributed to promote. Another censor would 
have been quite certain that the timid policy and 
cautious feeling of Charles the Wise would in- 
fallibly obstruct those measures which they were 
actually tending to advance. Who among us, 
if his opinion had been asked, would not have 
fixed on the pontiff of Rome and the emperor of 
the Turks, as the two last human beings to be 
selected for promoting the reformed religion ? 
Who would have ventured to assert that the mo- 
ney raised by indulgences, through the profli- 
gate venality of Leo, for building St. Peter's in 
his own metropolis, was actually laying the foun- 
dation of every protestant church in Britain — in 
Europe — in the world ? Who could have pre- 
dicted, that the Imperial Mussulman, in banish- 
ing learning from his dominions, was preparing, 
as if by concert, an overwhelming antagonist to 
the sottish ignorance of the monks ? All these 
things, separately considered, we, in our captious 
wisdom, should have pronounced calculated to 
produce effects directly contrary to the actual 
result ; yet these ingredients, which had no na- 
tural affinity, amalgamated by the Almighty 
hand, were made to accomplish one of the most 
important works that infinite wisdom, working 
by human means, has ever effected. 



CHAP. III. 

Practical uses of the doctrine of Providence. 

We do not sufficiently make the doctrine of 
Providence a practical doctrine. — That the pre- 
sent dark dispensations which afflict the earth 
are indications of Almighty displeasure few dis- 
pute ; but having admitted the general fact, who 
almost does not ascribe the cause of offence to 
others ? How few consider themselves as aw- 
fully contributing to draw down the visitation ! 
We look with an exclusive eye to the abandoned 
and the avowedly profligate, and ascribe the 
whole weight of the divine indignation to their 
misdeeds. But we forget that when a sudden 
tempest threatened destruction to the ship going 
to Tarshish, in which there was only Jonah who 
feared God, those who inquired into the cause 
of the storm, found him to be the very man. The 
cause of the present desolating storm, as a pious 
divine observed of that which darkened his day, 
may as probably be the offences of professing 
christians, as the presumptuous sins of the bolder 
transgressor. This apprehension should set us 
all on searching our hearts, for we cannot re- 
pent of the evil of which we are not conscious. 
It should put us upon watching against negli- 
gence ; it should set us upon distrusting a false 
security, upon examining into the ground of our 
confidence. No dependence on the goodness of 
our spiritual condition, no trust in our exactness 



128 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



in some peculiar duties, no fancied superiority 
of ourselves, to others, no exemption from gross 
and palpable disorders, should soothe us into a 
belief that we have no concern in the visitation. 
Throwing- off their own guilt upon others was 
the second sin of the first offenders. 

Another practical use of the doctrine of Pro- 
vidence is, to enable us to maintain a composed 
frame of spirit under his ordinary dispensations. 
If we kept up a sense of God's agency in com- 
mon as well as in extraordinary occurrences — 
if we were practically persuaded that nothing 
happens but by divine appointment, it might 
still those fluctuations of mind, quiet those un- 
certainties of temper, conquer that unreasonable 
exaltation or depression, which arise from, our 
not habitually reflecting that all things are de- 
termined in number, or weight, or measure, by 
infinite love. If we acted under the full convic- 
tion that he who first set the world in motion 
governs every creature in it — that we do not 
take our place upon that stage in space, or that 
period in Line, which we choose, but where and 
when He pleases : that it is he who 'ordereth 
the bounds of our habitation, and fixeth our lot 
in life,' we should not only contemplate with 
sober awe the strange events of the age in which 
we may be living, but cheerfully submit to our 
individual difficulties, as arising from the same 
predisposition of causes. Our neglecting to cul- 
tivate the train of thought may account tor those 
murmurs which arise in our hearts, both for the 
public calamities of the world, and the urivate 
vexations of life. 

If we took God into the account, we should 
feel that, as rational subjects of his moral go- 
vernment, we are bound to submit to it : we 
should not indulge discontent and resentment at 
events which we should then allow were either 
by his appointment or permission, as we now 
acknowledge in the more extraordinary cases. 
But how few are there who think themselves 
obliged to endure without repining, the effects 
of accident, or the provocation of men ? and this 
is because they see only the proximate cause, 
and do not perceive that God is the grand effi- 
cient. In our difficulties, if the sense of his pre- 
sence were as strongly impressed upon us as the 
trial is powerfully felt, it would make the heart 
strong, and render the temptation feeble. Nor 
would it only strengthen us under temptation, 
but sustain us under affliction ; we should be- 
come both humble by correction, and patient 
under it; we should be grateful in prosperity, 
without being elated by it. A deep conviction 
of God's authority over us and his property in 
us, would also make us kind to others as an ac- 
knowledgment that all is his. The very heathen 
entertained some sense of his sovereignty ; they 
acknowledged at least their victories to proceed 
from him, when they dedicated their spoils to 
the deliverer. 

If we maintained this constant sense of his 
providential government, we should be more in- 
stant in prayer, we should more fervently sup- 
plicate him in our distresses, and more devoutly 
adoro him for his mercies. The recognition of 
his sovereignty infers the duty of prayer to him, 
f implicit trust in him, of unqualified submis- 
sion to him ; for the same argument which proves 



that he should govern, makes it. right that we 
should obey ; and the avowal of that obedience 
is alike consistent with the character of the sub- 
ject, and the claims of the 'sovereign. Thus 
used, there is no consolation to an afflicted world 
like that which is derived from the position con- 
tained in the proclamation of the imperial peni- 
tent of Babylon, ' that the most High ruleth in 
the kingdoms of men ;' that he ruleth not by an 
arbitrary will, but, to borrow the emphatic lan- 
guage of the Apocalypse, by the perfections of 

THE MIND THAT HATH WISDOM, 

But, as we seem virtually to divide the affairs 
of the world into two portions, we talk as if we 
did not think certain ordinary trials considera- 
ble enough to come from God, nor of course to 
require that we should meet them with temper. 
Under these, therefore, we make ourselves what 
amends we can for the vexation of trials more 
severe, by indulging fretfulness, secure of impu- 
nity. But let us be assured of these two things, 
if it be a trial at all it comes from God, if it dis- 
turb our peace, however trivial in itself, it is not 
small to us, and therefore claims submission. 

It is worth our observation that they who are 
ready to quarrel with Omnipotence for the in- 
fliction of pain and suffering, poverty and dis- 
tress, seldom arraign him for their intellectual 
or moral deficiencies. Most men are better sa- 
tisfied with their allotment of capacity than of 
health ; of virtue than of riches ; of skill than 
of power. We seldom grudgingly compare our 
mental endowments with those of others who 
are obviously more highly gifted, while we are 
sufficiently forward to repine at their superiority 
in worldly advantages. Though too sensibly alive 
to the narrower limits in which our fortune is 
confined, we do not lament our severer restric- 
tions in the article of personal merit. In the 
latter instance vanity supports as completely as 
in the former envy disturbs. 

Most of the calamities of human life originate 
with ourselves. Even sickness, shame, pain, 
and death were not originally the infliction of 
God. But out of many evils, whether sent U3 
by his immediate hand, or brought on us by our 
own faults, much eventual good is educed by 
Him, who by turning our suffering to our be- 
nefit, repairs by grace the evils produced by sin. 
Without being the author of evil, the bare sug- 
gestion of which is blasphemy, he converts it to 
his own glory, by causing the effects of it to 
promote our good. If the virtuous suffer from 
the crimes of the wicked, it is because their im- 
perfect goodness stood in need of chastisement. 
Even the wicked, who are suffering by their own 
sins, or the sins of each other, are sometimes 
brought back to God by mutual injuries, the 
sense of which awakens them to compunction 
for their own offences. God makes use of the 
faults even of good men to show them their own 
insufficiency, to abase them in their own eyes, 
to cure thorn of vanity and 6elf-dependence. He 
makes use of their smaller failings, to set them 
on the watch against great ones ; of their im- 
perfections, to put them on their guard against 
sins; of their faults of inadvertency, to increase 
their dread of such as are wilful. This super- 
induced vigilance teaches them to fear all the 
resemblances, and to shun all the approaches to 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



129 



sm. It is a salutary fear, which keeps them 
from using all the liberty they have ; it leads 
them to avoid not only what is decidedly wrong-, 
but to stop short of what is doubtful, to keep 
clear of what is suspicious: well knowing the 
thin partitions which separate danger from de- 
struction. It teaches them to watch the bud- 
dings and germinations of evil, to anticipate the 
pernicious fruit in the opening blossom. 

The weakness and inactivity of our faith ex- 
pose us to continual distrust. When we our- 
selves are idle, we are disposed to suspect that 
the Omnipotent is not at work. — That process 
which we do not see, we are too much inclined 
to suspect is not going on. From this unhallowed 
egotism, where we are not the prime movers, 
we fancy that all stands still. The various parts 
of the scheme of Providence are sometimes con- 
nected by a thread so fine as to elude our dim 
sight ; — but, though it may be so attenuated as 
to be invisible, it is never broken off. The plan 
is carrying on, and the work perhaps, about to 
be accomplished, while we are accusing the 
Great Artificer, as if he were capable of neglect, 
or liable to error. But if, after tracing Provi- 
dence through many a labyrinth, we seem to 
lose sight of him : if, after having lost our clue, 
we are tempted to suspect that this operation is 
suspended, or that his agency has ceased, he is 
working all the time out of sight — he is pro- 
ceeding, if the comparison may be allowed, like 
the fabled Arethusia, whose stream having dis- 
appeared in the place to which it had been fol- 
lowed up, is still making its way under ground ; 
though we are not cured of our incredulity, till 
we again discover him, bursting forth like the 
same river, which, having pursued its hidden 
passage through every obstruction, rises once 
more in all its beauty in another and unexpected 
place. 

But even while we are rebelling against his 
dispensations, we are taking our hints in the 
economy of public and private life, from the 
economy of Providence in the administration of 
the world. We govern our country by laws 
emulative of those by which he governs his' crea- 
tures : we train our children by probationary 
discipline, as he trains his servants. Penal laws 
in state, like those of the divine Legislator, in- 
dicate no hatred to those to whom they are pro- 
claimed, for every man is at liberty not to break 
them ; they are enacted in the first instance for 
admonition rather than chastisement, and serve 
as much for prevention as punishment. The 
discipline maintained in all well ordered fami- 
lies is intended not only to promote their virtue, 
but their happiness. The intelligent child per- 
ceives his father's motive for restraining him, 
till the act of obedience having induced the ha- 
bit, and both having broken in his rebellious 
will, he loves the parent the more for the re- 
straint; on the other hand, the mismanaged and 
rijined son learns to despise the father, who has 
given him a license to which he has discern- 
ment enough to perceive he owes the miseries 
consequent upon his uncurbed appetites. 

It is however to be lamented, that this great 
doctrine of God's universal superintendance is 
not only madly denied, or inconsistently over- 
'ooked by one class of men, but is foolishly per- 

VoL. II. I • 



verted, or fanatically abused by another. With- 
out entering upon the wide field of instances, 
we shall confine our remarks to two that arc the 
most common. First, the fanciful, frivolous, and 
bold familiarity with which this supreme dicta- 
tion and government are cited on the most tri- 
vial occasions, and adduced in a manner disho- 
nourable to infinite wisdom, and derogatory to 
supreme goodness. The persons who are guilty 
of this fault seem not to perceive, that it is not 
more foolish and presumptuous to deny it alto- 
gether than to expect that God's particular Pro- 
vidence will interpose, in order to save their ex- 
ertions, or excuse their industry. For though 
Providence directs and assists virtuous endea- 
vours, he never, by superseding them, encou- 
rages idleness, or justifies presumption. 

The highly censurable use to which some 
others convert this divine agency, is, when not 
only the pretence of trusting Providence is made 
the plea for the indolent desertion of their own 
duty ; but an unwarrantable confidence in pro- 
vidential leadings is adopted to excuse their own 
imprudence. Great is the temerity, when Pro- 
vidence is virtually reproached for the ill suc- 
cess of our affairs, or pleaded as an apology for 
our own wilfulness, or as a vindication of our 
own absurdity in the failure of some foolish 
plan, or some irrational pursuit. We have no 
right to depend on a supernatural interposition 
to help us out of difficulties into whicli we have 
been thrown by our misconduct, or under dis- 
tresses into which we have been plunged by our 
errors. God, though he knows the prayers 
which we may offer, and accepts the penitence 
which we feel, will not use his power to correct 
our ill-judged labours, any otherwise than by 
making us smart for their consequences. 

The power of God as it is not an idle, so it is 
not a solitary prerogative. It is indeed an at- 
tribute in constant exercise ; it is not kept' for 
state, but use ; not for display, but exercise ; 
and as it is infinite, one half of the concerns of 
the universe are not, as we intimated before, 
suspended, because he is superintending the 
other half. He is perpetually examining the 
chronicles of human kind, and inspecting the 
register of human actions — not like the King of 
the Palace of Shushan,* because ' he cannot 
rest,' for Omniscience never slumbers or sleeps 
— nor like him to repair the wrongs of one man 
whose services had remained unrequited, but 
that, ' beholding the evil and the good,' no ser- 
vices may go unnoticed and unrecompensed. 
from the earliest offspring of pious Abel, to the 
latest oblation of faith in the end of time. 

This view of things, and it is the view which 
the enlightened Christian takes, tends to correct 
his anger against second causes, and affords 
him such an assurance that every occurrence 
will be over-ruled by everlasting love for his 
eventual good — inspires him with such holy con- 
fidence in the promises of the Gospel, that he 
acquires a repose of spirit, not merely from com- 
pelled submission to authority, but from rational 
acquiescence in goodness. He feels that his 
confirmed belief in this universal agency is the 
only thing that -can set his heart at rest, still its 

* Ahasuerus— Esther, chap, vi 



130 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



perturbations, moderate its impatience, soothe 
its terrors, confirm its faith, preserve its peace, 
or, when it has suffered a momentary suspen- 
sion, restore it. 

Nor does God exercise his Providence alone, 
either in signal instances of retribution or in 
the hidden consolations of the believer ; but 
those secret stings of conscience which goad 
and lacerate every guilty individual in any cri- 
minal pu suit — that lurking discontent which 
gives the lie to flattery, and mingles the note of 
discord with the music of acclamation — that un- 
prompted misery of feeling which infuses worm- 
wood into his sweetest pleasure, proceeds from 
the same providential infliction. 

Some men seem to admit a Providence on a 
scale which expands their ideas, but fancy it an 
affront to conceive of Him on one which they 
think contracts them. If they allow that he 
takes a sweeping view of nations, yet they im- 
ply that it would be too minute an exercise of 
his superintendence to inspect individuals. The 
truth is, as we intimated before, men are too 
much disposed to frame their conceptions of 
God by the limited powers and capacities of hu- 
man greatness. They observe, that a king who 
controls the affairs of a vast empire cannot pos- 
sibly inspect the concerns of every private fa- 
mily, much less of every single subject. This 
limited capacity they unconsciously, yet irreve- 
rently transfer to the King of kings. — But as no 
concern is so vast as to encumber Omnipotence, 
so none is too diminutive to escape the eye of 
Omniscience. There is no argument for a ge- 
neral, but is also an argument for a particular 
Providence, unless we can prove that the whole 
is not made up of parts ; that generals are not 
composed of particulars ; that nations are not 
compounded of families; that societies are not 
formed of individuals; that chains are not com- 
posed of links; that sums are not made up of units; 
that the interests of a community do not grow 
out of the well-being of its members. The in- 
terests of a particular member, indeed, may 
sometimes appear to suffer from that which pro- 
motes the general good, yet he, by whose law 
the individual may seem to be injured, has 
means of remuneration or of comfort which may 
prevent the sufferer from being ultimately a 
loser. If, as we are assured, upon God's author- 
ity, that our tears are treasured up by him, will 
not their appropriate consolation be also provid- 
ed ? — Though He whose footsteps are not known, 
may act in some instances in a manner incom- 
prehensible to us, yet if we allow that he acts 
wi- ely and holily in cases which we do compre- 
hend, we should give him credit in the obscure 
and impenetrable cases, for he can no more act 
contrary to his attributes in the one instance 
than in the other. 

Every intelligent being, therefore, should look 
up to divine Providence, not only as engaged in 
the government and disposal of states, but as 
exercised for his individual protection, peace, 
and comfort; — should look habitually to Him 
who confers favour without claim, and happiness 
without merit ; to him whose veracity fulfils all 
the promises which his goodness has made — to 
Him whose pity commiserates the afflicted, 
whose bounty supplies the indigent, whose long 



suffering bears with the rebellious, whose lovo 
absolves the guilty, whose mercy in Christ Je- 
sus accepts the penitent. Such is the fulness 
of that attribute which we sum up in a single 
word, the goodness of God. It is this goodness 
which influences his other attributes in our fa- 
vour, attributes which would else necessarily 
act against creatures at once sinful and impo- 
tent. It makes that wisdom which sees our 
weakness strengthen us, and that power which 
might overwhelm us, act for our preservation 
Without this goodness, all his other perfections 
would be to us as the beauties of his natural 
creation would be, if the sun were blotted from 
the firmament — they might indeed exist, but 
without this illuminating and cherishing prin- 
ciple, as we should neither have seen nor felt* 
them, so to us they could not be said to be. 

Some Christians seem to view the Almighty 
as encircled with no attribute but his sovereign- 
ty. God, in establishing his moral government, 
might indeed have acted solely by his sovereign- 
ty. He might have pleaded no other reason for 
our allegiance but his absolute dominion. He 
might have governed arbitrarily, without ex- 
plaining the nature of his requisitions. He 
might have reigned over us as a king, without 
endearing himself to us as a father. He might 
have exacted fealty, without the offer of remu- 
neration. Instead of this, while he maintained 
his entire title to our obedience, he mitigates 
the austerity of the command by the invitations 
of his kindness, and softens the rigour of au- 
thority by the allurement of his promises. In 
holding out menaces to deter us from disobedi- 
ence, he balances them with the offered pleni- 
tude of our own felicity, and thus instead of ter- 
rifying, attracts us to obedience. If he threatens, 
it is that by intimidating he may be spared the 
necessity of punishing ; if he promises — it is 
that we may perceive our happiness to be bound 
up with our obedience. Thus his goodness in- 
vites us to a compliance, which his sovereignty 
might have demanded on the single ground that 
it was his due. Whereas he seems almost to wave 
our duty as a claim, as if to afford us the merit 
of a voluntary obedience; though the very will 
to obey is his gift, he promises to accept it as if 
it were our own act. He first inspires the de- 
sire and then rewards it. Thus his power, if 
we may hazard the expression, gives place to 
his goodness, and he presses us by tenderness 
almost more than he constrains us by authority. 
He even condescends to make our happiness no 
less a motive for our duty than his injunctions ; 
hear his affectionate apostrophe — ' Oh that thou 
hadst hearkened to my commandments, then 
had thy peace been as a river !' 

It was that his goodness might have the pre- 
cedency of his Omnipotence that he vouchsafed 
to give the law in the shape of a covenant. He 
stooped to enter into a sort of reciprocal en- 
gagement with his creatures, — he condescended 
to stipulate with the work of his hands ! But 
the consummation of his goodness was reserved 
for his work of Redemption. Here he not only 
performed the office, but assumed the name of 
Love ; a name with which, notwithstanding all 
his preceding wonders of Providence and Grace, 
he was never invested till after the completion 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



13] 



of this last, greatest act : — an act towards his 
pardoned rebels, not only of indemnity but pro- 
motion ; — an act which the angels desire to 
scrutinize, and which man will never fully com- 
prehend till he enters on that beatitude to which 
it has introduced him. 



CHAP. IV 

" Thy will be done." 

To desire to know the Divine will is the first 
duty of a being so ignorant as man ; to endea- 
vour to obey it is the most indispensable duty 
of a being at once so corrupt and so dependent. 
The Holy Scriptures frequently comprise the 
essence of the Christian temper in some short 
aphorism, apostrophe, or definition. The essen- 
tial spirit of the Christian life may be said to 
be included in this one brief petition of the 
Christian's prayer, ' thy will be done ;' just as 
.he distinguishing characteristic of the irreli- 
ious may be said to consist in following his own 
will. 

There is a haughty spirit which though it 
.vill not complain, does not care to submit. 
It arrogates to itself the dignity of enduring, 
without any claim to the meekness of yielding. 
Its silence is stubbornness, its fortitude is pride ; 
ts calmness is apathy without, and discontent 
within. In such characters, it is not so much 
he will of Cod which is the rule of conduct, as 
the scorn of pusillanimity. Not seldom indeed 
the mind puts in a claim for a merit to which the 
nerves could make out a better title. Yet the 
suffering which arises from acute feelings is so 
far from deducting from the virtue of resigna- 
tion, that, when it does not impede the sacrifice, 
it enhances the value. True resignation is the 
hardest lesson in the whole school of Christ. It 
is the oflenest taught and the latest learnt. It 
is not a task which, when once got over in some 
particular instance, leaves us master of the sub- 
ject. The necessity of following up the lesson 
we have begun, presents itself almost every day 
in some new shape, occurs under some fresh 
modification. The submission of yesterday does 
not exonerate us from the resignation of to-day. 
The principle, indeed, once thoroughly wrought 
into the soul, gradually reconciles us to the fre- 
quent demand for its exercise, and renders every 
succesive call more easy. 

We read dissertations on this subject, not 
only with the most entire concurrence of the 
judgment, but with the most apparent acqui- 
escence of the mind. We write essays upon it 
in the hour of peace and composure, and fancy 
that what we have discussed with so much ease 
and self-complacence, in favour of which we offer 
so many arguments to convince, and so many 
motives to persuade, cannot be very difficult to 
practise. But to convince the understanding 
and to correct the will is a very different under- 
taking ; and not less difficult when it comes to 
our own case than it was in the case of those 
for whom we have been so coolly and dogmati- 
cally prescribing. It is not till we practically 
find how slowly our own arguments produce 



any effect on ourselves that we cease .0 marvel 
at their inefficacy on others. Tbe sick ph) sician 
tastes with disgust the bitterness of the draught., 
to the swallowing of which he wondered the 
patient had felt so much repugnance ; and the 
reader is sometimes convinced by the argu- 
ments which fail of their effect on the writer, 
when he is called, not to discuss, but to act, not 
to reason, but to suffer. The theory is so just 
and the duty so obvious, that even bad men as- 
sent to it; the exercise so trying that the best 
men find it more easy to commend the rule than 
adopt it. But he who has once gotten engraved, 
not in his memory but in his heart, this di- 
vine precept, thy wtll be done, has made a 
proficiency which will render all subsequent 
instruction comparatively easy. 

Though sacrifices and oblations were offered 
to God under the law by his own express ap- 
pointment, yet he peremptorily rejected them 
by his prophets, when presented as substitutes 
instead of signs. Will he, under a more perfect 
dispensation, accept of any observances which 
are meant to supersede internal dedication — of 
any offerings unaccompanied by complete de- 
sire of acquiescence in his will ? 'My son, give 
me thine heart,' is his brief but imperative com- 
mand. But before we can be brought to com- 
ply with the spirit of this requisition, God must 
enlighten our understanding that our devotion 
may be rational, he must rectify our will that 
it may be voluntary, he must purify our heart 
that it may be spiritual. 

Submission is a duty of such high and holy 
import that it can only be learnt of the Great 
Teacher. If it could have been acquired by 
mere moral institution, the wise sayings of the 
ancient philosophers would have taught it. But 
their most elevated standard was low : their 
strongest motives were the brevity of life, the 
instability of fortune, the dignity of suffering 
virtue, things within their narrow sphere of 
judging; things true indeed as far as they go, 
but a substratum by no moans equal to the 
superstructure to be built on it. It ^wanted 
depth, and strength, and solidity for the pur- 
poses of support. It wanted the only true basis, 
the assurance that God orders all things accord- 
ing to the purposes of his will for our final good ; 
it wanted that only sure ground of* faith by which 
the genuine Christian cheerfully submits in 
entire dependance on the promises of the gospel. 

Nor let us fancy that we are to be languid and 
inactive recipients of the divine dispensations. 
Our own souls must be enlarged, our own views 
must be ennobled, our own spirit must be dila- 
ted. An inoperative acquiescence is not all that 
is required of us : and if we must not slacken 
our zeal in doing good, so we must not be re- 
miss in opposing evil, on the flimsy ground that 
God has permitted evil to infest the world. If 
it be his will to permit sin, it is an opposition to 
his will when we do not labour to counteract it. 
This surrender therefore, of our will to that of 
God, takes in a large sweep of actual duties, as 
well as the whole compass of passive obedience. 
It involves doing as well as suffering, activity 
as well as acquiescence, zeal as well as forbear- 
ance. Yet the concise petition daily slips off 
the tongue without our reflecting on the weight 



132 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH. MORE.' 



of the obligation we are imposing on ourselves. 
We do not consider the extent and consequences 
of the prayer we are offering, the sacrifices, the 
trials, the privations it may involve, and the 
large indefinite obedience to all the known and 
unknown purposes of infinite wisdom to which 
we are pledging ourselves. 

There is no case in which we more shelter 
ourselves in generalities. Verbal sacrifices cost 
little, cost nothing. The familiar habit of re- 
peating the petition almost tempts us to fancy 
that the duty is as easy as the request is short. 
We are ready to think that a prayer rounded 
off in four monosyllables can scarcely involve 
duties co-extensive with our whole course of 
being; that, in uttering them, we renounce all 
right *in ourselves, that we acknowledge the 
universal indefeasible title of the Messed and 
only potentate ; that we make over to him the 
right to do in us, and with us, and by us, what- 
ever he sees good for ourselves, whatever will 
promote his glory, though by means sometimes 
as incomprehensible to our understanding, as 
unacceptable to our will, because we neither 
know the motive, nor perceive the end. These 
simple words express an act of faith the most 
sublime, an act of allegiance the most unquali- 
fied ; and, while they make a declaration of 
entire submission to a Sovereign the most abso- 
lute, they are, at the same time, a recognition 
of love to a Father the most beneficent. 

We must remember, that in offering this 
prayer, we may by our own request, be offering 
to resign what we most dread to lose, to give 
up what is dear to us as our own soul ; we may 
be calling on our heavenly Father to withhold 
what we are most anxiously labouring to attain, 
and to withdraw what we are most sedulously 
endeavouring to keep. We are solemnly re- 
nouncing our property in ourselves, we are 
distinctly making ourselves over again to Him 
whose we already are. We specifically en- 
treat him to do with us what he pleases, to 
mould us to a conformity to his image, without 
which we shall never be resigned to his will. 
In short, to dispose of us as his infinite wisdom 
sees best, however contrary to the scheme which 
our blindness has laid down as the path to un- 
questionable happiness. 

To render this trying petition easy to us, is 
one great reason why God by such a variety of 
providences, afflicts and brings us low. He 
knows that we want incentives to humility, 
even more than incitements to virtuous actions. 
He shows us in many ways, that self-sufficiency 
and happiness are incimpatible, that pride and 
peace are irreconcilable; that, following our 
own way, and doing our own will, which we 
consider to be of the very essence of felicity, is 
in direct opposition to it. 

* Christianity,' says bishop Horsely, ' involves 
many paradoxes, but no contradictions.' To be 
able to say with entire surrender of the heart, 
Thy will be done,' is the true liberty of the 
children of God, that liberty with which Christ 
has made them free. It is a liberty, not which 
delivers us from restraint, but which, freeing us 
from our subjection to the senses, makes us find 
no pleasure but in order, no safety but in the 
obedience of an intelligent being to his rightful 



Lord. In delivering us from the heavy bondage 
of sin, it transfers us to the ' easy yoke of 
Christ,' from the galling slavery of the world to 
the 'light burden' of him who overcame it. 

This liberty in giving a true direction to the 
affections, gives them amplitude as well as ele- 
vation. The more unconstrained the will be 
comes, the more it fixes on the object ; once 
fixed on the highest, it does not use its liberty 
for versatility, but for constancy, not for change, 
but for fidelity, not for wavering, but adherence. 

It is, therefore, no less our interest, than our 
duty, to keep the mind in an habitual posture 
of submission. ' Adam,' says Dr. Hammond, 
' after his expulsion, was a greater slave in the 
wilderness than he had been in the inclosure.' 
If the barbarian ambassador came express to 
the Romans to negotiate from his country for 
permission to be their servants, declaring, that 
a voluntary submission even to a foreign power 
was preferable to a wild and disorderly freedom, 
well may the Christian triumph in the peace 
and security to be attained by a complete sub- 
jugation to Him who is emphatically called 
the God of order. 

A vital faith manifests itself in vital acts 
' Thy will be done,' is eminently a practical pe- 
tition. The first t indication of the gaoler's 
change of heart was a practical indication. He 
did not ask, • Are there few that be saved,' but 
' What shall I do to be saved ?' The fiist symp- 
tom St. Paul gave of his conversion, was a prac- 
tical symptom : ' Lord, what wilt thou have me to 
do?' He entered on his new course with atotal re- 
nunciation of his own will. It seemed to thi9 
great Apostle, to be the turning point between 
infidelity and piety, whether he should follow 
his own will or the will of God. He did not 
amuse his curiosity with speculative questions. 
His own immediate and grand concern engross- 
ed his whole soul. Nor was his question a mere 
hasty effusion, an interrogative springing out 
of that mixed feeling of awe and wonder which 
accompanied his first overwhelming convictions. 
It became the abiding principle which governed 
his future life, which made him in labours more 
abundant. Every successive act of duty, every 
future sacrifice of ease, sprung from it, was in- 
fluenced by it. His own will, his ardent, im- 
petuous, fiery will, was not merely subdued, it 
was extinguished. His powerful mind indeed 
lost none of its energy, but his proud heart re- 
linquished all its independence. 

We allow and adopt the term devotion as an 
Indispensable part of religion, because it is sup- 
posed to be limited to the act ; but devotedness, 
from which it is derived, does not meet with 
such ready acceptation, because this is a habit, 
and an habit involves more than an act ; it 
pledges us to consistency, it implies fixedness 
of character, a general confirmed state of mind, 
a giving up what we are, and have, and do, to 
God. Devotedness does not consist in the 
length of our prayers, nor in the number of our 
good works, for, though these are the surest 
evidences of piety, they are not its essence. 
Devote mess consists in doing and suffering, 
bearing and forbearing in the way which God 
prescribes. The most inconsiderable duty per- 
formed with alacrity, if it oppose our own incli 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



133 



nation ; the most ordinary trial met with a right 
spirit; is more acceptable to him than a greater 
effort of our own devising. We do not commend 
a servant for his activity, if ever so fervently 
exercised, in doing whatever gratifies his own 
fancy ; we do not consider his performance as 
obedience, unless his activity has been exercised 
in doing what we required of him. Now, how 
can we insist on his doing what contradicts his 
own humour, while we allow ourselves to feel 
repugnance in serving our heavenly Master, 
when his commands do not exactly fall in with 
our own inclination? 

We must also give God leave, not only to take 
his own way, but his own time. The appoint- 
ment of seasons, as well as of events, is his. 
' He waits to be gracious.' If he delays, it is 
because we are not -yet brought to that state 
which fits us for the grant of our request. It is 
not he who must be brought about, but we our- 
selves. Or, perhaps, he refuses the thing we 
ask, in order to give us a better. We implore 
success in an undertaking, instead of which, he 
gives us content under the disappointment. We 
ask for the removal of pain ; he gives us patience 
under it. We desire deliverance from our ene- 
mies; he sees that we have not yet turned their 
enmity to our improvement,^nd he will bring 
us to a better temper by furiler exercise. We 
desire him to avert some impending trial, instead 
of averting it, he takes away its bitterness ; he 
mitigates what we believed would be intolerable, 
by giving us a right temper under it. How, then, 
can we say he has failed of his promise, if he 
gives something more truly valuable than we 
had requested at his hands ? 

Some virtues are more called out in one con- 
dition of life, and some in another. The exer- 
cise of certain qualities has its time and place ; 
but an endeavour after conformity to the image 
of God, which is best attained by submission to 
his will, is of perpetual obligation. If he does 
not require all virtues under all circumstances, 
there is no state or condition in which he does 
not require that to which our church perpetually 
calls us, ' an humble, lowly, penitent, and obe- 
dient heart.' We may have no time, no capa- 
city, no special call for deeds of notorious useful- 
ness; but whatever be our pursuits, engagements, 
or abilities, it will intrench on no time, require 
no specific call, interfere with no duty, to sub- 
due our perverse will. Though the most severe 
of all duties, it infringes on no other, but will be 
the more effectually fulfilled by the very diffi- 
culties attending on other pursuits and engage- 
ments. 

We are so fond of having our own will, that 
It is astonishing we do not oftener employ it for 
our own good ; for our inward peace is augment- 
ed in exact proportion as our repugnance to the 
Divine will diminishes. Were the conquest 
wver the one complete, the enjoyment of the other 
would be perfect. But the Holy Spirit does not 
assume his emphatical title, the comforter, till 
his previous offices have operated on the heart, 
ill he has 'reproved us of sin, of righteousness, 
of judgment.' 

God makes use of methods inconceivable to 
us, to bring us to the submission which we are 
more ready to request with our lips, than to de- 



sire with our hearts. By an imperceptible ope- 
ration he is ever at work for our good ; he pro- 
motes it by objects the most unlikely. He em- 
ploys means to our shallow views the most im- 
probable to effect his own gracious purposes. In 
every thing he evinces that his thoughts are not 
as our thoughts. He overrules the opposition 
of our enemies, the defection of our friends, the 
faults of our children — the loss of our fortune as 
well as the disappointments attending its pos- 
session — the unsatisfactoriness of pleasures as 
well as the privation — the contradiction of our 
desires — the failure of plans which we thought 
we had concerted, not only with good judgment 
but pure intentions. He makes us sensible of 
our faults by the mischiefs they bring upon us ; 
and acknowledges our blindness by extracting 
from it conssquences diametrically opposite to 
those which our actions were intended to pro 
duce. 

Our love to God is stamped with the same im 
perfection with all our other graces. If we love 
him at all, it is as it were traditionally, heredi- 
tary, professionally ; it is a love of form and not 
of feeling, of education and not of sentiment, of 
sense and not of faith. Ii is at best a submis- 
sion to authority, and not an effusion of volunta- 
ry gratitude, a conviction of the understanding, 
and not a cordiality of the affections. We rather 
assume we have this grace than actually possess 
it, we rather take it for granted on unexamined 
grounds, than cherish it as a principle from which 
whatever good we have must proceed, and from 
which, if it does not proceed, the principle does 
not exist. 

Surely, says the oppugners of divine Provi- 
dence in considering the calamities inflicted on 
good men, if God loved virtue, he would not op- 
press the virtuous. Surely Omnipotence may 
find a way to make his children good, without 
making them miserable. But have these casu- 
ists ever devised a means by which men may be 
made good without being made humble, or hap- 
py, without being made holy, or holy without 
trials ? Unapt scholars indeed we are in learn- 
ing the lessons taught ! But the teacher is not 
the less perfect because of the imbecility of his 
children. 

If it be the design of Infinite Goodness to dis- 
engage us from the world, to detach us from 
ourselves, and to purify us to himself, the puri- 
fication by sufferings seems the most obvious 
method. The same effect could not be any 
otherwise produced, except by miracles, and 
God is an economist of his means in grace as 
well as in nature. He deals out all gifts by 
measure. His operation in both is progressive. 
Successive events operate in one case as time 
and age in the other. As suns and showers so 
gradually mature the fruits of the earth, that the 
growth is rather perpetual than perceptible, so 
God commonly carries on the work of renova- 
tion in the heart silently and slowly, by means 
suitable and simple, though to us imperceptible, 
and sometimes unintelligible. Were the plans 
more obvious, and the process ostensible, there 
would be no room left for the operations of faith, 
no call for the exercise of patience, no demand 
for the grace of humility. The road to perfec- 
tion is tedious and suffering, steep and rugged • 



134 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



our impatience would leap over all the inter- 
vening space which keeps us from it, rather 
than climb it. by slow and painful steps. We 
would fain be spared the sorrow and shame of 
our own errors, of all their vexatious obstruc- 
tions, all their dishonourable impediments. We 
would be completely good and happy at once 
without passing through the stages and grada- 
tions which lead to goodness and happiness. 
We require an instantaneous transformation 
which costs us nothing ; the Spirit of God works 
by a gradual process which costs us much. We 
would combine his favour with our self-indul- 
gence ; we would be spared the trials he has ap- 
pointed without losing the felicity he has pro- 
mised. We complain of the severity of the ope- 
ration, but the operation would not be so severe, 
if the disease did not lie so deep. 

Besides, the afflictions which God appoints, 
are not seldom sent to save us from those we 
should bring on ourselves, and which might 
have added guilt to misery. — He threatens, but 
it is that he may finally save. If ' punishment 
is his strange,' it is also his necessary ' works.' 
Even in the sorest affliction, the loss of those we 
love, there may be a mercy impenetrable to us. 
■ — God has, perhaps, laid up for us in heaven 
that friend whom he might have lost in eternity, 
had he been restored to our prayers here. But 
if the affliction be not improved, it is, indeed un- 
speakable heavy. If the loss of our friend does 
not help to detach us from the world, we have 
the calamity without the indemnification ; we 
are deprived of our treasure without any advan- 
tage to ourselves- If the loss of him we loved 
does not make us moro earnest to secure our 
salvation, we may lose at once our friend and 
our soul. — To endure the penalty and lose the 
profit, is to be emphatically miserable. 

Sufferings are the only relics of the true cros9, 
and when Divine grace turns them to our spiri- 
tual good, they almost perform the miracles 
which blind superstition ascribes to the false 
one. God mercifully takes from us what we 
have not courage to offer him ; but if, when he 
resumes it, he sanctifies the loss; let us not re- 
pine. It was his while it was ours. He was the 
proprietor while we were the possessors. 

Though we profess a general readiness to 
submit to the. Divine will, there is nothing in 
which we are more liable to illusion. Self-love 
is a subtle casuist. We invent distinctions. We 
too critically discriminate between afflictions 
which proceed more immediately from God, and 
disappointments which come from the world. 
To the former we acknowledge, in words at 
least, our willingness to submit. In the latter, 
though equally his dispensation, we seem to feel 
justified in refusing to acquiesce. God does not 
desire us to inflict punishments on ourselves, he 
only expects us to bear with patience those he 
inflicts on us, whether they come more imme- 
diately from himself or through the medium of 
his creatures. 

Love being the root of obedience, it is no test 
of that obedience, if we obey God only in things 
which do not cross our inclinations, while we 
disobey him in things that are repugnant, to 
them. Not to obey except when it costs us no- 
thing is rather to please ourselves than God, for 



it is evident we should disobey him in these also 
if the allurement were equally powerful in these 
cases as in the others. We may, indeed, plead 
an apology that the command wo resist is of 
less importance than that with which we com- 
ply ; but this is a false excuse, for the authority 
which enjoins the least, is the same with that 
which commands the greatest ; and it is the au- 
thority by which we are to submit, as much as 
to the command. 

There is a passage in St. Luke which does 
not seem to be always brought to bear on this 
point as fully as it ought : ' unless a man for 
sake all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple. 
This does not seem to be quite identical with 
the command in another place, that a man should 
' sell all that he has,' &c. When the Christian 
world indeed was in its infancy, the literal re- 
quisition in both cases was absolutely necessary. 
But it appears to be a more liberal interpreta- 
tion of the command, as 'forsaking,' all that we 
have, extends to a full and entire consecration 
of ourselves to God, a dedication without reserve, 
not of fortune only, but of every desire, every 
faculty, every inclination, every talent ; a resig- 
nation of the whole will, a surrender of the whole 
soul. It is this surrender which alone sanctifies 
our best actions, i; is this pure oblation, this 
offering of unshared affection, this unmaimed 
sacrifice, which is alone acceptable to God, 
through that full, perfect, and sufficient sacra- 
Jice, oblation, and satisfaction made for the sins 
of the whole world. Our money he will not ac- 
cept without our good will, our devotions with- 
out our affections, our services without our 
hearts. Like the prevaricating pair, whose du- 
plicity was punished by instant death, whatever 
we keep back will annihilate the value of what 
we bring. It will be nothing if it be not all * 



CHAP. V. 

On Parable. 

It is obvious, that the reason why mankind, 
in general, are so much delighted with allegory 
and metaphor, is, because they are so propor- 
tioned to our senses, those first inlets of ideas. 
Ideas gained by the senses quickly pass into the 
region of the imagination ; and from thence, 
more particularly the illiterate and uninformed, 
fetch materials for the employment of their rea 
son. 

Little reaches the understanding of the mass 
hut through this medium. Their minds are not 
fitted for the reception of abstract truth. Dry 
argumentative instruction, therefore, is not pro- 
portioned to their capacity ; the faculty by which 
a right conclusion is drawn, is, in them the most 
defective; they rather feel strongly than judge 
accurately : and their feelings are awakened by 
the impression made on their senses. 
• The connexion of these remarks with the sub- 
ject of instruction by parable, is obvious. It is 
the nature of parable to open the doctrine which 
it professes to conceal. By engaging attention 

* Acts, chap. v. 



Th4 WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



135 



and exciting curiosity, it developes truth with 
more effect than by a more explicit exposition. 
By laying- hold on the imaginations, parable in- 
sinuates itself into the affections, and, by the in- 
tercommunication of the faculties, the under- 
standing is made to apprehend the truth which 
was proposed to the fancy. 

There is commonly found sufficient rectitude 
of judgment in the generality to decide fairly on 
any point within their reach of mind, if the de- 
cision neither opposes their interest nor inter- 
feres with their prejudice. If you can separate 
the truth from any personal concern of their own, 
their verdict will probably be just : but if their 
views are clouded by passion, or biassed by self- 
ishness, that man must possess a more than or- 
dinary degree of integrity who decides against 
himself and in favour of what is right. 

In the admirably devised parable of Nathan, 
David's eager condemnation of the unsuspected 
offender is a striking instance of the delusion 
of sin and the blindness of self-love. He who 
had lived a whole year in the unrepented com- 
mission of one of the blackest crimes of the de- 
calogue, and who to. secure to himself the ob- 
ject for which he had committed it, perpetrated 
another almost more heinous, and that with an 
hypocrisy foreign to his character, could in an 
instant denounce death on Hie imaginary offend- 
er for a fault comparatively trifling. The vehe- 
mence of his resentment even overstepped the 
limits of his natural justice, in decreeing a pu- 
nishment disproportioned to the crime, while he 
remained dead to his own deep delinquency. A 
pointed parable instantly surprised him into the 
most bitter self-reproach. A direct accusation 
might have inflamed him before he was thus 
prepared ; and, in the one case, he might have 
punished the accuser, by whom, in the other, he 
was brought to the deepest self-abasement. The 
prudent prophet did not rashly reproach the 
king with the crime he wished him to condemn, 
but placed the fault at such a distance, and in 
such a proper point of view, that he first pro- 
cured his impartial judgment, and afterwards 
his self-condemnation. An important lesson, not 
only to the offender, but to the reprover. 

He ' who knew what was in man,' and who 
intended his religion, not for a few critics to ar- 
gue upon, but for a whole world to act upon, 
frequently adopted the mode of instructing by 
allegory. Though he sometimes condescended 
to unveil the hidden sense, by disclosing the 
moral meaning, in some short, but most signifi- 
cant comment; yet he usually left the applica- 
tion to those whom he meant to benefit by the 
doctrine. The truth which spoke strongly to 
their prejudices, by the veil in which it was 
wrapped, spared the shame while it conveyed 
the instruction, and they probably found a gra- 
tification in the ingenuity of their own solution 
which contributed to reconcile them to the 
6harpness of the reproof. 

The most unjust and prejudiced of the Jews 
were, by this wise management frequently 
drawn in to give an unconscious testimony 
against themselves ; this was especially the case 
in the instance of the householder and his ser- 
vants. Had the truth they were led to deduce 
from this parable, been presented in the offen- 



sive form of a direct charge, it woulo have fired 
them with inexpressible indignation. 

Christians who abound in zeal, but are defec- 
tive in knowledge and prudence, would do well 
to remember, that discretion made a remarka- 
ble, though not disproportionate part of the Re- 
deemer's character ; he never invited attack by 
imprudence, or orovoked hostility by intemper- 
ate rashness. When argument was not listened 
to, when persuasion was of no avail, when even 
all his miracles of mercy were misrepresented, 
and his divine beneficence thrown away, so that 
all farther attempts to do good were unavailing, 
he withdrew to another place ; there, indeed, to 
experience the same malignity, there to exercise 
the same compassion. 

The divine Anthor of our religion gave also 
the example of teaching not only by parable, but 
by simple propositions, detached truths, pointed 
interrogations, positive injunctions, and inde- 
pendent prohibitions, rather than by elaborate 
and continuous dissertation. He instructed not 
only by consecutive arguments, but by invita- 
tions, a^nd dissuasives adapted to the feelings, 
and intelligible to the apprehensions of his au- 
dience. He drew their attention by popular il- 
lusions, delighted it by vivid representations, 
and fixed it by reference to actual events. He 
alluded to the Galileans, crushed by the falling 
tower, which they remembered — to local scene- 
ry — the vines ofGethsemane, which they beheld, 
while he was descanting respectively upon re- 
pentance, and upon himself, as the ' true vine.' 
By these simple, but powerful and suitable me- 
thods, he brought their daily habits, and every 
day ideas, to run in the same channel with their 
principles and their duties, and made every ob- 
ject with which they were surrounded contri- 
bute its contingent to their instruction. 

The lower ranks, who most earnestly sought 
access to his person, could form a tolerable ex- 
act judgment on the things he taught, by the 
aptness of his allusions to what they saw, and 
felt, and heard. The humble situation he as- 
sumed, also, prevented their being intimidated 
by power, or influenced by authority. It at 
once made their attendance a voluntary act, and 
their assent an unbiassed conviction. The ques- 
tions proposed with a simple desire of instruc- 
tion, were answered with condescending kind- 
ness ; those dictated by curiosity or craft, were 
repelled with wisdom, or answered, not by gra- 
tifying importunity, but by grafting on the re- 
ply some higher instruction than the inquirer 
had either proposed or desired. Where a direct 
answer would, by exciting prejudice, have im- 
peded usefulness, he evaded the particular ques- 
tion by enforcing from it some general truth. 
On the application of the man whoso brother 
had refused to divide the inheritance with him 
—in declining to interfere judicially, he gave a 
great moral lecture of universal use against ava- 
rice, while he prudently avoided the subject of 
particular litigation. 

His answer to the entangling question, 'And 
who is my neighbour V suggested the instruc- 
tive illustration of the duty to a neighbour, in 
that brief, but highly finished apologue of the 
good Samaritan. The Jews, who would never 
have owned that a Samaritan was their neigh 



J36 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



bour, were, by this pious management, drawn 
in to acknowledge, that every man, without re- 
gard to country, who was even of a hostile coun- 
try, if he needed their assistance, was their 
neighbour. In this slight outline, three charac- 
ters are sketched with so much spirit and dis- 
tinctness, that, as Mr. Boyle says of Scripture 
truths in general, they resemble those portraits, 
whose eyes, every one who enters the room, fan- 
cies are fixed on him. 

False zeal, which he generally found associ- 
ated with pride and hypocrisy, was almost the 
only vice which extorted from him unmitigated 
severity : if he sometimes corrected presump- 
tion and repelled malicious inquisitiveness, he 
uniformly encouraged distress to approach, and 
penitence to address him. The most indirect 
of his instructions inculcated or encouraged 
goodness. The most simple of his reasonings 
were irrefragable without the formality of syllo- 
gism ; and his brief, but powerful persuasions 
went straight to the heart, which the most ela- 
borate discussions might have left unmoved. — 
Every hearer, however illiterate, would at once 
seize his meaning, except those who found them- 
selves interested in not understanding it ; every 
spectator, 'if they believed not him, 'would be- 
lieve his works,' if pride had not blinded their 
eyes, if prejudice had not barred up their hearts. 

Thus, if in the Gospels, the great doctrines 
of religion are not always conveyed in a didac- 
tic form, or linked with logical arrangement, 
some important truth meets us at every turn, is 
held out in some brief sentence ; some hint is 
dropped that may awaken, recal, quicken, or 
revive perpetual attention. The same spirit 
pervades every part ; we are reminded without 
being fatigued ; and, whatever is the point to 
be pressed, some informing, alarming, or con- 
soling doctrine is extracted from it, or grows 
out of it. 

The Scriptures, however, are so far from set- 
ting aside the„use of reason, that all their pre- 
cepts are addressed to it. If they are delivered 
in a popular manner, and often in independent 
maxims, or reason, by combining them method- 
izes the detached passages into a perfect sys- 
tem ; so that by a combination, which it is in 
the power of every intelligent reader to make, 
a complete rule of practice is collected. The 
scattered precepts are embodied in examples 
illustrated by figures, and exemplified by para- 
bles.— These always suppose the mind of the 
hearer to be possessed of a certain degree of 
common knowledge, without which the proposed 
instruction would be unintelligible. For, if the 
Gospel does not address its disciples as if they 
were philosophers and mathematicians, it always 
supposes them to possess plain sense and ordi- 
nary information ; to have acquaintance with 
human, if not with elevated life. The allusions 
and imagery with which it abounds would have 
been superfluous if the hearers had not been 
previously acquainted with the objects and cir- 
cumstances to which the image is referred, from 
which the parallel is drawn, to which the allu- 
sion is made. 

Our hea/ sniy bather, in his offers of illumi- 
nation, dies not ex peel we should open our men- 
tal eyes to this suueriflduced light, without 



opening our understandings to natural and ra, 
tional information, but expects that we should 
apply the faculties bestowed, to the objects pro 
posed to them. We put ourselves, therefore, in 
the fairest way of obtaining his assistance, when 
we most diligently use all the means and mate- 
rials he has given us ; comparing together his 
works and his word ; not setting up our under- 
standing against his revelation, but, with deep 
humility, applying the one to enable us to com- 
prehend the other ; not extinguishing our facul- 
ties, but our pride ; not laying our understand- 
ing asleep, but casting it at the foot of the cross. 
We have dwelt on this point the more, from 
having observed, that some religious persons 
are apt to speak with contempt of great natural 
endowments as if they were not the gift of God, 
but of some inferior power: the prudently pious, 
on the other hand, while they use them to the 
end for which they were conferred, keep them 
in due subordination, and restrict them to their 
proper office. Abilities are the gift of God, and 
next to his grace, though with an immense in- 
terval, his best gift ; but are never so truly esti- 
mable as when they are dedicated to promote 
his glory. 

Our heavenly Instructor, still more to accom- 
modate his parables to the capacities of his au- 
dience, adopted the. broad line of instruction 
conveyed under a few strong features of general 
parallel, a few leading points of obvious coinci- 
dence, without attending to petty exactnesses or 
stooping to trivial niceties of correspondence. 
We are not, therefore, to hunt after minute re- 
semblances, nor to cavil at slight discrepancies. 
We should rather imitate his example, by con- 
fining our illustration to the more important 
circumstances of likeness instead of raising 
such as are insignificant into undue distinction. 
— This critical elaboration, this amplifying 
mode, which ramifies a general idea into all the 
minutia? of parallel, would only serve to divert 
the attention, and split it into so many divisions, 
that the main object would be lost sight of. 

The author once heard a sermon which had 
for its text ' Ye are the salt of the earth.' The 
preacher, a really good man, but wanting this 
discretion, not contented with a simple applica- 
tion of the figure, instead of a general allusion 
to the powerfully penetrating and correcting na- 
ture of this mineral, instead of observing that 
salt was used in all the ancient sacrifices, in- 
dulged himself in a wide range, chemical and 
culinary, of all the properties of salt, devoting a 
separate head to each quality. A long discus- 
sion on its antiseptic properties, its solution and 
neutralization, led to rather a luxurious exhibi- 
tion of the relishes it communicates to various 
viands. On the whole, the discourse seemed 
better adapted for an audience composed of the 
authors of the Pharmacopoeia, or a society of 
cooks, than for a plain untechnical congregation. 

But to return. Who can reflect without ad- 
miration on the engaging variety with which 
the great Teacher labours to impress every im- 
portant truth ? Whenever different aspects of 
the same doctrine were likely still more forcibly 
to seize the attention, still more deeply to touch 
the heart, still more powerfully to awaken the 
conscience, he does not content himself with a 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.' 



137 



single allegory. Iu his awful exhibition of 
the inestimable value of an immortal soul, he 
does not coolly describe the repentance of a 
single sinner as viewed with complacency by 
the highest order of created intelligences, but 
as adding 'joy' to bliss already perfected in im- 
mortality. He does not limit his instruction to 
one metaphorical illustration of the delight of 
the heavenly hosts, but extends it to three, 
finishing the climax by that most endearing and 
touching of all moral and allegorical pictures, 
the restoration of the prodigal to his father's 
love. 

. But this triple use of the same species of 
allegory — each instance rising above the other, 
in beauty and in force, each adding fresh weight 
to one momentous point — he most emphatically 
employs in the last discourse previous to his 
final suffering ; wo mean in his sublime illustra- 
tion of the solemnities of the last day, in three 
successive parables all tending to impress the 
same awful truth. 

As he well knew every' accessible point of 
the human heart, so there was none which he 
did not touch. But the grand circumstance 
which carried his instruction so directly home to 
the hearts and consciences of men, was, that he 
not only taught, but ' did all things well.' His 
doctrines were so digested into his life, his in- 
structions so melted into his practice, that it 
rendered goodness visible as well as perfect ; 
and these analogies and resemblances were not 
only admirably, but uniformly correspondent. 
He did not content himself like those heathen 
philosophers, to whose affable conduct in society 
that of the blessed Redeemer has lately been so 
impiously compared, (though their motives dif- 
fered, as much as the desire of converting sin- 
ners differs from delighting in them,) with ex- 
hibiting systems without morals, and a rule 
without a pattern, but the purity and perfection 
of his divine character gave light to knowledge, 
and life to document. 



CHAP. VI. 

On the parable of the Talents. 

Our Lord's parables had been sometimes in- 
dicative of existing circumstances ; sometimes 
predictive of events which related to futurity. 
After having, in his preceding allegories, by 
practical lessons, encouraged the prepared and 
exhorted the unprepared, to look for the king- 
dom of God, he closed his parabolical* instruc- 
tions by an awful exhibition of their fitness or 
unfitness for that everlasting kingdom ; in which 
he unfolds what their condition will be, when 
all mystery, all instruction, all preparation, shall 
be at an end ; when every act of every being 
shall be laid as bare before the eyes of the 
whole assembled world, as it was seen in its 
commission by his, from whom nothing is hid. 
The last of these three prophetic scenes is in- 
deed not so much a parable as a picture ; not so 
much an allegory as a literal representation : 
the solemn reality rises above all figure, and 
* See Matthew xxv. 



could never have been so forcibly conveyed as 
by this plain, yet most sublime delineation. 

The conclusion immediately to be drawn 
from the second of these ujttyes, the Parable 
of the Talents, is, that waj^^B nothing that is 
properly our own, nothin^JPit is underived 
from God. Everv talent is a deposit placed in 
our hands, not for our exclusive benefit, but for 
the good of others. Whatever we possess which 
may either be improved to God's glory or per- 
verted to his dishonour, comes within the de- 
scription of a talent. To use any of our pos- 
sessions, therefore, as if we had an independent 
right to the disposal of them, is to usurp the pre- 
rogative of the Giver. Many, it is to be feared, 
will wait till that great disclosing day which 
will throw a blaze of light on all motives, as 
well as all actions, before they will be convinced 
of the fallacy of that popular maxim, that a 
man may do what ho will with his own. He 
has indeed a full right to his proprietorship with 
respect. to other men, but, with respect to God, 
he will find he had no exclusive property. 
Whatever portion of his possessions conscience 
ought to have turned over from vanity to charity, 
from sensuality to piety, he may find too late, 
was not his own, but his who gave it him for 
other purposes. 

God proportions his requisitions to his gifts. 
The one is regulated by the measure of the 
other. As duties and obligations are peculiar 
and personal, we are not to trench on the sphere 
of others. It is of our own talent, we must 
render our own account. A capacity, however 
to know our duty, and to love and serve God, as 
they are indiscriminately bestowed, so the in- 
quiry into the use made of them will be univer. 
sal, while the reward or punishment will be in- 
dividually assigned. 

Deficiency and excess are the Scylla and 
Charybdis between which we seldom steer 
safely. If our talents are splendid, we are sub- 
ject to err on the side of display ; if mean, to- 
tally to suppress their exercise, apologizing for 
our indolence by our insignificance; but medi- 
ocrity of talents is as insufficient an excuse for 
sloth, as superior genius is for vanity. The 
true way would be, to exercise the brightest 
faculties with humility, and the most incon- 
siderable with fidelity. The faithful and highly 
gifted servants in the parable, it is apparent, 
were so far from being lifted into pride, or se- 
duced into negligence, by the greater impor 
tance of the trust committed to them, that they 
considered the largeness of their agency as an 
augmentation of their responsibility. — They 
did the will of their lord without condition- 
ing or debating. Their slothful associate, in- 
stead of doing it, contented himself with argu- 
ing about it. He who disputed much, had done 
nothing : he should have known that Christi- 
anity is not a matter of debate, but of obedience. 

There is no one doctrine of Holy Scripture 
either insignificant or merely theoretical. That 
which the parable teaches, is highly and special, 
ly practical. The instruction to be deduced 
from it, is as extensive as the gifts of God to his 
creatures, as the obligations of man to his bene- 
factor. It is most especially practical, as it 
designates this world to be a scene of business, 



138 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



action, exertion, diligence. It inculcates the 
high and complicated duty of laying out our- 
selves for the glo ry, o f our Maker, and the ex- 
ercise of an impJ|HW)edience to his will. God 
has not given us the command to work, without 
furnishing us with instruments with which to 
labour, and suitable materials to work upon. 
Our talents, such as riches, power, influence, 
wisdom, learning, time, are those instruments. 
The wants, helplessness, and ignorance of man- 
kind, are the objects to which these instruments 
are to be applied. These talents are bestowed 
in various proportions, as to their value, as well 
as in different degrees, as to the quantity and 
number. He who is favoured with more abun- 
dant endowments, should mix with his grati- 
tude for the gift, an abiding sense of his own 
greater accountableness. He who is slenderly 
furnished, should never plead that the inferiority 
of his trust is an excuse for his negligence. 
The conviction that the Great Master will not 
exact beyond the proportion of his gift, though 
an encouragement to those whom his provi- 
dence has placed in a narrow sphere of useful- 
ness, is no discharge from their diligence. Is 
it reasonable, that he who has less to do, should 
therefore do nothing ? When little is expected 
from us, not to do that little enhances the crime ; 
and it aggravates the ingratitude, when we 
convert our master's more moderate demands 
into a pretence for absolute supineness. 

He who is not called upon to relieve the ne- 
cessities, or to enlighten the ignorance of others, 
has still a weighty work upon his hands : he 
has the care of his own soul. If he is de- 
ficient in learning, and natural abilities — if 
he has little credit, and less of fortune, he 
probably has time; he certainly has the means 
of religious improvement; so that, in this land 
of light and knowledge, especially now that 
universal instruction is happily become a na- 
tional care, there is hardly such a thing as in- 
nocent ignorance. Even of the lowest, of the 
least, a strict account will be required. To 
plead ignorance where they might have been 
taught, indolence because they had little to do, 
and negligence, because not much was ex- 
pected, is only treasuring up innumerable rea- 
sons for aggravating their condemnation. 

It is remarkable that of the several characters 
exhibited in the parable, the least endowed was 
the only one punished, his neglect being every 
way inexcusable. A lasting and awful lesson, 
that no inferiority can claim exemption from 
the general law of duty. If the right employ- 
ment of the gift is an encouragement to the 
poorly endowed, as being easily exercised and 
amply rewarded ; its abuse is an awakening call 
to every one. For, it is not fairly deducible 
from this instance, that if of those whose scale 
in society is low, whose intellectual powers are 
mean, or whose fortunes are narrow ; if even of 
such, a strict account will be required, if even in 
these, mere deficiency was so harshly reprobated, 
mere nullity was so severely punished — a sen- 
tence of most tremendous import must await 
those who employ rank and opulence to selfih 
and corrupt ends, or genius to pernicious pur- 
ooses; the one debasing their own minds by 
sensuality, or corrupting others by examples of 



vice and prodigality ; and the other devoting abi. 
lities so great, with profligacy so notorious, as to 
appear little less than ' archangel ruined,' and 
drawing inferior spirits into the destruction in 
which they have plunged themselves. 

But again : — If these several talents, indivi- 
dually conferred, when employed to wrong 
purposes, or not employed at all, will be rigor- 
ously punished : what sentence have they to 
expect, in whom is centred the splendid con- 
fluence of God's gifts? What will be the 
eternal anathema pronounced on those who 
possessed aggregately talents, with every one 
of which, singly enjoyed, they might have ren- 
dered the world about them better and happier ? 
To reflect by whom they were bestowed, to what 
end designed, how they have been used, and 
what a reckoning awaits them, form a combi- 
nation of reflections too awful to be dwelt upon. 
From the anticipation of such complicated woe 
we turn with terror. The bare idea of a pun- 
ishment which shall always torment and never 
destroy, is insupportable. Yet how many be- 
lieve this without being influenced by the belief! 
How many, by an unaccountable delusion-, re- 
fuse to conform their lives to the injunctions of 
the gospel, while they put their vices under the 
protection of its promises. 

The parable informs us, that it was ' after a 
long time,' that the Lord required the account ; 
so long, that the wicked think it will never 
come, and even the good are apt to persuade 
themselves that it will not come soon. Let not 
those however who are sitting at ease in their 
possessions, whether of nature or of fortune, to 
speak after the manner of men, fancy that the 
reckoning which is delayed is forgotten. The 
more protracted the account, the larger will be 
the sum total, and, of course, the more severe the 
requsition. All delay, indeed, is an act of mercy ; 
but mercy neglected, or abused, will enhance 
pnnishment in proportion as it aggravates guilt. 

It is obvious that the servants in the parable 
had been in the habit of attending to their mer 
cies. They seem never to have been unmind 
ful of the exact value of what had been com- 
mitted to them, ' Lord, thou deliveredst unto me 
five talents.' If we do not frequently enume- 
rate the mercies of God to us, we shall be in 
danger of losing sight of the Giver, while we 
are revelling in the gift; of neglecting the ap- 
plication, and forgetting the responsibility. We 
should recollect that his very employment of us 
is a high mark of favour ; the use he condescends 
to make of us augments our debt, and whenever 
he puts it in our way to serve him, he lays on 
us a fresh obligation, and confers on us an hon- 
ourable distinction. 

Though he that has most, and does most, has 
but ' a few things,' yet his remuneration shall 
be immense. It is his fidelity, and not his suc- 
cess ; his zeal in improving occasions, and not 
the number or greatness of the occasions, that 
will be rewarded. There will be an always 
infinite disproportion between the work he has 
done, and the blessing attending it. 

The expostulation of the unprofitable servant 
presents an awful lesson against distrust in God, 
and fallacious views of his infinitely perfee 
character. The very motive this false reasoner 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



139 



produces in his own vindication, is the strongest 
argument against him. If he 'knew' that his 
lord was such a rigorous exacter, that was the 
very reasor why he should not have given in 
such a negative account. ' I knew thou wast a 
hard master.' Could a weightier argument have 
been advanced for a directly different conduct ? 
Common prudence might have taught him that, 
with such a master, his only security was assi- 
duous industry. The want of love of God was 
at the root of this, as it is of all sin. 

How many 'isten to the sentence of this un- 
worthy servant ! How many allow the equity 
of this exclusion, and yet how few, comparative- 
ly, ask, with the agitated Apostles ; ' Lord, is it 
I V This simple question, honestly put, and 
practically followed up, would render all com- 
ment vain, all exhortation superfluous. This 
self-application is the great end of the parable, 
the great end of Scripture, the great end of 
preaching, and the only end of hearing. 

But do not too many of us, like him we are so 
ready to condemn, conceal our self-love under 
the assumption of modesty, and indulge our 
sloth under the humble pretence that we have 
no talent to exercise ? But let us be assured it 
is the deadness of our spiritual affections, and 
not our mean opinion of ourselves, that is the 
real cause. The service of God is irksome, be- 
cause his commands interfere with our self-in- 
dulgence. Let the lowly Christian possessed of 
but his single talent, cheer his fainting heart by 
that beautifully condescending plea, with which 
the compassionate Saviour vindicated the mo- 
dest penitent, who had no other way of demon- 
strating her affection, but by pouring perfumes 
on his feet — she hath done what she could. A 
tenderness of encouragement, which, if we con- 
sider by whom it was uttered, and to whom ad- 
dressed, must convey consolation to the heart 
of the most poorly endowed and self-abasing 
Christian. 

In giving in the final account of the use we 
have made of our talents, we shall not only have 
to reckon, for the Christian knowledge we really 
acquired, for the progress we actually made in 
piety, for the good impressions we received or 
communicated, but for the higher degrees of all 
which we might have received or imparted, had 
we, instead of squandering our talents on infe- 
rior objects, carried them to the height of w-hich 
they were susceptible. Had we acted up to our 
convictions, had we pushed our advantages to 
their possibilities, had we regularly pursued 
what we eagerly engaged in, had our progress 
kept pace with our resolution, our attainments, 
with our opportunities, how much more profita- 
ble servants we might have been ! But satis- 
fied to stop short of great offences, we neglect 
to impress upon our consciences how large a 
port'ion of our reckoning will be of a negatiye 
character. 

From natural feeling, from inward conscious- 
ness, from the notices of reason, the traces of 
hereditary opinion, and the analogy of things, 
independently of Revelation, we cannot avoid 
the belief that we are accountable beings. Our 
notions of right and wrong, of equity and judg- 
ment.our insuppressible forebodings, our fearful 
anticipations, the suggestions of natural con- 



science, all unite their several forces to fasten 
on the mind the belief that we shall be called to 
a definite account. Our intelligent nature, our 
rational powers, our voluntary agency, make us 
suitable subjects of God's moral government. 
His wisdom, power, omniscience, rectitude and 
justice render him supremely fit to be our final 
judge, and the dispenser of our eternal awards. 
But God, in his infinite goodness, has not, in 
this most important point, left us to the bare 
light of unassisted nature ; he has not left 
us to be tossed about without rudder, or com- 
pass, on the boundless ocean of harrassing con- 
jecture. He has not abandoned us to the alter- 
nation of vain fears and unfounded hopes ; to the 
sickly suggestions of a troubled fancy, the cruel 
uncertainties of doubt, and the cheerless dark- 
ness of ignorance. The expectation of a day of 
retribution is not the gloomy reverie of the su- 
perstitious, nor the wild vision of the enthusi- 
astic. He who cannot tie has solemnly assured 
us, that he has appointed a day in which he will 
judge the world by that Man whom he has sent, 
Christ Jesus. 

The coming of this great day, which nature 
suspected, and reason allowed, Scripture con- 
firms. It will at length arrive. The scrutiny 
so .graphically exhibited by our Lord, will be 
realized in all its pomp of terrors. The sea shall 
give up its dead, and death and hell shall deli- 
ver up the dead which are in them, and every 
man shall be judged according to his works. 
And the dead, small and great shall stand before 
God, the judgment shall be set, and the books 
opened, and the dead shall be judged out of those 
things which are written in the books, accord- 
ing to their works. 

This universal examination into the human 
character, this critical dissection of the heart of 
man, from the first created being to him wh<s 
shall be caught up alive in the air at Christ's 
second coming, shall infallibly take place. 

Blessed be Almighty forbearance, it is still in 
the power of every existing child of Adam to 
lighten to himself his apprehensions of that day. 
He may do more ; he may convert terror into 
transport, by acting now as if he really believed 
it would one day come ; by acting as he shall 
then wish he had acted. If 'the terrors of the 
Lord persuade men,' what effect should his mer- 
cy produce ; that mercy which has given the 
universal warning to the whole human race in 
three consentaneous parables, exhibited with a 
spirit of truth more resembling historic narra- 
tive, than prophetic anticipation ! There is not 
one living being who now reads this page from 
whom that day is distant ; to some it must be 
very near ; to none perhaps nearer, than to her 
who now tremblingly presumes to raise the 
warning voice ; to her, to all, it is tremendously 
awful. Let none of us, then, content ourselves 
with a barren admiration of its solemnities, as 
if it were an affecting scene of a tragedy, in- 
vented to move the passions without rectifying 
them ; to inspire terror, without quickening re- 
pentance. Let us not be struck by it as with a 
wonderful fact in history, which involves the in- 
terest of some one country with which we have 
no particular concern ; or of some remote cen- 
tury disconnected with that in which our lot is 



140 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



cast. It is the personal, the individual, the ever- 
lasting concern of every rational being through 
all the rolls of time, till time shall be no more. 
It is the final, unalterable decision on the fate 
of every intelligent, and, therefore, every ac- 
countable creature, to whom God has revealed 
his will ; to whom he has sent his Son, to whom 
he has offered the aid of his Spirit. 

No wonder that the universal administration 
of final justice shall be manifested in the most 
awful pomp and splendor — no wonder that it 
will be equally a scene of anguish and of trans- 
port ; when it will, on the one hand, as much 
exceed the terrors of guilt, as it will, on the 
other, transcend the hopes of faith — when the 
eternal Son of the eternal Father, in the full 
brightness of his glory, shall be the judge ; when 
the whole assembled universe shall be the sub- 
jects of judgment — when not only the deeds of 
every life, but the thoughts of every heart, shall 
be brought to light, when, if we produce our 
works, the recording book will produce our mo- 
tives — when every saint who acted as seeing 
Him who is invisible, shall not only see but 
share the glory in which he trusted ; when the 
hypocrite shall behold him whom he believed 
without trusting, and mocked without deceiving; 
when the profligate shall witness the reality of 
what he feared, and the infidel shall feel the 
certainty of what he denied. 



CHAP. VII. 

On influence, considered as a Talent. 

It is at best a selfish sort of satisfaction, though 
the poet calls it a delightful one, to see others 
tossed about in a storm, while we are sittirig in 
security, rejoicing, not because they are in danger, 
but because we are safe. Christianity instructs 
us to improve on the sentiment. It teaches us 
to extract not only comfort and gratification from 
the comparison of our happier lot with that of 
the less favoured ; but in making the compari- 
son, it reminds us to make it with reference to 
God, by emphatically asking, ' Who is it that 
maketh us to differ ?' 

But if we look around, not only on the exter- 
nal but on the moral and mental distinctions 
among mankind, and consider the ignorance, 
the miseries, and the vices of others as a ground 
for our more abundant gratitude ; what sort of 
feeling will be excited in certain persons by a 
sight and sense of those miseries, those vices, 
and that ignorance, of which their own influence, 
or example, or neglect has been the cause ] If 
we see any unhappy whom we might have re- 
lieved, any ignorant whom we ought to have in- 
structed, any corrupt whose corruptions we never 
endeavoured to reform, but whom, perhaps, we 
have contributed to make what they are ; in 
either of these cases, it is difficult to conceive 
any state of mind less susceptible of comfort, 
any circumstance more calculated to excite 
compunction. These instances may help men 
lo a pretty just criterion by which to judge of 
their own character, since it is certain they never 
felt any true gratitude for their own mercies, 



who can look with indifference on either the 
temporal or spiritual distresses of others. And 
if no one ever truly mourned for his own sins 
who can be insensible to the sins of those around 
him, so no one can be earnest to promote his own 
salvation, who neglects any fair opening of con- 
tributing to the salvation of others. 

What an appalling reflection it is, that at the 
tremendous bar, a being already overwhelmed 
with the weight of his own offences, may have 
to sustain the addition of the amazing and un- 
expected load of all those, of which he has been 
the cause in others ! What an awful contrast 
will be ' presented to the assembled universe, 
when certain commanding characters shall stand 
forth, burdened not only with their personal 
guilt, nor even with the sins of their immediate 
connexions, but in a certain measure with the 
sins of their age and country ; while others, who 
devoted similar talents and influence to opposite 
purposes, shall appear gloriously surrounded 
with happy spirits, of whose felicity they have 
been the instruments : their shining crowns 
made brighter by imparted brightness, by good- 
ness which flourished under their auspices, by 
virtues which were the effect of their p~atronage, 
by piety which was the fruit of their example. 

Influence is a talent not only of undefinable 
but of universal extent. Who is there so insig- 
nificant as not to have his own circle, greater or 
smaller, made better or worse, by his society, 
his conduct, his counsels ? That presumptuous 
but common consolation of a dying bed, I have 
done no harm to any one, is always the fallacious 
refuge of sucli as have done little or no good. 
Man is no such neutral being. 

It is not the design of the present considera- 
tions to insist so much on the more striking and 
conspicuous instances of misemployed influence, 
(for the ordinary state of life does not incessant- 
ly call them into action,) as on those overlooked, 
though not unimportant demands for its exertion, 
which occur in the every-day transactions of 
mankind, more especially among the opulent and 
the powerful. 

Rank and fortune confer an influence the most 
commanding. All objects attract the more no- 
tice from being placed on an eminence, and do 
not excite the less attention, because they may 
deserve less admiration. In anticipating the 
scrutiny that will hereafter be made into the 
manner in which the rich and great have em- 
ployed their influence, that powerful engine put 
into their hands for the noblest purposes, may 
we not venture to wish they had some disinte- 
rested friend, less anxious to please than to serve 
them, who would honestly as occasion might 
offer, interrogate them in a manner something 
like the following : — 

' Allow me, as a friend to your immortal in- 
terests, to ask you a few plain questions. Has 
your power been uniformly employed in discou- 
raging injustice ; in promoting particular as 
well as general good ; in countenancing reli 
gious as well as charitable institutions ; in pro- 
tecting the pious, as well as in assisting the in- 
digent ? Has your influence been conscientious- 
ly exerted in vindicating injured merit; has it 
been employed in defending insulted worth 
I against the indolence of the unfeeling, the scorn 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



141 



of the unworthy, the neglect of the unthinking ? 
Has it been exercised in patronizing modest ge- 
fcius, which would, without your fostering hand, 
have sunk in obscurity ? 

' Have you, in the recommendations which 
have been required of you, had an eye to the 
suitableness of the candidate for the place, ra- 
ther than to a provision for an unworthy appli- 
cant, to the injury of the office ? And have you 
honestly preferred the imperative claims of the 
institution to the solicitations, or even to the 
wants, of the individual? Have you never load- 
ed a public, or injured a private establishment, 
by appointing an unfit agent, because he was a 
burden on your own hands, or a charge on your 
own purse ? Have you never promoted a servant 
who had " wasted your goods," and with whom 
you parted for that very reason, to the superin- 
tendance of a charity, or to the management of 
an office, where you knew he would have a 
wider sphere, and a more uncontrolled power, 
of purloining public property, or wasting private 
bounty, than in that from which your prudence 
had discharged him V 

To rise a step higher : — ' Have you never, if 
intrusted with a patronage over that peculiarly 
sacred office, " which any one may well trem- 
ble to give or to receive," been governed by a 
spirit of nepotism in the disposal of it, which 
you perhaps severely censure under a certain 
other establishment most obviously corrupt? 
Have you never been engaged in promoting 
men, who, from their destitution of principle, 
are a dishonour to the profession in which you 
have been raising them, or, by the want of abi- 
lities are disqualified for it ? Have you never 
connived at the preferment of the weak or wick- 
ed, to the exclusion of others whose virtues and 
talents eminently fitted them for the situation? 
Or, have you, rather, strenuously laboured to 
fix the meritorious in the place they were so 
qualified to fill, while you supplied the wants of 
the undeserving or incompetent relative out of 
your own purse ? And have you habitually 
made a conscience of recommending adequate 
persons in preference to the unworthy and the 
unfit, though the latter belonged to your own 
little senate, or swelled your own large train ? 

' Have you habitually borne in mind that im- 
portant, but disregarded, maxim, that what you 
do by another is done by yourself; and not only 
carefully avoided oppression in your own per- 
son, but, rising superior to that selfish indolence, 
the bane, the grave of every nobler quality, have 
you been careful that your agents do not exer- 
cise a tyranny which you yourself abhor, but 
which may be carried on under your name ? 
Your ignorance of such injustice will be of littfe 
avail, if, through supineness, you have sanction- 
ed abuses which vigilance might have prevent- 
ed, or exertion punished. 

' Have you unkindly denied access to your 
presence to the diffident solicitor, who has no 
other channel to preferment but your favour ; 
and if not able to serve him, have you softened 
your refusal by feelingly participating in his 
disappointment, instead of aggravating it by re- 
fusing to see and soothe him, when you could 
do no more ? Have you considered that, to listen 
to wearisome applications, and pertinacious 



claims, is among the drawbacks of comfort ne- 
cessarily appended to your station ? To examine 
into interfering pretensions, while it is a duty 
you owe to the applicant, is a salutary exercise 
of patience to yourself; it is also the only cer- 
tain means you possess of distinguishing the 
meritorious from the importunate.' 

We dwell on this part of the subject the more 
earnestly, because it is to be feared that even 
the tender-hearted and the benevolent, from the 
facility of a yielding temper, from weariness of 
importunity, from a wish to spare their own 
feelings, as well as from a too natural desire to 
get rid of trouble, are frequently induced to con- 
fer and to refuse favours, not only against their 
principles and their judgment, but against their 
will. Yet as no virtue is ever possessed in per- 
fection by him who is destitute of its opposite. — 
Have you been equally careful, never, for the 
sake of popularity or the love of ease, to awaken 
false hopes % and keep alive false expectations in 
vour retainers, though you knew you had no 
prospect of ever making them good 1 — thus com- 
mitting your own honour for the sake of swell- 
ing the catalogue of your dependents ; and, by 
insincerity and indecision, feeding them with 
delusive promises, when a firm negative, by ex- 
tinguishing hope, might have put them on a 
more successful pursuit. 

Some striking instances of delicate liberality, 
recorded of a late lamented statesman, have 
shown, that it is not too much to expect from 
human nature, that a man should exert his in- 
fluence for the benefit of another, even though 
it were to his own disadvantage, and that he 
should be not only willing, but desirous, not to 
procure for himself the gratitude of the obliged 
person, nor to obtain his admiration ; but would 
be contented, that, while he himself afforded all 
the benefit, an intervening agent should have 
all the credit. This disinterestedness is among 
the nicer criteria of a Christian spirit. 

While we can with truth assign the most 
liberal praise to that spirit of charity which pre- 
eminently distinguishes the present period, we 
are compelled to lament that justice is not held 
in equal estimation by some of those who give 
the law to manners. This considerably dimi- 
nishes their influence, because it is the quality 
which, of all others, they most severely require 
in their dependents, as being that which is most 
immediately connected with their own interest. 
And how far from equitable is it, to blame and 
punish the statuable offence in petty men, whose 
breach of integrity is unhappily facilitated by 
continual opportunity, or induced by the pres- 
sure of want, while the rigorous exacter of jus- 
tice is as defective in the practice, as he is strict 
in the requisition ? 

The species of injustice alluded to, consists 
much in that laxity of principle which adrniU 
of a scale of expense disproportionate to the for- 
tune : this creates the inevitable necessity of 
remaining in heavy arrears to those who can 
ill afford to give long credit : in return, it in- 
duces in the creditor the habit, and almost the 
necessity, ef enhancing the price of his commo- 
dity. The evil would be little, if the encroach- 
ment were only felt by those whose tardy pay- 
ment renders exorbitance almost pardonable : 



142 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



out others, who practise the most exact justice, 
are involved in the penalty, without partaking 
in the offence : and the correct are taxed for the 
improbity of the dilatory. This dilapidating 
habit leads tc an indolence in inspecting ac- 
counts ; and the increasing unwillingness to ex- 
amine into debts, increases the inability to dis- 
charge them ; for debts, like sins, become more 
burdensome in proportion as people neglect to 
.nquire into them. — Perhaps there is no instance 
of misconduct which tends more directly to di- 
minish influence than the imprudence of con- 
tracting debts, and the irregularity and conse- 
quent injustice of which it is sometimes unin- 
tentionally the cause. 

And here, if we might be allowed a remark 
somewhat foreign to our immediate subject, it 
may be observed, that the low conception of jus- 
tice of which we complain has infected not only 
morals, but religion ; or rather, what began in 
our principle towards God, extends to our prac- 
tice towards man. It is the attribute of which 
we make the least scruple to rob the Almighty; 
for it is a fashionable, though covert, mode of 
arraigning his justice, when we affect to exalt 
his character by representing him as too merci- 
ful to punish. Justice is not only eminently 
conspicuous in her own central station, but gives 
life and light to other attributes. By cutting off 
superfluous expenses, temperance and sobriety 
grows out of justice ; and, what is subtracted 
from luxury, is carried over without additional 
expense, to the account of beneficence. 

The Holy Scriptures lay down some precise 
and indispensable rules for the practice of jus- 
tice, while they leave great latitude, at least as 
to the selection of its individual acts, to charity. 
Justice can be maintained only by this distinct 
demand and rigid acquiescence, while charity 
would lose the nature and quality of benevo- 
lence, if it were under any such express and 
definite rules. Charity may choose her object, 
but those of justice are chosen for her. It was, 
douL-:less, in mercy, that no absolute rule or li- 
mitation is made respecting charity, that we 
might have the gratification of a voluntary de- 
light in its exercise, for our nature is, in this 
respect, so kindly constituted, that, in minds 
not peculiarly ill-formed, the call to beneficence 
is the call to enjoyment. 

But to return. — The influence of the great, 
1 the observed of all observers,' descends into the 
social walks of life. The pinnacle on which they 
Btand, makes their most trivial actions, and even 
words, objects of attention and imitation to those 
beneath them. The consciousness of this should 
be an additional motive for avoiding, in their 
ordinary conversation, not only what is corrupt, 
but whatever savours of levity and imprudence; 
the vanity of the little world is ready, not from 
mischief, but self-importance, to convert the 
thoughtless slips of the great into consequence; 
their most frivolous remarks are quoted, merely 
that the quoter may seize the only occasion he 
could ever find of showing that he has been ad- 
mitted to their company. This harmless little 
stratagem holds out a strong motiva for those 
whose condition in life makes them subjects of 
observation, occasionally to let fall something 
•hat may be remembered, not merely because 



they said it,but because it was worth saying.Thia 
remark applies to superiority of talents, to be 
considered in our next head, still more than of 
rank. 

As the great and noble are sufficiently dis- 
posed to look with reverted eye back to their 
ancestral honours, it were to be wished that 
they were all as ready, as we are happy to say 
some of them are, to cast the same careful re- 
trospect to the ancient usages of their illustrious 
houses. There was a time when family devo- 
tion was considered as a kind of natural appen- 
dage to high rank, when domestic worship was 
almost as inseparably connected with the aris- 
tocracy as the church with the state. The cha- 
pel was as much a part of the splendid esta- 
blishment as the state-room. When the form 
of piety was thus kept up, the reality Was more 
likely to exist. Even the appearance was a ho- 
mage to religion, the very custom was an ho- 
nourable recognition of Christianity. But, in 
the way of influence, it must have been of high 
importance ; the domestics would have their 
sense of duty kept alive, and would with more 
alacrity serve those who they saw se»ved God. 
It was a bond of political, as well as of moral 
union ; it was the only occasion on which ' the 
rich and poor meet together.' There is some 
thing of a coalescing property in social worship. 
In acknowledging their common dependance on 
their common master, this equality of half an 
hour would be likely to promote subordination 
through the rest of the day. Take it in an in- 
ferior point of view, it was a useful discipline, it 
was a family muster-roll, a sort of domestic pa- 
rade, which regularly brought the privates be- 
fore their commanding officers, and maintained 
order as well as detected absence. It was also 
calculated to promote the interests of the supe- 
riors, by periodically reminding their depend- 
ants of their duty to God, which necessarily in- 
volves every human obligation. 

We come now to speak, though cursorily, of 
another deposit of talent, not less extensive in 
its immediato effects and far more important in 
its consequences ; the influence of Genius and 
Learning. As the influence of well-directed ta- 
lents is too obvious to require animadversion, 
we shall confine our brief remarks to their con- 
trary direction. — If we could suppose the man 
whose talents had, by pernicious principles, 
been diverted from their right channel, to have, 
at the close of life, that clear view of his own 
character, and the misapplication of his mental 
powers, which will be presented to him when 
he opens his eyes on eternity, we should wit- 
ness as complete a contrast with his present 
feelings as'any two opposite descriptions of cha- 
racter could exhibit. 

Of all the various sentences to be awarded at 
the dread tribunal, can imagination figure one 
more severe than will be pronounced against 
the polluted and polluting wit ; the noblest fa- 
culties turned into arms against him who gave 
them, the eloquence which would scarcely have 
disparaged the tongue of angels, converted to 
the rhetoric of hell ? The mischief of a cor- 
rupt book is indefinite, both in extent and dura- 
tion. — When the personal example of the writer 
has done its worst, and has only ruined his 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



143 



friends and neighbours, the operation of an un- 
principled work may be just beginning. — It is 
a sin, the commission of which carries in it 
more of the character of its infernal inspirer 
than any other. It is a crime not prompted 
by appetite, kindled by passion, or provoked by 
temptation : but a gratuitous, voluntary, cold 
blooded enormity, the offspring of intellectual 
wickedness, the child of spiritual depravity ; 
the deepest sin without the slightest excuse. 
Sins of surprise have infirmity to plead, but, in 
this frigid villany, the badness of the motive 
• keeps pace with the turpitude of the act. The 
intention is to offend God, the project is to ruin 
man ; the aim is to poison the temporal peace, 
the design is to murder the everlasting hope of 
all who come in contact with it. 

But the exclusive application- of talents to 
subjects perfectly unexceptionable, and right 
and valuable, as far as they go, is sometimes 
an occasion in which we might mingle regret 
with admiration. We view with reverence the 
profound scholar, a man, so far from having lost 
any time in trifling, whose very amusements 
are labours, and whose relaxation is intensity 
of thought, and sedulity of study. By unre- 
mitting diligence, he has been daily adding 
fresh stores to his ponderous mass of erudi- 
tion, or periodically presenting new tomes to 
the literary world, in return for those he has 
rifled. But, put the case, that- such a man has 
never so much as conceived the thought of 
lending to religion his weight of character, or 
the influence of his reputation, by devoting some 
little interval to a moral or religious speculation ; 
has never once entertained the idea of occasion- 
ally directing his treasures of learning, into any 
channel which leads to the country where he 
and his volumes together, the durable register 
of his life, are soon about to land, — who can* 
forbear, in the contemplation of such a possible 
character, regretting that his too moderate am- 
bition should be satisfied with the applause of 
an age or an island, without once exercising his 
talents on some topic which might have includ- 
ed the concerns of his whole species, which 
might have embraced the interests of both 
worlds ? Who can forbear lamenting, that he 
has risen so high without reflecting that, in a 
moral sense, 'one step higher would set him 
highest;' that he should have been contented 
with the idolatrous worship of some pagan sage 
as editor or annotator ; and, for that humble 
meed, to relinquish the duty of glorifying his 
Maker, by instructing his fellow-creatures ; as 
if that were a less splendid object, an inferior 
concern to be turned over to inferior abilities, 
and to which inferior abilities, were adequate ? 
If the awful apprehension of a future account 
could, at the close of life, lead even the illus- 
trious Grotius, who had with equal ability cul- 
tivated both secular and sacred studies, to wish 
that he could change characters with a poor 
pious peasant, who used to spend most of his 
time in reading the Bible at his gate, what may 
finally be the wish of those who, having quitted 
a far less useful life without any such contrite 
confession, are brought to witness at once the 
retribution assigned to the conscientious use of 
one solitary talent, and to feel that awarded to 



their own vast but abused allotment? That 
awakening parable of the Divine Teacher which 
presents so terrible a view of the ' great gulf 
which irrevocably separated to other neighbours, 
whose respective lots in worldly circumstances 
resembled the distinctions of intellect in the 
preceding instance — that 'gulf which eternally 
divided the holy beggar from the opulent sen- 
sualist — is equally applicable to the present 
case. If any thing could deepen or widen a 
barrier already hopelessly impassable, might it 
not be the substitution of ill-applied abilities for 
misemployed riches?* 

An affecting thought involuntarily forces 
itself upon us, on the departure of distinguished 
genius. All those shining talents which had 
hitherto too exclusively filled our minds, sink at 
once in our estimation, because we kn<^v they 
are now nothing to their possessor but as they 
were used, worse than nothing if they were not 
used wisely. — In the court where he now stands 
for trial,- neither the cogent argument nor the 
pointed wit can secure his acquittal ; happy if 
they appear not strong evidences against it. The 
qualities of his heart, which, perhaps, dazzled 
by those of his head, we had not taken into the 
account — his errors having been lost in his 
brightness-^-now come forward as the others 
recede. Our feelings are solely occupied with 
what may be now available to him to whom we 
have owed pleasure or information. That 'fame 
which we lately thought so solid a good, seems 
now a painted cloud melting into air — that 
proud for ever for which he wrote, seems 
dwindled to a point — that visionary immortality 
which he had assigned as his meed, compared 
with the eternity on which he has entered, is 
become less than the shadow to the substance, 
less than the halo to the sun. 

This idea strikes the mind with peculiar 
force upon the recent decease of two writers of 
uncommon reach of thought, profound research, 
and unbounded philological learning. Had 
these two eminent men been possessed of in- 
ferior minds, or a more dubious fame, their 
death would have sounded the signal of silence, 
no less to the moralist than to the satirist, as to 
the gross sensuality and corrupt principles of 
the one, the avowed atheism and profligate poli- 
tical doctrines of the other. As it is, we can- 
not but refer to them, though with feelings of 
pungent regret, and only under a strong sense of 
the atonement which such examples owe to the 
world for the mischief they do it, as a melancholy 
illustration of some of the preceding remarks. 
It is to be feared that the unmixed commenda- 
tion of their talents and erudition, without the 
gentlest censure of their principles and prac- 
tices, with which some of our journals abound- 
ed on the loss of these able but unhappy men, 
might tend to impress the ardent youthful 
student with an over-valuation of genius, un- 
sanctified by Christian principles, of erudition 
undignified by virtuous conduct. 

Far, very far, from my heart be the unge- 
nerous thought of treating departed eminence 
with disrespect, but in analyzing striking 
characters, is it not a duty to separate ' the 

* Let no one apply this to the ereat statesman of 
Holland. 



144 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



precipus from the vile,' lest unqualified admira- 
tion, where there is such large room for censure, 
should, while profusely embalming the dead, 
allure the ingenuous living to an imitation as 
unlimited as the panegyric was undistinguish- 
ing ?* 



CHAP. VIII. 

On time, considered as a Talent. 

If we already begin to feel what a large por- 
tion of life we have improvidently squandered — 
what days and nights have been suffered to 
waste themselves, if not criminally, yet incon- 
siderately : if not loaded with evil, yet destitute 
of goo# — how much time has been consumed in 
worthless employments, frivolous amusements, 
listless indolence, idle reading, and vain imagi- 
nations — if things already begin to appear 
wrong, which we once thought at least harm- 
less, though not perhaps useful — what appear- 
ance will they assume in that inevitable hour 
when all things will be seen in their true light, 
and appreciated according to their intrinsic 
value ? We shall then feel in its full force how 
often we neglected what we knew to be our 
duty, shunned what we were aware was our in- 
terest, and declined what we yet believed would 
add to our happiness ; while, with perverted 
energy, we eagerly pursued what we had reason 
to think was contrary to our interest, duty, and 
happiness. But excuses satisfy us now, to which 
we shall not then give the hearing for a mo- 
ment. The thin disguise which the illusion of 
the senses now casts over vanity, sloth, and 
error, will then be as little efficient as consola- 
tory. 

He who carefully governs his mind will con- 
scientiously regulate his time. To him who 
thus accurately distributes it, who appropriates 
the hour to its due employment, life will never 
seem tedious, yet counted by this moral arith- 
metic it will be really long. If we compute our 
time as critically as our other possessions ; if 
we assign its proportions to its duties, though 
the divisions will then be so fully occupied that 
they will never drag, yet the aggregate sum 
will be found sufficiently long for all the pur- 
poses to which life is destined. 

It is not a little absurd that they who most 
wish to abolish time would be the least willing 
to abridge life. But is it not unreasonable to 
endeavour to annihilate the parcels of which life 
is composed, and at the same time to have a 
dread of shrinking the stock ? They who most 
pathetically lament the want of time, are either 
persons who plunge themselves into unnecessary 
concerns, or those who manage them ill, or 
those who do nothing. The first create the de- 
ficiency they deplore ; the second do not so much 
want time as arrangement ; the last, like brute 
animals laden with gold, groan under the 
weight of a treasure of which they make no use, 
and do not know the value. 

* To prevent any mistaken application of these re- 
marks it may be proper to avow that Professor Porson 
and Mr. Home Tooke are the persons to whom they 
allude. 



They will never make a right use of time 
who turn it over to chance, who live without 
any definite scheme for its employment, or any 
fixed object for its end. Such desultory beings 
will be carried away by every trifle that strikes 
the senses, or any whim that seizes the imagi- 
nation. They who live without any ultimate 
point in view, can have no regular process in 
the steps which lead to it. 

But though in order to prevent confusion, to 
animate torpor, and tame irregularity, it is 
always a duty to form a plan ; occasions will 
arise when it may be a higher duty to break it. 
Both ourselves and our plans must ever be kept 
subject to the will of a higher power. That is 
an ill-regulated mind which wears life away 
without any settled scheme of action : that is a 
little mind which makes itself a slave to any 
preconceived rule, when a more imperative duty 
may arise to demand its infraction. Providence 
may call us to some work during the day which 
we did not foresee in the morning. Even a 
good design must be relinquished to make way 
for a better, nor must we sacrifice a useful to a 
favourite project, nor must we scruple to re- 
nounce our inclinations at the call of duty or of 
necessity, for God loves a cheerful doer as well 
as a ' cheerful giver.' 

In our use of time we frequently practise a 
delusion which cheats us of no inconsiderable 
portion of its actual enjoyment. The now 
escapes us while we are settling future points 
not only of business, of ease, or of pleasure, but 
of benevolence, of generosity, of piety. These 
imaginary points to which we impatiently 
stretch forward in idea, we fix at successive but 
distant intervals, endeavouring by the rapid 
march of a hurrying imagination to annihilate 
the intervening spaces. One great evil of reck- 
oning too absolutely on marked periods which 
may never arrive, is, that, by this absorption of 
the mind, we neglect present duties in the anti- 
cipation of events not only remote but uncer- 
tain. Even if the anticipated period does ar- 
rive, it is not always applied to the purpose to 
which it was pledged ; and the event which was 
to feel the full weight of our interference and 
commanding influenee, when it has taken place, 
sinks into the undistinguished mass of time 
and circumstances. The point which we once 
thought, if it ever could be attained, would sup- 
ply abundant matter, not only for present duty 
or pleasure, but for delightful retrospection, 
loses itself, as we mingle with it, in the com- 
mon heap of forgotten things ; and as we recede 
from it, merges in the dim obscure of faded re- 
collections. Having arrived at the era, instead 
of seizing on that present so impatiently desired 
while it was future, we again send our imagina- 
tions out to fresh distances in search of fresh 
deceits. While we are pushing it on to objects 
still more remote, the large uncalculated spaces 
of comfort and peace, or of languor and discon- 
tent, which fill the chasm, aud which we scarce- 
ly think worth taking into the account, make up 
far the greater part of life. 

All this would be only foolish, and would 
hardly deserve a harsher name, if these large 
uncultivated wastes, these barren interstices, 
these neglected subdivisions, had not all of 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



145 



them imperious demands of their own — if they 
were not to be as rigorously accounted for, as 
the vivid spots and shining- prospects which 
promise so much and produce so little. 

Let us not then compute time by particular 
periods or signal events. Let us not content 
ourselves with putting our festal days only into 
the calendar, but remember that from the hour 
when reason begins to operate, to the hour in 
which it shall be extinguished, every particle of 
time is valuable ; that no day can be insignifi- 
cant, when every day is to be accounted for ; 
that each one possesses weight and importance, 
because of each the retribution is to be received. 
In the prospect therefore of our coming time, 
let us not make great leaps from the expectation 
to the occurrence ; but bearing in mind that 
small concerns make up the larger share of life, 
let us aim to execute well those which lie more 
immediately before us. For the instant occa- 
sion we have life and time in hand, for that which 
is prospective, we may no longer be in posses- 
sion of either : and it is an argument of no small 
cogency, that he who devotes time to its best 
purposes, secures f f :rnity for its best enjoy- 
ments. 

But we are guilty of the strange inconsistency 
of being most prodigal of what we best love, and 
of throwing away what we most fear to lose, 
that time of which life is made up. If God does 
not give us a short time, we can contrive to 
make it short by this wretched husbandry. It 
is not so much indigence of time as a prodigali- 
ty in the waste of it, that prevents life from 
answering all the ends for which it is given. 
Few things make us so independent of the world 
as the prudent disposition of this precious arti- 
cle. It delivers people from hanging- on the 
charity of others to emancipate them from the 
slavery of their own company. We should not 
only be careful not to waste our own time, but 
that others do not rob us of it. — The distinction 
of crime between ' stealing our purse' and ' steal- 
ing our good name' has been beautifully con- 
trasted. That the purse is ' trash' is a senti- 
ment echoed by many who yet set no small va- 
lue on the trash so liberally condemned ; while 
the waster of his own, or the pilferer of another's 
time, escapes a censure which he ought more 
heavily to incur. It is a felony for which no 
repentance can make restitution, the commodity 
being not only invaluable but irrecoverable. 

Considerable evil, with respect to the economy 
of time, arises from an error which infects some 
minds of a superior cast — a notion that contempt 
of order and custom are indications of genius, 
that great minds cannot be tied to times, nor en- 
slaved by seasons. They value themselves on 
being systematic only in their disdain of method, 
on being regular in nothing but irregularity ; 
Tvith them accident gives the law to action. 
They pride themselves in not despatching busi- 
ness but postponing it, and this in order to show 
with what ability they can retrieve time to which 
they are always in arrears. From this vanity 
of intimating that they can execute in hours 
what costs slower souls days or weeks, the most 
pressing business is deferred to some indefinite 
period, and duties thus postponed are not seldom 
omitted. 

Vol. II. K 



The same confidence in his own powers which 
leads a young man of genius to believe he can 
catch knowledge by intuition, see every thing at 
a glance, and comprehend every thing in a mo- 
ment, tempts him to put oft' that moment. But 
if such wonders are really to bo achieved with- 
out the old ingredients, time and study, what 
might he not expect would be accomplished with 
their assistance. Those who are now marvels 
would then be miracles ! The too common con- 
sequence of this impatienco of application, is to 
affect to despise whatever knowledge requires 
time to attain, and to consider whatever de- 
mands industry to acquire, as not worth ac- 
quiring. 

Nor is this error monopolized by talents. We 
have known some, who, having no other evi- 
dence of genius to produce, never failed to be 
unpunctual. It is a wonder that the more in- 
tellectual, seeing their province thus invaded by 
dunces, do not become regular through mere 
contempt of their imitators, and abandon the 
abuse of time to those who know not how to 
spend it wisely. 

Christianity is a social principle. He who has 
discovered the use of time, and consequently the 
value of eternity, cannot but be solicitous for the 
spiritual good of his fellow-creatures. The one, 
indeed, is indicative of the other. But this good, 
like every other, is not without its dangers. We 
cannot essentially benefit people without asso- 
ciating with them, without rendering ourselves 
agreeable to them. But in so doing we should 
ever recollect that we may seek to please till we 
forget to serve them, we may soften strong truths 
to render them more palatable till we come gra- 
dually less to recommend them, than ourselves. 
Tn the spirit of friendly accommodation we may 
insensibly lower the standard of religion, with a 
view to make ourselves more agreeable, and may 
deceive in order to conciliate. 

Or we may fall into another error. We may 
begin at the wrong end. We may censure the 
wrong practice without any reference to the 
principle, or we may suit our counsels, not to 
the wants, but to the taste, of our friend. In 
our endeavours to promote the good of others, 
we should be careful to find out the points in 
which they are most deficient. If their error 
be ignorance of Scripture, if worldliness, if pre- 
judice, if a general disinclination to seriousness, 
if a blind respect for religion, joined to an nn- 
acquaintedness with its doctrines ; in each c :se, 
a very different mode of conduct will be requi- 
site. > Iti each, in all, we should, indeed, with 
the utmost fairness, lay open the whole scheme 
of Christianity, neither concealing its difficul- 
ties, its humbling requisitions, nor the self-de- 
nials it imposes. But at the same time, if we 
suspect any one truth to be particularly revolt- 
ing to them, it will be more prudent to approach 
this truth gradually through others, from which 
they are less averse, than, by forcing its intro- 
duction at the outset, shut up the way to farther 
progress. Every doctrine should be unfolded 
gradually, judiciously, temperately, not insisting 
on any points that are not clearly scriptural, nor 
on any that admit of doubtful disputation, nor 
on many points at a time ; and, above all, on 
none unseasonably, or unceasingly. 



146 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



This habit of turning time to account, by en- 
aeavcuring to be useful to others, will, if con- 
ducted with mildness, and exercised with Chris- 
tian humility, be eminently beneficial to our- 
selves. It will set us on a closer examination 
of the truths we suggest; and in contending 
with blindness and self-sufficiency, we shall find 
a wholesome exercise for our own patience and 
moderation. It may remind us, that we were 
once, perhaps in the same state- Above all, it 
will put us on a more strict watchfulness over 
our own hearts and lives, lest we should be adopt- 
ing one set of principles for our conversation, 
and another for our conduct. It will induce the 
necessity of a more exact consistency, as they, 
to whom we are counsellors, will not be back- 
ward, if we furnish them with the least ground, 
to be our censurers. 

And here I would affectionately suggest to 
my numerous amiable young friends, the benefit 
to be derived to their own minds from turning a 
certain portion of their time to the personal in- 
struction of the poor, for which so wide a field 
is just now providentially opened. In commu- 
nicating the elements of religious knowledge — 
in numberless repetitions of the same plain 
truths — in being obliged to begin again the sim- 
ple document which they fancied they had long 
ago impressed — in the humbling necessity of 
lowering their ideas, and debasing their lan- 
guage, in order to make themselves intelligible 
— in the forbearance which dulness of intellect, 
perverseness of temper, and ingratitude demand, 
they may gain some proficiency themselves, even 
where their success with others is least encou- 
raging. 

But to whatever account we turn our time 
with respect to others, the first object of its right 
employment is with ourselves ; and this not only 
in discharging those exercises of piety and vir- 
tue, which are too obvious and too generally ac- 
knowledged, to require to be specified ; but, in 
attending to the secret dispositions of the mind, 
in order to ascertain its real character. We do 
not mean to imply that we can judge of its state 
by the thoughts which are necessarily suggest- 
ed by any actual business, or any pressing ob- 
ject, such thoughts being the proper demand of 
the occasion, and not any certain indication of 
our abiding state and habitual temper. — But by 
watching the nature and tendency of our spori- 
taneous thoughts, we may, in a great measure, 
determine on the character of our minds ; their 
voluntary thoughts and unprompted feelings, 
being the streams which indicate the fountain 
whence they flow. — The heart is that perennial 
spring ; for, whether grace or nature supply the 
current, the fountain is inexhaustible. In either 
case, the more abundantly it flows, the more 
constantly its waste is fed by fresh supplies ; 
expense, instead of exhausting, augments the 
stream, whether the source from earth supply 
worldly thoughts, or that from above such as are 
heavenly. Thoughts determine on the charac- 
ter : as the man thinketh so is he. 

What a scene will open upon us, when, from 
our eternal state, we shall look back on the use 
we have maae of time ! What a revolution will 
be wrought in our opinions ! What a contrast 
will be exhibited, when we shall take a clear re- 



trospect of all we have done, and all we ought 
to have done ! And shall we, then, put off the 
inspection to an uncertain period, to a period, 
when we can neither repent to any purpose for. 
what was wrong, nor begin to do what we shall 
then perceive would have been right ? Let these 
frequent meditations on death, lead us to reflect 
what the feelings of a dying bod will be. Let 
us think now what will then be the review of 
riches mis-spent, of talents neglected or pervert- 
ed, of influence ab.s-cd, of learning misapplied, 
of time misemployed ! To entertain serious 
thoughts of death now, is the most likely me- 
thod for rectifying tempers, for conquering pro- 
pensities, for establishing principles, for confirm 
ing habits, of which we shall then feel the con- 
sequences ; for relinquishing enterprises and 
pursuits, for the success of which we may then 
be as much afflicted, as we should now be at 
their defeat. 

He who cannot find time to consult his Bible, 
will find, one day, that he has time to be sick ; 
he who has no time to pray, must find time to 
die. He who can find no time to reflect, is most 
likely to find time to sin ; he who cannot find 
time for repentance, will find an eternity in which 
repentance will be of no avail. Let us, then, 
under the influence of the Divine Spirit, serious- 
ly reflect, under what law we came into the 
world : ' it is appointed for all men once to die, 
and, after death, the judgment.' Is it not obvi- 
ous, then, that the design of life is to prepare 
for judgment ; and that, in proportion as we 
employ time well, we make immortality happy ? 



CHAP. IX. 
On Charity. 

In that general use of the talents, suggested 
in the parable, there is also a particular vocation 
on the exercise of which, every man must equi- 
tably determine. Each is particularly called 
upon to acquit himself of that more immediate 
duty, for the practice of which, God has given 
special endowments and opportunity. Our Ma- 
ker requires the specific exercise of the specific 
talent. The nature of the gift points out the na- 
ture of the requisition. The use of endowment 
is a peculiar debt, a marked obligation. This 
is not a gift confounded with the mass of his 
gifts, but one by which God designs to be, by that 
individual, more remarkably glorified. 

But charity is a virtue of all times and all 
places. It is not so much an independent grace 
in itself, as an energy, which gives the last touch 
and highest finish to every other, and resolves 
them all into one common principle. It is called 
'the very bond of perfectness,' not only because 
it unites us to God, our ultimate perfection, but 
because it ties all the other virtues together, and 
refers them thus concatenated, to Him, their 
common source and centre. 

St. Peter having given a pressing exhortation 
to many exalted duties, finishes by ascribing to 
charity this emphatical superiority ; ' Above all 
things, have fervent charity.' It is, indeed, the 
prolific principle of all duty : a confluence of 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



147 



evory thing that is lovely and amiable : the 
fountain from which all excellences flow, the 
6tream in which they all meet. It is not sub- 
ject to the ebb and flow of passion or partiality 
— it is true christian sympathy. It is tender 
without weakness; it does notarise from that 
constitutional softness which may be rather in- 
firmity than virtue. It is the affection of the 
Gospel ; a love derived from the Spirit of Christ, 
and reciprocally communicated among his ge- 
nuine followers. 

Charity comprehends an indefinitely wide 
sphere, both in feeling and doing. According 
to the arrangement of St. Paul, in his beautiful 
personification of this grace,* she may be said 
to embrace almost the whole scheme of religjous, 
personal, and social duty. ' Patient and kind,' 
she does not wait to be solicited to acts of be- 
nignity, she seizes the occasion — she does more, 
she watches for it. She ' endures' evils, but in- 
flicts none ; she does not select her trials, but 
' bears all things.' Thougli ' she believes all 
things,' yet she exercises her hope without re- 
linquishing her prudence; sometimes, where 
conviction forbids her thinking favourably, even 
then it does not prevent ' her hoping all things-' 
She subdues ' vaunting,' conquers the swellings 
of insolence, and the intractableness of pride. 
Not only ' she envieth not,' not only she disal- 
lows the injustice of desiring what is another's, 
but by a noble disdain of selfishness, she even 
' seeketh not her own.' Her disinterestedness 
stirs her up to the perpetual rooting out that 
principle wrought by nature into the constitu- 
tion of the soul. So far from thinking it a proof 
of spirit to resent injuries, she is not 'easily 
provoked' by them. She smooths the fierceness 
of the irrascible, and corrects the acrimony of 
the evil-tempered. She not only does not per- 
petrate, but ' she thinketh no evil.' She has 
found a shorter way of becoming rich than ava- 
rice ever invented, for charity makes another's 
goods her own by a simple process ; without 
dispossessing the proprietor, she rejoices so 
much in another's prosperity that it becomes 
hers, because it is his. 

Here we see that the Apostle places charity 
not only before all the virtues which he thus 
gracefully marshals, before qualities the most 
moral, gifts the most spiritual, attainments the 
most intellectual, but he actually degrades these 
last in the comparison ; he does not barely lower 
their value, he annihilates it. Without this 
principle of life, this soul of duty, this essence 
of goodness, they are not only little, they are 
nothing. Without charity, possessions, talents, 
exertions are all fruitless. They are of no value 
in the sight of God : they aro of no efficacy to 
our salvation. Charity alone sanctifies our of- 
ferings, recommends our prayers, and makes 
our very praises acceptable. 

And though nothing is formally efficacious 
but the blood and merits of Christ, yet charity, 
as a divine grace, and one that will never cease, 
shows that our interest in him, and union with 
him, are real and genuine. 

But to descend to the particulars of charity, 
and apply the different branches of it to the 

* First Epistle to the Corinthians, chap. xiii. 



common purposes of life. — Whenever we are 
promoting the <jood of mankind, either by assist- 
ing public institutions, or relieving individuals, 
we are obviously helping on the cause of cha- 
rity ; and, when we cannot effectively assist the 
work, we may exercise the principle ; we may 
pray for the happiness which we cannot confer, 
and rejoice in every addition to the general good 
towards which we cannot contribute. On the 
oilier hand, the purse may sometimes be open 
where the heart is shut. And it is perhaps a 
more rare and a higher virtue to exercise for- 
bearance towards the faults and to put a candid 
construction on the actions of others, than to 
supply their wants, or promote their temporal 
interests. But whether candour in judging or 
liberality in giving, be the virtue in exercise, by 
the adoption of each as a law, and the practice 
of both on the ground of conformity to the Di- 
vine will, we shall acquire such a habit p*" exer- 
cising the kind affections, that what was adopt- 
ed as a principle will be established into a plea- 
sure ; what was a force upon nature, wiL almost 
grow into a part of it; obligation will become 
choice, law impulse, duty necessity ; the energy 
will become so powerful, that the heart will in- 
voluntarily spring to the performance ; indo- 
lence, selfishness, trouble, inconvenience, will 
vanish under the vigorous operation of a habit 
whose motive is genuine Christianity. 

One Christian grace is never exercised at the 
expense of another v nor is it perfect, unless it 
promotes that other. This charity enjoys ab- 
stinently that she may give liberally. While 
she restrains every wrong inclination, she sti- 
mulates us to such as are right. She is never 
a solitary quality, but is inseparably linked with 
truth and equity. She leads us perpetually to 
examine our means, dispositions, and opportu- 
nities, and to exert their combined force for the 
promotion of the greatest possible good. She 
teaches us to contribute to the comfort of others 
as well as to their necessities. She converts 
small kindnesses into great ones, by doing them 
with reference to God ; for it is not so much the 
worth, as the temper, which will render them 
acceptable to Him. 

We must not judge of our charity by single 
acts and particular instances, for they are not 
always good men who do good things, but by 
our general tendencies and propensities. We 
must strive after an uniformity in our charity — 
examine whether it be equable, steady, volunta- 
ry, and not a charity of times, and seasons, and 
humours. If we are as unkind and illiberal in 
one instance, as we are profuse in another, when 
the demand is equal, and we have both the 
choice and the means, whatever we may be, we 
are not charitable. 

Though charity, as we have already observed, 
is a quality of universal application, and by no 
means limited within the narrow bounds of 
alms-giving, yet, not to allow a due, that is, a 
high rank and station to those works of benevo- 
lence, to which our Redeemer gives so conspi- 
cuous a place in his exhibition of the scrutiny 
at the general judgment, would be mistaking 
the genius of Christianity, would be departing 
from the practice and the principles of its 
Founder ; it would be forgetting the high dig. 



148 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



nity he conferred on this grace, when he de- 
clared that he should consider the smallest work 
of love done to the least of his followers for his 
sake as done to himself. 

This pecuniary charity is not to be limited to 
our particular connexions — must not be confined 
to unfounded attachments, to party-favourites. 
It must be governed by the law of justice. We 
must not do a little good to one which may in- 
volve a greater injury to another: yet though 
we should keep our heart always open, and our 
feelings alive to the general benefit, still, as our 
power must be inevitably contracted, whatever 
right others may have to our beneficence, local 
circumstances, natural expectations, and press- 
ing necessity, confer the more immediate claim. 
The most immediate is that of ' the household 
of faith.' 

From hence it appears, that in inquiring into 
the duties of charity, we must overlook the use 
to be made of riches, one of the talents implied 
in the parable. The application of money, whe- 
ther ' kept by its owners to their hurt,' or squan- 
dered to their destruction, will equally be made 
the subject of final investigation. Lord Bacon's 
remark, that 'riches, when kept in a heap, are 
corrupt like r. dunghill, but when spread abroad, 
diffuse beauty and fertility,' has been more ad- 
mired than acted upon. All the fine sentences 
that have been pelted at the head of covetousness 
have probably never reformed one miser ; nor 
have the most pointed aphorisms, not divinely di- 
rected, ever taught the luxurious the true use 
of money. Happily the age in which we live is 
so generally disposed to acts of beneficence, that 
there never was a period which less imposed 
the necessity to press the duty, to enforce the 
practice, or to point out the objects. A thou- 
sand new channels are opened, yet the old ones 
are not dried up ; the streams flow in abun- 
dance, as if fed by a perennial fountain. 

Lot not any one, however, intrench himself 
in the supposed security of surrounding good- 
ness. Let not any take comfort that he lives in 
an age of charity, if he himself is not charita- 
ble. We are not benevolent by contact or in- 
fection, or by breathing an atmosphere of cha- 
rity. Yet who has not heard persons exultingly 
boast of this noble characteristic of the age, who 
are by no means remarkable for contributing 
their own contingent towards establishing its 
character? Probably many a man gloried in 
the valour of his country, and exulted in the 
pride of being an Englishman, after the battles 
of Trafalgar and Salamanca, who, had he been 
sent into the action would have been shot for 
cowardice. 

Who has not seen the ready eye discharge its 
kindly showers at a tale of woe, and the frugal 
sentimentalist comfort himself that his tears had 
paid more cheaply the debt of benevolence, for 
which his purse had been solicited. The Author, 
many years ago, made one in a party of friends : 
an expected guest, who was rather late, at 
length came in; she was in great agitation, 
having been detained on the road by a dreadful 
fire in the neighbourhood. The poor family, 
who were gone to bed, had been with difficulty 
awakened. The mother had escaped by throw- 
ing herself from a two pair of stairs window 



into the street. She then recollected, that in 
her extreme terror, she had left her child be- 
hind in bed. To the astonishment of all pre- 
sent, she rushed back through the flames and 
to the general joy, soon appeared with the child 
alive in her arms. While she was expressing 
her gratitude, the light of the lamps fell on its 
face, and she perceived, to her inexpressible hor- 
ror, that she had saved the child of another wo- 
man — her own had perished. It may be ima- 
gined what were the feelings of the company. 
A subscription was instantly begun. Almost 
every one had liberally contributed, when a 
nobleman, who could have bought the whole 
party, turning to the writer of these pages, said, 
' Madam, I will give you,' every expecting eye 
was turned to the peer, knowing him to be un- 
used to the giving mood, the person addressed 
joyfully held out her hand, but drew it back on 
his coolly saying, ' I will give you this affecting 
incident for the subject of your next tragedy.' 
Some will read this passage who were present 
on the occasion. 

But since neither the logic nor the rhetoric 
of the writer, were she so happy as to possess 
either, is likely to make the 'churl liberal,' or 
to stir up the vain or the voluptuous to a be ;e- 
ficence which shall bear any fair proportion to 
the costly maintenance of their luxury or their 
vanity, the slight observations which follow 
shall be addressed to the bountiful giver, a char- 
acter, blessed be God as common as it is amia- 
ble. ' To the act it is unnecessary to excite 
him ; to the motive he cannot too carefully look. 
This is the more requisite, as, in an age in 
which more excellent charity sermons are an- 
nually preached than ever were delivered since 
the establishment of Christianity — that which 
alone, of all the religions in the world, ever made 
charitable foundations a part of its institution — 
we now and then meet with one which seems 
to invert the principle, and to put the point for 
the base. It is with diffidence we put the ques- 
tion, dreading to be suspected of indulging a 
spirit of censure where we would wish to offer 
unqualified commendation ; but do we not now 
and then hear assigned to almsgiving, nay as- 
signed to the individual contribution for which 
the well intentioned preacher is eloquently 
pleading, a merit so vast, that it would seem to 
supply the absence of all other merits ; a merit 
which would almost induce one to believe that 
a more than ordinary contribution to the plate 
would prove a golden key, to stand in his stead, 
who 'has opened the kingdom of heaven to all 
believers ?' 

To explain my meaning by an example : — In 
the temple of Him who gave his Son to die, to 
atone for the sins of the world, I once heard, 
and from no menn authority, Charity called the 
atoning virtue of the age. To have termed it 
the prevailing, the distinguishing, the most ami- 
able characteristic of the age, had been right 
and true. But when I found it thus gravely 
proposed as an expiation for sin, I was ready to 
imagine that I heard the exclamation of St. 
Paul to his Galatians — ' I marvel that ye are so 
soon removed from him that called you unto the 
grace of Christ unto another Gospel.' 

We must readily not only allow for, but ad 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



149 



mire, the ardour of an animated preacher, who, 
feeling his heart expand with his subject, finds 
it as much his delight as his duty to impart to 
every bosom the tender and compassionate sym- 
pathies with which his own overflows ; and it is 
with reluctance we have presumed to intimate 
the restraints, which christian piety should im- 
pose on itself in not overstating even a christian 
duty. 

We have no right to determine on the propor- 
tions and possibility of any man's charity, but 
on the principle we may determine ; there must 
be an exhaustless spring in the heart, even 
where the Christian's means will not admit of a 
perpetual current. Love is in fact that motive 
principle, without which neither faith, nor mys- 
teries, nor martyrdom, no nor even the addition 
of the second guinea to the plate, where only 
one had been intended, nor giving all our goods 
to the poor, will profit any thing. Where this 
vital spirit is wanting, the most ample bounty 
will not reach its end ; where it exists, ' the cup 
of cold water,' shall be accepted. Without this 
animating principle, though the bounty may 
obtain applause, may influence others, may do 
good, and promote good, yet it may unhappily fall 
short of promoting the spiritual interests of the 
giver. He who has promised to render to every 
man according to his deeds, knows the principle 
of the deed, and has never promised to recom- 
pense any which has no reference to himself. 

To neglect works of charity, not to be largely 
liberal in the performance of them according to 
our ability, is an infallible evidence that our 
professions of piety mean nothing. On the other 
hand, to depend upon them as what is to bear us 
out in our claims for heaven, before the tribunal 
of God, is to offend our Maker and deceive our 
own souls. We would be the very last to un- 
dervalue, or to discourage charity, but is it dis- 
couraging it to place it on its true ground ; to 
assert that we may build an hospital without 
charity, as we may endow a church without 
piety, if we consider the one as an expiation for 
sin, or the other as a substitution for holiness? 

Some are ingenious in contriving, by a strange 
self-delusion, to swell the amount of their cha- 
rity, by tacking to it extraneous items of a to- 
tally distinct character. The Author was for- 
merly acquainted with a lady of rank, who 
though her benevolence was suspected to bear 
no proportion to the splendour of her establish- 
ment, was yet rather too apt to make her boun- 
ties a^subject of conversation. After enumerat- 
ing the various instances of her beneficence she 
often concluded by saying, 'notwithstanding my 
large family I give all this in charity besides pay- 
ing the poor rates ;' thus converting a compulso- 
ry act, to which all are equally subject, into a 
voluntary bounty. 

Our corruptions are so liable to infect even 
our ' holy things,' that we should be vigilant in 
this best exercise of the best affections of the 
heart — affections which God, when he gracious- 
ly converted a duty into a delight, gave us, in 
order, by a pleasurable feeling, to stir us up to 
comrsass'on. Wo should be careful that the 
great enemy may not be plotting our injury, 
even when we are performing actions the most 
hostile to his interests. 



As there is not a more lovely virtue in th« 
whole Christian code, so there is not one which 
more imperatively demands our attention to tho 
spirit with which we exercise it, and the tem- 
per with which we bear the disappointment 
sometimes attending our best designed bounties. 
Though charity is too frequently thrown away 
on those who receive it, it is never lost on the 
benefactor if ' he who gives, does it with sim- 
plicity.' — When the bountiful giver cannot find 
pleasure, he may always extract good. He may 
reap no small advantage himself from that libe- 
rality which has failed to confer any. He may 
gain benefit from the disappointment he expe- 
riences in the unworthiness of the object. V\Ticn 
the project he had anxiously formed for doing 
good to another is defeated by perverseness, or 
requited by ingratitude, it not only does not 
check the spring of bounty in the real Christian, 
but it calls new virtues into action. The exer- 
cise of patience, an improvement in forbearance 
and forgiveness, a stronger conviction that we 
must not make the worthiness of the object the 
sole measure of our bounty, are well worth the 
money we have spent on the undeserving. Per 
haps loo the reiterated instances how little good 
the best man is able to do in this world, may 
serve to wean him from it, and be an additional 
inducement for looking forward to a better. 

But it is much easier to relieve our neigh- 
bour's wants, than to bear with his errors ; the 
one gratifies our natural feelings, while the 
other offends them ; the most difficult as well as 
the most sublime branch of charity, therefore, 
is the forgiveness of injuries, is the love of our 
enemies. It is a love humbly aiming to resem- 
ble his, who sends his rain on the just and on 
the unjust; a love not inspired by partiality, 
nor extorted by merit. It is following the ex- 
ample, while we obey the precept of Christ, 
when we ' do good to them that hate us.' It is 
a charity which bursts with a generous disdain 
the narrow bounds of attachment and even 
of desert, levels every fence which selfish pru- 
dence would erect between itself and its ene- 
mies ; it is a love with respect to the objects, 
though with a boundless disproportion as to the 
measure, resembling God's love to us ; it aims 
to be universal in kind, though it is low in the 
degree. 

A very able divine* has insisted that it is to 
this part of the character of the Almighty that 
our Saviour limits the injunction, 'Be ye per- 
fect as your Father which is in heaven is per 
feet.' It is, indeed, one of the principal instances 
in which finite creatures can by imitation ap- 
proximate to the character of God ; most of-his 
attributes rather requiring us to adore, than 
leaving it possible for us to imitate them. For 
though all the attributes of God afford the most 
exalted idea of complete perfection, yet the in- 
junction to attain his image is strikingly applied 
in the New Testament to this particular part 
of the divine character. The Apostle applies 
our being ' followers of God, as dear children,' 
afterwards to this individual instance, 'forgiv- 
ing one another, even as God for Christ's sake 
has forgiven you,' adding, ' and walk in love as 

* See bishop Sherlock's sermon on the text, ' Be ve 
perfect,' &c. &c. 



150 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Christ also loved us.' ' So that,' says the bishop, 
' his exhortation to follow God stands inclosed 
on both sides with the precepts of love and cha- 
rity, as if he intended to secure it from being 
applied to any thing else.' St. Luke, who gives 
us an abridgement of the same sermon on the 
mount, from which the passage is taken, also 
suggests the practice of love and forgiveness 
from the example of the Almighty, ' who is kind 
to the unthankful and the evil. After having 
delivered the same beatitude, he corroborates 
the interpretation with an injunction, by saying, 
not be perfect, but ' be merciful as your Father 
alsoiis merciful.' 

Our Saviour impressed a solemn emphasis 
on the command to forgive the offences of 
others, when he implicated it with God's for- 
giveness of us. It is to be feared, that many 
who would think it an act of disobedience to 
omit the daily repetition of the divine prayer, 
of which this request forms so striking a clause, 
do not lay to heart the daily duty of supplicat- 
ing for that frame of spirit which the petition 
involves. Can there be a more awful conside- 
ration, than that we put the grand request on 
which our eternal happiness depends, on this 
issue, when we inseparably associate our own 
hope of pardon, with the required and reasona- 
ble condition of pardoning others ? Should we 
not be conscientiously cautious, how we put up 
this petition, when we reflect, that we offer it 
to the great Searcher of hearts, who, while he 
listens to the request, can exactly determine on 
the integrity which accompanies it ? The di- 
vine Author of the prayer seems to hold out a 
sort of test of the spirit of our obedience, when 
he proposes this difficult duty, as a trial of our 
general conformity to his commands. It seems 
selected by infinite wisdom as a kind of pledge 
of our submission to his will in all other points: 
our interest is confederate with our duty in the 
practice of this high and peculiarly Christian 
grace. The requisition suggests at once the 
most absolute obligation, and the most powerful 
motive. 

This forgiveness seems not only to be one of 
the grand distinctions between the religion of 
the heathen and the Christian world, but to form 
a considerable difference between the duties in- 
culcated in the Old and the New Testament. 
In the former, indeed, there were not only indi- 
cations and suggestions of this rule, but some 
exemplifications of its actual performance. It 
is remarkable, that when David, whose energy 
of character, or rather mysterious inspiration 
as a prophet, led him to be so vehement in his 
denunciations of vengeance on persons of pro- 
fessed enmity against God, and against himself 
as the anointed of God, yet exhibited eminent 
instances of placability in his conduct towards 
his own personal enemies, especially in the case 
of Saul. But, perhaps, the duty, after all, was 
not so fully made out, so clearly defined, so po- 
sitively enjoined, nor was the frame of mind so 
evidently eeen in 'them of old time.' We have 
many instances under that dispensation, of 
saints and prophets laying down their lives for 
their religion, but it was reserved for the first 
New Testament martyr, when expiring under 
a. shower oi stones from his enemies, to say/ 



' Lord, lay not this sin to their charge. The 
reason is obvious. It being expected, that our 
notions and practices should be adapted to the 
revelation under which we live, this sublime 
species of charity should necessarily rise in pre 
portion to the clearness and dignity of that dis< 
pensation. It is congruous, therefore, that our 
forgiveness of injuries should be exercised in 
far higher perfection under the Gospel, the pro- 
fessed object of which was to make a full and 
perfect revelation of the pardon of sin by the 
blood of a Redeemer. And we can only be said 
to have a conformity to his image, in proportion 
as we practice this grace. Let us, however, re- 
member, to borrow the thought of an eminent 
divine, ' that our forgiving others will not alone 
procure forgiveness for ourselves, while our not 
forgiving others is a plain proof, that we our- 
selves are not forgiven.' 



CHAP. X., 

On Prejudice. 

There is not a more curious subject of spe- 
culation, than to observe the vanity of colours 
with which opinion tinges truth : the bias which 
prejudice lends to facts, when it cannot deny 
them ; the perversion it gives to the motive, 
when it cannot invalidate the circumstance; the 
warp and twist it gives to actions, which it dares 
not openly condemn ; the disingenuousness into 
which it slides, even though it does not intend 
to maintain a falsehood ; the bright rays with 
which it gilds, perhaps unconsciously, its own 
side of a question ; the dark cloud by which it 
casts that of an adversary into the shade. 

Prejudice, if not altogether invincible, is per-, 
haps the most difficult of all errors to be eradi- 
cated from the human mind. By disguising it- 
self under the respectable name of firmness, it 
is of infinitely slower extirpation than actual 
vice. For vice, though persisted in through the 
perverseness of the will, never sets itself up for 
virtue ; a vicious man knows what is right, 
though his appetites deter him from following 
it; but a prejudice, being perhaps more fre- 
quently a fault of the judgment than of the 
heart, is sometimes persisted in upon principle. 
No man will defend a sin as such, but even good 
men defend a prejudice, though every one else 
sees that it is producing all the effects of a sin, 
promoting hatred, souring the temper, and ex- 
citing evils passions. 

Yet, though it may incidentally be attached 
to a good man, there are few errors more calcu- 
lated to estrange the heart from vital religion, 
because there are none under which men rest so 
satisfied. Under the practice of any immorality 
they are uneasy, and that uneasiness may lead 
to a cure ; for the light of natural conscience is 
sufficiently strong to show, that sin and peace 
cannot dwell together. But prejudice effectually 
keeps a man from inquiring after truth, because 
he conceives that he is in full possession of it, 
and that he is following it up in the very error, 
which keeps him so wide of it. Or if, with the 
Roman governor, he ask, ' what is truth ?' like 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



151 



him, he turns away for fear of an answer. The 
strongest light cannot penetrate eyes that are 
closed against it ; while to the humble, who de- 
sire illumination, God gives not only the object, 
but the faculty of discerning it. 

As it is mental, rather than moral prejudice, 
which is the present subject of consideration, we 
shall say little of those prejudices of which the 
passions and appetites are the cause. Interest 
and sensuality see the objects which absorb them 
through their own dense medium, while the vi- 
sion of either is probably clear enough in judg- 
ing of the objects of the other's passion ; the 
blindness being partial, and confined, like the 
lunacy of some disordered patients, to the single 
object to which the disease has a reference. 
Even probity itself is not of sufficient force to 
guide our conduct; we see men of sound inte- 
grity and of good judgment on subjects where 
prejudice does not intervene, acting, where it 
does below the standard of ordinary men, go- 
verned by a name, carried away by a sound. It 
makes lovers of truth unjust, and converts wis- 
dom into fatuity. It must, therefore, be an en- 
lightened probity, or we may be injuring our 
fellow creatures, when we persuade ourselves we 
are doing God service. ' Paul does not appear to 
have been a profligate, but to have been correct, 
zealous, and moral, and to have earned a high 
reputation among his own narrow and preju- 
diced sect. His error was in his judgment. The 
error of Peter was in his affections. A sudden 
touch of self-love in this vacillating but warm 
hearted disciple, made him dread to share in 
his master's disgrace. But in this case, a single 
penetrating glance melted his very soul, brought 
him back to contrition, repentance, and love. 
To cure the prejudices of Paul a miracle was 
necessary. 

While the powerful arguments of our Lord 
put even the Sadducees, the infidels of the day, 
' to silence,' they produce no such effect on the 
professing Pharisees ; instead of rejoicing to 
hear their great doctrine of the resurrection so 
fully vindicated, they redoubled their prejudices 
against him, at the very moment in which he 
had obtained such a triumph in their cause. The 
first thing they endeavoured, was to seek to en- 
tangle, by their casuistry, him who had just de- 
feated the common enemy. 

But, let us judge even the prejudiced without 
prejudice. Prejudice, to a certain degree, is not 
so much the fault of the individual, as of our 
common nature. And that sober tincture of it, 
which is inseparable from habits and attach- 
ments, is a fair and honest prepossession : — for 
instance, who ever reprobated, as a censurable 
prejudice, that generous feeling, 

For which our country is a name so dear? 

But, after all, prejudice of some kind or other, 
is a natural inborn error, attached to that blind- 
ness, which is an incurable part of our consti- 
tution. 

Disagreement of opinion, therefore, if it bean 
evil inseparable from our present state of being 
vught not to excite antipathy ; complete unani- 
mity of heart and sentiment being reserved as a 
Dart of the happiness of that more perfect state, 
irhere the effulgence of truth will dissipate all 



the error and misapprehension which cloud our 
judgment here. 

People commonly intend to judge fairly : and, 
when they fail, it is as often an error of the un- 
derstanding as of the heart. They form their 
opinion of some particular subject from what 
they see of it. But though they see only a part, 
they frequently form their opinion of that which 
remains unseen, more peremptorily than those 
who see the whole ; for a large and clear view 
by affording a justness of conception, commonly 
induces humility. Perhaps, on their ignorance 
of those very parts of a question which they do 
not see, they form their -decision on the whole; 
while the unseen points are precisely those which 
only could enable them to determine fairly on 
the general proposition. 

We should not, however, very severely censure 
any for the mere opinion they form, this being 
a matter of the judgment rather than of the 
will ; the true object of censure is their conduct 
under this false impression ; in acting as hos- 
tilely as if their opinion was founded on the best 
ascertained facts. If we are all more or less 
prejudiced, it does not follow, that the conscien- 
tious act upon the feelings which the prejudice 
has excited. The harsh and the intolerant, in- 
deed, let loose upon their adversaries all the bad 
passions which this disposition to prejudge opi- 
nions has stirred up ; while the mild spirit in 
which Christianity governs, will conduct itself 
with the same general kindness as if no diversity 
of opinion subsisted. Though all prepossession 
arises from some cloudiness in the mind, it is a 
fair trial of the Christian temper, when the man 
who suffers by it, continues to exercise the same 
tolerant and indulgent spirit towards the preju- 
diced party, as if there were a mutual concur- 
rence of sentiment. If he have no other ground 
of objection to the person from whom he differs, 
there is something of a large and liberal spirit 
in acting with him, and speaking of him, on 
other occasions, as if the matter in debate did 
not exist. 

How endless and intricate are the misleading* 
of political prejudice ! It is as detailed and mi- 
nute in its operations, as it is broad and exten- 
sive in its compass. Will not the circumstance 
of voting on the same side often stand instead 
of the best qnalities, in recommending one man 
to the good opinion of another ? With this un- 
founded partiality is naturally connected a dis- 
like to better men, on the mere ground of their 
taking the opposite side ; for party, which takes 
such a large permission to think and act for it- 
self, takes care never to allow to others the li- 
berty which it so broadly and uniformly as- 
sumes. 

He who drinks deep into the spirit of party, 
minutely pencils all the shades of misrepresenta- 
tion ; his prejudice blackening, his partiality 
whitening ; the one deforming what is fair, the 
other beautifying what is foul ; the one defacing 
temples, the other garnishing sepulchres. Pro- 
vidence, in the mean time, working its own way 
by these perverse instruments ; the worst de- 
signers being sometimes surprised into doing 
more good than they intended, by a wish to an- 
ticipate the good projected by the opposite party, 
and so to throw an odium upon them, for not 



152 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



having been abie to effect the same, though they 
had perhaps planned it, and though adverse cir- 
cumstances alone had interrupted the scheme, 
or the want of a suitable occasion had delayed 
its accomplishment. Thus good is effected, the 
public is benefited, all are pleased. The con- 
scientious rejoice that it is done at any rate ; the 
prejudiced, that their party have the credit of 
doing it. 

There are among the exhaustless manoeuvres 
of a party-champion, if I may so speak, gestures 
and signs of disapprobation, which are of equal 
efficacy with language itself. There are also 
artifices in writing, that resemble intonation and 
accent, in a skilful speaker, which, by a turn of 
the voice, or a clause in a parenthesis, throw in 
a shade of distinction, lend an emphasis which 
makes mystery intelligible, and helps out the 
apprehension of the reader. There is such a 
thing as an intellectual-shrug of the shoulders, a 
mental shake of the head, an implication that 
has more meaning than an assertion, a hint 
which can effectually detract from the commen- 
dation which prudence has extorted, and which 
serves to awaken suspicion more than a direct 
charge. Whatever is omitted, is sure to be more 
than supplied; whatever is dexterously left open 
by the writer, never fails to be over-charged by 
the reader, who always values himself on his 
ingenuity in filling up an hiatus. There is a way 
of setting out with general praise, in order to 
make the meditated charge more effectual. A 
practised reader will see through the artful cir- 
cumlocutory preface, which is gradually pre- 
paring to introduce the little, though effectually 
disparaging particle but. These artifices raise 
up the ghost of some unknown evil in the cha- 
racter to be injured, and excite, at the same 
time, the idea of prudence and moderation in 
the censure. It is a mysterious giving out, and 
assumed regret at being compelled to speak, a 
hypocritical conscientiousness, a reluctance of 
communication which, after it has told much 
more than all it knows, tenderly affects to have 
kept back the worst. 

One evil which commonly arises from the pe- 
rusal of a work of a systematic opposition, 
whether the object be public or private, is, that 
it has a tendency to bias the more liberal reader, 
who took it up in the most impartial state of 
mind, with as undue a prejudice in favor of the 
party attacked, as the assailant laboured to esta- 
blish in favour of his own ; so that, if any in- 
justice be excited, it is on the contrary side to 
that which the author intended. Generally 
speaking, however, people do not sit down with 
a pure design to read impartially any thing, 
which, from the title of the work, or the name 
of the author, they foresee or suspect is likely to 
contradict their creed, whether previously adopt- 
ed from conviction or prepossession. 

But, to confine our observations to the preju- 
dices which embitter common life : — when we 
fancy we have been injured by some unfounded 
evil report, let us avoid considering the charac- 
ter of the reporter, or our own supposed injury, 
under the immediate impression of the intelli- 
gence, but try to divert our thoughts to some 
other subject, till our heated spirits have time 
to cool We aha'.l otherwise, too probably, feel 



and utter many things which exceed the bounds 
of strict justice. When the resentment has, in 
some measure subsided, let us endeavour to col- 
lect and to retain only the simple and exact 
truth ; what Ihe enemy really said, and not what 
he suspected he might say. Let us retrench all 
that is imaginary, all that is merely suspicion ; 
let us cut off all the aggravations of conjecture, 
all the inventions of passion, all the additions of 
revenge, all that belongs to unsubstantiated re- 
port ; — when these due retrenchments are made, 
we shall often see that the injury is not so great. 
It is no wonder if the object we saw through a 
mist was enlarged ; a clear medium reduces it 
to its natural size. 

But supposing the worst to be true ; religion, 
operating on observation, will at length teach us 
to set these metaphysical evils, these afflictions 
of the imagination, this anguish of wounded 
pride or irritated self-love, over against the real, 
deep, substantial miseries of body and mind, 
under which thousands of our fellow-creatures, 
nay many of our friends, are at the moment 
sinking ; and we shall blush at our own irrita- 
bility ; we shall bless God for the lightness of 
our own lot ; we shall even be thankful for that 
evil which exists only in the opinion, or the re- 
port of a fallible creature, and which makes no 
part of our real self. 

But, above all, let us never revenge the injury 
by opposing our injustice to that by which we 
suffer, by acting against our opponents with the 
same spirit with which we accuse them of act- 
ing against us. Retaliation, which is the justice 
of a vulgar mind, is of the very essence of an 
unchristian spirit. Where this is indulged, all 
the virtues of the adversary are rooted out by 
our resentment, and it is well, if we do not plant 
vices in their room. Or if we do not invent 
faults for them, are we not too much disposed to 
take comfort in those they have : to cherish un- 
kind reports of them, to give them a welcome 
hearing and a wide circulation ? Nay, self-esti- 
mation and rooted prejudice may lead us entire- 
ly to mistake the character of him we call our 
enemy. A man is not necessarily wicked be- 
cause he does not admire us. He may dislike 
some of our notions without hating our persons; 
or, after all, his prejudices may not be entirely 
ill-founded : and if we will examine ourselves on 
the ground of his charge in some particular in- 
stance, we may find, that we have been wrong 
in a way which we might not have discovered 
without him. If his detection of our error lead 
us to correct it, we should not reckon that man 
among our worst enemies : or, if wo should hap- 
pen to be right, there is a great advantage in 
being assisted by the mode of attack, to know 
how to collect materials for our defence. 

We must also learn sometimes to endure cen- 
sure for things right in themselves, and, under 
existing circumstances, necessary, which yet 
may not appear right to others, because it may 
not be prudent to disclose those secret springs 
of action, which, if revealed, would convince 
others that we have not acted wrong. Instead 
of spending our spirits in invective, or spoiling 
our temper by hatred ; instead of liking our 
faults the better, or adhering to them the more, 
because pointed out by those we dislike ; would 



THE WORlt OF HANNAH MORE. 



153 



it not be wiser to inquire, if our opinions may 
not be prejudices, as well as theirs ? For it does 
not inevitably follow, that even the dislike of 
bad men is any certain proof of our goodness ; 
though our natural propensity to think our own 
conduct and opinions right, disposes us to think 
them more right in proportion to the opposition 
which is made to either. We are blind to our 
own singularities, even though those singu- 
larities may be errors ; and a spirit of resent- 
ment or resistance makes that blindness often 
more obstinate. On the other hand ; may we 
not be too much disposed to think our censurers, 
whom we call wicked, more wicked than they 
are ; or, though there may be errors in their 
conduct, this does not take from them the capa- 
city of judging ours. Even though their hearts 
are wrong, their judgment, as far as relates to 
others, may not be totally perverted. It is no 
infallible proof of their bad judgment, that they 
think meanly of ours. 

But allowing that their judgment is as in- 
correct as their practice, and that their dislike 
proceeds from the 'strong antipathy of bad to 
good, yet we may turn this dislike to profit. 
That hostility to religion, of which the Scrip- 
ture so frequently speaks, is not intended to 
give the Christian a high notion of his own 
piety, but to encourage him against the fear and 
dejection which that hostility might create. If 
he meet with opposition, he must not fly for re- 
fuge to his own goodness, as contrasted with 
the faults of his opponent; nor must he be de- 
pressed, ' as if some strange thing had happen- 
ed to him ;' much less must he convert the op- 
position he meets with, into an evidence, that 
he is in all instances right. In the consolations 
which the Gospel holds out to the sufferer for 
righteousness' sake, it was intended to inspire 
him with courage, not vanity ; with confidence 
in God, not in himself. He must not, there- 
fore, so much value himself because he has 
enemies, as suspect that he may have enemies, 
because he- has deserved them. Or perhaps, 
their is something wrong in us which we have 
not yet discovered, for which God permits us to 
have enemies. This suspicion may serve to 
render us circumspect, and quicken our endea- 
vours to remove the ground of their censure. 
This, even if it do not reconcile them to us, 
will still make us gainers by their enmity ; so 
that, in any case, the Apostle's interrogation, 
•And who is lie that shall harm you, if ye be fol- 
lowers of that which is good V loses nothing of 
its force. 

Who can forbear to lament, when he sees such 
a litigious spirit pervades superior minds, such 
airy nothings conjured into difficulties, suffi- 
cient to clog the wheels of the noblest under- 
takings ; an effect resulting merely from the par- 
tiality with which even wise men sometimes 
cleave to their own prepossessions, added to a 
reluctance to examine what may possibly be 
wrong on their own side, or right on the other ? 

It would be comparatively a small evil, if pre- 
judices were only fostered on occasions in which 
religion has no concern. If we could hope to 
see such a general proficiency in true piety, 
that, where the sentiments of men concurred 
on all essential points, each side would sacrifice 

Vol. II. 



something on points that were indifferent, it 
would be a sort of realization of the communion 
of saints. But if it be called an act of Omnipo- 
tence to 'make men of one mind in a house,'' 
what would it be to make them of one mind in 
a town or a kingdom ? If we could witness a 
cordial agreement between those who profess to 
have the interests of the same religion at heart, 
such a concurrence in the wish to promote its 
great practical objects, as would render them 
willing to concede their own theories, or their 
own judgment, in things that do not affect any 
of the vitals of religion, with such noble ma- 
terials worked up into action, what a glorious 
world might this become ! This combination of 
Christian feeling would extinguish all unkind 
debate, ' all malice, and anger, and clamour, and 
evil speaking. This peace-offering would ob- 
lige no one to renounce his principles; yet, by 
the extinction of petty differences, by such a 
confederacy of honest hearts and candid spirits 
uniting for some great public object, this wilder- 
ness would almost be converted into the garden 
of God. Nor would an inferior portion of the 
benefit be derived to the minds of those by whom, 
for a cause of general importance, the incon- 
siderable sacrifice was made ; so far from it, it 
would be hard to say which made up the largest 
aggregate of good, the private exercise of indi- 
vidual virtue, or the promotion of the genera- 
end. But, alas ! do we not sometimes see 
Christians more forward in attacking and ex- 
posing each other, than in buckling on their 
arms to make war on the common enemy ? 
Are they not more ready to wage that war 
against a pious brother, who does not view some 
one opinion exactly in the same light with 
themselves, though equally zealous in the pro- 
motion of general truth, than against those who 
have no religion at all? What a church tri- 
umphant would our's be in one sense, though 
still militant in another, if there was a union of 
real Christians joining in one firm band to assail 
the strong holds of vice and immorality, instead 
of laying open each other's errors and mistakes, 
and thus exposing the great cause itself to the 
dcrison of the unbeliever. 

We cannot dispute ourselves into heaven, but 
we may lose our way thither, while we are liti- 
gating unimportant topics — things which a man 
may not be much the better if he hold, and 
which if he hold them unrighteously, he might 
be better if he held them not. The enemies of 
religion cannot injure it so much as its own 
divisions about itself. 

He who is zealously running after a favour- 
ite opinion, is in danger, in order to establish 
his point, of losing his moderation by the way, 
and over-stepping truth at the end : and, what 
is worse, of converting the sober defence of his 
own system into a hostile attack of that of an- 
other ; for a hot disputant seldom wages defen- 
sive war. The point under discussion so heats 
his temper, as to make him lose sight of its real 
importance. Every consideration gives way in 
support of that opinion which has now the pre- 
dominance in his mind. And this opinion is 
not seldom contended for with an eagerness 
proportioned to its real want of solidity ; since 
great and important objects are seen by their 



154 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



own light, and require not the false fire of pride 
or passion to blazon their worth. Often does 
the hot controvertist assert that to be of the very 
essence of religion, which is but a mere adjunct; 
and often he seems to wonder how men can 
bestow so much time and thought on any other 
topic, while his grand concern is under con- 
sideration. 

It is because these rooted and unexamined 
prejudices involve human affairs in so much 
perplexity, that the rectification of our judgment 
is one of the most important objects of our con- 
cern. The opinion which others entertain of 
us, though it may hurt our fortune or our fame, 
yet it cannot injure our more essential interests. 
Their judgment of us can neither wound our 
conscience nor shake our integrity. The false 
judgment we form of them may do both, es- 
pecially if we act upon the opinion we have 
formed, if we speak injuriously of those of whom 
we think unkindly ; if, by following a blind 
prejudice or precipitate judgment, we decide 
upon their characters, without possessing those 
grounds for determining which we insist are 
indispensable in the opinion they form of us. 
Jealousy, resentment, envy, often darken our 
perception, and are secretly operating on our 
minds, while we persuade others, and too pro- 
bably ourselves, that we are promoting the in- 
terests of truth and justice, in exposing the 
faults, or counteracting the schemes of another. 

Controversies will be for ever carried on, 
though converts are not made : for I do not re- 
member, that of any of the ancient sects of philo- 
sophers, any went over to their opponents. 
Among the professors of the old school divinity, 
it does not appear that the disciples ever chang- 
ed their master, that the advocates of the ange- 
lical Doctor ever adopted the cause of the irre- 
fragable ;* and it is evident that the followers 
ofJanseuius and Loyala died with the same 
mutual hostility in which they had lived. 

A"- truth, however, will be assaulted, it must 
be defended. Controversial discussions, there- 
fore, are not only harmless, but useful, provided 
truth be the inspiring motive, and charity the 
medium of conducting them. Truth is fre- 
quently beaten out by conflicting blows, when 
it might have contracted rust and impurity by 
lying quiet uninquired into and unassailed. We 
are in danger of growing negligent about a truth 
which is never attacked, or of surrounding it 
with our own fancies, and appending to it our 
own excrescences ; while the assailant teaches 
even the friendly examiner to clear the princi- 
pal of all foreign mixtures, and, by giving it 
more purity, to give it wider circulation. 

But, as we before observed, a thorough par- 
tisan in religion, as well as in politics, seldom 
takes up a book of controversy with an unbias- 
sed mind. He has a pre-determination which 
seldom gives way to argument. He does not 
see, that the supporter of his own cause may 
be maintaining it in a wrong temper ; that, 
while he is fighting for orthodoxy, he n>iy be 
aiming his side blows at a personal antagonist, 
or giving the death's wound to charity. He 
does not perceive, that he may be injuring the 

* Scotus, Aquinas, and the other school divines, were 
distinguished by these and similar epithets. 



interests of practical religion, while he is labour 
ing to promote such as are doctrinal, that he 
may be inflaming the temper, while he is infor- 
ming the understanding. Yet a controversy is 
sometimes so managed, that, though truth may 
be vindicated, the minds of plain Christians 
may be little informed. Such readers do not 
understand the logician's terms, which, though 
they may have the effect of silencing the oppo- 
nent, do but little towards enlightening the 
mind or strengthening the faith. Controversies, 
therefore, in religion or politics often do little 
good, in comparison of the labour they cost, and 
the evil tempers they excite. They are seldom 
read by those to whom, if temperately conduct- 
ed, they might be of the most service — the un- 
prejudiced. The perusal is commonly confined 
to two classes, friends and enemies. Now the 
friends and enemies of a writer form but a small 
proportion of the world of readers. Of these, 
the one flies to his book to get his prepossessions 
strengthened, the other to get his antipathies 
confirmed. The partisan was pre-determined 
that no argument should shake him, the adver- 
sary sat down with the same liberal resolution. 
Nay, the probability is, that he will declare his 
former opinion is more immoveably settled by 
the very reasons the opposer has suggested, so 
that he feels he is furnished with fresh arms by 
the antagonist himself. 

But though neutrality is not a state of mind 
to be desired, moderation is. Even these pole- 
mical Christians, if each would look calmly and 
kindly on the other, might discover in his op- 
ponent a striking likeness of his own features, 
if not an entire similarity of complexion : a 
likeness sufficient to prove that they are both 
of the same family, all children of one common 
Father, though they do not carry the exact re- 
semblance in some minutenesses in which parity 
is not necessary to prove affinity. The general 
family-likeness should, however, operate as an 
inducement to treat each other with brotherly 
kindness, even if they were not assured, which 
they all profess to be, that the common Father 
will be the common Judge. 



CHAP. XI. 

Particular Prejudices. 

It is no inconsiderable part of our duty in 
our necessary connexions with that motely mass 
of characters of which mankind is composed, to 
conquer certain prejudices which are too apt 
to arise, especially in persons of fastidious tem- 
per and delicate taste, against those, who, though 
essentially valuable in their general character, 
have something about them which is positively 
disagreeable ; or who do not fall in with some 
of our ideas, or whose manners are not conge- 
nial to our feeling. To wait before we love our 
fellow creatures, till their character be perfect, 
is to wait till we meet in heaven ; and not to 
serve them till the feeling be reciprocal, is to 
act on the religion of the publican, and not of 
the Christian. We should love people for what 
we see in them of the image of their Maker 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



155 



though it be marred and disfigured. That piety 
which makes them amiable in His sight, should 
prevent their being disgusting in ours. If we 
consulted our principles more, and our taste less, 
it would cure us of this sharp inquest into their 
infirmities. 

Yet on the other hand, if religious but coarse- 
ly-mannered persons, however safe they may be 
as to their own state, could be aware how much 
injury their want of delicacy and prudence is 
doing to the minds of the polished and discrimi- 
nating — who, though they may admire Chris- 
tianity in the abstract, do not love it so cordially 
as to bear with the grossness of some of its pro- 
fessors ; nor understand it so intimately, as to 
distinguish what is genuine from what is ex- 
trinsic — If they could conceive what mischief 
they do to religion, by the associations which 
they teach the refined to combine with it, so as 
to lead them inseparably to connect piety with 
vulgarity, they would endeavour to correct their 
own taste, from the virtuous fear of shocking 
that of others. They should remember, that 
many a thing is the cause of evil which yet is 
no excuse for it; that many a truth is brought 
into discredit by the disagreeableness which may 
be appended to it, and which, though Utterly 
foreign, is made to belong to it. 

In addition to the infirmities which, from the 
fault of nature, or the errors of education, are 
not perhaps so easily avoided, there are others 
which are purely voluntary. — Certain religion- 
ists there are who torment themselves with a 
chimera till they become the victims of the pre- 
judice of their own creation. There is a que- 
rulous strain of pious vanity, in which, with a 
most unamiable egotism, they delight to indulge. 
It is a sort of traditionary lamentation of evils, 
which, having once been the lot of Christianity 
in the most awful extreme, are assumed to be 
still, jn no inconsiderable degree attached to its 
followers. Surrounded with all the conveniences 
of life, and faring comfortably, if not sumptu- 
ously, every day, they yet complain of persecu- 
tion, as if Christianity still subjected its follow- 
ers to the sufferings of those primitive disciples, 
'of whom the world was not worthy.' But let 
them compare the dreadful catalogue of tor- 
ments enumerated by the Apostle to the He- 
brews — enumerated the more feelingly, as he 
had experienced in all their extremity the suffer- 
ings he describes ; — let them compare these with 
their own petty trials, of which, the worst they 
have ever felt or feared, is that 'of mockings :' 
* cruel, mockings,' perhaps, as to the temper of 
the reviler, but innoxious to the imaginary suf- 
ferer. The glorious profession of the saints of 
old brought on them bonds and imprisonments 
by order of the government. Ours is sanctioned 
by the ruling powers. ' They were destitute, 
afflicted, tormented ;' our distresses are seldom 
caused by our piety, but frequently by our want 
of it. They were denied the exercise of their 
religion, we are protected in ours. They were 
obliged to meet clandestinely at undue hours in 
incommodious places. With us, provision is 
made for public worship, and attendance on it 
encouraged and commanded. 

Let none of us, then, proudly or peevishly 



forbidden, discouraged, or under-rated. Private 
prejudice, and individual hatred, are indeed suf- 
ficiently alive, but the blows they aim fall hurt- 
less as the feebly-lifted lance of Priam. If, then, 
we allow ourselves to murmur at our own dis- 
advantages, will it not look as if we inwardly la- 
mented that we are so very good to so little pur- 
pose ; as if we repined at not being rewarded by 
universal applause for the superabundance of 
our piety ? May we not, by our complaints, 
lead the world to suspect that our goodness was 
practised as a bait for that applause, and that, 
having missed it, we feel as if we had laboured 
in vain ? 

But, from the prejudices which one class of 
Christians are too ready to indulge against an- 
other, we turn to those of a different character ; 
to the philosophical man of the world, who is 
prepossessed not so much against any particular 
class of Christians, as against Christianity it- 
self. These unhappy prejudices are often laid 
in by an education in which no one thing lias 
been neglected except religion. The intellect 
has been enlarged by the grandeur, and polish- 
ed by the splendour, of pagan literature, which 
took early possession of the yet vacant mind, and 
still maintains its ascendancy with that power 
and energy which naturally belong to first and 
therefore, deep impressions. The subsequent 
character continues to feel the effect of the ex- 
cessive admiration early excited by some fa- 
vourite authors, by whom the more impetuous 
passions and generous vices are exalted into 
virtues, while the spurious virtues are elevated 
into perfections little short of divine, and the 
whole adorned with whatever can captivate the 
fancy and enchant the taste; with beautiful 
imagery, ingenious fiction, and noble poetry. 
Who, indeed, does not feel divided between ad- 
miration at their writings, and regret, that the 
writers were not providentially favoured with 
divine illumination ? Their brightness, like 
that of ebony, is a fine polish on a dark sub- 
stance. 

Here the indignant man of letters, if any such 
should condescend to cast an eye on these pages, 
will exclaim, Are scholars, then, necessarily ir- 
religious? God forbid ! far from me be such a 
vulgar insinuation — far from me such a pre- 
posterous charge ; not only against a multitude 
of eminent lay-christians, but against the whole 
of that large and venerable body, whose life and 
labours are dedicated to religion, all of whom 
are, or ought to be, learned. 

But it is nevertheless true, reason on it as we 
may, that, in the state of excitement above de 
scribed, every youth of taste and spirit, who has 
not been early grounded in Christian principles, 
must necessarily afterwards first open the vo- 
lume of Inspiration, and find it destitute of all 
that false but dazzling lustre with which the 
page of ancient learning is decorated. 

And what must considerably add to the pre- 
judice which may reasonably be expected to be 
thus excited, is, that they find the great object 
of one religion has been to pull down all the 
trophies of false glory which the other had so 
successfully reared. The dignity of human na- 
ture, of which they have read and felt so much, 



complain, as if our abundant piety was either | is laid prostrate in the dust. Man >s stripped 



15R 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



of his usurped attributes, robbed of his indepen- 
dent grandeur. A new system, of what appear 
to him mean-spirited and sneaking virtues — cha- 
rity, simplicity, devotion, forbearance, humility, 
self-denial, forgiveness of injuries — is set up in 
direct opposition to those more ostensible quali- 
ties which are so much more nattering to the 
natural human heart. 

Those obstacles to religious progress are re- 
moved, when, in early institution, the defective 
principles of the one school are not only pointed 
out and guarded against, but are even, as is fre- 
quently the case, converted into salutary lessons, 
by being placed in just contrast with the other, 
and are made at once to vindicate the scheme, 
and to exalt the principles of Christianity. 

But he into whose character these principles 
have not been infused, is too likely to set up on 
the stock of his own underived powers. The 
cardinal vice of an irreligious reasoner will na- 
turally be that pride which sets him on consi- 
dering the Gospel as a narrower of human un- 
derstanding, a debaser of the soaring spirit of 
intellectual man, a fetter on the expatiating fan- 
cy, a clog on the aspiring mind. This opinion, 
which he rather adopts by hearsay or tradition 
than by studying the sacred volume, continues 
to keep him ignorant of its contents. He is sa- 
tisfied with knowing Christianity, only in the 
state in which it is presented to him in certain 
passages, torn from their proper position, dis- 
joined with malignant ingenuity, and distorted 
by perverted comment, from that connexion 
which would have solved every difficulty and 
annihilated the triumphant cavil. Or if, under 
this influence, he takes a superficial glance at 
Christianity, he sees a religion, which though it 
prohibits no legitimate greatness, yet a religion 
whose object is not to make man, according to 
the estimation of this world, great. His secret 
prejudices, too, may be augmented by the re- 
volting doctrine, that he is not able to do any 
thing right of himself. He is to do the work, 
and to give the glory to another. After having 
followed with rapture the conqueror of Carthage 
hanging up his victorious laurels in the capitol, 
he will feel indignant to be taught, that the 
Christian! conqueror, instead of glorying in his 
triumphant crown, ' casts it before the throne.' 

He had observed in pagan lore, abstract truth 
prepared for the philosophers, pageants, feasts, 
and ceremonies for the people. This distinction 
of rank and intellect flattered human pride. In 
Christianity he finds one rule, and that a plain 
rule : one faith, and that an humbling faith ; 
one scheme of duties, irrespective of station or 
talents : while, in the other, the systems of the 
learned, and the superstitions of the vulgar, 
were as disti.ict as any two religions, and as in- 
efficacious as none. 

But, after all, it is not the idolatry exhibited 
in the Greek and Roman writers that perhaps 
can overthrow his faith, though their licentious- 
ness may affect his morals. The hardest blow 
to his principles will be given by the modern 
champions of unbelief ; by writers against whom 
the young are not on their guard, because, with- 
out Christianity, they slide in under the general 
title of Christians, disseminating contraband 
wares under false colours. The wound inflicted 



by the baptized infidel is more profound than 
that of the polytheist, whose absurdities render 
his aim comparatively innoxious. The prepos- 
terous systems of a false religion are harmless, 
compared with objections raised, misrepresenta- 
tions sent forth, and sarcasms insinuated against 
the true one. 

But if the enthusiastic votary of those systems 
go no farther than to establish philosophy as his 
standard, and taste as his guide, when he is 
brought to think — not that philosophy and taste 
are to be abandoned, for Christianity requires 
no such sacrifice — but that they are to be ad- 
mired subordinately, the misfortune is, that the 
second half of life is sometimes spent in imper- 
fectly counteracting the principles imbibed in 
the first half. It is not easy to get rid of the 
prepossession in favour of a morality untinctured 
with religion ; of ' that love of fame which the 
pure spirit doth raise,' but which it is the office 
of the renewed spirit to lower — of the admira- 
tion exhausted on splendid, but vicious charac- 
ters — of the idolatry cherished for unprincipled 
heroes — of the partiality felt for all the powerful 
rivals which genius has raised up to religion — 
of all the sins that poetry has canonized — all the 
sophistry that praise has sanctified — all the per- 
nicious elegancies of the gay — all the hollow 
reasonings of the grave. 

In this state of neutrality between religion and 
unbelief, happy is it for the faltering novice if 
he be not fatally offended, that Christianity ad- 
mits people who are not elegant-minded, who 
are not intellectual, to the same present advan- 
tages, to the same future hope, with the profound 
thinker, and logical reasoner. And, even afler 
the most successful struggles in this new sci- 
ence, it will still be found, and the discovery is 
humiliating, that the religious attainments of 
the unlearned are often more rapid, because less 
obstructed, than those of ' the wise and the dis- 
puter of this world.' It requires at least a smat- 
tering of wit and knowledge to be sceptical, 
while the plain Christian, who brings no inge- 
nuity into his religion, is little liable to the 
doubts of the superficial caviller, who seeks to 
be ' wise above what is written.' For if the en- 
dowments of the unlearned are smaller, they are 
all carried to one point. They have no other 
pursuit to divide or divert their attention ; they 
have fewer illusions of the imagination to repel ; 
they bring no opposing system to the Christian 
scheme ; they bring no prejudices against reve- 
lation, which holds out a promise of reversionary 
happiness to those who are destitute of present 
enjoyments ; and Christianity will generally be 
more easily believed by those whose more im- 
mediate interest it is to think it true. They 
have no interfering projects to perplex them ; no 
contradictory knowledge to unlearn, their unin- 
fluenced minds are open to impressions, and 
good impressions are presented to them. They 
have less pride to subdue, and no prepossessions 
to extinguish. They have no compromise to 
make with Christianity, no images of deities, 
which the philosopher like the emperor -Tibe- 
rius, wishes to set up in the same temple with 
Christ; no adverse tenets which they wish to 
incorporate with his religion, no ambition to con- 
vert it into a better thing than he made it Wo 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



157 



nave seen how much philosophy early impeded 
the reception of pure Christianity in some of the 
wisest and most virtuous pagan converts. Ori- 
gen and Tertullian did not receive the truth 
from heaven with the same simplicity as the 
fishermen of Galilee. 

To prove that this is no flight of enthusiastic 
fancy, let us recollect with what an extraordi- 
nary elevation and expansion of soul the Author 
of our religion bore his divine testimony to this 
truth : ' I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven 
and earth, because Thou hast hid these things 
from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed 
them unto babes.' He then, instead of account- 
ing for it by natural means, resolves the myste- 
ry into the good pleasure of God — ' Even so Fa- 
ther, for so it seemed good in thy sight.' 

Even the vulgarity which, as we have already 
observed, mixes with, and debases the religion 
of the man of inferior attainments ; the incor- 
rect idiom in which he expresses his feelings 
and sentiments ; the coarse images and mean 
associations which eclipse the divine light, do 
not extinguish it : they rather, in some mea- 
sure, prove its intrinsic brightness by its shining 
through so dense a medium. When the man of 
refinement sees, as he cannot but see, what ame- 
lioration Christianity confers on the character 
of the uneducated; how it improves his habits; 
raises his language ; what a change it effects in 
his practice ; what a degree of illumination it 
gives to his dark understanding ; what consola- 
tion it conveys to his heart; how it lightens the 
burdens of his condition, and cheers the sorrows 
of his life — he will, if he be candid, acknow- 
ledge, that there must needs be a powerful effi- 
cacy in that religion which can do more for the 
ignorant and illiterate, than philosophy has ever 
done for the great and the learned. And is it 
not an unanswerable evidence of the truth of 
Christianity and the power of grace, when we 
see men far surpassing all others in every kind 
of knowledge, themselves so far surpassed in 
religious knowledge by persons absolutely des- 
titute of all other. 

But if these weak and humble disciple3 afford 
a convincing evidence of the truth of Christian- 
ity ; if even these low recipients exhibit a strik- 
ing exemplification of its excellence, yet we 
must confess they cannot exhibit an equally 
sublime idea of christian perfection, they cannot 
adduce the same striking evidences in its vindi- 
cation, they cannot adorn its doctrines with the 
same powerful arguments as highly educated 
Christians. Habituated to inquiry and reflec- 
tion, these are capable of forming more just 
views of the character and attributes of God, 
more enlarged conceptions of his moral govern- 
ment. They have also the advantage of drawing 
on their secular funds to augment their spiritual 
riches. They are conversant with authors con 
temporary with the inspired writers. Acquaint- 
ance with ancient manners and oriental usages 
also gives great advantage to the lettered read- 
ers of Scripture, and, by enabling them to throw 
new light on passages which time had rendered 
obscure, adds fresh strength and double confir- 
mation, to a faith which was before ' barred up 
with ribs of iron.'* 

* The paltry cavil on tlie impossibility that the peni- 



Scripture also affords a larger range of con 
templation to those enlightened minds who study 
human nature at the same time, or who have 
previously studied it ; because it was upon his 
own knowledge of the human character that the. 
Saviour of the world so strikingly accommodated 
his religion to the wants and the relief of that 
being for whose salvation it was intended. 

The better educated, also, will better discern, 
because it demands a higher exercise of the ra- 
tional powers, that passages of a similar sound 
have not seldom a dissimilar meaning ; and that 
it is not the word, but the ideas, which consti- 
tute the resemblance. The want of this discern- 
ment has led many well disposed, but ill in- 
formed persons, into mistakes. 

Again : — Many detached texts are meant as 
a brief statement of a general truth, and intend- 
ed to lead the reader into such trains of reflec- 
tion as shall ' exercise unto godliness,' instead 
of exhibiting a full delineation and giving the 
whole face and figure, every side and aspect of 
the subject. Scripture frequently proposes some 
important topic in a popular manner, without 
making out its full deductions, or its series of 
consequences. Now, lor the fuller understand- 
ing these heads, and turning them to their due 
improvement, the advantage lies entirely on the 
side of the thinking and the reasoning reader. 
It must be confessed, however, that the humble, 
though illiterate Christian, is able to attain all 
the practical benefits of these suggestions. He 
compares Scripture with Scripture, he substi- 
tutes no opinions of his own for those he there 
meets with, he never attempts to improve upon 
Christianity, he never wishes to make the Bible 
a better thing than he finds it. By diligent ap- 
plication, and serious prayer, his understanding 
enlarges with his piety. Above all, he does the 
'will of God ;' and, therefore, 'knows of the doc- 
trine that it is of God.' 

It must be confessed also, on the other hand, 
that the professed scholar, by converting Scrip- 
ture learning into theses of discussion, is in 
some danger of making his knowledge more 
critical than practical. The same reason which 
is meant to enlighten, may be employed to ex- 
plain away his faith; and his learning which 
adorns is capable also of being turned to dis- 
credit it. 

We must, however, admit, that when our sup- 
posed man of high education becomes essenti- 
ally pious, his piety will be of a higher strain. 
It is more pure, more perfect, more exempt from 
erroneous mixtures, more clear of debasing as- 
sociation, more entirely free from disgusting- 
cant and offensive phraseology ; less likely to 
run into imprudence, error, and excess ; less in 

tent woman could anoint the feet of Jesus as he sat at 
meat, could only mislead such readers as were unac- 
quainted with the recumbent posture in which the an- 
cients took their meals. The triumphant sneer at the 
paralytic, who was letdown from the housetop, through 
the tiling with his cnuch, could only shake the faith of 
those who are ignorant of the manner in which the 
houses of eastern countries were roofed. — Whether infi- 
del writers took advantage of the supposed ignorance ot 
their readers, or whether their ridicule of these imouted 
absurdities of Scripture arose from their own ignorance 
we will not determine. Instances might he multiplied 
without number of this ignorance, or of this disingenu- 
ouaneas. 



158 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



danger of the gloominess of superstition on one 
hand, and the wildness of fanaticism on the 
other. Having the use of a better judgment in 
the choice, he is not in the same danger of be- 
ing misled by ignorant instructors ; he is not 
liable to be drawn away by a vanity so difficult 
to restrain in the uneducated religious man ; a 
vanity so frequently excited when he sees his 
own superiority, in this great point, to his worse 
informed neighbours. From this vanity, and 
this want of the restraint of that modesty impos- 
ed by superior education, the man of low condi- 
tion often appears more religious than he is, be- 
cause, being disposed to be proud of his piety, 
he is forward to talk of it. While the higher 
bred frequently appear less pious than they 
really are, from the good taste and delicacy 
which commonly accompany a cultivated mind. 
There is also another reason why they exhibit 
it less, they are aware that, in their own society, 
the exhibition would bring them no great credit. 
If unlettered Christians labour under some 
disadvantages, we repeat it, they yet afford an 
internal evidence of the truth of Christianity, 
and an evidence of no small value. They show 
that it is the same principle which, when rightly 
received, pervades alike all hearts; a principle 
which makes its direct way to understandings 
impervious to the shafts of wit, and insensible 
to the deductions of reasoning — to minds sunk 
in low pursuits, indurated by vulgar habits. It 
is a striking proof of its being the same princi- 
ple, that such seemingly disqualified persons 
possess as clear views of its nature, at least of 
its broad and saving truths, as the man of genius 
and (he scholar ; destitute as they are of all his 
advantages, wanting perhaps his natural perspi- 
cacity, unused to his habits of inquiry, incapa- 
ble of that spirit of disquisition which he brings 
from his other subjects to the investigation of 
this. No one, if he examine impartially, can 
fail to be struck with this grand characteristic 
of the truth of Christianity — not only, that in 
all degrees of capacity and education in the 
same country, but that in different countries, in 
those where taste and learning are carried to 
the highest perfection, and in dark and ignorant 
nations, where not only the sun of science has 
never dawned, but where literature has never 
softened, nor philosophy enlarged the mind, 
where no glimpse of religion can be caught by 
a reflex light, as is the case in polished and 
Christian countries — yet wherever Christianity 
has made its way, and pierced through the na- 
tive obscurity, there the genuine spirit, and the 
great essential fruits of the gospel, will be found 
just the same ; the same impression is made by 
the same principle; the same results spring 
from the same cause, and the disciples of Christ, 
whether it be the converted Greenlander or the 
Academical believer, are recognised in all their 
distinguishing features, are identified in all the 
leading points. Such a concurrence in senti- 
ment, feeling, and practice, such a union in 
faith, hope, and charity, amongst persons dissi- 
milar in all other respects, unlike in all other 
qualities, unequal in all other requisites ; minds 
never made to be akin by nature thus allied by 
grace, bearing the same stamp of resemblance 
in spirit as their possessors bear in the common 



properties of body : all this is a convincing proof 
that there must be something divine in a prin- 
ciple which can assimilate sucn contrarieties — 
which can re-unite those in one common centre 
who differ in all other distinctions to produce 
identity in the leading point. Does not all this 
prove it indeed to be the work of God, a work 
which requires not previous accomplishments 
or preparatory research, but only a willing mind, 
an unprejudiced spirit, and an humble heart? 
Does it not prove, that where the essence, and 
the spirit of" Christianity really reside, it will 
produce the one grand effect, a new heart and a 
new life. 



CHAP. XII. 

Further causes of Prejudice. 

It is a singular fact that the infidel and the 
fanatic sometime meet at the same point of er- 
ror — that reason has little to do with religion. 
The enthusiast we are hopeless of convincing 
by argument, because he is commonly ignorant; 
but the lettered sceptic may be better taught 
even by his pagan masters. Plutarch, after a 
large discussion whether brutes had any reason, 
determines in the negative from this considera- 
tion, because they had no knowledge or feeling 
of a Deity. The great Roman orator expresses 
the same idea when he asserts, that a capacity 
for religion was the distinguishing mark of ra- 
tionality, and that this capacity is the most un- 
equivocal sign of reason. 

Yet sound reason and Christian piety are 
sometimes represented as if they were bellige- 
rent powers, as if Orders in Council had been 
issued to cut off all commerce between them , 
as if they were better calculated eternally to 
meet sword in hand, than in the conciliatory 
way of treaty and negociation ; as if every vic- 
tory of the one, must necessarily be oblained at 
the expense of the other's defeat. But is it not an 
affront to the Giver of every good gift to repre- 
sent his highest natural and his supernatural 
endowments as infallibly hostile to each other ? 
It is evident that when reason and religion act 
in concert, they strengthen each other's hands. 
But when they injudiciously act in opposition, 
perverted reason starves the ardour of piety, or 
ill-judging piety hands over reason to obloquy 
and scorn. In every case, the ill-understood 
jealousy of each injures the interests of both. 

The truth is, sound and sober Christianity is 
so far from discountenancing the use of reason, 
that she invites its co-operation, knowing that 
it possesses powerful arms to defend her cause , 
to defend her against the encroachments of er- 
ror, the absurdities of fanaticism, the inroads 
of superstition, the assaults of infidelity. But 
while she treats it not as a rival but an ally, 
Christianity, strong in Almighty strength, 
maintains her own imperial power unfringed. 
While she courts the friendship of her confede- 
rate, she allows not her own uncontrolled supe- 
riority to be usurped. She assigns to reason its 
specific office, and makes it know and keep its 
proper limits. The old law, indeed, being a 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH xMORE. 



159 



formula of ceremonies, and a digest of ordi- 
nances for one particular people, left not so full 
an exercise for the use of reason. Descending 
to the most minute particulars, and being ex- 
panded into the most detailed directions, it left 
little for the disciple but to read the rule and 
follow it. But the New Testament being, as 
we have elsewhere observed, rather a system of 
principles, than a mere didactic table of small 
as well as great duties, leaves much more to the 
exercise of reason, and furnishes a much larger 
field for the understanding to develop, to com- 
pare, to separate, to combine. The whole plan 
of duty is, indeed, most clearly and distinctly 
laid open ; but every uniting particle, every in- 
termediate step, every concatenating link, is not 
traced out with amplitude and fulness. 

The more instructed Christian will perceive 
that some expressions are merely figurative ; 
some are directions for persons under one cir- 
cumstance, and some for those under another. 
The Gospel requires, indeed, as implicit sub- 
mission from the Christian, as the law required 
from the Jew ; but while it proposes truths, all 
of which equally demand his obedience, some 
of them require more especially the use of his 
reflection, and the exercise of his sagacity. We 
allude not to the great ' mysteries of godliness,' 
but to duties which are of individual application. 

If we were to pursue prejudice through all 
its infinite variety, we should never have done 
with the inexhaustible subject. Observation 
presents to us followers of truth of a very dif- 
ferent cast, though their uniform object be the 
same. These persons, while they sometimes 
seek her temple by different paths, are yet 
oftener kept wide of each other by words than 
by things. Whatever, indeed, be the separating 
principle, prejudice is always carried to its 
greatest height by the impatience of the too 
fiery on the one hand, and the contempt of the 
too frigid on the other. But both, as we ob- 
served, maintain their distance more by certain 
leading terms by which each is found to be dis- 
criminated, and by an intolerance in each, to 
the terms adopted by the other, than by any 
radical distinction which might fairly keep them 
asunder. Now we do not wish them to relin- 
quish the use of their peculiar terms, because 
these terms either do, or should designate to 
their minds the most important characters of 
religion. The Christian should neither shrink 
from his own strong hold, nor treat with repul- 
sive disdain, him who appears earnest in his 
approaches towards it, though he has not as yet, 
through some prejudice of education, sought it 
in a direct way. There are many terms, such 
as faith and grace, and others which might be 
mentioned, which subject the more advanced 
Christian to the imputation of enthusiasm and 
the charge of cant. These, however, are words 
which are the signs of things on which his 
eternal hopes depend, and he uses them, even 
though he may sometimes do it unseasonably, 
yet not as the Shibboleth of a profession, but 
because there are no others exactly equivalent 
to their respective meanings. In fact, if he did 
not use them when occasion calls, he would be 
deserting his colours, and be making a compro- 
mise, to the ruin of his conscience. 



But let him not in return fall too heavily on 
what are, to his ear, the obnoxious terms of hia 
adversary. Let him not be so forward to con- 
sider the terms virtue and rectitude as implying 
heresies that must be hewed down without 
mercy ; as substantives which must never find 
a place in the Christian vocabulary. They are 
not only very innocent but very excellent words, 
if he who utters them only means to express by 
virtue those good works which are the fruits of 
a right faith, and by rectitude that unbending 
principle of equity and justice which designates 
the confirmed Christian. The abuse of these 
terms may, indeed, make the more pious adver- 
sary a little afraid of using them, as the unne- 
cessary multiplication of ordinary cases in 
which the more scriptural terms are pressed 
into the service, may make the less advanced 
Christian unreasonably shy of obtruding them. 

But why must we villify in others what we 
are cautious of using ourselves, in order to mag- 
nify what we chuse to adopt? We should 
rather be glad that those who somewhat differ 
from us, come so near as they do ; that they are 
more religious than we expected ; that if they 
are in error, they are not in hostility ; or if seem- 
ingly averse, it is more to the too indiscrimi- 
nate and light use of the opponent's terms, than 
to the sober reception of the truths they convey. 
Let us be glad even at the worst, to see opposi- 
tion mitigated, differences brought into a nar- 
rower compass. Let us not encounter as leaders 
of hostile armies, but try what can be done by 
negotiation, though never of course by conces- 
sion in essentials. If the terms virtue and rec- 
titude are used to the exclusion of faith and 
grace, or as substitutes for them, it may afford 
an opening for the pious advocate to show the 
difference between the principle and its conse- 
quence, the root and its produce. He should 
charitably remember that it is one thing for an 
honest inquirer to come short of truth, and an- 
other for a petulent caviller to wander wide of 
it. It is one thing to err through mistake or 
timidity, and another to offend through wilful- 
ness and presumption. If the inquirer be of 
the former class, only deficient, and not malig- 
nant, he may be brought to feel his deficiency, 
and is often in a very improveable state. It 
would therefore be well to let him see that you 
think him right as far as he goes, but that ho 
does not go the whole length. If he professes 
' to deny all ungodliness and worldly lusts,' this 
is no small step : yet he may still require to be 
convinced that it is 'by the grace of God teach- 
ing him.' Here the two ideas expressed by 
your term of grace, and his of virtue, are 
brought into united action, with this difference, 
or if you please with this agreement, that your's 
being the cause, and his the effect, the Chris- 
tian character attains its consummation between 
you. You must, however, endeavour to con- 
vince him, that though the greater includes the 
less, the reverse cannot be true ; that faith and 
grace in the Christian sense involve virtue and 
rectitude, bat virtue and rectitude in the philo- 
sophical sense desire to be excused from any 
connexion with faith and grace. But the of- 
fence taken at terms creates hostility at the 
outset, blocks up the avenues to each other'f 



1G0 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



heart, and leads men to be so filled with the 
things in which they differ, as to keep them in 
the dark as to the things in which they agree. 

The more strict disputant will perhaps con- 
tinue to insist that no such terms as virtue and 
rectitude are to be found in any Evangelist. 
Granted. Neither do we find there some other 
solemn words expressive of the most awful veri- 
ties of our religion. The holy Trinity and the 
satisfaction made by the death of Christ, are 
not, I believe, in any part of the New Testa- 
ment expressed by these terms, which were 
first used some ages after in the Byzantine 
church. But can it be said that the things 
themselves are not to be found there ? They are 
not only conspicuous in every part of the Gos- 
pel, but make up the sum and substance of what 
it teaches. 

While each disputant then contends for 
his own phrases, let not the one suspect that 
grace and faith are the watch words of enthu- 
siasm ; nor the other conclude that infidelity 
skulks behind virtue, and pagan pride behind 
rectitude. St. Paul expressly exhorts his con- 
verts to ' add to their faith virtue,' and if the in- 
verted injunction was never given, it was not 
because faith was unnecessary where virtue 
previously existed, but because virtue, Christian 
virtue, never could have existed at all without 
previous faith. In enjoining virtue, the Apostle, 
upon his own uniform principle, supposes the 
Christian to be already in possession of faith ; 
this he ever considers the essential substance, 
virtue the inseparable appendage. Thus the 
divine preacher on the Mount, in his prohibi- 
tion of an hypocritical outside, does not say, 
Give alms, fast, pray ; he concluded that his 
followers were already in the practice of those 
duties, and on this conviction grounded his 
cautionary exhortation when thou doest alms, 
when thou prayest, when thou fastest. He 
taught them to avoid all ostentation in duties, to 
which he alluded as already established. Be it 
observed — by the Saviour himself no attribute is 
so constantly enjoined or commanded as &ith. 
His previous question to those who resorted to 
him to be cured, was not if they had virtue but 
faith ; but never let it be forgotten, that as soon 
as the cure was performed, the man of faith was 
enjoined, as the surest evidence of his virtue, to 
sin no more. 



CHAP. XIII. 

Humility the only true greatness. 

Humility is one of those qualities of which 
Christianity requires the perpetual practical 
exercise. It does not insist that we should be 
feeding or instructing others — that we should 
be every moment engaged in acts of benevolence 
to our fellow creatures, or of mortification to our- 
selves : but, whether we teach or are taught, 
whether communicate our good things to others, 
or are dependant on others for the communica- 
tion to ourselves, humility is required as the 
invariable, the indispensable, the habitual grace, 



in the life of a Christian. Pride being the 
radical distemper of the natural man; the busi- 
ness, the duty, the blessedness of the spiritual 
man is to be freed from it. 

However valuable high intellectual attain- 
ments have been found in the vindication of re- 
ligion, however beneficially talents and learn- 
ing have been exerted in adducing the evidences 
and augmenting the illustration of divine truth, 
yet for the most striking exemplification of 
genuine piety, ' To this man will I look, saith 
the Lord, who is of an humble spirit.' Christi- 
anity gives a new form to the virtues, by re- 
casting them in this mould. Humility may be 
said to operate on the human character like the 
sculptor, who, in chiseling out the statue, ac- 
complishes his object, not by laying on, but by 
pairing off, not by making extraneous additions, 
but by retrenching superfluities ; till every part 
of the redundant material is cleared away. The 
reduction which true religion effects, of swelling 
passions, irregular thoughts, and encumbering 
desires, produces at length on the human mind" 
some assimilation to the divine image — that 
model by which it works — as the human resem- 
blance is gradually, and at length successfully 
wrought in the marble. 

Christianity, though equally favourable to 
the loftiest as to the lowest condition of life, 
was not intended to make man great, but 
to make him contented to be little. Though 
no enemy to the possession and cultivation 
of the highest mental powers, but affording, 
on the contrary, the noblest objects for their 
investigation, and the richest materials for 
their exercise ; yet she rests not her truth on 
their discussion, nor depends for making her 
way to the heart on their reasonings. While 
the cheering approbation of an humble faith 
is an encouragement repeatedly held out in 
the Gospel, there, is not one commendation 
of talent, except for its application — not the 
least notice of rank or riches, except to inti- 
mate their danger — not any mention of the wis- 
dom of this world, except to pronounce its con- 
demnation. 

Humility stands at the head of the beatitudes, 
and incorporated with them all. And the gra- 
cious injunction, 'Learn of me, for I am me&k 
and lowly in heart,' is a plain intimation, that 
our Redeemer particularly intended that portion 
of his own divine character for the most imme- 
diate object, not of our admiration only, but of 
our imitation. — It is the temper which of all 
others he most frequently commends, most uni- 
formly enjoins, and which his own pure and 
holy life most invariably exhibits. If we look 
into the Old Testament, we see that God, after 
having described himself as ' the high and holy 
One which inhabiteth eternity,' by a transition 
the most unexpected, and a condescension the 
most inconceivable, immediately subjoins, that 
1 He dwelleth with the contrite and the humble ; 
and this from a motive inexpressibly gracious, 
' to revive the spirit of the humble, and to re- 
vive the heart of the contrite. 1 

Is it not incredible, that after these repeated 
declarations and examples of the Almighty 
Father, and of the Eternal Son, pride should still 
be thought a mark of greatness, an ebullition of 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



IG1 



apirit, and that humility should be so little un- 
derstood to be the true moral dignity of Chris- 
tians ? While in the religion which they pro- 
fess, there is no excellence to which it is not pre- 
liminary, and of which it is not the crown ; nor 
are other virtues genuine but as they are ac- 
companied with this grace, and performed in 
this spirit. No quality has acquired its perfec- 
tion, till it is clarified and refined by being steep- 
ed in humility. 

It is indeed essential to the very reception of 
Christianity, for, without this principle, we shall 
be disposed to cavil at divine revelation, to reject, 
at least, every truth revolting to human pride ; 
we shall require other ground for the belief in 
God than his revealed word, other evidence of 
his veracity than the internal conviction of our 
spiritual wants, and the suitableness of that re- 
medy which the Gospel presents to us. This 
principle, therefore, is indispensable; without it, 
we shall be little inclined cordially to receive 
Christianity as a light, or to obey it as a rule. 
Without it we shall not discover the evil of our 
own hearts ; and without this discovery, we shall 
by no means value the grace of the Holy Spirit; 
we shall exercise no habitual dependance on the 
promised assistance, nor seek for a support of 
which we do not feel the want. 

But humility, by leading us to form a just es- 
timate of ourselves, teaches us to discern the 
narrowness of our capacities. It reminds us, 
that there are many things even in the works 
of God's natural creation far above our compre- 
hension ; that from the ignorance and blindness 
of our minds we make frequent mistakes, and 
form a very erroneous judgment about things 
comparatively obvious and intelligible. This 
temper will bring us to credit with fuller cor- 
diality the testimony which God in his word 
gives of himself, and cure us of the vanity of 
rejecting it, on the mere ground that we cannot 
comprehend it. It will deliver us from the de- 
sire of being — l wise above what is written,' and 
is the sole antidote to the perils of that promise 
of unhallowed knowledge, with which the grand 
seducer tempted his first credulous victim. 

It is not till humility has practically made 
known to us how slowly religion produces its 
effects on ourselves, that we cease to marvel at 
its feeble influence and slow-paced efficacy on 
those around us. As a consequence, this prin- 
ciple leads the humble Christian to be severe in 
judging himself, and disposes him to be candid 
in judging others. When he compares himself 
with worse men, it furnishes a motive, not for 
vanity, but gratitude; when with better for ad- 
ditional self-abasement. 

St. Paul seems to have been fully aware of the 
lagging movement which even Christians make 
towards the complete attainment of this heavenly 
temper. In his address to the Colossians, after 
having expressed his firm hope of their sincere 
conversion, in that they had ' put on the new 
man, which is renewed in knowledge after the 
image of Him that created him,' he yet finds it 
expedient to exhort them ; and, for this very 
reason, ' to put on,' together with other christian 
qualities which he enumerates, ' humbleness of 
mind.' 

He might have pressed this duty under the 

Vol. II. L 



supposition of two cases, and, in either, the in- 
junction would be just. As they had made a 
public profession of Chiistianily, he intimates, 
that there was no surer way of evincing that 
their profession was sincere, and their conver- 
sion radical, than by this unequivocal mark, the 
cultivation of an humble spirit. Or, on the 
other hand, however deeply rooted they might 
be-in faith and piety, he might feel it necessary 
to remind them, that they should not consider 
themselves as having attained a perfection which 
left no room for improvement. So far was this 
deep proficient in divine wisdom from thinking 
that all was done when the convert had entered 
on his new course, he enjoins them, ever after 
this effectual change, that they should, as a con- 
sequence as well as a proof, therefore, ' put on' 
this christian grace ; and produces their con- 
version as a motive, ' because you are already 
renewed.' He does not recommend any specific 
act, so much as a general disposition of 1 mind,' 
implying, according to his uniform practice, 
that growth was necessary to life, and progress 
to perfection. 

The doctrines of Christianity, and the dis- 
courses of its divine Author, are rather pointed 
against certain radical evil principles, than ex- 
tended to their lesser ramifications. When the 
powerful artillery of the Gospel was more espe- 
cially levelled against the strong holds of pride, 
it included in the attack all the minor offences 
resulting from it ; implying, that if the citadel 
be conquered, the intimidated forces in the out- 
works will make but a feeble resistance. 

Even the worldly and the careless, who are 
perhaps too inattentive to perceive that humility 
is the predominating feature in the truly reli- 
gious character, as well as the most amiable and 
engaging part of it, yet pay it a sort of jnvolun- 
tary homage in adopting its outward appear- 
ance. Many among the more elegant classes 
of society, who cannot be brought to adopt the 
principle, assume the form, as the most unequi- 
vocal mark of their superior condition. But 
while the well-bred exhibit the polished exterior 
of humility in manner, they are called, as Chris- 
tians, to cultivate the inward and spiritual grace. 
In spite of the laws against egotism which the 
code of good breeding has issued, a nearer inti- 
macy sometimes discloses the self-satisfaction 
which politeness had thinly veiled. While we 
are prone to carry our virtues in our memory, 
we cannot be always on our guard against pro- 
ducing them in our conversation. Such virtues, 
for the most part popular ones, caught our taste 
perhaps from the applause with which they were 
received, or the eloquence with which they were 
set forth in our presence : and as we acquired 
them in public, and by hearing and reading, we 
shall be contented to exercise them in profession 
and talk. Many, and very many of these quali- 
ties may be grafted on the old 6tock, and look 
green and flourishing, whilst they ■ have no root 
in themselves;' but genuine humility springs 
out of a root deeply fixed in the soil of a renewed 
heart, and takes its first ground on the full con- 
viction of our apostacy from God. 

As we make a proficiency in this humbling 
knowledge of ourselves, our confidence in our 
own virtues proportionably diminishes. The de 



162 



THF WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



light we once received in the contemplation is 
first abated by self-distrust, and finally abolished 
by self-acquaintance. — Then we begin to profit 
by the deep sense of our own weakness, and to 
send forth the genuine fruits of a strength and 
a virtue derived from higher sources. And thus, 
the sound conviction of our own frailty, though 
purchased at the expense of a great error, may 
prove, if we might venture to say it, of more real 
benefit to our own mind, than the performance 
of a splendid action, if of that action all the use 
we had made had been to repose added confi- 
dence in our own strength, or to entertain higher 
notions of our own goodness. 

Yet, while we ought to be deeply humbled at 
every fresh detection of evil in our hearts, to bo 
discouraged at the discover)' from proceeding in 
our Christian course is so far from being an ef- 
fect of humility, that it is rather the result of 
pride. The traveller who meets with a fall, does 
not recover his ground by lying still and lament- 
ing, but by rising and pursuing his journey. 
Joined with this faulty despondency, or still 
more frequently preceding it, is to be traced the 
operation of a blind and morbid pride. Parti- 
cularly, if the intimation of the fault we have 
committed comes from others, the heart is found 
to rise at the bare suggestion that we are not 
perfect. We had perhaps been guilty of a hun- 
dred faults before, of which, as others took no 
notice, they made little impression on ourselves. 
We commit a smaller error, which draws the 
eyes of the world upon us, and we are not only 
dejected but almost hopeless. The eye of God 
was equally witness to our preceding faults, yet 
from their being secret, they produced little com- 
punction, while that which is obvious to human 
inspection produces sorrow on the mere ground 
of producing shame. Perhaps we were permit- 
ted to fall into this more notorious error that we 
might be brought to advert to those of which we 
had been so little sensible ; and though the de- 
pression consequent upon this fault is rather the 
consciousness of mortified pride, than of pious 
contrition, yet God may make use of it to awaken 
us to a feeling of our general corruptions, to warn 
us not to depend on ourselves, and to put us on 
our guard against ' secret faults,' as well as 
against open and 'presumptuous sins.' 

Even a good man is not entirely exempt from 
the danger of occasional elation of spirit; even 
a good man does not always judge himself so ri- 
gorously as he ought ; yet, though he makes too 
many partial allowances, is too much disposed 
to softenings and abatements, to apologies and 
deductions, still he is, on the whole, suspicious 
of himselP, distrustful of his own rectitude, on 
his guard against habitual aberrations from hu- 
mility. Though tremblingly alive to kindness, 
his sincerity makes him almost ready to regret 
commendation, because his enlightened con- 
science tells him, that if the panegyrist knew 
him as he knows himself, it would have been 
bestowed with much abatement ; and he is little 
elated with the praise which is produced by ig- 
norance and mistake. — Though he has fewer 
faults than some others, yet, as he must know 
more of himself than he can know of them, his 
humility will teach him to bear patiently even 
the censure be does not deserve, conscious how 



much he does deserve for faults which the cen 
surer cannot know. 

There is, however.no humility in an excessive 
depreciation of ourselves. We are not com- 
manded to take a false estimate of our own cha- 
racter, though a low would be too frequently a 
just one. While the great Apostle St. Peter was 
contented to call himself the servant of Jesus 
Christ, his self-constituted successors, by an hy- 
perbole of self-abasement, have denominated 
themselves servants of the servants of God. And 
yet they have not, it is to be feared, always sur- 
passed the disciple they profess to follow, in the 
display of this apostolic grace. 

Nor is the appearance of this quality any in- 
fallible proof of its existence. Nothing is more 
common than to hear affability to the poor pro- 
duced as an undoubted evidence of the humility 
of the affluent. The act, indeed, is always amia- 
ble, whatever be the motive ; but still the ex- 
pression is equivocal. Does it not sometimes 
too much resemble that septennial exhibition of 
humility which calls forth so much smiling con- 
descension from the powerful, while it conveys 
' an hour's importance to the poor man's heart V 
The one enjoys the brief, but keen delight, of 
reviling his superiors with impunity, with the 
better gratification of conferring favours instead 
of receiving them ; the other, like Dryden's 
Achitophel, ' bowing popularly low,' wins by his 
courtesy, that favour, which he would not per- 
haps have obtained by his merit. But the cur- 
tain soon closes on the personated scene : — the 
next day, both fall back into their natural cha- 
racter and condition. The periodical condescen- 
sion at once reinstates itself into seven year's 
dignity, while the independent elector cheerfully 
resumes his place in his dependent class, till the 
next Saturnalia again invite to the reciprocal 
exchange of character. 

Where the difference of condition is obviously 
great, nothing is lost, and something may be 
gained by familiarity : the condescension is so 
apparent, that though it properly excites both 
admiration and gratitude in the indigent, it does 
not infallibly prove the lowliness of the superior. 
The impassable gulf which separates the two 
conditions, the immoveable fences which esta- 
blish that distance, preserve the poor from en- 
croachment, and the rich from derogation : no 
swellings of heart arise against the acknow- 
ledged dependant, no dread of emulation against 
the avowed inferior. Even arrogance itself is 
gratified at seeing its train augmented by so 
amiable a thing as its own kindness. Notice 
is richly repaid by panegyric, and condescen- 
sion finds it has only stooped to rise. — If we give 
pleasure in order to be paid with praise, we had 
better be less liberal that we might be Jess ex- 
acting. The discreetly proud are aware, that 
arrogant manners bar up men's hearts against 
them ; their very pride, therefore, preserves them 
from insolence ; the determined object being to 
gain hearts, and their good sense telling them 
that a haughty demeanor is not the way to gain 
them, they know how to make the exterior affa- 
ble in proportion as the mind is high ; for the 
ingenuity of pride has taught it, that popularity 
is only to be obtained by concealing the most 
offensive part of itself. Thus it can retain its 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



163 



nature and gratify its spirit, without the arro- 
gant display by which vulgar pride disgusts, 
and, by disgusting, loses its aim. 

The true test is, how the same person feels, 
and how he conducts himself, towards him whose 
claims come in competition with his own — who 
treads on his heels in his pretensions, or sur- 
passes him in his success — who is held up as 
his rival in genius, in reputation, in fortune, in 
display — who runs the race with him and out- 
strips him. More severe will be the test, when 
the competitor is ' his own familiar friend,' who 
was his equal, perhaps his inferior, in the con- 
test for academical honours, but is now a more 
fortunate candidate for the prizes which the 
world distributes, or his decided conqueror on 
the professional Arena. 

His humility is put to the trial, when he hears 
another extolled for the very quality on which 
he most values himself — commended for some- 
thing in which he would, if 'he dared, monopo- 
lize commendation — it is tried when he sees 
that a man of merit has prospered in an enter- 
prise in which he has failed, or when he is call- 
ed upon for the magnanimity to acknowledge 
one who, though below him in general charac- 
ter, is still his superior in this particular respect 
— it is, when, in some individual instance, this 
competitor has promoted the public good by a 
means which he had declared to be totally in- 
applicable to the end. 

The true Christian will be humble in propor- 
tion to the splendor of his endowments. Humi- 
lity does not require him to stupify or disavow 
his understanding, and thus disqualify or indis- 
pose him for great active duties. If Ire possesses 
talents, he is not unconscious of them, but, in- 
stead of exulting in the possession, he is abased 
that he has not turned them to better account, 
he is habitually thinking how he can most es- 
sentially serve God with his own gift. Sensible 
that he owes every thing to his divine Benefac- 
tor, he feels that he has not made him the return 
to which he was bound, and that his gratitude 
bears little proportion to his mercies ; so that the 
very review of his abilities and possessions, 
which inflates the hearts of others, only deepens 
his humility, only fills his mind with a fuller 
sense of his own defect of love and thankfulness. 
Every distinction, instead of intoxicating him, 
only augments his sense of dependence, magni- 
fies his weight of obligation, increases his feel- 
ing of accountableness. His humility has a 
double excitement : he receives every blessing 
as the gift of God though the merits of his Son ; 
it is increased by the reflection, that such is his 
unworthiness, he dares not even supplicate the 
mercy of his Creator but through the interces- 
sion of a Mediator : ' where is boasting then ? 
it is excluded.' — Not only on account of any- 
good he may have, but also on account of evils 
from which he has been' preserved, he acknow- 
.edges himself indebted to divine assistance ; so 
that his escapes and deliverances, as well as his 
virtues and successes, are subjects of gratitude 
rather than of self-exultation. 

It will not be departing from the present ob- 
ject, if we contrast the quality under considera- 
. ion with its opposite. While humility is never 
at varianoe with itself, pride is a very inconsist- 



ent principle. It knows not only how to assume 
the garb of the attribute to which it is opposed, 
but even descends to be abject, which humility 
never is. Consider it on one side, nothing is so 
self-supported ; survey it on the other, you will 
perceive that nothing is so dependent, so full of 
claims, so exacting, so incapable of subsisting 
on itself. It is made up of extrinsic appendages; 
it leads a life of mendicity ; it stoops to beg the 
alms of other men's good opinion for its daily 
bread. It is true, the happiness of a proud man, 
if he have rank, arises from an idea of his own 
importance ; but still, to feed_and maintain this 
greedy self-importance, he must look around 
him. His pleasures are derived, not so much 
from his personal enjoyments as from his supe- 
riority to others; not so much from what he 
possesses, as from the respect his possessions 
inspire. As he cannot entirely support his feel- 
ings of greatness by what he finds in himself; 
he supplies the deficiency by looking backward 
to his ancestors, and downward upon his train. — 
With all his self-consequence, he is reduced to 
borrow his dignity from the merits of the one, 
and the numbers of the other. By thus multi- 
plying himself, he feels not only individually, 
but numerically, great. These foreign aids and 
adjuncts help him to enlarge the space he fills 
in his own imagination, and he is meanly con- 
tented to be admired for what is, in effect, no 
part of himself. — This sentiment is, however, 
by no means limited to rank or riches. 

If the penury of pride drives it to seek its ali- 
ment in the praise of others, it is chiefly because 
we want their good opinion to confirm us in that 
which we have of ourselves. When we secretly 
indulge in reckoning up the testimonies we have 
collected to our worth, it is because we like to 
bring as many witnesses as we can muster, that 
we may have their approving verdict in addi- 
tional proof that our judgment was right. In 
fact, we think better of ourselves in proportion 
as we contrive to make more people think well 
of us. But, however large the circle which 
1 high imaginations' draw round the individual 
self in the centre, we can really occupy no more 
than our allotted space ; we may indeed change 
our position, but, in shifting it, we fill no more 
than we Allied already, for by the removal we 
lose as much»as we gain. 

It is an humbling truth, that the most power- 
ful talents are not seldom accompanied with ve- 
hement passions, that a brilliant imagination is 
too frequently associated with ungoverned ap- 
petites. Neither human reason, nor motives 
merely moral, are commonly found to keep these 
impetuous usurpers in order ; the strength of 
men's passions tempting them to violate the 
rules which the strength of their judgment has 
laid down. — Nature cannot operate without its 
own sphere. What is natural in the intellect, 
will not, of itself, govern what is natural in the 
appetite. If the lower part of our nature i3 sub- 
dued, it is not without the holy Spirit assisting 
the higher. Wit, especially has such a tendency 
to lead astray the mind which it embellishes, 
that it is a striking evidence of the efficacy of 
grace, when men, whose shining talents make 
virtue lovely in the eyes of others, reject them- 
selves ' high thoughts engendering pride •' whea 



164 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



they, on whose lips the attention of others hangs 
with delight, can, themselves, by this divinely 
infused principle, ' bring every thought into 
captivity to the obedience of Christ.' 

There is no quality so ready to suspect, and 
so prompt to accuse, as that which we are con- 
sidering ; there is no fault which a proud man 
bo readily charges upon others as pride; espe- 
cially if the person accused possess those dis- 
tinctions and accomplishments, the possession 
of which would make the accuser proud. Men 
full of themselves, are disposed to fancy others 
deficient in attention to them ; and as it never 
occurs to them why those attentions are with- 
held, they have no other way of accounting for 
the neglect, but to charge the neglector with 
being envious of their qualities, or vain of his 
own. With that deep humility, which is the 
ground-work of his profession, the Christian 
alone attains to real dignity of character. If 
we reckon those men great who rise high, and 
make a distinguished figure in the world, how 
much higher is his claim to greatness who looks 
down on what the others glory in ; who views 
with indifference the things to which the world 
accounts it greatness to aspire, and the consum- 
mation of greatness to attain. 

The proud man, by not cordially falling in 
with the Christian scheme — which, if he tho- 
roughly adopted, would shrink to nothing these 
bloated fancies — contracts, in effect, the dura- 
tion of his existence, and reduces to almost no- 
thing the sphere in which his boasted dignity 
is to be exercised. The theatre on which he is 
satisfied to act, is limited to the narrow stage 
of this world ; and even on this vanishing scene, 
how far are the generality from being consider- 
able actors ! Pride, therefore, is something 
worse than fatuity, for whether the stake be 
high or low, it is sure to play a losing game. It 
is difficult to say which lot will be most terrible; 
his, who, having performed an obscure and pain- 
ful part in this short drama, and having neglect- 
ed to seek that kingdom promised to the poor 
in spirit, closes his life and hopes together ; or 
his, who, having had a conspicuous part assign- 
ed him here, submits, when the curtain drops, 
not merely to be nothing: but oh! how much 
worse than nothing ! Absorbed in the illusions 
and decorations of this shifting spectacle, or in- 
toxicated with the plaudits of the spectators, the 
interminable scenes which lie beyond the grave, 
though, perhaps, not absolutely disbelieved, 
have been totally neglected to be taken into his 
brief reckoning. 

Now, if pride were really a generous princi- 
ple, if its tumour were indeed greatness, surely 
the soul which entertains it would exert its 
energies on a grand scale ! If ambition were 
indeed a noble sentiment, would it not be point- 
ed to the noblest objects ; would it not be direct- 
ed to the sublimest end ? Would not the mind 
which is filled with it, achieve a loftier flight ? 
Would it stoop to be cooped up within the scanty 
precincts of a perishing world ? True ambition 
would raise its votary above the petty projects 
which every accident may overturn, and every 
breath destroy ; which a few months may, and 
a few years mutt, terminate. It would set him 
upon reflecting, that all the elevation of intellect, 



all the depth of erudition, all the superiority of 
rank, all the distinction of riches is only held by 
the attenuated thread that attaches him to this 
world — a world which is itself ' hung upon no- 
thing.' True ambition would instruct him, that 
he is not really gieat who is not great for eter- 
nity — that to know the height and depth, the 
length and breadth, of the knowledge of God, 
and of his eternal love in Christ Jesus, is the 
consummation of all knowledge, the top of all 
greatness, the substance of all riches, the sum 
of all wisdom; that the only object sufficiently 
capacious to satisfy the grasping desires, to fill 
the hungering soul of man, is that immortality 
which is brought to light by the Gospel. That 
state which has God for its portion, and eternity 
for its duration, is alone commensurate to the 
grandeur of a soul redeemed by the blood of 
Christ. This holy ambition would show him, 
that there is a littleness in whatever has bounda- 
ries — a penury in every thing of which we can 
count the valuo — an insignificance in all of 
which we perceive the end. 

Let it, then, ever be considered as a destitu- 
tion of true greatness, practically to blot out 
eternity from its plan. As a consequence, let 
that be truly designated ' the wisdom from 
above,' which makes eternity the grand feature 
in the aspect of our existence. And this ambi- 
tion, be it remembered, is the exclusive property 
of the humble Christian. His desires are illi- 
mitable — he disdains the scanty bounds of time 
— he leaps the narrow confines of space. He it 
is who monopolizes ambition. His aims soar a 
bolder flight — his aspirations are sustained on a 
stronger pinion — his views extend to an immea- 
surable distance — his hopes rest in an intermi- 
nable duration. 

Yet if his felicity does not, like that of secu- 
lar ambition, depend on popular breath, still it 
subsists on dependence. It subsists upon a trust 
which never disappoints — upon a mercy which 
is never exhausted — upon a promise which ne- 
ver deceives — upon the strength of an arm 
which 'scattereth the proud in the imagination 
of their hearts' — on a benignity which ' exalteth 
the meek and humble' — on a liberality, which, 
in opposition to worldly generosity, 'fills the 
hungry alone with good things,' and which, 
contrary to human vanity, sends only ' the rich 
empty away.' 

Humility is an attribute of such antipathy to 
the original constitution of our nature, that no 
principle can possibly produce it in its full ex- 
tent, and bring it to its complete maturity, but 
that of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. No spirit 
short of this can enable us to submit our under- 
standing, to subdue our will, to resign our inde- 
pendence, to renounce ourselves. 

This principle not only teaches us to bow 
to the authority and yield to the providence of 
God, but inculcates the still harder lesson of 
submitting to be saved in the only way He 
has appointed — a way which lays pride in the 
dust. If even, in the true servants of God, this 
submission is sometimes interrupted — if we too 
naturally recede from it — if we too reluctantly 
return to it, it is still owing to the remains of 
pride, the master sin ; a sin too slowly discard- 
ed even from the renewed nature. This partial 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



165 



conquest of the stubborn will, this imperfect re- 
signation, this impeded obedience, even in the 
real Christian, is an abiding- proof that we want 
farther humbling, a mortifying evidence that our 
hearts are not yet completely brought under 
the dominion of our principles. 



CHAP. XIV. 
On Retirement. 

An old French wit says, that ' ambition itself 
might teach us to love retirement, as there is 
nothing which so much hates to have compan- 
ions.' Cowley corrects this sentiment with one 
equally lively and more sound, that ' ambition, 
indeed, detests to have company on either side, 
but delights above all things in a train behind, 
and ushers before.' To seek therefore a retreat 
till we have got rid of this ambition, to fly to 
retirement as a scene of pleasure or improve- 
ment, till the love of the world is eradicated 
from the heart, or at least till this eradication is 
its predominant desire, will only conduct the 
discontented mind to a long train of fresh dis- 
appointments, in addition to that series of vex- 
ations of which it has so constantly complained 
in the world. 

The amiable writer already referred to, who 
has as much unaffected elegance and good sense 
in his prose works, as false taste and unnatural 
wit in his poetry, seems not to be quite accu- 
rate when he insists in favour of his beloved 
solitude that 'a minister of state has not so 
much business in public as a wise man has in 
private ; the one,' says he, ' has but part of the 
affairs of one nation, the other has all the works 
of God and nature under his consideration. But 
Burely there is a manifest difference between 
our having great works under our consideration, 
and having them under our control. He assigns, 
indeed, high motives for the purposes of retreat, 
but he does not seem to assign the highest. 
Should he not have added in conjunction with 
the objects he enumerates, what should be the 
leading object of the retirement of the good 
man, the study of his own heart, as well as of 
inanimate nature ; of the world, as well as of 
the works of God ? 

He who has spent his life in the study of 
mankind, till he is weary both of the study and 
of its object, will, with a justly framed mind, be 
well prepared for retirement. He will delight 
in it as an occasion for cultivating a more inti- 
mate acquaintance with his Maker and with 
himself. He will seek it not merely as the well- 
earned reward of a life of labour, but as a scene, 
which, while it advances his present comfort, 
furnishes him with better means of preparing 
for a better life. We often hear of the neces- 
sity of being qualified for the world ; and this is 
the grand object in the education of our children, 
overlooking the difficult duty of qualifying them 
for retirement. But if part of the immense 
pains which are taken to fit them for the com- 
pany of others, were employed in fitting them 
for their own company, in teaching them the 
duties of solitude as well as of society, this earth 



would be a happier place than it is ; a training 
suitable to a world of such brief duration, would 
be a better preparatory study for a world which 
will have no end. 

Leisure with dignity is a classic phrase 
which carries to the taste and to the heart the 
mingled ideas of repose, elegance, and literature. 
It is, indeed, an honourable state of enjoyment. 
It has been sung by the poet, and extolled by 
the philosopher. Its delights have been echoed 
by those who seek it, and by those that shun it; 
by those who desire its possession, and by those 
who are satisfied with its praise ; by those who 
found their fondness on a happy experience, and 
by those who had rather admire than enjoy it. 

Tumult, indeed, is to be avoided as a great 
impediment to that interior peace, without 
which outward stillness is of little value. But 
let us bear in mind that it is more easy to es- 
cape from the tumult of the world than of the 
passions. Before, therefore, we expect immu- 
nity from care in our projected retreat, let us in- 
quire what is our object in retiring. We may 
deceive ourselves in this pursuit as we have 
done in others. We may fancy we are retiring 
from motives of religion, when we are only 
seeking a more agreeable mode of life. Or we 
may be flying, from duty, when wo fancy we 
are flying from temptation. We may flatter 
ourselves we are seeking the means of piety, 
when we are only running away from the 
perplexities of our situation ; from trials which 
make, perhaps a part of our duty. To dis- 
like these is natural ; to desire to escape from 
them is innocent, generally laudable. Only let 
us not persuade ourselves that we are influenc- 
ed by one motive when we are acting from 
another. The design may be even good, but 
let us not deceive ourselves with the idea of its 
being better than it is. Let us not boast that 
we are making a sacrifice to duty, when we 
are consulting, however innocently, our own 
ease or convenience. In retreating into the 
country for peace of mind, the temper you 
would find you must carry thither. Those who 
retire on no other principle but to escape trouble 
without turning their leisure to the benefits it 
is calculated to impart, are happy only on the 
low condition of being useless. If we retire 
upon the motive of ' Soul take thine ease,' 
though neither covetousness nor sensuality be 
the prompting principle, if our object be a sloth- 
ful indulgence, a retirement which docs not in- 
volve benefit to others, as well as improvement 
to ourselves, we fail of the great purpose for 
which we came into the world, for which we 
withdrew from it. 

But while we advert to the highest object as 
the best, we are far from insinuating that the 
taste, especially so right a taste, may not be in- 
dulged from motives of an inferior nature ; far 
from thinking that we are not justified in pre- 
ferring a tranquil to a bustling scene, and adopt- 
ing a more rational, even if it be not a more 
religious plan of life. There is something al- 
most like virtue in the good taste which prefers 
it ; only, that as in intellectuals, good taste must 
have its substratum in good sense, so in morals 
it should have its substratum in principle- But 
if any one think* that merely by retiring from 



166 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the world, he shall get rid of his own evil tem- 
pers, solitude is the worst choice he could make. 
It may indeed, through the grace of God, be 
made eventually beneficial ; for though his in- 
terior burthen, so far from being lightened, will 
be more oppressively felt, yet its very oppres- 
siveness, by leading him to look into the cause, 
may lead to its removal ; he may be drawn to 
religion to get rid of himself, as he was driven 
to retirement to get rid of his cares. 

No second causes act but by the direction of 
the first. The visible works of God, though so 
admirably calculated to stir up devotion in the 
heart, have not commonly, especially when 
habit makes them familiar, been found to pro- 
duce this effect. Some of the school divines 
made a just distinction, when they compared 
inanimate and intelligent beings, in reference 
to the supreme Creator, by saying that the one 
only exhibit the foosteps of God, while the other 
represent his face. • 

It was worthy of the munificence of omnipo- 
tent Bounty, not only to spread the earth with 
a rich profusion of whatever is necessary and 
pleasant to animate life, but with whatever 
might invite to contemplative and intellectual 
iife ; not only to sustain but to gratify ; not only 
to nourish but to improve : by endless variety, 
awakening curiosity, and by curiosity exciting 
research. The country is favourable to the 
study of natural history ; furnishing both the 
leisure and the materials. It sets the mind 
upon thinking, that if the objects of God's crea- 
tion are so wonderful, Himself how wondrous 
then ! 

The mind, indeed, which is looking out for 
good, finds ' sermons in stones, and good in 
every thing.' To minds of an opposite make, 
use destroys the effect, even if novelty had pro- 
duced it. Little habituated to reflection, they 
soon learn to behold a grove of oaks with no 
higher feeling than a street of shops, and are as 
little soothed with the murmurs of a rivulet, as 
with the clatter of hackney coaches. Where 
sloth predominates in the character, we are dis- 
posed to consider the retreat from which we had 
promised ourselves so much advantage, as fur- 
nishing a refuge for idleness rather than a place 
for reflection. If vanity and vivacity predomi- 
nate, we shall value the loveliest scenery we 
have been embellishing, rather as means to 
attract company and commendation, that as a 
help to assist our better thoughts, and lift our 
hearts to holy aspirations. 

Though piety is no local tiling, yet it has 
locality. That being is but a bad authority 
whom Milton makes proudly to exclaim, ' The 
mind is its own place,' and the Stoics carried 
their haughty mental independence too far, in 
asserting that local circumstances made no dif- 
ference in the condition of man. Retirement 
is assuredly favourable to the advancement of 
the best ends of our beintr. There the soul has 
freer means of examining into its own state, and 
its dependence upon God. It has more unob- 
structed leisure for enjoying with its Maker, 

Communion sweet, communion large and high, 

It has ampler means for reiterating the conse- 
cration of its powers and faculties to him who 



gave them, than it could easily find in those 
broken snatches and uncertain intervals which 
busier scenes afforded. But tfipn we must be 
brought into a state and condition to reap bene- 
fit from retreat. The paralytic might as reason- 
ably expect to remove his disease by changing 
his position, as the discontented to allay the 
unruly motions of a distempered mind merely 
by retiring into the country. 

A great statesman, whom many of us remem- 
ber, after having long filled a high official situa- 
tion with honour and ability, began at length 
impatiently to look forward to the happy period 
when he should be exonerated from the toils of 
office. He pathetically lamented the incessant 
interruptions which distracted him, even in the 
intervals of public business. He repeatedly ex- 
pressed to a friend of the author, how ardently 
he longed to be discharged from the oppressive 
weight of his situation, and to consecrate his 
remaining days to repose and literature. At 
length one of those revolutions in party, which 
so many desire, and by which so few are satis- 
fied, transferred him to the scene of his wishes. 
He flew to his rural seat, but he soon found that 
the sources to which he had so long looked, 
failed in their power of conferring the promised 
enjoyment; his ample park yielded him no 
gratification but what it had yielded him in 
town, without the present drawback ; there he 
had partaken of his vension without the incum- 
brance of its solitude. His Hamadryads, hav- 
ing no despatches to present, and no votes to 
offer, soon grew insipid. The stillness of re- 
treat became insupportable ; and he frankly de- 
clared to the friend above alluded to, that such 
was to him the blank of life, that the only 
relief he ever felt was to hear a rap at the door. 
Though he had before gladly snatched the little 
leisure of a hurried life for reading, yet when 
life became all leisure, books had lost their pow- 
er to interest. Study could not fill a mind 
long kept on the stretch by great concerns in 
which he himself had been a prime mover. The 
history of other times could not animate a spirit 
habitually quickened by a strong personal in- 
terest in actual events. — There is a quality in 
our nature strongly indicative that we were 
formed for active and useful purposes. These, 
though of a calmer kind, may be still pursued 
in retirement under the influence of the only 
principle powerful enough to fill the heart which 
fancies itself emptied of the world. Religion is 
that motive yet quieting principle, which alone 
delivers a man from perturbation in the world, 
and inanity in retirement ; without it, he will 
in the one case be hurried into impetuosity, or 
in the other be sunk into stagnation. But re- 
ligion long neglected ' will not come when you 
do call for it.' Perhaps the noble person did 
not call. 

It is an obvious improvement in the taste and 
virtue of the present day, that so many of our 
dictators retire, not to the turf, but to the 
plough ; that they make an honourable and 
pleasant exchange of the cares and vexations of 
political life for the tranquil and useful pursuits 
of agriculture. Such pursuits yield comparative 
repose, and produce positive good. Besides this, 
the modern Cincinnatus will have the gra'tifica- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



167 



tion of finding how much he has gained by the 
change in his choice of instruments, for he will 
see that ' all sheep and oxen, yea and all beasts 
of the field,' are far less perverse, faithless and 
intractable than the indocile human agents whom 
he has been so long labouring to break in, and 
bring under the yoke. 

But whatever he may have gained in these 
respects, if the philosophical and political agri- 
culturist do not make it part of his arrangement, 
as we hope he does, that the cultivation of per- 
sonal piety shall divide his time and his thoughts 
with the cultivation of his paternal acres, he will 
not find his own passions more tractable, his 
own appetites more subdued, his own tempers 
better regulated, because the theatre in which 
they are exercised is changed from contentious 
senates to blooming meadows. There is no 
power in the loveliest scenery to give that cha- 
racter to the mind on which its peace depends. 
It is true his innocent occupations will divert 
ambition, but it requires a more powerful opera- 
tion to cure it. Ambition is an intermittent: it 
may, indeed, be cooled, but without piety it will 
be cooled as the patient in an ague is cooled ' in 
the well day between the two fits,' he will be 
looking back on the fever he has escaped, and 
forward to that which he is anticipating. There 
is but one tonic powerful enough fo prevent the 
ieturn of the paroxysm. He will find the peru- 
sal of the Bible not less compatible than that of 
the Georgics with this interesting occupation. 
While he is actually enjoying the lovely living 
images under which the inspired writers repre- 
sent the most delightful truths of religion, he 
may realize the analogies intellectually, he may 
be, indeed, conducted ' to green pastures' and led 
beside ' the still waters of comfort' in the highest 
sense of those beautiful metaphors. 

What a blessing is it to mankind, when they, 
whose large domains confer on them such ex- 
tensive local influence, give their views a wider 
range, and take in an ampler compass of bene- 
ficial patronage ; when they crown their exer- 
tions for the public good by the pious education 
of their young dependants, by promoting the 
growth of Christianity as assiduously as the 
breed of sheep ; by extending the improvement 
of the soil to the moral cultivation of those whom 
Providence, having committed to their protec- 
tion for that very purpose, will require at their 
hands. 

With the deepest gratitude to God, let it be 
observed how many of these great persons, with 
a spirit more honourable to them than their co- 
ronets or any earthly distinctions, have stood 
forward as the avowed patrons of the noble In- 
stitution for dispersing the Bible into all coun- 
tries, after having transfused it into every dia- 
lect of every language. When we consider the 
object, and view the rapidity, and trace the suc- 
cess, are we not almost tempted to fancy that 
we see the Angel in the Revelation flying in the 
midst of heaven, carrying ■ the everlasting Gos- 
pel to preach unto them that dwell in the earth, 
and to every nation, and kindred, and tongue, 
and people.'* 

* May an old and attached member of the Society for 
promoting Christian Knowledge be allowed to offer her 
opinion (though irrelevant to the subject of this chap- 



It is indeed a spectacle to warm the coldest 
and to soften the hardest heart, to behold men 
of the first rank and talents, statesmen who have- 
never met but to oppose each other, orators who 
have never spoken but to differ, each strenuous 
in what is presumed he believes right, renoun- 
cing every interfering interest, sacrificing every 
jarring opinion, forgetting all in which they 
differed, and thinking only on that in which 
they agree ; each reconciled to his brother and 
leaving his gift at the altar, offering up every 
resentment at the foot of the Cross ! There 
might be two opinions how men should be go- 
verned, there can be but one — whether they 
should be saved. 

We ought not to doubt that a portion of that 
generous zeal with which they disseminate the 
word of life to others, will be exerted in in- 
creasing their own personal acquaintance with 
it. To dispense the grand instrument of salva- 
tion to others, forgetful of our own interest in it, 
is one of the few instances in which disinterest- 
edness would be criminal : while here to parti- 
cipate in the blessing we bestow, is one of the 
rare occasions in which self-love is truly ho- 
nourable. May we, without offence, without the 
remotest idea of any thing personal, hazard the 
observation that it is possible to be made the 
instrument, not only of temporal, but eternal, 
good to others, without reaping ourselves any 
advantage from the good we communicate ? 

It might have supplied a thesis for disputation 
among the whimsical subtleties of the old school 
divines, which was the more blameable extreme, 
to possess the Bible ourselves without imparting 
the blessing to others, or to communicate it to 
them without using it ourselves. Unfortunately 
however, the cause for casuistry was cut short, 
by their refusing the Bible altogether to the 
laity. 

It is with reluctance we turn from subjects 
of grateful panegyric to those presented to us by 
the same class of society for animadversion. 
With regret we take leave of scenes enriched, 
and dignified by the beneficial presence and ex- 
ertions of their lords, for the dreary prospect of 
deserted mansions and abdicated homes. To not 
a few of the rich and the great, their magnifi- 
cent houses are rather a cumbrous appendage to 
grandeur, places to which strangers resort to 
admire the splendour of the proprietors, and the 
portraits of their ancestors, than what Provi- 

ter,) upon the complete establishment of the argument 
in favour of the Bible Society, from its not injuring its 
venerable predecessor? It is now obvious that the bene- 
fits of the new institution are effected without detri- 
ment to the old, from its having excited fresh friends to 
its cause, and raised additional funds for its support. 
Reasoning indeed from analogy, would the benefactor, 
whose means were competent to both, refuse his patron- 
age to the Middlesex Hospital, because he was already a 
subscriber to St. George's? When he saw that other 
contributors neither withdrew nor diminished, butespe- 
ciallv when he saw that they augmented their bounty to 
the elder establishment, would he not bid God spe(jd to 
the younger? Would he not rejoice that a new source 
was" opened for healing more diseases, for relieving more 
wants ? In the distribution of the Bible, are not both in- 
stitutions streams issuing from the same fountain of 
love, r»/in flowing into the same ocean of good ? If wo 
may be allowed the application, ' they are diversities of 
gifts, but the same spirit ;' ' they are differences of ad- 
ministration, but it is the same God that woiketh alljp, 
all.' 



168 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



dence intended, a rich additional ingredient in 
their own overflowing cup of blessings. Their 
seats are possessed without being enjoyed. They 
appear, indeed, to combine the advantages of 
retreat with those of opulence. But it is only 
appearance. Do not too many of their owners 
strive to dispossess the scene of every attribute 
appended to it : Do they not chiefly derive what 
little they know of the charms of the country 
from the descriptions of the poet — of the diver- 
sities of landscape from the painters of the opera 
scenes — of the delights of retirement from the 
moralist, the philosopher, and, more frequently, 
the novelist ? They contrive to transfer to their 
rural abodes every thing of the metropolis, every 
moveable appendage of rural beauty. Like the 
imperial Roman glutton, who never tasted fish 
but at the fartherest possible distance from the 
sea, they enjoy the lovely products of the con- 
servatory, glowing with every hue, and breath- 
ing every fragrance, any where but where they 
grow. The most exquisite flowers yield little 
delight till transported to the town residence. 
There they exhale their sweets amid smoky 
lamps, and waste them on a fetid atmosphere ; 
exhausting their beauties in the transient festi- 
vity of a single night, instead of reserving them 
to decorate retreat, and add one attraction more 
to the charms of home and the pleasures of re- 
tirement. 

With these personages, the principal change 
from town to country consists in the difference 
between a park and a square. They bring to 
one the same tastes, the same amusements, and 
the same inversion of hours which they adopted 
in the other. They lose the true enjoyment of 
both, by contriving that neither town nor coun- 
try shall preserve any distinct character of its 
own. To some, indeed, the splendid inheritance 
is considered as little more than a commodious 
inn in which to repose in their incessant migra- 
tion from the capital to the watering-place, and 
from the chalybeate to the sea ; without having 
the too valid plea of attending the sick, or being 
sick themselves. 

But if we compare the domestic scenes from 
which they are hurrying, with the places to 
which they are resorting, we are inclined to 
pity them on the score of taste, as much as on 
the loss of enjoyment. A stranger to our man- 
ners who had heard of the self-denial our reli- 
gion enjoins, when he compared what they had 
quitted with what they are flying to, would na- 
turally compliment them on the noble sacrifice 
which he would conclude they had made to duty. 
He would admire the zeal which prompted the 
abandonment of such pure for such turbid plea- 
sures : he would admire the elevation of mind 
which could submit to such unimposed penance. 
When he followed them from the splendid man- 
sion to the close and incommodious residence, 
in which a crowded season sometimes immures 
thm possessors of palaces ; when he saw them re- 
nounce their blooming gardens, their stately 
woods, ' trees worthy of paradise,' for unshaded 
walks or artificial awnings ; their bowers and 
temples for the unsheltered beach, open to all 
the rage of the dog star ; the dry, smooth-shaven 
green, for sinking sands rivalling the soil of 
Arabia, or burning gravel, which might emulate 



queen Emma's ploughshares, would he not ex 
claim in rapture, surely these heroic ladies sub- 
mit to such privations, encounter such hard- 
ships, make such renunciations from motives of 
the most sublime self-denial ! Doubtless they 
crowd to these joyless abodes, because they could 
find at home no distress to be relieved, no inno- 
cence to be protected, no wrongs to be redressed, 
no ignorance to be instructed. Now, would he 
exultingly add, I have some practical experience 
of the sacrifices of which disinterested piety is 
capable. The good they must be doing here is 
indeed a noble recompence for the pleasure tbey 
are giving up. 

Unimportant as this gradual revolution in our 
habits may be thought, there are few things 
which have more contributed to lower the tone 
both of society and solitude, than this multiplied 
and ever multiplying scenes of intermediate and 
subordinate dissipation. When the opulent di- 
vided the year between the town and country 
residence — the larger portion always assigned 
to the latter — being stationary in each, as they 
occupied a post of more obvious responsibility, 
they were more likely to fulfill their duties, than 
in these parentheses between both. For these 
places, to persons who only seek them as scenes 
of diversion and not as recruits to health, are 
considered as furnishing a sort of suspension 
from duty as well as an exoneration from care : 
the chief value of the pleasures they afford con- 
sisting in their not being home-made. 

We have little natural relish for serious things, 
It is one great aim of religion to cure this natu- 
ral malady. It is the great end of dissipated 
pleasures to inflame it. These pleasures forci- 
bly address themselves to the senses, and thus 
not only lower the taste, but nearly efface the 
very idea of spiritual things. They gradually 
persuade their votaries, that nothing but what 
they receive through their medium is real. 
Where the allusionsof sense are allowed to make 
their full impression, the pleasures of religion 
appear merely visionary ; faint shadows at first, 
and afterwards unexisting things. 

If religion makes out certain pleasures to be 
dangerous, these pleasures revenge themselves 
in their turn by representing religion to be dull. 
They are adopted under the specious notion of 
being a relief from more severe employments ; 
whereas others less poignant would answer the 
end better, and exhaust the spirit less. If the 
effect of certain diversions only serves to render 
our return to sober duties more reluctant, and 
the duties themselves insipid, if not irksome — 
if we return to them as to that which, though 
we do not love, we dare not omil, it is a question 
even in the article of enjoyment, whether we do 
not lose more than we gain by any recreation 
which has the effect of rendering that disgusting 
which might otherwise have been delightful. 

But it is never too late for a change of system, 
provided that change is not only intended, but 
adopted. We would respectfully invite those 
who have been slaves to custom, courageously 
to break their chain. Let them earnestly solicit 
the aid which is from above on their own honest 
exertions. Let them tear themselves from the 
fascinating objects which have hitherto detained 
them from making acquaintance with their own 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



169 



hearts. It is but to submit heroically to a little 
dulness at first, which habit will convert into 
pleasure, to encounter temptation with a resist- 
ance which will soon be rewarded with victory. 
They will be sensible of one surprising revolu- 
tion ; from the period when they begin to inure 
themselves to their own company, they will in- 
sensibly dislike it less; not so much for the 
goodness they will find in themselves, as from 
discovering what a fund of interesting employ- 
ment, of which they had been so long in search, 
their own hearts can furnish. 

As the scrutiny becomes deeper, the improve- 
ment will become greater, till they will grow 
not so much to endure retirement as to rejoice 
in it, not so much to subsist without dissipation 
as to soar above it. If they are not so much di- 
verted, they will be less discomposed. If there 
are fewer vanities to amuse, there will be fewer 
disorders to repair ; there will be no longer that 
struggle between indulgence and regret, between 
enjoyment and repentance, between idleness and 
conscience, which distracts many amiable, but 
unfixed minds, who feel the right which they 
have not courage to pursue. There will be 
fewer of those inequalities which cost more pain 
in filling up than they afforded pleasure in 
creating. In their habits there will be regulari- 
ty without monotony. There will be a uniform 
beauty in the even tissue of life ; the web, though 
not so much spangled, will be more of a piece ; 
if it be less glittering in patches, the design will 
be more elegant ; if the colours are less glaring, 
they will wear better ; their soberness will se- 
cure their permanence ; if they are not gaudy 
when new, they will be fresh to the end. 



CHAP. XV. 

Dangers and advantages of retirement. 

If some prefer retirement as an emancipation 
from troublesome duties rather than as a scene 
of improvement, others choose it as a deliver- 
ance from restraint, and as the surest mode of 
indulging their inclinations by a life of freedom ; 
not a freedom from the dangers of the world, but 
of following their own will. While we continue 
in the active world, while our idleness is ani- 
mated with bustle, decorated with splendor, and 
diversified with variety, we cheer our erroneous 
course with the promise of some day escaping 
from it; but when we sit down in our retreat, 
unprovided with the well chosen materials of 
which true enjoyment is alone compounded, or 
without proposing to dedicate our retirement to 
the obtaining them, we are almost in a more 
hopeless condition than when we lived without 
reflection in the world. We were then looking 
forward to the privacy we now enjoy, as to a 
scene of mental profit. We had in prospect a 
point which, if ever attained, would be to us the 
beginning of a new life, a post from which we 
should start in a nobler race. But the point is 
attained, and the end is neglected. We are set 
jdown in our ultimate position. 

But retirement, from which we promised our- 
selves so much, has produced no change, except 

Vox. II. 



from the idleness of tumult to that of ennui in 
one sex, and from levity to apathy in the other. 
The active life which we had promised to turn 
into contemplative life is no improvement, if a 
gay frivolity is only transformed into a dull va- 
cuity. In the world we were not truly active if 
we did little good ; in retirement we are not 
contemplative, if contemplation is not exercised 
to the best purposes. It is in vain that we re- 
tire from great affairs, if our hearts are stuffed 
with such as are insignificant. There is less 
hope of a change in the mind, because there is 
no probability of a change in the circumstances 
with which this projected moral alteration used 
to be connected. Where the outset was froth, 
and the end is feculence, there may be a differ- 
ence, but there is no improvement. We shall 
find in retirement, under new modifications, the 
same passions, tempers, and weaknesses, which 
we had proposed to leave behind us, without the 
same pretence of wanting time to watch against 
them. If we settle down in petty systematic 
trifling, it is not the size of the concern, but the 
spirit in which it is pursued, that makes the 
difference. The scandal of a village, the in- 
trigues of a little provincial town may be enter- 
ed into with as much warmth, and as little pro- 
fit, as the more imposing follies of the metro- 
polis. 

Retirement, therefore, though so favourable to 
virtue, is not without its dangers. Taste, and, 
of course, conversation, is liable to degenerate. 
Intellect is not kept in exercise. We are too 
apt to give to insignificant topics an undue im- 
portance ; to become arbitrary ; to impose our 
opinions as laws ; to contract, with a narrowness 
of thinking, an impatience of opposition. Yet, 
while we grow peremptory in our decisions, we 
are, at the same time, liable to individual influ- 
ence ; whereas, in the world, the injurious in- 
fluence of one counsellor is soon counteracted 
by that of another ; and if, from the collision of 
opposite sentiments, we do not strike out truth, 
we experience, at least, the benefit of contradic- 
tion. If those with whom we associate are of 
an inferior education and cast of manners, we 
shall insensibly lower our standard, thinking it 
sufficiently high, if it be above theirs, till weim. 
perceptibly sink to their level. The author saw 
very early in life, an illustration of these remarks, 
in a person who had figured in the ranks of li- 
terature. He was a scholar and a poet. Dis- 
appointed in his ambitious views of rising in 
the church, a profession for which he was little 
calculated, he took refuge in a country parson- 
age. Here he affected to make his fate his 
choice. On Sundays he shot over the heads of 
the inferior part of his audience, without touch- 
ing the hearts of the better informed ; and, du- 
ring the week, paid himself for the world's ne- 
glect, by railing at it. He grew to dislike po- 
lished society for which he had been well quali- 
fied. He spent his mornings in writing elegies 
on the contempt of the world, or odes on the de- 
lights of retirement, and his evenings in the 
lowest sensuality with thft most vulgar and illi- 
terate of his neighbours. 

Another danger is that of aspiring to become 
the sun of our little system, since the love of 
popularity is not exclusively attached to public 



170 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



situations. In the world, indeed, if there be not 
a real, there must at least be a spurious merit 
to procure it, whereas, when there are no com- 
petitors, it is easy to be popular ; to be admired 
by the uncultivated, and flattered by the de- 
pendent, may be the attainment of the most mo- 
derately gifted. Let us not, therefore, judge of 
ourselves by acclamations, which would equally 
follow the worthless, if they filled the same situ- 
ation. If we do not remember to distinguish 
between our merit and our place, we shall re- 
ceive the homage, not as a debt of gratitude or 
a bait for bounty, but as a tribute to excellence. 
From being accustomed to flattery, we shall ex- 
act it as a right; from not being opposed, we 
shall learn not to endure opposition. 

Besides the danger of contracting supercilious 
habits if surrounded with inferiors, there is also 
that of indulging a censorious spirit on com- 
paring our own habits with those of persons 
who live in the world, and of overrating our own 
exemption from practices, to which, from indo- 
lence, we have no inducement, and, from cir- 
cumstances, no oppoitunity. When we compare 
our hearts and lives with those of whom we 

now little, let us not forget to compare also, 
with others, our situations and temptations. The 
comparative estimates we make in our own fa- 
vour are frequently fallacious, always dangerous. 
Many who live in the world have a mortified spi- 
rit, while others may bring to a cloister hearts 
overflowing with the love of that world from 
which it is easier to turn our faces than to with- 
draw our affections. 

Secluded persons are sometimes less careful 
to turn to profit small parcels of time, which, 
when put together, make no inconsiderable fund. 
Reckoning that they have an indefinite stock 
upon hand, they neglect to devote each portion 
to its definite purpose. The largeness of their 
treasure makes them negligent of small, but in- 
cessant, expenses. For instance ; instead of 
light reading being used as a relief from severer 
studies, and better employments, it is too fre- 
quently resorted to as the principal expedient 
for getting over the tediousness of solitude ; 
people slide into the indulgence to such an ex- 
cess, that it becomes no longer the relaxation, 
but the business. The better studies, which 
were only to be relieved, are superseded ; they 
become dull and irksome; what was once plea- 
sure is converted into a dry duty, and the duty 
is become a task. From this plenitude of lei- 
sure there is also a danger of falling into gene- 
ral remissness. Business which may be done 
at any time, is, for that very reason, not done at 
all. The belief that we shall have opportunities 
enough to repair an omission, causes omissions 
to be multiplied. 

From the dangers of retirement, we come 
now to the more pleasant topic of its advantages. 
The retired man cannot even pretend that his 
character must of necessity be melted down in 
the general mass, or cast into the general mould. 
He, at least, may think for himself, may form 
his own plans, keep ffis own hours, and, with 
little intermission, pursue his own projects. He 
te less enslaved to the despotism of custom, less 
driven about by the absurd fluctuations of 
fashion. His engagements and their execution i 



depend more immediately on himself, his under- 
standing is left unfettered, and he has less pre- 
tence for screening himself under the necessity 
of falling in with the popular habits when they 
militate against convenience and common sense. 
Many of the duties of retirement are more 
fixed and certain, more regular in their recur- 
rence, and obvious as to their necessity. As 
they are less interrupted, the neglect of them ia 
less excusable. In the world, events and en- 
gagements succeed each other with such rapid- 
ity and pleasure, that the- imagination has hard- 
ly lime or incitement to exercise itself. Where 
all is interruption or occupation, fancy has little 
leisure to operate. But if, in retirement, where 
this faculty finds full leisure both for exercise 
and for chastisement; if the undisciplined mind 
is left entirely to its mercy, the guilt will be en- 
hanced, and the benefit lost ; it will be ever fo- 
raging for prey, and, like other marauders, in- 
stead of stopping to select, will pick up all the 
plunder that falls in its way, and bring in a 
multitude of vain thoughts to feed upon, as an 
indemnification for the realities of which it is 
deprived. The well-regulated mind, in the stated 
seasons devoted to the closet, should therefore 
severely discipline this vagrant faculty. They 
who do not make a good use of these seasons of 
retirement, will not be likely to make a good 
use of the rest. The hour of prayer or medita- 
tion is a consecration of the hours employed in 
the business, whether of society or solitude. In 
those hours we may lay in a stock of grace, 
which, if faithfully improved, will shed its odour 
on every portion of the day. 

If general society contributes more to smooth 
the asperities of manner, to polish roughnesses, 
and file ofFsharpnesses, retirement furnishes bet- 
ter means for cultivating that piety which is 
the only genuine softener of the temper. With- 
out this corrective, even the manners may grow 
austere, and the language harsh. But while the 
benevolent affections are kept in exercise, and 
the kindly offices of humanity in operation, 
there will be little danger that the mind will 
become rough and angular from the want of 
perpetual collision with polished bodies. The 
exercise of beneficence, too, in the country is 
accompanied with more satisfaction, as the good 
done is less equivocal. In great cities, and espe- 
cially in the metropolis, some charitable persons 
chiefly content themselves with promoting pub- 
lic subscriptions, and superintending public cha- 
rities, for want of knowing the actual degree of 
individual distress or the truth of private repre- 
sentation. Here all the advantage lies on the 
side of the country resident. The characters, 
as well as wants, of the poor, are specifically 
known, and certainly the immediate vicinity of 
the opulent has the more natural, though not 
the sole claim to their bounty. 

Retirement is calculated to cure the great in- 
firmity, I had almost said the mortal disease, of 
not being able to be alone; it is adapted to re- 
lieve the wretched necessity of perpetually hang- 
ing on others for amusement ; it delivers us 
from the habit of depending, not only for our 
solace, but almost for our existence on foreign 
aid, and extricates us from the bondage of sub- 
mitting to any 6ort of society in order to get rid 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



171 



of ourselves. It is very useful sometimes thus 
to make experiments on our own minds, to strip 
• ourselves of helps and supports, to cut off what- 
ever is extrinsic, and, as it were, to be reduced 
to ourselves. We should thus learn to do with- 
out persons and things, even while we have them, 
that we may not feel the privation too strongly 
when they are not to be had. These self-denials 
constitute the true legitimate self-love, as the 
multiplying of indulgences is the surest way to 
mortification. 

Those to whom change is remedy, and novel- 
ty gratification, though the change be for the 
worse, and the novelty be a loss, are the first to 
bewail the disappointment which every one else 
foresaw. We hear those complain most that 
they can get no quiet, whose want of it arises 
from the irruptions of their own passions. Peace 
is no local circumstance. It does not depend on 
the situation of the house, but of the heart. True 
quiet is only to he found in the extirpation of 
evil tempers, in the victory over unruly appe- 
tites ; it is found not merely in the absence of 
temptation, but in the dominion of religion. It 
arises from the cultivation of that principle, 
which alone can effectually smooth down the 
swellings of pride, stil! the restlessness of envy, 
and ca-lm the turbulence of impure desires. It 
depends on the submission of the will, on that 
peace of God which passeth all understanding, 
on the grace of Christ, on the consolations of 
the Spirit. — With these blessings, which are 
promised to all who seek them, we may find 
tranquillity inCheapsidc ; without them we may 
live a life of tumult on the Eddystone. 

Those who are more conversant with poetic 
than pious composition ; who have fed their 
fancy with the soothing dreams of pastoral 
bards; who figure to themselves a state of pure 
felicity among the guileless beings with whom 
a fond imagination peoples the scene of rural 
life, expect when they retire into the country, 
lo meet with a new race of mortals, pure as the 
fabled inhabitants of the golden age — spotless 
beings, who were not included in the primeval 
curse, creatures who have not only escaped the 
contamination of the world, but the original in- 
fection of sin, that sin, which they allow may be 
caught by contact, but which they do not know 
is a home-born, horr.e-bied disease. It is indeed 
a most engaging vision, to associate indivisibly 
with the lovely scenes of nature the lovelier 
form of purity : but, alas ! ' such scenes were 
never !' The groves and lawns of the country 
no more make men necessarily virtuous, than 
the brick and mortar of the church make them 
necessarily pious. The enthusiast of nature, 
while he enjoys even to rapture her unpolluted 
charms, must not, however, expect to find in re- 
tirement that unsullied innocence which the 
disappointed Cowley looked for in his retreat at 
Chertsey ; which, after his woeful failure there, 
he continued to persuade himself he should find 
in America ; which his own Claudian vainly be- 
lieved might be obtained by his interesting Old 
man of Verona, on escaping from that city ; 
which even the patriarch Lot found not, in esca- 
ping from a worse city than Verona. 

Perhaps the vivid imagination of Cowley, in 
his eager longings for America, like that of some 



more recent enthusiasts, might have been kin- 
dled by the alluring appellation of the New 
World. This seducing epithet might convey to 
his impressible mind the idea of something 
young and original, and uncontaminate ; some- 
thing that might excite the notion, not of a new 
found, but new created world, fresh and fair and 
faultless. — But even the disjunction of conti- 
nents, which was then believed, produces no 
such distinction in the human character ; the 
native evil pursues the man 

Far as th' equator thrice to the utmost pole. 

All experience, all history, especially that histo- 
ry which is supremely the record of truth, rouses 
us from the bewitching dream, and subverts the 
fair idea. It was in a garden, a garden too, 
'chosen by the Sovereign Planter' that the first 
sin, the prolific seed of all subsequent offences, 
was committed. It was in a retirement more 
profound than any we can conceive, for it was 
in a world of which we know only of four inha- 
bitants, and those of rural occupations, that the 
first dreadful breach of relative duties was made ; 
that the first murder, and that of the dearest 
connexion, was perpetrated. And though the 
treason of Gethsemane was, in the divine coun- 
sels, overruled to repair the defection of Eden, 
yet to show how little local circumstances influ- 
ence action, and govern principle, a garden was 
the scene where that treason was accomplished. 

God would not have provided so ill for the 
welfare of his creatures, who, from the constitu- 
tion of their nature, could not have subsisted but 
in communities if seclusion had been necessary 
to salvation. That it is the most favourable 
scene for the production of virtue and the pro- 
motion of piety we have fully admitted. In the 
world temptations meet us at every corner. In 
retirement, it is we who make the advances. He 
who had tried the extremes of public and private 
life, who had been a shepherd and a king, and 
who knew the dangers of both conditions, has 
given no exclusive instructions to the cottage or 
the throne. He gives a general exhortation to 
' commune with our own hearts, and be still ;' 
an injunction equally applicable to the sceptre 
and the crook ; and, in his own case, he says, 
' I have poured out my heart by myself;' but 
neither is the injunction or the example limited 
to the world or to retirement, for such pious 
practices equally belong to both. Yet it must 
be confessed he dwells on pastoral scenes and 
rural images with a fondness of which no traces 
are to be found in his allusion to courts and 
cities. 

But whether we are in public or retired life, 
our inattention to the reason why we were sent 
into our present state, is one grand cause of the 
miseries we endure in it. In the world, as we 
before observed, we are more governed by our 
senses ; in solitude, by our imagination. Both 
have a tendency to mislead us. The latter tells 
us wo were not sent into this state to suffer, 
but to enjoy ; and the senses revolt at the suffer- 
ings which the imagination had not taught us 
to expect. To think of exempting ourselves 
from pain, instead of expecting it and prepar- 
ing for it, is the common error of those who 



172 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



overlook or mistake the end of their being. In 
the hope of this exemption, we fly to one re- 
source after another, thinking', that the ease 
which has hitherto eluded us, is not attained 
only because we have not sought it in the right 
way ; that all expedients have not yet ,been 
tried ; that all resources are not yet exhausted. 
Thus we take fresh comfort from the persuasion, 
that if we have missed of happiness, it is not be- 
cause happiness is not the proper state of mortal 
man, nor the prohibited condition of his being, 
but because we have erred in our pursuit, and 
shall still find it in the scheme we are next 
about to adopt. 

A bad judgment contributes to our infelicity 
almost as much as bad dispositions. It is by 
these false estimates of life, that life is made 
unhappy. It is from expecting from any state 
more than it has to bestow, that so little is en- 
joyed in any. Ho who is discontented in retire- 
ment had perhaps previously amused his vacant 
hours in collecting all the possibilities of hap- 
piness ; but had generally caught and fixed her 
most alluring image in that projected retirement 
for which his worldly indulgences were every 
day more disqualifying him. 

Far be it from me to aim at inspiring disgust 
at human life, or any despair of the real happi- 
ness which is attainable in it. This attainment 
is a simple process : to contract our desires, that 
they may be always fewer than our wants; not 
to expect from this life more than God meant we 
should find in it; neither to be governed by sense 
or fancy, but by the unerring word and will of 
God ; to think constantly that the happiness of 
a Christian will always be more in hope than in 
possession ; to remember that though deep and 
bitter sufferings are incident to our frame and 
state, yet the heaviest and the worst are those 
which man inflicts on man, or his own passions 
on himself; that we are only truly and irreme- 
diably unhappy when we fasten our desires on 
objects unsuitable or unattainable— objects nei- 
ther commensurate to our higher nature, nor 
adapted to our future hope. 



CHAP. XVI. 

An inquiry why some good sort of people are not 
better. 

There is a class of pleasing and amiable per- 
sons whom it would be difficult not to love, and 
unjust not to respect ; but of whom, though can- 
dour obliges us to entertain a favourable hope, 
yet we are compelled to say, that their general 
conduct is rather blameless than excellent; 
their practice rather unoffending than exem- 
plary ; that their character rather exhibits a capa- 
city for higher attainments, than any demonstra- 
tion that such attainments are actually made. 

These are the people who, from their sobriety 
of deportment and orderly habits, we should be 
naturally led to expect would make a great pro- 
ficiency in religion. They are seldom hurried 
into irregularities; discretion is their cardinal 
virtue ; they are frequently quoted as patterns 
of decorum ; the finger of reproach can seldom 



be pointed at their conduct ; that of ridicule, 
never. — They are not seldom kind and humane, 
feeling and charitable; they fill many relative 
duties in a manner which might put to the 
blush, not a few, from whose higher profession 
better things might have been expected. 

' You have sketched a perfect character,' me- 
thinks I hear some angry reader exclaim. What 
more does society demand ? What more would 
the most correct man require in his son or his 
wife, his. sister or his daughter ? 

We are indeed most ready to allow, that few, 
comparatively, go so far ; we grant that the 
world would be a much less disorderly and vex- 
atious scene than it is, if the greater number 
reached these heights which we yet presume to 
consider as inadequate to the requisitions of the 
Gospel, as insufficient to answer the claims of 
Christianity. Would it not be a very melan- 
choly consideration, if this most encouraging 
circumstance, of their being fiot far from the 
kingdom of God, should ever — which Heaven 
avert ! — prove a possible reason for their not 
entering into it ; if their being almost Chris- 
tians, should be the very preventing cause of 
their becoming altogether such ? 

Their education has been governed rather by 
proprieties than principles. They have learned 
to disapprove of hardly any thing in the way of 
pleasure for its own sake, but highly to repro- 
bate the extremes to which disorderly people 
carry it. They censure a thing not so much 
for being wrong in itself, as for being immode- 
rate in the degree. — They condemn all the im- 
proper practices against which the world sets 
its face, but have not very distinct ideas of the 
right and the wrong in any thing which it tole- 
rates. — Religion, which has made a part of their 
early instruction, took its turn with the usual 
accomplishments, though subotdinately with 
respect to the earnestness with which it was 
inculcated, and with about the same proportion 
of the time allotted to it, as minutes bears to 
hours. It was taught as a needful thing, but 
not as the one thing needful. Religion, however, 
continues to maintain its appropriate place in 
their reading, and, to a certain degree, to be 
adopted into their practice, bearing nearly the 
same proportion to other objects as it did when 
they were initiated into its elements. They 
were bred in its forms, and in its forms they 
persist to live, if the term live can be properly 
applied to any thing which is destitute of the 
characters and properties of life. They live, it 
is true, but it is as the vegetable world lives in 
the winter's frost, which does not indeed kill it, 
but benumbs its powers, and suspends its vita- 
lity. , 

They make a conscience of reading the Scrip- 
tures, but sometimes interpret them too much 
in their own favour, intead of judging of the 
duties they inculcate by such properties and 
results as they promise to produce. In making 
it their study, they neglect to make it their 
standard. 

They deceive themselves on many points by 
taking their measures from rules that are not 
legitimate. One makes his own taste and in- 
clination his measure of practice, another the 
example of an accredited friend: almost all 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



173 



plead the dread of singularity, the vanity of 
opposing your judgment to that of the world, 
and the absurdity of setting up a standard which 
jou know to be unattainable. If you censure the 
thoughtlessness of the dissipated, they censure 
it too ; lamenting that there should ever be an 
abuse of things so innocent and lawful. If you 
represent the beauty of piety, they approve of 
every kind of excellence in the abstract, but 
when you appeal to particular instances, refer 
them to actual exemplifications, they intimate, 
that, in respect to whatever exceeds their own 
measure, it carries in it somewhat of assumption 
and pretence; or else they insinuate, that how- 
ever proper the thing may be in the person al- 
luded to, their situation admits of an exemption ; 
that what may be justifiable in others differently 
situated, would be objectionable under their cir- 
cumstances. — Thus we involve ourselves in the 
flimsy web of a delusive sophistry till the error 
becomes destructive before it is discerned. 

Excess of every kind is what they carefully 
avoid ; and excess in religion as much as in any 
other thing. Under this head they expunge 
zeal from their catalogue of virtues. The estab- 
lishment of a correct character is their first ob- 
ject, and the good opinion of the world the in- 
struments by which they establish it. This 
keeps their views low ; though it costs as 
much pains and precaution to keep up a high 
reputation on worldly grounds as it would to 
cultivate the principle itself, whose results would, 
in some respects, be nearly the same as what 
they are labouring to attain. To be the thing 
would be a shorter cut to comfort, than by inces- 
sant study and effort to keep up its appearance. 

Propriety and order, virtues in themselves, 
obtain for them the reputation of still higher 
virtues ; all that appears is so amiable, that the 
world readily gives them credit for qualities 
which are supposed to lie behind, and are only 
prevented by diffidence from appearing. They 
carry on with each other an intercourse of re- 
ciprocal, but measured flattery ; this serves to 
promote kindness to each other, and esteem 
for themselves. Self-complacency is rather 
kept out of sight by the delicacy of good breed- 
ing, than subdued by religious conviction. They 
are rather governed by certain of the more sober 
worldly maxims, than by the strictness of 
Christian discipline. Though they fear sin, 
and avoid it, yet it is to be suspected they most 
carefully avoid those faults which are most dis 
reputable, and that its impropriety has its full 
share in their abhorrence, with its turpitude. 

As to religion, they rather respect, than love 
it. They seem to intimate, that there is some- 
thing of irreverence in any familiarity with the 
subject, and place it at an awful distance, as a 
thing whose mysterious grandeur would be di- 
minished by a too near approach. Another 
reason why they consider religion rather as an 
object of veneration than affection, is because 
they erroneously conceive it to be an enemy to 
innocent pleasure. 

If they are not perfectly good Christians, it is 
not because they are good Jews, for they do not 
•talk of the words' which were commanded 
under that dispensation, when they sit in their 
house, and when they walk by the way, and when 



they lie down, and when they rise up. Religion 
engages their regard somewhat in the way in 
which the laws of the land engage it, as some 
thing sacred, from being established by custom 
and precedent; as a valuable institution for the 
preservation of the public good; but it does not 
interest their feelings; they do not consider it 
so much a thing of individual concern, as of 
general protection. Of its establishment by 
authority they think more highly, than of its 
business with their own hearts, of its influence in 
maintaining general order, than of its efficacy in 
promoting in themselves peace and joy. In short, 
they carve out an image of religion notaltogether 
unorthodox, but which, like the uninformed sta- 
tue of the enamoured artist, though a beautiful 
figure, is without life, or power, or motion. 

The more obvious duties being discharged, 
they are a little inclined to think, that too con- 
siderable a portion of their time and talents are 
left at their own disposal. Large intervals of 
leisure are rather assumed to be a necessary re- 
pose and refreshment from right employments 
and benevolent actions, and as purchased by 
their performance, than as having any specific 
application of their own. In short things which 
they call indifferent, make up too large a portion 
of their scheme of life, and in their distribution 
of time. 

The class we are considering are apt to be 
very severe in their censures of those who have 
lost their reputation, while they are rather too 
charitable to those who only deserve to lose it. 
This excessive valuation of externals isnot like- 
ly to be accompanied with great candour in 
judging the discredited and the unfortunate. 
Errors which we ourselves have had no tempta- 
tion to commit, we are too much disposed to 
think out of the reach of pardon : and, while we 
justly commend innocence, we give too little 
credit to repentance. 

The misfortune is, they do not so much as 
suspect that there is any higher state of being, 
any degree of spiritual life, beyond what they 
have attained. They consider religion rather 
as a scheme of rules, than a motive principle, as 
a stationary point, than a perpetual progress. 
They consider its observances rather as an end, 
than a means. It is not so much natural pre- 
sumption which roots them where they are, for, 
in ordinary cases, they are perhaps diffident 
and modest; it is not always conceit which pre- 
vents their minds from shooting upwards : it is 
the low notion they entertain of the genius of 
Christianity ; it is the inadequateness of their 
views with its requirements; it is their unac- 
quaintedness with the spirit of that religion 
which they profess honestly, but understand in- 
distinctly. This ignorance makes them rest 
satisfied with a state which did not satisfy the 
great apostle. While they think they have 
made a progress sufficient to justify them in be- 
lieving they have 'already attained,' his vast at- 
tainments served only to prevent his looking 
back on them, served only to stimulate him to 
press forward towards the mark. Some good 
sort of people, on the contrary, act as if they 
were afraid of being different from what they 
are, or of being surprised into becoming better 
than they intended. 



174 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Among the many causes which concur to 
keep them at a sort of determined distance from 
serious piety, a not uncommon one is, their 
happening to hear of the injudicious exhibition 
of religion in one or more of its high but ec- 
centric professors : these they affect to believe, 
are fair specimens of the so much vaunted re- 
ligious world. Instead of inquiring what is the 
true scriptural view of Christianity, that they 
may make nearer approaches to it, they are far 
more anxiously concerned to recede, as far as 
possible, from persons who falsely profess to be 
its best representatives. They conclude, and, in 
some instances, but too justly, that the profes- 
sion of these people has not transformed their 
hearts, but their connections : that they have 
adopted a party rather than a principle, embrac- 
ed a cloud for a goddess, and an opinion instead 
of a rule of conduct ; and they observe that they 
are unjust in their enmities to other classes, in 
proportion to the violence of their attachment 
to their own. It is no wonder if, with their par- 
tial view of the subject, they should be deterred, 
when they see these persons act as much below 
their system, as they themselves not seldom live 
above their own. 

But they do not act thus on other occasions. 
If they meet with an incompetent but 'bluster- 
ing lawyer, or an unskilful but presumptuous 
physician, instead of calumniating the two learn- 
ed faculties, instead of resolving to have no more 
to do with either, they avoid the offending indi- 
viduals, and look out for sounder practitioners. 
Hence, indeed, it is to be remarked by the way, 
there arises a new and powerful motive, why 
all who make a high profession of religion should 
not only be eminently careful to exhibit an even 
and consistent practice, but should studiously 
avoid in their conversation all offensive phrases, 
and repulsive expressions ; why they should not 
be perpetually intimating, as if preaching the 
Gospel was a party-business, and a business en- 
tirely confined to their own party. 

Worldly observers, of the better sort, cannot 
sometimes but perceive in the same class of re- 
ligionists, less forbearance in their temper, less 
patience, less moderation and kindness, than 
they themselves evince; they also remark in 
some of them, though it is doubtless done with 
a view not to subtract from their charities, less 
generosity and largeness of heart than they see 
in many of their own class; a petty strictness 
in their dealings, not quite of a piece with the 
liberality, I had almost said, with the honesty, 
of Christianity. Unhappily, they are kept on 
their guard in the unnecessary dread of being 
righteous overmuch, by the very peculiarities 
which, in these persons, indicate a defect rather 
than a redundancy. These indications, how- 
ever, which they conceive to be the distinctive 
marks of the whole tribe, make them stand aloof 
from Christians of the sounder class, in whom 
they might have seen, on a nearer approach, a 
fair and lovely exhibition of the principle by 
which they are governed. 

Another preventing cause of improvement is, 
their associating familiarly with persons of less 
worth than themselves. This is injurious in 
two ways ; — These sober followers of pleasure 
sanction its thoughtless devotee by the influence 



of their* respectable character, and give weight 
to those who would otherwise have none, while, 
at the same time, they cannot but feel their own 
decided superiority to those with whom their 
complaisance unites them ; and when they 
compare themselves with characters so defec- 
tive, they are in danger of resting still moro 
satisfied with their own moderate, though high- 
er, standard. But, to be conscious of being bet- 
ter than those who are bad, is no very solid 
ground either of comfort or credit. 

There is another cc-operating cause which 
keeps down the growth of piety. They are con- 
versant with various classes of writers on dif- 
ferent subjects, who do not indeed go farther in 
their disregard of religion than to let it alone; 
if they avowedly attacked it, the persons in 
question would take the alarm, and avoid the 
perusal of works obviously pregnant with evil. 
These writers do not always oppose it, but they 
have nothing to do with it ; they virtually say, 
we have not so much as heard whether there be 
any Christianity. We are far from meaning 
that religion ought to be, or that it can, with 
propriety, be obtruded into subjects of a totally 
distinct nature. Yet, if its subtle and pervading 
principle were mixed up with the other ingre- 
dients in the mind of the author, the penetrating 
spirit would occasionally break through, not in 
matter, but in essence. Where this feeling ex- 
ists in the heart, a ray of light will sometimes 
fall unconsciously on subjects which have no 
immediate connexion with it. In a cloudy day, 
though you do not see the body of the sun, you 
know, from the light it emits, that it is in its 
proper station. 

But the writers to whom we allude, take other 
ground; they set out with other views; their 
ethics have another cast. There is a pretty 
strong implication, especially in compositions 
of some of our modish itinerants, how good men 
may be independent of religion. In writers of 
a sounder cast, though also with these amuse- 
ment be the professed object, with whatever 
flowers they strew the path, they entice you in- 
to no morasses ; you always feel there is a bot- 
tom. You go on as much entertained as if you 
were misled. The pleasure of an uncorrupted 
mind is not diminished by feeling himself safe, 
nor is it interrupted while he is gratifying his 
fancy, by being obliged to watch that no trap is 
laid for his principles. 

To explain, by one or two instances : — Cla- 
rendon's and Burnet's histories of their own 
times no more profess to be religious works, 
than the histories of Hume or Smollet. They 
were written by men of different political par- 
ties, of different professional engagements. Yet, 
though treating on subjects which naturally 
excluded any formal descants on religion, there 
is a predominating tendency which discloses the 
principles of both ; which affords a pledge of 
their general principles ; which makes the read- 
er feel himself safe, because it assures him he 
is in the hands of a christian historian. 

Again ; — In travelling to the Hebrides with 
Johnson, it is no small thing to find, that we 
can be delighted without being in danger. The 
tourist, without stepping out of his way to hunt 
for moral remark, or religious suggestion, never 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



175 



forgets that he is a Christian moralist ; though 
in quest of mere amusement, we find our minds 
enriched with some just sentiment, fortified with 
some sound principle. 

But, in the modisli school, the traveller pre- 
sents his benevolent man, the novelist his per- 
fect character, the moralist his philosopher, the 
poet his hero, with principles, if not always 
elaborately in opposition to, yet thoroughly un- 
connected with, the Christian scheme. It is ra- 
ther a silent counter-working of its necessity 
than an overt attack on its truth , for this strong 
measure is now less resorted to, as more repul- 
sive and less successful. Neglect answers the 
end betler than opposition. The longer any 
thing is kept out of sight, the less irksome its 
absence becomes, till from feeling it not ne- 
cessary, we proceed to think it not real. The 
traces of right principle grow faint in the mind, 
when perpetually hid by interposing objects. 
The misfortune is, these works make up the 
larger part of the study of many readers, who 
do not so much desire to get rid of a stricter 
scheme, as to lose the perception that they have 
it not, and the remembrance that, perhaps, they 
once had it. 



CHAP. XVII. 

The inquiry, why some good sort of people are 
not better, continued. 

There is one prominent cause which assists 
in preventing the persons considered in the pre- 
ceding chapter from making any material pro- 
ficiency ; and it is the very cause, which, if it 
had been rightly directed, would probably, in 
such minds have led to a contrary end — their 
choice of religious reading; it is, confining their 
pious studies exclusively and systematically to 
that low standard of divinity, which has cramp- 
ed tho growth of many well-disposed persons. 
The beginning of the last century first present- 
ed us with this lax theology ; which, though it 
has still its advocates and followers, they are, 
we trust, daily declining in numbers and in cre- 
dit. The excess to which this deteriorated 
Christianity has been carried in a recent aca- 
demical exhibition of ' Christian Liberty, 1 and 
especially in a late series of theological ' Hints,' 
by a professor of the law, has, it is to be hoped, 
produced a good effect. When an evil has touch- 
ed its ultimate point, may we not presume, that 
the practice may make a gradual retrocession 
to sound principle ? In these, and similar wri- 
ters, no one but sees that the road to heaven is 
made far more smooth and easy than the Scrip- 
tures have made it ; so smooth as to invite many 
and advance none ; so easy that not only, as in 
the old code, those who run may read, but those 
who sleep may conquer. 

But what still renders this meagre divinity 
unfortunately too acceptable, is, that it teaches 
a complacency in our own goodness, that good- 
ness, the acquisition of which is rendered easy, 
because it fails in so readily with our natural 
corruptions. The truth is, we require less to be 



excited to the practice of some insulated virtues 
which these authors do not neglect to recom- 
mend, than to the abasing of that pride which 
they rather foster than correct When we hear 
so much of the dignity of human nature, we 
secretly exult in our participation of that digni- 
ty ; we take to ourselves a full share of that 
stock of excellence lavishly attributed to our 
species, and are ready to exclaim, and I, too, 
am a man ! These writers make their way to 
the affections by a plausibility of manner which 
veils the shallowness of their reasoning. But 
the great engine of success, as we have already 
observed, i3 the prudent accommodation of the 
reasoning to the natural propensities of the 
heart, and the flattering the very evils, the ex- 
istence of which they yet deny. The reader 
welcomes the doctrines which put him in good 
humour with himself; he cordially credits the 
prophesier of smooth things, and is pleased in 
proportion as he is not alarmed. That which 
does not go to the root of the evil — evil which 
cannot be cured without being disturbed — that 
which dees not irritate the patient, by laying 
open the peccant part, will be naturally accept- 
able. 

These writers are too much disposed to ad 
dress their readers as if they were already reli 
gious ; as requiring, indeed, to be reminded, 
but not as requiring to be alarmed ; as expect, 
ing commendation for what they are, rather 
than admonition as to what they ought to be. 
They take for granted, what in some cases re- 
quires proof, that all are Christians, not in pro- 
fession, but in reality ; and the same uniform 
class of instructions, or rather of gratuitous po- 
sitions, is directed to the whole mass, without 
any individual searchings of the heart, without 
any distinct address, any discriminating appli- 
cation to that variety of classes of which society 
is compounded. To the profligate, liver or the 
more decent sensualist ; to the sceptical moral- 
ist, or the careless believer ; to all, perhaps, if 
we might except that most hatred heretic, the 
fanatical over-believer, is the one soofhing pa- 
negyric, or the one frigid admonition, addressed. 
We do not pretend to say that virtue is not re- 
commended, but as Seneca and Antoninus had 
recommended it before, so they had done it bet- 
ter, less vaguely, and more pointedly. Many 
of the virtues, by the practice of which the read- 
ers are taught that salvation is to be obtained, 
they cannot but feel to be their own virtues ; 
this, while it sets their apprehensions at rest, 
naturally fills them with complacency in their 
actual character, instead of kindling an ardent 
desire after higher attainments. — Vices, from 
which they must be conscious they are exempt, 
and which they have as little excitement as oc- 
casion to practice, are properly censured : but 
the evil dispositions of the heart, which if in- 
sisted on and pointedly laid open, would set 
them upon examining their own, are passed 
over, or lightly treated, or softened down into 
natural weakness, pardonable imperfection, or 
accidental infirmity. The heart is not consider- 
ed as the perennial fountain of all actual offence 
and error. 

A theology which depresses the standard, 
which overlooks tho motives, which dilates ths 



176 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



doctrines, softens the precepts, lowers the sanc- 
tions, and mutilates the scheme of Christianity ; 
which merges it in undefined generalities, which 
makes it consist in a system of morals which 
might be interwoven into almost any religion — 
for there are few systems of religion which pro- 
fess to teach immorality ; a theology which nei- 
ther makes Jesus Christ the foundation, nor the 
Holy Spirit the efficient agent, nor inward re- 
novation a leading principle, nor humility a dis- 
tinguishing characteristic ; which insists on a 
good heart, but demands not a renewed heart ; 
which inserts virtues into the stock of the old 
nature, but insists on the necessity of a changed 
nature ; — such a theology is not that which the 
costly apparatus of Christianity was designed to 
present to us. If it teaches that we have vir- 
tues to attain and imperfections to be cured, it 
insinuates that the one may be attained by our 
own strength, and the other cured without di- 
vine assistance. Our faults, if we have any, are 
to be surmounted by our reason, and our virtues 
to be improved from a regard to our comfort and 
the advancement of our credit; for the satisfac- 
tion they afford, and the reputation they procure 
us. The good man of these writers, like the 
good man of the ancient Stoics, is so full of vir- 
tue as to leave no room for repentance, so fault- 
less that humility would be affectation. Like 
them they seem almost to diminish the distance 
between their Maker and themselves, by exalt- 
ing the man and lowering the Deity. 

The persons in question frequently read the 
Scriptures, and we are ready to wonder that in 
reading them they do not perceive their dis- 
agreement with the authors to whom we allude. 
There, all the doctrines overlooked by them, are 
pressed in every page ; but whether they read 
without remaiking the difference, or whether, 
though in the use (as we hope) of daily prayer, 
they neglect to implore that divine Spirit which 
inspired the Scriptures, to direct the truths they 
contained to their hearts ; they do not seem to 
enter into the grand peculiarities of the Gospel ; 
nor into the personal interests they have in the 
doctrines it inculcates, and the precepts it en- 
forces. How many read the account of the fall 
of Adam, as an historical fact, of which they 
never entertained a doubt, yet without feeling 
any more individual concern in it, than in the 
fall of Babylon ; without being sensible of any 
corresponding contamination in their own hearts. 
When told of the self-denying doctrines which 
Christianity includes, they triumphantly pro- 
duce passages, not only from Solomon and St. 
Paul, but from the Saviour himself, which com- 
pletely contradict such gloomy assertions, that 
the ways of wisdom are ways of pleasantness, 
and all her paths are peace ; that Christ's com- 
mands are not grievous ; that his yoke is easy, 
with a multitude of the same animating strain. 
But they produce them, not so much because 
they are indeed most delightful truths, as be- 
cause they are supposed to annul such less en- 
gaging texts as are descriptive of the strait gate, 
and the narrow way, and the few who enter them ; 
of the difficulty with which the rich, that is, 
those who trust in riches, shall attain to heaven ; 
that taking up the cross is an indispensable qua- 
lification for the followers of him who suffered 



on it, with an endless multiti de of similar pas 
sages. 

Now the truth is, there is not the slightest 
disagreement between these two classes of texts. 
The unqualified peace, joy, and comfort, ex 
pressed in the former, represent what religion 
is in herself, describe her native excellence, her 
genuine beauty, her original perfection. Where . 
as the difficulties attached to the second class 
arise necessarily from the depravity of the will, 
that alienation from God and goodness, which 
renders that irksome which is in itself delight- 
ful. To him who knows, because he feels, that 
natural reluctance of the heart to the requisi- 
tions of a religion calculated to produce these 
happy effects, there is a perfect congruity be- 
tween the passions thus set in opposition. 
Though both are true, each is consistent with 
the other ; but their truth and consistency strike 
not those who reject or adopt what best suits 
their creed or their convenience. 

They know, indeed, that they must give a no- 
minal assent to the doctrine of divine assistance, 
because it is said to be a doctrine of that Scrip- 
ture which they believe ; but they assent to it 
with implicitness, rather than conviction, and 
if they do allow the intervention of the Holy 
Spirit, they attach an undue value to human 
agency. If they say, they are far from excluding 
heavenly aid, their assent somewhat resembles 
that of the Welch captain, who, when Henry the 
Fifth, after the battle of Agincourt, ascribed ex- 
clusively the victory to God, coolly replied, * in- 
deed he did us great good.' 

But many of the writers to whom we have 
adverted, and by whom the persons in question 
are influenced, seem to make their reverence for 
the Scriptures a ground for disallowing the 
agency of the Spirit ; as if there were not the 
most perfect agreement between an appeal to 
the one and a belief in the other. The Spirit 
of God leads us to no new instructor, but only 
points us to his word, teaching us to discern it 
more clearly and to receive it more affectionate- 
ly. That would be, indeed, an illusion, not an 
illumination, which would direct us to derive 
our instruction from any other fountain than the 
oracles of truth. 

These persons are striking instances hnv 
dexterously we contrive to turn the scale in our 
own favour, by balancing some lesser fault to 
which we are not inclined, against some strongly 
besetting wrong propensity. We seldom soften 
down any precept that is not pointed at our par- 
ticular temptation. All the other laws we allow 
to be not only good and holy, but just, for they 
only affect other people. The young man in the 
Gospel had no objection to those commandments 
which were suggested to him as the rule of duty ; 
for he was chaste and honest, neither a disobe- 
dient son nor a murderer, neither addicted to 
idolatry nor profaneness ; but the command to 
dispossess himself of his fortune for charitable 
purposes cut deep, for he was not only rich but 
avaricious. It is thus we prevaricate with duty. 
We would warp the precept to our passions, in- 
stead of bending our inclinations to the duty. 
We lament the harshness of the command, when 
we should be lamenting the perversity of the 
will. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



177 



A ow standard of religion flatters our vanity, 
'8 easily acted up to, does not wound our self- 
love, is practicable without sacrifices, and re- 
spectable without self-denial. It allows the im- 
plantation of virtues without Eradicating vices; 
recommends right actions without expelling 
wrong principles, and grafts fair appearances 
upon unresisted corruptions. 

This low tone of religion is rendered still more 
acceptable, from being sprinkled with frequent 
vituperations of that species of Christianity now 
derided by a term which was once considered 
as its specific character. This term, what with 
the too monopolizing adoption of it by one de- 
scription of persons, and the contemptuous im- 
plication conveyed in the use of it by another, 
we almost fear to use lest we should be con- 
juring up the spirit of fanaticism in the minds 
of the latter class, or vindicating its exclusive 
adoption in the language of the former. The 
assumption of names on the one hand, and, if I 
may venture so vulgar a phrase, calling names 
on the other, have been of infinite disservice to 
religion. Such is the new meaning now as- 
signed to old terms, that we doubt if the appli- 
cation of the epithet in question would not excite 
a sneer, if not a suspicion, against the character 
of Isaiah himself, were we to name him by his 
ancient denomination the Evangelical prophet. 
This laconic term includes a diatribe in a word. 
It is established into a sweeping term of deri- 
sion of all serious Christians, and its compass is 
stretched to such an extent, as to involve within 
it every shade and shape of real or fictitious pie- 
ty, from the elevated but sound and sober Chris- 
tian, to the wildest and most absurd fanatic ; its 
large inclosure takes in all, from the most ho- 
nourable heights of erudition to the most con- 
temptible depths of ignorance. Every man who 
is serious, and every man who is silly, every 
man who is holy, and every man who is mad, is 
included in this comprehensive epithet. We see 
perpetually that solidity, sublimity, and depth, 
are not found a protection against the magic 
mischief of this portentous appellation. 

It gratifies us to be assured that our own tone 
is sufficiently high, and that, whatever is higher, 
is erroneous, or superfluous, or hypocritical or 
ridiculous. This it is which attaches many a 
reader to the opposite style of writing, and in 
proportion as it attaches him, by reconciling him 
more to himself, animates him more fiercely 
against those who make higher requisitions of 
faith and holiness, those who strip off the mask 
from actions unfounded in principle, who exact 
self-abasement, who insist on the necessity of 
good works, not as a meritorious ground of sal- 
vation, but as an evidence of obedience to God, 
and of conformity to Christ. 

Most sincerely do we believe, that there is no- 
thing which the better sort of this class dread 
more than hypocrisy. But do they not some- 
times dread the imputation almost as much as 
the thing ? And is it not to be feared that, with 
the dread of this odious vice being imputed to 
them, is a little connected the suspicion of its 
existence in all who go farther than themselves ? 
Are they not too ready to accuse of want of sin- 
cerity or of soberness, every one who rises above 
their own level ? Is not every degree of warmth 

Vox. II M 



in their pious affections, every expression of zeal 
in their conversation, every indication of strict- 
ness in their practice, construed into an impli- 
cation, that so much as this zeal and strictness 
exceed their own, there is in them just so much 
error as that excess involves ? 

By the class of writers to which they are at- 
tached, the pious affections are branded as the 
stigma of enthusiasm. But a religion which is 
all brain, and no heart, is not the religion of the 
Gospel. The spirit there exhibited is as far re- 
moved from philosophical apathy, as from the 
intemperate language of passion. There aro 
minds so constituted, and hearts so touched, that 
they cannot meditate on the incarnation of the 
Son of God, his voluntary descent from the glory 
which he had with his Father from all eternity, 
his dying for us men and for our salvation — with 
the same unmoved temper with which they ac- 
knowledge the truth of any other fact. A grate- 
ful feeling, excited by these causes, is as different 
from a fanatical fervor as it is from a languid 
acknowledgment. It is not energy, however, 
which is reprobated, so much as the cause of its 
excitement. Should the zealous Christian change 
the object of his admiration, should he express 
the same animated feeling for Socrates, which 
the other had expressed for his Saviour, his en- 
thusiasm would be ascribed to his good taste, 
and the object would be allowed to justify the 
rapture. 

But, is not objecting to earnestness in religion 
to strike out the catalogue of virtues that quality 
which so eminently distinguished the scripture 
worthies? Is it not denying that 'spirit of 
power and of love' which it is worth observing, 
the Apostle makes the associate of ' a sound 
mind,' to deny that Christianity ought to make 
an impression on the heart, and if on the heart 
on the feelings ? These fastidious critics place, 
what they call the abstract truths of religion, on 
the same footing with abstract truths in science ; 
they allow only the same intellectual conviction 
of truth, the same cool assent, in the one case, 
which is given to a demonstration in the other. 
But would not he be thought a defective orator 
at the bar, or in the senate, who should plead as 
if he did not know that men had feelings to be 
touched as well as understandings to be con- 
vinced ; who considered the affections as the 
only portion of character to which he must be 
careful not to advert, in addressing beings who 
are feeling as well as intelligent ? Shall a fer- 
vent rhetoric be admired in one orator, when 
pleading for the freedom of men, and reprobated 
in another, when pleading for their salvation ? 
Shall we be enraptured with the eloquent advo- 
cate for the Agrarian law, and disgusted with 
the strenuous advocate for the everlasting Goa. 
pel ? Shall not one man be allowed the same 
earnestness in combating unbelief, which has 
immortalized another in execrating Verres? 

It must, assuredly, be maintained, that there 
is such a sober mode of exhibiting truth, as may 
show that the sacred messenger has no delight 
in declaring that part of his message which yet 
it is his duty to deliver ; which, while it cannot 
fail to call forth every feeling of interest for the 
souls of men, at the same time demands the ut- 
most tenderness, as treating of their danger* 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Tenderness, it is true, must not alter truth, nor 
conceal menaces, which make an awful part of 
it. Yet a difference may be sometimes inferred 
by the manner of delivering 1 them. — Who has 
not heard a holy man, who, feeling himself bound 
to declare the whole counsel of God, has de- 
nounced his solemn judgments with a subdued 
voice, and an almost hesitating accent ; speaking 
as one who felt that he was acquitting himself 
of a painful but bounden duty ; — while another 
of a coarser make, and a less mortified spirit, 
proclaims the commanded threat in all the thun- 
ders of Sinai; seeming, by his tone and gesture, 
to rejoice that it has fallen to his lot to alarm, 
and not to console ? The one ' persuades men' 
because he knows l the terrors of the Lord ;' the 
other seems to have his own gratification in ter- 
rifying. The one evidently rejoices in being the 
ambassador of reconciliation, the other appears, 
but is not, we are assured, really, glad to bear 
the mandate of condemnation. 

But, to return to writers in the extreme of 
the other class. Vague essays on general and 
undefined morality, which we here venture to 
represent as their fault, are very different from 
distinct discourses or treatises on the several 
virtues ; these latter flow from the study, and 
teach the improvement of the human heart. 
But to produce their effect, they must produce 
their commission. The proclamation must al- 
ways have the broad seal of Christianity append- 
ed to it. It is indeed not only unnecessary, but 
impossible and imprudent, that in every dis- 
course the whole scheme of Christian doctrine 
should be laid open. An attempt to do this has 
frequently produced confusion, by crowding in 
more materials than the space will contain ; and 
thus leaving the stamp of no one truth distinct 
upon the mind. We mean no more, than that 
the general impression made, should be, that the 
moral quality under discussion should appear to 
be explicitly derived from the school of Christ, 
and the reader not be left to exercise his inge- 
nuity in conjecturing, till the closing sentence in- 
forms him, to what system of religion it belongs. 

It is also perfectly proper to cut the circle of 
the virtues into segments, provided it be shown 
how they are connected with each other, and 
how the whole fall within the circumference of 
that divine religion which is their proper centre. 
It were also to be wished, that there were no 
undue and hyperbolical exaltation of the virtue 
under consideration, which often makes a part 
stand for the whole. This exclusive praise of 
the quality inculcated, is, to Christianity, what 
it would be to general geography, if, in order 
to give an idea of our world, a map of a single 
country should be exhibited without coast or 
boundary. It differs from the Christian exhibi- 
tion of moral virtues, as this insulated map 
would differ from a chart of the same country 
when delineated on the globe ; there you see 
not only the country itself correctly displayed, 
but you perceive by what sea it is bordered, on 
what land it touches, into what other country 
some points of this cut deep, and how narrow 
are the bounds which separate it from some 
hostile neighbour ; you see, also, its dependance 
on every thing about it, and its relative situation 
on the earth. 



If we might be allowed another illustration, 
we would observe, that, to expect to give a just 
idea of Christianity by any quality, as detached 
from the whole, would be to resemble a certain 
Athenian, who having a palace to sell, took out 
a single brick from the wall, and produced it a 
the auction as a specimen of the edifice. 

Nor, as we humbly conceive, is it a super- 
fluous care, so to contrive, as that, when it i9 
right to expose any vice to reprobation, the rea- 
der who is exempt from it may not too much 
plume himself upon the exemption. — A vene- 
rable clergyman once assured the author, that 
he had never done so much mischief as by the 
best sermon he had ever preached. It was 
against the sin of drunkenness. It happened 
to be an offence to which none of his auditors 
happened to be addicted. — After it was over, 
some of them expressed no small triumph at 
their own secure state, from a consciousness of 
being free from the vice which had been so well 
exposed, and, as if the exercise of no virtue but 
the one opposite to the sin in question had been 
necessary, they went home exulting in their 
own superior goodness. 

The writers to whom we have been referring, 
triumphantly distinguish themselves by the ap- 
pellation of practical, in studied opposition to 
those who are professedly doctrinal. Let it, 
however, be observed, that, maintaining a due 
respect for the conscientious of both classes, we 
only presume to allude, in our animadversions, 
to those of either side, who carry their specific 
characteristics into an extreme in which each 
excludes its opposite. But far more deficient 
are the practical discussions of the one, if they 
want the solid weight and metal of the Gospel 
to make them sterling, than the doctrinal dis- 
sertations of the other ; which, however, ought 
never to want the intelligible superscription of 
practical remark to render them current. — Yet 
is there not sometimes a misnomer in the former 
appellation ? Can that writing be called truly- 
practical which does not attempt greatly to raise 
the tone of conduct, which does not press prac- 
tice home on the conscience as flowing from the 
highest principle, and directed to the noblest 
end ; which is not urged on that ground of ar- 
gument that is the most cogent, not inferred 
from that motive which is the most irresistible, 
nor impressed by that authority best calculated 
to secure obedience ? The nature of the action 
commonly participates in the nature of the mo- 
tive. Practice is not likely to rise higher than 
the spring which set it a-going. 

At the same time, it is but fair to confess, 
that much of that species of composition which 
assumes a more spiritual character, is sometimes 
lamentably deficient in this good requisite. It 
begins not seldom, by laying a good and solid 
foundation ; but when we lift our eyes to look 
upon the structure which we expected to see 
raised upon it, we find it negligently run up, if 
not totally omitted. Practice seems to be con- 
sidered as a thing of course, not necessary to be 
insisted on, much less to have its path clearly 
chalked out. The use to be made of the doc- 
trine which has been delivered, is turned over 
to the piety or ingenuity of the reader, without 
any specific direction, or personal application. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



179 



Too much is left for him to supply, which, 
perhaps, implicitly leaning on his guide, lie will 
not supply, or which, from want of knowledge, 
he cannot. 

Far be it from our intention, however, in thus 
venturing with real diffidence to compare the 
faulty extremes in both cases, to assimilate at 
all their nature or their tendency : — the extreme 
of adherence to doctrine frequently springing 
from the deepest sense of the infinite importance 
of that doctrine, and accompanied with a pious 
willingness to spend and be spent, in its propaga- 
tion. The extreme of adherence to what is 
called mere morality, is too often the lamentable 
effect of ignorance of doctrine, and of an interest 
neither felf, nor possessed, nor desired in doc- 
trinal blessings. 

With this guard distinctly kept in view, we 
venture, with all humility, to repeat, that there 
is an extreme on both sides : the one may be 
abstractedly considered as all propositions, the 
other as all conclusions. The one fails of effect 
by not depending on just premises ; in the other, 
well established premises produce inferior good, 
because the conclusions are not sufficiently 
brought to bear on the actual demands of life. 
The one, while he powerfully shows the reader 
that he is a sinner, limits both his proof and his 
instruction to one or two prominent doctrines ; 
lie names, indeed, with unwearied iteration, 
that only name by which we can be saved, 
faithfully dwells on the efficacy of the divine 
remedy, but without clearly pointing out its ap- 
plication to practical purposes. The other pre- 
sumes his readers to be so wise, as to be able to 
supply their own deficiencies, or so good, as to 
stand in little need of supernatural assistance. 
Is it not mocking human helplessness, to tell 
men they must be holy, good, and just, without 
directing them to the principle from whence 
' all holy thoughts, all good counsels, and all 
just works, do proceed' — to direct the stream 
of action, and keep out of sight the spring from 
which it must flow — to expect they will re- 
nounce sin if they do not renounce self — to 
send them vagrant in search of some stray vir- 
tue, without showing them where to apply for 
direction to find it ? 

The combination of the opposite but indis- 
pensable requisites is most happily exemplified 
in all our best divines, living and dead ; and, 
blessed be God, very numerous in the catalogue 
in both instances. They have, with a large 
and liberal construction, followed that most per- 
fect exemplification of this union, which is so 
generally exhibited in Scripture, more particu- 
larly in that express model, the third chapter 
of the Epistle to the Colossians. There, every 
thing that is excellent in practice is made to 
proceed from Him 'in whom are hidden all the 
treasures of wisdom and knowledge.' There, 
every act has its inspiring motive, every virtue 
its radical principal ; falsehood is not only pro- 
hibited to the converts, but the prohibition is 
accounted for, ' because ye have put on the new 
man.' The obedience of wives, the affection 
of husbands, the submission of children, all is 
to be done ' in the name of the Lord Jesus.' — 
Servants are enjoined to fidelity as ' fearing 
God.' ' Mercies, kindness, humbleness of mind, 



meekness, long-suffering,' are recommended, 
because the converts ' are the elect of God.' 
Every inhibition of every wrong practice has 
its reference to Christ, every act of goodness its 
legitimate principle. Contentions are forbidden 
forgiveness is enjoined, on the same high 
ground — the example of 'Him in whom dwell 
eth all the fullness of the Godhead bodily. — 
This is practical preaching — This is evangelical 
preaching. 



CHAP. XVIII. 

Thoughts respectfully suggested to good sort of 
people. 

In perusing the foregoing chapter, it may be, 
as it has been, with un weared repetition, objected, 
that it is equally preposterous and unjust, to 
hold out a standard of religion and morals so 
high, as to defeat, in the reader, all hope of at- 
taining it. It may be urged, that it would be 
more prudent, as well as more useful, to pro- 
pose a more moderate standard, and to suggest 
a more temperate measure, which would not, as 
in the present case, by discouraging, render at- 
tainment hopeless. For an answer, we must 
send them to the Redeemer's own mouth, to the 
excision of the right hand, the plucking out the 
right eye. This it will be justly insisted, is not 
a command, but a metaphor. Granted. — We 
know we are not commanded to lop off our limbs, 
but our corruptions. But, would He who is not 
only true, but the Truth, adopt a stong meta- 
phor to express a feeble obligation ' Is any tone, 
then, may we not ask, too high, if not higher 
than that uniformly employed in the Bible ? 
What do we mean, when we say, that we re- 
ceive the Gospel as a rule of faith and practice, 
if, having made the declaration, we instantly go, 
and, without scruple, lower the rule, and de- 
press the practice ? 

High and low are indefinite terms : their just 
use depends on the greatness or littleness of the 
objects to which they refer. When we con- 
sider, that the object in question is eternal life, 
should the standard which God has made the 
measure of our attaining to it, be so depressed 
as to prevent that attainment ? Do not the Apos- 
tles and their Master, the Saints and the King 
of Saints, every where suggest a rule, not only 
of excellence, but perfection ; a rule to the adop- 
tion of which no hopelessness of attainment is 
to prevent our stretching forward ? 

Scripture does, indeed, every where represent 
us as incompetent without divine assistance. 
But does it not every where point out where 
our strength lies ; where it is to be sought ; how 
it is to be obtained ? It not only shows where 
our wants may be supplied, but our failures par- 
doned. Does any one doctrine, any one precept, 
of the Gospel, deal in emollients, prescribe pal- 
liatives, suggest petty reliefs, point out inferior 
remedies, speak of any medicine, but such as is 
proportioned to the depth of the disease ? 

Yet it is not uncommon for those whose 
views have been low, and whose practice, con 



180 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



sequently, has not been high, to combine with 
this mediocrity of character the most exalted 
expectation of future recompence : to couple a 
comparatively low faith and conduct with those 
lofty promises which the New Testament holds 
out to the most exalted Christian. Many in the 
day of health and activity would have consider- 
ed taking up the cross,' ' living to him who died 
for them,' &c. &c. as figurative expressions, 
lively images, not exacting much practical obe- 
dience ; nay, would have considered the propo- 
sal of bringing them into action as downright 
enthusiasm ; yet who has not heard these per- 
sons, in a dangerous sickness, repeat with en- 
tire self-application the glorious and hard-earned 
exultation of him, who, after unrivalled suffer- 
ings and unparalleled services, after having been 
1 in deaths oft,' after having been even favoured 
with a glimpse of heaven, exclaims, ' I have 
fought a good fight, I have finished my course,' 
and then go on with the most delusive compla- 
cency, to apply to themselves the sublime apos- 
trophe with which this fine exclamation is 
wound up — l henceforth there is laid up for mo 
a crown of glory,' &c. &c. : and it has passed 
into an accredited phrase, when one of this sort 
of Christians speaks of the death of another in 
the same class, to observe, with an air of tri- 
umph, that he is gone to his reward. We must 
confess, that when we hear this assurance so 
applied, we charitably incline to hope it is not 
so bad with them as the expression implies ; be- 
cause, if heaven is thus assigned as a payment 
of work done, one cannot help trembling at a 
reward apportioned to such worth. For these 
contractors for heaven, who bring their merit as 
their purchase-money, and intend to be saved 
at their own expense, do not always take care 
to bo provided with a very exorbitant sum, 
though they expect so large a return in exchange 
for it; while those who, placing no dependence 
on their works, never dare to draw upon heaven 
for the payment, will often be found to have a 
much larger stock upon hand, ready to produce 
as an evidence, though they renounce them as 
a claim. In both cases, is it not better to trans- 
fer them and ourselves from merit to mercy, as 
a more humble and less hazardous ground of 
dependance ? 

Far be from me the uncharitable presumption, 
that these sanguine persons are destitute of prin- 
ciple, or void of right intentions. Doubtless, in 
many instances, they persevere in error for no 
reason, but because they believe it to be truth. 
There is even much that is right in them ; but 
are they not too easily satisfied with a low mea- 
sure of that right, without examining accurately 
the quality of the practice, merely because it is 
not disreputable ? 

Our knowledge of religion and sound morals 
must inevitably arise, in a good measure, from 
the knowledge of ourselves. Now, the kind of 
reading of which we have complained, is so far 
from improving that knowledge, that it keeps it 
out of our sight, by representing us to ourselves 
as other creatures than we really are. The most 
ingenious abstract reasoning on man will not 
show him what sort of being he is, if he be not 
taught to know it within himself. He must seek 
it in the depths of his own mind, and compare 



what he finds there with the unerring law of 
God. The facts he might deduce, and the ex 
periments he might make from the study of both 
in conjunction, would teach him either to con 
firm or correct his theory ; his experience, if it 
did not establish, would overturn his specula- 
tions, and he would begin to build on new 
ground. 

May we not be allowed with all tenderness 
and respect, not with the arrogance of any supe- 
riority, but such as is the inevitable fruit of long 
observation, to suggest a few of the many reme- 
dies against the evils we have been regretting ? 
The true preliminary to vital religion is to feel 
and acknowledge our lapsed humanity. There 
is no entrance into the temple of Christianity 
but through this lowly vestibule. All the dis- 
sertations of the most profound philosophers on 
the reasonableness and beauty of our religion, on 
its excellence and superiority, are but a fruitless 
exercise of ingenuity and eloquence, if they ex- 
clude this fundamental truth. The ablest writer, 
if he does not feel this conviction in his own 
heart, will never carry it to yours. But if you 
have once got over this hard and humbling in- 
troduction, the same divine guide who has given 
this initiatory opening, will, to the patient and 
persevering inquirer, perfect the work he has so 
happily begun. — While he who turns over the 
page of his own virtues, and ransacks the cata- 
logue of his good actions, will find that, under 
the pretence of seeking consolation, he is evading 
instruction ; he is only heaping up materials for 
building confidence in himself — ' by that sin fell 
the angels' — and may be in little less danger 
than the flagitious offender. Our Lord has de- 
cided on this momentous question, by his pre- 
ference of the self-abasing penitent who had no- 
thing to ask but mercy, to him who had nothing 
to request but praise ; of the lowly confessor of 
his offences to the pompous recounter of his vir- 
tues ; whose prayer, if self-panegyric deserves 
that name, plainly declares that he already pos- 
sessed so much, that there was nothing left for 
him to ask. Our Saviour took this occasion to 
let us see, that he is belter pleased when we show 
him our wants, than our merits. 

As you do not live in the practice or the al- 
lowance of vices, which make it your interest to 
wish that Christianity may be false, and as you 
believe its external evidences, endeavour to gain 
also an internal conviction that it is true. Exa- 
mine also into the principle of your best actions. 
Even some who have made a more considerable 
proficiency, are too. apt to defer examining into 
the motive, till they have concluded the act which 
the motive should have determined ; they then, 
as it were, make up the motive to the act, and 
bring about the accordance in a way to quiet 
their own minds. Perhaps interest is acting on 
an opinion which we fancied that wisdom had 
suggested. If it succeed, we compliment our- 
selves on the event; if it fail, we applaud our- 
selves on the assigned, because we are not quite 
sure of the real motive. 

The way to make a progress in piety and 
peace, is not to be too tender of our present feel- 
ings ; is nobly to make some sacrifice of imme- 
diate ease, for the sake of acquiring future hap- 
piness. Desire not opiates, seek not anodynes, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



181 



when your internal constitution requires stimu- 
lants. Cease to conceive of religion as a sta- 
tionary thing; be assured, that to be available, 
it must be progressive. Read the Scriptures, 
not as a form, but as God's great appointed 
means, of infusing into your heart that life-giving 
principle which is the spring of all right prac- 
tice. Cultivate every virtue, but rest not in any. 
Do every thing to deserve the esteem of men, 
but make not that esteem your governing prin- 
ciple. Value not most those qualities which are 
the most popular. Correct your worldly wisdom 
with 'the wisdom which is from above.' Bear 
in your recollection, that to minds of a soft and 
yielding cast, the world is a more formidable 
enemy than those two other rival tempters which 
the New Testament commonly associates with 
it, and which would not, generally, have made a 
third in such corrupt company, if its dajigers 
had not borne some proportion to theirs. It is 
the more necessary to press this point, as the 
mischiefs of the world are felt without being 
suspected. The other two spiritual enemies 
seize on the more corrupt; but the better dis- 
posed are the unconscious victims of the world, 
which frequently betrays its votary into the 
hands of its two confederates. People are in- 
clined to be pleased with themselves when the 
world flatters them ; they make the world their 
supreme arbiter ; they are unwilling to appeal 
from so lenient a judge; and being satisfied 
with themselves, when its verdict is in their fa- 
vour, the applause of others too often, by con- 
firming their own, supercedes an inquiry into 
their real state. 

The unconfirmed Christian should attend to 
his conduct just in those points which, though 
dishonest, are not dishonourable ; points in which, 
though religion will be against him, the appro- 
bation of the world will bear him out. He would 
not do a disreputable thing, but should a tempta- 
tion arise where his reputation is safe, there his 
trial commences, there he must guard himself 
with augmented vigilance. 

The more enlightened the conscience becomes, 
the more we shall discover the unspeakable ho- 
linessofGod. Butour perceptions being cleared, 
and our spiritual discernment rendered more 
acute, this must not lead us to fancy that we are 
worse than when we thought so well of our- 
selves. We are not worse, because the growing 
light of divine truth reveals faults unobserved 
before to our view, or enlarges those we thought 
insignificant. Light does not create impurities, 
it only discloses them. Moreover, this efficient 
spirit docs not illuminate without correcting; it 
is not only given for reproof, but amendment ; 
not only for amendment, but consolation. Our 
unhappiness does not consist in that contrition 
which grows ont of our new acquaintance with 
our own hearts. The true misery consisted in 
the blindness, presumption, and self-sufficiency, 
which our ignorance of ourselves generated. 
Our true felicity begins in our being brought, 
however severe be the means, to renounce our 
self-confidence, and cast ourselves entirely upon 
God. 

It will be a good test of the improving state 
of a person of the above description, when he can 
patiently, though not at first pleasantly, perse- 



vere in the perusal of works which do not flatter 
his security ; nay, to persevere the more earnest- 
ly, because the perusal discovers his own cha- 
racter to himself. When once he is brought to 
endure these salutary probings, he will soon be 
brought to court the hand that probes. He will 
begin to disrelish the vapid civility with which 
the superficial examiner treats human nature. 
Nay, he may now safely meditate on the dignity 
of man, which, in his former state, so far misled 
him. He will find that, in another sense, the 
doctrine is true. Man was indeed originally a, 
dignified creature, for he was made in the image 
of the perfect God. Even now, though his will 
is depraved, yet he has noble intellectual facul- 
ties which give some notion of what he was. 
His heart is alienated, but his understanding 
approves the rectitude which his will rejects. 
He has still recoverable powers ; he is still ca- 
pable, when divine truth shall have made its full 
impression on his soul, of that renovation which 
shall restore him to the dignity he has lost, re- 
instate him in the favour he has forfeited, and 
raise him infinitely higher than the elevation 
from which he has fallen. 

To those who attempt to relieve his temporary 
distress, by directing his eyes to his own virtues, 
and to the approbation those virtues are certain 
to obtain from heaven, he will reply with the il- 
lustrious sufferer of old, ' Miserable comforters 
are ye all !' Slight remedies will no longer sa- 
tisfy him. The more deep his views become, 
the less he will be disposed to claim his share in 
the compliments lavished on the natural human 
character. 

But, oh ! what unspeakable consolation will 
the humble believer derive from the appellation 
by which the divine Spirit is designated — The 
Comforter. There is something sublimely mer- 
ciful in a dispensation of which the term is so 
delightfully expressive of the thing. — We read 
in the Scriptures of grieving the Holy Spirit ; 
but when we consider him under this most 
soothing character, is there not something of 
peculiar and heinous ingratitude in grieving the 
Comforter. 

To endeavour to obtain a more lively belief 
in the existence, and earnestly to implore the 
aid of this quickening Spirit, would be a great 
means of improving the character. That the 
doctrine of spiritual influence is a practical doc- 
trine, is clearly deducible from the command, 
arising out of the conviction, that the truth was 
already received — ' If ye live in the Spirit, walk 
m the Spirit.' Observe that we press you only 
on your own principles : wc recommend you 
only to act upon the creed you avow. If we 
suggest to your adoption any thing further than 
the Bible enjoins, we are guilty of fanaticism, 
and you should be on your guard against it. We 
venture not to say what name is due to those 
who would depress your views greatly below 
either. 

In perusing the Scriptures, might you not 
commune with your own heart in something 
like the following language : 'The book is not 
a work of fancy. I do not, therefore, read it for 
amusement, but instruction ; but am I seriously 
proposing to read it like one who has a deep in- 
i terest in its contents ? Is it my sincere inten- 



182 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



tion to convert the knowledge I am about to ac- 
quire into any practical application to my own 
case ? Is it my earnest wish to improve the 
state of my own heart by comparing it with 
what I allow to be the only perfect rule of faith 
and practice 1 Do I only read to get over my 
morning's task, the omission of which would 
make me uneasy, merely to fasten a series of 
facts on my memory ? or do I really desire to 
make the great truths of the incarnation of the 
Son of God, of the gift of the Holy Spirit, the 
necessity of a living faith, a sound repentance, 
an entire conviction that, of myself I can do no- 
thing ; not merely a speculative system to be 
recognized at church, but to be transfused into 
£ne life ? Do I adopt religion as an hereditary, 
national profession, necessary to my credit, or 
as a thing in which I have a momentous per- 
sonal interest? Do I propose to apply what I 
read to the pulling down those high imagina- 
tions, and that false security of which my Bible 
shows me the danger, and which its doctrines 
are calculated to subdue ? Do I labour after the 
attainment of those heavenly dispositions, the 
exhibition of which I have been admiring ? 
Have these vivid declarations of the unsatisfac- 
toriness of the world at all cooled my ardour for 
its enjoyments ? Shall I read here this holy 
contempt for the littleness of its pursuits, this 
display of its fallacies and deceits, and yet re- 
turn this very evening to the participation of 
diversions, the exposure of whose emptiness I 
have been approving ? Shall I extol the writer 
who strips off its painted mask from the world, 
and yet acts as if the morning lecture had 
brought no such discovery ? Nay, perhaps, it 
may be one of my subjects of conversation to 
recommend a book, of whose little efficacy in 
my own case I am giving a practical example. 

Do I not periodically pray,' ' Make me to be 
numbered with thy saints in glory everlasting,' 
and yet am I not as shy of the society of those 
who are distinguished for more than common 
sanctity, as if it carried contamination with it ? 
And does not the very term convey to my mind a 
discreditable idea, compounded of fanaticism 
and hypocrisy ? 

After all, I may have been wrong. If respect- 
ability were security, the young ruler in the 
Gospel had been in no danger, for his attain- 
ments were above the ordinary standard, and 
his credit was probably high. It is time to come 
to something like certainty ; to inquire, whether 
I do cordially believe what I should be ashamed 
not to profess ; whether my religion lives in my 
memory or my heart, on my lips or in my life, 
in my profession or my practice ? It is time to 
examine, whether I have much more distinct 
evidences of divine truth than those who do not 
acknowledge the Gospel to be a revelation from 
heaven ; to inquire, why, if my understanding 
be somewhat more enlightened, such illumina- 
tion is not more perceptible on my heart ? Why 
the fruits of the Spirit,' so far from ' abounding' 
in me, scarcely appear, if those fruits are indeed 
•love, peace, and joy in believing ?' 

Let not the fear of labour, -or the dread of 
pain, prevent you from endeavouring to obtain 
a clear view of your state. Let not a pusillani- 
mous apprehension of reproach or ridicule J>re- 



vent your following up your convictions. There 
is not any thing that is unreasonable, much less 
any thing that is impossible, required : no de- 
gree of zeal, or measure of earnestness, but 
what you see every day exerted in a worse 
cause. Take your measure from the world, not 
in what you shall pursue, but in the energy with 
which you shall urge the pursuit. Only devote 
to religion as much time as the worldly devote 
to dissipation ; only set your affections on Hea- 
ven as intensely as theirs are set upon earth, 
and all will be well : or take your measure from 
your former self; take at least as much pains 
to secure your eternal interests as you have for- 
merly taken to acquire a language or an art. 
Read the word of inspiration with the same as- 
siduity with which you have studied a favourite 
classic ; strive with as much energy to acqflire 
a thorough insight into the corruptions of your 
heart, and the remedy proposed for their cure, 
as you have exerted in studying the principles 
of your profession, or the mysteries of your call- 
ing. Inspect your consciences as accurately 
as your expences , be as frugal of your time as 
of your fortune, and as careful of your soul as 
of your credit. Be neither terrified by terms, 
nor governed by them. 

In reading those heart-searching writers, 
whose principles are drawn from the source of 
all truth, and who are only to be trusted as they 
are analagous to it, be not offended with some 
strong expressions. They expressed forcibly 
what they felt powerfully. The revolting term 
of sinner, which has, perhaps, made you throw 
aside the book, as thinking it addressed only to 
the perpetrators of great crimes, as fitter lan- 
guage for the prisons and the hulks, than for the 
polished and the pleasing, is addressed to every 
one, however profound his knowledge, however 
decent his life, however amiable his manners, 
who lives without habitual reference to God 
Be more than honest, be courageous ; boldly ap. 
ply it to yourself. Though your character is 
unstained with any disgraceful vice, though you 
regularly fulfil many relative duties, yet if you 
are destitute of the prime duty, the love of God 
in Christ Jesus, you stand in need of such a 
forcible address as we have been supposing. The 
discovery will be no dishonour. The dishonour 
consists in not feeling your state, in not strug- 
gling against it ; in not applying with humble 
fervour for assistance to the Fountain of grace 
and mercy. 

Take comfort that you have great advantages 
over many others. You have few bad habits 
to retract ; you have no scandalous vices to com- 
bat; you have already with certain persons ac- 
quired a degree of influence by your good quali 
ties ; with others, you have acquired it by your 
very defects, and, as you are not suspected of 
enthusiasm, your usefulness will not be im. 
peded by having that suspicion to repel. You 
will continue to do, in many respects the same 
things which you did before. The exterior of 
your life may be in many points nearly the 
same. But, even the same actions will be done 
in another spirit and to another end. Religion 
will not convert you into misanthropes, insensi- 
ble to all the dear affections which make life 
pleasant. It does not wish to send you with the 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



183 



hermits of old to the deserts of Thebais, it only 
wishes you to adorn the doctrine of God our Sa- 
viour in your own families, and among your 
own connexions. Not one of the proner forms 
and harmless habits of polished society will be 
impaired, they will be rather improved by this 
mutation of the mind. Christian humility will 
be aiding all the best purposes of good breed- 
ing, while it will furnish a higher principle for 
its exercise. You may express this change in 
your character by what name you please, so 
that the change be but effected. — It is not what 
you are called, but what you are, which will 
make the specific distinction between the cha- 
racter you adopt, and that which you have quit- 
ted. You read the Bible now, but between 
reading it mechanically and spiritually, there is 
as much difference as between pouring a fluid 
on the ground and distilling it. The one * can- 
not be gathered up, afterwards ; from the other, 
we extract drop by drop, a precious and power- 
ful essence. 

Search, then, diligently, the word of eternal 
life, enriched and ennobled as it is with the 
chain and the accomplishment of its prophecies, 
with the splendor of its miracles; with the at- 
testation of its martyrs, the consistency of its 
doctrines ; the importance of its facts ; the pleni- 
tude of its precepts ; the treasury of its promises; 
the irradiations of the Spirit; the abundance of 
its consolations ; the peace it bestows ; the bless- 
edness it announces ; the proportion of its parts; 
the symmetry of the whole, — altogether present- 
ing such a fund of instructhn to the mind, of 
light to the path, of document to the conduct, of 
satisfaction to the heart, as demonstrably prove 
it to be the instrument of God for the salvation 
of man. 



CHAP. XIX. 

On Habits. 

Habits are those powers of the mind which 
arise from a collection or rather a successive 
course of ordinary actions. As they are formed 
by a concatenation of those actions, so they may 
be weakened by frequent and allowed interrup- 
tions ; and if many contiguous links are wilful- 
ly broken* the habits themselves are in danger 
of being totally demolished. 

If we may be allowed to change the meta- 
phor, we would observe that good habits pro- 
duce a sound healthy constitution of mind ; they 
are tonics which gradually, but infallibly, in- 
vigorate the intellectual man. — A silent course 
of habits is a part of our character or rather 
conduct, which in a great measure depends on 
industry and application ; on self denial and 
watchfulness, on diligence in establishing right 
pursuits, and vigilance in checking such as are 
pernicious. Habit being an engine put into our 
hands for the noblest and most beneficial pur- 
poses ; and being one, which, having the free 
command of our own faculties, we have a power 
to use and direct — a power, indeed, derived 
from God as all our other possessions are — yet 
having this power, it rests with ourselves whe- 



ther we shall improve it by a vigorous exertion 
in a right bent, or whether we shall turn it 
against our Maker, and direct the course of our 
conduct to the offending, instead of pleasing 
God. 

Habits are not so frequently formed by vehe 
ment incidental efforts on a few great occasions t 
as by a calm and steady perseverance in the or- 
dinary course of duty. If this were uniformly 
followed up, we should be spared that occasional 
violence to our feelings, that agitating resist- 
ance, which, by wasting the spirits, leads more 
feeble minds to dread the recurrence, of the same 
necessity which induces a painful feeling, the 
consequence of negligence, even where there 
is real rectitude of heart ; while the regular 
adoption of right habits, indented by repetition, 
establishes such a tranquillity of spirit, as con- 
tiibutes to promote happiness no less than vir« 
tue. The mind, like the body, gains robustness 
and activity by the habitual exercise of its poT 
ers. Occasional right actions may be eap"ie© 
may be vanity, may be impulse, but hardly .dc« 
serve the name of virtue, till they proceed r roiu 
a principle which habit has moulded into a 
frame ; then the right principle which first set 
them at work continues to keep them at it, and 
finally becomes so prevalent, that there is a kind 
of spontaneity in the act, which keeps up the 
energy, without constant sensible reference to 
the spring which first set it in motion. Good 
habits and good dispositions ripened by repeti- 
tion into virtue, and sanctified by prayer into 
holiness. If we allow that vicious habits per. 
sisted in, lay us more and more open to the do- 
minion of our spiritual adversary, can we doubt 
that virtuous habits acquire proportional strength 
from the superinduced aid of the Spirit of God? 

The more uniform is our conformity to the 
rules of virtue and purity, the less we may re- 
quire to be reminded of the particular influence 
of the motive. We need not, nor indeed can we, 
recur every moment to the exact source of the 
action ; its flowing from an habitual sense of 
duty will generally explain the ground on which 
it is performed. If the heart is kept awake and 
alive in a cheerful obedience to God, the imme- 
diate motive of the immediate act is not likely 
to be a bad one. Many actions, indeed, require 
to be deliberated on, and whatever requires de- 
liberation before we do it, demands scrutiny why 
we do it. This will lead to such an inquest into 
our motive as, if there be any want of sincerity 
in it, will tend to its detection. 

Notwithstanding what has been urged above 
as to the exercise of constant assiduity in pre- 
ference to mere occasional exertion, we would 
be understood to offer this counsel rather to the 
proficient than to the novice. As the beginnings 
are always difficult, especially to ardent spirits, 
such spirits would do well, particularly at their 
entrance on a more correct course, to select for 
themselves some single task of painful exertion, 
which, by bringing their mental vigour into full 
play, shall afford them so sensible an evidence 
of the conquest they have obtained, as will more 
than repay the labour of the conflict. A friend 
of the Author was so fully aware of the import- 
ance of thus taming an impatient temper, that 
she imposed upon herself the habit of beginning 



184 



•THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



even any ordinary undertaking with the most 
difficult part of it, instead of following the usual 
method of proceeding from the lower to the 
higher. If a language was to be learnt, she be- 
gan with a very difficult author. If a scheme 
of economy was to be improved, she relinquish- 
ed at once some prominent indulgence; if a 
vanity was to be cut ofi", she fixed on some strong 
act of self-denial which should appear a little 
disreputable to others, while it somewhat mor- 
tified herself. These incipient trials once got 
over, she had a large reward in finding all lesser 
ones in the same class comparatively light. The 
main victory was gained in the onset, the sub- 
sequent skirmishes cost little. 

If it be said that the effort is too violent, the 
change too sudden, we apprehend the assertion 
is a mistake. When we have worked up our- 
selves, or rather are worked up by a superior 
agency to a strong measure, it becomes a point 
of honour, as well as of duty, to persist; we are 
ashamed of stopping and especially of retreat- 
ing, though we have no witness but God and 
our own hearts. Having once persevered, the 
victory is the reward. A slower change, though 
desirable, has less stimulus, less animation, is 
less sensibly marked ; we cannot recur, as in 
the other case, to the hour of conquest, nor have 
we so clear a consciousness of having obtain- 
ed it. 

But the conquest we have won we must main- 
tain. The fruits of the initiatory victory may 
be lost, if vigilance does not guard that which 
valour subdued. If the relinquishment of evil 
habits is so difficult, it is not less necessary to 
be watchful, lest we should insensibly slide into 
the negligence of such as are good. What we 
neglect, we gradually forget. This guard against 
declension is the more requisite, as the human 
mind is so limited, that one object quickly ex- 
pels another. A new idea takes possession as 
soon as its predecessor is driven out ; and the 
very traces of former habits are effaced, not sud- 
denly, but progressively ; no two successive 
ideas being, perhaps, very dissimilar, while the 
last in the train will be of a character quite dif- 
ferent, not from that which immediately pre- 
ceded, but from that which first began to draw 
us off from the right habits ; the impression con- 
tinues to grow fainter, till that which at first 
was weakened, is at length obliterated. 

If we do not establish the habit of the great 
statesman of Holland, to do only one thing at a 
time, we shall do nothing well ; the whole of 
our understanding, however highly we may rate 
it, is not too much to give to any subject which 
is of sufficient importance to require an investi- 
gation at all ; certainly is not great enough to 
afford being split into as many parts, as we may 
choose to take subjects simultaneously in hand. 
If we allow the different topics which require 
deliberation to break in on each other; if a se- 
cond is admitted to a conference, before we had 
dismissed the first, as neither will be distinctly 
considered, so neither is likely to obtain a just 
decision. These desultory pursuits obstruct the 
establishment of correct habits. 

But it requires the firm union of a sound prin- 
ciple with an impartial judgment to ascertain 
that the habit is really good, or the mischief will 



be great in proportion to the pertinacity. For 
who can conceive a more miserable state, than 
for a man to be goaded on by a long perseve- 
rance in habits, which both his conscience and 
his understanding condemn? Even if upon 
conviction he renounces them, he has a long 
time to spend in backing, with the mortification 
at last, to find himself only whore he ought to 
have been at setting out. 

Without insisting on the difficulty of totally 
subduing long-indulged habits of any gross vice, 
such as intemperance ; we may remark, that it 
requires a long and painful process — and this 
even after a man is convinced of its turpitude, 
after he discovers evident marks of improve 
ment — to conquer the habits of any fault, which, 
though not so scandalous in the eyes of the 
world, may he equally inconsistent with real 
piety. — Take the love of money for instance. 
How reluctantly, if at all, is covetousness extir- 
pated from the heart, where it has long been 
rooted! The imperfect convert has a conviction 
on his mind, nay he has a feeling in his heart, 
that there is no such thing as being a Christian 
without liberality. This he adopts, in common 
with other just sentiments, and speaks of it as a 
necessary evidence of sincerity. He has got the 
whole christian theory by heart, and such parts 
of it as do not trench upon this long-indulged 
corruption, he more or less brings into action. 
But in this tender point, though the profession 
is cheap, the practice is costly. An occasion is 
brought home to him, of exercising the grace he 
has been commending. He acknowledges its 
force, he does more; he feels it. If taken at the 
moment, something considerable might be done ; 
but if any delay interVene, that delay is fatal ; 
for from feeling, he begins to calculate. Now 
there is a cooling property in calculation, which 
freezes the warm current that sensibility had 
set in motion. The old habit is too powerful for 
the young convert, yet he flatters himself that 
he has at once exercised charity and discretion. 
He takes comfort both from the liberal feeling 
which had resolved to give the money, and the 
prudence which had saved it, laying to his heart 
the flattering unction, that he has only spared it 
for some more pressing demand, which, when it 
occurs, will again set him on feeling, and calcu- 
lating, and saving. 

Some well-meaning persons unintentionally 
confirm this kind of error. They are so zealous 
on the subject of sudden conversion, that they 
are too ready to pronounce, from certain warm 
expressions, that this change has taken place in 
their acquaintance, while evident symptoms of 
an unchanged nature continue to disfigure the 
character. They do not always wait till an al- 
teration in the habits has given that best evi- 
dence of an interior alteration. They dwell so 
exclusively on miraculous changes, that they 
leave little to do for the convert, but to consider 
himself as an inactive recipient of grace ; not 
as one who is to exhibit, by the change in his 
life, that mutation, which the divine Spirit has 
produced on his heart This too common error 
appears to arise, not only from enthusiasm, but 
partly from want of insight into the human cha- 
racter, of which habits are the ground-work, and 
in which right habits axe not less the effect of 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



185 



grace for being gradually produced. We can- 
not, indeed, purify ourselves, any more than we 
can convert ourselves, it being equally the work 
of the Holy Spirit to infuse purity, as well as the 
other graces, into the heart ; but it rests with us 
to exercise this grace, to reduce this purity to a 
habit, else the Scriptures would not have been 
so abundant in injunctions to this duty. 

4 We must hate sin,' says bishop Jeremy Tay- 
lor, ' in all its dimensions, in all its distances, 
and in every angle of its reception.' St. Paul 
felt this scrupulousness of Christian delicacy to 
such an extent, that, in intimating the commis- 
sion of certain enormities to the church of Ephe- 
sus, he charged that they should not be so much 
as named among them. This great master in 
the science of human nature, a knowledge per- 
fected by grace, was aware that the very men- 
tion of some sins might be a temptation to com- 
mit them ; he would not have the mind intimate 
witk the expression, nor the tongue familiar with 
the sound. He who knew all the minuter en- 
trances, as well as the broader avenues to the 
corrupt heart of man, knew how much safer it 
is to avoid than to combat, how much easier the 
retreat than victory. He was aware, that purity 
of heart and thought, could alone produce purity 
of life and conduct. 

From the unhappy want of this early habit of 
restraint, many, who are become sincerely pious, 
find it very difficult to extricate their minds 
from certain associations established by fortner 
habits. Corrupt books and evil communications 
have at once left a sense of abhorrence on their 
hearts, with an indelible impression on their 
memory. They find it almost impossible to get 
rid of sallies of imagination, which, though they 
once admired as wit, they now consider as little 
less than blasphemy. The will rejects them ; 
but they cling to the recollection with fatal per- 
tinacity. Vices, not only of the conduct, but of 
the imagination, long indulged, leave a train of 
almost inextinguishable corruptions behind them. 
These are evils of which even the reformed heart 
does not easily get clear. He who repents sud- 
denly, will too often be purified slowly. A cor- 
rupt practice may be abolished, but a soiled 
imagination is not easily cleansed. 

We repeat, that these rooted habits, even after 
the act has been long hated and discontinued, 
may persist in tormenting him who has long 
repented of the sin, so as to keep him to the last 
in a painful and distressing doubt as to his real 
state ; but if this doubt continue to make him 
more vigilant, and to keep alive his humility, 
the uneasiness it causes may be more salutary 
than a greater confidence of his own condition. 
Many have complained, after years of sincere 
reformation, that they did not possess that peace 
and consolation which religion promises ; not 
suspecting, that their long adherence to wrong 
habits may naturally darken their views and 
cloud their enjoyments. Surely the man whose 
mind has abandoned itself for years to improper 
indulgences has little right to complain, if bit- 
terness accompany his repentance, if dejection 
break in on his peace. Surely he has little right 
to murmur, if those consolations are refused to 
him, which, in the inscrutable wisdom of Provi- 
dence, are sometimes withheld from good men, 

Vol.IL 



who have never been guilty of his irregularities 
in conduct, who have never indulged his disor- 
ders of heart and mind. When we see holy men, 
to whom this cheerful confidence is sometimes 
denied, or from whom, in the agonies of dis- 
solving nature, it is withdrawn, shall the)' whose 
case we have been considering, complain, if 
their's are not all halcyon days, if their closing 
hour is rather contrite than triumphant ? But 
this, if it be not a state of joy, may be equally a 
state of safety. 

The duty of keeping up this sense of purity is 
of g reat extent. One of the many uses of prayer 
is, that, by the habit of breathing out our inmost 
thoughts of God, the sense of his being, the con- 
sciousness of his presence, the idea that his pure 
eye is immediately upon us, imparts a temporary 
purity to the soul, which it vainly aims to main- 
tain in an equal degree in its intercourse with 
mankind. The beatitude of the promised vision 
of God is more immediately annexed to this 
grace; and it is elsewhere said, 'that every one 
who hath this hope, purifieth himself, as He is 
pure.' The holy felicity of the creature is thus 
made to depend on its assimilation with the Crea- 
tor. There is a beautiful intimation of the pu- 
rity of God in the order of construction in the 
prayer taught by our Saviour. We pray that his 
name may be hallowed, that is, that our hearts, 
and the hearts of all men, may honour his holy 
name ; may be deeply impressed with a sense 
of his purity and holiness, before we proceed to 
the subsequent petitions. We thus invest our 
minds with this preparatory sentiment in order 
to sanctify what we are about to implore. In 
addition to the necessity of stated prayer for the 
promotion of purity, it may be observed, that if, 
by habitual devotion, we bend our thoughts into 
that course, they will in time almost voluntarily 
pursue it. The good effect of prayer will, oo 
our return to society, be much increased by the 
practice of occasionally darting up to heaven, a 
short ejaculation, a laudatory sentence, or some 
brief spontaneous effusion. This will assist to 
stir up the flame which was kindled by the 
morning sacrifice, and preserve it from total ex- 
tinction before that of the evening is offered up. 
We may learn from the profane practice of some, 
that an ejaculation takes as little time, and ob- 
trudes less on notice, than an oath or an excla- 
mation. It implores in as few words, the same 
divine power for a blessing, whom the other ob- 
tests for destruction. 

One great benefit of science is allowed to be 
derived from its habituating the mind to shake 
off its dependance upon sense. Devout medita- 
tion, in like manner, accustoms it not to fly for 
support to sensible and material things, but to 
rest in such as are intellectual and spiritual. 
By a general neglect of serious thinking, virtue 
is sometimes withered and decayed ; in minds 
where it is not torn up by the roots, there re- 
mains in them that vital sap which may still, 
upon habitual cultivation, not only vegetate, but 
produce fruit. 

One great obstacle to habitual meditation 
must not be passed over. It is the pernicious 
custom of submitting to the uncontrolled domi- 
nion of a roving imagination. This prolific 
faculty produces such a constant budding of 



186 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



images, fannies, visions, conjectures, and con- 
ceits, that she can subsist plentifully on her own 
independent stock. She is perpetually wander- 
ing 1 from the point to which she promised to 
confine herself when she set out ; is ever roam- 
ing from the spot to which her powerless pos- 
sessor had threatened to pin her down. We re- 
tire with a resolution to reflect : Reason has no 
eooner marshalled her forces, than this undis- 
ciplined runaway escapes from duty, one strag- 
gler after another joins the enemy, or brings 
home some foreign impertinence. While we 
meant to indulge only a harmless reflection, we 
are brought under subjection to a whole series of 
reveries of different characters and opposite de- 
scriptions. Fresh trains obliterate our first specu- 
lations, till the spirit sinks into a sort of deli- 
quium. We have nothing for it, but resolutely to 
resist the enfeebling despot. Let us stir up some 
counteracting force : let us fly to some active em- 
ployment which shall break the charm, and dis- 
solve the pleasant thraldom. No matter what, so 
it be innocent and opposite. We shall not cure 
ourselves by the sturdiest resolution not to do 
this thing which is complained of, unless we 
compel ourselves to do something else. Coura- 
geous exertion is the only conqueror of irreso- 
lution : vigorous action the only supplanter of 
idle speculation. 

Habits are not arbitrary systems and prede- 
termined schemes. They are not always laid 
down deliberately as plans to be pursued, but 
steal upon us insensibly ; insinuate themselves 
into a train of successive repetitions, till we find 
ourselves in bondage to them, before we are 
aware they have gotten any fast hold over 
us. But if rooted bad habits are of such diffi- 
cult extirpation, that, as we have already ob- 
served, they not only destroy the peace of 
him who continues them, but embitter the very 
penitence of him who has forsaken them, there 
is a class of beings in whom they are not yet 
inveterate. If I could speak with the tongues 
of men and of angels, never could they be em- 
ployed to a more important purpose, than in 
representing to my youthful readers the blessed- 
ness of avoiding such habits now, as may take 
a whole life to unlearn. 

O you to whom opening life is fresh, and gay, 
and tempting ! you who have yet your path to 
choose, whose hearts are ingenuous, and whose 
manners amiable, in whom, if wrong propen- 
sities discover themselves, yet evil habits are 
not substantially formed — could you be made 
sensible, at a less costly price than your own 
experience, that though through the mercy of 
God, the long-erring heart may hereafter be 
brought to abhor its own sin, yet the once ini- 
tiated mind can never be made to unknow its 
knowledge, nor to unthink its thoughts ; can 
never be brought to separate those combinations 
which it once too fondly cherished : — how much 
future regret, how much incurable sorrow might 
you spare yourselves! If you would but reflect 
that though in respect of the past, you may 
become inwardly penitent, you cannot become 
as you now are, outwardly innocent, and that 
no repentance can restore your present happy 
ignorance of practised evil, — you would then 
keep clear of a bondage from which you perceive 



the older and the wiser do not, because they 
cannot, commonly emancipate themselves. 

But, supposing a young man is so happy as 
to escape the grosser corruptions, yet, if he 
have a turn to wit and ridicule, he should be 
singularly on his guard against the false credit 
which ludicrous associations will obtain for him 
in certain societies. An indelicate but pointed 
jest, a combination of some light thought with 
some scriptural expression, a parody which 
makes a serious thing ridiculous, or a sober one 
absurd, — these are instruments by no means 
harmless, not only to him who handles them, 
but also in the hands of subalterns and copyists, 
who having, perhaps, no faculty but memory 
and seldom using memory but for mischief, re- 
tain with joy, and circulate from vanity, what 
was at first uttered with mere random thought- 
lessness. Profane dunces are the busy echoes 
of the loose wit of others. With little talent 
for original mischief, but devoting that littl* to 
the worst purposes, they pick up a kind of lite- 
rary livelihood on the stray sarcasms and fugi- 
tive bon mots of others, and are maintained on 
what the witty throw away. If even in the 
first instance there were nothing wrong in the 
thing itself, there is mischief in the connexion.' 
Whatever serves to append a light thought to a 
serious one, is unsafe : both have, by frequent 
citation, been so accustomed to appear together, 
that when, in a better frame of mind, the good 
one is called up, the corrupt associate never fails 
to present itself unbidden, and, like Pharaoh's 
blasted corn, devours the wholesome ear. 

' Man,' says one of the most sagacious ob- 
servers of man, Dr. Paley, 'is a bundle of ha- 
bits.' The more we attend to them, the more 
distinctly we shall perceive those which are right, 
and the more dexterity we shall acquire in estab- 
lishing them. In setting out in our moral course, 
we can make little progress, unless we suffer our- 
selves to be governed by certain rules ; but when 
the rules are once worked into habits, they in a 
manner govern us. We lose the sense of that 
restraining power, which was at first unpleasant 
though self-imposed. To illustrate this by an 
instance ; — The accomplished orator is not fet- 
tered by recurring to the laws of the gramma- 
rian, nor the canons of the dialectician, though it 
was by being habitually trained in their respec- 
tive schools, that he aequired both his accuracy 
and argument. Yet, while he is speaking, it 
never occurs to him, that there are such things 
in the world as grammar or logic. The rules 
are become habits, they have answered their 
end, and are dismissed. 

If we cousider the force of habit on amuse- 
ments : staled diversions enslave us more by 
the custom of making us feel the want of them, 
than by any positive pleasure they afford. By 
being incessantly pursued, they diminish in 
their power of delighting ; yet such is the plastic 
power of habit and such the yielding substance 
of our minds, that they become arbitrary wants, 
absolute articles, not of luxury, but necessity. 
Strange ! that what is enjoyed without pleasure 
cannot be discontinued without pain ! The very 
hour when, the place where, the sight of those 
with whom they have been partaken, present 
associations which we feel a kind of difficulty 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



187 



and uneasiness in separating. We are partly 
cheated into this imaginary necessity, by see- 
ing the eagerness with which others pursue 
them. Yet if it were not an artificial necessity, 
a want not arising from the constitution of our 
nature, those would be unhappy who are de- 
prived of them, or rather, who never enjoyed 
them. There is a respectable society of Chris- 
tians among us who carry the restriction of di- 
versions to the widest extent- Yet among the 
number of amiable, virtuous, and well instructed 
young Quakers, whom I have known, I have 
always found them as cheerful and as happy as 
other people. Their cheerfulness was perhaps 
more intellectual than mirthful ; but their hap- 
piness never appeared to be impeded by com- 
plaints at the privation of pleasures to which 
habit had not enslaved them — a habit which, 
when carried too far, destroys the very end of 
pleasure, that of invigorating the mind by re- 
laxing it. 

It is a proof that the Apostle considered con- 
version in general a gradual transformation, 
when he spoke of the renewing of the inward 
man day by day ; this seems to intimate that 
good habits, under the influence of the Spirit 
of God, are continually advancing the growth 
of the Christian, and conducting him to that 
maturity which is his consummation and re- 
ward. The grace of repentance, like every 
other, must be established by habit. Repent- 
ance is not completed by a single act, it must 
be incorporated into our mind, till it become a 
fixed state, arising from a continual sense of 
our need of it. — Forgive us our trespasses would 
never have been enjoined as a daily petition, if 
daily repentance had not been necessary for 
daily sins. The grand work of repentance, in- 
deed, accompanies the change of heart ; but 
that which is purified will not, in this state of 
imperfection necessarily remain pure. — While 
we are liable to sin, we must be habitually peni- 
tent. 

A man may give evidence of his possess- 
ing many amiable qualities, without our being 
able to say, therefore, he is a good man. His 
virtues may be constitutional, their motives may 
be worldly. But when he exhibits clear and 
convincing evidence, that he has subdued all 
his inveterate bad habits, weeded out rooted 
evil propensities ; when the miser is grown 
largely liberal, the passionate become meek, 
the calumniator charitable, the malignant kind ; 
when every bad habit is not only eradicated, 
but succeeded by its opposite quality, we would 
conclude that such a change conld only be ef- 
fected by power from on high, we would not 
scruple to call that man religious. But, above 
all, there must be a change wrought in the 
secret course of our thoughts ; without this in- 
terior improvement, the abandonment of any 
wrong practice is no proof of an effectual al- 
teration. This, indeed, we cannot make a rule 
by which to judge others, but it is an infallible 
one by which to judge ourselves. Certain faults 
are the effects of certain temptations, rather 
♦han of that common depravity natural to all. 
But a general rectification of thought, a sensible 
revolution in the secret desires and imaginations 
of the heart, is perhaps tho least equivocal of 



all the changes effected in us. This is no 
merely the cure of a particular disease, but the 
infusion of a sound principle of life and health, 
the general feeling of a renovated nature, the 
evidence of a new state of constitution. 

Candid Christians, however, who know ex- 
perimentally the power of habit, who are aware 
of the remainders of evil in the best men, wilf 
not rashly pronounce that he, who, while he id 
struggling with some long* cherished corruption 
falls into an occasional abberation from the path 
he is endeavouring: to follow, is therefore not 
religious. 

If our bad habits have arisen from dangerous 
associations, we must dissolve the intercourse, 
if we would obviate the danger. Good impres- 
sions may have been made on the heart, yet the 
indulged thought, and especially the allowed 
sight of that object which once melted down our 
better resolutions, may melt them again. If we 
would conquer an invading enemy, we must not 
only fight him in the field, but cut off" his 
provisions. It may be difficult, but nothing 
should repel the effort but what is impossible. 
Now in this there is no impossibility, because 
the thing not being placed out of our reach, 
there needs only the concurrence of the will. 
If we humour this wayward will, it is at our 
peril. What we persist in indulging, we shall 
every day find more difficult to restrain. Per- 
haps on our not resisting the very next tempta- 
tion, will depend the future colour of our life — 
the very possibility of future resistance. That 
which is now in our power, may, by repeated 
rejection, be judicially placed beyond it. In- 
firmity of purpose produces perpetual relapses 
Temptation strengthens as resistance weakens 
We create, by criminal indulgences, an irobe- 
cility in the will, and then plead the weakness, 
not which we found, but made. — Half measures 
produce more pain and no success. They are 
compounded of desire and regret, of appetite 
and fear, of indulgence and remorse. While 
we are balancing, conditioning, temporizing, 
negotiating with conscience, we might be sing- 
ing Te Deum for the victory. 

What force we take from the will by every 
repetition, we give to the habit. A faint en- 
deavour ends in a sure defeat. Temptation be- 
coming more importunate, if its incursions are 
not resisted, if its attacks are not repelled, the 
habit will get final possession of the mind ; en- 
couragement will invite repetition ; where it 
has been once entertained, it will find a ready 
way ; where it has been received with fami- 
liarity, expulsion will soon become difficult, and 
afterwards impossible. The Holy Spirit, whose 
aid perhaps we have faintly invoked, and firmly 
rejected, is withdrawn. But if we are sincere 
in the invocation, we shall be firm in the resis- 
tance ; if we are fervent in the resolution, we 
shall be triumphant in the conflict. 

What we have insisted on is the more impor- 
tant, because all progressive goodness consists 
in habits ; and virtuous habits, begun and car- 
ried on here with increasing improvement and 
multiplied energies, are susceptible of eternal 
proficiency. When we are assured that the 
effect of habits will not cease with life, but be 
carried into eternity, it gives such an enlarge 



188 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ment to the ideas, such an expansion to the 
bouI, that it seems as if every hour were lost in 
which we are not beginning or improving some 
virtuous habit. 

As we were originally made in the image of 
God, so shall we, by the renovation of our minds, 
of which our improved habits is the best test, be 
restored, in an enlargement of our moral pow- 
ers, to a nearer resemblance of Him. Were it 
not that there is a participation, in all rational 
minds, of the same qualities in kind, though in- 
finitely different in degree, the perfections of 
God would not so repeatedly be held out in 
Scripture as objects of our imitation. It would 
have been absurd to have said, l as he that hath 
called you is holy, so be ye holy.' ' Be ye holy, 
for I am holy,' would not have been a reasona- 
ble command, unless holiness and purity had 
been one common moral quality of the nature, 
though unspeakably distant in the proportion 
between that perfect Being from whom what- 
ever is good is derived, and the imperfect crea- 
ture who derives it. Surely it is not too much 
to say, that though we can only attain that low 
measure, of which our weak and sinful nature 
is capable, yet still to aim at imitating those 
perfections, is a desire natural to the renewed 
heart : and it may be considered as a symptom 
that no such renovation has taken place, when 
no such desire is felt. 

How could we attempt to trace the perfec- 
tions of the divine nature, if he had not stamped 
on our mind some idea of those perfections ? We 
may bring these notions practically home to our 
own bosoms, possessing, as we do, not only na- 
tural ideas of the divine rectitude, but having 
these notions highly rectified, and confirmed by 
the Scripture representation of God ; if, instead 
of adopting abstract reason for a rule of judging, 
which is often too unsubstantial for our grasp, 
we set ourselves to consider what such a perfect 
Being is likely to approve, or condemn, in hu- 
man conduct, and then, comparing not only our 
deductions, but our practice, with the Gospel, 
adopt or reject what that approves or condemns. 



CHAP. XX. 

On the inconsistency of Christians with Chris- 
tianity. 

We have, in three former chapters,* ventured 
to address a class of Christians whose lives are 
decorous, and whose manners are amiable ; but 
who, from the want of having imbibed the vital 
spirit of Christianity, and having, therefore, 
formed their principles on imperfect models, 
seem to have fallen short of that excellence of 
which their characters are susceptible. 

We presume now to address a very different 
class; persons acknowledging, indeed, the great 
truths of Christianity, but living either in the 
neglect of the principles they profess, or in prac- 
tical opposition to the theory they maintain ; 
yielding to the tyranny of passion or of pleasure, 
governed by the appetite or the caprice of the 

* An inquiry why some good sort of people are not 
better. 



moment, and going on in a careless inattention 
to the duties inculcated by an authority they re- 
cognize. The lives of the persons previously 
considered are commonly better than their pro- 
fession, the lives of those now under contem- 
plation are worse. These seem to have more 
faults, the other more prejudices. The others 
are satisfied to be stationary ; these are not 
aware that they are retrograde. The former 
are in a far better state ; but thero is hope that 
the latter may find out that they are in a bad 
one. The one rest in their performances, with 
little doubt of their safety ; the otner, with a 
blind security, rest in the promises, without 
putting themselves in the way to profit by them. 

If the whole indivisible scheme of Christianity 
could be split into two portions, and either half 
were left to the option of these classes ; those 
formerly noticed would adopt the command- 
ments from an assurance of being saved by their 
obeying them; these under present considera- 
tion, would choose the creed, from a notion that 
its mere adoption would go near to exonerate 
them from personal obedience. The others in- 
tend to earn heaven by their defective works : 
these, overlooking the necessity of holiness, flat- 
ter themselves, when they think at all, with the 
cheap salvation of a mental assent. We all de- 
sire to be finally saved. There is but one opi- 
nion about the end; we only differ about the 
means. Many fly to the merits of the Redeemer 
to obtain happiness for themselves hereafter, 
who do not desire his Spirit to govern their lives 
now, though he has so repeatedly declared, that 
he will not save us without renovating us. To 
suppose that we shall possess hereafter what we 
do not desire here, that we shall complete then, 
what we do not think of beginning now, is 
among the inconsistencies of many who pass 
muster under the generick title of Christians. 

The contest between heaven and earth seems 
to be reduced to one point, which shall possess 
the heart of man. The bent of our affections 
decides on the object of our pursuit. When they 
are rightly turned by his powerful hand, God 
has the predominance. It is the grand design 
of his word, of his Spirit, of all his dispensations, 
whether providential or spiritual, to restore us 
to himself, to recover the heart which sin has 
estranged from him. Where these instruments 
fail, the original bias governs, and the world 
has the entire possession. 

Prospective prudence is esteemed a mark of 
wisdom by the world, and he who professed the 
wisdom which is fror i above, observes that ' the 
prudent man foreseel...' Here the Bible and the 
world appear at first sight to be in strict accord- 
ance ; but they differ materially, both as to the 
distance and the object of the..- forecast. How 
prudent do we reckon that man who denies him- 
self present expenses, and waives present enjoy- 
ments, that he may more effectually secure to 
himself future fortune ! We observe that his 
discreet self-denial will be amply rewarded by 
the increasing means of after indulgence. But 
if this very man were to extend his views still 
further, and look for the remuneration of his 
abstinence, not to a future day, but to a future 
life, he would not with his worldly friends, ad- 
vance his character for wisdom. While be looks 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



189 



to a distant point of time ho is commended, but 
he forfeits the commendation, if he overlooks all 
time, and defers the fruition of his hope, till time 
shall be no more. 

It is indeed this partial looking' forward, this 
fixing the eye on some point of aggrandize- 
ment, or wealth, or some other distinction, whicli 
obstructs our view of the final prospect ; or it is 
the excess of immediate gratification, the de- 
lights of sense, the blandishments of the world, 
which prevent us even from thinking of it. 
While the sensualist incloses himself in a narrow 
circle, beyond which his eye does not penetrate, 
the Christian, like the mariner, steers his course 
not by his sight but his compass. In any im- 
minent distress, indeed, men almost naturally 
fly to their Maker. It is rather an impulse than 
a principle. Yet it is in prosperity, that we 
most need his assistance. Success, which is 
perhaps more eminently the hour of peril, is 
more rarely the hour of prayer. There is an 
intoxication attending on prosperous fortune, 
especially, while it is new, which diverts the 
spirits from communication with the Father of 
spirits. The slackening of devotion under suc- 
cess seems to imply a conviction that, prosperity 
being a gift of God, our prayers have been heard; 
we have obtained his blessing, and, having the 
end of our prayers granted, we insensibly lessen 
our endeavours to please Him whom our suc- 
cess induces us to believe that we have already 
pleased. Thus, having made things even, men 
seem to set out on a new career ; they plan new 
indulgences, additional projects of splendour, or 
of gratification ; they assiduously multiply those 
pleasant instances of obedience which the poet 
has flatteringly told us we give when we 'enjoy.' 
But the object of enjoyment is not seldom the 
instrument of destruction. Anacreon was choked 
by a grape-stone. 

But, if prayer to the Fountain of all Good is 
occasionally offered up by the negligent Chris- 
tian, it is not likely to be heard, because it is 
not his own prayer. We do not mean, because 
it is the composition of another ; that, as it does 
not lessen its value, does not obstruct its ac- 
ceptance. If the feelings go along with the pe- 
titions, they will be heard; if the affections are 
bound up with the words, they will be accepted. 
It is not because they are forms, but because 
the little interest taken in them, renders them 
mere forms. It is not because they are pre- 
composed, but because they are used with con- 
straint — are repetitions, not effusions. It is 
using them without that condition of mind, with- 
out that cordial voluntary approach to the di- 
vine presence, to which is annexed the gracious 
promise of being in no-wise cast out ; of that 
state of mind which David suggested when he 
said, 'My heart (not my lips) hath talked of 
Thee :' when, in answer to the command, 'Seek 
ye my face,' warm and instant from the heart 
he fervently replied, 'Thy face, Lord, will I 
seek.' 

If it be objected, that we can no more pray 
up to scriptural expressions than we can live up 
to scriptural injunctions, does not the one, equal- 
ly with the other, indicate the high aspiring na- 
ture of religion ? Does it not remind us, that 
our aims must be always more lofty than the 



possibility of our attainments ; that if the one 
be hitherto low and earthly, the other must be 
high and heavenly ; bounded by no limits, re- 
strained by no measures, but improving with 
our moral improvement, strengthening with our 
spiritual strength? 

You do not deny that ' the Gospel is the pow- 
er of God unto salvation,' because it is asserted 
by aw authority you respect. But to whom is 
it such a power ? You reply from your memory, 
1 To all them that believe.' But of what use is 
a belief that is obviously uninffuential ? You 
are unconsciously falling into the very error of 
the fanatic whom you so justly condemn. Like 
him you value yourself upon your full assent to 
the truth of Christianity. You go beyond him, 
for you profess to have reason as well as faith 
on your side. But is not that an irrational faith 
which professes to believe, that a principle is 
productive of salvation, and yet to rest contented 
while you are not governed by that principle ? 
You bring your reason and your will into the 
ordinary transactions of life ; the one impels 
and the other guides, in almost all concerns ex- 
cept that one grand concern, where the impulse 
and the guidance are incomparably the most 
important. You allow, indeed, in a general 
way, that the thoughts and pursuits of religion 
are the most worthy of attention, and then act 
as if you held no such opinion, made no such 
avowal. 

It is a wonderful instance of the union of jus- 
tice and mercy in God, that in the very act of 
making sin the marked object of his displeasure, 
he makes the penitent offender the chosen ob- 
ject of his compassion. But revelation will afford 
no shelter to those who screen themselves un- 
der its promises, while they live in opposition to 
its laws ; to those who desire to retain their 
vices, without relinquishing their hopes ; who 
take refuge in the very mercy they are abusing; 
who think they exalt the efficacy of grace, by 
believing it will cancel, not only all the sins 
they have committed, but all they intend to 
commit. The truth is, if they really believe 
God, it is only when he promises. But shall he 
not also be believed when he threatens, or shall 
we desire him to abrogate half his word, that 
while we are violating one part, the other may 
confirm our security ? Is not this subterfuge as 
much an abdication of common sense, as a con- 
tempt of divine justice ? 

Unhallowed passions too frequently enlist both 
wit and argument into their service, the one 
laughs at their excesses, the other reasons them 
away. Wit is no longer employed in her right- 
ful office, to decorate virtue, but to ridicule her. 
Reason is no longer called in to control appetite, 
but to plead for it. Indulgence confirms its do- 
minion. As the empire of sense is fortified, that 
of reason declines. Even God is audaciously, 
though, perhaps, gayly arraigned, for having 1 
made corrupt inclinations natural, and then pu- 
nishing their indulgence ; as if he had not given 
reason to restrain, as if he had not bestowed re 
ligion to control them. 

It is not an uncommon practice to assent tw 
the truth of Scripture, and even to approve and 
recommend it, without really believing it ; for 
the test of belief is to make it the rule of judg. 



190 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ing ourselves, and endeavouring to act as if we 
expected to be judged by it. The christian doc- 
trines will always produce christian affections 
and dispositions in the mind, in the proportion 
in which they are understood, in the degree in 
which they are cordially embraced. The tem- 
per and conduct of the Christian is a faithful re- 
flection of the doctrines of Christianity ; and the 
improvement of his life is the only evidence of 
his having received its truths into his heart. 

Of all the ingredients of which our intellectual 
and spiritual character is compounded, that is 
the most doubtful, the most unfixed, and the 
most easily shaken, which is in reality the basis 
of all our other principles, as well as the founda- 
tion of all our future hopes — we mean faith. It 
is the want of this living root which accounts 
for all the deformities in the mind, all the ano- 
malies in the character of man. Disguise it as 
we will — and we confine not the charge to the 
profligate, or even to the negligent — it is un- 
practical belief which so sadly depresses our 
moral standard. 

Yet the negligent in practice are not seldom 
confident in the profession of their faith. As 
they are riot often troubled with any doubt of 
themselves, of course they institute no very deep 
inquiry whether they do sincerely believe the 
promises of Christianity. But, however frivo- 
lous they may deem the scrutiny, it was once 
thought to be a matter worthy of a serious in- 
quiry among Christians, whether their hopes 
wero well-founded. Better men than many who 
iiow reckon themselves good, entertained doubts 
of their own state, and could not rest till they 
came to something like decision on this mo- 
mentous question. Is then that sober inquiry, 
which was in them the truest mark of prudence, 
now to be treated as a needless scrupulosity, if 
not as an evidence of an unsound mind ? Are 
the doctrines of the Gospel on which they be- 
stowed so much thought and labour unworthy 
of yours ? Is that which was to them so serious 
a concern as to demand a combination of their 
best faculties and their most fervent endeavours, 
become so easy as to be comprehended at a 
glance, and adopted in a moment ? Are the 
difficulties, which cost them so much reflection, 
prayer, and self-denial, miraculously removed, 
and made smooth for you ? Are things so al- 
tered, that while they worked out their salva- 
tion with fear and trembling, you are secure of 
an easy, indolent, almost unsolicited salvation ? 
Are corrupt human nature and the requisitions 
of the Gospel now so suddenly accommodated to 
each other ? Are sin and safety grown so con- 
gruous ? Is it become so natural to fallen crea- 
tures to be reconciled to God and goodness, with- 
out that long and serious process which was 
once thought so indispensable to its accomplish- 
ment ? Is that superinduced pi inciple which 
the most acute nation in the world accounted 
• foolishness,' and the most perverse people a 
stumbling-block,' become to you so easy of ap- 
prehension, so accessible to your reach, so faci- 
litated to your corruptions, so certain of attain- 
ment, as to supersede the labour of examination, 
as to be acquired without the trouble of pursuit ? 
If to you the end is made sure, with the utter 
ignorance of the way, and a general neglect of 



the means; if you find that path clear which 
they found intricate ; if you obtain, without seek- 
ing, that assurance, by the bare promise of which 
they were supported ; if all this be really your 
happy case, it must have been achieved by some 
power which has not been before revealed, by 
some miracle which neither the Old or the 
New Testament has either recorded or pre- 
dicted. 

You would do well then, besides looking back 
to the oracles of truth, to inquire of your autho 
rized instructors, if there has been any change 
effected in the requirements of Christianity, any 
deductions made in its demands, any facilities 
introduced into its scheme, any revelation by 
which the old impediments have been removed, 
and a shorter cut to heaven cleared out ? Con- 
sult some real Christians of your acquaintance ; 
inquire if they, despising and forsaking the good 
old way, found repentance, pardon, holiness, vic- 
tory over the world, and acceptance with God, 
so slight, so rapid, yet so certain a thing ? Ask 
if they became Christians by chance or by inhe- 
ritance, if they were ' renewed in the spirit of 
their minds, by the mere form of baptism ? In- 
quire if their entrance into a religious life cost 
them no sacrifice, if their attainments were ac- 
cidental, if they maintained the ground once 
gained without effort, if they improved it with- 
out prayer, if they were established in it without 
divine assistance ? 

The truth is, the persons in question either do 
not think the defect of faith a fundamental error, 
or they suppose they believe when they do not. 
When this last is the case, they rest satisfied in 
their mistake ; for people do not seek to extri- 
cate themselves from a doubt in which they do 
not feel entangled. It is, however, practical un- 
belief which quenches the vital flame of virtue. 

Unbelief is not, as you are too ready to sup- 
pose, merely one among the many evils of the 
heart, but it is the root and principle of them 
all. That faith is the foundation of virtue is 
implied to have been clearly understood by the 
Apostle when he speaks of ' the obedience of 
faith.' 

How hotly do we resent it, if our veracity is 
suspected ! How indignantly do our hearts rise, 
if our fellow-creatures do not believe our word 
on occasions the most trivial ! Yet we do not 
tremble at the idea of not believing the word of 
Omnipotence : yet do his promises excite no 
ardent desires in our hearts after the blessings 
they reveal. — And could this possibly be the 
case, if we confidently credited the trutn of the 
promises ? 

If men only suspect there is some new road 
which may lead to fame or fortune, or any de- 
sirable acquisition, how sedulous are they in 
their inquiries after it, how anxious to ascertain 
its probability, how zealous to turn the informa- 
tion to their profit! But when this grand con- 
cern is in question, so far from investigating, 
they take it for granted, they assume, not only 
that the thing is true, but that their interest in 
it is safe. It scarcely costs them a thought, they 
are seldom embarrassed with a doubt. So far 
from reflecting how the difficulties which lie in 
the way may be removed, they do not inquire 
whether they exist, much less what they are. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



191 



and with those who would point them out, they 
evade the subject to save the trouble. — We need 
look no further for the solution of our indiffer- 
ence than that we do not earnestly desire the 
promised felicity, because of our practical incre- 
dulity. 

If an intelligent Chinese had been made ac- 
quainted with the high privileges and sublime 
hopes of a Christian — what advantages he pos- 
sesses here, and what prospects he has in rever- 
sion, not contingent, but certain, provided he 
turned his advantages to the securing of his 
prospects ; what promises had been made him 
from an authority he allowed, and by a veracity 
he trusted ; — what a glorious people would he 
expect to find in a society of such highly privi- 
leged beings ! — Would he not look for cordial 
obedience to his laws in whose will they daily 
express a complete acquiescence ? — for unbound- 
ed love and charity among creatures who peri- 
odically confessed that their own sins could not 
be forgiven, if they forgave not the sins of others? 
— for a gratitude among creatures who recog- 
nized one common redemption, which should bear 
some little proportion to his love by whom such 
an astonishing redemption had been wrought? 
Would he not conclude that nothing could be 
wanting to their happiness but an entrance on 
that immortality for which they must be so well 
prepared — nothing wanting to their perfection, 
but the visible presence of Him whom they ac- 
knowledge to be its source and centre ? — and 
that in the mean time they were living the life 
of saints preparatory to their commencing that 
of angels ? 

But when, on a personal intercourse, he ob- 
served that the lives of so many beings, the es- 
sence of whose religion is love, was a scene of 
strife and emulation — that this community of 
Christians which he thought like the city of Je- 
rusalem, was at unity with itself, had rathor be 
at unity with any thing than with each other — 
split into parties and torn asunder by conflicting 
interests ! — when he saw that the professors of 
a religion, founded in humility and self-denial, 
could be proud without reproach, and voluptuous 
without discredit ; when he saw, in so many 
other respects, the inconceivable distance be- 
tween our lives and our patterns, our hopes and 
our aims, would he not believe the whole had 
been a misrepresentation ? — Would he not re- 
joice, like a true patriot, to find that there was 
less difference between the inhabitants of Pekin 
and London than between the professor of Chris- 
tianity and the Gospel from which he took his 
rule ? — Would not this be his natural inference, 
either that Christianity is not true, or that its 
avowed disciples do not believe it ? When he 
compared their actual indulgences with their 
exalted expectances, would he not believe that 
their religion was founded on a proclamation for 
present enjoyment, and not on a promise of fu- 
ture blessedness ? In any event, would he con- 
ceive that eternal glory was to be obtained with- 
out an effort, I had almost said without a wish ? 

CHAP. XXI. 

Expostulation with the inconsistent Christian. 
The most valuable truths, though known, are 



useless, if not applied. Though men wore ac- 
quainted with the magnetic power of the load- 
stone before the Christian era, it remained an 
object of idle admiration, till within a very few 
centuries. The practical use of the needle being 
at length found out, its application to its true 
end gave mankind access to unknown regions, 
and opened to them a new world. If such were 
the application of religious knowledge to its pro- 
per end, it would, indeed, open to us a world, in 
which, not only one but every adventurer, might 
be rewarded, not with discover merely, but with 
possession. 

To this unseen world Cod has shown us the 
way by his word, has smoothed *,hat way by his 
grace, has promised us the direction of his Spi- 
rit ; has given us free access by his Son, reveal- 
ing him to us at once, as our pi jpitiation and 
our pattern. Shall we not, then, thankfully em- 
brace this propitiation, and keep this pattern be- 
fore our eyes? And though our nearest ap- 
proaches will be infinitely distant, let us come 
as near to it as we can, and let us frequently 
try, by the only true touchstone, whether we 
have more receded or approached. If we find 
our deflection has been greater since the last ex- 
amination, let the discovery put us upon praying 
more fervently, watching more vigilantly, and 
labouring more earnestly. If we have gained 
any ground, let us try to secure our advantages 
by pushing our progress. What a low standard, 
and yet it was a high one in his estimation, did 
he propose, who said to his friend, ' If thou art 
not Socrates, yet live as one who would be glad 
to be Socrates 1' To what an elevated pitch were 
his views raised, who, disdaining an inferior mo- 
del, said, ' Be ye like minded with Christ !' 

Every degree of goodness is only a ray from 
the central perfections of God. There is no 
shadow of right in any of his creatures but is 
indicative of his immeasurable goodness. The 
human virtues had originally a stronger resem- 
blance to, and more intimate correspondence 
with, the Being from which they emanated, but 
by man's apostacy, the analogy was not only 
impaired, but nearly lost. Yet a sufficient know 
ledge of what is good, an ample power of judg- 
ing, remains to us, to convince us, that religion 
is a very reasonable principle, that it is addressed 
to our understandings as well as to our affec- 
tions. God, by the revelation of himselrHmd hia 
purposes, does not destroy, but strengthen, our 
natural notions of rectitude, our rational ideas 
of justice, our native feelings of truth and equity. 
The Scripture account of the moral perfections 
of God, and of the manner in which he will 
judge the world, is consonant to those notions 
which he has implanted in us. Christianity ex- 
alts, clears and purifies the light of reason, en- 
noble and elevates the dictates of natural con- 
science, but does not contradict them — does not 
subvert our ideas of justice, nor overturn our in- 
nate sense of right and wrong. Our nature, 
though full of perverseness in the will, is not so 
preposterous in her judgment as to believe that 
a revelation from God would ever teach a law in 
direct opposition to natural justice ; that the illu- 
mination of the Gospel was meant to extinguish 
* the candle of the Lord' set up in every human 
bosom. God would be inconsistent with hin> 



192 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



self, if he gave us the light of reason dim indeed, 
but still a light, and then gave us a revelation, 
not to clear that dimness not to enlighten that 
comparative darkness, but to oppose, eclipse, ex- 
tinguish it. 

To this capacity of judging, to this power of 
determining, and to your profession of faith, we 
venture to appeal. We are not arguing with 
you as with persons who deny the truth of 
Christianity, but addressing you as avowed be- 
lievers, who neglect the application of that truth 
which the infidel denies. We do not propose 
any disallowed scheme, we do not offer any re- 
jected doctrine, any disputed opinions ; we do 
not invite your submission to any authority 
which you do not acknowledge. We suggest no- 
thing but what your understandings assent to, 
nothing but what you profess to believe. Yet 
these truths you vitally disavow, this authority 
you actually renounce, this creed you practi- 
cally subvert, if they do not furnish the ground 
of your conduct. You acknowledge all the 
verities of the Bible, but your lives are unaltei- 
ed. Your hearts are impressible by all the 
tender human affections; awake to all ' the 
charities of father, son, and brother ;' — Why are 
they untouched, just where they ought to be 
most sensible, languid where they should be 
vigorous, dead where they should show most 
vital energy ? 

There is in this conduct a double incongruity. 
The persons in question not only forbear to ex- 
hibit in their own lives those admirable effects 
which Christianity is so calculated to produce, 
but they do not like to see them produced to 
any great extent in others. They are not back- 
ward in branding those who exhibit, in their 
fair proportions, the practical effects of the doc- 
trines they themselves profess to admire, with 
the suspicion of hypocrisy, or the reproach of 
extravagance. In the common course of affairs, 
nothing is more censured than inconsistency. 
In religion it is quite otherwise. It is thought 
criminal to make no religious profession ; yet, to 
act consistently with that profession, to make 
the practice square with the principle, in short, 
to live as we believe, exposes a person to be 
suspected of a deficiency of sense, or of sin- 
cerity ; subject him to a doubt, either of the in- 
tegrity of his heart, or the sanity of his mind. 

Christianity lays down plain rules for the 
conduct of those who profess it. The Bible is 
in the hands of this class of professors ; but 
when a portion of it has been carelessly perused, 
it is considered as having' done its office. It 
is laid down, and the reader, instead of apply- 
ing to his conduct the law he has been study- 
ing, immediately applies to the law of custom, 
of fashionable acquaintance, of caprice, of appe- 
tite, for that rule which, in conversation he 
would acknowledge, was only to be found in the 
book he had been reading. In matters of faith, 
an indefinite assent is yielded ; he only desires 
to be excused from the consequences they in- 
volve. He would indeed, like to cavil at some 
points, but an unexamined approbation costs less 
trouble ; so he believes in the gross, occasionally, 
however, indulging a little levity to show his 
wit, and a few doubts to show his discrimination. 

We do not act thus on other occasions. The 



'arts we learn we turn to the purpose for which 
we learned them. The science we acquire we 
apply. The study of geometry is made appli- 
cable to practical purposes. The knowledge of 
mechanics is not studied for its own sake, but 
for the benefit of those, to whom the application 
brings so many conveniences. The fairest 
hand-writing would be of little value, if the use 
did not follow the acquisition. Yet if religion 
is not only of more allowed importance, but of 
more universal application, than all human 
knowledge put together, why is it not, like that, 
brought to bear on the purposes for which it was 
sent, the rectification of the heart and life? If 
we acknowledge the Bible to be the only uner- 
ring road-book to that land to which we are 
travelling, why, after consulting it in the closet, 
do we forget it on the journey, not only neglect- 
ing the direction it affords but pursuing con- 
trary paths of our own devising. 

It is a spectacle to excite the tenderest com- 
misseration when we observe the excellent gifts 
of God to some of his most favoured creatures 
— when we see the brightest natural faculties im- 
proved by high cultivation, together with that 
degree of acquaintance with religion, which not 
only expels infidelity, but leads to a certain 
vague adoption of the christian creed — when we 
see men, not only rich in mental endowments, 
but possessed of hearts glowing with generosity 
and kindness — when we see such beings as 
much absorbed in the pursuits of time and sense, 
as dead to the highest ends of their being, 
limiting their plans to the present life as com- 
pletely as if they did not believe in that immor- 
tality which yet makes part of their system — 
to see them overlooking the excellences which 
may be attained in this state preparatory to 
their perfection in a better ; — unobservant of 
that deep basis which God has laid in our very 
nature for the condition of future blessedness — 
forgetting how he has not only graciously put 
us in the way to attain it, but has exhorted, 
but has invited us, only to consent, only to submit 
to be eternally happy ! When we hear the Sa- 
viour of sinners condescending to express this 
tender regret at their reluctance, ' Ye will not 
come to me, that ye might have life.' — Who can, 
without sorrow, contemplate such a discrepancy 
between the practice and the destination, the 
pursuits and the interests, the low desires and 
the high possibilities, the unspeakable offers 
and the incorrigible blindness ? 

But in our lapsed humanity, sense, in oppo- 
sition to faith, is too frequently the dictator. If 
we see through a glass, and that darkly, it is 
because the medium is clouded by the breath 
of sensuality. Appetite is the arbitrary power 
which renders every appeal to reason and re- 
ligion fraitless. The pleasures of the present 
life have matter and substance, and we act as if 
those of heaven were dreams and visions. Self- 
love errs only in mistaking its objects, in put- 
ting the brief discipline which we are called to 
exercise here on a level with eternal suffering ; 
it mistakes in fastening itself on the lower part 
of our nature, and forgetting that our souls are 
ourselves. 

But surely God did not give his creatures 
such improvable powers, such strong notioes of 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



193 



himself, without some farther end and design 
than can be perfected in this brief state of being ! 
He never would have given us a nature capable 
of knowing and loving him here, if it were not 
part of his scheme that our knowledge and love 
of him should be perfected in eternity. We are 
not the creatures of casualty. We did not come 
into this world by chance, or by mistake, for 
any uncertain end, or any undetermined pur- 
pose, but for a purpose of which we should 
never lose sight, for an end to which we should 
have a constant reference ; that we might bring 
glory to God now, and be received by his grace 
to glory everlasting. 

For though all the contributions of all the 
creatures in existence can add nothing to his 
inherent glory, yet he has condescended to de- 
clare that he will be glorified by us. — Instead 
of which, what misshapen ideas do not many 
form of God ! How do they deface the plan ef 
Providence ! Were that commodious creed true, 
that mercy is his exclusive attribute, how safely 
might we ( sin on ; the profligate would be as 
secure of pardon and acceptance as the peni- 
tent, the profane as the pious, the voluptuous 
as the self-denying, the sceptic as the believer, 
the lovers of pleasure as the lovers of God. 

Instead of endeavouring ' to be conformed to 
the image of God,' according to his express 
Command, do not too many thus form a god 
after their own image, by thinking him such a 
one as themselves ? Do they not almost slide 
into the practice of the Epicureans, who having 
made a scheme of ease, indolence, and indul- 
gence, for their conduct, prudently invented 
gods accommodated to their own taste and 
habits ? In them there was consistency. It 
was making their faith of a piece with their 
practice, when they made their deities as care- 
less, as sensual, and as pleasure-loving as them- 
selves. But surely under a pure dispensation, 
to form a false and unworthy estimate of the 
character of the Supreme Governor of the uni- 
verse, is scarcely less criminal than to deny his 
existence. Where is the difference between 
divesting him of his being, and of his perfec- 
tions ? 

Our Saviour and his Apostle, in their classifi- 
cation of sins, frequently bring together such as 
appear to us to have a wide disparity. ' Emula- 
tion' is classed with ' strife,' ' variances' with 
' idolatry,' ' revelling' with ' murder.' Those 
* who mind earthly things' are coupled with 
those 'whose end is destruction.' In enume- 
rating the offences which shall make his second 
coining so tremendously awful, Christ ranks the 
being 'overcharged with the cares of this life' 
— cares which we are apt to call prudence and 
industry — with sins, of which Christian indus- 
try and prudence would think with abhorrence. 

If the apology we make is, that we are go- 
verned by example, if we plead the necessity of 
acting as others, especially as our acquaintance 
act, we intrench ourselves in excuses which 
have no analogy with our conduct on other oc- 
casions. We are never so disinterested as to 
think of being sick, or poor, or miserable for 
company. We never generously plead the ne- 
cessity of involving ourselves in debt, because 
our friends are so involved— of being ruined, 
N 



because those whom we love are ruined. Shall 
sympathy, civility, imitation, and a social spirit, 
then, be pleaded only on occasion of mischiefs 
that are irrevocable, reserved for errors that are 
irretrievable, for practices, the consequences of 
which will be irremediable? 

It is a low degree in the scale of goodness 
with which they arc contented, who congratu- 
late themselves that they are not worse than 
others, and a death-blow to the noble ambition 
of piety when they are contented not to be bet- 
ter. If, indeed, they think they are perfectly 
happy now, they need look no farther. But be- 
fore they answer this important question, are 
you happy ? let them interrogate their own heart. 
If they ask ir fairly, it will answer honestly, / 
am not happy. Happiness is incompatible with 
the state of their minds, with the nature of 
their pursuits. The very fondness for variety 
proceeds from an internal sense of indigence. 
They are satiated without being satisfied. — 
The ever-renewed and ever-frustrated attempts 
of the fabled daughters of Danaus, whose labour, 
a pagan poet tells us, was infinite, and their 
punishment eternal, is the disappointing life and 
lot of these mistaken votaries of worldly enjoy- 
ment. The prophet annexes to somewhat of 
the same discouraging pursuit, an awful expla- 
natory reason, when he represents the error of 
those who ' hew out broken cisterns which hold 
no water,' to have originated in their ' forsaking 
the fountain of living waters.' 

But even the most careless livers have not 
lost the natural sense of the moral quality of 
actions. They can reason upon them ; they un- 
derstand the rules they violate ; they retain tho 
perception of excellence ; they preserve the 
feeling of kindness ; they had rather be the ob- 
jects of regard than dislike, if it could be ac- 
quired at a cheaper rate, than that of forming 
their conduct by the principles they approve. 
They wish they were better, while they make no 
effort towards being other than they are. Their 
very wish for amendment is so cold, so careless, 
and so slight, that it wants all the characters 
of repentance, all the energies of resolution, all 
the sincerity of reformation. While we some- 
times hear from these persons, in addition to 
this wish, a general declaration, that they hope 
they shall mend, we seldom see any step takea 
in consequence of this profession ; on the con- 
trary, they are quieted for the time ; they take 
a sort of heartless comfort in this better taste ; 
they flatter themselves it is a proof they love 
virtue, though they neglect it. But fhey do not 
act thus in what truly interests them. If there 
is a scheme of amusement in view, the time is 
accurately settled, the party nicely adjusted, 
their punctuality is exact, there is neither 
delay nor excuse. It is only on matters of 
everlasting interest that they beg leave to post- 
pone, what, they would not be thought to reject. 
Among all the countless generations of frail 
and fallen humanity, incomparably the most 
numerous community, is the sect of Postponers, 
If, as some old divine quaintly observes, ' hell is 
paved with good intentions,' may we not say, 
that the postponers, of which multitudes are 
found in all ages, and in all churches, are the 
class that has contributed the greatest number 



194 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



of squares to the tesselated pavement. It is not 
on inconsistency common to every member of 
this sect, to wish that the portion of his life 
which is gone by had been spent in virtue, 
while this wish is too feeble to stimulate his fu- 
ture days to those pursuits in which he laments 
the past were not spent? 

You do not act thus inconsistently by any ne- 
cessity of nature ; depraved as the will is, in 
common with our other faculties, it does not ne- 
cessarily rob you of the power of determining ; 
it does not take from you the ability of imploring 
the strength you want. To choose the good, and 
to refuse the evil, is yet left to your option. 
Why do the Scriptures make smh repeated and 
solemn appeals to the will, if its agency were so 
utterly involuntary ? On this wiil there is no 
irresistible compulsion. On the supposition that 
this were not the case, all human laws would be 
unreasonable, all courts of judicature not only 
unjust but preposterous ; all legal executions 
absurd as well as inhuman ; for would it not be 
barbarous to punish crimes which the perpetra- 
tor was not left at liberty to avoid ? In this case 
Ravaillac would have been guiltless, and Bel- 
lingham excusable. 

Nor is it your reason which dissuades you 
from religion. If you would consult its sound 
and sober dictates, it would point to religion as 
naturally as the eye points to the object it would 
investigate, as the needle to its attracting point. 
It is not your reason but your corruptions which 
turn away your heart from religion, because it 
tells you that something is to be done in opposi- 
tion to their sway, something to be opposed con- 
trary to their nature, something to be renounced 
congenial with their gratification. 

It is a fatal mistake to expect to get rid of an 
evil by trying to become insensible to it. To 
divert the attention in order to stupify the con- 
science, is almost imitating the malefactor about 
to be executed, who swallows cordials, which, 
if they allay his terrors, do so only by deadening 
his sensibility. Take, then, a distinct view of 
your state, and of your prospects. Deliberation 
is valuable, were it only on this ground, that 
while you are deliberating, there is an intermis- 
sion of passion, there is an interval of appetite : 
as these intermit, better feelings have time to 
rally, better thoughts to come forward, better 
principles to struggle for operation. 

If with hearts naturally inclined to evil (as 
what heart is not ?) and in a world abounding 
with temptation, you have strayed widely from 
the strait path, you are not compelled to pursue 
it. We need continue in sin no longer than we 
love it. Close not then your heart against that 
grace which is offered to all ; it will perfect the 
work it has once begun, if we do not wilfully 
oppose its operations. Let us not therefore lay 
all the blame on our natural conceptions as if 
we were compelled to sink under them. They 
will, indeed, continue to impede our progress, 
but unless aided by our inclinations, they will 
not finally obstruct it. But wilfully to sin on, 
and yet expect pardon through the merits of our 
Redeemer, looks like an impious plot to blind 
the eyes of Omniscience, and to tie the hands of 
Omnipotence. We shall always have this in- 
fallible criterion by which to judge of our state ; 



we may be assured that our sins are not forgiven, 
if they are not mortified. We need not pry inta 
our destination in the inscrutable decrees of the 
Almighty, but in our own rectified affections, 
our own subdued will. Let us never remit our 
diligence by any persuasion of our security, nor 
slacken our obedience by any fond conceit that 
our names are written in heaven. 

But alas ! the soul is full of the body, the in- 
tellect is steeped in sense. The spiritual life is 
immersed in the animal. Reason and appetite 
instead of keeping their distinct natures, are in 
many instances so mixed and incorporated, that 
it is not alvvays easy to decompose and reduce 
them to their separate principles. It is in want 
of cordial sincerity which prevents truth from 
being sought, and where she is not sought, she 
will not be found. Internal purity of heart, and 
sanctity of spirit, afford a fairer exhibition of re- 
ligion, than the most subtle dogmas, and the 
most zealous debates. 

If we seek peace in God, we shall never fail 
of finding it; if we look for it in the world, it is 
to look for a clear stream from a polluted source. 
We have a spirit within us that will occasion- 
ally, though unbidden, remind us of our high 
original, 'from what height fallen.' How widely 
have we wandered in search of the good we have 
lost ! We have sought for it in the tumults of 
ambition, in the pleasures of voluptuousness, in 
the misleadings of flattery, in our own high ima. 
ginations, in the self-gratulations of pride, in 
the secret indulgence of that vanity, which, pro- 
bably, it has been one part of our pride not to 
cure but to conceal. Let us begin to seek for it 
where alone it is to be found, where alone God 
has promised it — in the ' way' which he has 
opened, in the 'truth' which he has revealed, 
and in the 'life' which he has quickened. 

Do not, then, any longer make religion an in- 
cidental item in your scheme of life. Do not 
turn over the consideration of it to chance ; make 
it a part of your daily plan ; take it up as a set 
business ; give it an allotted portion in the dis- 
tribution of your daily concerns, while you ad- 
mit it as the pervading principle of them all. 
You carry on no other transaction casually ; you 
do not conduct your profession or manage your 
estate by fits and starts. You do not expect 
your secular business will go on well without 
minding it. You set about it intently ; you 
transact it with a fixed design ; you consider it 
as a definite object. You would not be satisfied 
with it, if it brought you no return, still less 
would you be satisfied not to know whether it 
brought any return or not. Yet you are con- 
tented as to this great business of life, though 
you perceive no evidence of its progress. You 
see no absurdity in a religious profession which 
leaves you as indigent as it found you. Does it 
not look as if your sincerity, in one case, did not 
keep pace with your earnestness in the other ; as 
if your religion was a shadow, and your secular 
concerns were the only reality ? 

Begin then to be distinct in your purposes, 
explicit in your designs, sincere in your pursuits. 
You profess to read the Scriptures occasionally ; 
if the perusal has hitherto produced no sensible 
effect, this isonly an additional motive for making 
the incidental practice habitual. Do not inter 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



195 



init it under pretence that it has produced no 
benefit. It is a great thing to keep within the 
use of God's appointed means. If you had not 
some pleasure in even a casual perusal, you 
would avoid it altogether. The blessing which 
has been so long delayed perhaps has not been 
cordially requested; when earnestly desired it 
will not be finally withheld. Light precedes 
warmth in the daily course of nature. Begin 
then to consider that knowledge not turned to 
profit will be a grand article at the final reckon- 
ing. How many thousands have not even made 
the progress which you have made ; have not 
attained that literal acquaintance with the Bible 
which you have attained. They are utterly, 
perhaps irreclaimably, ignorant. You have laid 
in, at least in your understanding, a certain 
though perhaps slender stock of materials, on 
which the divine light only waits to shine till 
you petition for it ; that light which, if you wiS 
open your eyes to receive it, will shine more and 
more unto the perfect day. God has assured 
you in his word that he ' waits to be gracious.' 
The compassionate father in the parable moved 
more eagerly to embrace his son, than the re- 
turning prodigal to meet the parent. He scarce- 
ly waited for his protestations ; the pardon pre- 
vented the confession ; he condescended to re- 
joice even in his acceptance of forgiveness. 

It is not a new scheme which is promised to 
you ; it is not an imaginary project, an untried 
device. There is nothing unreasonable in the 
hope held out; no elevation in piety but what 
with the offered aid is attainable ; nothing but 
what multitudes have attained ; not merely pro- 
pheU and saints and holy men, but persons 
whose cases were as unpromising as yours ; 
men labouring under the same corruptions; dis- 
turbed by the same passions, assailed by the 
same trials, drawn aside by the same tempta- 
tions, exposed to the same dangerous world ; 
long led astray by its customs, long enslaved by 
its maxims. The same grace which rescued 
them is offered to you. The same Spirit which 
struggled with their hearts is, perhaps, while 
you are reading these feeble lines, striving with 
yours. Resist not the impulse. Complete the 
assimilation. Let not the resemblance be more 
imperfect in its fairer features than in its more 
deformed. Imitate their noble resolution. Re- 
collect the glorious promise made, ' to him that 
overcometh.' The same power which delivered 
them waits to deliver you. The ten thousand 
times ten thousand who now stand before the 
throne, were not innocent, but penitent — not 
guiltless men, but redeemed sinners. The same 
God waits to be gracious. The same Saviour 
intercedes. The same Spirit invites. The same 
heaven is open. Plead that gracious nature, im- 
plore that divine intercessor, invoke that blessed 
Spirit. Say not it is too late. Early and late 
are relative, not positive terms. While the door 
is yet open there is no hour of marked exclusion. 
So may an inheritance among the saints in light 
etill be yours. 

CHAP. XXII. 

Reflections of an inconsistent Christian after a 
serious, pprusal of the Bible. 



I trofess to believe that Christianity is true 
Its promises are high ; but what have been its 
profits ? It is time to inquire into its truth and 
its advantages. It never, indeed, pledged itself 
to confer honours or emoluments ; but it en- 
gaged to bestow benefits of another kind. If the 
Christian is deceived in these, he has nothing 
to console him. Now what am I the better for 
Christianity ? It speaks of changing the heart 
from darkness to light. What illumination has 
my mind experienced from it? — But here a 
doubt begins to arise. Am I indeed a Christian ? 
What claims have I to the character 1 

Is there any material difference, whether I 
depend on heaven as a thing of course, to those 
who have been baptized, though they possess no 
corresponding temper and conduct ; or whether 
I never reflect that there is a heaven, or whether 
I absolutely disbelieve that there is any such 
place ? Is the distinction so decisive between 
speculative unbelief, practical infidelity, and to- 
tal negligence, as that either of them can afford 
an assurance of eternal happiness in preference 
to the other? Yet while the thought of heaven 
never enters my mind, should I not hotly resent 
it as an injury, if any one disputed my title to 
it? Should I not treat him who advised me to 
a more sarious life, as an enemy, and him who 
suspected I required it, as a calumniator ? Is it 
not, however, worth the inquiry, whether my 
confidence of obtaining it is well founded : and 
whether any danger arises from my ignorance 
or unfitness? 

If the scriptures be authentic — if, as I have 
always professed to believe, they indicate a state 
of eternal happiness, together with the means of 
attaining to it — then surely not to direct my 
thoughts to that state, not to apply my attention 
to those means, is to neglect the state and the 
things, for which I was sent into the world. 
Providence, doubtless, intended that every spe- 
cies of being should reach the perfection for 
which it was created. Shall his only rational 
creature be the only one that falls short of the 
end for which he was made ? the only one who 
refuses to reach the top of his nature, who re- 
fuses to comply with his original destination ? 

If I were quite certain that I was not created 
for such a great and noble end as Christianity 
has revealed, I should then be justified in acting 
as a being would naturally act, who has no higher 
guide than sense, no nobler incentive than appe- 
tite, no larger scope than time, no ampler range 
than this world. And though I might then re- 
gret that my powers and faculties, my capacities 
and desires, were formed for so low a purpose, 
and their exercise limited to so brief a space, 
yet it would not, in that case, be acting incon- 
sistently, to turn my fugitive possessions, and my 
contracted span, to the best account of present 
enjoyment. 

But if I have indeed, as I profess to have, any 
faith however low, any hope however feeble, any 
prospect however faint, is it rational to act in 
such open opposition to my profession ? Is it 
right or reasonable, to believe and to neglect, to 
avow and to disregard, to profess and to oppose, 
the same thing? Do I raise my character for 
that understanding on which I value myself, if, 
while a confession of a faith which has beei> 



196 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



adopted by the wisest men in different ages, my 
temper is not, like theirs, subdued to it, my life 
;'s not, like theirs, governed by it. 

I think this world more certain than the next, 
because I have the evidence of my senses to its 
reality ; and because its enjoyments are present, 
visible, tangible. But the same being who gave 
my senses, gives also reason and faith; and do 
not these afford to the sincere inquirer other evi- 
dence of no less power ? Even in many natural 
things, we receive the evidence of reason as 
confidently as the testimony of sense. Our rea- 
son informs us, that the things we see could 
not have been produced without a cause which 
we do not see : we might as well say they have 
no being, as that they had no cause — and yet 
the cause lies as completely out of our reach as 
the things of another world. Tho unseen things, 
then, may be as satisfactorily proved by other 
arguments, as the things we know are proved 
by our senses. But the highest evidence of 
things not seen is faith. Even this principle we 
admit in worldly things, but reject in spiritual. 
We should know very little of this earth, if we 
knew only what we have seen. Now we believe 
that a multitude of things exists which we ne- 
ver saw, and which few comparatively have 
seen. This is the evidence of faith in the tes- 
timony of the relater. 

I see persons in the ordinary affairs of life 
act upon the mere report of authentic informa- 
tion; conduct concerns analogous to those whose 
success is made known to them by impartial 
evidence, and act confidently on the relation of 
credible witnesses ; and they would be thought 
perverse and unreasonable, were not their con- 
duct influenced by such competent testimony. 
Is it, then, only in the momentous concern of 
religion, where these appropriate evidences are 
allowed to be incontestible, where the revelation 
from heaven, where the attestation of undeniable 
witnesses, has established the truth in the minds 
of inquiring men beyond a doubt? — Is it only 
where the testimony is more unquestionable, 
and the object the most transcendantly import- 
ant, that neglect is pardonable, that delay is pru- 
dent, that indifference is safe ? 

It is time to arrive at some decision on a ques- 
tion which, if it be any thing, is every thing; 
which, if it be indeed founded in infallible truth, 
involves consequences so vast, effects so lasting, 
that all the other concerns of the whole world 
shrink into nothing, when weighed against my 
individual concern in this single business. 

That thinking mind which enables me to 
frame these reflections, that sentient spirit which 
suggests these apprehensions, those irrepressible 
feelings which drive out my thoughts, and force 
my speculations beyond the present 6cene, prove 
that I have something within me which was 
made for immortality. If, then, I am convinced 
of these truths, can I any longer hesitate to de- 
vote my best thoughts to my highest good, my 
chiefest care to my nearest concern, my most 
intense solicitude to my evei lasting inter- 
ests? 

Lord, I believe ; help thou my unbelief! Con- 
vert my dead faith into an operative principle ! 
Let my sluggish will be quickened, let my re- 
.uctant desires give some signs of life. Let it 



be an evidence of the real existence of my faith, 
that it is not inert. 

We talk of the glory of heaven as coolly, and 
hear of it with as much indifference, as if it 
were the unalienable birth-right of every nomi- 
nal Christian, and that our security left no room 
for our solicitude. But I now find, on examin- 
ing it more closely, that the Bible speaks of a 
thing which Christians of my class neglect to 
take into the account ; a fitness for that glory, 
a spirit prepared for that state, which God has 
prepared for them that love him. It not only 
promises them heaven, but quickens their de- 
sires after it, qualifies them for the enjoyment 
of it. Now, can I conscientiously declare that 
I possess, that I have endeavoured to possess, 
those desires, without which heaven is unattain- 
able; those dispositions, without which, if it 
could be attained, it would not be a place of 
happiness ? Is it, then, probable, arguwig upon 
merely rational grounds, that God will receive 
me to his presence there, if I continue to live 
without him in the world ? Will he accept me 
when I come to die, alienated from him in 
heart and thought as I have lived ? 

After all, uncertainty is no comfortable state. 
It is safer to seek a satisfactory solution to my 
doubts by serious inquiry ; to seek tranquillity 
to my heart by earnest prayer. It is better to 
implore the promised aid, to strengthen my va- 
cillating mind, even though I renounce a little 
present ease, a little temporary pleasure. If, 
indeed, avoiding to think of the evil would re- 
move it, if averting my eyes from the danger 
would annihilate it, all would be well. But if, 
on the contrary, fearing it now, may avert it 
for ever, common sense, reasonable self-love, 
mere human prudence, compel me to make the 
computation of the relative value of time and 
eternity. I may, indeed, as I have frequently 
done, postpone my purpose to some future time. 
But then I am not so skilled in the doctrine of 
chances as to be quite certain that time may 
ever arrive. He that intends to reform to-mor- 
row does not repent to-day. When delay is 
danger, is it not foolish to delay ? Where it 
may be destruction, is it not something worse 
than folly ? I will arise, and go to my Father, 
&.C. &c. &c. 



CHAP. XXIIL 

The Christian in the World 

' The only doctrinal truth,' says bishop San- 
derson, ' which Solomon insisted on, when he 
took the whole world for his large but barren 
text, was, that all is vanity.' — This was not the 
verdict of a hermit railing from his cell at plea- 
sures untasted, or at grandeur unenjoyed. 
Among the sons of men, not one had sought 
with more unremitted diligence, or had wider 
avenues to the search, for whatever good either 
skill or power could extract out of the world, 
than Solomon. No one could judge of the sweets 
which can be drawn from this grand Alembic 
with higher natural abilities, or with deeper ex 
periruental wisdom. He did not descant on the 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



197 



vanity of the world so eloquently till he had con- 
sidcred it accurately, and examined it practi- 
cally. He was not contented, like a learned 
theorist to collect his notions from philosophy, 
or history, or hearsay ; he well knew what he 
said, ' and whereof he affirmed.' All upon which 
he so pathetically preached he had seen with his 
eyes, heard with his ears, and, in his widely 
roving- search, had experienced in his own dis- 
appointed mind, and felt in his own aching heart. 
He goes on to prove, by an induction of particu- 
lars, the grand truth propounded in his thesis, 
the vanity of the world. He shows in a regular 
series of experiments, how he had ransacked its 
treasures, exhausted its enjoyments, and even 
to satiety revelled in its honours, riches, and de- 
lights. He had been an intellectual as well as 
sensual voluptuary, and had emptied the re- 
sources of knowledge as well as of pleasure. 
Then reverting in the close of his discourse to 
the point from which he had set out, he again 
pronounces, that all is vanity. 

1 The conclusion of the whole matter 1 which 
he draws from this melancholy argument, as 
finely exhibited as pensively conceived, is a so- 
lemn injunction to others to remember, what it 
is to be feared the preacher himself had some- 
times forgotten, that the whole duty of man is 
to fear God, and keep his commandments : wind- 
ing up his fine peroration with a motive in which 
every child of Adam is equally, is awfully con- 
cerned, ' because God shall bring every work in- 
to judgment.' 

May not every real Christian, while his heart 
is touched with the affecting truth of the text, 
be admonished by this solemn valedictory de- 
claration ? May he not learn the lesson incul- 
cated at less expense than it was acquired by 
this great practical master of the science of wis- 
dom ? If another sovereign was told there was 
no royal way to geometry, the King of Israel 
has opened a royal way to a more divine phi- 
losophy. By the benefit to be derived from con- 
templating this illustrious instance of 'how lit- 
tle are the great,' the Christian may set out 
where Solomon ended. He may be convinced 
of the vanity of the world at a price far cheaper 
than Solomon paid for it, by a way far safer 
than his own experience. He may convert the 
experiment made by the royal Preacher to his 
own personal account. He may find in the 
doctrines of the Gospel a confirmation of its 
truth, in its precepts a counteraction to its pe- 
rils, in its promises a consolation for its disap- 
pointments. 

In this world, such as Solomon has vividly 
painted it, (he Christian is to live — is to live, 
through divine assistance, untainted by its max- 
ims, uncontaminated by its practices. Man be- 
ing obviously designed by his Creator for social 
life, and society being evidently his proper place 
and condition, it seems to be his duty not so 
much to consider what degree of possible per- 
fection he might have attained in that state of 
seclusion to which he was never destined, as 
how he may usefully fill his allotted sphere in 
the world for which he was made ; how he may 
conscientiously discharge the duties to which 
he is plainly called by providential ordination. 
To think how he may acquit himself well in his 



actual state and condition, is clearly more pro- 
fitable than to waste his time and spirits, in de- 
vising the best speculative scheme of life, to the 
adoption of which there is little probability of 
his ever being appointed. 

We were not sent into this world with orders 
to make ourselves miserable, but with abilities, 
and directions, and helps, to search out the best 
possibilities of happiness which remain to be. 
ings, fallen from that state of moral and mental 
rectitude in which man was created ; to make 
the best of the ruins of that perfect world whose 
beauty he had marred, and whose capacity of 
confering felicity he had fatally impaired. Hu- 
man life, therefore, abounding as it does in bless, 
ings and mercies, is not the blissful vision which, 
youthful fancy images, or poetry feigns, or ro- 
mance exhibits. It is in a considerable mea- 
sure compounded of painful and dull realities, 
and not a splendid tissue of grand events or bril- 
liant exploits; it is to some an almost unvaried 
state of penury, to many a series of cares and 
troubles, to all, a state of probation. But the 
primeval punishment, the sentence of labour, 
like the other inflictions of Him who in judg- 
ment remembers mercy, is transformed into a 
blessing. And whether we consider the manual 
industry of the poor, or the intellectual exertions 
of the superior classes, we shall find that dili- 
gent occupation, if not criminally perverted 
from its end, is at once the instrument of virtue 
and the secret of happiness. Man cannot be 
safely trusted with a life of leisure. 

As the character about to be briefly consider- 
ed is presumed to be a real Christian, it would 
be superfluous, for two reasons, to insist that 
his vocation in the world must be lawful. It is 
not to be supposed that a religious man will 
ever engage in an employment that is illicit ; 
and it is almost equally beyond supposition, that 
persons who are actually so engaged, will cast 
their eyes on a book whose tendency is serious. 

But the most unexceptionable profession is 
not exempt from dangers. It requires strict 
watchfulness, not only to conduct the most use- 
ful undertaking in a right spirit, and with a 
constant eye to Him, to whom every intelligent 
being is accountable ; it requires not only con- 
stant vigilance against the allurements of ava- 
rice and the baits of ambition, but it requires 
caution against the unsuspected mischiefs of 
embarking so widely, or plunging so deeply in 
any temporal concern, as almost necessarily to 
deteriorate the character. He embarks too 
widely, and plunges too deeply, however ho- 
nourable be the undertaking, if it absorb the 
whole man — if it so crowd his mind with inter- 
fering schemes, and complicated projects, as to 
leave no time and no thought, and gradually no 
inclination for that reference which should be 
the ultimate end of all human designs. 

It can never be too often repeated, however 
writers tire with saying, and readers with hear- 
ing it, that it is scarcely more necessary to ad- 
dress serious suggestions to men sunk in gross 
pursuits, than to that large, important, and valu- 
able class, whose danger lies in the very credit, 
and dignity, and usefulness of their engage- 
ments. A thousand dissertations have been 
written, and yet the theme is not exhausted, on 



198 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



hat hackneyed but neglected truth, that we. are 
undone by lawful things, by excess in things 
tight in themselves, and which only become 
Ivrong by being inordinately pursued — pursued 
to the neglect of things more essential ; when 
what is even laudable is exclusively sought, to 
the forgetfulness of what is indispensable. 
Things may not only be comparatively, but 
positively, good, and yet not be ' things which 
accompany salvation.' They may not only be 
intended to be instrumental, but actually be so, 
both in advancing the prosperity, and in re- 
straining the disorders of this world, and so far 
be highly valuable, and yet the act may be sub- 
stituted for that principle which should be its 
inspiring motive. The fault, however, is not 
in the thing, but in the mind, when useful ac- 
tions are not done with a reference to the highest 
end. Of this reference a Christian will aim 
never to lose sight. He will, before he engage 
in the concerns of the day, prepare his mind by 
fervent devotion ; not only imploring direction 
in the common course of action, and the expect- 
ed occurrences of the day, but strength to 
meet those unknown occasions and unsuspected 
events, which, in human life, and especially in 
a life of business, so frequently occur. With- 
out this panoply, he will not venture to engage 
with the world ; but the armour which he put 
on in solitude, he will not lay aside in the field 
of battle ; it was for that warfare he had buckled 
it on. 

As the lawyer has his compendium of cases 
and precedents, the legislator his statutes, the 
eoldier his book of tactics, and every other pro- 
fessor his vade mecum to consult in difficulties, 
the Christian to whichever of the professions he 
may belong, will take his morning lecture from 
a more infallible directory, comprehending not 
only cases and precedents, but abounding also 
with those seminal principles which contain the 
essence of all actual duty from which all prac- 
tical excellence is deducible. The spirit of 
laws differ from all legal institutes, some of 
which, from that imperfection inseparable from 
the best human things, have been found unin- 
telligible, some impracticable, and some have 
become obsolete. The divine law is subject to 
no such disadvantages. It is perfect in its na- 
ture, intelligible in its construction, and eternal 
in its obligation. 

This sacred institute he will consult, not oc- 
casionally, but daily. Unreminded of general 
duty, unfurnished with some leading hint for 
the particular demand, he will not venture to 
rush into the bustle, trial, and temptation of the 
day. Of this aid he will possess himself with 
more ease, and less loss of time, as he will not 
nave to ransack a multiplicity of folios for a de- 
tached case, or an individual intricacy ; for, 
though he may not find in the Bible specific in- 
stances, yet he will discover in every page some 
governing truth, some rule of universal applica- 
tion, the spirit of which may be brought to bear 
on almost every circumstance ; some principle 
suited to every purpose, and competent to the 
solution of every moral difficulty. Scripture 
does not, indeed, pretend to include technical or 
professional peculiarities, but it exhibits the 
temper and the conduct which may be made ap- 



plicable to the special concerns of every man 
whatever be his occupation. He will find in it 
the right direction to the right pursuit, the 
straight road to the proper end ; the duty of a 
pure intention ; and the prohibition of falso 
measures to attain even a laudable object. No 
hurry or engagement will ever make him lose 
sight of that sacred aphorism so pointedly ad- 
dressed to men of business, ' He that maketh 
haste to be rich shall hardly be innocent.' The 
cautionary texts he admired in his closet, he 
will not treasure up as classical mottos to amuse 
his fancy, or embellish his discourse, but will 
adopt as rules of conduct, and bring them into 
every worldly transaction, whether commercial, 
forensic, medical, military, or whatever else be 
his professed object. He will not adjust his 
scale of duty by the false standard of the world, 
nor by any measure of his own devising ; he 
has but one standard of judging, but one mea- 
sure of conduct — the infallible word of God. 
This rule he will take as he finds it, he will use 
as he is commanded ; he will not bend it to his 
own convenience, he will not accommodate it to 
his own views, his own passions, his own emo- 
lument, his own reputation. 

Here it may be asked, Why is not Scripture 
more explicit in description, more minute in 
detail? We find our self-love perpetually fur 
nishing subterfuges for evading duties, and 
multiplying exceptions to rules. God, who 
knows all hearts, and foresaw their captiousness, 
might, it may be said, have guarded against it 
by more enlarged instructions. The holy Spirit, 
however, did not see fit to descend to such mi- 
nutise, but, having given the principle, left man 
to the exercise of his reason, in the application 
of the general law to his particular case ; for if 
he is left to the use of his judgment, it is not 
that he may pervert truth, but apply it. His 
understanding and rectitude are perpetually 
called into joint exercise, for that which is im- 
mediately the duty of one man, another may 
not be called to perform. 

Not to distress the mind, therefore, with un. 
necessary scruples, nor to perplex it by a mul- 
tiplicity of circumstances, some things are left 
indefinite. An incumbered body of institutes 
would have been too vast and complicated for 
general use ; that time would be taken up in 
selecting them, which is better employed in 
acting upon them. Even were every particular 
of every duty, in all its bearings, circumstan- 
tially ramified, it would not so much direct the 
conduct, as furnish new pretences for neglect- 
ing it. Then, as now, it would be seen rather 
that the will is perverse, than the understanding 
unsatisfied. More amplification would not have 
lessoned objections. Those who complain now, 
that the rule is not explicit, would complain 
then, that it was tedious. A fuller exposition 
would neither have cleared doubts nor prevented 
disputes. It would then have been charged 
with redundancy, as it is now with defective, 
ness. 

If the world carries contamination to the 
heart, it carries also to the right-minded a pre- 
servative ; as the viper's blood is said to be an 
antidote for its bite. The living world is to 
such persons an improving exemplification of 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



199 



the moral lessons of history. If we apply to our 
own improvement the recorded excellences or 
errors of which we read ; if we are struck with 
the successes or defeats of ambition ; the pur- 
suits or disappointments of vanity ; the sordid 
accumulations of avarice, or the wasting ravages 
of prodigality ; if we are moved with instances 
of vice and virtue in men of whom we know 
nothing but what the historian is pleased to tell 
us, and of whom he perhaps knew not much 
more ; if we read with interest of the violence 
of parties, of which both the leaders and the 
followers have been long laid in the dust; if we 
are affected, as every intelligent mind cannot 
but be affected, with these pictures of things, 
now much benefit may a well-directed mind de- 
rive from seeing them realized : from seeing the 
old scenes acted over again by living perform- 
ers; from living himself among the dramatis 
persona as one of the actors ; from taking a per- 
sonal interest in a repetition of things which he 
condemned or applauded when only coldly pre- 
sented to his understanding, and at which his 
principles revolted or rejoiced, even in the dead 
letter of narrative. He now sees the same sen- 
timents embodied, the same passions brought 
into action, similar opinions operating upon ac- 
tual conduct. 

If he is deeply touched when history presents 
to his view the errors of high and heroic minds, 
when it exhibits the abberrations of superior 
genius, how much more lively will be his re- 
gret, when he sees, among his own acquaint- 
ance, the ardour of a noble and ingenuous mind 
exclusively consumed on objects, which might 
indeed be accounted great, if this world were 
all, but which never gives any practical inti- 
mation that there is another. But how much 
more pungent will be his sorrow, when he ob- 
serves lofty and sagacious spirits neglecting to 
make the most even of this brief state of being ; 
— when he sees men who might have made the 
world a better thing than they found it, had 
they employed their superior powers of intellect 
in studying how they might please God, by 
promoting the best interests of his creatures ; 
when he sees such understandings clouded by 
intemperance, such minds absorbed in studying 
the qualities of a race horse, or calculating the 
chances of a gaming table ! 

In another and a more estimable class of 
characters, he is struck with mingled admiration 
and concern, in observing what good and resem- 
bling imitations of religion are made by honour, 
sense, and spirit; how respectably moral honesty, 
kindness, and generosity may, to superficial ob- 
servers, personate Christianity, may even exe- 
cute the act of piety with an utter destitution of 
the principle. He sees in certain minds some 
masterly strokesof natural beauty, which at once 
dignify and embellish them, so as, on some oc- 
casions, to tempt him to forget that they are 
not religious. But these brilliant qualities are 
not infused into the entire character, the excel- 
lence is limited to a few shining points, and the 
hollows are proportioned to the heights. Rich 
in some splendid virtue, there is no uniformity 
in the principle; there is perhaps some allowed 
sin in the practice ; while in the character of 
the real Christian, though there may be much , 



infirmity, there is a desire of consistency— 
there is no deliberate transgression — there i 
even no unrepented error. 

These living lessons the pious observer will 
turn to account. The impression thus made on 
his heart, from actual observation, will sink 
deeper, and be more durable, than the instruc- 
tion to be obtained by a mere intellectual view 
of mankind, from information collected from 
writers, who are obliged to pick up facts, not 
from having witnessed them, but as they find 
them in preceding writers ; men who know 
little of the causes of which they describe the 
effects, or the motives of the actions they re- 
cord. History paints men, acute observation 
anatomizes them. 

If he regret that his necessary duties in the 
world trench on the time he would gladly de- 
devote to religious pursuits, let him take com- 
fort that these regrets, if sincere, are an earnest 
of his safety. The very corruptions to which 
he is witness, will experimentally convince him 
of the truth of a doctrine which is no where 
more completely learned than in the bustle of 
life. The perception of this evil in others, 
makes him watch against similar tendencies 
within ; tendencies which only the grace daily 
invoked by him prevents from breaking out 
into action. This deep conviction of man's 
corruption, instead of imparing his benevolence, 
will improve it. It wilr teach him not to ex- 
pect too much from so imperfect a being, as 
well as to bear with the errors which his belief 
of the doctrine had led him to expect. This, 
together with his intercourse with the world 
will cure him of that mistake so common to per- 
sons who have not lived in it, that of expecting 
no faults in those which a fond imagination, on 
a first acquaintance, had led them to believe 
perfect, and who, on the inevitable discovery, 
become too strongly disgusted with errors and 
imperfections, on which they ought to have 
reckoned. He will never use his full convic- 
tion of the truth of which we have been speak- 
ing to the purposes of unworthy distrust, or base 
suspicion. On the contrary, though he will ex- 
ercise his discernment in the knowledge of 
men, and his discretion as to the confidence to 
be placed in them, he will not be ever on the 
look out to detect, much less to expose their 
errors. Though he, * loves not the world' in 
the Scripture sense of the term, he loves the in- 
dividuals of whom it is composed, with the af- 
fection of sympathy. He will put a large and 
liberal construction on their actions, but ho wilj 
not stretch that latitude to the vindication of 
any thing that is corrupt in principle, or crimi- 
nal in conduct. Nor will he be always on the 
defensive in his intercourse with them : he will 
not act with the narrow selfishness of the sor- 
did trader, who is jealous of every man with 
whom he has business to transact, on no higher 
ground than lest he should lose money by him ; 
while he tolerates in his character every vice 
which will not interfere with his pecuniary 
transactions. 

It is his aim to reconcile that charity which 
believeth all things with that discrimination of 
character which shows us, not only so many who 
are bad, but so much imperfection, we may 



200 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



eay, so much evil, in the comparatively good. 
To love and serve those in whom we at the same 
time perceive no little moral defect, is turning 
our spiritual discernment to a practical account. 
This principle, while it serves to preserve us 
from an undue admiration of others, will teach 
us to suspect these, or other defects, in our- 
eelves. 

The Christian in the world, anxious to im- 
prove his scanty leisure, will rescue from mere 
diversion those hours which cannot prudently 
be subtracted from business. To a man thus 
circumstanced, the Sunday is felt to be indeed a 
blessing ; to him it is emphatically ' delight.' 
Instead of appropriating it as a day of premedi- 
tated conviviality, he converts it into a stated 
season of enjoyment of another kind. He hardly 
needs the injunction to ' remember' to keep it 
holy, though he is not unmindful, that, of the ten 
commandments, it is the only one prefaced with 
that admonition. He considers the observance 
as almost more his privilege than his duty. The 
expectation of its return cheers him under the 
perplexities of the week. He anticipates it as a 
rest here, and as a foretaste of eternal rest. He 
enlarges his pious exercises with the more sa- 
tisfaction, as ho is clearly assured that he is not 
on this day in danger of trenching on his pro- 
fessional duties ; and, from this reflection his 
heart more warmly expands in gratitude to Him 
whose day it more immediately is. He feels 
that, if it were barely a season ordained by some 
public act, a royal proclamation enjoining it as 
a necessary interval between the labours which 
close one week, and those which began another, 
a contrivance of ease, a measure of political pru- 
dence or personal tenderness to prevent the bo- 
dily machine and the overlaboured mind from 
wearing out, he would be grateful for its insti- 
tution : but to him the day comes fraught with 
benefits and blessings of a still higher kind. It 
is an appointment of God ; that entitles it to his 
reverence ; it is an institution of spiritual mercy; 
it is the stated season for recruiting his mental 
vigour ; for inspecting his accounts with his 
Maker ; for taking a more exact survey of the 
state of his heart; for examining into his faults ; 
for enumerating his mercios ; for laying in, by 
prayer, fresh stores of faith and holiness ; for 
repairing what both may have lost in the tur- 
moil of the week. His heated passions have 
leisure to cool ; his hurried mind to regain its 
tranquil tone ; his whole internal state to be re- 
gulated; his mistakes to be reviewed ; his tem- 
per to be new set; his piety to be braced up to 
the pitch from which it may have been sunk in 
the atmosphere he had been breathing. The 
pious man of business relishes his family society 
and fireside enjoyments with a keenness not 
often felt by others. If ' the harp, and the ta- 
bret, and the tabret, and the viol,' are not always 
heard in his feasts, he does what those who listen 
to them do not always remember to do, for he 
considers the works of the Lord, and regards 
the operations of his hands.' It is not enough 
for the devoted Christian that his life is dedi- 
cated to him who gave it, his spirit is, as it were, 
exhaled in his service.* 

* It is to be regretted, that the members of a learned 
and honourable nroleBsiuu, aud which lias produced so 



CHAP. XXIV. 

Difficulties and advantages of the Christian tn 
the world. 

There are two things of which a wise man 
will be scrupulously careful, his conscience and 
his credit. Happily they are almost inseparable 
concomitants ; they are commonly kept or lost 
together ; the same things which wound the one, 
usually gives a blow to the other : yet, it must 
be confessed, that conscience and a mere worldly 
credit are not, in all instances, allowed to subsist 
together. God and our hearts — we speak of 
hearts which are looked into and examined — 
always condemn us for the same things — things 
perhaps, for which we do not suffer in the opi- 
nion of the world : the world, in return, not sel- 
dom condemns us for actions, for which we have 
the approbation of God and our consciences. Is 
it right to put the verdict of such opposite judges 
on an equality, nay to abide by that which will 
be less than nothing when his sentence, whose 
favour is eternal life, shall be finally pronounced ? 

Between a wounded conscience and a wound- 
ed credit there is the same difference as between 
a crime and a calamity. Of two inevitable evils, 
religion instructs us to submit to that which is 
inferior and involuntary. As much as reputa- 
tion exceeds every worldly good, so much, and 
far more, is conscience to be consulted before 
credit — if credit that can be called, which is de- 
rived from the acclamations of a mob, whether 
composed of' the great vulgar or the small.' 

Yet are we not perpetually seeing, that to se- 
cure this worthless fame, peace and conscience 
are sacrificed ? For to what but a miserably 
false estimate of the relative value of these two 
blessings; what but the preference of character 
to duty — in support, too, of a rotten part of it — 
is it, that the wretched system of duelling not 
only maintains its ground, but is increasing with 
a frightful rapidity ? If we have, perhaps, never 
heard of a truly religious man engaged in a 
ducl.t it is not that, with all his caution, he is 
not liable to provocations and insults, as well as 
other men ; nor that he has no quick sense of 
injuries, no spirit to repel attacks, and no courage 
to defend himself. He who bears insults is made 
of like passions with him who revenges them ; 
his pride longs to break out if it dared ; for even 
a good man, as the prelate quoted in the last 
chapter observes, ' has more to do with this one 
viper, than with all his other corruptions.' 

many exemplary characters, should appoint their con- 
sultations on Sundays. It is urged in excuse, that they 
cannot clash with any public courts or sittings on that 
day. The leading men, by this custom, force some of 
those whose practice is less established into a breach of 
their duly, against which their consciences perhaps re- 
volt. Might not one of these two sacrifices obviate the 
necessity which is pleaded in its vindication ? Might 
they not either reject such a superfluity of business as 
induces it — or, if that be too much to expect, might they 
not subtract the time from their social and convivial 
hours ? 

t Lord Herbert of Oherbuiy, the first of our dcistical 
writers, and the last hero of our ancient chivalry, with 
tbat fantastic combination of devotion and gallantry 
which characterized the profession of knighthood, tellg 
u< in the memoirs of his own life, that he strictly main- 
tained the religious observance of the Sabbath, except 
when called out to lii.'lit a duel tor a point of honour 

which he seemed to have thought a paruuiouat duty. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



201 



But, among other causes, his safety lies in 
this, that he has always endeavoured to keep 
clear of those initiatory offences which lead to 
this catastrophe; it is because he has been habi- 
tually governed by principles of a directly con- 
trary tendency, and has not the lesson of for- 
bearance to learn, when he is called upon to 
practise it : because he has not indulged him- 
self in those habits, and as little as may be in 
those societies which lay a man open to the con- 
sequences of which ungoverned appetites are the 
source : because he has always considered pride 
and passion as the possible seeds of murder ; an 
impure glance as the first approach to that crime 
which is the ordinary source of duelling — the 
combined violation of these two commandments, 
being as closely connected, in practice, as is 
their position in the Decalogue. It is observa- 
ble, that while the shifts and stratagems to 
which a man is commonly driven by illicit con- 
nexions, so often lead to duelling, yet that the 
charge of that crime itself, or of any other equal- 
ly atrocious, far more rarely provokes a chal- 
lenge, than the charge of the lie, to which the 
crime has compelled him to resort. Can there 
be a more striking instance of the false estimate 
of character and virtue, than that the offence is 
not made to consist in the falsehood itself, but in 
the accusation of it. 

The man of mere worldly principles keeps 
himself in the broad way, which, should events 
occur, and temptations arise to irritate him, may 
at any time lead to such a termination. His 
habits of life, his choice of associates, his sys- 
tematic resolution to revenge every insult, makes 
his common path a path of danger. His pride 
is always ready primed ; he carries the inflam- 
mable matter in his habit, and the first spark 
may cause an explosion ; while the man of prin- 
ciple, in addition to all the other guards before 
enumerated, wants, indeed, but this single con- 
sideration to deter him from the spirit of duel- 
ling ; that it is the act of all others which stands 
in the most determined opposition to the law of 
God, and the spirit of the Gospel ; that it is a 
studied, deliberate, premeditated subversion of 
one of the most imperious duties cf Christianity, 
by making it infamous to forgive injuries. 

And even if a man be more correct in his ha- 
bits, still if the maxims of the world, and not 
those of Christianity, govern him, he loses sight 
of the great principles which would restrain ex- 
cesses in temper, as well as in conduct. He first 
loses sight of these, perhaps by negligence in 
private devotion, possibly by a careless attend- 
ance on public worship. Thus freeing himself 
from these observances, he loses sight of the 
obligations of religion, and losing this strongest 
* muzzle of restraint,' it is the less wonder that 
& small provocation tempts him to offer bloody 
sacrifices to that fantastic but cruel idol, worldly 
honour. It is the less wonder that a neglected, 
even where there is not a perverted principle, 
should end in the murder of a friend, and the 
destruction of his own soul ; for of a merely con- 
vivial friendship, a duel is no very uncommon 
termination. 

But to return. — In the ordinary pursuits of 
life, the good man differs but little from others, 
in the keenness with which he embarks in en- 
Vql.IL 



terprise, or in the diligence with which he pro- 
secutes it; but he carries it on in another sp."- 
rit ; he is not less solicitous in the pursuit, but 
there is less perturbation in his solicitude ; he 
makes no undue sacrifices to attain his object 
He seeks the divine blessing, not that he may 
slacken his own exertions, but that he may be 
directed in them, supported under them. San- 
guine, perhaps, by nature, he yet takes into the 
account the probabilities of disappointment: 
this, when it occurs, he bears as one, who, though 
careful of the motive and mode of his conduct, 
had put the affair into the hands of the Master 
of events. His failure does not discourage him 
from fresh exertions, when occasions equally 
right present themselves. He is grateful tor 
success, but not intoxicated by it. Under defeat 
he is resigned, but not desponding. He mea- 
sures the intrinsic value of an object by asking 
his own mind, though he thinks so highly of its 
importance now, what he shall probably think 
of it when his ardour is cooled, and especially, 
what he shall think of it when all things shall 
be brought into judgment. Thisquestion settled, 
either moderates or augments the interest he 
takes in it. 

Knowing that whatever he proposes in the 
way of public good, is liable to be suspected of 
imprudence, or mistaken zeal, he turns this ex- 
posure to suspicion to his own advantage. It 
leads him to examine his project more accurate- 
ly to spy out its weak side, if it have any ; and 
to anticipate, by the operations of a well exer- 
cised judgment, the objections which his oppo- 
nents are likely to make. Foreseeing the points 
which may create opposition, he guards against 
it, either by altering his plan, if defective, or 
preparing to defend it, if sound. One of his 
great difficulties, and yet it is his only security 
will be his custom of referring all matters in de 
bate, 'to the law and to the testimony.' Thi« 
will lead him constantly to oppose principles to 
expediency. Of this incommodious integrity, 
he must abide the censure and the consequences. 
He will have no sharo in the crooked arts and 
intrigues by which some men rise so fast, and 
become so popular. He will detest craft almost 
as much as fraud, and the pitiful shifts of a nar- 
row policy, as much as he will love the light and 
open path of truth and honesty. — He doth not 
slacken in his undeviating strictness, though he 
is aware, that this is the quality which peculiar- 
ly exposes him to misrepresentation. Exertion, 
struggle, conflict, these are the trials for which 
he prepares himself. Thankful for tranquillity 
when it can be honestly obtained, enjoying re- 
pose when he has fairly earned it ; he yet knows 
that this is not the world in which they are to 
be looked for with any certainty, or enjoyed with 
any continuance ; and this conviction of its in- 
stability and fluctuation is one of the many ar- 
gumenls with which he seeks to arm himself 
against the fear of death. 

The unequal distribution of the good things 
of this life, the inferior success of men of more 
virtue, higher talent, and a better outset, than 
others of his acquaintance, whose beginning was 
low, and whose deserts equivocal, remind him 
that prosperity is no sure test of merit, and that 
the favour of heaven is not to be estimated by 



202 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



success. God, he recollects, has made no spe- 
cial promise of prosperity to his children. When 
given, it is to be esteemed no certain mark of 
his approbation ; when withdrawn, it is often 
in mercy ; when withheld, it is because God has 
higher designs for his less prosperous servants. 
As to himself, the events of every day teach 
him, that he had expected more from human 
life than it had to bestow, and that his disap- 
pointments arise not less from his own sanguine 
temp'-r, than from the deceits of that world 
which it had overrated. 

The world, especially, we may here remark, 
the commercial world, particularly in these aw- 
ful times, is calculated to teach forbearance far 
more than sequeslred life, because men often 
suffer so severely in their fortune and credit by 
the errors or misfortunes of others. If the good 
man suffer by his own fault, he will find a fresh 
motive for humility; if by the fault of another, 
for patience; if more directly from the hand of 
God, for submission. Whatever be the fluctua- 
tions of his fortune, his faith will gain stability, 
for he will discern an invisible hand directing 
all events for his ultimate good. If he is placed 
in a state of peculiar agitation, God intends to 
lead him by it to seek his rest where only it 
can be found. If in a state of singular difficulty, 
it is to show him his own weakness, and his 
immediate dependance on him, who gives 
strength to the weak. This principle admitted, 
will furnish new motives to watchfulness and 
prayer, without any diminution of activity or 
spirit. 

His observations on the gradual process, by 
which the love of money monopolizes the hearts 
of others, teach him to guard his own against 
its encroachments. He sees that the first de- 
signs of men are commonly moderate. Few take 
in at one view all the length they go afterwards. 
They look not beyond a certain eminence. On 
this they fix as the summit of their desires. But 
what appeared high at a distance sinks when 
approached ; is nothing when attained ; — ' Alps 
rise on Alps;' — a further distance presents a 
further height; this, they tire sure, will bound 
their desires : this attained, they are resolved to 
retire and dedicate their lives and their riches 
to the end for which, they persuade themselves, 
they have been toiling. But, with the acquisi- 
tion, the desire increases ; wants grow ou>t of 
riches. The moderate man is become insatiable. 
The principle thrives with the attainment of its 
object. Though hope is exchanged for posses- 
sion, yet the restless principle continues to work, 
and will work on, unless a higher principle, by 
which he is every day less likely and less de- 
sirous to be governed, should arise to check it, 
Society being composed of intelligent human 
beings, the wise man knows that, something may 
be generally learned from it, relative to the hu- 
man character; that some benefit may he reap- 
ed, even if little positive good appear in it ; and 
more does sometimes appear, than we are wil- 
ling to put to profit. Lessons mav be extracted 
from the very faults of men ; from the vehe- 
mence of their passions, the mistakes of their 
judgment, the blindness of their prejudice. 

The Holy Scriptures frequently make the 
uuious diligence of men, in the pursuit of 



worldly advantages, a lesson which a better man 
would do well to improve upon in his higher 
pursuits. He may find in their industry a stand- 
ard, though not a model: the wisdom he learns 
from this generation, he will convert to the pur- 
poses of the children of light. The world*s wise 
man is ever on the watch for advancing his pro- 
jects. If he contract an acquaintance of im 
portance, his first thought is, how he may make 
the most of him ; the Christian is equally care- 
ful to turn the acquisition of a pious friend to 
his own account, but with a higher view. 

The mind, on the watch for improvement, will 
improve by the very errors of others. — Virtue, 
our divine Master has taught us, may take some 
profitable lessons from vice. The activity of the 
fraudful steward may stimulate the negligent 
Christian. From the perseverance of the ma- 
lignant in their patient prosecution of revenge, 
he may learn fortitude under discouragements, 
and resolution under difficulties. Injuries may 
teach him the value of jusiice, may set him up- 
on investigating its principle, and guarding 
against its violation. The wiliness of the de- 
signing may keep his understanding on the alert, 
and confirm the prudence it has excited. Temp- 
tations from without strengthen his powers of 
resistance ; his own faults show him his own 
weakness, as it is foreign aggression which 
forms heroes, and domestic opposition which 
makes statesmen. 

His thirst for human applause will be abated, 
when he observes in those around him, the un- 
expected attainment of popularity so soon fol- 
lowed by its unmerited loss. When he beholds 
the rapid transfer of power, it will more than 
whole tomes of philosophy, show him that 'fa- 
vour is deceitful.' He will moderate his desires 
of great riches, when he sees by what sacrifices 
they are sometimes obtained, and to what temp- 
tations the possession leads. He will be less 
likely to repine that others are teaching the 
summit of ambition, whether they achieve it by 
talents which he does not possess, or attain it 
by steps which he would not choose to climb, or 
maintain it by concessions which he would not 
care to make. The pangs of party with which 
he sees some of his friends convulsed, and the 
turbulent anxiety with which they watch the 
prognostics of its rise and fall, keep him sober 
without making him indifferent. He preserves 
his temper with his attachments, and his inte- 
grity with his preferences, because he is habitu- 
ally watching how he may serve the state, and 
not how, by increasing her perplexities, he may 
advance himself. 

The use he thus makes of the world will not 
carry him to the length of entangling himself 
in its snares. Though he maintains a necessary 
intercourse with men of opposite character, he 
will not push that intercourse further than occa- 
sion requires. He will transact business with 
them with frankness and civility, hut he will 
not follow them to any objectionable lengths. 
He is aware, that though a wise man will never 
choose an infected atmosphere, yet ' He who 
fixes our lot in life' will protect him in it in the 
way of duty, and will furnish an antidote to the 
contagion. A courageous piety doubles its cau- 
tion when exposed to an impure air, but a pro. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



203 



dent piety will never voluntarily plunge into it. 
It will never forget, that if the corruptions of 
the world are so dangerous, they are rendered 
so by those of our own hearts, since we carry 
about us a constitution disposed to infection. 
The true Christian will make a conscience of 
letting it appear, that he differs in very import- 
ant points from many of those with whom busi- 
ness or society brings them into contact ; lest, 
by the facility and kindness of his general be- 
haviour, they should be led into an error as to 
his principles. For worldly men, having been 
accustomed to connect narrowness, reserve, and 
gloom, with serious piety, they might infer from 
his pleasant deportment and frank address, that 
his principles were as lax as his manners are 
disengaged. 

He will, therefore, be careful, not unnecessa- 
rily to alienate them by any thing forbidding 
in his exterior ; he will cheerfully fall in with 
any plan of theirs consistent with his own prin- 
ciples; and more especially, should it be any 
plan of benevolence and general utility, and one 
more promising than his own, he will never feel 
backward to promote it, through the mean fear 
of transferring the popularity of the measure to 
another. Yet he acts, nevertheless, as knowing 
there is no humility in a man's taking a false 
measure of his own understanding, and there- 
fore does not give us his independence of mind, 
when the superiority of the scheme of the other 
does not carry conviction to his judgment. He 
will first clear his motive, and, next, his pru- 
dence in the measure, and then be as prompt in 
action as those who rush into it without delibe- 
ration or principle. 

He keeps his ultimate end in view, even in 
the most ordinary concerns, and on occasions 
which to others may not seem likely to pro- 
mote it. He knows that good breeding will 
give currency to good sense ; that goo i sense 
adds credit to virtue, and even helps to strip re- 
ligion of its tendency to displease. — By his ex- 
actness in performing the common duties of life 
more accurately than other men, he may lead 
them to look from the action up to the principle 
which produced it ; and when they see the ad- 
vantages arising from such carefulness of con- 
duct, they may be induced to examine into the 
reasons ; and from inquiring to adopting is not 
always a remote step. He may thus lead them 
into an insensible imitation, without the vain 
idea of presenting himself as a model ; for he 
wishes them to admire, not him, but the source 
from which he draws both what he believes and 
what he is. 

While he suggests hints for their benefit, he is 
willing they should think the suggestion their 
own ; that they owe it to reflection, and not to 
instruction. Like the great Athenian philoso- 
pher, he does not so much aim to teach wisdom 
to others as to put them in the way of finding it 
out for themselves. His piety does not lessen 
his urbanity, even towards those, who are ob- 
viously deficient in some points, which he deems 
of high importance. If they are useful members 
of the great body of society, he is the first to 
commend their activity, to acknowledge their 
amiable qualities, to do justice to their speeches 
or writings, while they are disconnected with 



dangerous or doubtful objects. On general sub- 
jects he never labours to discredit their opinions, 
unless they obviously stand in the way of some- 
thing of more worth. But all these cheerfully 
allowed merits will never make him lose sight 
of any grand deficiency in the principle, of any 
thing erroneous in the tendency. 

Of his own religion he neiiher makes a pa 
rade nor a secret ; he is of opinion, that to avow 
his sentiments, prevents mistakes, saves trouble, 
obviates conjectures, and maintains independ- 
ence. He acknowledges them with modesty, 
and defends them with firmness. On other oc 
casions, instead of shutting himself up in a close 
and sullen reserve, because others do not agree 
with him in the great cause which lies nearest 
his heait, he is glad that the general diffusion 
of knowledge has so multiplied the points at 
which well-educated men can have access to 
the minds of each other; points at which im- 
provements in taste and science may be recipro- 
cally communicated, the tone of conversation 
raised, and society rendered considerably use- 
ful, and sometimes in a high degree profitable. 

But notwithstanding the clearness of his own 
spirit, and the intimations of an enlightened 
conscience, yet he carries about with him such 
a modest sense of his own liableness to what is 
wrong, as keeps up in his mind the idea that 
the error may possibly be on his side. This 
feeling, though it never makes him adopt 
through weakness the opinion of another, makes 
him always humble in the defence of his own. 
He opposes what is obviously bad with an earn- 
est but sober zeal, a fervid but unboisteroua 
warmth, a vigorous but calm perseverance. 

He will not hunt for popularity ; he knows 
that this is one of the common dangers from 
which even good men are not exempt ; for after 
all, the mere good men of the world do not mo- 
nopolize all credit. Highly principled and pious 
men form a powerful and increasing minority, 
which, by concord, firmness, and prudence, 
often makes no inconsiderable figure. When 
viewed collectively, 

' Bright as a sun the sacred city shines. 

Each individual, however, according as he con- 
tributes or may fancy he contributes to the 
brightness, is in danger of priding himself on 
the general effect. And many a weak or de- 
signing man, placing himself under the broad 
shelter of what he delights to call the rdigiou$ 
world, limits his zeal to the credit of b^ing ac- 
counted a member, instead of extending it to 
the arduous duties it imposes, and while he su- 
perciliously decries many a worthy person, 
who without the pretension, performs the func- 
tions, he is as full of the world as the world is 
of itself. Popularity thus sought after and ob- 
tained, whether within or without the pale, even 
of a religious community, is of a dangerous ten- 
dency, and a truly Christian mind will alike 
tremble to bestow or receive the praise. 

But if the Christian character we have been 
faintly attempting to sketch, possesses a com- 
manding station, either in fortune, rank, or ta- 
lent, especially if he combine them ; his cliarac 
tcr without any assumption of his own, without 



204 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



any affectation of superiority, will, by its own 
weight, its own attraction, above all, by its con- 
sistency, be a sort of rallying point, round which 
the well disposed, the timid, and the young, will 
resort to obtain a sanction, and to fortify their 
principles. For, if it is not the prevailing prin- 
ciple, there is yet n.uch more piety in the world, 
than the pious themselves are willing to allow. 
It so strange a phrase may be allowed, we 
should almost suspect that, in a certain class, 
there is more good hypocrisy than bad; more 
who conceal their piety, than who make a dis- 
play of it. Many, who are secretly and sin- 
cerly religions, want courage to avow their sen- 
timents, want resolution to act up to them, 
either because the popular tide runs another 
way, or because they dread the imputation of 
singularity, and are afraid of raising a porten- 
tous cry against themselves. 

Toe good man respects the world's opinion, 
without making it the leading motive of his 
conduct. He never provokes hostility by any 
arrogant intimation that he does not care 
what people think of him, a conduct not more 
offensive to others, than ind.citive of a self- 
sutficient spirit. He is careful to avoid a par- 
ticular cut. He will not be pointed at for any 
trifling peculiarity. He fences in, not only his 
ordinary, but his best actions, with prudence, 
well knowing how much the manner may ex- 
pose the matter to misrepresentation. He does 
this not merely for his own credit, but because, 
to a certain degree, with his reputation are in- 
volved the good of others and the honour of 
religion. He endeavours, as far as he can 
honestly do it, to remove prejudices, which an 
imprudent piety rather glories in augmenting, 
and thus widens the separation between the two 
classes of characters. Whereas, that which is 
intrinsically good should be always outwardly 
amiable. He, therefore, will not make his de- 
parture from the order which general usage has 
established, observable in any of the harmless 
and accredited modes of life. He will not 
voluntarily augment that wonder which his de- 
parture from the less innocent fashions of the 
world must excite. The wonder will be suffi- 
ciently great, why, in stronger cases, hp should 
subject himself to a discipline different from 
theirs, and they will ask where is the use of 
aiming to be better than those whom they call 
good ? 

By the cheerful alacrity with which he per- 
forms and receives all acts of kindness, he gives 
the best answer to Lord Shaftsbury's character 
of Christianity, ' that it is so taken up with the 
care of our future happiness, as to throw away 
all the present:' a sneer which is about as true 
as the other sarcasms of this eloquent but super- 
ficial reasoner ; for if religion does call for some 
sacrifices of pleasure and of profit, yet every 
part of its practice increases our real happiness, 
by the augmentation of our own virtue, as much 
as it advances that of others ; by its promotion 
of kindness, beneficence, good will, and good 
order. 

He not only refuses his time and his example 
io scenes of luxury and dissipation ; his super- 
fluous wealth has also a higher destination ; he 
must not however, be expected to aim at a pri- 



mitive frugality, many of the superfluities of 
life having in some measure, become classed 
among its necessaries. The spirit of a Chris- 
tian can never be a penurious spirit. His ha- 
bits of living will be proportioned to his rank 
and fortune, taking, however, the average ex- 
penditure of many of the more discreet. He 
will never, even on religious grounds, by the 
example of parsimony, furnish the sordid with 
a pretence for accumulation. 

He has another powerful motive for avoiding 
extravagance. He knows that a well regulated 
economy is the only infallible source of inde- 
pendence. He will not therefore, lavish in idle 
splendour a fortune, that he may be driven to 
recruit by sacrifices, which by robbing him of 
his freedom, will diminish his virtue. He thinks 
that what Tacitus has said of a public exche- 
quer is not less true of a private purse, that what 
is exhausted by profligacy, must be repaid by 
rapacity. This incommodious rectitude will 
expose him to the dislike of less correct men ; 
tor, after all thafr has been urged against the 
adoption of religious doctrines, it is not so much 
the strictness of opinion, as of practice, which 
renders a man obnoxious. 

He may be of any religion he pleases, pro 
vided he will live like those who have none. If 
he be convivial and accommodating, they will 
not care if he worship Brama and Veeshnoo 
though they would not perhaps forgive his pro- 
fessing the Hindoo faith, if it involved the neces- 
sity of their dining with him upon rice ; nor 
would he be paidoned for embracing the doc- 
trines of the Arabian Prophet while the Koran 
continues to prohibit the use of wine. 

Though pleasure is not the leading object of 
his pursuit, he yet finds more than those, who 
spend their lives in pursuit of nothing else. He 
finds the range of innocent and elegant enjoy- 
ment sufficiently ample and attractive, without 
being driven for a resource, to the disqualifying 
grossness of sensuality or the relaxing allure- 
ments of dissipation. The fine arts, in all their 
lovely and engaging forms of beauty, the ever 
new delights of literature, whether wooed in its 
lighter graces, or sought in its more substan- 
tial attractions, the exchange 

From grave to gay, from lively to severe, 

shed sweet, and varied, and exhaustless charms 
on his leisure hours, and send him back with 
renewed freshness, added vigour, and increased 
animation to his necessary employments. 

Though the strictly pious man is more ex- 
posed to temptation in the world than in retire- 
ment, yet he finds in it reasons which stimulate 
him to more circumspection. He is aware that 
he lies more open to observation, and of course 
to censure. As he is more observed by others, 
he more carefully observes himself. He watches 
his own faults with the same vigilance with 
which worldly men watch the faults of others, 
and for the same reason, that he may turn them 
to his own profit; the more he is surrounded 
with temptations, the more he is driven to feel 
his want of divine protection. If his talents or 
exertions are flattered, he flics more earnestly 
to his direction, ' from whom cometh every good 
and perfect gift.' We aooeal to the pious rea- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



905 



der, whether he does not frequently feel more 
circumspect and less confident in society from 
which he fears deterioration, than in that on 
which he depends for improvement ; whether he 
does not feel a sort of perilous security in com- 
pany, in which an expansion of heart lessons 
his self-distrust ; and whether he has never, by 
leaning on the friend, looked less to Him ' with- 
out whom nothing is strong, nothing is holy. 

If in debate he is sometimes accused of show- 
ing too much warmth in defence of religion, 
while its opponent, by his superior calmness, 
establishes his own character for moderation 
and good temper, it is because it costs the latter 
little to manifest a coolness which is the natural 
effect of indifference. — The man who plays for 
nothing needs not be moved whatever turn the 
game may take ; while he, whose dearest in- 
terests are at stake, will not easily hide the 
emotion which he cannot but feel. When king 
Soloman decreed, as a test of affection, that the 
living child should be cut in pieces, the pretend- 
ed mother calmly submitted to the decision. — 
She had nothing to lose. Her hope was dead. 
She would enjoy seeing her competitor reduced 
to her own desolate state; while the real mo- 
ther, who had a vital interest in the object to be 
sacrificed, was tortured at the proposal. The 
genuineness of the feeling betrayed the reality 
of the relation. 

The Christian, circumstanced as we have de- 
scribed him, hardly dares wish for an uninter- 
rupted smooth and prosperous course ; for, 
though he endeavours to sit loose to the world, 
every severe disappointment or privation makes 
him fe^l that he still clings too fondly for it ; 
every trial and every loss, therefore, make him 
relax something of the firmness of his grasp. 

Is your Christian, then, perfect, you will 
perhaps ask ? Ask himself. With deep and 
sincere self-abasement he will answer in the 
negative. He will not only confess more fail- 
ings than even his accusers ascribe to him, but 
he will own what (hey do not always charge him 
with — sins. He will acknowledge that there is no 
natural difference between himself and his cen- 
surer, but that, through divine grace, the one 
praysand struggles against those corruptions, the 
very existence of which the other does not sus- 
8pect. 

The peace of the confirmed Christian lies not 
at the mercy of events. As on the agitated 
ocean, storms and tempests never divert the 
faithful needle from its invariable object, so the 
distractions of the world shake not his confi- 
dence in Him who governs it. He remembers 
that these winds and waves are still bearing 
him onward to his haven, while on the stormy 
passage, they enable him to exhibit a trying 
but a constant evidence that God may be hon- 
oured in all, even in the most unpromising 
situations. Even in the worst condition, a real 
Christian is sure of the presence of his Maker, 
not only of his essential presence, which he has 
in common with all, but the presence of his 
grace ; not only the sense of his being, but 
the support of his promise. God never appoints 
his servants to a difficult station, but he gives 
them the assurance of assistance in it, and of 
support under it. The solemn injunction, ' Be 



strong and work,' thrice repeated by the pro- 
phet, to reprove the dilatory builders of the se- 
cond temple, was effectually enforced by the 
animating promise which followed it; / will be 
with you. When the disciples were sent forth 
by their divine Master to the grandest, but most 
perilous task, to which embassadors were ever 
appointed, they must have sunk under the con- 
flicts which awaited, the dangers which threat- 
ened, and the deaths which met them ; but the 
single promise I will be with you, was to them 
strength, and light, and life. The Christian 
militant, though called to a milder warfare, has 
the same reiterated assurance ; / will be with 
you always even to the end of the world. 



CHAP. XXV. 

Candidas. 

Candidus is a genuine son of the Reforma- 
tion but being a layman, he does not think it 
necessary to define his faith so constantly as 
some others do, by an incessant reference to 
the Liturgy, Articles, and Homilies; though 
this reference would accurately express his sen- 
timents: but, he observes, that it is become a 
kind of party stanriard equally erected by each 
side in intended opposition to the other, so that 
the equivocal ensign would not determine to 
which he belongs. He gives, however, the 
most indisputable proof of his zeal for these 
formularies, by the invariable conformity of 
his life and language to their principles. 

From the warmth of his feelings, and the 
strength of his attachment to the church which 
fostered him, Candidus was once in no little 
danger of becoming a vehement party-man ; he 
was, however, cured by a certain reluctance he 
found in his heart to undertake to hate half the 
world, which he found must be a necessary con- 
sequence. — Observation soon taught him, that 
Christians would be far more likely to escape 
the attack of unbelievers, if they could be 
brought to agree among themselves; but he saw 
with regret, that religion, instead of being con- 
sidered as a common cause, was split into fac- 
tions, so that the general interest was neglect- 
ed, not to say, in some instances, nearly be- 
trayed. And while the liege subjects of the 
same sovereign are carrying on civil war for 
petty objects and inconsiderable spots of ground, 
that strength, which should have been concen- 
trated for the general defence, is spent in mu- 
tual skirmishes, and mischievous though unim- 
portant hostilities; and that veneration of course 
forfeited, with which even the acknowledged 
enemy would have been compelled to behold an 
united Church. 

Candidus is, however, firm in his attachments - 
though not exacting in his requisitions; catho 
lie, but not latitudinarian ; tolerant, not from 
indifference, but principle. He contemplates, 
with admiration, the venerable fabric und^r 
whose shelter he is protected. He adheres to it, 
not so much from habit as affection. His ad- 
herence is the effect of conviction, otherwise 
his tenacity might be prejudice. It is founded 
in education, strengthened by reflection, and 



206 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



confirmed by experience. But though he con- 
templates our ecclesiastical institutions with fili. 
al reverence himself, he allows for the effect of 
education, habit and conscience in others, who 
do not view them with his eyes. He is sorry 
for those who refuse to enter into her portal ; he 
is more sorry for those who depart out of it, but 
far more concerned is he, for those who remain 
within her pale, with a temper hostile to her in- 
terests, with principles foreign to her genius, 
with a conduct unsanclified by her spirit. 

Like a true lover, he delights not to expatiate 
on any imperfection she may have; but he will 
not, like an ab urd lover, insist on any imper- 
fection as an excellence. Persuaded that a mole 
or a pimple is no material diminution of beauty, 
he will no more magnify them into a deformity 
than he will deny their existence. His mind is 
so occupied with essential points, and so satisfied 
with their substantial worth, that he relinquishes 
whatever is of no vital importance to those mi- 
croscopic eyes, which, being able to take in only 
the diminutive, value themselves on the detec- 
tion of specks, as a discovery of their own, though 
keener eyes had discovered them long before, 
but slighted them as insignificant. Satisfied 
that it is the best of all the churches which ex- 
ist, he never troubles himself to inquire if it is 
the best that is possible. In the church of En- 
gland he is contented with excellence, and is sa- 
tisfied to wait for perfection till he is admitted a 
member of the Church triumphant. 

Candidus made early the discovery of a secret 
which Charles the Fifth did not discover, till by 
his ignorance of it, he had thinned the human 
race — the incurable diversity of human opini- 
ons. This irremediable difference he turned to 
its only practical purpose, not the vain endea- 
vour to convince others, but the less hopeless 
aim of improving his own forbearance. He even 
doubted whether this disagreement, though a 
misfortune in the aggregate, was not even more 
calculated to promote individual piety, than an 
uniformity which would not have called this 
feeling into exercise. 

The more he examines Scripture (and he is 
habitually examining it,) the more be is per- 
suaded that the principles of his church are 
identically with the word of God ; while he is 
enabled, by the same examination, to drink more 
deeply into that spirit of love, which warms his 
heart with kindness towards every conscientious 
Christian, who on some points thinks differently. 
His attachment is definite, but his charity knows 
no limits. 

He observes that the loudest clamour for the 
Establishment is not always raised by the most 
pious, nor the most affectionate of her disciples ; 
he therefore does not rejoice when he sees her 
honoured name hoisted as a political signal by 
those, who are careless of her spiritual prospe- 
rity ; and he sometimes finds no inconsiderable 
difference between those who toast her, and 
those who study to promote her best interests ; 
though the former obtain the reputation, which 
the others are only solicitous to deserve. He 
evinces nis own affection by his zeal in defend- 
ing her cause when attacked, by his prudence in 
never causelessly provoking the attack. Anxi- 
ous that the walls of the sacred temple should 



be impregnable, he is still more anxious that the 
fires of her altars should burn with undecaying 
brightness; and that while her guardians are 
properly watching over the security of the one, 
the flame of the other be not extinguished. He 
gives the most unequivocal proof that he attends 
faithfully to her doctrines, by never separating 
them from her precepts, while he endeavours to 
incorporate both into his practice; adorning 1 
them hy his example, recommending them in 
his writings, and illustrating them in his con. 
versation. 

If he produce little sensation among the in- 
temperate, whoexhibit their fidelity to the church 
by always representing her as on the very verge 
of destruction ; yet he would, were the danger 
present, go greater lengths in her defence than 
some of her more declamatory champions; nay 
he does more now to avert her ruin, and they 
who seem to make her safety depend on their 
clamour. If he is not perpetually predicting 
open war, he is watchful against the hollow se- 
curity of a false peace. The most difficult but 
not the least important part of his care, is not 
more to vindicate her against avowed enemies, 
than against friends at once vociferous and 
supine. 

Candidus, though a good lover, is a bad hater, 
and it is this defect of hatred, which with a cer- 
tain class, brings his love into suspicion. He 
has observed some who evince their attachment 
by their virulence against what they disapprove, 
rather than by cultivating, in support of what is 
right, that spirit which is ' first pure, then peace- 
able,' and which, if it be not peaceable, is not 
pure. — These are more remarkable for their 
dread of external evils, than their solicitude for 
the promotion of internal piety. Their religion 
consists rather in repulsion than attraction. On 
the other hand, it must be observed, that Candi- 
dus has none of that pliancy which, in this re- 
laxed aee, obtains in a different quarter, the 
praise of liberality from those who, thinking one 
religion about as good as another, are of course 
tolerant of any, because Indifferent to all. 

He has learned from the errors of two oppo- 
site parties, that fanaticism teaches men to de- 
spise religion, and bigotry to hate it. He knows 
that his candour is esteemed laxity by the pre- 
judiced, and his firmness intolerance hy the ir- 
religious. There is, however, no ambiguity in 
his moderation ; and he never, for the sake of 
popularity with either party, leaves it doubtful 
on what ground he takes his stand. Nor does 
he ever renounce a right principle, because one 
party abuses it, or another denies its existence ; 
and while he deprecates the assumption of names 
by impostors, it does not alter his opinion of the 
things they originally signified; for instance, ho 
does not think patriotism is a romance, nor dis- 
interestedness a chimera, nor fervent piety a 
delusion,- nor charity unorthodox ; nor a saint 
necessarily a hypocrite. 

He observes among his acquaintance, that 
there arc some who sedulously endeavour to fix 
the brand of fanaticism on certain doctrines, 
which both the Bible and the Church not only 
recognize, but consider as fundamental, as the 
key-stone of the sacred arch on the strength of 
which our whole superstructure rests. These 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



207 



doctrines, while they eject them from their own 
creed, they confound, in the creed of others, 
with certain dangerous opinions, with which 
they are by no means necessarily connected, 
though they uniformly charge those who adopl 
the one class with invariably maintaining the 
other. It is in vain that, the persons so charged 
disavow the opinions ; it is to no purpose that 
they only desire to be allowed to know what they 
hold, and what they reject. 

Candidus, however, undaunted by clamour, 
and unmoved by insinuation, tenaciously main- 
tains the doctrine of human apostacy, of salva- 
tion by grace through faith, and of the influence 
of the Holy Spirit in renovating the heart. In 
heravowal of man's corruption, he insists that the 
church of England is most emphatical. 'Read,' 
said he one day, in earnest conversation with 
one whom he could scarcely consider but as a 
virtual Socinian within the pale of the Establish- 
ment, * read the pointed and explicit confession 
with which her service opens.' — He holds the 
same language with some others tto whom the 
Church is a higher anthnrity than the Bible, in 
regard to a subject next in connexion with that 
of human weakness, namely, the agency of the 
Divine Spirit ; he remarks that both these doc- 
trines are recognized in every prayer and in 
every office ; that they are especially acknow- 
ledged in the Collects, those brief but beautiful 
effusions of devotion, which, for strength of ex- 
pression, condensation of the sense, and neat- 
ness of composition, not only surpass every thing 
in the age in which they were composed, but re- 
main unrivalled in the similar addresses of our 
own time, whose best praise it is, that, in this 
period of fine writing, our petitionary forms are 
accounted more or less excellent, as they ap- 
proach nearer, or recede farther from, those mo- 
dels. ' Read their self-abasing acknowledgments 
— ' Thou, God, who seest that we put not our 
trust in any thing that we do' — ' O God, foras- 
much as without Thee we are not able to please 
Thee' — ' Because the frailty of man without 
Thee cannot but fall' — ' Grant that we, who can- 
not do any thing that is good without Thee, 
may, by Thee, be enabled to live according to 
thy will' — 'Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts 
by the inspiration of Thy holy Spirit' — ' Be- 
cause, through the weakness of our mortal na- 
ture, we can do no good thing without Thee, 
grant us the help of Thy grace.' 

But there would be no end of enumeration. 
The same doctrines run through, and are incor- 
porated with, the whole Liturgy. To get rid 
of them, m-ere omissions would be altogether in- 
sufficient, we must tear up the whole web, we 
must weave another, we must weave it too with 
new materials ; for the old threads would retain 
the colour of the old doctrines, and communicate 
the original character to the new piece ; it is 
not only the old form that must be new cast, 
but new principles that must be infused, a new 
train of sentiments that must be adopted, in 
short a new religion that must be substituted. 

Candidus observes, that it is a proof how dif- 
ferent the views of some of our contemporaries 
are on this subject from those of the primitive 
church, that while, with some of the former, di- 
vine influence is a theme of derision rather than 



of reverence ; in the other, whatever was puro 
and holy, was ascribed to its operation. At the 
same time, being a diligent reader of ecclesias- 
tical history, as well as an accurate observer of 
what passes before his eyes, he is aware what 
abuses have been and are still practised, and 
what deceits carried on, under pretence of being 
the work of the Spirit. The importance of the 
doctrine accounts for the imitations and coun- 
terfeits to which it is exposed ; and he knows 
that the abuse of a thing is always pernicious in 
proportion to its excellence. The Old and New 
Testament abound with instances. To those of 
the former St. Peter reverts to guard his con- 
verts from those of the latter — 'There were false 
prophets among the people, even as there snail 
be false teachers among you.' Another Apostle 
warns his hearers against the mischiefs which 
he himself had seen produced by these impious 
pretenders, by instructing them to ' try the spi- 
rits, whether they be of God.' Hence Candidus 
advises, with an able divine,* to try the spirits 
ourselves, not by putting them upon supernatu- 
ral work, but to try them by a more infallible 
rule — by the doctrine they teach, that is, by its 
invariableconformity with Scripture. He thinks 
the same rule and the same necessity subsist 
now, in as full force, as when the injunction was 
given. 

Candidus is aware that it is necessary, not 
only to be accurate in the use of his own terms, 
but to be on his guard against being misled by 
the inaccuracy of the terms employed by others. 
He therefore takes care to ascertain the charac- 
ter and temper of the man by whom any ambi- 
guous term is used, as well as of him to whom 
the term is applied ; without this caution he 
could not decide on the justness of the applica- 
tion. Even the founder of the Epicurean sect 
could say, a man cannot live happily without 
living wisely. Now, though every man, what- 
ever be his principles, must assent to this truth 
as a general proposition, yet the phrase, ' living 
wisely,' conveyed a very different idea in the 
school of an atheistical philosopher, to what it 
would have conveyed in the follower of Zeno, and 
more especially in the disciple of Christ. En- 
thusiasm is one of these ambiguous terms. 

Candidus is prudent on a principle which is 
sometimes denied. He Considers that prudence 
is, in an ardent cnaracter, more likely to be an 
effect of grace than even zeal ; because in the 
exercise of zeal he is indulging his natural tem- 
per, whereas, in the other case he is subduing 
it ; and he has found that to resist a propensity 
is generally more the effect of principle than to 
gratify it. — Hence, he infers that if resistance be 
a work of grace, the sluggish and the cold heart, 
ed may judge of their own conquest over nature 
by a superinduced zeal, while he presumes he is 
conquering his own vehemence by a superinduced 
prudence ; thus the same truth is illustrated by 
directly opposite instances. 

Against enthusiasm, therefore, it is unneces. 
sary to caution the discreet and enlightened 
Candidus. He avoids it as naturally as a wise 
man avoids folly, as a sober man shuns extrava- 
gance. But then it is the thing itself, and not 

• Dr. Owen 



208 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



what bigots call so ; it is the real entity, and not 
the spectre, against which he is on his guard ; 
for not being superstitious, he is not terrified by 
phantoms and goblins. He laments when he 
encounters a real enthusiast, because he knows 
that, even if honest, he is pernicious. But though 
he thinks him highly blameable, he does not 
think him worse ' than murderers of fathers, and 
murderers of mothers.' He thinks enthusiasm 
mischievous, but he does not think it worse than 
impiety, worse than intemperance, worse than 
infidelity, worse than intolerance, worse than any 
other flagitious vice ; especially he does not think 
it worse than all the other vices put together. 
Yet this he might be almost tempted to believe 
was the case, when he sees other vices compa- 
ratively left to enjoy themselves, and this dough- 
ty enormity, imaginary as well as real, singly 
attacked with the combined force of all the wea- 
pons which ought to be in turn applied to the 
whole family of sin. As he is very skilful in 
symptoms, he takes care to ascertain evident 
marks of the mania, palpable diagnostics of the 
rabid bite, before he pronounces on the disease, 
or proceeds to secure himself from the conta- 
gion. 

By his well- exercised judgment, he can gene- 
rally discover the diffeient causes of the actual 
distemper. He can distinguish whether the pa- 
tient is sick of a deluded imagination, or from 
having been in contact with the infected ; whe- 
ther he is mismanaged by artful, or injured by 
ignorant prescribers ; whether the malady lies 
in the weakness of his natural powers, the agi- 
tation of his animal spirits, or the vanity of his 
mind — whether it be an inflammation on the 
brain, or a tumour in the heart — some or all of 
these appearances commonly indicating the fa- 
natical fever. In either case he heartily sub- 
scribes to the reality and danger of the. distem- 
per, but even then he does not positively pro- 
nounce that the weak are wicked, or the disor- 
dered counterfeits. 

But if, as is not seldom the case, he finds the 
appellation conferred only because the objects 
of it are deeply sensible of the unspeakable im- 
portance of religion, and the infinite value of 
eternal things — because they are no more afraid 
of feeling than of understanding the great truths 
of Christianity — because they think their souls 
are not a property to be complimented away 
through fear : if he find, that with all their 
warmth they are rational, with all their zeal 
they are humble, with all their energy they are 
consistent, with all their spirituality they are 
sober; if they obey the precepts of the Gospel 
as fai h fully as they believe its doctrines — if 
their religion do not lie more in profession than 
in performance — if they give a striking evi- 
dence of their love of God, by their tenderness 
to their fellow-creatures — if they are as liberal 
to their bodily wants, as those are, who forget 
to take tneir souls into the account — if their 
piety appear as much in their practice as in their 
discourse, and their prudence keep pace with 
their earnestness, then he will not bo forward to 
impute to them, as the unpardonable sin, those 
animated sentiments which are to themselves 
' peace and joy in believing,' and to others be- 
nignity, pbilaDthrooy, and kindness. 



And as he does not call well-directed zeal 
fanaticism, nor generous ardour delirium, so he 
does not rank those who believe in the omnipo 
tence of divine grace among the enemies to vir- 
tuous action, nor does he suspect that the advo. 
cates for strenuous exertion are sworn foes to 
faith. Nor does he ever disavow a doctrine 
which he has adopted on conviction, because it 
may happen to be associated in the mind of 
another man, with other doctrines which he 
himself cannot adopt. And as he knows some- 
thing of the internal constitution of the human 
heart and the nature of religious affections, he 
distinguishes between the sanguine temper of 
youth, between that warmth, which, in a rightly 
turned mind, time will cool, and experience tem- 
per, and which will retain no more than a due 
degree of spirit, when its first effervescence has 
subsided ; he distinguishes this spirit from that 
blind zeal and headlong violence, which, as they 
are a part of no religion, so they are a discredit 
to any. 

He has observed, that the reason why we see 
such misshapen representation of religion sot 
up for the finger of reproach or ridicule to point 
at, is, that the reviler has not been looking out 
for truth ; he has not taken his draught, we will 
not say from the highest model, but from the 
fair average of serious Christians ; but he has 
taken it from the lowest specimen of what he 
has seen, and even more commonly from the 
distorted report of others. He was looking out 
for absurdity, .and where it is studiously sought, 
it will not be difficult to find ; and, if not, found, 
it will be easily imagined. This caricature he 
produces as the representative of the whole body; 
taking care, however, to preserve in his portrait 
just resemblance enough to show a feature or 
two of the real face, that the disgusting and 
exaggerated physiognomy may not prevent its 
being recognized. If no glimpse of likeness 
could be traced, it would not answer the end ; 
it would answer it still less, if the prevailing 
character of the piece were not deformity. 

Candidus is persuaded that, of every combina- 
tion of wickedness with folly which Satan has 
devised, hypocrisy is the greatest, as being the 
most generally unprofitable. The hypocrite is 
sure of buing the abhorrence of both sides of 
the question. Where his duplicity is not sus- 
pected, the world hates hiin for the appearance 
of piety ; God, who knows the heart, hates him 
for the abuse and affectation of it. But, though 
Candidus deprecates hypocrisy, he is cautious 
of suspecting it on light grounds, still more of 
charging it home without proof. As he is not 
omniscient, he cannot be quite sure that any 
man who appears more than usually pious is a 
hypocrite, nor does he so denominate him on 
that single ground. As he cannot scrutinize his 
heart, he judges him by his actions, and leaves 
him to settle his motive with his Maker. 

On the whole, if he meet with a man, the 
consistency of whose life give- Wronger evidence 
of the reality and depth of nio religion, than 
other men, he is reluctant in suspecting him 
either of hypocrisy or enthusiasm. So far from 
it, he will find his own faith strengthened, his 
own victory over the world confirmed, his own 
indifference to human applause increased, bv 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



209 



euch a living exemplification of the truth of 
Christianity, and calmly leave it to the incon- 
siderate, the incompetent, and the malevolent, to 
stigmatize the character which he reveres. 

They who, when they observe eminent piety 
and zeal much above low water-mark, insinuate 
that such symptoms in the more animated Chris- 
tian prove his tendency to be a separatist, pay a 
very wretched compliment to the established 
church. Is it not implying, that her service is 
not sufficiently high and enlarged to satisfy an 
energetic spirit ; that she does not possess at- 
tractions to engage, and materials to fill, and 
spirit to warm a devout mind, but that a supe- 
rior degree of earnestness will be in danger of 
driving its possessor to stray without her pale 
in search of richer pastures ? Is it not virtually 
6aying one of two things, either that a fervent 
piety is bad, or that the church is not good. 

With Candidus, this is so far from being the 
case, he is so little 'given to change,' that he 
rejoices in belonging to a church of whose for- 
mularies we have already seen how much he 
had to say in commendation. In these stand- 
ards he rejoices to see truth, as it were, pinned 
down, hedged in, and as far as is possible, in 
this mutable world, preserved and perpetuated. 
Her significant and spiritual ordinances, and 
the large infusion of Scripture in her offices and 
Liturgy, secure her from the fluctuations of hu- 
man opinion; so that, if ever the principles of 
any of her ministers should degenerate, her ser- 
vice would be protected from the vicissitude. 
No sentiments but those of her prescribed ritual 
can ever find their way into the desk, and the 
desk will always be a safe and permanent 
standard for the pulpit itself, as well as a test by 
which others may ascertain its purity. 

He values her government for the same rea- 
son for which he values her Liturgy, because it 
gives a definite bound to the inclosure, never 
forgetting that the fruit inclosed is of deeper 
importance than the fence which incloses. He 
always remembers, however, that, at no very 
remote period, when the hedge was broken 
down, disorder and misrule overspread the fair 
vineyard. 

Among other doctrines, he is an accurate 
studier of the doctrine of proportions, in what- 
ever regards the ecclesiastical institution. 
Though he cordially approves her form and dis- 
cipline, though he believes they are not only 
essential to her dignity, but necessary to her 
existence, yet he discriminates between what is 
subordinate and what is supreme. If the one 
is the body, the other is the soul. It is to her 
strenuously maintaining the doctrines of the 
New Testament, that he looks for her preserva- 
tion. This is her Palladium. Nor does it more 
resemble the fabled statue of Ilium, because, 
like that, it fell from heaven to earth, than in 
its having dropped down while the Prince was 
building the citadel. 

If he adopt the Liturgy for his model, it is 
because he perceives how completely she has 
adopted the Bible for hers, in never giving un- 
due prominence to one doctrine to the dispa- 
ragement of the rest ; like her he appreciates 
and settles them according to their due degrees 
of importance. 

Vol. II. O 



Among his many reasons for venerating the 
church of England, the principal is that she is 
an integral and distinguished portion of the 
Church of Christ. In the specific he never loses 
sight of the generick character ; as a Church- 
man, he is first a Christian and a Protestant 
The ramification, so far from separating him 
from the root, unites him more closely to it. If 
he bear much fruit, it is because he is inserted 
into the true vine. Though quicksighted to 
what he conceives to be the errors, he does libe- 
ral justice to whatever is valuable in other com- 
munities. In many members of those which 
differ from his own, more in forms of govern- 
ment than in any of the essentials of doctrine 
he sees powerful ability and sound learning to 
admire, and much substantial piety to venerate. 
Even with regard to that church, from the cor- 
ruptions and spiritual tyranny of which our own 
has been providentially rescued, he acknow 
ledges much excellence in those missals from 
which our own ritual was partly extracted ; he 
sees in many of her writers a genius, a sublimi 
ty, and an unction that rarely have been sur 
passed. In short, he exercises charity and kind- 
ness to all sects and all parties, except one, a 
sect which has. lately been well animadverted 
on. It is not, indeed, a distinct sect ; it is not 
a separate community, for then his prudence 
might escape all contact with it, but it is one, 
whose sloth, producing the same insinuating ef- 
fect which the subtlety of the Jesuits formerly 
produced, wihout giving us, like the school Loy- 
ola, any hope of its extinction, has found means 
to thrust not a few of its followers into every re- 
ligious denomination and society in the world — 
(he sect of the non-doers. 

In these worst of sectaries, no vaunting pro- 
fession of faith, no flaming display of oxthodoxy, 
no clamour for favourite, no hostility against 
reprobated doctrines, no outcry for or against 
the church or the state, will ever raise them in 
his estimation. He accounts them the barren 
fig-tree of every community in whose soil they 
spring up. They may, indeed, claim to belong 
to it, but it is as the worm belongs to the root, 
the canker to the bud, the excrescence to the 
healthful body. 

In the constitution of the established church 
Candidus approves the degrees of rank and dig- 
nity, and the gradations of income. But, if he 
never entertains a desire that the highest were 
lower, he cannot help breathing a cordial wish 
that the lowest were higher. Convinced, how- 
ever, that every thing human is in its very na- 
ture imperfect, he consoles himself with the 
hope, a hope which is confirmed by actual in- 
stances, that some of the most highly endowed 
will be examples of christian liberality, and some 
of the most lowly, of patient submission ; so 
that their several portions may, while they ena- 
ble them to furnish a pattern to others, minister 
to their own eternal good. 

But evils which he cannot remove, he will 
never aggravate. He holds it criminal even 
to agitate questions which only fester and in- 
flame the wounds they are meant to cure ; he 
knows that fruitless discussion may irritate, 
but seldom heals; that querelous animadver 
sions on irremediable grievances only serve 



210 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



by stirring up discontent, to excite insubordi- 
nation. 

He respects every order and degree among 
them for the Lord's sake ; and, if a case should 
occur in which he cannot honour the man, he 
will honour his office. If called on for his opi- 
nion as to any defect, his censures are discreet ; 
if not called upon, he is silent. But if his cen- 
sures, whon just,-are temperate ; his commenda- 
tions, when merited, are cordial. Above all, he 
holds the practice to be equally dishonest, disin- 
genuous and vulgar, to make communities and 
bodies answerable for the faults and errors of 
individuals ; while he never commends or vin- 
dicates any thing decidedly wrong, either in in- 
dividuals or in communities. 



CHAP. XXVI. 

The established Christian. 

We have it on the authority of a fine writer, 
that, not to know what occurred before we were 
born, is to be always a child. Yet while the in- 
tellect may be improved to the highest pitch by 
this antecedent knowledge, the will and the pas- 
sions may, notwithstanding our study of the 
most elaborate discussions on their nature and 
effects, remain in the same state of childish im- 
becility. History and philosophy, though they 
inform the understanding, and assist the judg- 
ment, cannot rectify the obliquities of the heart. 

The experience of all past ages has produced 
such an accumulated mass of disappointment, 
such a long unbroken series of mortification, 
such a reiterated conviction of the emptiness of 
this world, and of the insufficiency of its power 
to confer happiness, that one would be ready to 
imagine, that to every fresh generation, nay to 
every period of the life of every individual in 
every generation, wisdom would not have all 
her admonitions to begin over again. One 
would not think that the same truths require, 
not only to be afresh pressed upon us, but to be 
again unfolded ; to be repeated as if all previous 
experiment had never been tried, as if all fore- 
going admonition had either never been given, 
or had been completely obliterated; as if the 
world were about to begin on a fresh stock of 
materials, to set out on an untried set of princi- 
ples, as if it were about to enter on an original 
course of action of which preceding ages had 
left no precedent ; on a line of conduct of which 
our forefathers had bequeathed no instances of 
failure, had experienced no defeat of expecta- 
tion. 

We read perpetually of multitudes, who lived 
in the long indulgence of unbounded appetite, 
who in the gratification of every desire, has 
drained the world to its last dregs ; but does the 
narrative of ages record a single instance, that 
the end proposed and followed up in the fervent 
pursuit, I mean happiness, was ever attained ? 
We contemplate those recorded examples, we 
lament the disgusts, and pity the mortifications 
of the disappointed ; but who applies the know- 
ledge to any practical use, to any personal pur- 
pose We are informed, but we are not instruct- 



ed. We resolve, in full confidence'of our own 
wisdom, and complete contempt for that of our 
predecessors, to make the experiment for our- 
selves. We, too, pursue the same end, and pro- 
bably by the same path ; secure that we shall 
escape the mistakes into which others have fallen, 
assured that we shall avoid the evils which they 
have incurred, evils which we attribute to their 
ignorance, or their neglect, to their error, or 
their indiscretion. 

We set out fresh adventurers in the old tract 
We weary our wits, we waste our fortune, we 
exhaust our spirits. Still we are persuaded that 
we have devised the expedient of which our pre- 
cursors were ignorant ; that we have hit on tho 
very discovery which had eluded their search ; 
that we have found the ingredient, which they, 
in mixing up the grand compound, earthly hap- 
piness, had overlooked. 

The natural and pressing object of our desire 
is present enjoyment; those, therefore, who gra- 
tify our wayward fancies, or remove from us any 
immediate inconvenience, are sure of our favour. 
On them we seize as instruments for promoting 
our schemes of gratification, forgetting that they 
have schemes of their own to promote ; that they 
are equally looking to us for our instrumentality ; 
and that, if they are making any undue sacri- 
fices to us, it i3 but in order to the furtherance 
of those schemes. Such is mere worldly friend- 
ship. As the intellectual eye seldom runs along 
the whole train of consequences, which is the 
only true way of taking our measure of things, 
the same principle which attaches us to the 
friend who is humouring us, makes us murmur 
at the dispensations of Him who is correcting 
us, dispensations which, though painful at the 
moment, may, by a train of circumstances of 
which we know neither the design nor the pro-, 
cess, be insuring to us future benefits. But 
having no clear perception of remote good, we 
have no very ardent desires after it. Our short 
sightedness concurs with our selfishness in 
making this false estimate. 

Divine goodness, which we perhaps have hi- 
therto withstood, at length when He who gives 
the grace gives the desire, touches the heart so 
long closed against it. The still small voico 
which was drowned in the noise and tumult of 
the world is at length heard, and, through longer 
forbearance, and farther communications of that 
grace, is at length obeyed. Religion operating 
on the convictions of the heart, and our humili- 
ty improving with the experience of our own 
mistakes, gradually remove the veil through 
which we had hitherto beheld the world. 

As the heavenly light grows stronger, the 
false lights, drawn from the exhalations of sen- 
suality and self-indulgence, which at once glim- 
mer and mislead, are quenched. The day-star 
begins to dawn. In the clearer atmosphere, ob- 
jects assume their proper shape ; every thing 
appears in its true colours. The mind is insen- 
sibly disenchanted, the views take another turn. 
As the eye attains a more distinct sight, the de- 
sires acquire a juster aim. We discover that 
the best things on earth have an inseparable im- 
perfection appended to them. Referring to our 
past experience, or present clearer observation 
of things, we find that the delights which we 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



211 



fancied were indefectible are dying away ; we 
find that pleasure dissolves, wit misleads, riches 
corrupt, power intoxicates, hope deceives, pos- 
session disappoints ; — and, which now stamps 
upon our renewed feelings the deepest impres- 
sion of the vanity of human things, difficulties 
Bink our spirits, success agitates them ; we find 
that what we want, we desire with a painful ar- 
dency ; what we have, we either fear to enjoy, 
or the enjoyment is poisoned by the fear of losing 
it; and the intense delight could not long be 
borne, even if it could be obtained. The con- 
victions of the Christian being settled, he is now 
desirous of imparting the benefits of his own ex- 
perience to his younger friends, who, in their 
turn, commonly reject the transfer, thinking 
him to be as much mistaken as he had formerly 
thought his predecessors ; like him, they prefer 
the experiment to the advice, the risk to the 
caution. 

The sober thinker is now convinced, that be- 
tween the fever of desire, the uncertainty of at- 
tainment, the disappointment attending what is 
attained, the alternation of hope and fear, the 
dread of the worst tilings, and the insuppressible 
sense of the brevity of the best, the mere man 
of the world can never be substantially happy. 
The Christian thus warned, thus wakened, is 
thankful, not for the mistakes he has committed, 
but for the salutary vexations that have attended 
them. The monitory wisdom of past ages rises 
in his esteem, in the same proportion as his own 
sinks. Above all, he has found, that there is 
no infallible wisdom but in the oracles of inspi- 
ration ; there he looks for whatever is ' profita- 
ble for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for 
instruction in righteousness.' There only he 
has found, that the ' man of God may be tho- 
roughly furnished unto all good works.' 

In perusing the sacred records, he even de- 
rives consolation from what he has been, a source 
of derision to the profane, and of wonder to the 
ignorant — the fidelity with which the inspired 
writers have exhibited holy men, in the most 
censurable instances of their conduct, and in the 
lowest stages of their hope and confidence. He 
there beholds the chosen servants of God wading 
through doubts and apprehensions, assaulted by 
temptations, perplexed by trials. Had they ne- 
ver been presented but in their happier seasons, 
but in their triumphs, and their victories, the 
comparison with his own failures, with his own 
occasional depressions and fluctuations, would 
have sunk his spirits which they now support, 
would have weakened his faith which they now 
confirm. 

He rejoices in the Gospel as a stream flowing 
from the fountain of love and mercy, the spring 
of all spiritual life and motion ; he finds that ge- 
nuine Christianity differs from every other good, 
as spirit differs from matter. It establishes the 
foundation of happiness as well as goodness ; and 
both, not on any supposed merit in the recipient, 
but on the free mercy and voluntary grace of 
God. While it exacts obedience to tho divine 
law, it shows that the requisition cannot be com- 
plied with, but by divine assistance ; what it 
commands, it bestows ; if it requires the will, it 
confers the power. 

In tho retrospect of his past life, he is astr> 



nished at the patience and forbearance of Goa 
under his own repeated provocations ; especially 
he reflects with wonder, that the very prosperity 
which had been the special gift of his Maker, 
had alienated his heart from him. He is humbled 
to think, that it was in the very arms of his 
goodness he forgot him ; when he tasted most 
abundantly of his bounty, then itwas he neglect- 
ed him most; when he most largely enjoyed his 
overflowing beneficence, the gift induced not 
gratitude, but intoxication. He looks back with 
remorse on the time he has wasted, and the er- 
rors he has committed, but he does not spend his 
remaining strength so much in regretting as in 
repairing them. 

To be enchanted with things which have not 
much in them, he now finds is the mark of a 
weak and undistinguished mind. It shows the 
absence of a rational understanding, and the 
want of a manly spirit, to be inordinately at- 
tached to any object, whose worth will not bear 
out our judgment, and vindicate our attachment. 
Habitual considerations on the littleness of pre- 
sent things, the disappointing nature of all earth- 
ly enjoyments, the grandeur of his future pros- 
pects, with nearer views of the eternal world, 
all combine to give continence to his mind, mo- 
deration to his desires, and sobriety to his con- 
duct. 

, We are slow in making the discovery of the 
large capacity of the human mind ; that it is 
made capable of a felicity commensurate to its 
nature ; that the rudiments, both of eternal mi- 
sery and happiness, are laid in our souls here. 
Being endued with such faculties and powers 
for seeking the favour of God, and such means 
and graces for attaining to his presence, the 
Christian finds that the misery must be propor- 
tionate in missing it. He has also learned, that 
it is not tho design of the Gospel merely to an- 
nounce to us a state of future blessedness, but 
to fit us for it. It is but half of the work of in- 
finite love to provide a heaven for man ; it is its 
completion to make man a suitable recipient of 
the bliss prepared for him. Without this gra- 
cious provision, Christianity had been a scheme 
to tantalize, and not to save us. He sees that 
there is a higher destination for the passions 
than that to which he has hitherto applied them. 
Those affections which had been parcelled out, 
and severally fastened on their respective vani. 
ties, are now concentrated and devoted to God. 
Love, joy, hope, desire, the very propensities 
which have formerly misled him, having found 
their true object, now ripen him for that state 
from which they had so long seduced him ; each 
contributes its quota towards framing him into a 
disposition for happiness, and to prepare him for 
its ultimate enjoyment. 

He has long since discovered that the best 
pleasures of earth are drawn from cisterns not 
fountains, that our most prized delights are nei- 
ther pure in themselves, nor permanent in their 
duration. The immortal mind cannot be satis- 
fied in the pursuit, nor even in the enjoyment. 
They cannot confer what they do not possess, 
perfection and stability. Things perishable 
themselves cannot satisfy the desires of being 
made for eternity. The soul cannot exert its 
full powers, nor unfold its whole nature, nor dia. 



212 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



Dlay all its operations on this contracted stage. 
The bed is narrower than that a man can stretch 
himself on it.' There" is no proportion between 
such a scanty space and such large capabilities, 
such trivial pleasures and such boundless de- 
sires, such a fleeting duration and a spirit form- 
ed for immortality. 

He has found that it is of pressing necessity 
that this futurity be a happy one, otherwise the 
very circumstance that it is endless, which 
makes the happiness complete, turns against us, 
and makes the consummation of our misery. 
It is difficult to say whether the shortness of 
the time allotted us to secure this futurity, or 
the eternity of the state to be secured, should 
most stimulate our religious exertions. We 
have frequently spoken of the duty of learning 
of an enemy, here the lesson is peculiarly 
awakening. The reason assigned in the vision 
of St. John why the great enemy is working 
with such powerful energy, is, because the time 
is short. Shall we be equally assured of the 
brevity of our own time, and yet be less active 
in securing our salvation, than he is in promot- 
ing our destruction. 

The boundlessness of the divine perfections 
presents to the soul the widest range for the ex- 
ercise of faith and love, and the Gospel teaches 
the most unshaken confidence of happiness in 
the death of Christ. But that God is the King 
eternal and immortal, is to us the broad basis on 
which all the rest of the promises are built. It 
would moderate the delight with which we con- 
sider his attributes, if eternity were not annexed 
to them ; his immortality alone being the pledge 
and security of ours. 'The weight of glory' 
announced by the Apostle derives its highest 
value from its being an eternal weight. 

Of the joys of heaven there is in Scripture 
no description. This is wisely avoided, as the 
tastes, desires, and inclinations of men are so 
different, one conceiving that to be of the very 
essence of happiness, for which another has 
little relish. They are intimated by negatives, 
or by shadows, figures, and images of things, 
to which a general idea of enjoyment is annex- 
ed. There is only one idea respecting heaven, 
which is clear, and plain, and definite — its eter- 
nity. Of duration every man has some precision 
in his ideas. Other delineations might have 
led to dispute ; but if the different notions of 
the nature of happiness might have kindled de- 
bate ; about its immortality, there can be but 
one opinion. Perpetuity gives the finishing 
stamp to perfection. 

And as we frame our ideas of eternity from 
what we know of duration ; so we frame our 
faint notions of God from what we conceive of 
goodness. We meditate on the excellences of 
the highest created spirits, and then imagine 
something of God, though inconceivably elevat- 
ed above that poor conception, yet not contra- 
dictory to it. Wo fill our mind with the idea 
of wisdom, goodness, knowledge, power, holi- 
ness, justice, purity, and to each of these at- 
tributes we prefix that of infinite ; never for- 
getting that God is almost as much above our 
excellences as our weaknesses. Yet we can 
but ascribe to Him all that we feel or can ima- 
gine of perfection, and we should be still more 



lost in the mere abstract notion, if we had not 
some sensible feelings, though infinitely imper- 
feet, derived from reality and exemplification. 

The Christian must fill his vocation to the 
last. In this or that profession men are look- 
ing forward to the period when they may lay it 
down with safety and honour : the Christian's 
safety and honour consist in his carrying it on 
to the end. But there is between them this 
point of agreement. The man of business con- 
tracts his schemes, diminishes his labours, mi- 
tigates his activity, all with a view to his ulti- 
mate repose. If the religious man act thus, he 
does it with another view, and to a higher end. 
If he seek rest from his toils, it is in order to 
find a surer rest in God ; if he contract his 
schemes, it is that he may enlarge his views. 
There is no specific period in which he can say, 
My work is done, till he lies down in the grave, 
where no man can work. He now finds that 
the tranquillity of his occupations, the beauties 
of nature, the peaceful pleasures of retirement, 
pleasures the most naturnl and congenial to the 
mind of unsophisticated man, would still be too 
little to fill his desires ; that they would leave a 
melancholy void in his heart, without the sense 
of His presence whose gift they are. While a 
consciousness both of the presence and favour 
of God gives a relish to every enjoyment, and 
heightens even common comforts into blessings. 

There is a progression in the habits of a 
Christian. In the advancement of his course 
his pursuits are probably slower, but his inter- 
ruptions are fewer. If his progress be even 
less obvious, less apparently active, he is per- 
haps more substantially improving, more spiri 
tually advancing. When, from the infirmities 
of declining life, he may seem to be doing no- 
thing, he may then be doing most. If he is 
able to look less abroad, he is looking more with- 
in. He begins to taste more of the fruits of that 
victory which the Apostle describes as the evi. 
dence of a renovated heart ; to give this best 
proof that he is ' born of God,' ' he overcometh 
the world.' This, if one of his latest, is one of 
his most important conquests. But though he 
has turned away his eyes from the world, be- 
cause it never satisfied the desires of his heart, 
he endeavours to the last to serve it with much 
more sedulity, than when he looked to it for 
happiness. 

He has long been persuaded, that even in this 
present low state of being, we must attain some- 
thing of the rudiments of future happiness. He 
has learned that the first principles must be 
formed now, which are to have their consum- 
mation in heaven. To look forward to the com- 
pletion of a state and character, of which we 
have not so much as begun to acquire the ele- 
ments, is not acting according to any of the 
analogies of common life. The beginning and 
the process of any thing we have in contem- 
plation always partake in an inferior, but still 
in a similar and progressive measure, of the 
nature of the end. It has the same properties 
and tendencies, in its initial state, with that 
which is hereafter to be completed. We must 
begin to lay in our hearts the foundation both 
of the love and knowledge of God, if we would 
hereafter attain to that perfection in both, which 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



213 



we are told is of the essence of the heavenly 
happiness. 

He has long found that there is no peace to 
the mind that does not entertain some one ulti- 
mate end. Broken views and mixed designs 
distract its attention, and corrode its quiet. In 
most of the enterprises of life, a man, besides 
being absorbed by present and perhaps opposing- 
schemes, is looking anxiously forward to some 
point of change. He had no sooner framed one 
project, but his views are penetrating to some- 
thing beyond it ; something which he shall have 
adopted as soon as he shall have accomplished 
all his proximate objects. Thus the projecting, 
and fluctuating, and prospective mind, is never 
at rest. There is no stability but in God. No 
grand aim, no fixed position, no ultimate end, 
but in him. He who has once chosen his Re- 
deemer for his portion, is subject to no more 
vicissitudes ; has no after reference, no remoter 
pursuit, no further design, in reserve. 

He, however, who makes heaven his aim, 
and God his end, will not therefore live idly, as 
if his choice being decided, his object being 
settled, he had nothing more to do. His object 
is indeed fixed, his choice is irreversibly deter- 
mined, his portion is unalterably decided ; but 
that which elevates his desires also enlarges 
his capacities, so that his pursuit never ceases, 
his search is never finished ; nor ever can be, 
unless the perfection of its object could be ex- 
hausted. Mr. Boyle observes of a certain mine- 
ral, that a man may consume his whole life in 
the study of it, without ever arriving at the 
knowledge of all its properties. How much 
more shall he who seeks to ' acquaint himself 
with God, find that his entire life is too short, 
his whole powers too small, to find out the Al- 
mighty to perfection ! This he will never com- 
pletely accomplish on earth, yet his desires will 
grow with his attainments. 

But as the happiness of a Christian is chiefly 
in prospect, he joyfully looks forward to i(s glo- 
rious consummation in a better world. ' When I 
awake up after thy likeness I shall be satisfied,' 
a plain intimation that till then we shall not be 
satisfied. From different passages of scripture, 
we collect that the happiness of Heaven consists 
in seeing God, in participating his likeness, in be- 
ing satisfied with it. But how shall this blessed- 
ness be perfected hereafter, if the desire, if the 
endeavour, does not originate here ? If there be 
no preliminary acquaintance begun with him 
who ransomed us with his blood, can we expect 
to dwell with him in eternal glory ? ' Not to know 
God' is the portentous omen of being 'punished 
with everlasting destruction from his presence.' 
It is unspeakably distressing to apprehend, that 
this may possibly be the awful description of 
some, who are by no means destitute of credit 
or character; who goon without ever entertain- 
ing a conception, that such a beginning may be 
connected with such an end. 

All the delineations of future misery, all the 
pictures of a disturbed imagination, all the 
terrors with which a restless conscience anti- 
cipates ils torments, all the accumulated images, 
by which Revelation describes it, whether under 
the figure of the fire that is never quenched, or 
the worm that never dies, are but inferior de- 



grees of this terrible climax, ' everlasting de- 
struction from the presence of the Lord !' All 
the doleful conceptions of unimaginable woe, 
all the shades and shapes of substantial, unut- 
terable wretchedness, are comprised in this 
hopeless, everduring exile. What the soul suf- 
fers, theie is no attempt to describe, what it 
loses is but faintly presented to the imagination. 
On the other hand, ' eye hath not seen nor ear 
heard, nor hath the heart of man conceived,' 
the final state of bliss. And it is observable 
that the two extremes are both most emphati- 
cally conveyed by negatives. We are only as- 
sured that assimilation with God is the perfec- 
tion of joy, banishment from his presence the 
extremity of woe. 

There is nothing that more humbles and 
abases the established Christian, than that, 
whilst in his happier moments, he is able to 
figure to himself a cheering image of the glory 
of the Redeemer, the blessedness of the re- 
deemed, the beauty of Christian perfection ; to 
feel himself not only awakened, but exalted, 
not merely enlightened, but kindled, almost pos- 
sessing, rather than anticipating, heaven ; while 
he is enabled, in a joyful measure, to meditate 
upon these things, feel his mind ennobled and 
his soul expanded by the contemplation, yet to 
find how soon the bright ideas fade, the strong 
impression is effaced, the heavenly vision va- 
nished ; he mourns to reflect, that he does not 
more powerfully exhibit in his conversation, 
more forcibly display in his life, that spirit of 
which his heart was lately so full, of which his 
mind was so enamoured. Cast down by these 
reflections, he still learns — painful lesson ! — 
that ' those must sow in tears who would reap 
in joy ;' that it is not expectation, but possession, 
which excludes all sense of sorrow; that it is 
heaven itself, and not the promise of it, that is 
to ' wipe all tears from our eyes.' His happi- 
ness in this life will, on these accounts, be as 
far below perfection, as his goodness ; and when 
we speak of his joy and felicity, it must be un- 
derstood, rather of a comparative, than an ab- 
solute happiness. It is the joy of hope render- 
ed sure by faith. The soul will not be com- 
pletely blessed till the body is disanimated, its 
temptations removed, and its infirmities at an 
end. 

The Christian, as life wears away, must not 
be discouraged, if he feels not always those 
fervours, which once appeared to him insepara- 
ble from real piety. It is not, perhaps, that his 
piety is less sincere, but that years and infir- 
mity, which have impaired his natural energy 
of character, may affect or seem to affect the 
liveliness of his devotion ; but it may be mellow- 
ed, without being decayed ; he will not too 
much distress himself by mistaking that for a 
diminution of grace, which may be only a wear- 
ing out of nature. Or it may be, that the prin- 
ciple, which is become habitual, may not for 
that very reason strike the mind so forcibly 
as on its more early adoption, yet it may 
have sunk deeper into his heart. There may 
be more proportion in his religion ; all its com- 
ponent parts may be more balanced : there is 
more evenness in his character; more virtues, 
but of a less ostensible kind, are collected into 



214 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



it than he formerly thought necessary. His piety 
is at once more solid, and more spiritual, more 
operative, yet more serene. His principles have 
somewhat of a different call for their exercise : 
the efforts he formerly made to resist tempta- 
tions of a bolder character, are now exerted to 
repel the incursions of peevishness, the allure- 
ments of indolence, the murmurs of impatience. 
Qualities which he once relinquished to the un- 
converted, as thinking them merely natural, he 
now carefully cherishes. Cheerfulness, once 
considered as the mere flow of animal spirits 
is cultivated as a Christian grace ; for it does 
not now spring irons nature, but triumphs 
over it. 

He is not so eager in support of some particu- 
lar opinions as formerly, because each doctrine 
now maintains its proper place and due impor- 
tance in his mind. If he make religion less a 
subject of discussion, he trusts it is become a 
more practical principle. His views are more 
deep, his judgment more just, his convictions 
more firmly rooted. There is a finer edge to 
his virtues, for they are now sheathed in humi- 
lity; and this quality, the crowning point, and 
soundest evidence of a renovated mind, by ren- 
dering him more distrustful of himself, more 
candid in his opinions, and more temperate in 
his language, will have checked that forward- 
ness of debate, rashness of decision and impa- 
tience with error, which, with the less enlight- 
ened, might formerly have given him the ap- 
pearance of a more animated Christian. 

But the more his character improves, the more 
he looks out of himself for his final happiness. 
His trust in his Redeemer, increases in exact 
proportion to those virtues of which that trust is 
the source, virtues on which too many others in- 
vite him to rest his dependence. 

Some Christians, in their outset, are disposed 
to lay an almost exclusive stress on duties, with- 
out sufficiently cultivating the spirit which should 
prompt them ; others too much overlook duties, 
relying on certain fervors for supplying their 
place. The established Christian is careful ne- 
ver to relax in duties, even though they are not 
attended with that energy which once gave 
more animation to the exercise. There may be 
in them a less sensible acting of the affections, 
which are naturally more alive in the active sea- 
son of life, yet without any diminution of the 
real principle of piety ; there will be rather an 
increased devotedness, an augmented acqui- 
escence of the will, a more complete consecra- 
tion of heart and spirit, to the only legitimate 
object of their entire affection. 

He will, however, be eolicitous, that if the 
flame emit not such vivid flashes, as when it was 
first lighted, yet that it shall burn more steadily, 
more equably ; especially will he be vigilant, 
that he do not insensibly transfer to other ob- 
jects that ardour which used to give life and 
spirit to his piety, and that while he fears he is 
not so much alive to God, it is because he is 
more alive to the world. Though others cannot 
fairly judge of his internal state, yet there is 
this sure test by which he will judge himself; 
if the natural tempers be not more subdued, if 
the irrascible passions retain their vehemence, 
if pride and selfishness maintain their sway' 



while the religious feelings alone are grown ob- 
tuse, it is an alarming symptom, a plain intima- 
tion, that religion has indeed lost, or rather, it 
is to be feared, that it never had obtained the 
supreme place in his heart. 

And as he has observed, that in some vehe- 
ment characters the lamp of religious fervour 
was first kindled by the fire of natural passions, 
so its flame declines with the declension of the 
natural powers ; he is also aware, that there is 
a possibility to the Christian, as he advances in 
years, of a growing supineness, the too natural 
effect of which is a decay of the vital spirit of 
religion. This makes him tremble when he re- 
flects that the same awful warning which, in 
the vision of the Apocalypse, ' the Spirit gives to 
the churches,' is addressed with equal emphasis 
to every individual Christian. He remembers 
that this compassionate Spirit, which succours 
us when tempted, strengthens us when perse- 
cuted, intercedes for us when afflicted, has pro- 
mised no such soothing tenderness under de- 
clining piety. His language to the decaying 
Christian, as well as to the lukewarm church, 
is that of alarming menace. This gradual apos- 
tacy is the only case, because it is a hopeless 
one, in which he threatens final rejection. It 
is, indeed, infinitely grievous, when they, whom 
this blessed Spirit has enlightened, in whom he 
has excited devout dispositions and holy tempers, 
visibly sink below the state in- which they once 
stood. In the volume of inspiration, every com- 
plaint, every expostulation, every argument 
which long-suffering goodness could suggest, 
every intreaty which insulted mercy could de- 
vise, is exhausted ; nothing is omitted which can 
invigorate relaxing principle, nothing is neglect- 
ed which can reanimate decaying piety. 

The advanced Christian, therefore, will guard 
against the too natural delusion of imposing on 
himself the belief, that a declension in spiritual 
vigour is only natural decay. But he will guard 
against it, by watching its sensible and visible 
effects. He will discern, whether he sets less 
value on the things which are passing away ; 
whether his attachment to the world diminishes, 
while his prayers for its prosperity and improve- 
ment increase ; whether he is as zealous in pro- 
moting good works by his purse and his influ- 
ence, as he was in the days of health and strength, 
by his personal exertions. 

The confirmed Christian exemplifies the em- 
phatical description of the good man in Scrip- 
ture, l he ivalks with God.' He does not merely 
approach him at stated times ; he does not cere- 
moniously address him on great occasions only, 
and then retreat, and dwell at a distance ; but 
he walks with him, his habitual intercourse, his 
natural motion, his daily converse, his intimate 
communication, is with his Redeemer : and he 
remembers that walking not only implies inter- 
course, but progress. His graces if not more 
sincere, are more universal ; he knows and he 
endeavours to act upon the knowledge, that a 
Christian must be holy in ' all manner of con- 
versation ;' that excellences in some part of his 
character will not atone for allowed defects in 
any. 

In the still remaining varieties of this chang- 
ing scene, not knowing to what particular trials 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



215 



he may yet be called, he will have endeavoured 
to bring a general preparedness of spirit to every 
event. When he can no longer do the will of 
God by his accustomed exertions, he can, with 
a submission which is worn into a habit, suffer 
it. That which is the crime of an ordinary man, 
is his highest attainment. He can submit to be 
useless. He will cheerfully resign himself to be 
discharged from services, in which his former 
happiness had consisted. He will contentedly 
see himself laid by, though still stout in heart, 
and firm in spirit. He will kindly assist those 
who are rising up to fill the place which he is 
about to leave vacant, by his counsel his expe- 
rience, his prayers. He can rejoice, that though 
the servant fails, the service is and will be sup- 
plied. 

He will continue more assiduously to labour 
after that consistency of character, which is a 
more unequivocal evidence of high christian at- 
tainment, than the most prominent great quali- 
ties, which are frequently counteracted by their 
opposites. This consistency exhibits a most 
striking conformity to the image of his Maker; 
as in the works of creation, the wisdom of the 
Supreme Intelligence is more admirable in the 
agreement and harmony of one thing with an- 
other, than in the individual beauty and excel- 
lence of each. It is more conspicuous, in the 
fitness and proportion of its parts relatively, 
than in the composition of the parts themselves. 
By this uniformity, the results of religion are 
the most beautifully exhibited in the christian 
character. 

And as a real Christian is, allowing for human 
infirmity, consistent with himself; so the same 
consistency is discoverable in the general fea- 
tures of all Christians. However men may differ 
in their natural character, yet there is, in all 
true believers, a sort of correspondent feeling, as 
well as common principle, which draws their 
affections to each other, as well as their hearts 
and faculties to one common source and centre. 
It is not a traditionary religion which attracts 
them to the faith of their ancestors, nor is it a 
party feeling which attaches them to some par- 
ticular society, but it is a divinely infused prin- 
ciple, communicated by the Spirit of God ; it is 
identified in all its essentials ; and a genuine 
Christian is radically the same being, wherever 
he is found, and under whatever difference of 
circumstances ho exists. 

The nearer he approaches to God, the more, 
in one sense, he will be sensible of his distance 
from him. Higher views of God's unspeakable 
holiness, a deeper sense of his own unworthiness, 
act reciprocally, and confirm each other. Yet 
this growing consciousness of his distance only 
serves to augment his love. He more and more 
feels the goodness of God, in having never cast 
off human nature, in having, immediately on its 
apostacy, conceived the gracious design to repair 
its evils, and restore its dignity. He feels, in its 
full force, that unspeakable consolation which 
the disciples of the most sublime of all the pagan 
philosophers lamented was wanting in their re- 
ligion ; they regretted that between the pure di- 
vinitij and the impure creature, as there is no 
u.nion, so there can be no communion. Can any 
thing more strikingly demonstrate how com- 



pletely the Mediator provides for that want, and 
establishes that communion ? ' It is thus,' as a 
very learned and pious writer ha3 observed, 
' that the Gospel doctrine gives full relief of 
mind and ease of conscience, as well as encou- 
ragement to piety, and discouragement to sin.'* 
It givos not only futuie hope, but present peace ! 
it is not all in promise, it is much in hand. 

Through the silent, but effectual, operations 
of grace, obedience, is become acquiescence, 
duty, is transformed, not only into assent, but 
choice. If even a heathen could say, Lead me 
to whatsoever I am appointed, and I will follow 
thee, but if I ain unwilling, still I will follow 
thee, no wonder if the confirmed Christian serves 
God not so much because he is bound to serve 
him, as because love is the dictate of his heart, 
affection the voluntary bent of his disposition. 
He needs no extraneous attraction, the impulse 
is from within. The raw recruit requires to be 
allured by the ' fife and spirit-stirring drum,' 
but the veteran soldier follows the service be- 
cause he loves it, follows it for its own sake. 
There is no longer any violence done to nature, 
for the nature is made conformable to the object ; 
the love of Christ constrains him, contrary prin- 
ciples are reconciled, opposite propensities are 
blended into one, and that one a blessed, though 
still imperfect, conformity to the image and the 
will of God. The more his perceptions are clear- 
ed and his will purified, the more his faith 
strengthens ; the more simple his views become, 
the more his thoughts and affections reduce 
themselves to that one central point, where alone 
perfection resides. 

As he has long observed that the scheme, the 
show, the fashion of this life passes away, so he 
does not forget, that his own progress keeps pace 
with the world, that he also is passing away 
with it. Fluctuation, vicissitude and decay, 
form the very characters of our being. ' No- 
thing continueth in one stay.' Surely these per- 
petual intimations of Scripture were intended 
for a constant memento, that fondness for things 
so transitory is as ill-suited to their value as dis- 
proportioned to their duration. These constant 
admonitions- inculcate temperance in our joy, 
and moderation in our sorrow. They teach us 
to rejoice as if we rejoiced not, and to weep as 
if we wept not. Whatever is vain in the end, 
renders al! reference to its intermediate course 
comparatively vain also. 

The Christian observes the world around him 
to be most careful about the things which will 
end at death ; his care is chiefly confined to the 
things which then begin ; and as it is not so 
much to ascertain the time, as to secure the 
consequences of death, that he has been anxious; 
death can never properly be said to be sudden 
to him, who always knew that the event was as 
certain as the period was uncertain. But he 
does not convert the shadows of death into such 
a thick and substantial cloud, as shall prevent 
the mental eye from piercing through it, and 
seeing the glory beyond it. Through this deep, 
but pervious gloom, the bright prospect opens 
to that state, a glimpse of which, caught by the 
eye of faith, has in all ages, enabled the sincere 

* John Smith. 



216 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Christian to work through all his earthly diffi- 
culties : as it has strengthened him to encounter, 
with holy hope and humble confidence, the tri- 
als of life, so he trusts it will sustain him in his 
last conflict with the terrors of death. ' Let me 
now,' says he, * act as seeing him who is invisi- 
ble, borne up by the promises of the Gospel, and 
strengthened by the eternal Spirit, let me anti- 
cipate my heaven, burst my present narrow 
bounds, shake off the incumbrance of body, an- 
nihilate a distance in itself so short, and make 
that immortality which is near, present.' 

Thus is the image of divine goodness more 



clearly though still imperfectly, reflected in the 
confirmed Christian. The original character of 
the human heart, as it came from the hands of 
its Creator, is about to be reinstated in its pris- 
tine purity. Sin, the lawless tenant, not the na- 
tive proprietor of the mansion, will soon be to- 
tally expelled; in the mean time, the primitive 
principle is radicated ; the usurper is dethroned, 
if not altogether dispossessed ; he is conquered, 
if not absolutely expelled; if he sometimes dis- 
turb, he can no longer destroy. The exile re- 
turns to his forsaken home, the prodigal to his 
father's house, the pardoned peniten* *.o his God. 



AN ESSAY 
ON THE CHARACTER AND PRACTICAL WRITINGS OF 

SAINT PAUL. 

Saint Paul hath furnished us with so rich a variety of moral and spiritual precepts, subordi 
nate to the general laws of piety and virtue, that out of them might well be compiled a body of 
Ethics, or system of precepts de officiis, in truth and completeness far excelling those which any 
philosophy hath been able to devise or deliver. — Dr. Barrow. 



PREFACE. 

It is with no little diffidence that the writer of the following pages ventures to submit them to 
the public eye. She comes ' in weakness and in fear, and in much trembling.' She is fully aware, 
that whoever pretends to institute an inquiry into the character, and especially into the writings 
of the great Apostle of the Gentiles, in a manner at all adequate to the dignity and excellence 
of both, should possess many and high requisites, to which she can make out no fair title. It 
would, however, be entirely superfluous to insist on her incompetency to the proper execution of 
such a work, on her deficiencies in ancient learning, Biblical criticism, and deep theological 
knowledge ; hecause the sagacity of the reader would not fail to be beforehand with her avowal, 
in detecting them. It may, however, serve as some apology for the boldness of the present un- 
dertaking, that these volumes are not of a critical, but of a practical nature. 

On the doctrinal portion, more especially, of Saint Paul's Epistles, such a multitude of admira- 
ble discourses have been composed, that to have attempted to add to their number, without reach- 
ing their excellence, would have been as unnecessary as it might have been presumptuous. On 
the practical part, also, much has been ably and usefully written. Dissertations, commentaries, 
treatises, and sermons, however, though of superior merit, have not worn out the subject ; and 
elucidations of his writings, whether they relate to doctrine or to practice, cannot, in any 
point of view, be undertaken without exhibiting new proofs of those inestimable treasures they 
contain. They are a golden mine, in which the diligent workman, the deeper he digs, the more 
he will discover ; the farther he examines, the more he will find. Rich veins, hitherto unheeded, 
will overpay his labours, will continue to pour out upon him their fresh abundance of precious 
ore. Even the present explorer, who had no skill to penetrate his depths, has been sometimes 
surprised at the opulence which lay upon the surface, and of which she had not before, perhaps, 
fully estimated the value. 

There are, it is true, passages in the works of this great Apostle, (but they are of rare occur- 
rence, and bear no proportion to such as are obvious,) which have been interpreted in a different 
and even contradictory manner by men, who, agreeing in the grand essentials of Christianity, 
may be allowed to differ on a few abstruse points, without any impeachment of the piety on either 
side. If one must be mistaken, both may be sincere. If either be wrong, both doubtless desire 
to be right ; and, happily for mankind, we shall all be ultimately tried by a Judge, who is a 
searcher of the thoughts and intents of the heart ; in whose sight the reciprocal exercise of Chris- 
tian charity may be more acceptable than that entire uniformity of sentiment which would su- 
persede the occasion of its exercise. ' What I know not, teach Thou me,' is a petition which 
even the wisest are not too wise to offer ; and they who have prefered it with the most effect, are, 
of all others, the persons who will judge the most tenderly of the different views, or unintentional 
misconceptions of the opposite party. 

That conquest in debate over a Christian adversary, which is achieved at the expense of the 
Christian temper, will always be dearly purchased ; and, though a triumph so obtained may dis- 
comfit the opponent, it will afford no moral triumph to the conqueror. 

Waving, therefore, both from disinclination, and inability, whatever passages may be consider 






THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



217 



ed as controversial, the writer has confined herself to endeavour, though it must be confessed, 
imperfectly and superficially, to bring forward St. Paul's character as a model for our general 
imitation, and his practical writings as a store-house for our general instruction ; avoiding what- 
ever might be considered as a ground for the discussion of any point not immediately tending to 
practical utility. 

It may be objected to her plan, that it is not reasonable to propose for general imitation, a cha- 
racter so highly gifted, so peculiarly circumstanced, — an inspired Apostle, — a devoted Martyr. 
But it is the principal design of these pages, — a design which it may be thought is too frequently 
avowed in them, — to show that our common actions are to be performed, and our common trials 
sustained, in somewhat of the same spirit and temper with those high duties and those unparal- 
leled sufferings to which Saint Paul was called out; and that every Christian in his measure 
and degree, should exhibit somewhat of the dispositions inculcated by that religion, of which the 
Apostle Paul was the brightest human example, as well as the most illustrious human teacher. 

The writer is persuaded, that many read the Epistles of Saint Paul with deep reverence for 
the station they hold in the Inspired Oracles, without considering that they are at the same time 
supremely excellent for their unequalled applicableness to life and manners ; that many, while 
they highly respect the writer, think him too high for ordinary use. It has, therefore, been her 
particular object, in the present work, not indeed to diminish the dignity of the Apostle, but to 
diminish, in one sense, the distance at which we are apt to hold so exalted a model ; to draw him 
into a more intimate connection with ourselves ; to let him down, as it were, not to our level, but 
to our familiarity. To induce us to resort to him, not only on the great demands and trying oc- 
currences of life, but to bring both the writings and the conduct of this distinguished Saint to 
mix with our common concerns ; to incorporate the doctrines which he teaches, the principles 
which he exhibits, and the precepts which he enjoins, into our ordinary habits, into our every 
day practice ; to consider him not only as the writer who has the most ably and successfully un- 
folded the sublime truths of our Divine religion, and as the instructor who has supplied us with 
the noblest system of the higher ethics, but who has even condescended to extend his code to the 
more minute exigences and relations of familiar life. 

It will, perhaps, be objected to the writer of these pages, that she has shown too little method 
in her distribution of the parts of her subject, and too little system in her arrangement of the 
whole; that she has expatiated too largely on some points, passed over others too slightly, and 
left many unnoticed ; that she has exhibited no history of the life, and observed no regular order 
in her reference to the actions of the Apostle. She can return no answer to these anticipated 
charges, but that, as she never aspired to the dignity of an expositor, so she never meant to enter 
into the details of the biographer. 

Formed, as thev are, upon the most extensive views of the nature of man, it is no wonder that 
the writings of St. Paul have been read with the same degree of interest, by Christians of every 
name, age, and nation. The principles they contain are, in good truth, absolute and universal : 
and whilst this circumstance renders them of general obligation, it enables us, even in the re- 
motest generation, to judge of the skilfulness of his addresses to the understanding, and to feel 
the aptitude of his appeals to the heart. 

To the candour of the reader, — a candour which, though perhaps she has too frequently tried, 
and too long solicited, she has, however, never yet failed to experience, — she commits this little 
work. If it should set one human being on the consideration of objects hitherto neglected, sho 
will account that single circumstance, success ; — nay, she will be reconciled even to failure, if 
that failure should stimulate some more enlightened mind, some more powerful pen, to supply, in 
a future work on the same subject, the deficiencies of which she has been guilty ; to rectify the 
errors which she may have committed ; to rescue the cause which she may have injured. 

Barley-Wood, January 20, 1815. 



AN ESSAY 



ON THE CHARACTER AND PRACTICAL WRITINGS OF. 



SAINT PAUL. 



CHAP. I. 

Introductory remarks on the morality of Pagan- 
ism, showing the necessity of the Christian 
Revelation. 

The morality of a people necessarily partakes 
of the nature of their theology ; and in propor- 
tion as it is founded on the knowledge of the 
true God, in such proportion it tends to improve 
the conduct of man. The meanest Christian 
believer has here an advantage over the most 

Vol. II. 



enlightened heathen philosopher ; for what ne 
knows of the nature of God, arising chiefly from 
what he knows of Christ, and entirely from what 
is revealed in Scripture, he gains from those 
divine sources more clear and distinct views of 
the Deity, than unassisted reason could ever at- 
tain ; and of consequence, more correct ideas of 
what is required of himself, both with respect 
to God and man. His ideas may be mean in 
their expression, compared with the splendid 
language of the sages of antiquity ; but the cause 
of the superiority of bi§ conceptions is obvious. 



918 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



While they ' go about to establish their own 
wisdom,' he submits to the wisdom of God, as 
he finds it in his word. What inadequate views 
must the wisest pagans, though ' they felt after 
him,' have entertained of Deity, who could at 
best only contemplate him in his attributes of 
power and beneficence, whilst their highest unas- 
sisted flights could never reach the remotest con- 
ception of that incomprehensible blessing, the 
union of his justice and his mercy in the redemp- 
tion of the world by his Son — a blessing familiar 
and intelligible to the most illiterate Christian. 

The religion of the heathens was so deplora- 
bly bad in its principle, that it is no wonder their 
practice was proportionably corrupt. * Those 
just measures of right and wrong,' says Locke, 
' which necessity had introduced, which the 
civil laws prescribed, or philosophy recommend- 
ed stood not on their true foundation. 1 They 
served indeed to tie society together, and by 
these bands and ligaments promoted order and 
convenience : but there was no divine command 
to make them respected, and there will natural- 
ly be little reverence for a law, where the legis- 
lator is not reverenced, much less where he is 
not recognized. There will also bo little obedi- 
ence to a law without sanctions where neither 
penalty is feared, nor reward expected. 

Previous to the establishment of Christianity, 
philosophy had attained to its utmost perfection, 
and had shown how low was its highest stand- 
ard. It had completely betrayed its inability to 
effect a revolution in the minds of men. ' Hu- 
man reason,' says the same great authority 
above quoted, ' never yet, from unquestionable 
principles or clear deductions, made out an 
entire body of the law of nature. If a collection 
could be made of all the moral precepts in the 
pagan world, many of which may be found in 
the Christian religion, that would not at all 
hinder, but that the world still stood as much in 
need of our Saviour, and of the morality he 
taught.' The law of the New Testament re- 
commends itself to our regard by its excellence, 
and to our obedience by the authority of the 
Lawgiver. Christianity, therefore, presents not 
only the highest perfections, but the surest 
Standard of morals. 

In a multitude of the noble sentences and 
beautiful aphorisms of many of the heathen 
writers, there was indeed a strong tone of mo- 
rality. But these fine sentiments, not flowing 
from any perennial source, had seldom any 
powerful effect on conduct. Our great poet has 
noticed this discordance between principle and 
practice in his dialogue between two great and 
virtuous Romans. — Cassius, who disbelieved a 
future state, reproves Brutus for the inconsis- 
tency between his desponding temper and the 
doctrines of his own Stoic school : 

You make no use of your philosophy, 
If you give way to accidental evils. 

Many of their works, in almost every species 
of literature, exhibit such perfection as to stretch 
the capacity of the reader, while they kindle 
his admiration, and invest with no inconsider- 
able reputation, him who is able to seize their 
meaning, and to taste their beauties ; so that an 
able critic of their writings almost ranks with 



him who excels in original composition. In like 
manner the lives of their great men abound in 
splendid sayings, as well as heroic virtues, to 
such a degree as to exalt our idea of the human 
intellect, and, in single instances, of the human 
character. We say, in single instances, for their 
idea of a perfect character wanted consistency, 
wanted completeness. It had many constituent 
parts, but there was no whole which comprised 
them. The moral fractions made up no inte- 
gral. The virtuous man thought it no deroga- 
tion from his virtue to be selfish, the conqueror 
to be revengeful, the philosopher to be arrogant, 
the injured to be unforgiving: forbearance was 
cowardice, humility was baseness, meekness 
was pusillanimity. Not only their justice was 
stained with cruelty, but the most cruel acts of 
injustice were the road to popularity which im- 
mortalized the perpetrator. — The good man 
was his own centre. Their virtues wanted to 
be drawn out of themselves, and this could 
not be the case. As their goodness did not 
arise from any knowledge, so it could not spring 
from any imitation of the Divine perfections. 
That inspiring principle, the love of God, the 
vital spark of all religion, was a motive of which 
they had not so much as heard ; and if they 
had, it was a feeling which it would have been 
impossible for them to cherish, since some of 
the best of their deities were as bad as the worst 
of themselves. 

When the history of their own religion con- 
tained little more than the quarrels and the in- 
trigues of these deities, could we expect that 
the practice of the people would be much better, 
or more consistent than their belief? If the di- 
vinities were at once holy and profligate, shall 
we wonder if the adoration was at once devout 
and impure? The worshipper could not commit 
a crime but he might vindicate it by the exam- 
ple of some deity ; he could not gratify a single 
appetite of which his religion did not furnish a 
justification. 

Besides this, all their scattered documents of 
virtue could never make up a body of morals. 
They wanted a connecting tie.^The doctrines 
of one school were at variance with those of 
another. Even if they could have clubbed 
their opinions and picked out the best from each 
sect, so as to have patched up a code, still the 
disciples of one sect would not have submitted 
to the leader of another; the system would have 
wanted a head, or the head would have wanted 
authority, and the code would have wanted 
sanctions. 

And as there was no governing system, so 
there was no universal rule of morals, for mora- 
lity was different in different places. — In some 
countries people thought it no more a crime to 
expose their own children than in others to adopt 
those of their neighbour. — The Persians were 
not looked upon as the worst moralists for mar- 
rying their mothers, nor the Hyrcanians for not 
marry iug at all, nor the Sogdians for murdering 
their parents, nor the Scythians for eating their 
dead.* 

The best writers seldom made use of argu- 

* Plutarch relates, that Alexander, after conquering 
these countries, had reformed some of their evil habits. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



219 



merits drawn from future blessedness to inforce 
their moral instruction. Excellently as they 
discoursed on the beauty of virtue, their dis- 
quisitions generally seemed to want a motive 
and an end. Did not such a state of comfort- 
less ignorance, of spiritual degradation, of moral 
depravity, emphatically call for a religion which 
should ' bring life and immortality to light ?' 
Did it not imperatively require that Spirit which 
should 'reprove the world of sin, of righteous- 
ness, and of judgment ?' Did it not pant for that 
blood of Christ which cleanseth from all sin. 

Even those fine theorists who have left us 
beautiful reflections on the Divine nature, have 
bequeathed no rule for his worship, no direction 
for his service, no injunctions to obey him; 
they have given us little encouragement to vir- 
tue, and no alleviation to sorrow but the im- 
practicable injunction, not to feel it. The eight 
short beatitudes in the 5th of Saint Matthew 
convey not only more promises to virtue, and 
more consolation to sufferers, but more appro- 
priate promise to the individual grace, more 
specific comfort to the specific suffering, than 
are to be found in all the ancient tomes of moral 
discipline. 

Those who were invested with a sacred cha- 
racter, and who delivered the pretended sense 
of the Oracles, tal ked much of the gods, but said 
little of goodness ; while the philosophers who, 
though they were professors of wisdom, were, 
not generally to the vulgar, teachers of morals, 
seldom gave the Deity a place in their ethics. 
Between these conflicting instructors the peo- 
ple stood little chance of acquiring any just no- 
tions of moral rectitude. They were indeed 
under a necessity of attending the worship of 
the temples, they believed that the neglect of 
this duty would offend the gods ; but in their at- 
tendance they were neither taught that purity 
of heart, nor that practical virtue, which might 
have been supposed likely to please them. The 
philosophers, if they were disposed to give the 
people some rules of duty, were overmatched by 
the priests, who knew they should gratify them 
more by omitting what they so little relished. 
As to the people themselves, they did not de- 
sire to be better than the priests wished to make 
them. — They found processions pleasanter than 
prayers, ceremonies cheaper than duties, and 
sacrifices easier than self-denials, with the ad- 
ditional recommendation, that the one made 
amends for the want of the other.* 

When a violent plague raged in Rome, the 
method they took for appeasing the deities, and 
putting a stop to the distemper, was the estab- 
lishment of a theatre and the introduction of 
plays. The plague however, having no drama- 
tic taste, continued to<.rage. But neither the 
piety nor ingenuity of the suppliants was ex- 
hausted. A nail driven into the temple of Jupi- 
ter was found to be a more promising expedient. 
But the gods being as hard as the metal of 
which the expiation was made, were no more 
moved by the nail, than the plague had been by 
the theatrical exhibition ; though the event was 
thought of sufficient importance for the creation 
of a dictator 1 — What progress had reason, to 

* See Locke on the Reasonableness of Christianity. 



say nothing of religion, made in the first metro- 
polis in the world, when a nail or a play was 
thought a rational expedient for pacifying the 
gods and stopping the pestilence. Nor does 
reason, mere human reason, seem to have grown 
wiser in her age. During the late attempt to 
establish heathenism in a neighbouring country, 
does it not look as if the thirty theatres which 
were opened every night in its capital in the 
early part of the revolution had been intended, 
in imitation of the Romans, whose religion, 
titles, and offices, the French affected to adopt, 
as a nightly expiation to the Goddess of Reason 
for the cruelties and carnage of the day ? 

Whatever conjectural notions some of the 
wise might entertain of a future state, the peo- 
ple at large could only acquire the vague and 
comfortless ideas of it, which might be picked 
up from the poets. This indefinite belief, im- 
mersed in fable, and degraded by the grossest 
superstition, added as little to the piety as to 
the happiness of mankind. The intimations 
of their Tartarus, and their Elysian fields, were 
so connected with fictions, as to convey to the 
mind no other impression, but that they were 
fictions themselves. Sucli uncertain glimmer- 
ings of such a futurity could afford neither 
warning nor encouragement, neither cheerful 
hope, nor salutary fear. They might amuse 
the mind, but never could influence the conduct. 
They might gratify the imagination, but could 
not communicate ' a hope full of immortality.' 
They neither animated the pious, nor succoured 
the tempted, nor supported the afflicted, nor 
cheered the dying. 

The study of their mythology could carry with 
it nothing but corruption. It neither intended 
to bring glory to God, nor peace and good will, 
much less salvation, to men. It was invented 
to embellish the fabulous periods of their history, 
to flatter the illustrious families, by celebrating 
the human exploits of their deified progenitors : 
and thus to give an additional and national in- 
terest to their bewitching fables. What a sys- 
tem did those countries uphold, when the more 
probable way to make the people virtuous, was 
to keep them ignorant of religion ! — when the 
best way to teach them their duty to man, was 
to keep their duties out of sight. 

It is indeed but justice to acknowledge, the 
most of the different schools of philosophy held 
some one great truth. Aristotle maintained the 
existence of a First Cause ; Cicero, in opposition 
to the disciples of Epicurus, acknowledged a 
superintending Providence. Many of the Stoics 
were of opinion, that the consummation of all 
things would be effected by fire. Yet every 
philosopher, however rational in many parts of 
his system, not only adopted some absurdity 
himself, but wove it into his code. One believ- 
ed that the soul was only a vapour, which 
was transmuted from body to body, and was 
to expiate, in the shape of a brute, the sins it 
had committed under that of a man. Another 
affirmed that the soul was a material substance, 
and that matter was endowed with the faculties 
of thought and reason. Others imagined every 
star to be a god. Some denied not only a super- 
intending, but a creating Providence : insisting 
that the world was made, without any plan or 



220 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



contrivance, by a fortuitous concourse of cer- 
tain particles of matter ; and that the members 
of the human body were not framed for the 
several purposes to which they have been acci- 
dentally applied. One affirmed the eternity of 
the world ; another, that we can be certain of 
nothing, — that even our own existence is doubt- 
ful. 

A religion so absurd, which had no basis even 
in probability and no attraction but what it bor- 
rowed from a preposterous fancy, could not sa- 
tisfy the deep thinking philosopher; a philosophy 
abstruse and metaphysical was not sufficiently 
accommodated to general use to suit the people. 
Lactantius, on the authority of Plato, relates, 
that Socrates declared there was no such thing 
as human wisdom. In short, all were dissatis- 
fied. The wise had a vague desire for religion 
which comprehended great objects, and had no- 
ble ends in view. The people stood in need of 
a religion which should bring relief to human 
wants, and consolation to human miseries. They 
wanted a simple way, proportioned to their com- 
prehension ; a short way, proportioned to their 
leisure ; a living way, which would give light to 
the conscience and support to the mind ; a way 
founded, not on speculation, but evidence, which 
should carry conversion to the heart as well as 
conviction to the understanding. Such a reli- 
gion God was preparing for them in the Gospel 
of his Son. Christianity was calculated to sup- 
ply the exigences both of the Greeks and of the 
barbarians ; but the former, though they more 
acknowledged their want, more slowly welcomed 
the relief; while the latter, though they less felt 
the one, more readily accepted the other. 

Alexander, though he had the magnanimity 
to declare to his illustrious preceptor, that he 
had rather excel in knowledge than in power, 
yet blamed him for divulging to the world those 
secrets in learning, which he wished to confine 
exclusively to themselves. How would he have 
been offended with the Christian philosophy, 
which, though it has mysteries for all, has no 
secrets for any ! How would he have been of- 
fended with that bright hope of glory, which 
would have displayed itself in the same efful- 
gence to his meanest soldier, as to the conqueror 
of Persia! 

But how would both the monarch and the phi- 
losopher have looked on a religion, which after 
kindling their cuiiosity, by intimating it had 
greater things to bestow than learning and em- 
pire, should dash their high hopes, by making 
these great things consist in poverty of spirit, in 
being little in their own eyes, in not loving the 
world, nor the tilings of the world. 

But what would they have said to a religion 
which placed human intellect in an inferior de- 
gree in the scale of God's gifts ; and even de- 
graded it from thence, when not used to his 
glory ? What would they have thought of a re- 
ligion, which, so far from being sent exclusively 
to the conqueror in arms, or the leaders in sci- 
ence, frankly declared at its outset, that ' not 
many mighty, not many noble were called,' which 
professed, while it filled the hungry with good 
things, to send the rich empty away ? 

Yet that mysterious Hope which Alexander 
declared was all ho kept for himself, when he 



profusely scattered kingdoms among his favour 
ites, — those ambiguous tears which he shed, 
because he had no more worlds to conquer ; that 
deeply felt, but ill understood hope, those unde- 
fined and unintelligible tears, mark a profounder 
feeling of the vanity of this world, a more fervent 
panting after something better than power or 
knowledge, a more heart-felt ' longing after im- 
mortality,' than almost any express language 
which philosophy has recorded. 

4 Learn of me' would have been thought a dig- 
nified exordium for the founder of a new religion 
by the masters of the Grecian schools. But 
when they came to the humbling motive of the 
injunction, ' for I am meek and lowly in heart,' 
how would their expectations have been damped ? 
They would have thought it an abject declara- 
tion from the lips of a great teacher, unless they 
had understood that grand paradox of Chris- 
tianity, that lowliness of heart was-among the 
highest attainments to be made by a rational 
creature. 

When they had heard the beginning of that 
animating interrogation, — Where is the wise ? 
Where is the disputer of this world ? methinks 
I behold the whole portico and academy emu- 
lously rush forward at an invitation so alluring, 
at a challenge so personal ; but how instinctively 
would they have shrunk back at the repulsive 
question which succeeds ; — Hath not God made 
foolish the wisdom of this world ? Yet would 
not Christianity, well understood and faithfully 
received, have taught these exalted spirits, that, 
to look down upon what is humanly great, is a 
loftier attainment than to look up to it ? 

Would it not have carried a sentiment to the 
heart of Alexander, a system to the mind of 
Aristotle, which their respective, though differ- 
ently pursued, careers of ambition utterly failed 
of furnishing to either ? 

Reason, even by those who possessed it in the 
highest perfection, as it gave no adequate view 
even of natural religion, so it made no adequate 
provision for correct morals. The attempt ap- 
pears to have been above the reach of human 
powers. ' God manifested in the flesh, — He who 
was not only true, but The Truth, and who 
taught the truth as ' one having authority,' — 
was alone competent to this great work. The 
duty of submission to Divine Power was to the 
multitude more intelligible, than the intricate 
deductions of reason. That God is, and is a re- 
warder of them that seek him ; that Jesus Christ 
came into the world to save sinners, make a 
compendious summary both of natural and re- 
vealed religion ; they are propositions which 
carry their own explanation, disentangled from 
those trains of argument, which, as few could 
have been brought to comprehend, perhaps it 
was the greatest wisdom in the philosopher ne- 
ver to have proposed them. 

The most skilful dialectician could only rea- 
son on known principles ; but without the super- 
induction of revealed religion, he could only, 
with all his efforts, and they have been prodi- 
gious, furnish ' rules,' but not ' arms.' Logic is 
indeed a powerful weapon to fence, but not to 
fight with ; that which is a conqueror in the 
schools is impotent in the field. It is powerful 
to refute a sophism, but weak to repel a tempta- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



221 



tion. It may defeat an opponent made up like 
itself of pure intellect ; but is no match for so 
substantial an assailant as moral evil. It yields 
to the onset, when the antagonists are furious 
passions and headstrong appetites. It can make 
a successful thrust against an opinion, but is too 
feeble to ' pull down the strong holds of sin and 
Satan.' 

If, through the strength of human corruption, 
the restraining power of Divine grace is still too 
frequently resisted, — if the ofFered light of the 
Holy Spirit is still too frequently quenched, what 
must have been the state of mankind, when that 
grace was not made known, when that light was 
not fully revealed, when ' darkness covered the 
earth, and gross darkness the people ?' But 
under the clear illumination of evangelical truth, 
every precept becomes a principle, every argu- 
ment a motive, every direction a duty, every 
doctrine a law ; and why ? Because thus saith 
the Lord. 

Christianity, however, is not merely a religion 
of authority ; the soundest reason embraces most 
confidently what the most explicit revelation has 
taught, and the deepest inquirer is usually the 
most convinced Christian. The reason of phi- 
losophy, is a disputing reason, that of Christiani- 
ty, an obeying reason. The glory of the pagan 
religion consisted in virtuous sentiments, the 
glory of the Christian in the pardon and the sub- 
jugation of sin. The humble Christian may say 
with one of the ancient Fathers. — I will not 
glory because I am righteous, but because I am 
redeemed. 



CHAP. II. 

On the Historical writers of the New Testament. 

Among the innumerable evidences of the truth 
of Christianity, there is one of so rare and ex- 
traordinary a nature, as might of itself suffice to 
carry conviction to the mind of every unpreju- 
diced inquirer, even if this proof were not ac- 
companied by such a cloud of concurring testi- 
monies. 

The sacred volume is composed by a vast va- 
riety of writers, men of every different rank and 
condition, of every diversity of character and 
turn of mind : the monarch and the plebian, the 
illiterate and the learned, the foremost in talent 
and the moderately gifted in natural advantages, 
the historian and the legislator, the orator and 
the poet, — each had his immediate vocation, 
each his peculiar province : some prophets, some 
apostles, some evangelists, living in ages remote 
from each other, under different modes of civil 
government, under different dispensations of the 
Divine economy, filling a period of time which 
reached from the first dawn of heavenly light to 
its meridian radiance. The Old Testament and 
the New, the law and the gospel ; the prophets 
predicting events, and the evangelists recording 
them ; the doctrinal yet didactic epistolary writers 
and he who closed the Sacred Canon in the apo- 
calyptic vision ; — all these furnished their re- 
spective portions, and yet all tally with a dove- 
tailed correspondence ; all the different mate- 



rials are joined with a completeness the most 
satisfactory, with an agreement the most incon- 
trovertible. 

This instance of uniformity without design, 
of agreement without contrivance; this consis- 
tency maintained through a long series of ages, 
without a possibility of the ordinary methods for 
conducting such a plan ; these unparalleled con- 
gruities, these unexampled coincidences, form 
altogether a species of evidence, of which there 
is no other instance in the history of all the other 
books in the world. 

All these variously gifted writers here enu- 
merated, concur in this grand peculiarity, that 
all have the same end in view, all are pointing 
to the same object, all, without any projected 
collusion, are advancing the same scheme ; each 
brings in his several contingent, without any 
apparent consideration how it may unite with 
the portions brought by other contributors, with- 
out any spirit of accommodation, without any 
visible intention to make out a case, without in- 
deed any actual resemblance, more than that 
every separate portion being derived from the 
same spring, each must be governed by one 
common principle, and that principle being 
Truth itself, must naturally and consentaneously 
produce assimilation, conformity, agreement. 
What can we conclude from all this, but what 
is indeed the inevitable conclusion, — a conclu- 
sion which forces itself on the mind, and com- 
pels the submission of the understanding ; that 
all this, under differences of administration, is 
the work of one and the same great, Omniscient, 
and Eternal Spirit. 

If, however, from the general uniformity of 
plan, visible throughout the whole Sacred Ca- 
non, results one of the most cogent and com- 
plete arguments for its Divine original, others 
will also rise from its rr.ode of execution, its pe- 
culiar diversities, and some other circumstances 
attending it, not so easily brought under one 
single point of view. — Does it not look as if Al- 
mighty Wisdom refused to divide the glory of 
his revelation with man, when, passing by the 
shining lights of the pagan world, He chose, in 
the promulgation of the Gospel, to make use of 
men of ordinary endowments, men possessing 
the usual defects and prejudices of persons so 
educated and so circumstanced ? Not only the 
other immediate followers, but even the biogra- 
phers of Christ, were persons of no distinguished 
abilities. Integrity was almost their sole, as it 
were the most requisite qualification. On this 
point it is not too much to maintain, that the 
writings of each of these men are not only so 
consistent with each other, but also with them- 
selves, as to offer, individually, as well as aggre- 
gately, a proof of their own veracity, as well as 
of the truth itself. 

Had they, however, all recorded uniformly the 
same more inconsiderable particulars ; had there 
not been that natural diversity, that incidental 
variation, observable in all other historians ; — 
had not one preserved passages which the others 
overlooked, some recording more of the actions 
of Jesus, others treasuring up more of his dis- 
courses ; some particularizing the circumstances 
of his birth ; others only referring to it as a fact 
not requiring fresh authentication ; another again 



222 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



plainly adverting to it by ' the Word that was 
made flesh, and dwelt among us ;' and adding a 
new circumstance by citing the testimony of the 
Baptist to ' the Lamb of God, that takelh away 
the sin of the world ;' — in short, had there been 
in the several relations not mere consistency, 
but positive identity, then, not only the fidelity 
of the writers would have been questionable, and 
concert and design justly have been suspected, 
but we should in effect have had only the testi- 
mony of one Gospel instead of four. 

But to pass to other evidences of truth. — The 
manner in which these writers speak of them- 
selves, is at once a proof of their humility and 
of their veracity. The conversion of Saint Mat- 
thew is slightly related by himself and in the 
most modest terms. He simply says, speaking 
in the third person ; ' Jesus saw a man named 
Matthew, and saith unto him, Follow me : and 
he arose and followed him : and as Jesus sat at 
meat in the house, many publicans and sinners 
came and sat down with him.'* Not a word is 
6aid of a sacrifice so honourable to himself, and 
so generously recorded by Saint Luke in those 
words, he left all, and followed him ; not a word 
of the situation he renounced at the first call of 
the Master, and which appears to have been lu- 
crative, from ' the great feast he made for him 
in his own house, and the great company of 
publicans and others who sat down with him.'t 
Saint Luke relates only his hospitality ; Saint 
Matthew, as if to abase himself the more, de- 
scribes only the sinners which made up his so- 
ciety previous to his conversion. 

These sober recorders of events the most asto- 
nishing, are never carried away by the circum- 
stances they relate, into any pomp of diction, 
into any use of superlatives. There is not, per- 
haps, in the whole Gospel a single interjection, 
nor an exclamation, nor any artifice to call the 
readers attention to the marvels of which the 
relaters were the witnesses. Absorbed in their 
holy task, no alien idea presents itself to their 
mind : the object before them fills it. They 
never digress, are never called away by the so- 
licitations of vanity, or the suggestions of curi- 
osity. No image starts up to divert their atten- 
tion. There is indeed, in the Gospels, much 
imagery, much allusion, much allegory, but 
they proceed from their Lord, and are recorded 
as his. The writers never fill up the intervals 
between events. They leave circumstances to 
make their own impression, instead of heloing 
out the reader by any reflections of their own. 
They always feel the holy ground on which 
they stand. They preserve the gravity of his- 
tory and the severity of truth, without enlarging 
the outline or swelling the expression. 

The Evangelists all agree in this most une- 
quivocal character of veracity, that of criminat- 
ing themselves. They record their own errors 
and offences with the same simplicity with 
which they relate the miracles and sufferings 
of their Lord. Indeed their dulness, mistakes, 
and failings are so intimately blended with his 
history, by their continual demands upon his 
Dalience and forbearance, as to make no incon- 
siderable or unimportant part of it. 



* Matthew, ch. ix. 



t St. Luke, ch. v. 



This fidelity is equally amiable both in th« 
composition, and in the preservation of the Old 
Testament, a book which every where testifies 
against those whose history it contains, and not 
seldom against the relators themselves. The au- 
thor of the Pentateuch proclaims, in the most 
pointed terms, the ingratitude of the chosen 
people towards God. He prophesies that they 
will go on filling up the measure of their of- 
fences, calls heaven and earth to witness against 
them that he has delivered his own soul, de- 
clares that as they have worshipped gods which 
were no gods, God will punish them by calling 
a people who were no people. Yet this book, so 
disgraceful to their national character, this re- 
gister of their own offences, they would rather 
die than lose. ' This,' says the admirable Pas- 
cal, ' is an instance of integrity which has no 
example in the world, no root in nature. In the 
Pentateuch and the Gospel, therefore, these pa- 
rallel, these unequalled instances of sincerity, 
are incontrovertible proofs of the truth of both. 

It is obvious that the impression which was 
to be made should owe nothing to the skill, but 
every thing to the veracily of the writers. They 
never tried to improve upon the doctrines or the 
requirements of their Master, by mixing their 
own wisdom with them.Though their views were 
not clear, their obedience was implicit. It was 
not, however, a mere mechanical obedience, but 
an undisputing submission to the Divine teach- 
ing. Even at the glorious scene of the Trans- 
figuration, their amazement did not get the bet- 
ter of their fidelity. There was no vain impa- 
tience to disclose the wonders which had passed, 
and of which they had been allowed the honour 
of being witnesses. Though they inserted it 
afterwards in their narrations, ' they, as they 
were commanded, kept it close, and told no man 
in those days what they had seen.' 

The simplicity of the narrative is never vio- 
lated ; there is even no panegyric on the august 
person they commemorate, not a single epithet 
of commendation. When they mention an ex- 
traordinary effect of his divine eloquence, it is 
history, not eulogy, that speaks. They say no- 
thing of their own admiration ; it is 'the people 
who were astonished at the gracious words 
which proceeded out of his mouth.' Again, it 
was ' the multitudes marvelled, saying, it was 
never so seen in Israel.' Again, it was the 
officers, not the writer, who said, ' never man 
&pake like this man.' 

In recording the most stupendous events, we 
are never called to an exhibition of their own 
pity, or their own admiration. In relating the 
most soul-moving circumstance, there is no at- 
tempt to be pathetic, no aim to work up the 
feelings of the reader, no appeal to his sympathy, 
no studied finish, no elaborate excitement. Jesus 
wept ; — no comment. He is hungry ; — no com- 
passion escapes them. He is transfigured ; — 
no expression of astonishment. He is agonized ; 
— the narrative does not rise in emphasis. He 
is betrayed ; — no execration to the betrayer. He 
is condemned ; — no animadversions on the ini- 
quitous judge ;~ while their own denial and de- 
sertion are faithfully recorded. He expires ; — 
no remark on the tremendous catastrophe, no 
display of their own sorrow. Facts alone sup- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



223 



ply the void ,* and what facts ? The earth quakes, 
the sun is eclipsed, the graves give up their 
dead. In such a history, it is very true, fidelity 
was praise, fact was glory. And yet, if, on the 
one hand, there were no need of the rhetorician's 
art to embellish the tale, what mere rhetoricians 
could have abstained from using it ? 

Thus, it Seems obvious, that unlettered men 
were appointed to this great work, in order that 
the success of the Gospel might not be suspect- 
ed of owing any thing to natural ability, or to 
splendid attainment. This arrangement while 
it proves the astonishing progress of Chris- 
tianity to have been caused by its own energy, 
serves to remove every just suspicion of the con- 
trivance of fraud, the collusions of interest, or 
the artifices of invention. 

Had the first apostles been men of genius, 
they might have injured the purity of the Gos- 
pel by bringing their ingenuity into it. — Had 
they been men of learning, they might have im- 
ported from the schools of Greece and Rome, 
each from his own sect, some of its peculiar in- 
fusions, and thus have vitiated the simplicity of 
the Gospel. Had they been critics and philoso- 
phers, there might have been endless debates 
which part of Christianity was the power of 
God, and which the result of man's wisdom. 
Thus, though corruptions soon crept into the 
church, yet no impurities could reach the Gos- 
pel itself. Some of its teachers became hereti- 
cal, but the pure word remained unadulterated. 
However, the philosophizing or the Judaizing 
teachers might subsequently infuse their own 
errors into their own preaching, the Gospel pre- 
served its own integrity. They might mislead 
their followers, but they could not deteriorate 
the New Testament. 

It required different gifts to promulgate and 
to maintain Christianity. The Evangelists did 
not so much attempt to argue the truth of the 
Redeemer's doctrines, as practically to nrove 
that they were of Divine origin. If calleu on 
for a defence, they worked a miracle. If they 
could not produce a cogent argument, they could 
produce a paralytic walking. If they could not 
open the eyes of the prejudiced, they could open 
the eyes of the blind. Such attestation was to 
the eye-witnesses, argument the most unan- 
swerable. The most illiterate persons could 
judge of this species of evidence so peculiar to 
Christianity. He could know whether he saw 
a sick man restored to life by a word, or a lame 
man take up his bed and walk, or one who had 
been dead four days, instantly obey the call — 
' Lazarus, come forth !' About a sentiment there 
might be a diversity of suffrages ; about an ac- 
tion which all saw, all could entertain but one 
opinion- The caviller might have refuted a syl- 
logysm, and a fallacy might have imposed on 
the multitude, but no sophistry could counteract 
occular demonstration. 

But as God does nothing in vain, so he never 
employs irrelevant instruments or superfluous 
means. He therefore did not see fit to be at the 
expense of a perpetual miracle to maintain and 
carry on that church which he had thought pro- 
per to establish by miraculous powers. When, 
therefore, the Gospel was immutably fixed on 
its own eternal basis, and its truth unimpeaeh 



ably settled by the authentic testimony of so 
many eye witnesses to the life, death, and re 
surrection of Jesus ; a writer was brought for 
ward, contemporary, but not connected with 
them. Not only was he not confederate with 
the first instituters of Christianity ; but so im- 
placably hostile was he to them, that he had as- 
sisted at the death of the first martyr. 

As the attestation of one notorious enemy in 
favour of a cause, is considered equivalent to 
that of many friends ; thus did this distinguish- 
ed adversary seem to be raised up to confirm 
and ratify all the truths he had so furiously op- 
posed ; to become the most able advocate of the 
cause he had reprobated, the rnost powerful 
champion of the Saviour he had vilified. He was 
raised up to unfold more at large those doctrines 
which could not be so explicitly developed in 
the historical portions, while an immediate re- 
velation from heaven supplied to him the actual 
opportunities and advantages which the Evan- 
gelists had enjoyed. Nothing short of such a 
Divine communication could have placed Saint 
Paul on a level with the other apostles ; had he 
been taught of man, he must have been inferior 
to those who were taught of Jesus. 

For Saint Paul had not the honour to be the 
personal disciple of his Lord. His conversion 
and preaching were subsequent to the illumina- 
tion of the Gospel; an intimation possibly, that 
though revelation and human learning should 
not be considered as sharing between them the 
work of spiritual instruction, yet that human 
learning might henceforward become a valuable 
adjunct, and a most suitable, though subordinate 
accessory in maintaining the cause of that Di- 
vine truth which it had no hand in establishing. 
The ministry of Paul was not to be circum- 
scribed, as that of his immediate precursors had 
been, by the narrow limits of the Jewis church. 
As he was designated to be the Apostle of the 
Gentiles, as he was to bear his testimony before 
rulers and scholars; as he was to carry Ws mis- 
sion into the presence of ' king's, and not be 
ashamed,' — it pleased Infinite Wisdom, which 
always fits the instrument to the work, and the 
talent to the exigence, to accommodate most 
exactly the endowments of Paul to the demands 
that would be made upon them ; and as Divine 
Providence caused Moses to acquire in Egypt 
the learning which was to prepare him for the 
legislator of a people so differently circumstanc- 
ed, it pleased the same Infinite Wisdom to con- 
vey to Paul, through the mouth of a Jewish 
teacher, the knowledge he was to employ for 
the Gentiles, and to adapt his varied acquire- 
ments to the various ranks, characters, preju- 
dices, and local circumstances of those before 
whom he was to advocate the noblest cause ever 
assigned to man. ' 

Of all these providential advantages he avail- 
ed himself with a wisdom, aptness, and appro- 
priateness, without a parallel ; — a wisdom de- 
rived from that Divine Spirit which guided all 
his thoughts, words, and actions : and with a 
teachableness which demonstrated that he was 
never disobedient to the heavenly vision. 

Indeed it seemed necessary, in order to de- 
monstrate that the principles of Christianity are 
not unattainable, nor its precepts impracticable, 



224 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



that the New Testament should in some part, 
present to us a full exemplification of its doc- 
trines and of its spirit ; that they should to pro- 
duce their practical effect, be embodied in a 
form purely human, — for the character of the 
founder of its religion is deified humanity. Did 
the Scriptures present no such exhibition, infi- 
delity might have availed itself of the omission, 
for the purpose of asserting that Christianity 
was only a bright chimera, a beautiful fiction 
of the imagination; and Plato's fair idea might 
have been brought into competition with the 
doctrines of the Gospel. But in St. Paul is ex- 
hibited a portrait which not only illustrates its 
Divine truth, but establishes its moral efficacy ; 
a portrait entirely free from any distortion in 
the drawing, from any extravagance in the co- 
louring. 

It is the representation of a man struggling 
with the sins and infirmities natural to man ; 
yet habitually triumphing over them by that 
Divine grace which had first rescued him from 
prejudice, bigotry, and unbelief. — It represents 
him resisting, not only such temptations as are 
common to men, but surmounting trials to which 
no other man was ever called ; furnishing in his 
whole practice not only an instructor, but a mo- 
del; showing every where in his writings, that 
the same offers, the same supports, the same 
victories, are tendered to every suffering child 
of mortality, — that the waters of eternal life are 
not restricted to prophets and apostles, but are 
offered freely to every one that thirsteth — offered 
without money and without price. 



CHAP. III. 

On the epistolary writers of the New Testament, 
particularly St. Paul. 

Can the reader of taste and feeling who has 
followed the much enduring hero of the Odys- 
sey with growing delight and increasing sym- 
pathy, though in a work of fiction, through all 
his wanderings, peruse with inferior interest the 
genuine voyages of the Apostle of the Gentiles 
over nearly the same seas ? The fabulous ad- 
venturer, once landed, and safe on the shores 
of his own Ithica, the reader's mind is satisfied 
for the object of his anxiety is at rest. But not 
bo ends the tale of the Christian hero. Whoever 
closed Saint Luke's narrative of the diversified 
events of Saint Paul's travels ; whoever accom- 
panied him with the interest his history de- 
mands, from the commencement of his trials at 
Damascus to his last deliverance from ship- 
wreck, and left him preaching in his own hired 
house at Rome, without feeling as if he had ab- 
ruptly lost sight of some one very dear to him, 
without sorrowing that they should see his face 
no more, without indulging a wish that the in- 
tercourse could have been carried on to the end, 
though that end were martyrdom. 

Such readers, and perhaps only such, will re- 
joice to renew their acquaintance with this very 
chiefest of the Apostles ; not indeed in the com- 
munication of subsequent facts, but of important 
principles; not in the records of the biographer, 



but in the doctrines of the saint. In fact, to the 
history of Paul in the Sacred Oracles succeed 
his Epistles. And these Epistles, as if through 
design, open with that 'to the beloved of God 
called to be saints' in that very city, the men- 
tion of his residence in which concludes the 
preceding narrative. 

Had the Sacred Canon closed with the evan- 
gelical narrations, had it not been determined 
in the counsels of Divine Wisdom, that a sub- 
sequent portion of inspired Scripture in another 
form, should have been added to the historical 
portions, that the Epistles should have conveyed 
to us the results of the mission and the death 
of Christ, how immense would have been the 
disadvantage, and how irreparable the loss : 
May we presume to add, how much less perfect 
would have been our view of the scheme of 
Christianity, had the New Testament been cur- 
tailed of this important portion of religious and 
practical instruction. 

We should indeed have felt the same adoring 
gratitude for the benefits of the Redeemer, but 
we should have been in comparative ignorance 
of the events consequent upon his resurrection. 
We should have been totally at a loss to know 
how and by whom the first Christian churches 
were founded ; how they were conducted, and 
what was their progress. We should have had 
but a slender notion of the manner in which 
Christianity was planted, and how wonderfully 
it flourished in the heathen soil. Above all, we 
should have been deprived of that divine instruc- 
tion, equally the dictate of the Holy Spirit, with 
which the Epistles abound ; or, which would 
have been worse than ignorance, uninspired 
men, fanatics, or impostors would have attached 
to the Gospel their glosses, conceits, errors, and 
misinterpretations. — We should have been turn- 
ed over for information to some of those spuri- 
ous gospels, and more than doubtful epistles, of 
which mention is made in the early part of ec- 
clesiastical history. What attempts might have 
been made by such writers, to amuse curiosity 
with a sequel of the history of the persons na- 
med in the New Testament! How might they 
have misled us by unprofitable details of the 
Virgin Mary, or of Joseph of Arimathea ! 

What legends might have been invented, what 
idolatry even might have been incorporated with 
the true worship of God ; what false history ap- 
pended to the authentic record ! Not only is the 
Divine Wisdom manifest in carrying on through 
the Epistles a confirmation of the Spirit and 
power of Christianity, but the same design is no 
less apparent in closing the book with the Apo- 
calypse, — a writing which contains the testi- 
mony of the last surviving disciple of Jesus is 
extreme old age, to which he seems to have 
been providentially preserved for the very pur- 
pose of protecting the Gospel from innovations 
which were beginning to corrupt it. 

The narratives of the Evangelists would in- 
deed have remained perfect in themselves, even 
without the Epistles ; but never could its truths 
have been so clearly understood, or its doctrines 
so fully developed, as they now are. Our Sa- 
viour himself intimated, that there would be a 
more full and complete knowledge of his doc- 
trines, after be had ceased to deliver them, than 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



225 



there was at the time. How indeed could the 
doctrine of the atonement, and of pardon through 
his biood, have been so explicitly set forth dur- 
ing his life, as they afterwards* were in the 
Epistles, especially in those of St. Paul. 

Saint Luke, in the opening of the Acts of the 
Apostles, referring the friend to whom he in- 
scribes it, to his ' former Treatise of all that 
Jesus began to do, and to teach, till he was 
taken up, after that he had through the Holy 
Ghost given commandment to the Apostles' 
seems plainly to indicate that the doing and 
the teaching were to be carried on by them. All 
their doubts were at length removed. They had 
now a plenary conviction of the divinity of 
Christ's person, and of the dignity of his mis- 
sion. They had now witnessed his glorious re- 
surrection and ascension, and the coming of the 
Holy Ghost. They had attained the fullest as- 
surance of the truths they were to proclaim, and 
had had time to acquire the completest certainty 
of their moral efficacy on the heart and life. 

It was therefore ordained by that Wisdom 
which cannot err, that the Apostles, under the 
influence of the Holy Spirit, should work up all 
the doctrines of the anterior Scriptures into a 
more systematic form : — that they should more 
fully unfold their doctrines, extract the essence 
of their separate maxims, collect the scattered 
rays of spiritual light into a focus ; and blend 
the whole into one complete body. 

The Epistles, therefore, are an estimable ap- 
pendix to the Evangelists. The memoir, which 
contains the actions of the Apostles, the work 
of an Evangelist also, stands between these two 
portions of the New Testament. Thus, no chasm 
is left, and the important events which this con- 
necting link supplies — particularly the descent 
of the Holy Spirit, the emblematic vision of 
Saint Peter, and the conversion and apostleship 
of Saint Paul, — naturally prepare the mind for 
* that full and complete commentary on the his- 
torical books, which the Epistles, more especial- 
ly those of Saint Paul, present to us. 

St. Paul was favoured with a particular reve- 
lation, a personal disclosure to him of the truths 
with which the other disciples were previously 
acquainted. This special distinction placed Paul 
on a level with his precursors. Though, in 
point of fact, he added nothing to the Gospel re- 
velation, and in point of doctrine he only gave a 
larger exposition of truths previously communi- 
cated, of duties already enjoined, yet here was 
the warrant of his teaching, the broad seal of his 
apostleship. And unless we fall into the gross 
error of insisting that the Epistles in general 
would not equally be given by inspiration with 
other parts of the New Testament, I see not 
how any can withhold, from the Epistles of St. 
Paul in particular, that reverence which they 
profess to entertain for the entire letter of reve- 
lation. 

It is a hardship to which all writers on sub- 
jects exclusively religious are liable, that if, 
while they are warmly pressing some great and 
important point, they omit at the same time, to 
urge some other point of great moment also, 
which they equally believe, but which they can- 
not in that connexion introduce without break- 
ing in on their immediate train of argument, 

Vol. II. P 



they are accused of rejecting what they are 
obliged to overlook, though in its proper place 
they have repeatedly insisted upon that very 
truth ; nay, though the whole tendency of their 
writings shows their equal faith in the doctrine 
they are said to have neglected. To this disin- 
genuous treatment, amongst other more serious 
attacks upon his character, no author has been 
more obnoxious than the Apostle Paul. It has 
been often intimated, that in dwelling on the 
efficacy of the death of Christ, he has not urged 
with sufficient frequency and energy the im- 
portance of Christian practice. He seems him- 
self to have foreseen the probability of this re- 
proach, and has accordingly provided against 
the consequence that would be drawn from his 
positions, if taken separately. It would be an 
endless task to cite the passages in which he is 
continually defending his doctrine against these 
anticipated misrepresentations. Among other 
modes of refutation, he sometimes states these 
false charges in the way of interrogatories : ' Do 
we make void the law through faith V' And not 
contented with the solemn negative, ' God for- 
bid !' he adds a positive affirmative to the con- 
trary : l Yea we establish the law.' In a similar 
manner he is beforehand with his censors in de- 
nying the expected charge — ' Shall we continue 
in sin that grace may abound ?' and he obtests 
the same Almighty name to his opposite prac- 
tice. Readers, of different views, are without 
ceasing, on the watch to take advantage of all 
the epistolary writers in this respect, while the 
fair method would surely be to form the general 
judgment, from the whole tenor and collective 
spirit of their writings. 

But it has been argued with still greater bold- 
ness, that St. Paul was not a disciple. — Granted. 
But his miraculous conversion entitled him to 
the confidence, which some men more willingly 
place in those who were. This event is sub- 
stantially recorded by Saint Luke : as if he fore- 
saw the distrust which might hereafter arise, he 
has added to his first relation, in the 9th chapter 
of the Acts, two several reports of the same cir- 
cumstance made by Saint Paul himself, first to 
the Jews, and afterwards to Festus and Agrippa. 
As Luke has recorded this astonishing fact three 
several times, we are not left to depend for its 
truth entirely on Saint Paul's own frequent al- 
lusions to it. 

Much suspicion of this great Apostle is avow- 
edly grounded on the remark of Saint Peter, 
who in adverting to his 'beloved brother Paul,' 
observes, that ' in his Epistles are some things 
hard to be understood, which they who are un- 
stable and unlearned wrest to their own destruc- 
tion.' Here the critic would desire to stop, or 
rather to garble the sentence which adds, ' as 
they do also the other Scriptures;' thus casting 
the accusation, not upon Saint Paul or ' the other 
Scriptures,' but upon the misinterpretersof both. 
But Saint Peter farther includes in the same 
passage, that ' Paul accounts the long-suffering 
of God to be salvation, according to the wisdom 
given him.' 1 It is apparent, therefore, that though 
there may be more difficulty, there is not more 
danger in Saint Paul's Epistles, than in the rest 
of the Sacred Volume. Let us also observe what 
is the characters of these subverters of truth,— 



226 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the ' unstable' in principle and ' unlearned' in 
doctrine. If, then, you feel yourself in danger 
of being misled, in which of these classes will 
you desire to enrol your name ? But it is worthy 
of observation, that, in this supposed censure of 
Saint Peter, we have in reality a most valuable 
testimony, not only to the excellence, but also 
to the inspiration of Saint Paul's writings ; for 
he not only ascribes their composition to the 
wisdom given unto him, but puts them on a par 
with the other Scriptures, — a double corrobora- 
tion of their Divine character. 

This passage of St. Peter, then, is so far from 
impugning the character of Paul to Divine In- 
spiration, that we have here the fact itself esta- 
blished upon the authority of a favourite disciple 
and companion of Jesus. To invalidate such a 
testimony would be no less than to shake the 
pillars of revelation. 

Besides, as an eminent divine has observed, 
1 if Saint Paul had been only a good man writing 
under that general assistance of the Spirit com- 
mon to good men, it would be ascribing far too 
much to his compositions to suppose that the 
misunderstanding them could effect the destruc- 
tion of the reader.' 

Saint Peter says only, that ' some things' are 
difficult ; but are there not difficulties in every 
part of Divine revelation, in all the operations 
of God, in all the dispensations of Providence ; 
difficulties insuperable in the natural as well as 
the spiritual world ? Difficulties in the forma- 
tion of the human body ; in the union of that 
perishable body with its immortal companion ? 
Is it not then probable that some difficulties in 
various parts of the Divine Oracles may be pur- 
posely left for the humiliation of pride, for the 
exercise of patience, for the test of submission, 
for the honour of faith ? But allowing that in 
Paul some things are hard to be understood, that 
is no reason for rejecting such things as are 
easy, for rejecting all things. Why should the 
very large proportion that is clear, be slighted 
for the very small one that i3 obscure 1 Scholars 
do not so treat an ancient poet or historian. One 
or two perplexing passages, instead of shaking 
the credit of an author, rather whet the critic to 
a nearer investigation. Even if the local diffi- 
culty should prove invincible, it does not lessen 
the general interest excited by the work. They 
who compare spiritual things with spiritual, 
which is the true Biblical criticism, must per- 
ceive that the epistolary writers do not more 
entirely agree with each other, than they agree 
with the doctrines, precepts, and promises deli- 
vered on the xMount. And as the Sermon on the 
Mount is an exposition of the law of Moses, so 
the Epistles are an exposition of the law of 
Christ. Yet some persons discredit the one, 
from an exclusive veneration for the other. 

But is it not so derogatory from the dignity 
of our Lord to disparage the epistolary discus- 
sions written under the direction of his Holy 
Spirit, written with a view to lay open in the 
clearest manner the truths he taught in the 
Gospel, as it would be to depreciate the facts 
themselves, which that Gospel records ? 

The more general respect for the Gospels 
seems partly to arise from the circumstance that 
they contain facts : the disregard implied for the 



Epistles from this cause, — that they enforce 
doctrines. The former, the generality feel they 
dare not resist; the latter they think they can 
oppose with more impunity. But of how much 
less value would be the record of these astonish- 
ing facts if there were neither doctrines to grow 
out of them, nor precepts to be built upon them ! 
And where should wo look for the full instruc- 
tion to be deduced from both, but in the com- 
mentaries of those, to whom the charge of ex- 
pounding the truths previously taught was com. 
mitted ? Our Saviour himself has left no written 
record. As the Father committed all judgment 
to the Son, so tho Son committed all written in- 
struction to his select servants. 

One of these, who had written a Gospel, wrote 
also three Epistles. Another carried on the se- 
quel of the Evangelical history. If these men are 
worthy of .confidence in one instance, why not in 
another ? Fourteen of the Epistles were written 
by one who had an express revelation from Hea- 
ven ; all the rest, the single chapter of Saint 
Jude excepted, by the distinguished apostles who 
were honoured with the privilege of witnessing 
the transfiguration of their Lord. The three 
Epistles of Saint John are only a prolonged ex- 
pression of the devout feelings which breathe 
throughout his narrative, the same lively mani- 
festation of the word made flesh, which shines 
throughout his Gospel. 

In the Gospel, the doctrines and precepts are 
more dogmatically enjoined : in the Epistles 
they are enforced more argunientatively. The 
structure of the Epistle addressed to the Romans 
is the most systematical. All are equally con- 
sistent with each other, and with the general 
tenor of the antecedent Scriptures. 

Does it not look as if the marked distinction 
which some readers make between the historical 
and the epistolary portions, arose from a most 
erroneous belief that they can more commodi- 
ously reconcile their own views, opinions, and ' 
practice, with the narratives of the Evangelists, 
than with the keen, penetrating, heart-exploring 
exposition of those very doctrines which are 
equally found, but not equally expanded, in the 
Gospels ? These critical discoverers, however, 
may rest assured, that there is nothing more 
strong, nothing more pointed, nothing more un- 
equivocally plain, nothing more awfully severe 
in any part of Saint Paul's writings than in the 
discourses of our Lord himself. He would in- 
deed have overshot his duty in the same propor- 
tion in which he had outgone his Master. Does 
Paul enjoin any thing more contrary to nature 
than the excision of a right hand, or the pluck- 
ing out of a right eye ? Does Paul any where 
exhibit a menace, I will not say more alarming, 
but so repeatedly alarming, as his Divine Master, 
who expressly, in one chapter only, the 9th of 
St. Mark, three several times denounces eternal 
punishment on the irreclaimably impenitent, 
awfully marking out not only the specific place, 
but the specific torment, — the undying worm, 
and the unquenched fire ? 

No : these scrupulous objectors add nothing 
to the character of our Lord, by what they sub- 
duct from that of his apostle. Perfection admits 
of no improvement ; deity of no addition. To 
degrade any portion of tho revealed will of God 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



is no proof of reverence for Him whose will is 
revealed. But it is preposterous to insinuate, 
that a regard for the Epistles is calculated to 
diminish a regard for the Gospels. Where else 
can we find such believing-, such admiring, such 
adoring- views of him whose life the Gospel re- 
cords ? Where else are we so grounded in that 
love which passeth knowledge? Where else are 
we so continually taught to be looking unto 
Jesus ? Where else are we so powerfully re- 
minded that there is no other name under hea- 
ven by which we may be saved ? We may as 
well assert, that the existing laws, of which 
Magna Charta is the original, diminish our re- 
verence for this palladium itself; this basis of 
our political security, as the Gospel is of our 
moral and spiritual privileges. In both cases 
the derived benefit sends us back to the well- 
head from whence it flows. 

He who professes to read the Holy Scriptures 
for his 'instruction,' should recollect, whenever 
he is disposed to be captious, that they are writ- 
ten also for his correction. If we really believe 
that Christ speaks to us in the Gospel, we must 
believe that he speaks to us in the Epistles also. 
In the one he addresses us in his militant, in 
the other in his glorified character. In one, the 
Divine Instructor speaks to us on earth ;in the 
other, from heaven. The internal wisdom, the 
divinity of the doctrines, the accordance both of 
doctrine and precept with those delivered by 
the Saviour himself, the powerful and abiding 
effects which, for near two thousand years they 
have produced, and are actually producing, on 
the hearts and lives of multitudes; the same 
spirit which inspired the writer is still ready to 
assist the reader; all together forming, to every 
serious inquirer who reads them with an humble 
heart and a docile spirit, irrefragable arguments, 
unimpeachable evidence that they possess as 
full a claim to inspiration, and consequently 
have as forcible demand on his belief and obe- 
dience, as any of the less litigated portions of 
the book of God. 

Whoever, then, shall sit down to the perusal 
of these epistles without prejudice, will not rise 
from it without improvement. In any human 
science we do not lay aside the whole, because 
some parts are more difficult than others ; we are 
rather stimulated to the work by the difficulty, 
than deterred from it ; because we believe the 
attainment will reward the perseverance. There 
is, indeed, an essential difference between a 
diagram and a doctrine, the apprehension of 
the one solely depending on the capacity and 
application of the student, while the understand- 
ing of the other depends not merely on the in- 
dustry, but on the temper with which we apply. 
* If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, 
and it shall be given him.' 

Let any reader say, if after perusing- Saint 
Luke's biographical sketch of the Acts of the 
Apostles, after contemplating the work of the 
Spirit of God, and its effects on the lives and 
the preaching of these primitive saints, whether 
he has not attained an additional insight into 
the genius and the results of Christiatiity since 
lie finished reading the Evangelist? Let him 
say further, whether the light of Revelation, 
•hining more and more as he advances, does 



not, in his adding the perusal of the Epistles to 
that of the Acts, pour in upon his mental eye 
the full and perfect day ? 

As there was more leisure, as well as a more 
appropriate space, in the Epistles for building 
up Christianity as a system than in the Gospels, 
so these wise master-builders, ' building on no 
other foundation than that which was laid,' bor- 
rowed all the materials for the glorious edifice 
from the anterior Scriptures. They brought 
from their precursors in the immortal work, the 
hewn stones with which the spiritual temple is 
constructed, and having compacted it with that 
which every portion supplied ; squared, rounded, 
and polished the precious mass into perfect form 
and shape, into complete beauty and everlast- 
ing strength. 



CHAP. IV. 

Saint Paul's Faith, a Practical Principle. 

There are some principles and seeds of na- 
ture, some elements in the character of man, 
not indisposed for certain acts of virtue ; we 
mean virtue as distinguished from the principle 
of pleasing God by the act or sentiment. Some 
persons naturally hate cruelty, others spurn at 
injustice, this man detests covetousness, that 
abhors oppression. Some of these dispositions 
certain minds find, and others fancy, within 
themselves. But for a man to go entirely out 
of himself, to live upon trust, to renounce all 
confidence in virtues which he possesses, and 
in actions which lie performs, ; to cast himself 
entirely upon another ; to seek to be justified, 
not by his own obedience, but by the obedience 
of that other ; to look for eternal happiness, not 
from the merit of his own life, but from that 
of another's death, that death the most degrad- 
ing, after a life the most despised ; for all this 
revolution in the mind and heart, there is no 
foundation, no seed, no element in nature ; it is 
foreign to the make of man ; if possessed, it is 
bestowed ; if felt, it is derived ; it is not a pro- 
duction, but an infusion ; it is a principle, not 
indigenous, but implanted. The Apostle im- 
plies that faith is not inherent, when he says, 
' to you it is given to believe.' 

This superinduced principle is Faith, a prin- 
ciple not only not inherent in nature, but dia- 
metrically contrary to it; a principle which 
takes no root in the soil of the natural heart; 
no man can say that Jesus is the Lord but by the 
Holy Ghost. Its result is not merely a reform, 
but a new life, — a life governed by the same 
principle which first communicated it. 

The faith of mere assent, that faith which is 
purely a conviction of the understanding seldom 
stirs beyond the point at which it first sits down. 
Being established on the same common ground 
with any scientific truth, or any acknowledged 
fact, it is not likely to advance, desiring nothing 
more than to retain its station among other ac- 
cepted truths, and thus it continuos to reside in 
the intellect alone. Though its local existence 
is allowed, it exhibits none of the undoubted 
signs of life, — activity, motion, growth. 



THE WORKS or HANNAH MORE. 



But that vital faith with which the souls of 
the Scripture saints were so richly imbued, is an 
animating and pervading principle. It spreads 
and enlarges in its progress. It gathers energy 
as its proceeds. The more advanced are its at- 
tainments, the more prospective are its views. 
The nearer it approaches to the invisible reali- 
ties to which it is stretching forward, the more 
their dominion over it increases, till it almost 
makes the future present, and the unseen visible. 
Its light becomes brighter, its. flame purer, its 
aspirations stronger. Its increasing proximity 
to its object fills the mind, warms the heart, 
clears the sight, quickens the pace. 

But as faith is of a spiritual nature, it cannot 
be kept alive without spiritual means. It re- 
quires for its sustenance aliment congenial with 
itself. Meditation familiarizes it with its ob- 
ject ; prayer keeps it close to its end. If thus 
cherished by perpetual exercise, sustained by the 
habitual contemplation of the oracles of God, and 
watered with the dews of his grace, it becomes 
the pregnant seed of every Christian virtue. 

The Holy Scriptures have not left this faith 
to grow merely out of the stock of injunction, 
exhortation or command ; the inspired writers 
have not merely expatiated on its beauty as a 
grace, on its necessity as a duty, on its use as 
an instrument, but having infused it as a living 
and governing principle, have fortified their ex- 
hortations with instances the most striking, have 
illustrated their definitions with examples the 
most impressive. 

The most indefatigable but rational champion 
of faith is the Apostle Paul. He every where 
demonstrates, that it is not a speculative dogma 
remaining dormant in the mind, but a lively 
conviction of the power and goodness of God, 
and of his mercy in Christ Jesus ; a principle 
received into the heart, acknowledged by the un- 
derstanding, and operating on the practice. 

Saint Paul, among the other sacred authors, 
seems to consider that faith is to the soul, what 
the senses are to the body ; it is spiritual sight. 
God is the object, faith is the visual ray. Christ 
is the substance, faith is the hand which lays 
hold on it. By faith the promises are in a man- 
ner substantiated. Our Saviour does not say, 
' he that believeth on me shall have life, but has 
life.' It is not a blessing, of which the fruition 
is wholly reserved for heaven : in a spiritual 
sense, through faith the promise becomes per- 
formance, and assurance possession. The im- 
mortal seed is not only sown, but already sprung 
up in the soil of the renewed heart. The life 
of grace becomes the same in nature and quality 
with the life of glory, to which it leads. And 
if in this ungenial climate the plant will not at- 
tain its maturity, at least its progress intimates 
that it will terminate in absolute perfection. 

In that valuable epitome of Old Testament 
biography, the eleventh of Hebrews, Paul de- 
fines faith to be a future but inalienable posses- 
sion. He then exhibits the astonishing effects of 
faith displayed in men like ourselves, by mar- 
shalling the worthies who lived under the ancient 
economy, as actual evidences of the verity of this 
Divine principle; a principle which he thus, by 
numberless personifications, vindicates from the 
charge of being nothing more than an abstract 



notion, a visionary, unproductive conceit, or an 
imaginary enthusiastic feeling. He combats 
this opinion by exhibiting characteristically the 
rich and the abundant harvest, springing from 
this prolific principle. On these illustrious ex- 
amples our limits will not permit us to dwell; 
one of two instances must suffice. 

The patriarchal father of the faithful, against 
hope believed in hope. Natural reliance, rea- 
sonable expectation, common experience, all 
were against him. From all these impedi- 
ments he averted his eyes ; he raised them 
to Him who had promised. Though the pro. 
mise was so great as to seem incredible, his 
confidence in Omnipotence overbalanced all his 
apprehensions of any hindrances. With the 
eye of faith he not only saw his offspring as 
if immediately granted, but all the myriads 
which should hereafter descend from him. He 
saw the great anticipated blessing^; he saw ' the 
star come out of Jacob,' — ' the sceptre rises out 
of Israel.' Though an exclamation of wonder 
escaped him, it was astonishment untinctured 
with distrust; he disregarded second causes; 
difficulties disappeared, impossibilities vanished, 
faith was victorious. 

In this glorious catalogue of those who con- 
quered by faith, there is perhaps not one who 
effers a more appropriate lesson to the higher 
classes of society than the great legislator of 
Israel. Here is a man sitting at ease in his 
possessions, enjoying the sweets of plenty, the 
dignity of rank, the luxuries of literature, the 
distinction of reputation. All these he volunta- 
rily renounces ; he foregoes the pomps ofa court, 
the advantages of a city, then the most learned 
in the world ; he relinquishes the delights of 
polished society : refused to be called the grand- 
son of a potent monarch ; chooses rather to suffer 
affliction with his believing brethren than to en- 
joy the temporary pleasures which a sinful con- 
nivance could have obtained for him : he esteems 
the reproach of Christ, — a Saviour unborn till 
many ages after, unknown but to the eye of 
faith, — greater than all the treasures of Egypt. 
The accomplished, the learned, and the polite, 
will be best able to appreciate the value of such 
a sacrifice. Does it not seem to come more home 
to the bosoms of the elegant and opulent; and 
to offer an instruction more intimate peihaps 
than is bequeathed even by those martial 
and heroic spirits w ? ho subdued kingdoms, 
quenched the violence of fire, stopped the mouths 
of lions, and turned to flight the armies of the 
aliens? These are instances of faith, which, if 
more sublime, are still of less special applica- 
tion. Few are now called to these latter suffer 
ings, but many in their measure and degree to 
the other. May they ever bear in mind that 
Moses sustained his trials only as seeing him 
who is invisible ! 

To change the heart of a sinner is a higher 
exertion of power than to create a man or even 
a world ; in the latter case, as God made it out 
of nothing, so there was nothing to resist tho 
operation ; but in the former he has to encounter, 
not inanity, but repulsion : not an unobtrusive 
vacuity, but a powerful counteraction ; and to 
believe in the Divine energy which effects this 
renovation, is a greater exercise of faith than to 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



229 



believe that the Spirit of God, moving on the 
face of the waters, was the efficient cause of 
creation. 

In producing this moral renovation God has 
to subdue, not only the rebel in arms against the 
king, but 'the little state of man,' in arms against 
himself, fighting against his convictions, refusing 
the redemption wrought for him. Almighty 
goodness has the two-fold work of providing 
pardon for offenders, and making them willing 
to receive it. To offer heaven and then to pre- 
vail on man to accept it, is at once an act of God's 
omnipotence, and of his mercy. 

Thus faith, which appears to be so easy, is of 
all things the most difficult : — which seems to 
be so common, is of all things most rare. To 
consider how reluctant the human heart adopts 
this principle ; how it evades and stipulates ; 
how it procrastinates, even when it does not 
pointedly reject ; how ingenious its subterfuges, 
how specious its pretences; and then to deny 
that faith is a supernatural gift, is to reject the 
concurring testimony of reason, of Scripture, of 
daily observation, of actual experience. 

St. Paul frequently intimates that faith is ne- 
ver a solitary attribute : he never separates it 
from humility, it being indeed the parent of that 
self-abasing grace. He also implies that faith 
is not, as some represent it, a disorderly, but a 
regulating principle, when he speaks of the law 
of faith, of the obedience of faith. Faith and 
~epentance are the two qualities inseparably 
.inked in the work of our salvation ; repentance 
teaching us to abhor ourselves for sin, — faith, to 
go out of ourselves for righteousness. Holiness 
and charity Paul exhibits as its inseparable 
concomitants, or rather its necessary produc- 
tions, their absence crearly demonstrating the 
want of the generating principle. May we not 
hence infer that wherever faith is seen not in 
his company, she is an impostor. 

Of the great 'mysteries of godliness' enume- 
rated by Paul in his Epistle to Timothy, he 
shows by his arrangement of the five particulars 
that compose them, that God believed on in the 
world is the climax of this astonishing process.'* 
And it may be deduced from his general writings 
that the reason why so many do not more anxi- 
ously labour for eternal happiness, is, because 
they do not practically believe it. The impor- 
tance of this fundamental principle is so great, 
that our spiritual enemy is not so perseveringly 
bent on deterring us from this duty, or detach- 
ing us from that virtue, as on shaking the founda- 
tion of our faith. He knows if he can under- 
mine this strong hold, slighter impediments will 
give way. As the first practical instance of hu- 
man rebellion sprung from unbelief, so all sub- 
sequent obedience, to be available, must spring 
from faith. 

Saint Paul shows faith to be a victorious prin- 
ciple. There is no other quality which can en- 
able us to overcome the world. Faith is the 
only successful competitor with secular allure- 
ment. The world offers things great in human 
estimation, but it is the property of this grace to 
make great things look little; it effects this pur- 
pose by reducing them to their real dimensions. 

* 1 Tim. chap. ii. 



Nothing but faith can show us the emptiness of 
this world's glory at the best, because nothing 
else views it in perpetual contrast with the 
blessedness of heaven ; nothing else can give ns 
such a feeling conviction of its brevity at the 
longest, as that principle which habitually mea- 
sures it with eternity. It holds out the only 
light which shows a Christian that the universe 
has no bribe worth his acceptance, if it must be 
obtained at the price of his conscience, at the 
risk of his soul. 

Saint Paul demonstrates in his own instance, 
that faith is not only a regulating and conquer- 
ing, but a transforming grace. It altered the 
whole constitution of his mind. It did not dry 
up the tide of his strong affections, but diverted 
them into a channel entirely different. To say 
all in a word, he was a living exemplification 
of the great Scripture doctrine which he taught 
— faith made him, emphatically, a new man. 
Thus his life as well as his writings prove that 
faith is an operating principle, a strenuous, in- 
fluential, vigilant grace. If it teach that self- 
abasement which makes us lowly in our own 
eyes, it communicates that watchfulness which 
preserves us from the contamination of sin, a 
dread of every communication which may pol- 
lute. Its disciple is active as well as humble. 
Love is the instrument by which it works. But 
that love of God with which it fills the heart, is 
not maintained there in indolent repose, but 
quickened for the service of man. Genuine faith 
does not infuse a piety which is unprofitable to 
others, but draws it out in incessant desires and 
aims to promote the general good. 

The Apostle knew that the faith of many is 
rather drowsy than insincere, rather slothful 
than- hypocritical ; that they dread the conse- 
quences it involves more than the profession it 
requires. He is therefore always explicit, always 
mindful to append the effect to the cause. Hence 
we hear so much from him and the other apos- 
tles of the fruits of faith, of adding to faith vir- 
tue: and it is worthy of remark, that in the roll 
of Saints, — those spirits of renown in the an- 
cient cluirch, to which allusion has been made, 
— the faith of every one is illustrated, not only 
by some splendid act, but by a life of obedience. 

We may talk as holily as Paul himself, and 
by a delusion not uncommon, by the very holi- 
ness of our talk, may deceive our own souls ; but 
we may rest assured that where charity is not 
the dominant grace, faith is not the inspiring 
principle. Thus, by examining our lives, not 
our discourse, we shall ' prove whether we are 
in faith.' 

Though a genuine faith is peremptory in its 
decision and resolute in its obedience, yet it 
deeply feels the source from whence it is derived. 
In that memorable instance of Abraham's faith, 
in the very act, instead of valuing himself on the 
strength of his conviction, he gave glory to God ; 
and it is obvious that the reason why faith is se- 
lected as the prime condition of our justification, 
is, because it is a grace which, beyond all others, 
gives to God the entire glory ; that it is the only 
attribute which subducts nothing for, derives 
nothing from self. Why are christian and be- 
liever convertible terms, if this living principle 
be no ground-work of his character. If, the a. 



230 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



it supplies his distinguishing appellation, should 
it not be his governing 1 spirit of action ? 

Paul is a wonderful instance of the power of 
this principle. That he should be so entirely 
carried out of his natural character ; that he 
who, by his persecuting spirit, courted the fa- 
vour of the intolerant Sanhedrim, should be 
brought to act in direct opposition to their pre- 
judices, supported by no human protection, sus- 
tained alone by the grace of Him whom he had 
stoutly opposed ; that his confidence in God 
should rise in proportion to his persecutions 
from man : that the whole bent of his soul should 
be set directly contrary to his natural propensi- 
ties, the whole force of his mind and actions be 
turned in full opposition to his temper, educa- 
tion, society, and habits ; that not only his affec- 
tions should be diverted into a new channel, but 
that his judgment and understanding should sail 
in the newly directed current ; that his bigotry 
should be transformed into candour, his fierce- 
ness into gentleness, his untameable pride into 
charity, his intolerance into meekness, — can all 
this be accounted for on any principle inherent 
in human nature, on any principle uninspired 
by the Spirit of God ? 

After this instance, — and, blessed be God, the 
instance, though superior, is not solitary ; the 
change, though miraculous in this case, is not 
less certain in others, — shall the doctrine so ex- 
emplified continue to be the butt of ridicule ? 
While the scoffing infidel virtually puts the re- 
novation of the human heart nearly on a footing 
with the metamorphoses of Ovid, or the transmi- 
grations of Pythagoras ; let not the timid Chris- 
tian be discouraged : let not his faith be shaken, 
though he may find that the principle to which 
he has been taught to trust his eternal happiness, 
is considered as false by him who lias not exa- 
mined into its truth ; that the change, of which 
the sound believer exhibits so convincing an evi- 
dence, is derided as absurd by the philosophical 
sceptic, treated as chimerical by the superficial 
reasoner, or silently suspected as incredible by 
the decent moralist. 



CHAP. V. 

The morality of Saint Paul. 

Christianity was a second creation. It com- 
pleted the first order of things, and introduced a 
new one of its own, not subversive but perfective 
of the original. It produced an entire revolu- 
tion in the condition of man, and accomplished 
a change in the state of the world, which all its 
confederated power, wit, and philosophy, not 
jnly could not effect, but could not even con- 
ceive. It threw such a preponderating weight 
into the scale of morals, by the superinduction 
of the new principle of faith in a Redeemer, as 
rendered the hitherto insupportable trials of the 
afflicted, comparatively light. It gave strength 
to weakness, spirit to action, motive to virtue, 
certainty to doubt, patience to suffering, light to 
darkness, life to death. 

It is a rule of Aristotle, that principles and 
conclusions must always be within the sphere 



of the same science ; that error will be inevita- 
ble, while men examine the conclusions of one 
science by the principles of another. He ob- 
serves, that it is therefore absurd for a mathema- 
tician, whose conclusions ought to be grounded 
on demonstration, to ground thern on the proba- 
bilities of the rhetorician. 

May not this rule be transferred from the 
sciences of the schools to the science of morals ? 
Will not the worldly moralist err, by drawing 
his conclusions as to the morality of a serious 
Christian from the principles of the worldly 
school ; not being at all able to judge of the prin- 
ciples, of which the religious man's morals are 
the result. 

But in our application of this rule, the con- 
verse of the proposition will not hold good ; for 
the real Christian, being aware of the principles 
of worldly morality, expects that his conclusions 
should grow out of his principles, and in this 
opinion he seldom errs. 

Christian writings have made innumerable 
converts to morality ; but mere moral works 
have never made one convert to religion. They 
do not exhibit an originating principle. Morali- 
ty is not the instrument but the effect of con- 
version. It cannot say, ' Awake thou that sleep- 
est, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall 
give thee light.' But when Christ has given life, 
then morality, by the activity of the inspiring 
motive, gives the surest evidence of renovated vi- 
tality, and exhibits the most unequivocal symp- 
toms, not only of spiritual life, but of vigorous 
health. 

Saint Paul is sometimes represented not mere- 
ly as the greatest of the Apostles, — this is rea- 
dily granted, — but virtually as being almost ex- 
clusively great. Is not this just ascription of 
superior excellence, however, too commonly li- 
mited to the doctrinal part of his compositions, 
and is not the consummate moral perfection 
which both his writings and his character so 
consistently display, sometimes, if not overlook- 
ed, yet placed in the back ground ? 

Though he did more for the moral accom- 
plishment of the human character than has ever 
been effected by any other man ; though he la- 
boured more abundantly than any other writer, 
to promote practical religion; yet polemical di- 
vinity on the one side, is too much disposed to 
claim him as her immediate champion ; and 
then in order to make good her claim on the 
other, to assign to him a subordinate station in 
the ranks of sacred and moral writers. 

Now the fact is, that all the prophets and 
apostles, aggregately, are not so abundant in 
ethical instruction, nor is the detail of moral 
conduct in any of them so minutely unfolded, 
or so widely ramified, as in the works of Saint 
Paul. We may indeed, venture to assert, that 
David and our apostles are almost the only Scrip- 
ture characters, of whom we have such full- 
length pictures. And for this reason ; what 
was left imperfect in their delineation by their 
respective historians, is completely filled up by 
their own compositions. The narratives may 
be said to exhibit their shape and features ; their 
own writings have added the grace of counte- 
nance, the force of expression, and the warmth 
of colouring 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



231 



It furnisfit-s ti complete answer to those who 
oppose the doctrines of grace, on the supposed 
ground of their encouraging sin ; that, as there 
never was a man who expanded and illustrated 
those doctrines so fully, so there never was one 
whose character and compositions exhibit a more 
consistent and high-toned morality. 

Like his sacred precursors, Paul always 
equally maintains the freeness of grace, and the 
necessity of holiness. The character of faith 
is not lowered by insisting that holy practice, 
which is nothing more than the exercises and 
consequences of faith, is the sign of its reality. 
Action, and motion, and speech are not life, but 
they are the most unequivocal signs of life. 
Life evidences itself in them ; and we do not 
disparage the principle when we infer its effects, 
and estimate their value. 

We sometimes hear in conversation Saint 
James set up as the champion of moral virtue 
against Saint Paul, the bold asserter of doctrines. 
For these two eminent apostles, there has been 
invented an opposition, which, as it never ex- 
isted in their minds, so it cannot be traced in 
their writings. Without detracting from the 
perfect ethics of Saint James, may we not be 
allowed to insist, that Paul, his coadjutor, not 
his rival, is equally zealous in the inculcation 
of practice ; only running it up more uniformly 
into its principle ; descending more deeply into 
its radical stock, connecting it more invariably 
with its motive. It is worth observing, in con- 
firmation of their similarity of views, and per- 
fect agreement in sentiment, that Saint Paul and 
Saint James derive their instance of the princi- 
ple for which each is contending, from the same 
example, the patriarch Abraham. 

So far is P'aul from undervaluing virtue, that 
he expressly declares ' that God will render to 
every man according to his deeds. 1 So peremp- 
tory or. this head, that he not only directs men 
to do good works, but to ' maintain' them ; so 
desirous to establish the act into a habit, that 
they must not only perform them, but be 'care- 
ful' in the performance ; so far from thinking, 
that, after his conversion, man was to be an in- 
active recipient of grace, that he not only en- 
joins us to be * always abounding in the work 
of the Lord,' but assigns the very reason for it 
— the reception of grace; 'forasmuch as ye 
know that your labour will not be in vain in the 
Lord.' He repeatedly presses on them perse- 
verance, and perseverance is no fanatical symp- 
torn. His documents enforce a religion equable, 
consistent, progressive. This mode of instruc- 
tion is no fruit of a heated brain, no child of 
emotion, no vapour of impulse, no effect of 
fancy. 

Not to instance those ample tables of Chris- 
tian practice, the twelfth of Romans, the fifth 
of Thessalonians, the whole Epistle of Titus, 
and the two last chapters to the Ephesians, — 
every part of his writings either deduces holy 
practice from some corresponding principle ; 
or else, after he has been enforcing a system of 
doctrine, he habitually infers a system of mo- 
rals growing out of it, inseparable from it. In- 
deed, throughout the whole of the last named 
Epistle, into which the very essence of Gospel 
doctrines is infused and compressed, all the so 



cial, personal, and relative duties are specifically 
detailed and enjoined : — the affection of hus- 
bands, the submission of wives, the tenderness 
of parents, the obedience of children, the subor- 
dination and fidelity of servants, economy of 
time, hands to be kapt from stealing, 'a tongue 
from evil speaking,' a body maintained in ' tem- 
perance, soberness, and chastity ;' a guarded 
conversation, a gravity of carriage ; the very 
decencies of life are all proposed with a minute- 
ness which will scarcely bear a comparison but 
with his own catalogue of virtues in a kindred 
Epistle : ' Whatsoever things are true, honest, 
just, pure, lovely, and of good report ; if there 
be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think 
on these things.' 

So far from seeking to subvert the moral law, 
he takes unwearied pains to confirm it : but he 
fixes it on its true basis ; while he denies its 
justifying power, he ' establishes' its importance 
as a rule. He vindicates its value, not as a 
covenant for salvation, but as a measure of con- 
duct. In no instance, however light, does he 
deny the obligation of believers to maintain a 
steadfast adherence to it, or discountenance, a 
minute observance of it. He not only shows 
that every sin is to be abandoned, but the con- 
trary virtue adopted : and, though one of the 
fathers observes, that ' a vice sometimes gives 
place where a virtue does not take it,' yet the 
only certain symptom of the expulsion of a bad 
quality is the substitution of its opposite. And 
no man ever more forcibly condemned an empty 
profession than Paul : no one more severely re- 
probated a dead faith, no one more unequivo- 
cally commended ' not the hearers, but the doers 
of the law.' 

He proves unanswerably that the doctrine of 
grace is so far from being hostile to sound prac- 
tice, that it is the only source from which all 
legitimate virtue springs ; — so far from slacken- 
ing diligence, that it gives vigour to its activity; 
— so far from making vigilance superfluous, 
that its constant language is, Watch; — so far 
from limiting to a favoured few the exhortation, 
that it makes it universal ; ' What I say unto 
you, I say unto all — watch !' 

In directing his converts to virtuous deeds, 
he never fails to include the spirit in the act ; — 
they must be ready to distribute, willing to com- 
municate. He never fails to show, that the cha- 
racteristic and essence of all goodness is the 
desire of pleasing God. In other words, the 
action must be the fruit of love to Him. Quali- 
ties merely amiable are originally without that 
principle, and possessed even by animals, and 
possessed in a very high degree, as affection for 
their offspring, fidelity to their masters, grati- 
tude for notice. 

Paul, like his blessed Lord, is never so 
emphatically indignant against any of the 
signs of hypocrisy in professors, a-s against sin- 
ful practice. Like Him he is frequent in the 
enumeration of vices which he solemnly pro- 
claims amount to an exclusion from heaven. 
Holy practice is indeed the only sign to the 
world of the sincerity of a Christian, and in a 
good measure is a sign to himself. It is the 
principal evidence which will regulate the retri. 
butive sentence of the last day.. — Paul therefore 



23a 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



calls that day ' the revelation of the rig hteous 
judgment of God.' He does not call it the day 
of his forming the judgment, but of his declar- 
ing it. God, who witnessed the act when it was 
done, and the motive which impelled it, wants 
himself no such evidence to assist his decision, 
but he uses it to manifest to men and angels 
his own strict justice. ' In that awful day,' says 
an eminent divine, ' the judge will not examine 
men as to their experiences, he will not set every 
one to tell the story of his conversion, but he 
will bring forth his works.'* 

How acceptable, even in the ears of the most 
thoughtless, would that proclamation sound, the 
grace of God bringeth salvation, were it unac- 
companied by the moral power ascribed to it, 
that of teaching us to deny our sensual appetites! 
How many would give a cheap assent to the 
principle, were it not clogged with such an en- 
cumbering consequence. Those who insist, that 
our salvation is effected by works, would gladly 
adopt faith as a speculative notion, instead of 
the inconvenient evidences which this self-deny- 
ing grace involves. 

One would imagine, that some who so loudly 
insist that we shall be 6aved by works, must 
mean works of supererogation, and that they 
depended for salvation on the transfer of the su- 
perfluity of the merits of others to themselves ; 
for it is remarkable, that they trust their future 
bliss most confidently to good works, who have 
the slenderest portion of their own to produce. 

The Apostle is perpetually combating the 
fatal doctrine of those who insinuate that the 
freedom of the Gospel is a freedom from moral 
restraint. He describes it, indeed, as a deliver- 
ance from the sentence, but not from the pre- 
cepts, of the law. No one ever more unremit- 
tingly opposed those who represent the constant 
inculcation of holy practice as an infringement 
of the liberty of a Christian. He perpetually de- 
monstrates the necessity of a determinate rule 
of duty, without which even that love, which is 
sometimes pleaded as an apology for the neglect 
of duty, — that love, which is, indeed, the genu- 
ine source of all acceptable performance, — might 
be lowered into a vagrant, indefinite, disorderly 
principle. A religion, destitute of faith and love, 
is not the religion of Christ : a religion which 
furnishes no certain standard of conduct, is not 
the religion of the Gospel. 

Saint Paul accordingly animadverts severely 
on those who presume to convert the liberty 
wherewith Christ has made us free, into a pre- 
tence for licentious conduct. He strenuously 
refutes the charge, by intimating, that the New 
Covenant enforces holiness of life, even more 
than the Old, and enforces it on more engaging 
motives. The Law deters from sin by denun- 
ciations : the Gospel invites to goodness by the 
most winning persuasions; God so loved the 
world, that he gave his Son to save it. The Law 
shows man the danger of sin, and pronounces 
its punishment: the Gospel performs the higher 
act of love, it delivers him from its power. It 
is a quality ascribed to the love of Christ, that 
it ' constraineth ;' it compels us, as it were, to be 
compassionate. What can make us so tender to 

* Edwards on Religious Affections. 



others as the experience of God's goodness i<? 
ourselves ? Who is so ready to show mercy as 
he who has received it? 

Saint Paul derives all duties from this love 
of God in Christ as their foundation. All the 
motives to right action, all the arguments for 
holiness of life, are drawn from this source ; all 
the lines of duty converge to this centre. If 
Paul censures, he points to this only spring of 
hope ; if he laments, he turns to tins only true 
consolation ; if he insists that the Grace of God 
hath appeared, he points to its practical object, 
'teaching us to live soberly, righteously, and 
godly.' When he determines to know nothing 
but his Saviour, and even him under the de- 
grading circumstance of crucifixion, he includes 
in that knowledge all the religious and moral 
benefits of which it is susceptible. 

They who contend that the Gospel is only a 
scheme of morals, struggle hard to keep down 
the compact to their own depressed standard. 
They will not allow of a grain or a scruple ' be- 
yond the bond,' but insist, that whatever is not 
specifically commanded, is superfluous ; what is 
above their own pitch is unnecessary. If they 
allow that it is sublime, they insist that it is 
impracticable. If they allow that the love, peace, 
and joy of the apostle, are desirable, they do not 
desire them as fruits of the Spirit, as signs of 
acceptance. The interior principle, those views 
which take in the very depths of the heart, as 
well as the surface of life, — any practical use 
of these penetrating truths, they consider as 
something which the enthusiastic reader does 
not find, but make. 

The mere social aBd political virtues are made 
for this world. Here they have their origin, 
their use, and their reward. All the motives to 
various practice, not derived from the hope of 
future blessedness, will be inefficient. There is 
a powerful obligation to ' perfect holiness' to 
those who do not perfect it in the fear ' of God.' 
Grace will not thrive abundantly in that heart 
which does not believe it to be the seat of glory. 

The moralist of our Apostle is not merely a 
man possessed of agreeable qualities, of some 
social and civil virtues, of generosity and gpod 
nature, qualities excellent as far as they go, and 
which, as a means to the good order of society, 
can scarcely be too much valued ; but these qua- 
lities a man may possess, without having the 
love of God shed abroad in his heart, without 
desiring 'to live for him who died for him.' 
Such qualities will gain him credit, but that 
very credit may endanger his salvation, if 
worldly esteem make him rest satisfied, without 
the ' honour which eometh from God.' The pu- 
rity, sublimity, and consistency of Saint Paul's 
requirements every where manifest that his mo- 
ral man is not merely a disciple of Antoninus or 
Epictetus, but a liege subject of the Messiah's 
spiritual kingdom. 

Paul shows, that the humbling doctrines of 
the Cross are so far from lowering the tone of 
moral obligation, that they raise the standard 
of practical virtue to an elevation totally un- 
known under any other mode of instruction. 
Hut there is a tendency in the heart of man, in 
his natural state, to rebel against these doc- 
trines, even while he professes himself an ad 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



233 



vocate for virtue ; to set up the virtue which he 
^resumes that he possesses, against religion, to 
which he is chiefly hostile for the very elevation 
which it gives to virtue : this, more than the 
doctrines, and even than the mysteries of reve- 
lation, is the real cause of his hostility. 

We have known persons, when pressed on 
the peculiar doctrines of the Gospel, think to get 
rid of the argument, by declaring that they did 
not pretend to understand Saint Paul ; that, for 
their part, they were quite satisfied with Micah's 
religion : 'To do justly, love mercy, and walk 
humbly with thy God,' was enough for them. 
In what they call this comfortable, and reason- 
able, and practicable scheme of religion, they are 
little aware what strictness is involved, what in- 
9 tegrity, what charity, what holiness. They little 
think how nearly the Prophet's religion ap- 
proached that of the Apostle. There is in fact no 
difference between them, but such as necessarily 
arises out of the two dispensations under which 
they lived. To walk humbly with God, we must 
believe in the revelation of his Son, and conse- 
quently adopt the principle he enjoins : we must 
adopt every doctrine, and believe every mystery. 
To walk humbly with God, is a principle which 
stretches to the bounds of the whole universe of 
revelation. 

More men are indebted to Christianity for 
their morality, than are willing to confess the 
obligation. It communicates a secret and unac- 
knowledged infection. Living under a public 
recognition of Christianity, under Christian 
laws, and in Christian society, causes many a 
proud heart to believe more than it cares to own, 
and to do more good than the man is willing to 
ascribe to the faith which, if it does not actually 
influence his mind, has made right actions so 
sommon, that not to do them is dishonourable. 
Others, who do not appear to live under the 
direct illumination of the Gospel, have yet the 
benefit of its refracted rays, which, if the con- 
veyance is too imperfect to communicate reli- 
gious warmth, yet diffuses sufficient light to 
point the way to many moral duties. 

We are apt to call men good, because they 
are without certain bad qualities. But this is 
not only not knowing religion, it is not knowing 
human nature. All vices are not affinities ; of 
course the very indulgence of one vice is not 
seldo.n an exclusion of another, as covetousness 
avoids profligacy, and ambition expels indo- 
lence; but though they are natural antipathies, 
they all spring from the same source ; the same 
fountain of corrupt nature feeds both. 

Nor does the goodness of Saint Paul's moral 
man consist merely in abstaining from wicked 
actions ; nor merely in filling the external duties 
of his profession. While he is active in busi- 
ness, he must be fervent in Spirit. While 
transacting the ordinary affairs of life, he must 
be serving the Lord. In worldly moralists, the 
excessive pursuit of business, as well as of plea- 
sure, leaves a clinging to it in the thoughts, and 
almost exclusive attachment to it in the heart, 
long after the actual engagement has ceased, 
the hankering mind continues to act over again 
the scenes of its interest, of its ambition, or of 
its amusement. 

Again, the worldly moralist, while he prac- 



tises some virtues, is indifferent to others. He 
is temperate, perhaps, but he is ambitious. He 
is diligent, but ho is sordid. Whereas Chris 
tian morality as taught by St. Paul hangs as it 
were in clusters ; every virtue issuing from his 
principles touches on other virtues at so many 
points, that no man possesses one in perfection 
who does not possess many, who does not at 
least desire to possess all ; while the Divine 
Spirit, pervading like the sap every fibre of the 
soul, strengthens the connexion of its graces, 
and infuses holy aims into the whole character. 

We have employed the term morality in com- 
pliance with common usage ; but adopted in the 
worldly sense, it gives but an imperfect idea of 
the Apostle's meaning. His preceptive pas- 
sages are encircled with a kind of glory ; they 
are illuminated with a beam from heaven ; they 
proceed from the Spirit of God, are produced by 
faith in Him. There is every where that 
beautiful intermixture of motive and action, that 
union of the cause and the effect, the faith and 
its fruits, that uniform balance of the principle 
and the produce, which render these Epistles an 
exhaustless treasury of practical wisdom, as well 
as an imperishable record of Divine Grace. 

Saint Paul every where runs up the stream 
to the spring. The government he inculcates 
is spiritual. Not content to recommend the obe- 
dience of the life, he brings the very thoughts 
and desires under controul. He traces up the 
act to the temper which produces it. He dwells 
more on the spirit of the world than on its ac- 
tual offences. He knew that many would re- 
probate bad actions, who do not seek that spirit 
which would prevent their generating. He 
knew that men judge soundly enough on ques- 
tions in which they have no bias from interest 
or appetite. For one who believes that to be 
' carnally-minded is death,' twenty believe in the 
miraculous gift of tongues, and even in the doc- 
trine of the Trinity, because they fancy, that 
neither of these trenches on their purser or their 
pleasure, or their vain projects. 

What Paul calls ' doing by nature the things 
contained in the law,' and ' a man being a law 
unto himself,' we frequently see illustrated in 
some well bred and highly cultivated minds. 
They have a strong sense of honour and integ- 
rity ; to this sense their credit and their com- 
fort require they should live up. The natural 
make of their mind, perhaps, is liberal ; from 
education they have imbibed noble sentiments : 
they have adopted a system of equity which they 
would think it dishonourable to violate ; they 
are generous and humane; but in matters of 
self-indulgence they are not scrupulous ; in sub- 
duing their inclinations, in abstinence from 
some one governing desire or impetuous appe- 
tite, — in all this they come short; to all this 
their rule does not extend. Their conduct, 
therefore, though amiable, and useful, and 
creditable, yet is not the 'obedience of faith;' 
these good qualities might have been exercised, 
had Christianity never existed ; this is not 
bringing the practice, much less the thoughts, 
into the captivity of Christ. This man is a law 
unto himself, and acts consistently enough with 
this self-imposed legislation. 

Even if no religion had ever existed, if a 



234 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Deity did not exist, — for the reference is not to 
religion, not to the will of the Deity, — such mo- 
rality would be acceptable to society, because 
to society it is profitable. But how can action 
be pleasing to God in which there is no purpose 
of blessing him? How can any conduct be ac- 
ceptable to God, to whom it renders no homage, 
to whom it gives no glory? 

Scripture abounds with every motive to obe- 
dience, both rational and spiritual. But it 
would achieve but half its work, had it stopped 
there. As peaceable creatures, we require not 
only inducements to obedience, but a heart, and 
a power, and a will to obey ; assistance is as 
necessary as motives ; power as indispensable 
as precept ; — all which requisites are not only 
promised by the word, but conferred by the 
Spirit of God. 



CHAP. VI. 

The Disinterestedness of Saint Paul. 

The perfection of the Christian character does 
not so much consist in this excellence, or that 
talent, or the other virtue ; in the performance 
of some right action, or the abstinence from 
some wrong one, as in the determination of the 
whole soul for God. This generous surrender of 
self, whether of the sensual or of the intellectual 
self is the unequivocal test of a heart consecrat- 
ed by man to his Maker. He has no bye-ends, 
no secret reserves- His intention is single, his 
way is straight forward ; he keeps his end in view 
without deflection, and he pursues it without 
weariness. 

Saint Paul and his associates were the first 
moral instructors who preached not themselves. 
Perhaps there is scarcely a more striking proof 
of the grandeur of his spirit, than his indiffer- 
ence to* popularity. This is an elevation of 
character, which not only no Pagan sage has 
reached, but which not every Christian teacher 
has been found to attain. 

This successful apostle was so far from plac- 
ing himself at the head of a sect, that he took 
pains to avoid it. In some subsequent instruc- 
tors, this vanity was probably the first seed of 
heresy ; the sound of Ebionites and Marcionites 
would as much gratify the ear of the founders, 
as bringing over proselytes to their opinions 
would delight their feelings. Paul would have 
rejected with horror any such distinction. He 
who earnestly sought to glorify his Master, 
would naturally abase himself. With a holy 
indignation he asks, ' What then is Paul, and 
what is Apollos, but ministers by whom ye be- 
lieved V He points out to them the littleness of 
such exclusive fondness in men, who had such 
great objects in view — ' overvalue not Paul or 
Apollos as yours, for all things are yours." 1 

It is impossible not to stop a moment, in order 
to notice the fine structure of the period to which 
these words are an introduction. It would be 
difficult to find a more finished climax : ' Let no 
man glory in men ; for all things are yours, 
whetiiar Paul, or Apollos, or Cephas; or the 
world, or lite, or death ; or things present or 



things to come ; all are yours, and your are 
Christ's and Christ is God's.* 

Knowing the proneness of human nature to 
this party spirit, he takes pains to prevent ex- 
cessive individual attachments. There is no in- 
stance of a man so distinguished, so little dis- 
tinguishing himself. He chooses to merge him- 
self in the general cause, to sink himself in the 
mass of faithful ministers. — This is particularly 
evident in the beginning of many of his Epistles, 
by his humility in attaching, to his own, some 
name of far inferior note, as his associate in the 
work ; — ' Paul and Sosthenes' — ' Paul and Syl- 
vanus' — ' Timotheus our brother ;' — and in writ- 
ing to the Thessalonians, he connects both the 
latter names with his own. 

He laboured to make the people bear in mind • 
th.it the apostles were the disseminators, not the 
authors, of the faith which they preached. 
Miraculous as his conversion had been, superior 
as were his endowments, favoured as he was by 
Divine inspiration, he not only did not assume, 
but he rejected, any distinction, and only in- t 
eluded himself among the teachers of their com- 
mon Christianity. Thus he bequeathed to his 
successors a standing pattern of humility, and 
of the duty of ascribing their talents, their ap- 
plication, and their success, to him, from whom 
whatever advantages they possess, are derived. 

Saint Paul did not rank, on the one hand, with 
those liberal modern philosophers, who assert 
that virtue is its own reward ; nor on the other, 
with those abstracted mystics, who profess an 
unnatural disinterestedness, and a superhuman 
disdain of any recompence but that which they 
find in the pure love of God. He was not above 
accepting heaven, not for any works of righte- 
ousness which he had done, but as the free gift 
of God through the righteousness that had been 
wrought for him. He was not too proud and 
independent to confess, that the nearness of 
heavenly glory was with him a most animating 
principle. 

This hope cheered his fainting spirit ; this 
prospect not only regulated, but almost annihi- 
lated his sense of suffering. Invisible things 
were made so clear to the eye of faith ; remote 
things were brought so near to one, who always 
kept up in his mind a comparative estimate of 
the brevity of this afflicted life, and the duration 
of eternal happiness ; faith so made the future 
present; love so made the labour light; the 
earnest of the Spirit was given him in such a 
measure ; — that mortality seemed, even here, to 
be swallowed up of life. His full belief in the 
immediate presence of God in that world in 
which he was assured, that light, purity, holiness, 
and happiness would be enjoyed in their most 
consummate perfection, not only sustained his 
hope, but exhilirated his heart. 

If it does hot support us under our inferior 
trials in the same manner, it is because we have 
rather a nominal than a practical faith, rather 
an assenting than an obeying conviction; it is 
because our eyes are not fixed on the same ob- 
jects, nor our hearts warmed with the same 
affections; it is because our attention is direct- 
ed so sparingly to that Being, and that state, to 

* I Corinth iii 22 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



235 



whicti his was supremely devoted. Ought we 
to complain, that we enjoy not the same sup- 
ports, nor the same consolations, while we do 
not put oursolves in the same way to obtain 
them ? 

But though Paul was no disciple of that meta- 
physical theology, which makes such untaught 
distinctions, as to separate our love of God from 
any regard to our own beatitude ; though he 
might ha-ve been considered a selfish man, by 
either of the classes to whom allusion has been 
made, yet true disinterestedness was eminently 
his characteristic. Another instance of a human 
being so entirely devoid of selfishness, one who 
never took his own ease, or advantage, or safety, 
or credit, into the account, cannot be found. If 
he considered his own sufferings, he considered 
them for the sake of his friends. ' Whether we 
be afflicted, it is for your consolation and salva- 
tion.' The only joy he seemed to derive, when 
he was ' pressed out of measure, above strength,' 
was, that others might be comforted and encou- 
raged by his sufferings. So also of his consola- 
tions ; the principal joy which he derived from 
them was, that others might be animated by 
them. This anxiety for the proficiency of his 
converts, in preference to his own safety ; his 
disposition to regard every object in due sub- 
jection to the great design of his ministry ; his 
humble, vigilant care, while exulting in the 
hope of an eternal crown, that he might ' not 
himself be cast away ;' — form, in combination 
with the rest of his conduct, a character which 
we must allow has not only no superior, but no 
parallel. 

The union of generosity and self-denial, — and 
without the one the other is imperfect, — was pe- 
culiarly exemplified in our apostle. — His high- 
minded independence on man had nothing of 
the monkish pride of poverty, for he knew ' how 
to abound ;' nor was it the worldly pusillani- 
mous dread of it, for he ' knew how to want.' 

In vindicating the right of the ecclesiastical 
body to an equitable provision, as a just requital 
of their labours, he nobly renounces all claim to 
any participation for himself. — ' I have used none 
of these things /' This wise and dignified ab- 
stinence in the original formation of a church, 
which must be founded, before provision can be 
made for its continuance, while it maintained 
the dignity of hi9 own disinterestedness, enabled 
him wilh the better grace, and more powerful 
effect, to plead the legitimate claims of her mi- 
nisters ; and to insist, that it was the duty of the 
people to supply their temporal things to those 
from whom they received ther spiritual things. 
While he himself refused to claim them, lest it 
should be made a pretence for hindering the 
Go«pel, he yet looked forward with an eye of 
kindness and justice, in thus stipulating, as it 
were, for the comfort of the Christian ministers 
to the end of the world. 

In a long expostulatory argument, illustrated 
by a variety of analogous instances, he shows 
the propriety of a provision being made for those 
who dedicated themselves to the spiritual in- 
struction of others : — the warrior engaged in the 
defence of his country is supported at the public 
expense ; the planter by the produce of his vine- 
yard ; the feeder of a flock by the milk of his 



flock ; the agriculturist by the profits of his 
plough. 

He strengthens his argument by an allusion 
to a humane practice in the old law, by which 
even the ox was allowed to participate in that 
plenty which his labour assisted to procure ; 
then, by a sudden generous interjection, — ' Doth 
God take care for oxen ?' he intimates that this 
provision of mercy for the beast, was emblema- 
tical of this justice, — for it scarcely amounted 
to mercy, — which ought to secure to every mi- 
nister a fair remuneration for the sacrifice he 
has made of ease and profit, by addicting him- 
self to the service of the altar. 

After, however, having declared that he re- 
nounced all reward for himself, fearing that this 
assurance might be construed into an insinua- 
tion of his wish to receive the emolument which 
he pretended to refuse, with a noble disdain of 
so mean an expedient, he protests that it would 
be better for him to die of want, rather than, by 
receiving pecuniary recompence, to rob himself 
of his honest claim to the consciousness of dis 
interested services. 

Saint Paul's conduct in these instances affords 
something of the same fine climax in action, 
with that which Jesus expressed in words, when 
he sent to the Baptist the proofs of his divinity. 
After enumerating his miracles of love, he closes 
with declaring, as the highest possible instance 
of that love, that the Gospel was preached — but 
to what class ? to the poor ! From the words 
of Christ, turn to the life of Paul. The perse- 
cution of his enemies, the fatigue of his travels, 
the falsehood of his brethren, the labour of in- 
structing so many nations, of converting so ma- 
ny cities, of founding so many churches, — what 
is his relaxation from such labours, what his re- 
freshment from such perils, what his descent 
from such heights ? — Working with his own 
hands for his daily bread, and for the relief of 
the poor. The profane critic may call this the 
art of sinking, the Christian will deem it the 
noblest point of elevation. Might not the apos- 
tle well say, ' Be ye followers of me, as I am of 
Christ?' 

How has the world stood in just admiration 
of the generous conduct of Cincinnatus ! Tired 
with the fatigues of war, and satiated with the 
glories of conquest, he very rationally, and (as 
he refused all reward) it must be owned very 
disinterestedly, withdrew to his country house, 
from which he had been reluctantly torn. He 
withdrew to enjoy, in the bosom of his family, 
the advantages of agriculture and the pleasures 
of retirement. To such a retreat would Paul 
have flown with delight, had he not known that, 
for him it was not a duty. He, unlike the Dic- 
tator, had no intervals of unmolested claim ; it 
was not in the quiet of repose, but in the very 
midst of perils and of persecutions, that he la- 
boured for his own support. 

It cannot be denied, that his whole consistent 
practice furnished this sure criterion of a faith- 
ful minister, — that he enjoined no self-denial, 
preached no mortification, recommended no ex- 
ertion to others, of which he gave not himself a 
shining example. While he pointed out to his 
associates the duty of ' approving themselves 
ministers of God in afflictions, in aecessities, in 



236 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



distresses,' he was not himself lying on a bed of 
roses ; he was not making light of sorrows, of 
which he was not personally partaking ; he did 
not deal out orders for the patient endurance of 
sufferings the bitterness of which he had not 
tasted. He had largely shared in the stripes 
and imprisonments which it was possible some 
of his followers might be speedily called to en- 
dure. 

At the same time, he furnishes them with cau- 
tions drawn from his own invariable prudence, 
when he exhorted them to give no offence. 
This was not altogether to avoid personal dis- 
credit, though that should be carefully guarded 
against, so much as to preserve the character of 
religion itself from the obloquy she would sus- 
tain from the faults of her disciples. His great 
object why the ministry should not be blamed, 
was because he knew how ineffectual all teach- 
ing would be rendered, if the teacher committed 
the faults he reprehended, or even exercised a 
religious vocation in an imprudent manner. 

In another place, after recapitulating some of 
the hardships which himself and his companions 
were suffering, up to the very moment when he 
was describing them, — their hunger and thirst, 
their nakedness and buffeting, deprived of do- 
mestic comforts, destitute of a settled home ; 
having shown what was their treatment, he pro- 
ceeds to show what was their temper under it : 
— Being reviled, we bless ; being persecuted, we 
suffer it ; being defamed, we entreat. This is in- 
deed practical Christianity ! 

After enumerating the trials to which they 
may be exposed, he sets over against them a ca- 
talogue of the qualities by which they should be 
distinguished, — pureness, knowledge, kindness ; 
thus encouraging them to patience by the inte- 
grity of their motives ; and to the adornment of 
their calling, by the skilfulness and affection 
wilh which they exercised it He tempers their 
sorrows and difficulties, by interspersing with 
the recital those Divine consolations, from which 
alone genuine cheerfulness can be derived. 

In this enumeration he had not to rack his 
invention for precedents ; he had only to make a 
transcript of the state of his own mind, and the 
tenor of his own practice, to give them a com- 
plete delineation of the ministerial character. 
While he encourages them to perseverance by 
the success which might attend their labours, he 
prepares them also to expect reproach ; mingling 
good and evil report as the probable lot of every 
devoted servant of Christ. 

When he was setting out from Ephesus for 
Jerusalem, ' bound in the spirit, not knowing 
the things that should befal him,' the indefinite 
yet certain anticipation of calamity which he 
expressed, might have been interpreted into the 
pusillanimous forebodings of his own apprehen- 
sive mind : he guards against this suspicion by 
informing us, it was by the unerring inspiration 
of the Holy Ghost, he was assured, ' that bonds 
and afflictions awaited him in every city ;' so 
that he knew infallibly, wherever he went, it 
was only a change of place, not of peril. Yet 
was this conviction so far from arresting his 
purpose, so far from inclining him to hesitate, 
or not to persist in the path of duty because it 
was the path of danger, that his mighty faith 



converted duty into choice, elevated dutf into 
joy. Hear his triumphant proclamation : ' But 
none of these things move me, neither count I 
my life dear, so that I may finish my course 
with joy, and the ministry which I have received 
of the Lord Jesus, to testify the Gospel of the 
grace of God.' 

It is not the nature of Christianity to convert 
a man of sense into a driveller; if it make him 
self-abased in the sight of God, and in his own 
eyes, it does not oblige him to a renunciation of 
his just claims in civil society, nor to a base ab- 
jection in the sight of men. He is not desirous 
of honours which do not belong to him, but ho 
does not despise those to which he has a lawful 
claim. The character of Paul, like the religion 
he taught, is manly, rational, ingenuous. 

This combination of dignity with humility, 
he uniformly presents to us. He always hum- 
bles, out never disparages himself. He, who 
on one occasion was ' the least of all saints,' was, 
on another, ' not a whit behind the chiefest of 
them.' He that was ' not worthy to be called 
an apostle,' would yet magnify his apostleship. 
He who would patiently endure injury and re- 
proach, yet refused to be scourged contrary to 
law. He, who was illegally imprisoned at Phi- 
lippi, accepted not the deliverance till the magis- 
trates themselves came in person to release him, 
— a resolution not only due to his own inno- 
cence, but probably intended also to render the 
magistrates afraid of proceeding unjustly against 
other Christians. He, who could submit to live 
by the labour of his own hands, and to receive 
charity in his sickness, would vindicate his civil 
title to respect, and not only urge his right of 
Roman citizenship, but press his peculiar ground 
of superiority over the officer who would have 
contended with him, by declaring that his own 
freedom was not a purchase, but an inheritance. 
He who determined to know nothing but 'Jesus 
Christ, and him crucified,' could assert, when it 
became proper, his liberal education under a 
master in Israel. He, who was now lying at 
the foot of the cross, avowed that he had been 
bred at the feet of Gamaliel. He who was beat- 
ing down the pride of 'gifts' in the assuming 
Corinthians, scrupled not to declare his own su- 
periority in this very article, yet with an exclu- 
sive ascription of the gift to the Giver. ' I thank 
my God, that I speak with more tongues than 
you all.'* 

To those who understand what Bishop Horse- 
ley calls ' the paradoxes of Christianity,' it will 
be perfectly intelligible, that one, who was so 
feelingly alive to the perception of sin, as to de- 
plore that 'when he would do good, evil was 
present with him,' could also, in the integrity 
of his heart, boldly appeal to the Thessalonians 
for the purity of his own conduct, and that of 
his companions — 'you know how holily, and 
justly, and unblameably we have lived among 
you.' 

Ho was aware that contentions about practices 
and opinions comparatively insignificant, were 
generally the most vehemently and uncharitably 
carried on by men who are the most cold and 
indifferent in the defence of truths of the most 

* Acts, ch. lb. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



237 



awful moment. Inflexible himself in every thing 
which was of vital importance, yet accommo- 
dating in trivial matters, about which men of 
narrow views pertinaciously contend, he shaped 
the course of his usefulness to the winding cur- 
rent of life, and the flexure of circumstances ; 
and was ever on the watch to see how, by giving 
way in things indifferent, he might gain men 
to the great cause which he lived only to pro- 
mote. 

Never was any sentiment more completely 
perverted, than that which is so expressive of 
the condescension that distinguishes his charac- 
ter, — / am all things to all men. The Latitu- 
dinarian in principle or in morals, who would 
not consider Paul's authority as paramount on 
any other occasion, eagerly pleads this text to 
justify his own accommodation to every thing 
that is tempting in interest, or seductive in ap- 
petite. This sentiment, which proceeded from a 
candour the most amiable, was, in the apostle, 
always governed by an integrity the most un- 
bending. 

To what purpose did he make use of this 
maxim ? ' That he might by all means save 
some.' Let those who justify its adoption by 
the sanction of Paul, employ it to the same end 
to which he employed it. But is it not frequent- 
ly carried to a conceding length, to which he 
would never have carried it, to answer any pur- 
pose ; and is not the end itself often such as he 
would not have sought, even by the best means ? 
To the perversion of this sentiment the fashion- 
able doctrine of expediency may be imputed, — 
a doctrine not more corrupt in its principle, and 
dangerous in its results, than opposite to the 
whole bent and current of the apostles' views, 
as developed in his writings and in his practice. 

That hollow maxim, of doing evil that good 
may come, had indeed been adopted by some of 
the wisest Pagan legislators. Not only the pru- 
dent Numa pretended to Divine communications 
with his inspiring goddess, in order that his 
laws might be received with more reverence ; 
even the open hearted conqueror of Carthage 
used to enter the Capitol alone, under pretence 
of consulting the gods, that whatever enterprises 
he wished to recommend to the people, they 
might believe them to be directed and approved 
by their deities. — But nothing impedes the 
march of truth more than the offered assistance 
of falseheod. Nothing is more injurious to a 
good cause than the attempt to help it forward 
with fictitious or even doubtful additions. Some 
of the best cases, — cases corroborated by a thou- 
sand indubitable facts, — have been injured for 
a time, by the detection of petty instances of 
misrepresentation, or mistake, or aggravation in 
ill-judging ad-.v.cates. 

After the example of the illustrious Romans 
above recited, but with far less excuse, even 
some weak Christians, in the second century, 
fancying that deceit might succeed where truth 
had failed, attempted by forgery to supply the 
deficiencies of Scripture. Spurious Sybilline 
verses, under the reign of one of the Antonines, 
were imposed by fraud upon folly, as prophecies 
of Christ, pretending to be as old as the Deluge. 
The attempt to mend perfection never answers. 

To these political impostures what a contrast 



does Saint Paul exhibit at once in his writings 
and his life ! — In his writings he declares, in 
one short sentence, of all such principles, ■ their 
condemnation is just.' In his life he suffered 
evil to extremity, that good might be produced ; 
but never, under the most alluring pretence, did 
evil, or connived at it. He drew in no convert, 
by displaying only the pleasant side of Chris- 
tianity. To bring forward the doctrine of the 
cross was his first object ; though, since his 
time, to keep them out of sight has sometimes 
been thought a more prudent measure. But the 
political wisdom of trie Jesuitical missionaries 
failed as completely as the simple integrity of 
the apostle succeeded. 

His arguments, it is true, were powerful, his 
motives attractive; but he never shrunk from 
the avowal, that they were drawn wholly from 
things unseen, future, eternal. 'To you who 
are troubled, rest with us, when the Lord Jesus 
shall be revealed from heaven, with his holy an- 
gels.' ' If we suffer with Christ, we shall be 
also glorified together.' — The sufferings of the 
present world- are not worthy to be compared 
witli the glory that shall be revealed.' And in 
this view he is not afraid to speak of suffering, 
as a favour connected with faith. It is given 
unto them, in the behalf of Christ, not only to 
believe, but also to suffer for his sake. 

How powerful must have been the convictions 
of his faith, and the integrity of his heart, which 
could not only conquer prejudice the most in- 
veterate, but could lead him to renounce every 
prospect of riches and power, fame and distinc- 
tion, — objects which were likely to have taken 
deep hold on a temper so fervent, a genius so 
active ! He knew that the cause he was em- 
bracing would defeat all such expectations. He 
possibly might have advanced his fortune, cer- 
tainly his reputation, under his Jewish masters, 
had he pursued those practices in which he was 
so hotly engaged, when he was so exceedingly 
mad against the Church of God. 

What was the use which, in his new charac- 
ter, he made of his natural advantages? It was 
the same which he made of his supernatural 
graces. Did the one induce intellectual pride ? 
Did the other inspire spiritual self-sufficiency ? 
Was it his aim to exalt the accomplished preach- 
er ? Was it not his only endeavour to magnify 
the crucified Saviour ? He sought no civil 
power, courted no ecclesiastical supremacy. He 
conferred honour on Episcopacy by ordaining 
bishops, but took no rank himself. He inter- 
meddled with no party. All his interference 
with governments was to teach the people to 
obey them. 

He had nothing to bias him at the time of his 
conversion, any more than afterwards. — He em- 
braced Christianity when at the height of its 
discredit : in defending it, he was neither influ- 
enced by the obstinacy of supporting a precon- 
ceived opinion, nor the private motive of per- 
sonal attachment. As he had not been a fol- 
lower nor an acquaintance of Jesus, he had 
never been buoyed up with the hope of a place 
in his expected temporal kingdom. Had this 
been the case, mere pride and pertinacity in so 
strong a character might have led him to adhere 
to the falling cause, lest by deserting it he might 



238 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



be accused of disappointment in his hopes, or 
pusillanimity in his temper. Was it probable 
then, that on any lower principle he would en- 
counter every hazard, sacrifice every hope, an- 
nihilate every possibility of preferment, for the 
cause of a man, after his ignominious death, 
whom he had so fiercely opposed, when the dan- 
ger was less alarming, and the hope less uncer- 
tain. 

His strong faith was fortified by those trials 
which would have subdued a weak one. His 
zeal increased with the darkness of his earthly 
prospects. What were his inducements ? The 
glory of God. What was his reward ? Bonds 
and imprisonment. When arrived at any fresh 
scene of peril, did he smooth his language to se- 
cure his safety ? — Did he soften an unpalatable 
truth to attract upon false grounds? Did he 
practise any artifice to swell the catalogue of 
his proselytes ? Did he take advantage of igno- 
rance and idolatry, when acclamations met him ? 
Did he court popularity when he refused divine 
honours? Did he not prefer his Master's crown 
of thorns to the garlands with which the priests 
of Jupiter would have crowned him ? Is it not 
observable, that this offer of deification disturbed 
the serenity of his spirit more than all his inju- 
ries had done ? 

Two remarks arise out of this circumstance. 
How little is popular acclamation any proof of 
the comparative excellence of the objects of ac- 
claim ; and how little is genuine grandeur of 
soul elated by it ! Jesus, after "all his miraculous 
deeds, as full of mercy as of power, — deeds re- 
peatedly performed in his own country, and be- 
fore thre same spectators — never had divine ho- 
nours paid him. While, for a single cure, Pa-ul 
and his companions were instantly deified, 
though they rejected the homage with a holy 
indignation. Nothing could more fully prove 
their deep humility than that they bore the 
abuse and ill-treatment of the people with meek- 
ness ; but when they would have worshipped 
them, ' they rent their clothes.' 

In fine, no principle short of the faith de- 
scribed by our apostle in the eleventh of He- 
brews, could have enabled him to sustain with 
such heroic firmness, the diversified sufferings 
alluded to in the twelfth of the second of Co- 
rinthians. Nothing short of that Divine sup- 
port could have produced a disinterestedness 60 
pure, a devotedness so sublime. 

The afflictions of the saints serve to prove the 
distinguished character of God's favour. The 
grace so eminently afforded to this apostle nei- 
ther exempted him from sorrow, nor suffering, 
nor dangers, nor calumny, nor poverty, nor a 
violent death. That its results were in the op- 
posite direction shows at once the intrinsic na- 
ture of the Divine favour, and the spirit in which 
it is received and acted upon by sincere Chris- 
tians. 



CHAP. VII. 

Saint PauVs prudence in his conduct towards 
the Jews. 

The judgment of Saint Paul is remarkably 



manifest in the juxta-position of things. In 
opening his Epistle to his converts at Rome, 
among whom were many Jews for whose bene- 
fit he wrote, he paints the moral character of 
the Pagan capital in the darkest colours. The 
fidelity of his gloomy picture is corroborated 
by an almost contemporary historian,* who, 
though a Pagan and a countryman, paints it in 
still blacker shades, and without the decorum 
observed by Saint Paul. 

The representation here made of Roman 
vice, would be in itself sufficiently pleasing to 
the Jews ; and it would be more so, when we 
observe, what is most worthy of observation, the 
nature of the charges brought against the Ro- 
mans. As if the wisdom of God had been de- 
sirous of vindicating itself by the lips of Paul 
in the eyes of his own countrymen the Jews, 
the vices charged upon the Romans are exactly 
those which stand in opposition to the spirit of 
some one injunction of the Decalogue. Now, 
though the heathen writers were unacquainted 
with this code, yet the spontaneous breach of 
its statutes proved most clearly these statutes to 
have been suggested by the most correct fore- 
knowledge of the evil propensities of our com- 
mon nature. The universal violation of the 
law, even by those who knew it not, manifested 
the omniscience of the Lawgiver. 

And, let it be further remarked in this con- 
nection, that no exceptions could be taken 
against the justice of God, for animadverting on 
the breach of a law, which was not known : in- 
asmuch as, so faithful was the law of Mount 
Sinai to the law of conscience, the revealed to 
the natural code of morals, that the Romans in 
offending one had offended both; in breaking 
unwittingly the Decalogue, they had knowingly 
rebelled against the law of conscience ; they had 
sinned against the light of nature ; they had 
stifled the suggestions of their better judgment; 
they had consciously abused natural mercies; 
they had confounded the distinctions of good 
and evil, of which they were not insensible. 
' Their conscience bore them witness' that they 
violated many obvious duties, so that even these 
were without excuse.' 

The unconverted Jews would, doubtless, then 
feel no small pleasure in contemplating this hi- 
deous portrait of human crimes as without ex- 
cuse, and would naturally be tempted, with 
their usual self-complacency, to turn it to their 
own advantage, and boastfully to thank God 
that they were not like other men, or even like 
these Romans. 

To check this unbecoming exultation, the 
apostle, with admirable dexterity, in the very 
next chapter + begins to pull down their high 
conceits. He presents them with a frightful 
picture of themselves, drawn from the life, and 
aggravated by a display of that superior light 
and knowledge which rendered their immorali- 
ties far more inexcusable. To the catalogue of 
the vices which he had reprehended in the 
others, he adds that of self-sufficiency, arro- 
gance, and harsh judgment, which formed so 
distinguished a feature in the Pharisaic charac- 
ter. Paul in this point shows the equity of 



* Suetonius. 



t Romans, cb. ii 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



239 



distributive justice. The Jews had sinned, not 
only against the laws they knew, but the law 
they venerated — They rested in the law, not 
with gratitude for the distinction, but with se- 
curity in the privilege ; and they were ruined, 
he suggests, by a vain confidence in those ex- 
ternal advantages which would have been their 
glory, had not privilege been converted into a 
substitute for piety. What apology should he 
now offer for the sins of the chosen nation, the 
peculiar people, the possessors and the boasters 
cf the law, distinguished, not only by having 
received, but by being the hereditary, exclusive 
proprietors of the Divine Oracles ? Thus, while 
he convicts his own nation, he gives an awful 
lesson to posterity of the vanity of forms and 
profession, that it is not possessing nor dispers- 
ing the Bible that will carry men to heaven, but 
only as they individually believe its doctrines, 
submit to its authority, and conform to its pre- 
cepts. The apostle reminds them, that it is not 
the knowledge of God's will, which they pos- 
sessed ; nor the approbation of' things that are 
excellent,' which they manifested; nor their 
confident ambition of teaching others ; nor their 
skill to guide the blind ; nor the form of know- 
ledge ; nor the letter of the law, which could 
avail without personal holiness. 

After this severe reproof, for doing themselves 
the wrong things they censured, and for not 
doing the right things they taught, he suddenly 
turns upon them with a rapid succession of in- 
terrogatories respecting their own practice ; per- 
sonally applying each distinct subject of their 
instruction of others to each distinct failure of 
their own in those very points of conduct which 
they insisted on ; proving upon them, that 
through this glaring inconsistency, ' the name 
of God was blasphemed among unbelievers.' 

Thus he demonstrates that the Jew and 
Gentile stand on the same level with regard to 
their definitive sentence, each being to be judged 
according to their respective law. Nay, the 
conscientious Pagan will find more favour than 
the immoral Jew. Profession will not justify, 
but aggravate offence. Men, indeed, may see 
our exactness in forms and observances, and 
will justly commend what is in itself commend- 
able ; but as they cannot discern the thoughts 
and intents of the heart, they may admire as 
piety what is at worst hypocrisy, and at best 
but form. Whilst of the sincere Jew he de- 
clares, as we may also of the sincere Christian, 
he is a Jew who is one inwardly, not in the let- 
ter, but in the heart and the spirit, whose praise 
is not of men, but of God. 

By the august simplicity and incontroverti- 
ble reasoning of this Epistle to Rome, and by 
that supernatural power which accompanied it, 
he brought down the arrogance of human ability 
from its loftiest heights, subdued the pride of 
philosophy in its strong holds, and superseded 
the theology, without aiming at the splendour, 
of the most amiable and eloquent of all tbe Ro- 
mans in his admired work on the ' Nature of the 
gods.' By one short address to that city, written 
in the demonstration of the Spirit and of Power, 
he ' destroyed the wisdom of the wise, and brought 
to nothing the understanding of the prudent. 

Knowing that pride was the dominant dis- 



position of his own countrymen, he loses no oc- 
casion of attacking this master sin, and fre- 
quently intimates how ill it became such an in- 
significant and perverse people to arrogate to 
themselves a superiority, for which though 
their advantages furnish them with means, 
their practice furnishes them with no shadow 
of pretence. 

In speaking on this subject, Saint Paul used 
none of the cant, but displayed all the kindness 
of liberality. Speaking of the Jews, ' he bears 
them record that they had a zeal for God,' but 
instantly his veracity obliged him to qualify his 
candour, by lamenting that their zeal was not 
regulated by knowledge. Their perverseness 
rather increased his desire of serving them, 
than drove him into a hopeless indifference ; 
their provocations grieved, but neither silenced 
nor exasperated him. 

It was the high destiny of this distinguished 
apostle, that he was to be the honoured instru- 
ment of enlarging, to an indefinite extent, the 
hitherto contracted pale of Christianity. The 
law of Moses had been committed to one single 
people, and it was one of the conditions of that 
law, that they to whom it was given were in- 
terdicted from any free intercourse with the rest 
of the world. A larger heart and a higher mind 
than those of Paul could not have been found 
for the new and expanded service. Christianity, 
through him, opened wider her libera] arms, 
broke through the narrow barrier, and carried 
her unconditional offers of boundless emancipa- 
tion to every captive of sin and ignorance 
throughout all the kingdoms of the world. 

But though Paul's original destination was, 
that he should be the apostle of the Gentiles ; 
though his labours were to be more especially 
consecrated to that innumerable mass to whom 
the narrow minded Jews grudged the very 
chance of access to heaven; yet where ever he 
came he showed this mark of regard, that he 
opened his first public instructions in the Jewish 
synagogue, referring the hearers in his dis- 
courses to their own prophets, as he did his 
Pagan auditors to their own authors. 

It was necessary that the word of God should 
be first spoken to the Jews, they being the de- 
positaries of the antecedent revelations made 
by the Almighty ; which revelations being pre- 
paratory to the introduction of the Gospel, and 
abounding with prophetic intimations of the 
Messiah, if the Jews should accept the new 
revelation as the completion of the old, it would 
largely contribute to convince the heathen that 
Christianity was in truth a Divine institution. 

The annals of the Jews, insulated as tliey 
had been as a people, had become, by Divine 
appointment, connected with the history of 
other nations. Their captivity had brought 
them into contact with Persia and Babylon. 
As they always continued a commercial people, 
they had, after their dispersion, by their exten- 
sive traffic, carried their religion with their 
commerce into various countries. Thus their 
proverbial love of gain had been over-ruled to a 
providential purpose, that of carrying the know- 
ledge of the one true God among the Gentiles. 
This again, by that secret working of Infinite 
Wisdom, served as a prelude to the appearance 



240 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



of Christianity in these countries, and would 
probably lessen their indisposition to receive it. 
By the same providential ordination of that 
Power who educes good from evil, the Emperor 
Claudius, in banishing the Christians from 
Rome, caused the faith to be more extensively 
spread by these exiles, who were dispersed 
through different countries : — and, to mention 
another instance, by the disagreement between 
Paul and Barnabas, though the comfort of 
Christian society was mutually lost, yet their 
separation caused the Gospel to be preached 
at the same time in two places instead of one. 
But though the sins of the worst men, and the 
infirmities of the best, are made subservient to 
God's gracious purposes, they justify neither the 
resentment of the Saint, nor the crime of the 
Emperor. 

Saint Paul, in directing his instructions, first 
to the Jewish sojourners in the heathen cities, 
bequeathed an important lesson to all reformers, 
— that the most extensive plans of doing good 
to strangers should be accompanied with the 
most unabated zeal at home; and that natural 
connexions have the prior, though not the ex- 
clusive claim to their services. 

If in the first promulgation of the Gospel-mes- 
sage, the apostle showed a regard to the rights of 
the Jewish nation, in his subsequent conductor) 
every possible occasion, he consults even their 
prejudices. At all times he showed as much 
respect for their religion as was consistent with 
that which he now professed; always studiously 
endeavouring to obviate objection, and to cut 
off every plausible ground of complaint. Thus, 
in treating with deference the Jewish laws and 
usages, though virtually abrogated, he loudly 
instructs us that temperance is not to be swal- 
lowed up by zeal ; that it may be prudent for a 
time, to let some inferior errors alone, yet not 
without intimation or implication that they arc 
errors ; that premature attacks upon the lesser 
may obstruct the removal of the greater. And 
in other cases we may learn, that though extir- 
pation may be indispensably necessary, yet it 
may, under certain circumstances, be better 
effected by the gradual process of successive 
strokes, than by laying at the first blow the axe 
to the root. 

A lesson of discreet kindness may also be 
learnt from the same example in the domestic 
walks of life. If pious young persons do not 
patiently bear with any averseness in a parent 
or a friend from that serious spirit which they 
themselves have been happily brought to enter- 
tain ; moroseness and ill-humoured opposition 
will not only increase the distaste, instead of 
recommending a religion, of which their own 
temper affords so unamiable and so unfair a spe- 
cimen. 

It was the same discretion which led Paul at 
one time to confer on Timothy* the initiatory 
rite of the Jewish church, because his mother 
was of Jewish extraction ; and at another, in- 
duced him to forbid Titus undergoing the same 
ceremony, because his origin was Pagan.t The 
one was allowed, to avoid doing violence to 
Jewish prejudices ; the other prohibited, lest the 



* Acts, xvi. 3. 



t Gal. ii. 



Gentile convert should be taught to place his de 
pendance on any thing but the Saviour. He 
inflexibly resisted granting this introductory 
rite to Pagan converts. Though this union of 
candour with firmness is a very exemplary part 
of his character, it has not escaped the charge 
of inconsistency. But he thought it was acting 
in a more Christian spirit, to continue, in differ- 
ent instances, his conformity to ancient usages 
than by a violent opposition to mere forms tc 
irritate persons, some of whom conscientiously 
persevered in them. 

Perhaps no quality has been more fatal to the 
interests of Christianity than prejudice. It is 
the moral cataract of the human mind. In vain 
the meridian sun of Truth darts his full beams 
The mental eye is impervious to the strongest 
ray. When religion is to be assailed, prejudice 
knows how to blend antipathies. It leagued 
those mutual enemies Herod and Pontius Pilate 
in one common cause. It led the Jews to pre- 
fer the roboer to the Saviour. Though they ab- 
horred the Roman yoke, yet rather than Jesus 
shall escape, ' they will have no king but Caesar.' 
At Jerusalem it had united the bigot Pharisee 
and the infidel Sadducee against Paul, till his 
declaration that he was of the former class, by 
exciting a party-spirit, suspended, but did not ex- 
tinguish their fury. At Athens it combined, in 
one joint opposition, two sects, the most discor- 
dant in sentiment and practice. When truth 
was to be attacked, the rigid Stoic could unite 
with the voluptuous Epicurean. 

Prejudice had not only blinded the under- 
standing of the Jews, so as to prevent their re- 
ceiving the truth, but led them to violate it, by 
asserting a glaring falsehood. When our Lord 
told them that ' if they would know the truth, the 
truth would make them free' — as they had no 
idea of spiritual freedom, so of civil liberty they 
had nothing to boast. But, exasperated at any 
offer of deliverance, because it implied sub- 
jugation, they indignantly replied, ' we were 
never in bondage to any man,' though it was no- 
torious that they had been bond-slaves in Egypt, 
captives in Babylon, and were, at the very mo- 
ment of this proud boast, tributary to the Ro- 
mans. 

Ignorance and prejudice respecting religion 
can never be fairly pleaded in excuse by minds 
cultivated by diligent inquiry on other subjects. 
Paul, indeed, says, that, though a persecutor, he 
obtained mercy, because he did it ignorantly. 
The apology from him is valid, for he does not 
offer the plea for ignorance and prejudice, till he 
was cured of both. His sincerity appears in his 
abandoning his error, his humility in confessing 
it. Our spiritual strength is increased by the 
retrospection of our former faults. This re- 
membrance left a compassionate feeling for the 
errors of others on the impressible heart of Saint 
Paul. Perhaps in his early mad career against 
the Church of Christ, he might be permitted to 
carry it to such lengths, to afford a proof that 
Omnipotence can subdue even prejudice ! 

It is a melancholy feature in tho character 
of the human mind, that Saint Paul met with 
less mercy from his brethren, among whom he 
had been bred, and whose religion approached so 
much nearer to that which he had adopted, than 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



241 



from the higher class of the Pagans, who stood 
st the farthest possible distance from it- Caia- 
phas, Ananias, Tertullus, and the whole .Sanhe- 
drim, were far more violent than Lysias, Felix, 
Festus, Gallio, the town-clerk of Ephesus, or 
the rulers of Thessalonica. 

Even on that awful occasion, when prejudice 
did its worst, the Roman judge who condemned 
the Saviour of the world, was more candid than 
the High Priest, who delivered him up. While 
the Jews cried, Crucify ! the Governor declared 
' he found no fault in him :' and, but for the 
suppleness and venality of his character, would 
have protected the life which he sacrificed to 
Jewish bigotry. While Pilate deliberated, Caia- 
phas cut the matter short on the plea of expedi- 
ency*— •' it is expedient that one man should die 
for the people.' In this High Priest the doctrine 
found a patron worthy of itself. 

There was in the Divine Sufferer a veiled 
majesty ; there was a mysterious grandeur 
thrown round his character; there were glimpses 
of glory breaking through the obscurity in which 
he was shrouded, which excited a curiosity not 
unmingled with fear in the great ones of the 
earth. It was a grand illustration of that solemn 
indistinctness which is said to be one cause of 
the sublime. Both Herod and Pilate were sur- 
prised into something like an involuntary re- 
spect, mixed with a vague apprehension of they 
knew not what. 

But to return from this too long digression, 
for which the only apology that can be offered, 
is, that the uniform temper and conduct of Saint 
Paul with the Jews was eminently calculated 
to parry every objection that had any 6how of 
reason, and to remove every prejudice which 
was not invincible. 

In the case of Paul, Agrippa appears to have 
been the only Jew in authority who ever mani- 
fested any show of candour towards him. Even 
the offended Athenians were so far affected with 
his discourse, as to betray their emotion by say- 
ing, ' We will hear thee again on this matter ;' 
thus civilly softening rejection into procrastina- 
tion ; — while there is scarcely an instance of any 
Jewish people, as a body, fairly inquiring into 
the truth of the Christian doctrine with a real 
desire of information. 

The Bereans, indeed, offer an honourable ex- 
ception, and are accordingly distinguished by 
one, who rarely employs epithets, the biogra- 
pher of Saint Paul, with the appellation of 'no- 
ble.' This thinking people did not lightly em- 
brace the new religion without inquiry, but re- 
ceived it upon rational examination, daily 
searching the Scriptures ; thus presenting us 
with an example of that union of faith and rea- 
son which constitutes the character of a sound 
Christian. 

Though the Gentiles were ready to oppose 
Saint Paul wherever he came, we do not find 
that they pursued him with hostility from one 
city to another, as the Jews of Thessalonica 
did, in following him to Berea, to excite a per- 
secution against him. 

The temper to which allusion has been made, 
is not, it is to be feared, quite extinct. Are there 



Vol. II. 



* John xviii. 14. 

Q 



not, at this favoured period of light and know 
ledge, some Christians by profession, who mani- 
fest more hostility towards those who are la- 
bouring to procure instruction for the Hindoos, 
than towards Hindooism itself? Are not shades 
of our own colour looked at with a more jealous 
eye, than a colour of the most opposite charac- 
ter 1 and is not the remark too nearly founded 
in experience; that approximation rather in- 
flames than cools ; that nearness aggravates be- 
cause it is not identity ? If, like the apostle, a 
man is impelled by his conscience to act against 
the opinion of those with whom he desires to 
live well ; to obey the impulse, as it is a severe 
trial of his feelings, so it is a surer test of his 
integrity, than to expose himself to the censure 
of his enemies ; of their hostility he was assured 
before ; he is, in the other case, risking the loss 
of his friends. 

Saint Paul's prudence, under the Divine di- 
rection, led him to adopt very different mea- 
sures in his intercourse with the Jews and with 
the Gentiles ; measures suggested by the differ- 
ent condition of the two classes, both in their 
civil and religious circumstances. To the one, 
the very name of Messiah was unknown ; of 
the other, he was both the glory and the shame. 
To the one true God in whom they fully be- 
lieved, they were to add the reception of Jesus 
Christ. ' He came to his own,' but his own, so 
far from receiving, crucified him. Subsequently 
to this event, Paul laboured to convince them, 
that this was the Saviour promised, first by God 
himself, then by a long and unbroken succes- 
sion of the very prophets whom they professed 
to venerate. With these adversaries, therefore, 
he had substantial grounds on which to expos- 
tulate ; analogies, from which to argue ; pro- 
mises, which they believed ; predictions, of 
which they had expected the accomplishment; 
and, to leave them without the shadow of ex- 
cuse, he had to plead the actual recent fulfil- 
ment of these predictions. 

But with the Gentiles he had no common 
ground on which to stand, no references to 
which to send them, no analogies from which 
to reason, except indeed the visible works of 
creation and providence. He did what a pro- 
found thinker of our own country has since 
done more in detail ; he showed them the analogy 
of revealed religion with the constitution and 
course of nature.* In this he had, as it were, 
to address their senses rather than their intel- 
lect or their knowledge, great as were both, — 
for their wisdom had served only to lead them, 
wider from the mark. 

As they were little acquainted with first prin- 
ciples, he had with them no middle way to take. 
Ho could not improve upon polytheism ; there 
was no such thing as mending idolatry ; it was 
not a building to be repaired ; it must be demo- 
lished ; no materials were to be picked out from 
its ruins towards the construction of the ever- 
lasting edifice ; the rubbish must be rolled away. 
A clear stage must be left for the new order of 
things ; with this order it had no compatabilities, 
old things were past away, all things must be 
come new. 

* Bishop Butler. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



The Sun of Righteousness which was to ab- 
sorb the faint, but not false, lights of Judaism, 
was utterly to dispel the darkness of Paganism. 
One of the Roman emperors (most of whom 
thought that they could not have too many gods, 
nor too little religion) would have added Jesus 
to Iho number of their deities. Paul abhorred 
any such compromise. ' We know,' says he, 
'an idol is nothing in the world.' Such an as- 
sociation, therefore, would not be of good and 
ba.d, but of every thing with nothing. Chris- 
tianity would not accept of any thing short of 
the annihilation of the whole mythologic rabble. 

The new economy was now to take place. 
The fundamental doctrine of One God over all 
blessed for ever, which had been long familiar 
to the Jew, was at length to be made known to 
the heathen, with the participation in common 
with the Jew, of salvation by his Son. The par- 
tition wall was taken down for ever. 

Paul however retained, to the end of his mi- 
nistry, a cordial kindness for ' his brethren 
after the flesh.' His heart's desire and prayer 
for Israel was, that they might be saved, — for 
the Rose of Sharon was grafted on the Stem of 
David. Not only the same God was to be wor- 
shipped by both, but ' Jesus whom he had sent;' 
while Paganism lay prostrate, never more to 
rise from its ruins. It is a remarkable circum- 
stance, that while to this day surviving Israel 
remains without a temple, the surviving Pan- 
theon remains without a worshipper. 



CHAP. VIII. 

Saint PauVs Judgment in his intercourse with 
the Pagans. 

It is among the mysteries of Christianity, 
that the preaching of Jesus made so few con- 
verts, and his death so many. The more affect- 
ing were his discourses, the stronger was the 
indignation they excited ; the deeper was the 
anxiety which he expressed for the salvation of 
men, so much the more vehemently were they 
exasperated against him ; the more merciful 
were his miracles, so much the faster did they 
accelerate his ignominious catastrophe. ' Did 
not this prove,' says the eloquent Bossuet, ' that 
not his words, but his Cross was to bring all 
men to Him? Does it not prove that the power 
of his persuasion consisted in the shedding of 
his blood ?' This he himself predicted — ' And 
I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men into me.' 
Were it not for this reason, it would be asto- 
nishing to our shallow wisdom, that the Author 
of Christianity made so few proselytes to his 
own faith, and his apostles so many. That the 
disciple who denied him should, after the de- 
scent of the Holy Spirit, awaken, by a single 
sermon, the consciences of three thousand audi- 
tors ; and that the persecutor, who reviled Him, 
should become under the influence of the same 
Divine Spirit, the mighty instrument of the 
conversion of the Pagan world. 

If Saint Paul had declined visiting the learn- 
ed and polished regions of Greece, it might 
have been produced against him, that he care- 



fully avoided those cultivated cities where men 
were best able to judge of the consistency of 
the Gospel doctrines with its precepts, and of 
the truth of those miracles by which its Divinity 
was confirmed. The Greeks might have urged 
it as an argument against Paul's integrity, that 
he confined his preaching to the countries which 
they called barbarous, knowing they would bo 
less acute in discovering inconsistencies, and 
more easily imposed upon by impostures which 
men of liberal education would have immedi- 
ately detected. His visiting every city famous 
for literature, science, and philosophy, would 
also be a complete refutation of any such charge 
in after ages. ' Because,' says a judicious com- 
mentator, ' if upon an accurate examination, 
great numbers of men embraced the Gospel, who 
were best qualified to judge of its nature and 
evidences, their conversion would render it in 
dubitable in after times, that the Gospel was 
supported by those great and undeniable mira- 
cles which were performed in every country by 
the preachers of Christianity ; so that no person 
might hereafter suspect that idolatry was de- 
stroyed and Christianity established merely 
through the simplicity and ignorance of the 
people among whom it was first preached.'* 

Saint Paul was with more propriety selected 
to be the Apostle of the Gentiles, than if he had 
been of Gentile extraction; none but a teacher, 
educated as he had been, under an eminent 
Jewish doctor, would have been so competent to 
produce, before both Jews and Gentiles, proofs 
that the miracles, sufferings, and death of Jesus 
happened in exact conformity to the predictions 
of those prophets of whom the Jews had perfect 
knowledge, and to whom, though the Gentiles 
previously knew them not, yet it is probable 
that he afterwards for their fuller confirmation 
would refer them. 

There appears to have been a considerable 
difference between Saint Paul's reception among 
the Jewish and Gentile populace. Among the 
former, the 'common people, who had heard 
Jesus gladly,' must have had their prejudices 
softened, and in many instances removed ; even 
those, probably, who were not converted, had 
seen and heard of his miracles with astonish- 
ment. They were also witnesses of the wonder- 
ful effects produced by Saint Peter's sermon. 
Their minds were become so favourably dis- 
posed, that after the miracle wrought by Peter 
and John,t the enraged council did not venture 
to punish them, ' because of the people, for all 
men glorified God for that which was done.' 

While the Heathen governors seem, in their 
transactions with Saint Paul, less intolerant 
than the Jewish Sanhedrim, the Heathen multi- 
tude appear to have been more furious than the 
Jewish. The Jewish leaders had a personal 
hatred to Christ; the Gentile community had a 
national hatred to the Jews. If a party among 
the Jews detested the Christians, the Pagans as 
a body despised the Jews, whilst they would 
consider Christianity but as a new modification 
of an antiquated and degrading superstition, 
made worse by the offensive addition of certain 
tenets, still more unphilosophical and incredible 

* Macknight on the Life of Saint Paul 
t Acts.ch. iv. 



THE WORKS OP HANNAH MORE. 



243 



than were taught under the old dispensation. 
The contempt of the Gentiles was founded on 
their ignorance of the true religion of Judaism, 
and that again had prevented any inquiry into 
their opinions. From the prejudiced pen of Ta- 
citus, and the sarcastic muse of Juvenal, we see 
the disdain in which they were held. The great 
writers, only less culpable than modern infidels, 
like them collected a string of misrepresenta- 
tions, and then turned into ridicule the system 
of their own invention. 

The philosophers, who disagree each with the 
other, all join in the contemning more especially 
one doctrine of Christianity, which every sect 
ahite conceived to be the most inconsistent with 
their own tenets, and the most contradictory to 
general philosophical principles, — the resurrec- 
tion of the body, which they contemptuously 
called the hope of worms. 

The Pagan magistrates looked with a jealous 
e} r e upon all innovators ; not indeed so much 
from an aversion to any novelty of religious opi- 
nion, (for to this they were so indifferent as to 
make little objection to any mode of worship 
which did not seek to subvert their own ;) but, 
through the machinations of the mercenary 
priests, who fearful of any invasion of their cor- 
rupt establishment, any detection of their frauds, 
any disclosure of their mysteries, any danger of 
their altars, their auguries, their profitable ora- 
cles, and above all, any abridgment of their po- 
litical influence ; excited the civil governors 
against Paul by the stale artifice of insinuating 
that his designs were hostile to the state. 

The artisans who enriched themselves by the 
occupation of making the symbols of idolatry, 
found that, by the contempt into which their 
deities were likely to be brought, their craft 
would not only be endangered, but destroyed. 
This conviction, more perhaps than any zeal for 
their own religion, served to influence them also 
against that of Saint Paul. And finally the po- 
pulace, who liked the easy and pleasant way of 
appeasing their divinities by shows and pa- 
geants, and ceremonies, and lustral days, were 
unwilling to lose their holidays, and all the de- 
corations and pleasures which distinguished 
them, and did not care to exchange this gay and 
amusing religion for the spiritual, sober, and 
unostentatious worship of the Christians. 

There was therefore no disposition in any 
class of society to receive the doctrines of the 
Gospel, or to forgive the intrusion of its teachers. 
Paul, unsupported, unfriended, had to open his 
own commission to audiences backed by multi- 
tudes, protected by power, patronized by learn- 
ing, countenanced by the national priesthood. 
It was a far more unequal contest than that of 
David and Goliath ; for, besides the people, he 
had to combat with the giants of Areopagus. 
But greater was He that was for him, than they 
who were against him. 

Had he not been an adept in the knowledge 
of human nature, how could there have been, in 
his diversified discourses, such an adaptation to 
the moral wants of men ? His superiority in 
this respect appears not only in his general 
knowledge of man in the abstract, but in his ac- 
quaintance with life and manners, in what we 
call knowledge of the world ; in his scrupulous 



observance of time and place, in his admirable 
judgment in so skilfully accommodating his dis- 
courses to the condition, character, and circum- 
stances of the persons whom he addressed. To 
some he applied as to decided enemies to Chris- 
tianity ; to others as utterly unacquainted with 
its nature, and ignorant of its design, but not 
averse from inquiring into its truth. He always 
carefully distinguished between the errors of the 
followers of religion and the sins of her adversa- 
ries. To some he addressed himself as awaken- 
ed, to others, as enlightened, to many as sincere, 
but to none as perfect. 

The various powers of his opulent mind he ex- 
ercised with a wise appropriation to the genius 
of those whom he addressed. With the Jews 
1 he reasoned ;' with the Athenian controvertists 
'he disputed;' at Ephesus ' he boldly disputed, 
and persuaded.' 

The apostle's zeal was never cooled by the 
improbability of success. He knew that what 
seemed hopeless to men was not impossible to 
God. Even at Paphos, where the most impure 
worship was offered to the most impure deity, 
he made a most important convert in the Pro- 
consul himself.* This wise governor holds out 
an example to men in high public stations ; he 
suffered not himself to be influenced by report, 
or duped by misrepresentation ; he would hear 
with his own ears ■ the word of God' which Paul 
preached, and see with his own eyes the miracle 
which confirmed it. 

In his preaching at Antioch,t he introduces 
his great commission to the Gentiles in the most 
dignified and masterly manner, referring the 
Jewish auditors to the striking passages of their 
national history ; to the prophecies and their ful- 
filment : to the attestation of the Baptist; to 
Christ's death and resurrection. He ends with 
a most awful peroration ; ' Behold, ye despisers, 
and wonder and perish ;' and then, with a mea- 
sured sternness which nothing could shake, he 
makes the disclosure of that grand scheme, of 
Almighty goodness, the scheme of proclaiming 
to the Gentiles that Gospel which the chosen 
people to whom it had been offered, so contume. 
liously rejected. How striking the contrast of 
manner in which these words of the apostle were 
received by the two classes of hearers ! — the 
envy and malignity, 'the contradictions and blas- 
phemies of the Jews ;' the joyful gratitude with 
which the heathen ' glorified the word of the 
Lord,' at the annunciation of a blessing so vast 
and so unexpected ! 

To the people of Lystra his address is short, 
plain, and simple, yet passionate and energetic : 
so plain, as to be not only undsrstood, but felt 
by the meanest auditor ; yet so powerful, that 
when aided by a miracle of mercy, which he 
wrought before them, he scarcely restrained 
them from offering him divine honours. His 
appearance before Felix having been more large- 
ly detailed by the sacred historian, we may well 
be allowed a more particular consideration of it. 
Heathen historians represent Felix as having, by 
every kind of misconduct, excited disturbances 
in Judea, and by exactions and oppressions ob- 
tained the contempt of his subjects, to whom he 



* Sergius Paulus. 



t Aots, cb. 13 



244 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



had occasioned great calamities ; his mal-admi- 
nistration, but for the intervention of the gover- 
nor of fyria, would have kindled a war ; arid an 
instance of it indeed occurs on the very occasion 
of which we are about to speak, in Paul's long 
detention in confinement. It is recorded in the 
Acts, that he hoped the apostle would have 
bribed him with money, in order to procure his 
esca.pe.* 

Let us now contrast the different conduct of 
the popular advocate retained by the Jews against 
Paul, with that of Paul himself, towards this 
corrupt governor. Tertullus, a florid speaker, 
is not ashamed, in the true spirit of party orato- 
ry, to offer the grossest adulation to this wicked 
judge ; not only extolling what he knew to be 
false, — the tranquillity produced by his adminis- 
tration, and ' the worthy deeds' done by him, — 
but even exalting him into a sort of deity, by 
whose providence their prosperity was procured. 
Then, in the usual strain of artful and disinge- 
nuous adulation, having already exceeded all 
bounds of decency, he finishes his harangue by 
hypocritically expressing his fears that praise 
'might be tedious to him.' 

After the affected declamation of this rheto- 
rical parasite, how are we refreshed with the 
wise, temperate, and simple defence of the apos- 
tle ! Instead of loading Tertullus with reproaches 
for the infamous charges of heresy and sedition 
brought against himself, he maintains a dignified 
silence till the governor ' beckoned to him to 
speak.' He then enters upon his vindication 
without a single invective against his accusers, 
and what is still more honourable to his own 
character, without a singre compliment to his 
judge, though well aware that his liberty, and 
even his life, were in his hands. Unjust as Fe- 
lix was, the charges against Paul were too fla- 
grantly false to mislead him, and the noble sim- 
plicity of the prisoner's defence carried in it 
something so convincing to the understanding 
of the judge, that he durst not act upon the al- 
legations of the accuser, nor condemn the in- 
nocent. 

At a subsequent meeting, Paul seemed more 
intent to alarm the conscience of the governor, 
than he had previously been to assert his own 
integrity. Felix, ever presenting us with the 
idea of a bad mind, ill at ease with itself, sends 
for Paul, and desires to ' hear him concerning 
the faith of Christ.' Charmed, no doubt, with 
the occasion given him, Paul uses it widely. 
He does not embark on topics irrelevant to the 
immediate case of his auditors, nor by personal 
reproof does he expose himself to the charge of 
contumacy. He never loses sight of the respect 
due to the judge's office, but still, as he knew 
the venality and profligacy with which he admi- 
nistered that office, together with the licentious 
character of his wife, who was present, he rea- 
soned, not declaimed ; he ' reasoned' on the vir- 
tues in which he knew they were so shamefully 
deficient — righteousness and temperance; and 
then, doubtless with the dignity of one who was 
himself to 'judge angels,' closed his discourse 
with referring these notorious violators of both 
duties to the judgment to come. 

The result of this discourse is the best evidence 
* Acts, ch. 24. 



of the power of his reasonings. — Conscience 
struck, Felix trembled. The judge dissolved 
the court, dismissed the prisoner, withheld the 
sentence, deferred the further trial to an indefi- 
nite time, — which time he contrived should ne- 
ver arrive, — till both were cited to appear to. 
gether before the mighty Judge of quick and 
dead. Paul throughout maintains his character, 
and Felix adds one to the numberless instances 
in which strong convictions not being followed 
up, only serve to enhance guilt and aggravate 
condemnation. 

To the inhabitants of Ephesus, his reasoning 
and his persuasive powers are alternately exer- 
cised. In his conduct in this place we inciden- 
tally discover a singular instance of his discre 
tion in avoiding to excite unnecessary irritation. 
He found in the Ephesians a strong devotion to 
one particular idol ; yet it is intimated, in a can. 
did speech of their chief magistrate, that he had 
neither reviled their great goddess, Diana, nor 
profaned their temples. We may, therefore, 
fairly presume that he contented himself with 
preaching against idolatry in general, instead 
of endeavouring toexcite the popular indignation 
by inveighing against the local idol. * 

It is not the meanest of the triumphs of inci- 
pient Christianity, that at this place the pro- 
fessors of forbidden arts brought out their costly 
professional books, the registers of their unlaw- 
ful mysteries, and burnt them, giving a striking 
proof of the sincerity of their conversion, by thus 
putting it out of their power to repeat their im- 
pious incantations ; their destroying them in the 
presence of the people, was a triple sacrifice of 
their prejudices, their credit, and their profit. 
What an example have they left to those who, 
though professing Christianity, give birth, or 
afford encouragement, to profane or profligate 
books, which, though of a different character 
from those of the Ephesian sorcerers, possess a 
magic power over the mind of the reader, not 
less pernicious in itself, and far more extensive 
in its influence, t 

Saint Paul's good sense, and may we be per 
mitted to say, his good taste — qualities we could 
rather wish than expect to see always brought 
to the service of religion, — were eminently dis- 
played in his examination at Cesarea. While 
his pleading before the royal audience, and other 
persons of dignity and station, exhibits a fino 
specimen of wisdom and good breeding, it exhi- 
bits it without the smallest sacrifice of principle, 
or the least abatement of truth. At once, his 
doctrines are scriptural, and his language is 
classical. On this occasion, as upon all others, 
conscious dignity is mingled with politeness , 
an air, carrying with it the authority of truth, 
with the gentleness of Christianity, pervades all 
he says and does. 

This admirable conduct has extorted, even 
from that eloquent rhapsodist, the sceptical au- 

* Acts, 10. 

f When the French revolution hail brought to light 
the fatal consequences of some of Voltaire's writings, 
some half scrupulous persons, no longer willing to afford 
his fourscore volumes a place in their library, sold them 
at a low price. This measure, though it 'stayed the 
plague' in their own houses, caused the infection to 
spread wider. The Ephesian magicians made no such 
compromise ; they burnt theira 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



245 



thor* of • the Characteristics,' a confession, 'how 
handsomely Paul accommodates himself to the 
apprehension and temper of those polite people, 
the witty Athenians, and the Roman court of 
judicature, in the presence of their great men 
and ladies.' At this last-named memorable au- 
dience, with what admirable temper does he pre- 
serve his reverence for constituted authorities, 
while he boldly recapitulates those passages in 
his former life which were naturally calculated 
to give offence. — His preliminary compliment to 
Agrippa was judiciously conceived in a manner 
to procure attention to his projected defence, 
without in any sense deserving the name of 
flattery, or in any degree compromising the 
truth he meant to deliver. While it answered 
its proper end, it served as an attestation of 
his own veracity and of the truth of Christi- 
anity ; for in complimenting the king on the 
knowledge of the facts to which he referred 
him, he laid himself open to immediate detec- 
tion if the circumstances had not been strictly 
correct, affording, ' a remarkable proof,' says 
Lord Lyttelton, ' both of the notoriety of the 
fact and the integrity of the man, who, with so 
fearless a confidence, could call upon a king to 
give testimony for him, while he was sitting in 
judgment upon him.' 

The whole defence is as rational as it is ele- 
gant. The self-possession, the modest intrepi- 
dity, and the pertinent choice of matter ; fur- 
nish a model for innocent sufferers under similar 
circumstances. 

As on the one hand it is a great hardship for 
an accused person to have to plead before igno- 
rance and prejudice, so on the other it was not 
more just than polite and prudent, for Paul to 
begin by expressing his satisfaction that he 
should at least be tried by a judge, who, from 
his knowledge, his education, and his habits, 
was competent to determine on the cause. 
While he scruples not to declare the inveterate 
prejudices, the blindness, and persecuting spirit 
of his former life, he does ample justice to his 
own character as a scholar and a moralist. 
Well as he knew that his piety would not clear 
him at the tribunal before which he stood, yet 
the fair justification of himself from the crimes 
laid to his charge, was due, not only to his 
own character, but to the religion which he 
professed. 

Having been himself brought to embrace 
Christianity by no powers of reasoning, by no 
trains of argument, he allowed himself either to 
employ or neglect them at discretion in address- 
ing these assemblies. On the present occasion 
he limits himself to matter of fact, and seems to 
think a statement of his own conversion would 
be more likely to impress a judge ' expert in all 
customs and questions which were among the 
Jews.' He insisted dogmatically but on one 
point, the great doctrine of the Resurrection, for 
asserting which he had been so often assailed ; 
and he asks, why should it be thought a thing 
incredible ? This, however, he does not argue ; 
perhaps conscious of having so amply stated, 
and so argumentatively defended it in his epis- 
tolary writings, now sufficiently known. 

* Lord Shaftsbury. 



Festus, with that scorn which any allusion to 
his tenet never failed to excite, impatiently in- 
terrupted him, but with a reproof which had 
more of irony than anger, as if he thought his 
credulity rather the effect of insanity than of 
wickedness, the object of ridicule rather than 
of censure. This irritating charge, however, 
did not make Paul forget the respect due to the 
place which Festus filled ; and while he vindi. 
cated the soundness of his own intellect and the 
sobriety of his doctrine, he did not fail to ad- 
dress the governor by the honourable appellation 
of ' most noble,' to which his dignity entitled 
him. His example in this respect, as in all 
other particulars, was of an instructive nature; 
teaching us to separate the civility of speech 
due to office from the respect due only to per- 
sonal character, and justify the modern titles 
and epithets of reverence which have occasioned 
so much discussion in many of our public forms. 

The apostle's speech had produced a consider- 
able emotion in the king, who, however, was de- 
termined to act rather upon his convenience 
than his convictions. The apostle concludes as 
he had begun, by seizing on the part of Agrip- 
pa's character which he could most conscien- 
tiously commend, his perfect knowledge of the 
subject before the court. In his solemn inter- 
rogation at the close, ' King Agrippa, believest 
thou the Prophets ?' more is meant than meats 
the ear ; for, if he really believed the pro- 
phets, could he refuse to believe the accom- 
plishment of their predictions? His emphatical 
answer to his own question, ' I know that thou 
believest,' drew from the startled monarch a 
free avowal of his partial convictions. The 
brief but affecting prayer with which the trial 
closes, is as elegantly turned as if the Apostle 
had been the courtier. 

Agrippa appears, in this instance, in a light 
so much more advantageous than any of the 
other judges before whom either Paul or his Lord 
were cited, that we cannot but regret that he let 
slip an occasion so providentially put in his way. 
This illustrious person affords another awful 
proof of the danger of stifling convictions, post- 
poning inquiries, and neglecting opportunities. 

Though the political and military splendour 
of Athens had declined, and the seat of govern- 
ment, after the conquest of Greece by the Ro- 
mans, was transferred to Corinth, yet her sun 
of glory was not set. Philosophy and the liberal 
arts were still carefully cultivated ; students in 
every department, and from every quarter, re- 
sorted thither for improvement, and her streets 
were crowded by senators and rhetoricians, phi- 
losophers and statesmen. 

As Paul visited Athens with views which had 
instigated no preceding, and would probably be 
entertained by no subsequent traveller, so his 
attention in that most interesting city was at- 
tracted by objects far different from theirs. He 
was in all probability qualified to range, with a 
learned eye, over the exquisite pieces of art, and 
to consult and enjoy the curious remains of 
literature, — theatres, and temples, and schools 
of philosophy, sepulchres, and cenotaphs, statues 
of patriots, and portraits of heroes ; — monuments 
by which the artist had insured to himself the 
immortality he was conferring. Yet one edifice 






THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



alone arrested the apostle's notice. — the altar of 
the idolatrous worshippers. One record of an- 
tiquity alone invited his critical acumen, — the 

INSCRIPTION TO THE UNKNOWN GoD. 

The disposition of this people, their passion 
for disputation, their characteristic and prover- 
bial love of novelty, had drawn together a vast 
assembly. Many of the philosophical sects 
eagerly joined the audience. Curiosity is called 
by an ancient writer, the wantonness of know- 
ledge. These critics came, it is likely, not as 
inquirers, but as spies. — The grave stoics proba- 
bly expected to hear some new unbroached doc- 
trines which they might overthrow by argu- 
ment ; the lively Epicureans some fresh ab- 
surdity in religion, which would afford a new 
field for diversion ; the citizens, perhaps, crowd- 
ing and listening from the mere motive that 
they might afterwards have to tell the new 
thing they should hear. Paul took advantage 
of their curiosity. As he habitually opened his 
discourses with great moderation, we are the 
less surprised at the measured censure, or ra- 
ther the implied civility of his introduction. 
The ambiguous term 'superstitious' which he 
employed, might be either construed into respect 
for their spirit of religious inquiry, or into dis- 
approbation of its unreasonable excess ; at least 
he intimated that they were so far from not re- 
verencing the acknowedged god, that they wor- 
shipped one which was ' unknown.' 

With his usual discriminating mind, he did 
not ' reason' with these elegant and learned 
Polytheists 'out of the Scriptures,' of which they 
were totally ignorant, as he had done at Antioch 
and Cesarea, before judges who were trained in 
the knowledge of them : he addressed his pre- 
sent auditors with an eloquent exposition of 
natural religion, and of the providential govern- 
ment of God, politely illustrating his observa- 
tions by citing passages from one of their own 
authors. Even by this quotation, without hav- 
'ng recourse to Scripture, he was able to con- 
trovert the Epicurean doctrine, that the Deity 
had no interference with human concerns ; 
showing them on their own principles, that ' we 
are the offspring of God ;' that ' in Him we live 
and move, and have our being ;' and it is worth 
observing, that he could select from a poet, 
sentiments which should come nearer to the 
truth than from a philosopher. 

The orator, rising with his subject, after 
briefly touching on the long suffering of God, 
awfully announced that ignorance would be no 
longer any plea for idolatry ; that if the Divine 
forbearance had permitted it so long, it was in 
order to make the wisest not only see, but feel 
the insufficiency of their own wisdom in what 
related to the great concerns of religion ; but ho 
now commanded all men every lohere to repent. — 
He concludes by announcing the solemnities of 
Christ's future judgment, and the resurrection 
from the dead. 

In considering Saint Paul's manner of un- 
folding to these wits and sages the power and 
goodness of that Supreme Intelligence who was 
the object of their 'ignorant worship,' we are 
at once astonished at his intrepidity and his 
management; intrepidity, in pret'ering this bold 
charge against an audience of the most accom- 



plished scholars in the world, — in charging ig- 
norance upon Athens! blindness 01 ' the eye of 
Greece !' — and management in so judiciously 
conducting his oration that the audience ex- 
pressed neither impatience nor displeasure, till 
he began to unfold the most obnoxious and un- 
popular of all doctrines, — Jesus raised from the 
dead. 

It is recorded by Saint Luke of this polished 
and highly intellectual city, that it was wholly 
given up to idolatry ; a confirmation of the re- 
mark of Pausanias, that there were more image- 
worshippers in Athens than in all Greece be- 
sides. 

We have here a clear proof that the reason 
ableness of Christianity was no recommenda 
tion to its adoption by those people who, of all 
others, were acknowledged to have cultivated 
reason the most highly. — What a melancholy 
and heart-humbling conviction, that wit and 
learning, in their loftiest elevation, open no 
natural avenue to religion in the heart of man ; 
that the grossest ignorance leaves it not more 
inaccessible to Divine truth. Paul never ap- 
pears to have made so few proselytes in any 
place as at Athens ; and it is so far from being 
true, as its disciples assert, that philosophy is 
never intolerant, that the most bitter persecu- 
tion ever inflicted on the Christians was under 
the most philosophical of all the Roman Em- 
perors. * 

In this celebrated city, in which Plato, near 
five hundred years before, discoursed so elo- 
quently only the immortality of the soul, Paul 
first preached the resurrection of the soul, Paul 
first preached the resurrection of the body. 
Horace Speaks of searching for truth in the 
groves of Academus. But Saint Paul was the 
first who ever taught it there. 



CHAP. IX. 

On the general principles of Saint PauVs 
writings. 

One of the most distinguished writers of an- 
tiquity, says, that 'one man may believe him- 
self to be as certain of his error as another of 
his truth.' Hiw many illustrious ancients, 
under the influence of this conceit, may either, 
have carried truth out of its proper sphere, or 
brought on some error to fill the place where the 
truth, so transferred, had left vacant. The Pa- 
gan philosophers held so great a variety of 
opinions of the supreme good of the nature of 
man, that one of their most learned writers is 
said to have reckoned the number to amount to 
no less than two hundred and eighty-eight. + 

Christianity ought to be accounted a singular 
blessing, were it only that he has simplified this 
conjectural arithmetic, and reduced the hun- 
dreds to a unit. Saint Paul's brief, but com- 
prehensive definition, ' repentance towards God, 
and faith in our Lord Jesus Christ,' forming one 
grand central point, in which, if all the vain 
aims ind unsatisfied desires of the anxious 



* Marcus Aurelius. 



t.Varro, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



247 



philosophers do not meet, this succinct charac- 
ter of Christianity abundantly supplies what 
their aims and desires failed to accomplish; for 
' they erred, not knowing the Scriptures : those 
Scriptures which proclaim the wants of man 
when they declare his depravity, and the power 
of God, in providing its only remedy.' 

Saint Paul labours sedulously to convince his 
converts of the apostacy of the human race. He 
knew this to be the only method of rendering 
the Scriptures either useful or intelligible; no 
other book having explicitly proclaimed or 
circumstantially unfolded this prime truth. He 
furnishes his followers with this key, that they 
might both unlock the otherwise hidden trea- 
sures of the Bible, and open the secret recesses 
of their own hearts. He knew that, without this 
strict inquisition into what was passing within, 
without this experimental knowledge of their 
own lapsed state, the best books may be read 
with little profit, and even prayer be offered 
up with little effect. 

He directs them to follow up this self-inspec- 
tion, because without it they could not determine 
on the quality, even of their best actions. ' Ex- 
amine yourselves ; prove your own selves,' is 
his frequent exhortation. He knew, that if we 
did not impede the entrance of Divine light into 
our own hearts, it would show us many an un- 
suspected corruption ; that it would not only 
disclose existing evils, but awaken the remem- 
brance of former ones, of which perhaps the con- 
sequences still remain, though time and negli- 
gence have effaced the act itself from the memory. 
Whatever be the structure they intend to erect, 
the apostles always dig deep for a foundation 
before they beo-in to build. 'On Jesus Christ, 
and him crucified,' as on a broad basis, Saint 
Paul builds all doctrine and grounds all prac- 
tice ; and firm indeed, must that foundation be, 
which has to sustain such a weight. He points 
to him ao the sole author of justifying faith. 
From thill doctrine he derives all sanctity, all 
duty, and all consolation. After having proved 
it to be productive of that most solid of all sup- 
ports, peace of God ; this peace he promises, not 
only through the benignity of God, but through 
the grace of Christ, showing, by an induction 
of particulars, the process of this love of God in 
its moral effects, — how afflictions promote ' pa- 
tience,' how patience fortifies the mind by ' ex- 
perience,' and how experience generates ' hope;' 
— reverting always in the end to that point from 
which he sets out; to that love of God, which is 
kindled in the heart by the operation of the 
Holy Spirit. 

He makes all true holiness to hinge on this 
fundamental doctrine of redemption by the Son 
of God, never separating his offices from his per- 
son, nor his example from his propitiation ; never 
teaching that man's nature is to be reformed, 
without pointing out the instrument, and the 
manner by which the reformation is to be effect- 
ed. For one great excellence of Saint Paul's 
writings consist, not only in his demonstrating 
to us the riches and the glories of Christ, but in 
showing how they may be conveyed to us : how 
we may become possessed of an interest, of a 
right in them. 

Though there is no studied separations of the 



doctrinal from the practical parts of his Epistles 
they who would enter most deeply into a clea; 
apprehension of the former, would best do it by 
a strict obedience to the precepts of the latter. 
He every where shows, that the way to receive 
the truth is to obey it ; and the way to obey is to 
love it. Nothing so effectually bars up the heart 
and even the understanding, against the recep 
tion of truth, as the practice of sin. ' If any man 
will do his will,' says the Divine Teacher him- 
self, ' he shall know of the doctrine.'* 

It is in this practical application of Divine 
truth, that the supreme excellence of St. Paul's 
preaching consists. Whenever he has been 
largely expatiating on the glorious privileges of 
believers, he never omits to guard his doctrine 
from the use to which he probably foresaw loose 
professors might convert it, if delivered to the 
uninformed, stripped from the connection with 
its proper adjunct, t 

Thus, his doctrines are never barely theoreti- 
cal. He hedges them in, as we have elsewhere 
observed, with the whole circle of duties, or with 
such as more immediately grow out of his sub- 
ject, whether they relate to God, to others, or 
ourselves. Though it would not be easy to pro- 
duce, in his writings, a single doctrine which is 
not so protected, nevertheless, perhaps, there is 
scarcely one, in the adoption of which, bold in- 
truders have not leaped over the fence he raised ; 
or by their negligence laid it bare for the un- 
hallowed entrance of others, converting his in- 
closure into a waste. If the duty of living 
righteously, soberly, and godly, was ever pre- 
eminently taught by any instructor, that in- 
structor is Saint Paul ; if ever the instructions 
of any teacher have been strained or perverted, 
they are his. But if he never presses any vir- 
tue, as independent of faith, which is too much 
the case with some, he never fails to press it as 
a consequence of faith, which is sometimes ne- 
glected by others. The one class preach faith 
as if it were an insulated doctrine ; the other, 
virtue, as if it were a self-originating principle. 

It is also worthy of observation, that in that 
complete code of Evangelical law, the twelfth 
chapter of the Romans, after unfolding with the 
most lucid clearness, the great truths of our re- 
ligion, he carefully inculcates the temper it de- 
mands, before he proceeds to enforce the duties 
it imposes ; that we must be ' holy' before we 
can be ' acceptable ;' that we must be transform- 
ed in the renewing of our mind, is at once made 
a consequence of the grace of God, and a preli- 
minary to our duties towards our fellow crea- 
tures. We must offer up ' ourselves a living sa- 
crifice to God,' before we are directed to act 
conscientiously to man. The other disposition, 
which he names as an indispensable prelude, is 
humility ; for in the very opening of his subject, 
he prefaces it with an injunction, not to think 
of ourselves more highly than we ought to think. 
To omit to cultivate the spirit in which doctrines 
are to be embraced, and the temper in which 

* John vii. 17. 

f We learn from St. Peter, that this perversion had 
begun even in his own time. Ebion and his followers 
afterwards pushed the charge against Paul as far as an- 
tinomianism. Nor has the spirit of the accusation on 
the one hand, nor the adulteration of the principle ou 
the other, entirely ceased 



248 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



duties are to be performed, is to mutilate Chris- 
tianity, and to rob it of its appropriate character 
and its highest grace. After having shown the 
means for the acquisition of virtue, he teaches 
us diligently to solicit that divine aid, without 
which all means are ineffectual, and all virtues 
spurious. 

In this invaluable summary, or rather this 
spirit of Christian laws, there is scarcely any 
class of persons, to which some appropriate ex- 
hortation is not directed. After particularly ad- 
dressing those who fill different degrees of the 
ministerial office, he proceeds to the more general 
instructions in which all are equally interested. 
Here, again, he does not fail to introduce his 
documents with some powerful principle. Affec- 
tion and sincerity are the inward feelings which 
must regulate action ; • let love be without dis- 
simulation.'' 

The love he inculcates is of the most large and 
liberal kind ; compassion to the indigent, tender 
sympathy with the feelings of others, whether 
of joy or sorrow, as their respective circum- 
stances require ; the duties of friendship and 
hospitality are not forgotten ; condescension to 
inferiors ; a disposition to be at peace with all 
men is enforced ; from his deep knowledge of 
the human heart, implying, however, by a sig- 
nificant parenthesis — if it be possible — the diffi- 
culty, if not impossibility, which its corruptions 
would bring to the establishment of universal 
discord. 

He applies himself to all the tender sensibili- 
ties of the heart, and concatenates the several 
fruits of charity so closely, from being aware 
how ready people are to deceive themselves on 
this article, and to make one branch of this com- 
prehensive grace stand proxy for another : he 
knew that many are disposed to make alms- 
giving a ground for neglecting the less pleasant 
parts of charity ; that some give, in order that 
they may rail, and think that while they open 
their purses, they need put no restraint on their 
tongues. 

He closes his catalogue of duties with those 
which we owe to our enemies; and in a paradox 
peculiar to the genius of Christianity, shows 
that the revengeful are the conquered, and those 
who have the magnanimity to forgive, the con- 
querors. He exhorts to this new and heroic 
species of victory over evil, not merely by exhi- 
biting patience under it, but by overcoming its 
assaults with good. Could this conquest over 
nature, which soars far above mere forgiveness, 
be obtained by any other power but the super- 
natural strength previously communicated ? 

Thus he ev^ry where demonstrates, that the 
maxims of the morality he inculcates, are de- 
rived from a full fountain, and fed by perennial 
supplies. When he speaks of human virtue, he 
never disconnects it from Divine influence. 
When he recommends the 'perfecting holiness.' 
it must be done ' in the fear of the Lord.' He 
shows that there is no other way of conquering 
the love of the world, the allurements of pleasure, 
and the predominance of selfishness, but by seek- 
ing a conformity to the image of Cod, as well as 
by aiming at obedience to his law. 

That ignorance is the mother of devotion, has 
been the axiom of a superstitious church ; nor is 



the votary of fanaticism less apt to despise know- 
ledge than the slave of superstition. 

The first thing that God formed in nature was 
light. This preliminary blessing disclosed the 
other beauties of his creation, which had else 
remained as unseen as if they had remained un- 
created. By that analogy which runs through 
his works, his first operation on the heart is be- 
stowing on it the light of his grace. Amidst 
the causes of the corruption, the darkness of ig- 
norance is scarcely to be distinguished from that 
of sin. 

Such indeed is the condition of man in his 
present state, that he ought to labour indefati- 
gably under the Divine teaching, to recover some 
glimpses of that intellectual worth which he lost 
when he forfeited his spiritual excellence. Re- 
ligious men should be diligent in obtaining 
knowledge, or they will not be able to resist 
gainsayers ; they will swallow assertions for 
truths, and conclude every objection to be valid 
which they cannot refute. An unfurnished mind 
is liable to a state of continual indecision. Error 
will have the advantage in the combat, where 
the champion of truth enters the field without 
arms ; for impiety still shows itself, as it did in 
the Garden of Eden, under the semblance of 
knowledge. 

Saint Paul estimated just views and right no- 
tions of religion so highly, that he makes the 
improvement in knowledge in the Colossians, a 
mattei not only of fervent desire, but of inces. 
sant prayer. He prays not only that they might 
be sincere, but intelligent Christians, ' filled with 
the knowledge of God's will in all wisdom and 
spiritual understanding ;' but he does not forget 
to teach them that this knowledge must be made 
practical, they must walk worthy of the Lord, 
they must be fruitful in every good work. It is 
among the high ascriptions of glory to Christ, 
that in Him are hid all the treasures of wisdom 
and knowledge. And this ascription is pressed 
upon ms for the manifest purpose of impelling us 
to seek a due participation of them from Him. 

Saint Paul was a strenuous opposer of reli- 
gious ignorance. It is not too much to say, that 
he places Intelligence as the ground-work of 
Christianity. To know God, and Jesus Christ, 
whom he has sent, he considers as the first ru- 
diments taught in the divine school. This know- 
ledge can only be acquired by a cordial love, and 
indefatigable study of the volume of inspiration. 
All the conjectures of the brightest imagination, 
all the discoveries of the profoundest science, all 
the glorious objects of created beauty, all the at- 
tributes of angels, all the ideas of excellence we 
can conceive or combine, affords but faint sha- 
dows, inexpressive figures of the Divinity. The 
best lights we can throw upon his perfections 
are from his own Word, assisted by his own 
Spirit; the clearest sight we can obtain of them 
is from our faith in that word, and our only 
strength from our acquiescence in the offers of 
that Spirit. 

And where shall we look in the whole sacred 
Record for a more consummate statement, at 
once of the proper objects of knowledge, and of 
the duties resulting from its acquisition, than in 
the writings of this Apostle ? No one who has 
devoutly studied him, can shift off the neglect 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



249 



of duty by the plea of ignorance. It would be 
vindicating one sin by committing another. He 
every whero exhibits such luminous characters 
of God and Christ, such clear views of right and 
wrong, such living pictures of good and evil, 
euch striking contrasts of human corruption and 
Christian purity, that he who would evade the 
condemnation which awaits the neglect, or the 
violation of duty, must produce some other apo- 
logy than that he did not know it. What ex- 
cuse will those modern sceptics offer for their 
traducement of writings, which they were too 
shrewd either to despise or neglect ? Whatever 
is good in their systems, they derive from a Re- 
velation which they affect to contemn. They 
are rich only from what they steal, not from 
that property which they may call their own. 
Reason, which could in no wise discover what 
Christianity has taught, is glad to adopt, while 
she disavows, what she could never have found 
out herself. She has, however, too little honesty, 
and too much pride, to acknowledge her obliga- 
tion, to the source from which she draws. She 
mixes up what she best likes with her own ma- 
terials, and defies the world, by separating them, 
to detect the cheat. Revelation, in truth, has 
improved reason, as well as perfected morals. 

But if the human reasoner despises Christian- 
ity, some Christians are too much disposed to 
villify reason. This contempt they did not 
learn of Saint Paul. He never taught, that, to 
neglect an exact method of reasoning, would 
make men sounder divines. No such conse- 
quences can be deduced from his writings. Re- 
vealed religion, indeed, happily for the poor and 
illiterate, may be firmly believed, and vitally 
understood, without a very accurate judgment, 
or any high cultivation of the rational powers. 
But without both, without a thorough acquaint- 
ance with the arguments, without a knowledge 
of the evidences, it can never be successfully 
defended. Ignorance on these points would 
throw such a weight into the scale of scepti- 
cism, as would weaken, if it did not betray the 
cause of truth. In our days an ignorant teacher 
of religion is 'a workman that needeth to be 
ashamed.' He should carefully cultivate his 
reason, were it only to convince himself of its 
imperfection. The more he proceeds under the 
guidance of God's Spirit to improve his rational 
faculties, the more he will discover their insuffi- 
ciency : and his humility striking its root more 
deeply as his knowledge shoots higher, he will 
become more profoundly thankful for that Di- 
vine revelation, which alone can satisfy the de- 
sires of his mind, and fill the cravings of his 
heart. 

Some well-meaning instructors have pleaded, 
in justification of their low attainments, Saint 
Paul's exaltation of 'the foolishness of preach- 
ing to save them that believe.' ' It was,' says a 
learned divine, ' a mode not unusual with Saint 
Paul, to call a thing, not by a term descriptive 
of its real nature, but by a name expressive of 
the opinion formed of it by the world, and of 
the effects produced by it.' — In calling the Gos- 
pel foolishness, therefore, he only adopted the 
language of the Greeks, its Pagan enemies. It 
was ' the natural man,' to whom the things of 
the Spirit of God were foolishness. The ex- 

VoL. II. 



pression, therefore, offers no apology for non- 
sense, no plea for ignorance. However, the hu- 
mility of Paul might lead him to depreciate ' the 
wisdom of his own words,' he has left us the 
means of knowing that they were of the very 
first excellence. He depreciates, it is true, all 
eloquence, whether true or false, which was 
adopted as a substitute 'for the Cross of Christ.' 
He would indeed reprobate the idea of loading 
a discourse with ornaments, which might draw 
the attention of the audience from the Saviour 
to the preacher, which by its splendour might 
cast into shade the object he was bound to re- 
veal ; which might throw into the back ground 
that Cross which should ever be the prominent 
figure. But though, in establishing the doctrine 
of the Cross, God accomplished a promise of 
long standing, and frequent repetition that he 
would ' destroy the wisdom of the wise, and 
bring to nothing the understanding of the pru- 
dent,' yet there is no promise that ignorance or 
folly shall be erected on the ruins of wisdom ; 
the promise runs, that the wisdom from above 
shall supersede the pride of human wisdom. 

One of the fundamental truths which the 
apostle labours to establish, is, that the attain- 
ment of Divine knowledge, progress in holiness, 
conquest over sin, with all other spiritual gains, 
are only to be effected by the power of the Spi- 
rit of God. This doctrine, the importance of 
which he every where intimates, he more expli- 
citly teaches in the eighth chapter of Romans. 
This conviction, which he felt deeply, he paints 
forcibly. — Yet, though insisted on with such 
frequency and emphasis, many receive this as 
a speculative dogma, instead of a highly practi- 
cal truth. Many distrust the reality of this 
power, or if they allow its existence, they disbe- 
lieve its agency. 

This tenet, however, so slightly regarded, is 
in every part of the New Testament, not barely 
noticed by allusion, but incessantly either pe- 
remptorily asserted, or constantly assumed. 
Would the apostle repeatedly refer us, as the 
only deliverer from sin, to an ideal person ! 
Would he mock us by a bare statement of such 
a power, and an unmeaning promise of such a 
deliverance, without directing us how it is to 
be obtained ? The fervent habitual prayer of 
faith is the mean suggested. It is rational to 
suppose that spiritual aid must be attained by a 
spiritual act. God is a spirit. Spirit and truth 
are the requisites expected in his worshippers. — 
Though this doctrine is insisted on not less than 
twelve times in this chapter only, there is not 
one tenet of Christianity, in the adoption of 
which, the generality are more reluctant. 

It is unreasonable for us to say, we disbelieve 
the possibility of the operation of the Holy Spi- 
rit, because we do not understand when, or in 
what manner it acts, while we remain in such 
complete ignorance how our own spirits act 
within ourselves. It is proof sufficient, that we 
see its result, that we perceive the effect of this 
mysterious operation, in the actual change of 
the human heart. — Our sense of our internal 
weakness, must convince us, that it is not effect- 
ed by any power of our own. The humble can- 
not but foel this truth, the ingenuous cannot bu 
acknowledge it. Let us be assured, that Infi- 



250 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



nite Wisdom, which knows how we are consti- 
tuted, and what are our wants, knows how his 
own Spirit assists those who earnestly implore 
its aid. 

Saint Paul powerfully inculcates that new 
and spiritual worship which was so condescend- 
ingly and beautifully taught by the Divine 
Teacher, at the well of Sychar, when he declared 
that the splendours of the Temple worship, 
hitherto performed exclusively in one distin- 
guished place, should be abolished, and the 
cumbrous ceremonies and fatiguing forms of 
the Jewish ritual set aside, to make way for a 

Eurer mode of adoration ; when the contrite 
eart was to supersede the costly sacrifice, and 
God should be worshipped in a way more suited 
to his spiritual nature.* 

Yet, even here, the wise moderation of Paul 
is visible. He did not manifest his dislike of 
one extreme point by flying to the antipodes of 
opposition : when ostentatious rites were pro- 
nounced to be no longer necessary, he did not 
adopt, like some other reformers, the contrary 
excess of irregularity and confusion. While the 
internal principle was the great concern, the 
outward appendage must be decorous. To keep 
the exterior ' decent' and ' orderly,' was emble- 
matical of the purity and regularity within ! 

While Paul's severe reproof of the confusion 
and irregularities, which disgraced the Church 
of Corinth, proves him to be a decided enemy 
to the distempers of spiritual vanity and enthu- 
siasm ; he does not, like a worldly reprover, 
seize the occasion given by their imprudence to 
treat with levity the power of religion itself; he 
does not lay hold on the error he condemns for 
a pretence to deride true zeal, and to render ri- 
diculous the gifts which had been indecently 
abused. On the contrary, he observes how im- 
properly these gifts and supernatural powers 
had been used by some on whom they were con- 
ferred ; who, he laments, were more anxious to 
eclipse each other in these showy distinctions, 
than to convert them to the purposes of practi- 
cal use and excellence ; advises, that ' spiritual 
gifts' may be directed to their true end ; ' that 
he may excel to the edifying of the Church ;' 
gently reminds the offenders that they them- 
selves were nothing more than vehicles and or- 
gans of the operation of the Spirit. While he 
insinuates that, were these miraculous powers 
their sole distinction, it might be doubtful by 
what specific mark to recognize in them the ge- 
nuine Christian; he removes the difficulty, by 
showing them there was a more excellent way, 
by which they might most indisputably make 
out their title. This ' way,' which is now as it 
was then, the discriminating characteristic of 
the true believer, is Charity ; all the properties 
of which he describes, not for their instructions 
only, but for ours also. 

If the apostle has here, on the one hand, fur- 
nished no example or apology for enthusiasm 
and eccentricity ; if the solidity of his piety, and 
the sobriety of his mind, are uniformly opposed 
to the unprofitable fervours of fanaticism, both 
in doctrine and conduct, yet on the other hand 
his life and writings are quite as little favoura- 

• Gospel of St. John, chap, iv 



ble to a more formidable, because a less sus- 
pected and more common evil, — we mean indif 
ference. Coldness and inefficiency, indeed, are, 
in the estimation of some persons, reputable, or 
at least safe qualities, and often obtain the ho- 
nourable name of Prudence ; but to Saint Paul 
it was not enough that nothing wrong was done; 
he considered it reproach sufficient that nothing 
was done. 

He sometimes intrenches himself in the ho- 
nest severity which his integrity compels him 
to exercise against the opposers of vital Chris- 
tianity, by adducing some pointed censure 
against them from men of their own party or 
country. For instance, when he condemns, in 
his letter to their new bishop, Titus, the luxu- 
rious, avaricious, and slothful Cretans, he cor- 
roborates the truth of his testimony by the au- 
thority of one of their own poets, or prophets. 
These slow sensualists, these indulgers of ap- 
petite, these masters of ceremonies, he not only 
stigmatizes himself, but adds to his pagan quo- 
tation, ' This witness is true.' And it may be 
adduced as a striking instance of his discrimi- 
nating mode of church government, that this 
wise ecclesiastical ruler, who had before exhort- 
ed Timothy, the bishop of another Church, to 
' be gentle unto all men, meekly instructing 
those who oppose themselves,' now directs Titus 
to ' rebuke sharply' these temporizing teachers, 
and unholy livers. 

He saw that a grave and sedate indolence, in- 
vesting itself with the respectable attribute of 
moderation, eats out the very heart's core of 
piety. He knew that these somnolent charac* 
ters communicate the repose which they enjoy ; 
that they excite no alarm, because they feel 
none. Their tale of observances is regularly 
brought in; their list of forms is completely 
made out. Forms, it is true, are valuable things, 
when they are ' used as a dead hedge to secure 
the quick ;' but here the observances are rested 
in ; here the forms are the whole of the fence. 
The dead fence is not considered as a protection; 
but a substitute. The teacher and the taught, 
neither disturbing nor disturbed, but soothing 
and soothed, reciprocate civilities, exchange 
commendations. If little good is done, it is well; 
if no offence is given, it is better ; if no super- 
fluity of zeal be imputed, it is best of all. The 
Apostle felt what the Prophet expressed, — ' My 
people love to have it so.' 

Perhaps the sum and substance of the duties 
of a Christian minister, to which there is also 
a reference in this chapter, was never compress- 
ed into so small a compass as in his charge to 
his beloved Titus ;* — ' In all things showing 
thyself a pattern of good works. In doctrine 
showing uncorruptness, gravity, sincerity, sound 
speech.' We see here, in a few significant words, 
a rule of conduct and of instruction which is 
susceptible of the widest expansion. The most 
elaborate paraphrase will add little to the sub- 
stantial worth of this brief monition. Every 
instructor must furnish his own practical com- 
mentary by transferring into his life the pattern, 
and into his preaching the precept. He adds, 
the sure effect of a life and doctrine so correct 

•Titus, ch ii. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



251 



will be to silence calumny ; the adversary of 
religion will be ashamed of his enmity when he 
sees the purity of its professor defeat all attempts 
to discredit him. 

It is a truth, verified in every age of the 
church, that the doctrines which Paul preached, 
stood in direct opposition to the natural dispo- 
sitions of man ; they militated against his cor- 
rupt affections ; they tended to subdue what had 
been hitherto invincible, — the stubborn human 
will ; to plant self-denial where self-love had be- 
fore overrun the ground. To convince of sin, 
to point to the Saviour, to perfect holiness, yet 
to exclude boasting, are the apostle's invariable 
objects. These topics he urges by every power 
of argument, by every charm of persuasion ; by 
every injunction to the preacher, by every mo- 
tive to the hearer ; but these injunctions, neither 
argument, persuasion, nor motive, can ever ren- 
der engaging. — Man loves to have his corrup- 
tions soothed; it is the object of the apostle to 
combat them : man would have his errors in- 
dulged ; it is the object of the religion which 
Paul preached, to eradicate them. 

Of the dislike excited against the loyal am- 
bassadors of the Gospel, by those who live in op- 
position to its doctrines, our common experience 
furnishes us with no unapt emblem. When we 
have a piece of unwelcome news to report, we 
prepare the hearer by a soothing introduction ; 
we break his fall by some softening circum- 
stances ; we invent some conciliatory preamble : 
he listens ; he distrusts — but we arrive at the 
painful truth ; — the secret is out, the prepara- 
tion is absorbed in the reality, the evil remains 
in its full force ; nothing but the painful fact is 
seen, heard, or felt. 

' Thy news hath made thee a most ugly man.' 

The apostle knew that it would afford little 
comfort to the humble Christian to talk of the 
mercy of God in the abstract, and the forgive- 
ness of sins in vague and general terms. He 
persuades the believer to endeavour to obtain 
evidence of his own interest in this great salva- 
tion. The fountain of forgiveness may flow, 
but if the current reach not to us, if we have no 
personal interest in the offered redemption, if 
we do not individually seek communion with the 
Father of spirits, the Saviour of the world will not 
be our Saviour. But that he might not give false 
comfort, Paul, when he wishes ' peace' wishes 
'grace' also; this last he always places first in 
order, knowing that, before the peace can be 
solid, it must have grace for its precursor. The 
character of the peace which he recommends 
is of the highest order of blessings. The peace 
which nations make with each other frequently 
includes no more than that they will do each 
other no evil ; but ' the peace of God,' insures to 
us all that is good, by keeping our hearts and 
minds in the love and knowledge of the Father, 
and of his Son Jesus Christ ! 

In regard to Saint Paul's eccesiastical polity, 
we are aware that some persons, with a view 
to lower the general usefulness of his Epistles, 
object, that in many instances, especially in the 
second to the Corinthians, the apostle has limit- 
ed his instructions to usages which relate only 
to the peculiar concerns of a particular church or 



individual person, and that they might have 
been spared in a work meant for general edifi- 
cation. 

But these are not, as some insist, mere local 
controversies, obsolete disputes, with which we 
have no concern. Societies, as well as the in- 
dividuals of whom the.y are composed, are much 
the same in all periods, and though the conten- 
tions of the churches which he addressed might 
differ something in matter, and much in form 
and ceremony, from those of modern date yet 
the spirit of division, of animosity, of error, of 
opposition, with which all churches are more or 
less infected, will have such a common resem- 
blance in all ages, as may make us submit to 
take a hint or a caution even from topics which 
may seem foreign to our concerns ; and it adds 
to the value of Saint Paul's expostulation, that 
they may be made in some degree applicable to 
other cases. — His directions are minute, as well 
as general, so as scarcely to leave any of the in- 
cidents of life, or the exigencies of society, to- 
tally unprovided for. 

There are, it is obvious, certain things which 
refer to particular usages of the general church 
at its first institution, which no longer exist 
There are frequent references to the extraordi- 
nary gifts of the Spirit, and other circumstances, 
which though they have now ceased, are of 
great importance, as connected with its history, 
and assisting in its first formation ; and the wri- 
ter who had neglected to have recorded them 
would have been blarneable, and the Epistles 
which had not alluded to them would have been 
imperfect. 

While the apostle made ample provisions, such 
as the existing case required, or rather permit- 
ted, he did not absolutely legislate, as to exter- 
nal things, for any church, wisely leaving Chris- 
tianity at liberty to incorporate herself.with the 
laws of any country into which she might be 
introduced ; and while the doctrines of the new 
religion were precise, distinct, and definite, its 
ecclesiastical character was of that generalized 
nature which would allow it to mix with any 
form of national government. This was a likely 
means both to promote its extension, and to pre- 
vent it from imbibing a political temper, or a 
spirit of interference with the secular concerns 
of any country. 

The wonder is, that the work is so little local, 
that it savours so little of Antioch or Jerusalem, 
of Philippi or Corinth ; but that almost all is of 
such general application: relative circumstances 
did indeed operate, but they always operated 
subordinately. — The Epistle to the Ephesians 
is not marked with one local peculiarity. There 
is not a single deduction to be made from the 
universal applicableness of this elegant and 
powerful epitome of the Gospel. 

Saint Paul belongs not particularly to the 
period in which he lived, but is equally the pro- 
perty of each successive race of beings. Time 
does not diminish their interest in him. He is 
as fresh to every century as to his own ; and the 
truths he preaches will be as intimately con- 
nected with that age which shall precede the 
dissolution of the world, as that in which he 
wrote. The sympathies of the real believer will 
always be equally awakened by doctrines which 



252 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



will equally apply to their consciences, by prin- 
ciples which will always have a reference to 
their practice, by promises which will always 
carry consolation to their hearts. By the Chris- 
tians of all countries Paul will bo considered as 
a cosmopolite, and by those of all ages as a con- 
temporary. Even when he addresses indivi- 
duals, his point of view is mankind. He looked 
to the world as his scene, and to collective man 
as the actor. 



CHAP. X. 

The Style and Genius of Saint Paul. 

Though Saint Paul frequently alludes to the 
variety of his sufferings, yet he never dwells 
upon them. He does not take advantage of the 
liberty so allowable in friendly letters — that of 
endeavouring to excite compassion by those 
minute details of distress, of which, but tor their 
relation in the Acts of the Apostles, we should 
have been mainly ignorant. 

How would any other writer than the Apostle 
have interwoven a full statement of his trials 
with his, instructions, and how would he have 
indulged an egotism, not only so natural and so 
pardonable, but which has been so acceptable in 
those good men who have given us histories of 
their own life and times. That intermixture, 
however, which excites so lively an interest, and 
is so proper in Clarendon and Baxter, would 
have been misplaced here. It would have served 
to gratify curiosity, but might not seem to com- 
port with the grave plan of instruction adopted 
by the apostle ; whilst it comes with admira- 
ble grace from Saint Luke, his companion in 
travel. 

Saint Paul's manner of writing will be found 
in every way worthy of the greatness of his 
subject. His powerful and diversified character 
of mind seems to have combined the separate 
excellences of all the other sacred authors — the 
loftiness of Isaiah, the devotion of David, the 
pathos of Jeremiah, the vehemence of Ezekiel, 
the didactic gravity of Moses, the elevated mo- 
rality and practical good sense, though some- 
what highly coloured, of Saint James ; the sub- 
lime conceptions and deep views of Saint John, 
the noble energies and burning zeal of St. Peter. 
To all these he added his own strong argumen- 
tative powers, depth of thought and intensity of 
feeling. In every single department he was 
eminently gifted ; so that what Livy said of 
Cato might with far greater truth have been 
asserted of Paul, — that you would think him 
born for the single thing in which he was en- 
gaged. 

We have observed in an early chapter, that in 
the Evangelists the naked majesty of truth re- 
fused to owe any thing to the artifices of com- 
position. In Paul's Epistles a due, though less 
strict degree of simplicity is observed ; differ- 
ing in style from the other as the comment 
from the text, a letter from a history ; taking 
the same ground as to doctrine, devotion, and 
duty, yet branching out into a wider range, 



breaking the subject into more parts, and giving 
results instead of facts. 

Though more at liberty, Paul makes a sober 
use of his privilege ; though never ambitious of 
ornament, his style is as much varied as his sub- 
ject, and always adapted to it. He is by turns ve- 
hement and tender, and sometimes both at once; 
impassioned, and didactic ; now pursuing his 
point with a logical exactness, now disdaining 
the rules, of which he was a master ; often mak 
ing his noble neglect more impressive than the 
most correct arrangement, his irregularity more 
touching than the most lucid order. He is 
often abrupt, and sometimes obscure : his rea- 
soning, though generally clear, is, as the best 
critics allow, sometimes involved, perhaps owing 
to the suddenness of his transitions, the rapidity 
of his ideas, the sensibility of his soul. 

But complicated as his meaning may occa- 
sionally appear, all his complications are capa- 
ble of being analyzed into principles; so that 
from his most intricate trains of reasoning, the 
most unlearned reader may select an unconnect- 
ed maxim of wisdom, a position of piety, an 
aphorism of virtue, easy from its brevity, intel- 
ligible from its clearness, and valuable from its 
weight. 

An apparent, though not unpleasing, discon- 
nection in his sentences is sometimes found to 
arise from the absence of the conjunctive parts 
ofspeech. He is so aflluent in ideas, the images 
which crowd in upon him are so thick-set; that 
he could not stop their course while he might 
tie them together. This absence of the con- 
necting links, which in a meaner writer might 
have induced a want of perspicuity, adds energy 
and force to the expression of so spirited and 
clear-sighted a writer as our apostle. In the 
sixth chapter of the second of Corinthians, there 
are six consecutive verses without one conjunc- 
tion. Such a particle would have enfeebled the 
spirit, without clearing the sense. Tho variety 
which these verses, all making up but one period, 
exhibit, the mass of thought, the diversity of 
object, the impetuosity of march, make it im- 
possible to read them without catching some- 
thing of the fervour with which they are written. 
They seem to set the pulse in motion with a 
corresponding quickness ; and without amplifi- 
cation seem to expand the mind of the reader 
into all the immensity of space and time. 

Nothing is diffused into weakness. If his 
conciseness may be thought, in a very few in- 
stances, to take something from his clearness, 
it is more than made up in force. Condensed 
as his thoughts are, the inexhaustible instruc- 
tions that' may be deduced from them, prove at 
what expansion they are susceptible. His com- 
pression has an energy, his imagery a spirit, his 
diction an impetuosity, which art would in vain 
labour to mend. His straight-forward sense 
makes his way to the heart more surely than 
theirs, who go out of their road for ornament. 
He never interrupts the race to pick up the 
golden bait. 

Our apostle, when he has not leisure for re- 
flection himself, almost by imperceptible me- 
thods invites his reader to reflect. When he 
appears only to skim a subject, he will suggest 
ample food for long-dwelling meditation. Every 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



253 



sentence is pregnant with thought, is abundant 
in instruction. Witness the many thousands 
of sermons which have sprung from these com- 
paratively few, but most prolific seeds. Thus, 
i£ he does not visibly pursue the march of elo- 
quence by the critic's path, he never fails to at- 
tain its noblest ends. He is fuJl without diffuse- 
ness, copious without redundance. His eloquence 
is not a smooth and flowing oil, which lubricates 
the surface, but a sharp instrument which makes 
a deep incision. It penetrates to the dissection 
of the inmost soul, ' to the dividing asunder of 
the soul and spirit, and is a discerner of the 
thoughts and intentions of the heart. 1 

The numerous and long digressions often 
found, and sometimes complained of, in this 
great writer, never make him lose sight of the 
point from which he sets out, and the mark to 
which he is tending. From his most discursive 
flights he never fails to bring home some added 
strength to the truth with which he begins ; and 
when he is longest on the wing, or loftiest in 
his ascent, he comes back to his subject enrich. 
ed with additional matter, and animated with 
redoubled vigour. This is particularly exem- 
plified in the third chapter of the Ephesians, of 
which the whole is one entire parenthesis, emi- 
nently abounding in effusions of humility, holi- 
ness, and love, and in the rich display of the 
Redeemer's grace. 

In the prosecution of any discourse, though 
there may appear little method, he has frequent- 
ly, besides the topic immediately in hand, some 
point to bring forward, not directly, but in an 
incidental, yet most impressive manner. At the 
moment when he seems to wander from the di- 
rect line of his pursuit, the object which he still 
has had in his own view, unexpectedly starts up 
before that of his hearer. In the recapitulation of 
the events of his life before Festus and Agrippa, 
when nothing of doctrine appears to be on his 
mind ; he suddenly breaks out, ' Why should it 
be thought a thing incredible with you, that God 
should raise the dead V He then resumes his 
narrative as rapidly as he had flown off from it ; 
but returns to his doctrine at the close, with the 
additional circumstance, that 'Christ was the 
first that should rise from the dead ;' — as if, 
having before put the question in the abstract, 
he had been since paving the way for the esta- 
blishment of the fact. 

Saint Paul is happy in a mode of brief allu- 
sion, and in the art of awakening recollection by 
hints. It is observable often, how little time he 
wastes in narrative, and how much matter he 
presses into a few words ; ' Ye, brethren, have 
suffered the like things of your own countrymen, 
even as they have of the Jews ; who both killed 
the Lord Jesus and their own prophets, and have 
persecuted us ; and they please not God, and are 
contrary to all men, — forbidding us to speak to 
the Gentiles that they might be saved ; to fill up 
their sins always — for the wrath is come upon 
them to the utmost.' What a quantity of his- 
tory does this sketch present ! What a picture 
of their character, their crimes, and their punish- 
ment ! 

Nor does this brevity often trench on his ex- 
plicitness. In the fifth chapter of the first Thes- 
salonians, from the fourteenth to the twentieth 



verse, there are no fewer than seventeen funda- 
mental, moral, and religious monitions, com- 
prising almost all the duties of a Christian life 
in the space of a few lines. The selection of iiis 
words is as apt, as his enumeration of duties is 
just. He beseeches his converts ' to know them 
that are over them, and very highly to esteem 
them in love for their works' sake ;' while to 
the performance of every personal, social, and 
religious duty, he exhorts them. 

The correctness of his judgment appears still 
more visibly in the aptness and propriety of all 
his allusions, metaphors, and figures. In his 
epistle to the Hebrews, he illustrates and en- 
forces the new doctrine by reasonings drawn 
from a reference to the rites, ceremonies, and 
economy of the now obsolete dispensation ; send- 
ing them back to the records of their early 
Scriptures. Again, he does not talk of the Isth- 
mian games to the Romans, nor to the Greeks 
of Adoption. The latter term he judiciously 
uses to the Romans, to whom it was familiar, 
and explains, by the use of it, the doctrines of 
the grace of God in their redemption, their adop- 
tion as his children, and their 'inheritance with 
the saints in light ;' on the other hand, the illus- 
tration borrowed from the rigorous abstinence 
which was practised by the competitors in the 
Grecian games ; to fit them for athletic exer- 
cises, would convey to the most illiterate inha- 
bitant of Achaia, a lively idea of the subjugation 
of appetite required in the Christian combatant. 
The close of this last mentioned analogy by the 
apostle, opens a large field for instruction, by a 
brief but beautiful comparison, between the va- 
lue and duration of the fading garland worn by 
the victorious Greek, with the incorruptible crown 
of the Christian conqueror. 

But whether it be a metaphor or illustration, 
or allusion, ho seldom fails to draw from it some 
practical inference for his own humiliation. In 
the present case he winds up the subject with a 
salutary fear, in which all who are engaged in 
the religious instruction of others are deeply in- 
terested. So far is he from self-confidence or 
self-satisfaction, because he lives in the constant 
habit of improving others, that he adduces the 
very practice of this duty as a ground of caution 
to himself. He appropriates to himself a gene- 
ral possibility, ' lest that by any means when I 
have preached to others, I myself should be a 
castaway.' 

Another metaphor, to which for its peculiarity 
we cannot help making a distinct reference, oc- 
curs in the twelfth chapter of the first of Co- 
rinthians. The figure with which he there in- 
structs the Church of Corinth in the nature, use, 
and variety of spiritual gifts, whilst it bears a 
strong resemblance to the celebrated apologue 
with which Menenius Agrippa appeased the tu- 
mult of the Roman populace in the infancy of 
the Consular government, i3 still much superior 
to it. Saint Paul reproves their dissentions in a 
long chain of argument, where he illustrates the 
wisdom of the Holy Spirit in his distribution of 
gifts, by a similitude taken from the component 
parts of the human body ; which, though distinct 
and various, make up by union one harmonious 
whole. He explains their incorporation into 
Christ by the interest which the body has in the 



254 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



several members, each of which by its specific 
office contributes to the general good. He proves 
the excellence of the dispensation to consist in 
that very variety which had produced the con- 
tention ; and shows that, had the same powers 
been given to all, the union would have been 
broken as eacli portion would have been useless 
in a state of detachment from the rest, which 
now contributed to the general organization of 
the human frame. 

As an orator, Paul unquestionably stands in 
the foremost rank. When the renowned Atheni- 
an so ■ wielded the fierce democracy,' as to ani- 
mate with one common sentiment the whole 
assembly against Philip ; when his great rival 
stirred up the Roman senate against their op- 
pressors, and by the power of his eloquence 
made Cataline contemptible, and Anthony de- 
testable ; they had every thing in their favour. 
Their character was established : each held a 
distinguished office in the state. The}' stood on 
the vantage-ground of the highest rank and re- 
putation. When they spoke, admiration stood 
waiting to applaud. Their characters com- 
manded attention. Their subject ensured ap- 
probation. Each, too, had the advantage of ad- 
dressing his own friends, his own countrymen 
— men of the same religious and political habits 
with themselves. Before they started, they had 
already pre-occupied half the road to success 
and glory. 

Now turn to Paul ! — A stranger, poor, perse- 
cuted, unprotected, unsupported — despised be- 
fore-hand, whether he were considered as a Jew 
or a Christian ; solitary, defenceless, degraded 
even to chains — yet did he make the prejudiced 
king vacillate in his opinion, the unjust judge 
tremble on his seat. The Apostle of the Gen- 
tiles owed none of his success to an appeal to 
the corrupt passions of his audience. Demos- 
thenes and Cicero, it must be confessed, by their 
arguments and their eloquence, but not a little 
also by their railing and invective, kindled strong 
emotions in the minds of their respective audi- 
ences. Now these vituperations, it must be re- 
membered, were applied to other persons, not to 
the hearers, — and men find a wonderful facility 
in admiring satire not directed at themselves. 
But in the case of Saint Paul, the very persons 
addressed were at once the accused and the 
judges. The auditors were to apply the search- 
ing truths to their own hearts; to look inward 
on the mortifying spectacle of their own errors 
and vices : so that the apostle had the feelings 
of the hearers completely against him, whilst the 
Pagan orator had those of his audience already 
on his side. 

To crown all, Saint Paul has nobly exempli- 
fied the rule of Quinctilian. He owed the best 
part of his oratory to his being a ' good man,' 
as well as a good speaker. 'Otherwise,' says 
that great critic, ' though the orator may amuse 
the imagination, he will never reach the heart.' 
Conviction was the soul of his eloquence. He 
has no hesitation in his religious discussions. 
Whenever he summoned the attributes of his 
mind to council, decision always presided. His 
doctrines had a fixed system. There was no- 
thing conjectural in his scheme. His mind was 
never erratic for want of a centre. ' Jesus 



Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever, 
with whom is no variableness, neither shadow 
of turning,' is the sun of his system, and round 
this centre every doctrine issuing from his lips, 
every grace beaming in his soul, moved harmo- 
niously. Whilst he did not, like the exploaed 
philosophy, invert order, by making the orb of 
day dependent on the lesser fires, which owe to 
him whatever light and heat they possess ; he 
did not shrink, like the restorer of an astrono- 
mical truth, from the most decisive and effectual 
avowal of his opinions. It is curious to observe 
that both these persons shared a similar fate. 
The astronomer was rewarded for his disco- 
veries with being thrown into prison by a pontiff 
of Rome ; for the diffusion of moral light, the 
apostle was thrown into prison by an emperor 
of Rome. But mark, in the sequel, the superior 
influence cf revealed truth over the conduct, to 
that of the clearest and best founded deductions 
of human reason. The philosopher was irreso- 
lute ; the apostle persevered. Copernicus re- 
canted what he knew to be truth, and was set 
free; Paul disdained liberty upon such terms and 
was put to death. 

This resolute avowal, this predominant con- 
viction of the sublimest of truths, enabled Saint 
Paul to throw into his eloquence a heart and a 
life unknown to other orators ; ' as a dying man, 
he spoke to dying men ;' and pleaded to the feel- 
ings of immortal beings for the life of their souls 
Others have selected noble objects, objects well 
worthy their genius and their zeal, — the love of 
their country, liberty, and life. Paul embraced 
the same topics, but how ennobled in their na- 
ture ! He taught his hearers ' to desire a better 
country, that is, an heavenly.' He showed them 
1 the liberty wherewith Christ had made them 
free.' He pointed them to ' life everlasting.' 

In the various counsels or reproofs founded 
upon these divine doctrines, can we be surprised 
at the frequent interruption of an ejaculation or 
an apostrophe which he seems wholly unable to 
repress? Often do we participate those feelings 
which, as it were, break in upon his most sub- 
dued moments, and impel him to magnify that 
name, which is above every name, with ascrip- 
tion of glory, and honour and praise, and sainted 
adoration : With a kindred joy and elevation of 
soul, we seem to make even the most highly 
wrought devotional and practical effusions of so 
great a writer our own : and so far from coldly 
condemning what we almost believe our own, 
we realize something of the observation of the 
finest critic of antiquity, ' that when the mind 
is raised by the true sublime, it rejoices and 
glories as if itself had produced what it had so 
much delight in contemplating.' 'No real Chris- 
tian can read the doctrinal part of the Epistle to 
the Ephesians, without being impressed and 
roused by it, as by the sound of a trumpet.'* 

David, between whose temper and genius, and 
those of Saint Paul, there seems to have been a 
great resemblance, frequently manifests thesame 
inextinguishable energy of soul. His heart, like 
that of the Apostle, is hot within him ; the fire 
burns while he is musing. Many of the Psalms 
under such an influence become only one varied 

* Macknight's Preface. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



255 



strain of laudatory prayer. In the nineteenth, 
for instance, he breaks out in admiration of the 
Divine law, almost to appearance on a sudden, 
and in such an inexhaustible diversity of expres- 
sion, as if he could never unburden the fulness 
of his ovei flowing heart. He describes it in no 
less than six different forms of perfection : and 
with every form, still resembling his great fellow 
saint of after ages, he connects a practical de- 
duction. Thus by an infinite variety he proves 
that his mental opulence is above tautology, and 
at the same time shows that spiritual riches 
should be devoted to moral purposes. ' The law 
of the Lord so extolled converts the soul, — gives 
wisdom to the simple, — rejoices the heart, — gives 
light to the eyes, — is not only true, but righte- 
ous altogether.' 

If Paul indulges the glowing expression of his 
own gratitude, it is to communicate the sacred 
flame to those he addresses ; if he triumphs in 
' the enlargement of his own heart,' it is because 
he hopes by the infection of a holy sympathy to 
enlarge theirs. In catching, however, the sa- 
cred flame, let us never forget that, in his warm- 
est addresses, in his most ardent expressions of 
grateful love to his God and his Saviour, he ne- 
ver loses sight of that soberness and gravity 
which becomes both his subject and his charac- 
ter. It is the King eternal, immortal, invisible 
— the blessed and only potentate — King of kings, 
Lord of lords, — He who hath immortality — who 
dwelleth in the light that no man can approach 
unto, — He who hath honour and power everlast- 
ing, to whom, and of whom, he feels himself to 
speak. 

May we venture to express a wish, that some 
persons of more piety and discernment, among 
whom there are those who value themselves on 
being more particularly the disciples of Saint 
Paul, would always imitate his chastised lan- 
guage. When the apostle pours out the fulness 
of his heart to his Redeemer, every expression 
is as full of veneration as of love. His freedom 
is a filial freedom, while their devout effusions 
are sometimes mixed with adjectives, which be- 
trays a familiarity bordering on irreverence.* 

4 If I am a father, where is mine honour : if 
I am a master, where is my fear ?' They may 
indeed say with truth that they are invited to 
come boldly to the throne of grace. But does not 
the very word Throne imply majesty on the one 
part, and prostration on the other ? Is not ' God 
manifest in the flesh' sometimes treated with a 
freedom, I had almost said a fondness, in which 
the divine part of his nature seems to be swal- 
lowed up in the human '? Coarseness of what- 
ever kind, may, it is true, be palliated by piety, 
but is never countenanced by it : it has no affi- 
nity to piety ; it is only as the iron and the clay 
at the foot of the magnificent image, and is just 
so far removed from the true refinement and 
golden sanctity of taste, which will be learned 
by a due study of the first of models. If the per- 
sons so offending should plead warmth of affec- 
tion, their plea will be admitted as valid, if in 
this feeling they can prove their superiority to 
their great master. In our own admirable 

* This remark applies more particularly to certain 
Hymns written in a very devout strain, but with a ite- 
totion rather amatory than reverential. 



church service, this scriptural soberness of style 
is most judiciously adopted, and uniformly main- 
tained. Portions of it are indeed addressed to 
the Second Person in the hlessed Trinity ; but 
we look in vain for any familiar expression, any 
distinguishing appellative. 

Much less do Saint Paul's writings present 
an example, to another and more elegant class, 
the learned speculatists of the German school, 
as recently presented to us by their eloquent 
and accomplished eulogist. Some of these have 
fallen into the opposite extreme of religious re- 
finement ; too airy to be tangible, too mystic to 
be intelligible. The apostle's religion is not like 
theirs, a shadowy sentiment, but a vital princi- 
ple ; not a matter of taste, but of conviction, of 
faith, of feeling. It is not a fair idea, but a holy 
affection. The deity at which they catch, is a 
gay and gorgeous cloud ; Paul's is the Fountain 
of Light. His religion is definite and substan- 
tial, and more profound than splendid. It is not 
a panegyric on Christianity, but a homage to it 

He is too devout to be ingenious, too earnest 
to be fanciful, too humble to be inventive. His 
sober mind could discern no analogy between 
the sublime truths of Christianity and 'the fine 
arts.' Nor would he have compared the awful 
mysteries of the religion of Jesus with those of 
1 Free Masonry,' any more than he would have 
run a laboured parallel with the mysteries of 
Eleusis, or the Bona Dea. Nor does he love to 
illustrate the word of God by any thing but his 
works. His truth hath no shades ; in Him, 
whatever is right is absolute. Nor does he ever 
make error perform the work of truth, by ascrib- 
ing to 'enthusiasm' any of the good effects of 
religion. In the celestial armory of Christianity 
no such spiritual weapons as enthusiasm or er- 
ror are to be found. 

Had the Apostle placed the doctrines of reve- 
lation as congenial associates with the talent of 
poets and artists, he would have thought not 
only that it was a degradation of the principle 
of our faith, but an impeachment of the divine 
dispensations. God would have all men to be 
saved ; Christ would have the gospel preached 
to every creature. Now if we compare the very 
small minority of ethereal spirits, who are fed 
by genius, who subsist on the luxuries of ima- 
gination, who are nurtured by music, who re- 
vel in poetry and sculpture, with the innumera- 
ble multitudes who have scarcely heard whether 
there be any such thing, — such a limited, such 
a whimsical, such an unintelligible, such an un- 
attainable Christianity, would rob the mass of 
mankind of all present comfort, of all future 
hope. Paul would have thought it a mockery, 
when the Holy Spirit could alone help their in- 
firmities, to have sent them to the Muses. To 
refer them to the statuary when they were crav- 
ing for the bread of life, would be literally ' giv- 
ing them stones for bread.' Nor would he have 
derided the wants of those who were ' thirsting 
for living water,' by sending him to the fountain 
of Aganippe. 

To be more serious : — To have placed the vast 
majority of the human race out of the reach of 
privileges which Christianity professes to have 
made commensurate with the very ends of the 
earth, and to have adapted to every rational in- 



256 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



habitant on its surface, would have been as base 
and treacherous, unjust and narrow, as the to- 
tality of the actual design is vast and glorious. 

Even had those few eminent men who ruled 
the empire of intellect in Greece and Rome, at- 
tained, by the influence of their philosophical 
doctrines, to perfection in practice, (which was 
far from being the case,) that would neither 
have advanced the general faith, nor improved 
the popular morals. In like manner, had Chris- 
tianity limited its principles, and their conse- 
quent benefits, to evangelists and apostles, or to 
men of genius, how insignificant would have 
been her value in comparison of the effects of 
that boundless benevolence which commands 
the Gospel to be preached to all, without any 
distinction of rank or ability. Through this 
blessed provision the poorest Christian, rich in 
faith, can equally with Boyle or Bacon relish 
the beauty of holiness in the pages of Saint 
Paul, though he may not be rich enough in 
taste to discover its ' picturesque beauties,' as 
exhibited in the pages of some modern philoso- 
phic theologians. 

Ours is a religion, not of ingenuity, but of 
obedience. As we must not omit any thing 
which God has commanded, so we must not in- 
vent devices which he does not command. The 
talent of a certain Lacedaemonian was not ac- 
cepted as an excuse, when he added to his war- 
like instrument a string more than the state al- 
lowed. Instead of being commended for his in- 
vention, he was cashiered for his disobedience : 
so far from being rewarded for improving his 
music, he was punished for infringing the law. 

Much were it to be wished, that these deep 
thinkers and brilliant writers, to whom we al- 
lude with every consideration for their talents, 
would make their immense mental riches sub- 
servient to their spiritual profit : and as Solon 
made his commercial voyages the occasion of 
amassing his vast intellectual treasures, so that 
they would consecrate their literary wealth, and 
devote their excursions into the regions of 
fancy to the acquisition of the one pearl of 
great price. 

Too often persons of fine genius, to whom 
Christianity begins to present itself, do not so 
much seek to penetrate its depths, where alone 
they are to be explored, in the unerring word of 
God, as in their own pullulating imaginations. 
Their taste and their pursuits have familiarized 
them with the vast, and the grand, and the in- 
teresting : and they think to sanctify these in a 
way of their own. The feeling of the Infinite 
in nature, and the beautiful in art ; the flights 
of poetry, of love, of glory, alternately elevate 
their imagination, and they denominate the 
splendid combination, Christianity. But ' the 
new cloth' will never assort with ' the old gar- 
ment.' 

These elegant spirits seem to live in a certain 
lofty region in their own minds, where they 
know the multitude cannot soar after them ; 
they derive their grandeur from this elevation, 
which separates them with the creature of their 
imagination, from all ordinary attributes, and 
all associations of daily occurrence. In this 
middle region, too high for earth, and too low 
for heaven ; too refined for sense, and too gross 



for spirit; they keep a magazine of airy specu- 
lations, and shining reveries, and puzzling me- 
taphysics ; the chief design of which is to drive 
to a distance, the profane vulgar ; but the real 
effect to separate themselves and their system 
from all intercourse with the wise and good. 

God could never intend we should disparage 
his own gift, his highest natural gift, intellec- 
tual excellence. But knowing that those who 
possessed it, would be sufficiently forward, not 
only to value the talent, but to overvalue them- 
selves for possessing it, he knew also that its 
possessors would require rather repression than 
excitement. Accordingly, we do not recollect 
an eulogy on mere intellectual ability either in 
the Old or the New Testament. In the Old, in- 
deed, there is the severe censure of a Prophet 
on its vain exercise ; ' thy wisdom and thy 
knowledge have perverted thee ;' and in the 
New, the only mention of ' high imaginations,' 
is accompanied with an injunction, 'to cast 
them down,' and this in order to the great and 
practical end of ' brin.ging every thought into 
captivity to the obedience of Christ.' 

Saint Paul was deeply sensible of the neces- 
sity of circumscribing the passions, the powers, 
and the genius of men within due limits. He 
knew that they were not to be trusted to their 
own operation, without positive institutions, fix- 
ed laws, prescribed bounds. To subdue the 
pride and independence of the human heart, he 
knew to be no less requisite than to tame the 
sensual appetites. He was aware, that to fill 
the imagination with mere pictures of heroic 
virtue would not suffice for a creature like man, 
under the influence of that disorderly and in- 
flammable faculty, without the infusion of holy 
habits, and the prescription of specific duties and 
defined rules. In fine, the discipline of Paul 
learns not so much to give play to his fancy, as 
to submit his will ; and the first question which 
seems presented in his pages is not this, ' How 
bright are thy conceptions V but ' How readest 
thou?' 

The subject is too important, as a matter of 
caution, not to be placed in every possible light. 
Let us remember then that admiration is not 
conviction. There is something in perfection 
of every kind, which lays hold on a heart glow- 
ing with strong feelings, and a mind imbued 
with true taste. On this ground, even Rousseau 
could be the occasional eulogist of Christianity. 
He could insfitute a comparison between the 
son of Sophroniscus and the Son of Mary, with 
a pen, which seems plucked by a fallen spirit 
from a seraph's wing. His fine imagination 
was fired with the sublime of Christianity, as it 
would have been with a dialogue of Plato, a 
picture of Raffaelle, or any exhibition of ideal 
beauty. 

Longinus, a still more accomplished critic in 
intellectual beauty than Rousseau, amongst the 
various illustrations of his doctrine in his beau- 
tiful work, quotes the Almighty fiat at the crea- 
tion, 'Let there be light, and there was light,' 
as a perfect instance of the sublime. He calls 
it ' a just idea, and a noble expression of the 
power of God.' Yet, though struck with this 
passage of the Jewish legislator, whom he coolly 
calls, ' no ordinary person, he was satisfied with 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



257 



tho beauty of the sentiment without examining 
into that truth which is the spring and fountain 
of all beauty. Though he lived so late 1 as the 
third century, yet he does not appear to have 
inquired into the truth of the Christian rcvela- 
tion ; and thus but too lamentably demonstrated, 
that the taste may give its most favourable ver- 
dict to a system which had yet made no im- 
pression on the heart. 

Saint Paul found in the wants of man some- 
thing that could not be supplied ; in his sorrows, 
something that could not be consolated ; in his 
lapse, something that could not be restored by 
elegant speculation or poetic rapture. He found 
that the wounds inflicted by sin could not be 
healed by the grace of composition ; and that 
nothing but the grace of the Gospel could afford 
a remedy adequate to the demand. Let us, then, 
give our willing admiration to every species of 
true genius. Let us retain our taste for what 
is really excellent even in heathen models. But 
when called upon to identify the impressions 
of taste with the infusions of piety, let us boldly 
reply with the Prophet, ' What has Ephraim to 
do any more with Idols?' 



CHAP. XL 

Saint PauVs Tenderness of Heart. 

Among the peculiarities of Christianity, it is 
one of the most striking, that they who, in 
Scripture language, love not the world, nor the 
things of the world, are yet the persons in it 
Who are farthest from misanthropes. They love 
the beings of whom the world is composed, bet- 
ter than he who courts and flatters it. They 
seek not its favour nor its honours, but they give 
a more substantial proof of affection, — they 
seek its improvement, its peace, its happiness, 
its salvation. 

If ever man, on this ground, had a pre-emi- 
nent claim to the title of philanthropist, that man 
is the Apostle Paul. The warmth of his affec- 
tions, as exhibited in a more general view, in 
the narrative of Saint Luke, and the tenderness 
of his feelings, as they appear more detailed 
throughout his own Epistles, constitute a most 
interesting part of his very diversified character. 

This truth is obvious, not only on great and 
extraordinary occasions, but in the common cir- 
cumstances of his life, and from the usual tenor 
of his letters. 

There are persons, not a few, who, though 
truly pious, defeat much of the good they in- 
tend to do, not always by a natural severity of 
temper, but by a repulsiveness of manner, by 
not cultivating habits of courtesy, by a neglect 
of the smaller lenient acts of kindness. They 
will indeed confer the obligation, but they con- 
fer it in such a manner as grieves and humbles 
him who receives it. In fulfilling the letter of 
charity, they violate its spirit. We would not 
willingly suspect, that if they are more averse 
from bestowing commendation, than from re- 
ceiving it, a little envy, unsuspected by them- 
selves, mixes with this reluctance. But be this 
as it may, tender spirits and feeling hearts, 

Vol. II. R 



especially in the first stages of their religious 
course, require the fostering air of kindness and 
encouragement. They are not able to go alone, 
they need the soothing voice and the helping 
hand. They are ready to suspect that they are 
going wrong, if not occasionally encouraged to 
believe that they are going right. 

History presents us with numberless in- 
stances, in which the success or the failure of 
great enterprises has depended, not altogether 
on the ability, but partly on the temper of him 
who conducted it. The importance of concili- 
atory and engaging manners is no where more 
strikingly illustrated than by the opposite con- 
duct and different success of two famous Athe- 
nian generals. Plutarch observes, that though 
Pericles and Nicias both pursued the same end, 
the former, in the progress of his purpose, al- 
ways won the people by his kind and insinuat- 
ing address ; while the latter, not employing the 
mild powers of persuasion, exasperated instead 
of winning them over,.and thus commonly failed 
in his enterprise. 

Paul's consummate knowledge of human na- 
ture, no less than his tenderness of heart, led 
him to encourage in his young converts early 
opening promise of goodness. He carefully cul- 
tivates every favourable symptom. He is ' gen- 
tle among them as a nurse cherisheth her chil- 
dren.' He does not expect every thing at once; 
he does not expect that a beginner in the ways 
of religion should start into instantaneous per- 
fection. He does not think all is lost if an er- 
ror is committed ; he does not abandon hope, if 
some less happy converts are slow in their pro- 
gress. He protects their budding graces, he 
fences his young plants till they have had time 
to take root ; as they became strong he exposes 
them to the blast. If he rejoices that the hardy 
are more flourishing, he is glad that the less 
vigorous are nevertheless alive. 

Characters which are great are not always 
amiable ; the converse is equally true ; in Saint 
Paul there is an union of both qualities. He 
condescends to the inferior distresses, and con- 
sults the natural feelings of his friends, as much 
as if no weightier cares pressed on his mind. 
There is scarcely a more lovely part of his cha- 
racter, though it may be less striking to the 
common eyes, as being more tender than great 
than the gentleness exhibited to his Corinthian 
converts ; where he is anxious before he appears 
among them again that any breach might be 
healed, and every painful feeling done away, 
which his sharp reproof of an offending indivi- 
dual might have excited. He would not have 
the joyfulness of their meeting overshadowed 
by any remaining cloud. 

Though he expresses himself in the most 
feeling manner, lest he might have given them 
pain by his severe reproofs in a preceding let- 



ter, yet instantly the predominating integrity 
of his raiTi leads him to take comfort in the 
reflection, that this temporary sorrow had pro- 
duced the most salutary effects on them who 
felt it. His rejoicing that the veiy sorrow he 
had excited was a religious sorrow, — his reflec- 
tions on the beneficial results of this affliction, 
— on the repentance it had produced, the dis- 
tinction between this and worldly sorrow, — his 



258 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



generous energy in enumerating the several in- 
stances in which this good effect had appeared ; 
' yea, what carefulness is wrought in you, yea, 
what clearing of yourselves, yea, what indigna- 
tion, yea, what fear,' and the animating conclu- 
sion, that ' in all things they had proved them- 
selves to be clear in the matter ;' all afford a 
proof of his being on the watch to lay hold of 
any possible occasion, on which to build instruc- 
tion, as well as to graft consolation. 

No one ever possessed more nearly in perfec- 
tion, the virtuous art of softening the severity 
of the censure he is obliged to inflict, no one 
ever more combined flexibility of manner with 
inflexibility oY principle. He takes off the edge 
of reproof by conveying it negatively. To give 
a single instance out of many, when he thought 
some of his converts had acted improperly, in- 
stead of saying I blame you, ho adopts a miti- 
gating phrase, ' I praise you not.' This address 
would prepare them to receive with more tem- 
per t'.e censure to which it is an introduction. 

Of this Christian condescension each succes- 
sive example furnishes us with a most engaging 
and beautiful model for our own conduct. With 
what deep regret does he allude to the necessity 
under which he had been of animadverting se- 
verely on the atrocious instance of misconduct 
above-mentioned ! With what truth and justice 
does he make it appear that reproofs, which are 
so painful to the censor, are a more certain evi- 
dence of friendship, than commendations, which 
it would have given to him as much joy to have 
bestowed, as to thorn to have received ! An 
important admonition to all, to those especially 
whose more immediate concern it is to watch 
over the conduct of others, that though this 
most trying duty should never be neglected by 
them, yet that the integrity which obliges them 
to point out faults, should be exercised in a man- 
ner so feeling as to let the offender see, that 
they have no pleasure in adopting harsh mea- 
sures ; of this truth they give the surest proof by 
the joy with which, like the apostle, they wel- 
come the returning penitent back to virtue. 

Observe the delicacy of his distinctions, — he 
wrote to them out of ?nuch affliction and anguish 
of heart ; not that he wished to grieve them by a 
display of his own sorrow, but that they might 
judge by if of the abundant love he had for them. 
Nor does he, as is the vulgar practice, blame a 
whole community for the faults of individuals : 
lam grieved but in part, that I may not over- 
charge you all. Mark his justice in separating 
the offending party from the mass. Is not this 
a hint against an indiscriminate mode of attack? 
Do we not occasionally hear one audience ad- 
dressed as if it were composed entirely of saints, 
and another, as if all were grossly impenitent 
sinners ? 

Having received sufficient proofs of the obe- 
dience of the community in inflicting t£e punish- 
ment, and of the penitence of th^onender in 
submitting to it, lie was now not only anxious 
for his restoration, but for his comfort. He sets 
a most amiable example of the manner in which 
the contrite spirit should be cheered, and the 
broken heart bound up. No one was ever more 
studious than Saint Paul, to awaken contrition ; 
none more eager to heal its pangs. 



Want of consideration is an error into which 
even good men sometimes fall. They do not 
always enter intimately into the character and 
circumstances of the persons they address. Saint 
Paul writes to his friends like one that felt, be- 
cause he partook the same fallen humanity with 
them : like one who was familiar witli the in- 
firmities of our common nature, who could allow 
for doubt and distrust, for misapprehension and 
error; who expected inconsistency, and was 
not deterred by perverseness ; who bore with 
failure where it was not wilful, and who could 
reprove obduracy, without being disappointed at 
meeting with it. In Saint Paul, the heart of 
flesh was indeed substituted for the heart of 
stone. 

Our spiritual strength is invigorated by the 
retrospection of our former errors. — Saint Paul's 
tenderness for his converts was doubtless in- 
creased by the remembrance of his own errors; 
a remembrance which left a compassionate feel- 
ing on his impressible heart It never, how- 
ever, led him to be guilty of that mischievous' 
compassion of prefering the ease of his friends 
to their safety. He never soothed where it was 
his duty to reprove. He knew that integrity 
was the true tenderness ; that a harsh truth, 
which might tend to save the soul, had more 
humanity than a palliative which might endan- 
ger it. 

From this intimate knowledge of the infirmi- 
ties even of good men, he had such a conviction 
of the possibility of relaxing in religious strict- 
ness, that he scrupled not to express his fears 
to his Corinthian friends, that when he carno 
among them, ' he should not find them such as 
he would ;' in order/ to soften, he divides the 
blame, by fearing, that ' he should be found of 
them such as they would not.' Knowing, too, 
that the temper was more under control, and 
irritation less easily excited, by epistolary than 
by verbal communication ; when he expresses 
his fears that at their meeting he might find 
among them 'debates, envyings, wrath, swell- 
ings,' he tenderly apologizes for expressing his 
apprehensions, because lest in conversation he 
inight use sharpness, In his most severe ani- 
madversions he does not speak of any with hope- 
less harshness. He seldom treats the bad as 
irreclaimable, but generally contrives to leave 
them some remains of credit. He seems to feel 
that by stripping erring men of every vestige 
of character, he should strip them also of every 
glimmering of hope, of every incitement to re- 
formation. It is indeed almost cutting off any 
chance of a return to virtue, when we do not 
leave the offender some remnant of reputation 
to which he may still be led to act up. May 
not this preservation from despair lead to the 
operation of a higher principle ? Though Timo- 
thy is exhorted to have no company with him 
who obeys not the word of Paul's Epistle, the 
prohibition is only in order ' that he may be 
ashampd ;' 'yet is he not to be accounted as 
an enemy, but exhorted as a brother.' 

As there seems to have been no church which 
had fallen into such important errors as that of 
Corinth, and consequently none where more 
pointed reproof was necessary, so in no Epistle 
is there more preparatory soothing, more conci- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



259 



liatory preliminaries to the counsels or the cen- 
sures he is about to communicate. He tells 
them that ' in every thing they are enriched,' — 
•that they come behind in no gift,' before he 
reprehends them for their contentious spirit, for 
their divisions, for their strifes. Thus, though 
the reproof would be keenly felt, it would not 
be met with a spirit previously exasperated — a 
spirit which those reprovers infallibly excite, 
who by indiscriminate upbraiding stir up the 
irascible passions at the outset, shut up every 
avenue to the kind affections, and thus deprive 
the offender of that patient calmness with which 
he might otherwise have profited by the re- 
proof. 

This intimate feeling of his own imperfection 
is every where visible. It makes him more 
than once press on his friends, the Christian 
duty of bearing one another's burdens, intimat- 
ing how necessary this common principle of 
mutual kindness w T as, as they themselves had 
so much to call forth the forbearance of others. 
In his usual strain of referring to first motives, 
he does not forget to remind them, that it was 
fulfilling the law of Christ. 

As the ardent zeal of Saint Paul led him into 
no enthusiasm, so the warmth of his affections 
never blinded his judgment. Religion did not 
dry up, as it is sometimes accused of doing, the 
spring of his natural feeling ; his sensibility 
was exquisite; but the heartnvhich felt all, was 
quickened by an activity which did all, and re- 
gulated by a faith which conquered all. 

His sorrows and his joys, both of which were 
intense, never seem to have arisen from any 
thing which related merely to himself. His 
own happiness or distress were little influenced 
by personal considerations ; the varying condi- 
tion, the alternate improvement or declension of 
his converts alone, could sensibly raise or de- 
press his feelings. With what anguish of spirit 
does he mourn over some, 'of whom I have told 
you often, and now tell you weeping, that they 
are the enemies of the cross of Christ.' Mark 
again his self-renouncing joy — ' We are glad 
when we are weak and ye are strong.' Again, 
' Let me rejoice in.the day of Christ, that I have 
not run in vain, neither laboured in vain.' 

When he expressed such a feeling sense of 
distress, upon the interesting occasion of taking 
his departure for Jerusalem, ' the Holy Ghost 
witnessing in every city that bonds and impri- 
sonment awaited him,'* still he felt Bo concern 
for his own safety. No : he anticipated without 
terror his probable reception there. With a no- 
ble disregard of all personal considerations, he 
exclaims, ' but none of these things move me, 
neither count I my life dear, so that I may finish 
my course with joy, and the ministry which I 
have received of the Lord Jesus, to testify the 
Gospel of the grace of God.' t 

If none of these things moved him, then 
whence arose the sorrow he so keenly felt? It 
arose from no selfish cause ; it was from a con- 
sideration far superior to that tender feeling, that 
they should meet no more, though that too he 
would deeply regret; it was occasioned by re- 

* Acts, xx. 

t We make no apology for the repeated references to 
Uiis portion of this most interesting chapter. 



flection the future condition of the church, and a 
prophetic view of that corruption of doctrine to 
which he foresaw his beloved converts would be 
soon exposed. 

There is something singularly beautiful in the 
dignity, simplicity, and godly sincerity of this 
apostolic charge, to which we allude. — With 
humble confidence, he refers his audience to 
their own knowledge of his whole conduct. He 
assures them, that neither any fears of the insi- 
dious Jews, always on the watch to circumvent 
him, nor the hostility of the idolatrous Gentiles, 
always ready to oppose him, had ever driven 
him to withhold any important truth, any salu- 
tary admonition. He slightly touches on tho 
two fundamental truths on which all his instruc- 
tions had been built, faith and repentance : then 
he reminds them, that not satisfied with the pub- 
lic exercise of his function, he had practised 
that subsidiary and valuable method of instruc- 
tion — private visits at the houses of individuals 
— a method equally practicable in all ages of the 
church ; equally desirable to all who wish to 
gain a real acquaintance, in the intervals of pub- 
lic service with the necessities, the infirmities, 
and the sins of their respective hearers. This 
would enable him to perform his stated minis- 
trations with ten-fold effect. It would initiate 
him into the endless variety of characters of 
which every audience is composed ; it would 
enable the teacher to be more personal in his 
exhortations, more pointed in his reproofs, more 
specific in his instruction, than he could be when 
he addressed them in the great assembly. It 
would also qualify him for more extensive use- 
fulness in those public addresses by the materi- 
als which he was thus collecting. It would bo 
among the means also to win their affection and 
increase their attachment, when they saw that 
his zeal for their spiritual advancement was 
large and cordial ; that he did not content him- 
self with the stipulated scantling of bare weight 
duty ; that he did not deal out his instruction 
with a legal scrupulosity, but was willing to 
spend, and desirous to be spent, for them. 

With what a holy satisfaction did the con- 
science of the apostle further testify that no de- 
sire of pleasing, no fear of offending, had pre- 
vented him from delivering wholesome truths, 
because they might be unpalatable ! What an 
awful intimation to every ambassador of Christ, 
that this indefatigable apostle, at the moment of 
final separation, could call on all present to tes- 
tify that whatever might have been the negli- 
gence of the hearer, the preacher ' was pure 
from the blood of all men ;' that he had never 
been guilty of that false tenderness, of not de- 
claring to them the whole counsel of God ! He 
appeals to his disinterestedness, that, so far from 
being influenced by any lucrative motive, he had 
laboured with his own hands, not only to sup- 
port himself, but to assist the poor. How touch- 
ing, no aoubt to his hearers, was the intimation, 
that the same hands which had been raised for 
them in prayer, had been employed for their 
support ! 

This modest allusion to his own liberality, 
and to the personal labour which had enabled 
him to exercise it, was a proper parting lesson. 
It reminded his auditors, that no part of his re- 



260 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ligion was merely theoretical. He had, doubt- 
less, frequently insisted on the principle ; he 
here shows them its practical effect; in this, as 
in other instances, pressing home every truth he 
taught by every virtue he exercised. 

He concludes with a powerful application to 
his associates in the ministry, to whom he was 
about to commit the care of the people. The 
tender grief, the grateful sympathy,the prayers, 
the tears, and embraces of the afflicted audience, 
'sorrowing most because they should see his 
face no more,' bore a truer testimony to the 
fidelity of the preacher, than the most elaborate 
eulogy on his style or manner ; and doubtless 
afforded a higher test of excellence, than any 
temporary effect, produced by an artificial ha- 
rangue, which, while it fills the hearer with ad- 
miration of the preacher, leaves his own con- 
science untouched, his own heart unhumbled. 

He then bequeaths, as a kind of dying legacy, 
the people to their ministers ; affectionately ex- 
horting the latter, first ; to ' take heed to them- 
selves,' as the only sure earnest of their taking 
heed to their flock, strengthening his exhortation 
' to feed the church of God,' by a motive at once 
the most powerful and the most endearing, be- 
cause he hath purchased it with his own blood. 

In that great and terrible day of the Lord 
when the glorious Head of the Church shall 
summon the assembled universe to judgment, 
among the myriads who shall tremblingly await 
their own definitive sentence, how will the ex- 
ploring eye of men and angels be turned on the 
more prominent and public characters, who, 
from rank, profession, talent, or influence, were 
invested with superior responsibility ! What in- 
dividual among these distinguished classes will 
be able to endure the additional load of other 
men's sins, brought forward to swell his personal 
account. 

Though it i3 not easy to image to the mind a 
more touching event than this parting scene of 
Christian friends on the shores of Ephesus, yet 
there is one to come of far higher interest, that 
of their re-union ; — that august scene, when the 
pastor and his flock shall appear together, at the 
call of the Chief Shepherd, — when the servants 
of the Universal Master, — ' they who have sought 
that which was lost, and brought again that 
which was driven away, and bound up that which 
was broken, and strengthened that which was 
sick,'* shall deliver up to Him who laid down 
his life for the sheep, that flock ' which he will 
require at their hands.' 

Yes ! among the candidates for a blessed im- 
mortality will stand awfully pre-eminent the 
band of Christian ministers, each surrounded by 
' the flock over which the Holy Ghost had made 
him overseer,' every one of whom had sacra- 
mentally declared, at his introduction into the 
fold, that he undertook the sacred office in obe- 
dience to that solemn call.t What a sound, 
' Well done good and faithful servant!' to him 
who shall have acquitted himself of his tremen- 
dous responsibility ! What a spectacle ? — mul- 
titudes entering into the joy of tbeir Lord, grate- 
fully ascribing their opening and inconceivable 
felicity to the zeal, the fidelity, the prayers of 

* Ezekiel, ch. xxxiv. 16. 
t ^e the Ordination Service. 



their pastor. For them, to resume the beautiful 
metaphors of the Holy Book, — for them, the 
green pastures, into which they h^d conducted 
their flock, shall flourish in everlasting verdure ; 
for them, the waters of comfort, beside tohich they 
had led them, shall flow from a source which 
eternity cannot exhaust, from those rivers of 
pleasure which are at God's right hand for ever- 
more. 

If this spectacle has a contrast, we avert our 
eyes from the contemplation. If even the pic- 
ture is too terrible to be sketched, who could 
stand the possibility of its being realized? 

This whole valedictory address to the elders 
of Ephesus combines every beauty of composi- 
tion : it exhibits an energy, a devotion, a re- 
signation, an integrity, a tenderness, which can- 
not be sufficiently admired. And the more 
intimately to touch their hearts by mixing the 
remembrance of the friend with the injunctions 
he had delivered, he not only refers them to the 
doctrines which he had taught, but the tears 
which he had shed. 

There is nothing like stoical indifference. No- 
thing like a contempt of the sensibilities cf na- 
ture, in his whole conduct; and it furnishes a 
proof how happily magnanimity and tenderness 
blend together, that as there is probably no cha- 
racter in history which exhibits a more un- 
daunted heroism than that of Saint Paul, so there 
is perhaps not one.whose tears are so frequently 
recorded. ' What mean ye to weep and break 
my heart?' is an interrogatory as intelligible to 
us in the character of Paul, as the heroic decla- 
ration, l I am ready not to be bound only, but 
also to die for the name of the Lord Jesus.' 
What ground, then, is there for that charge so 
frequently brought against persons of eminent 
piety, that they are destitute of natural feeling. 
The Old Testament Saints were striking exam- 
ples of domestic tenderness. 

When Paul exhorts his converts 'to stand fast 
in the Lord,' he declares his own participation 
in- the blessings of this steadfastness, in terms 
the most endearing — ' dearly beloved and longed 
for, my crown and joy, so stand fast in the Lord, 
my dearly beloved ;' — as if he would add to the 
motives of their perseverance, the transport it 
would afford to himself. His very existence 
seems to depend on their steadfastness in piety 
— ' for now we live if ye stand fast in the Lord.' 
Again, as a proof how dear his converts were to 
him, he was desirous of imparting to them not 
only the Gospel of God, but also his own soul. 

The spirit of Christianity is no where more 
apparent than in the affectionate strain in which 
he adjures his Roman friends only to consent to 
save their own souls. One would suppose it 
was not the immortal happiness of others, but 
his own, which so earnestly engaged him. How 
fervently tender is his mode of obtesting them ! 
' I beseech you, brethren, by the mercies of 
God' — ' I Paul by myself beseech you by the 
meekness and gentleness of Christ.'* As the 
representative of his master, he implores of man 
the reconciliation for which it would be natural 
to expect that man himself, whose own concern 
it is, should be the solicitor. 

Saint Paul's zeal for the spiritual welfare of 
* ltomaus xii. 1. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



261 



whole communities, did not swallow up his ar- 
dent attachment to individuals; nor did his re- 
gard to their higher interest lead him to over- 
look their personal sufferings. He descends to 
give particular advice to one friend* respecting 
the management of his health. In his grief for 
the sickness of another,t and his joy at his re- 
covery, he does not pretend to a feeling purely 
disinterested, but gratefully acknowledges that 
his joy was partly for his own sake,' 'lest he 
should have sorrow upon sorrow.' These soft 
touches of sympathy for individuals particularly 
dear to him, in a man so like-minded with 
Christ, in the instances of Lazarus and John, 
are a sufficient refutation of the whimsical as- 
sertion of a lively genius ; that particular friend- 
ships are hostile to the spirit of Christianity .f 

The capacious heart of this blessed apostle 
was so large as to receive into it all who loved 
his Lord. The salutations with which most of 
his Epistles close, and the affectionate remem- 
brances which they convey, include perhaps the 
names of a greater number of friends, than any 
dozen of Greek or Roman heroes, in the pleni- 
tude of success and power, ever attracted ; if we 
may judge in the one case by the same rule as 
in the other, the narrative of history, or the wri- 
tings of biographical memoirs. 

But his benevolence was not confined to the 
narrow bounds of friends or country. — He was 
a man, and nothing that involved the best in- 
terests of man was indifferent to him. A most 
beautiful comparison has been drawn by as 
fine a genius as has adorned this or any age, 
between the learned and not illaudable curi- 
osity which has led so many ingenious travel- 
lers to visit distant and dangerous climes, in 
order ' to contemplate mutilated statues and 
defaced coins; to collate manuscripts, and take 
the height of pyramids,' with the zeal which 
carried the late martyr of humanity on a more 
noble pilgrimage, 'to search out infected hospi- 
tals, to explore the depth of dungeons, and to 
take the guage of human misery' in order to 
relieve it. 

Without the unworthy desire to rob this emi- 
nent philanthropist of his well earned palm, may 
we not be allowed to wish, that the exquisite 
eulogist of Howard had also instituted a com- 
parison which would have opened so vast a field 

* Timothy. t Epaphroditus. 

t It is however a debt of justice due to a departed 
friend to observe, that no suspicion could be more un- 
founded than that Mr. Soame Jenyns was not sincere 
in his professsiou of Christianity. The author lived 
much in his very pleasant society, and is persuaded that 
he died a sincere Christian. He had a peculiar turn of 
humour; he delighted in novelty and paradox, and per- 
haps brought too much of both into his religion. Inge- 
nious men will sometimes be ingenious in tJie wrong 
place. If he lays too much stress on some things, and 
underrates others ; if he mistakes or overlooks even fun- 
damental points, so that some of his opinions must ap- 
peal defective to the experienced Christian ; yet the 
general" turn of his work on the Internal Evidence of 
Christianity may render it useful to others, by inviting 
them by the very novelty of his manner to consult a 
species of evidence to which they have not been accus- 
tomed. A sceptical friend of the writer of these pages, 
who bad stood out against the argument of some of Che 
ablest divines, was led by this little work to examine 
more deeply into Internal Evidence ; it sent him to read 
his Bible in a new spirit. He followed up his inquiries, 
consulted authors whose views were more matured, and 
died a sound believer. 



to his eloquent pen, between the adventurous 
expeditions of the conqueror, the circumnavi- 
gator, the discoveror, the naturalist, with those 
of Paul, the martyr of the gospel ? Paul, who, 
renouncing ease and security, sacrificing fame 
and glory, encountering 'weariness and painful- 
ness, watching, hunger and thirst, cold and na- 
kedness; was beaten with rods, frequent in pri- 
sons, in deaths oft, was once stoned, thrice suf- 
fered shipwreck, was a day and a night in the 
deep,'* went from shore to shore, and from city 
to city, knowing that bonds and imprisonment 
awaited him ; and for what purpose ? He, too, 
was a discoverer, and in one sense a naturalist. 
He explored not indeed the treasures of the 
mineral, nor the varieties of the vegetable world. 
His business was with man; his object the dis- 
covery of man's moral wants ; his study, to ap- 
ply a proportionate remedy ; his work, to break 
up the barren ground of the human soil ; his aim, 
to promote the culture of the undisciplined 
heart ; his end, the salvation of those for whom 
Christ died. He did not bring away one poor 
native to graft the vices of a polished country 
on the savage ignorance of his own ; but he car- 
ried to the natives themselves the news, and the 
means of eternal life. 

He was also a conqueror, but he visited new 
regions, not to depopulate, but to enlighten them. 
He sought triumphs, but they were over sin and 
ignorance. He achieved conquests ; but it was 
over the prince of darkness. He gained tro- 
phies, but they were not military banners, but 
rescued souls. He erected monuments, but 
they were to the glory of God. He did not 
carve his own name on the rocky shore, but he 
engraved that of his Lord on the hearts of the 
people. While conflicting with want, and strug- 
gling with misery, he planted churches ; while 
sinking under reproach and obloquy, he erected 
the standard of the Cross among barbarians, and 
(far more hopeless enterprize !) among philoso- 
phers ; and having escaped with life from the 
most uncivilized nations, was reserved for mar. 
tyrdom in the imperial queen of cities ! 



CHAP. XII. 

Saint Paul's Heavenly Mindedness. 

True religion consists in the subjugation of 
the body to the soul, and of the soul to God. 
The apostle every where shows, that by our 
apostacy this order is destroyed, or rather in- 
verted. At the same time he teaches, that 
though brought into this degraded state by our 
own perverseness, we are not hopelessly aban- 
doned to it. He not only shows the possibility, 
but the mode of our restoration, and describes 
the happy condition of the restored, even in this 
world, by declaring, that to be spiritually mind- 
ed is life and peace. 

He knew that our faculties are neither good 
nor evil in themselves, but powerful instru- 
ments for the promotion of both ; active capa- 
cities for either, just as the bent of our charactor 

* 2 Corinthians, cli. xi. 



262 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



is determined by the predominance of religion 
or of sin, of the sensual or the spiritual mind. 
Saint Paul eminently exhibited, both in his 
example and in his writings, the spiritual mind. 
He was not only equal in correctness of senti- 
ment and purity of practice with those who are 
drily orthodox, and superior to those who are 
coldly practical ; but he ' perfects holiness in 
the fear of God.' He abounds in the heavenly 
mindedness which is the uniting link between 
doctrinal and practical piety, which, by the unc- 
tion it infuses into both, proves that both are the 
result of Divine grace ; and which consists in an 
entire consecration of the affections, a voluntary 
surrender of the whole man to God. 

This disposition the apostle makes the pre- 
liminary to all performance, as well as the con- 
dition of all acceptance. This it is which consti- 
tutes the charm of his writings. There is a spirit 
of sanctity which pervades them, and which, 
whilst it affords the best evidence of the love of 
God shed abroad in his own heart, infuses it 
also into the heart of his readers. While he is 
musing, the fire burns, and communicates its 
pure flame to every breast susceptible of genuine 
Christian feeling. Under its influence his argu- 
ments become persuasions, his exhortations en- 
treaties. A sentiment so tender, and earnest- 
ness so imploring, breathes throughout them, 
that it might seem that all regard for himself, 
all care for his own interests, is swallowed up in 
his ardent and affectionate concern for the 
spiritual interest of others. 

The exuberance of his love and gratitude, the 
fruits of his abundant faith, break out almost in 
spite of himself. His zeal reproves our timidity, 
his energy our indifference. ' He dwells,' as an 
eloquent writer has remarked, ' with almost un- 
timely descant,' on the name of Him who had 
called him out of darkness into his marvellous 
light. That name which we are so reluctant to 
pronounce, not through reverence to its posses- 
sor, but fear of each other, ever sounds with 
holy boldness from the lips of Paul. His bursts 
of sacred joy, his triumphant appeals to the 
truth of the promises, his unbounded confidence 
in the hope set before him, carry an air not only 
of patience, but of victory, not only of faith, but 
of fruition. 

Whoever desires more particularly to com- 
pare this spirit of Divine powei manifested by 
the apostle, with the opposite spirit of the world, 
let him carefully peruse the eighth chapter of 
his Epistle to the Romans. After describing 
the strong and painful conflict with the malig- 
nant power of sin in the seventh chapter, with 
what a holy exultation does he, in the opening 
of the eighth, hurry in, as it were, the assur- 
ance that ' there is now no condemnation to 
them that are in Christ Jesus.' It somewhat 
resembles that instant, I had almost said, that 
impatient, mercy of God in the third of Genesis, 
which seems eager to make the promise follow 
close upon the fall, the forgiveness upon the sin ; 
to cut off the distressing space between terror 
and joy, to leave no interval for despair. God, 
who is so patient when he is to punish, is not so 
patient when he is to save. He delays to strike, 
but he hastes to pardon. ' After the first of- 
fence,' says Bishop Jeremy Taylor, ' God could 



not stay from redeeming;' nor could Paul stay 
from proclaiming that we are. redeemed. The 
apostle, like his Creator, loses not a moment to 
comfort the soul which he has been afflicting. 

In this divine effusion we at once discern the 
difference between natural weakness and super- 
added strength ; between the infirmities which 
are fortified by the assistance of the Spirit, and 
the sensual mind, which not only is not, but 
cannot be subject to the law of God ; between 
him who not having 'the Spirit of Christ, is 
none of his,' and him in whom ' Christ, the 
spirit of life, dwells ;' between him, who, if he 
yield to the pleasures of sense, shall die, and 
him who, through the Spirit mortifying the 
deeds of the body shall live. 

It is worth observing, that he does not make 
the line of demarcation between the two classes 
of characters, to consist merely in the actual 
crimes and grosser vices of the one class, and 
the better actions of the other. It is to the sen- 
sual and spiritual mind, the fountain of good 
and evil deeds, to which he refers as the de- 
cisive test. This radical distinction he further 
conceives to be a more obvious line of separa- 
tion than even any difference of religious opin- 
ions, any distinction arising from the mere 
adoption of peculiar dogmas. 

That the reviving assurance may appear to 
belong exclusively to real Christians, he marks 
the change of character by the definite tense 
now, implying their recent victory over their 
old corruptions, which he had been deploring. 
This precaution would prevent those, who re- 
mained in their former slate from taking to 
themselves the comfort of a promise in which 
they have no part. He guards it still more ex- 
plicitly, by declaring, that the true evidence 
of this renovation of heart, was their walking 
after the Spirit ; a term which describes habitual 
progress in the new way, to which we are con- 
ducted by the new nature, and which, if it do 
not always preserve us from deviating from it, 
recalls us back to it. 

The power Paul felt; and on this principle ho 
wrote ; and he never wrote on any principle on 
which he did not act. After he had carried 
piety to the most heroic elevation ; after he had 
pressed the most fervent exertions on others, 
and gained" the splendid conquests over himself, 
still he considered himself only in the road to 
salvation ; still he never thought of slackening 
his course ; he thought not of resting ; he had 
not reached his end. He was not intimidated 
from pursuing it by new difficulties ; his resolu- 
tion rose with his trials ; all he feared for him- 
self, all against which he cautioned others, was 
declension ; his grand solicitude for them and 
for himself was, that they might not lose the 
ground they had gained. He well knew, that 
even the present position could not be long 
maintained without the pursuit of farther con-- 
quests. He walked after the Spirit. 

The terrible forms of distress which he sum 
mons to view in this, as well as in other parts of 
his Epistles, always remind him of the principle 
which makes them supportable. He enume- 
rates human miseries in all their variety of 
shapes, — tribulation, distress, persecution, fa- 
mine, nakedness, peril, sword. But to what end 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



263 



does he muster this confederate band of woes ? 
He calls on them not to avert the sufferings 
they inflict ; no, he challenges them to separate 
the Christian sufferer from the love of Christ. 
He presents himself to us as an instance of 
the supreme triumph of this love over all earthly 
calamity. The man whose distresses abounded, 
who was pressed above measure, comet out of 
the conflict, not only a conqueror, — that to one 
of his ardent spirit seemed too poor a triumph, 
he is more than a conqueror. But how is this 
victory achieved ? Through him who loved us. 
That lowliness which made him say just before, 
'that which I do I allow not, but what I hate 
that I d<>,' must have been lifted by a mighty 
faith when he exclaimed, ' I am persuaded that 
neither death nor life, nor angels, nor princi- 
palities, nor powers, nor things present, nor 
things to come, nor life, nor death, nor any other 
creature, shall be able to separate us from the 
love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.' 
In speaking, in this chapter, of the glories of 
the eternal world, his rapture does not escape 
him as the sally of the imagination, as a thought 
awakened by a sudden glance of the object; he 
does not express himself at random from the im- 
pulse of the moment ; hi3 is not the conjectural 
language of ignorant desire, of uncertain hope ; 
it is an assumption of the sober tone of calcula- 
tion. ' I reckon,' says he, like a man skilled in 
this spiritual arithmetic, — 'I reckon,' after a due 
estimate of their comparative value, ' that the 
sufferings of the present time are not worthy to 
be compared with the glory which shall be re- 
vealed.' 

No man was ever so well qualified to make 
this estimate. Of the sufferings of the present 
world he had shared more largely than any man. 
Of the glory that shall be revealed, he had a 
glimpse granted to no other man. He had been 
caught up into Paradise. He 'had heard the 
words of God, and seen the visions of the Al- 
mighty,' and the result of his privileged experi- 
ence, was, that he ' desired to depart, and to be 
with Christ ;' that he desired to escape from 
this valley of tears ; that he was impatient to 
recover the celestial vision, .eager to perpetuate 
the momentary foretaste of the glories of im- 
mortality. 

We perceive, then, how this hope of future 
felicity sustained him under conflicts, of which 
we, in an established state of Christianity, and 
suffering only under the common trials of mor- 
tality can have no adequate conception. His 
courageous faith was kept alive and fortified 
by fervently practising the duty he so unwea- 
riedly urges upon others; continuing instant in 
prayer. 

To encourage this practice in his readers, and 
at the same time to point out the source of his 
own heavenly hope, and continual intercourse 
with the Divine presence, he adds, ' the Spirit 
helpeth our infirmities, for we know not what 
we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit 
itself niaketh intercession for us.' Nor does his 
high trust and confidence in God, thus gendered, 
easily find its limit. On the contrary, he adds, 
' we know that all things work together for good 
to them that love God.' \ 

This trust was an assurance of the largest 



import, and it involved indefinite consequences, 
Having cordially confided in him for salvation 
through the blood of Christ, he found, as is al 
ways the case, the greater involving the less ; 
he found that he had little difficulty in trusting 
Him with his inferior concerns. To Him to 
whom he had committed his eternal happiness, 
to Him he could not scruple to confide his for- 
tune, his health, his reputation, his life. 

We have not, it is true, these manifestations, 
of which the apostle was favoured with a tem- 
porary enjoyment. But we have ?tis testimony, 
added to the testimony, the evidences, the proofs, 
the promises, tho demonstrations of the whole 
New Testament. Why, then, are we not sup- 
ported, encouraged, animated by them I It is 
because we do not examine these evidences, be- 
cause we do not consult these testimonies, be- 
cause we neglect these proofs : therefore it is, 
that we are not nurtured by these promises. We 
entertain them as speculations, rather than as 
convictions, we receive them as notions, rather 
than as facts. 

If ever a cordial desire of these devout as- 
surances is conferred, it is in fervent prayer. 
What an encouragement to this holy exercise, 
is the hope of being raised by it, to the heart-felt 
belief that such felicity is real, and that it is re- 
served for the final portion of the humble Chris- 
tian ? Too humble, perhaps, to give full credit 
that such great things can be in store for him. 
For a moment he is staggered, till faith, the pa- 
rent of that humility which trembles while it 
believes, enables him to apply to himself the pro- 
mises of Him to whom nothing is impossible, 
the merits of Him for whom nothing is too great, 
the death of Him who died that we might live 
forever. 

In whatever part of his writings the Apostle 
speaks of the efficacy of the death of Christ, and 
of the ' constraining' power of his love, there is 
a vehemence in his desire, a vivacity in his sen- 
timents, an energy in his language, an intensity 
in his feelings, which strongly indicate a mind 
penetrated with the depth of his own views. He 
paints the love of his Lord as a grace, of which, 
though his soul was deeply sensible as to its na- 
ture, yet as to the degree, it is ' exceeding abun- 
dantly above' not only ' all that he could ask,' 
but ' all that he could think.' His boldest con- 
ceptions sink under the impression which no 
language could convey. 

Yet these sublime portions of his writings, 
which bear the more special stamp and impress 
of the gospel, which afford the nearest view of 
realities as yet unapproachable, are set aside by 
many, as things in which they have no personal 
concern. They have, indeed, a sort of blind re- 
verence for them, as for something which they 
conceive to be at once sacred and unintelligible, 
such a kind of respect as a man would naturally 
entertain at the sight of a copy of the Scriptures 
in a language which he did not understand. 

Eloquent as he was, we often find him labour- 
ing under his intense conception of ideas too 
vast for utterance. In describing the extent of 
the love of God, its height and depth, its length 
and breadth, his soul seems to expand with the 
dimensions he is unfolding. His expressions 
seem to acquire all that force with which he in- 



364 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



timates that the soul itself, so acted upon, is in- 
vested. To be strengthened with might, would 
have been reckoned tautology in an ordinary 
writer on an ordinary subject; and to be strength- 
ened with all might, would seem an attribute im- 
possible to mortality. But holy Paul had him- 
self felt the excellency of that power ; he knew 
that it is derived, and that the fountain of dura- 
tion is the glorious power of God. 

In delineating the mighty operations of Di- 
vine love on the human mind, the seeming hy- 
perboles are soberly true. Where the theme is 
illimitable, language will burst its bounds. He 
preaches riches which are unsearchable — exhorts 
to know the love which surpasses knowledge — 
promises peace which passes understanding — 
we must look at things which are not seen — 
against hope we must believe in hope — while sor- 
rowful we must always be rejoicing — as having 
nothing we must reckon that we possess all things 
— dying, and behold we live — though unknown 
we are well known — In short, he reconciles con- 
tradictions, unites opposites. Antipathies by 
nature become affinities by grace. ' The love of 
God in Christ is the point where he makes con- 
traries centre, and impossibilities meet. 

His spirit seems most intimately to identify 
itself with the church of Ephesus. What an 
improbable union ! The late idolatrous wor- 
shippers of Diana, and the late persecutors of 
the saints of Jesus, have now but one heart and 
one soul ! These recent enemies to Christ, and 
to each other, now meet in one common point 
of attraction. With what holy triumph does he 
dilate on their common faith ! that love of God 
in Christ Jesus which is their common centre 
and bond of union ! 

Still, as we have such frequent occasion to 
observe, he does not sacrifice practical duty to 
the indulgence of his rapture. Still he does not 
allow even these Ephesians to rest satisfied with 
the grace they have received. It is not enough 
that they have been favoured with a vocation, 
they must ' walk worthy of it.' ' The perfecting 
of the saints' must be carried on ; ' they must 
reach the measure of the stature of the fulness 
of Christ.' No such perfection had been attain- 
ed as would allow them to rest in their present 
position. Even in this highly favoured church, 
progress is enjoined, pressed, reiterated — No 
elevation of devout feeling sets him above atten- 
tion to moral goodness. 

Nothing can be more beautiful than the abrupt 
apostrophes of praise and gratitude into which, 
in the midst of sorrow, of exhortation, of reproof, 
he unexpectedly breaks out. The love of his 
Redeemer so fills his soul, that it requires an 
effort to restrain its outward expression. Even 
when engaged in the transaction of business, 
and directing the concerns of others, which, by 
an ordinary mind, would havo been pleaded as a 
valid reason for suspending spiritual ideas, and 
dismissing spiritual feelings, they yet mix them- 
selves, as it were involuntarily, with his secular 
cares ; there is not only a satisfaction but a joy- 
fulness in these escapes of affection which seem 
to spring from his soul, in proportion to the de- 
pression of his circumstances, to the danger 
which surrounded, to the deaths which threat- 
ened him. 



When Paul and Silas were imprisoned at Pin, 
lippi, it is recorded that they prayed at midnight. 
This would naturally be expected from such 
men, under such circumstances ; but it is added, 
1 they sang praises unto God.' Thus they not 
only justified, but glorified Him, under this suf- 
fering, as well as degradation. For it must not 
be forgotten, that this imprisonment was not 
merely a measure for securing their persons, — . 
they were stripped bare — many stripes were laid 
upon them, and the iron entered into their soul. 
Yet they sang praises unto God. 

What a triumph is here of the element of 
spirit over the force and violence of outward cir 
cumstances ! 

' Th' oppressor holds 
His body bound, but knows not what a range, 
His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain ; 
And that to bind him is a vain attempt, 
Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells.' 

In the Epistle to the Ephesians, to which we 
have just referred, we are presented with a fresh 
instance how much his devotion rose under the 
same circumstances of distress.-^-It was written 
from a prison, and is almost one entire effusion 
of love and praise. It is an overflowing expres- 
sion of affectionate gratitude, that has no paral- 
lel. It seems to be enriched with an additional 
infusion of the Spirit of God, and has perhaps 
more of the heroism of Christian feeling than, 
except in the discourses of our Lord, is to be 
found in the wholo sacred treasury. It seems 
to come fresh from the celestial world. He 
speaks not as from a prison, but as from a re- 
gion of light, and life, and glory. His thoughts 
are in heaven, his soul is with his Saviour, his 
heart is with his treasure : no wonder, then, that 
his language has a tincture of the idiom of im- 
mortality. 

As Archimedes, when Syracuse was taken by 
the besiegers, was so intent on a mathematical 
demonstration, that he knew not when the city 
was lost : so the apostle, absorbed in a concern 
as much superior to that of the philosopher as 
Scripture truth is to scientific, lost sight of the 
cruelties of Nero, forgot his former sufferings, 
felt not his present captivity, thought not of his 
impending fate — present, past, and future, as 
they related to himself, were absorbed in his 
zeal for the salvation of the church, for the glory 
of its founder ! Mark the divine supports vouch- 
safed to this imprisoned Saint ! Note his state 
of grace ! Observe the perfection of his faith ! 
How the motion of his spirit was accelerated as 
it drew nearer to its centre ! He whose deep 
humility had suggestod to him the possibility, 
that, after converting others, he might himself 
be rejected : he who had desired not to be un- 
clothed, but to be clothed upon — now declares 
that he is ready to be offered up, now desires to 
depart ; not in the gentle decay of exhausted 
nature, not in the weaning languor of a sick 
bed, not in the calm of a peaceful dissolution, 
suffering only the pains inseparable from an or- 
dinary death ; but he is prepared to meet the 
hand of violence: he is ready to pour out his 
blood upon the scaffold ; he is longing to join 
'the souls which were beheaded for the witness 
of Jesus, and for the word of God.' So far from 
being dismayed, because he knew that his mar. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



265 



tyrdom was at hand ; he who knew not what it 
was to boast, yet knowing in whom he had trust- 
ed ; feeling his eternal redemption drawing nigh, 
could exclaim with a holy bravery ; ' I have 
finished my course ; I have kept the faith.' 

Then in a rapture of triumphant joy at the 
mental viewof the crown of righteousness, which 
the Lord, the righteous Judge, ' had prepared 
for him against the great day,' that same unpa- 
ralleled philanthropy, which he had so constantly 
manifested, breaks out and consecrates a mo- 
ment, when we might have supposed the imme- 
diate nearness of his own unspeakable blessed- 
ness would have engrossed his whole soul. His 
religion was no selfish piety, his hope no solitary 
salvation. Gratitude swells into its highest 
transport from the reflection that- the Lord Jesus 
had not exclusively reserved the crown for him, 
no, nor for the beloved Timothy, to whom he 
writes, nor for the multitudes of his own friends, 
nor for the converts who were to be peculiarly 
4 his joy and crown of rejoicing ;' but ' for all 
them also which love his appearing,' for all ' the 
redeemed of the Lord' to the end of the world. 



CHAP. XIII. 

A general view of the qualities of Saint Paul : 
his knowledge of human nature — his delicacy 
in giving advice or reproof — his integrity. 

There is in Saint Paul's writings and con- 
duct, such warmth and openness ; so much 
frankness and candour ; such an unreserved 
pouring out of his very soul ; such a free dis- 
closure of his feelings, as well as of his opinions; 
such an elevation, mingled with such a sober- 
ness of thinking ; so much social kindness, with 
so much Divine love ; so much practical activi- 
ty, with such deep spirituality ; so much human 
prudence, with so much of the wisdom which 
is from above ; so much tenderness for the per- 
sons of men, with so little connivance at their 
faults ; so much professional dignity, with so 
much personal humility, — as it would be diffi- 
cult to find in any other human being. 

Yet in all these opposite excellences, there is 
nothing that is not practicable, nothing that is 
not imitable. His religion, like his morality, 
has a peculiar sedateness. His ardent feelings 
betray him into no intemperance of speech, into 
no inequality of action. His piety is free from 
eccentricity, his faith from presumption. 

Uniformly we find a great reasonableness in 
his character ; and it adds to his value as an ex- 
ample, that he was, if we may be allowed so fa- 
miliar an expression, eminently a man of busi- 
ness. His transactions, indeed always tended 
to the same end with his devotions and his in- 
structions ; ho was full of care, but it was the 
care of all the churches; each day was fully oc- 
cupied, but it was that same ' care' which came 
upon him, not only as a Sunday, but as a daily 
care.' 

The perfection in which he possessed this 
quality, proves that his devotedness had in it 
nothing of abstraction. He exhibited no con- 
tempt of the common usages, no renunciation 

Vol. II. 



of the common comforts of life, when the former 
could with propriety be observed, or the latter 
be lawfully enjoyed ; no coveting of sufferings, 
when they could be conscientiously avoided. 
He was no pattern for ascetics, no prototype for 
Stylites. He bequeathed no example of bodily 
macerations, nor uncommanded austerities, nor 
penances unprofitably aiming at atonement. His 
idea of self-denial was to sacrifice Jus own will ; 
his notion of pleasing God was to do and sutler 
the Divine wilK 

His discretion was scarcely less conspicuous 
than his zeal : unlike some enthusiastic Chris- 
tians in the early ages of the Church, who, not 
contented to meet persecution, invited it ; he 
never sought, whilst he never shrunk from dan- 
ger. Though his life was one continued mar- 
tyrdom, to which the brief suffering of the stake 
or the axe would have been a mercy, yet he 
was contented to live for lengthened services ; 
though he would have finished his course with 
joy to himself, he was willing to protract it for 
the glory of God ; though he counted not his life 
dear, yet he knew it to be useful, and therefore 
desired its continuance. 

He was entirely exempt from that indiscreet 
zeal which seems to glory in provoking the dis- 
pleasure of the world. He had nothing of that 
bad judgment, which seeks distinction from sin- 
gularity. His straight-forward rectitude neither 
courted the applause, nor despised the good opi- 
nion of men. He who, in the integrity of his 
heart could say, ' We sought glory neither of 
you nor yet of others ; in the tenderness of that 
heart could say, to the same persons, ' for what 
is our hope, or joy, or crown of rejoicing ; are 
not even ye, — ye are our glory and joy." 

He was totally free from any irrational confi- 
dence in supernatural interpositions. Though 
living under the influence of the Holy Spirit, he 
felt no enthusiastic inflation. 

Though, in his perilous* voyage, assured by 
an angel of God that there should be no loss of 
lives, yet he helped with his own hands to throw 
out the tackling, and the ship must be worked 
by his direction. He went farther, declaring, 
' except the men abide in the ship ye cannot be 
saved.' Could the boldest impugner of Divine 
Providence have exercised more prudence, have 
exhibited more activity ? 

Not only from this passage, but from the 
general spirit of his writings, we may learn, 
that merely to say, we trust in God for the ac- 
complishment of any thing within our power, 
without using ourselves the rational means of 
accomplishing it, is a total want of sense ; and 
not entirely to trust in Him, while we are using 
them, is an utter want of faith. 

Though favoured with immediate revelations 
from above, yet was Paul so singularly modest, 
as only slightly to advert to Divine communica- 
tions, and then in the name of a third person, — 
I knew a man in Christ. — So continent of speech, 
as not even to disclose this distinction till near 
fourteen years after it had been conferred. May 
we not then agree with the sagacious Paley, 
that ' Saint Paul's mind had none of the charac- 
teristics of enthusiasm ; that the coolness of his 

* Acts, eta. xxvii. 



266 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



head always kept pace with the warmth of his 
heart ?' 

His conduct uniformly exhibits the precise 
distinction between Christian wisdom and 
worldly policy. His boundary- line is clearly 
defined, and he never steps over it to serve a 
purpose. Of that prudence which is akin to 
selfishness, of that discretion which leans to 
craft, of that candour which tends to undue pli- 
ancy, of that wisdom which is sensual and 
earthly, he had not the slightest tincture. What 
an illustrious orator of our own time said of his 
contemporary statesman, may be far more- ap- 
propriately applied to Saint Paul, — that, in gain- 
ing admiration, his virtues were his arts.* 

His intellectual powers were admirably con- 
stituted to second his high moral and spiritual 
attainments. He had an intuitive sagacity of 
mind. This deep master of the science of man 
was intimately acquainted with all the doublings 
and turnings, the intricacies and perverseness 
of the heart. In short he knew the exact point 
from which to take the most comprehensive 
view of this scene of man; and his writings 
possess this great advantage, that they also put 
the intelligent reader in the position to take the 
same view. He knew every plait and fold of 
the human character. He had studied the spe- 
cies in all its modifications and varieties, from, 
the monarch on the throne to the meanest offi- 
cer in his court ; from the high priest presiding 
in the Sanhedrim to the pharisee praying in the 
street : of the intolerance of the one, he had had 
personal experience ; through the duplicity of 
the other, his keen eye could pierce, without 
consulting the breadth of his phylactery. 

The same acute penetration brought him no 
less acquainted with the errors of the well-inten- 
tioned, with the weaknesses of the wise, with 
the failings of the virtuous, and the inconsisten- 
cies of even the conscientious. Yet did he never 
convert his knowledge of all the shades of the 
human mind to an unkind, malevolent, or selfish 
purpose. It never taught him to hate the un- 
worthy, with whose obliquities it made him ac- 
quainted ; or to despise the weak whose infirmi- 
ties it had discovered. So far was he from avail- 
ing himself of his sagacity, by turning the vices 
or imbecilities of others to his own account, that 
it inspired him with a more tender and compas- 
sionate feeling for the frailties of their common 
nature. 

In perusing his Epistles, we should always 
bear in mind, that Saint Paul is not addressing 
the profligate and profane, but converts, or, at 
least, religious professors. This consideration 
would prevent our putting the reproofs and cor- 
rections which he thought necessary for them 
at too great a distance from ourselves. Into 
this danger we may be too much inclined to 
fall, if we do not bring these people nearer to 
what we suppose to be our own level. They 
were already Christians. It was not, therefore, 
always necessary to arrange all the fundamental 
doctrines into a regular system, much less to 
begin with a formal exposition of the elements 
of a religion, with the principles of which they 
were already imbued ; or at least with the doc- 

* Mr Burke of the Marquis of Rockingham. 



trines of which they were acquainted. This 
manner of addressing them is a proof that their 
progress was already considerable. 

The first Epistle is inscribed ' to all that are 
at Rome, beloved of God, called to be saints, 
whose faith is spoken of throughout the world.' 
The next is ' to the church of God at Corinth, 
with all the saints in Achaia.' Another ' to the 
saints that are at Ephesus, and to the faithful in 
Christ Jesus.' Again, ' to the saints and faith- 
ful brethren in Christ at Colosse.' His letters 
to individual friends, designate also the piety 
of his correspondents. 'To Timothy, his son 
in the faith ;' 'to Titus, his own son after the 
common faith.' And in writing to the Hebrews 
collectively, he denominates them ' holy bre- 
thren, partakers of the heavenly calling.' 

It would be well if the generality of Christians 
could aspire to rank with any of these classes. 
Saint Paul's knowledge of mankind, however, 
of which we have said so much, would prevent 
his addressing the best of his converts, as cha- 
racters who did not require either caution, cor- 
rection, or improvement. He knew even after 
they had adopted the Christian profession, how 
pertinaciously bad habits would cleave to some, 
how much besetting sins, natural infirmity, 
temptation without, and passion within, would 
impede the progress of others. He was aware 
that many who thought themselves sincere, and 
perhaps really were so, were yet careless and 
cold hearted ; that many who were warm in 
profession, were selfish, indolent, covetuous ; 
that many who appeared to be lovers of God, 
were yet inordinately lovers of pleasure ; that 
some who professed to be dead to sin, were alive 
to the world. ' Alexander did him much evil ,' 
' Demas forsook him ;' ' Phygellus and Hermo- 
genes turned away from him.' 

The persons to whom he wrote might, on the 
whole, be considered as no unfair specimen of 
professing Christians in every age. Consequent- 
ly neither his doctrine nor his precepts can, by 
any fair rule of judgment, be limited to the com- 
munity, or even to the individual, to whom they 
were immediately inscribed ; he has erected his 
mandate into an unalterable standard of gene- i 
ral Christianity. 

The inspiring guide of Saint Paul knew that 
human nature, left to its own specific operation, 
would be the same in that church of Rome to 
which his Epistle was addressed, as in the now 
existing church of that metropolis, — a church 
which has so far departed from the simplicity 
of its founder ; that the church of Ephesus 
would differ only in its local circumstances and 
form of government from the church of Eng- 
land ; that the same sort of beings, with the 
same wants and weaknesses which composed 
the church of Galatia, would compose that of 
Geneva and of Holland ; that it was not the Co- 
rinthian convert alone who should become ' a 
new creature ;' that it was not the member of 
any particular community that must ' put off 
the old man with his deeds ;' he knew that the 
transmuting power of true religion would con 
fer the same character of newness upon every 
genuine believer ; that as in every age the prin- 
ciple is the same, so also will be the results. 

In illustration of these general remarks, let 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



267 



us select a particular case. — Our apostle had 
not studied the human heart to so little purpose 
as not to perceive that it is of itself commonly 
indisposed to liberality. Even where a measure 
of religious feeling 1 has conferred or enlarged 
this virtue, he knew thtt it requires excitement 
to keep the flame alive ; that if easily kindled 
by some affecting tale, or some present object, 
it may, by being left to itself, be as easily ex- 
tinguished. He knew that impressions-, if not 
immediately followed up, and acted upon, soon 
wear out ; that a warm impulse, if left to cool, 
evaporates in mere profession. On this princi- 
ple, then, we find him delicately reminding the 
Corinthians* of the zeal with which they had 
voluntarily engaged to raise a fund for the in- 
digent, and remonstrating on the obligation to 
put their own plan in execution, by distributing 
as well as collecting. 

In suggesting this duty, he takes a circui- 
tous path, by intimating the necessity of con- 
sistency in the conduct of Christians, by dwell- 
ing on the expediency of those who abounded in 
faith and eloquence, and religious knowiedge, 
abounding also in acts of beneficence ; and by 
hinting that a high profession, without that 
broad principle of Christian charity, of which 
he knew almsgiving to be one fruit, would be 
an anomaly discreditable to themselves, and in- 
jurious to religion. 

He then proposes to them, with the hand of 
a master, persuasions, arguments, and exam- 
ples; he makes duties grow out of motives, and 
impresses both by actual instances. He men- 
tions, in a sort of incidental way, the benevo- 
lence of a less opulent and less instructed peo- 
ple, the Macedonians ; and, according to his 
invariable custom, produces their charity as 
growing out of their piety. They gave them- 
selves first unto the Lord, and then, as the effect 
would naturally follow the cause, they gave unto 
us by the will of God. He informs them, that 
this generous people did not wait to confer their 
bounty till it was solicited. He intimates, that 
in this instance it was not those who wanted the 
charity, but those who gave it, ' that pressed it, 
with much entreaty ;' instructively hinting, that 
they had made true use of afflictions ; for that 
'their poverty,' instead of being pleaded as an 
apology for withholding their charity, ' abound- 
ed to the riches of their liberality.' 

Th^ was a powerful intimation, that if those 
more indigent converts had been so bountiful, 
what might not be expected from the opulent 
metropolis of the regions of Achaia ? It was 
also an experiment of their sincerity ; for if 
they were more forward in profession, and more 
abundant in graces, would it not be an expected 
consequence, that they should be more abundant 
in works of charity ? 

And, finally not contented with pressing upon 
them the example of a church of inferior note, 
he rises suddenly to the sublimest of all prece- 
dents. He does not, to them, quote any injunc- 
tion of their Divine Master to charity, though 
with such injunctions the Gospel abounds ; but 
in a manner strong, and instant, unexpectedly 
presses his example, and in the loftiest possible 

* 2 Cor. ch. viii 



instance :* ' For ye know the grace of our Lord 
Jesus Christ, though he was rich, yet for your 
sakes he became poor, that ye through his 
poverty might be rich. To what a trifle, to 
what a nothing does he, by this admirable turn, 
reduce the largest pecuniary bounty, by direct- 
ing their attention to the unspeakable gift ! 

To the same purpose he directs his friends 
at Ephesus, in his last affectionate discourse, to 
the precept of Christ. After the most powerful 
exhortations, he alludes to his having himeslf 
supplied his necessities by the labour of his 
own hands, in order to the exercise of charity ; 
and then, lest they should suppose this to be 
any vaunt of his self-denial, rather than a decla- 
ration made to stimulate his hearers to similar 
industry, by a similar motive of charity, — he 
sums up the charge by a most powerful incite, 
ment, equal of itself to account for his own gene- 
rosity, as well as to awaken theirs, producing 
the only posthumous quotation which Scripture 
has preserved of the Divine Instructor : ' Re- 
member the words of the Lord Jesus, how he 
said, it is more blessed to give than to receive.' 

Another instance of his delicacy is that in ad- 
dressing the same people, when he would lower 
to its just inferiority the value of gifts and mira- 
culous powers, in comparison of the more excel- 
lent way, he does not directly point at their 
vanity and self exultation, but with a refine- 
ment worthy the attention of all censors, he 
transfers the application to himself — Though / 
(not though you) speak with the tongues of 
men and of angels ; though I have the gift of 
prophecy and faith ; though J bestow all my 
goods to feed the poor, and have not charity, / 
am nothing. f 

As he thought it necessary, in this address to 
adduce the strongest supposeable instances, even 
instances which could, not be thought to exist, 
there was no method which could so effectually 
expose the radical evil of uncharitableness with 
so little offence to those who were guilty of it, 
as to apply the imaginary case to his own per- 
son : nor could the most elaborate harangue on 
the beauty of charity have produced without it 
so powerful an effect; nor would any delinea- 
tion of all the opposite vices, which were noto- 
riously practised by the proud and sensual 
Corinthians, have affected them so much, as 
this beautiful portrait of the heavenly virtue in 
which many of them were eminently deficient, 
and to whom the picture therefore presented 
such a contrast. 

Yet, while he thus combated their preference 
of those which might raise admiration, to those 
which tended to the public good, he thought pro- 
per to let them see that the inferior value he set 
on them was not to screen or justify any igno- 
rance of his own ; and that, as is too commonly 
the case, he did not depreciate learning, because 
he did not possess it. 

After having enjoined on the Thessalonians, 
that it was their duty 'to love one another, as 
they were taught of God,' lest it might look like 
a suspicion rather than a reminding, he en- 
couragingly subjoins, — ' and indeed ye do it.' 
In the same spirit, after saying to the same 



* 2 Cor cb viii. 



f Cor. ch. xiii 



268 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



church, 'Comfort yourselves together, and edify 
one another,' he again intimates that they did 
not so much require to be instructed as congra- 
tulated, by adding, ' even as also ye do.' 

Again, with a holy generosity, when he has 
any thing to notice, which he can honestly 
praise, the commendation he bestows is undi- 
vided ; when any unacceptable point to press, he 
Boftens prejudices and courts compliance by 
mixing himself with the injunction, or involving 
himself in the censure : ' Let us cleanse our- 
selves from all filthiness of flesh or spirit.' 
In lamenting, in the seventh of Romans, the do- 
minion of sin, he speaks in his own person : in 
referring, in the subsequent chapter, to the do- 
minion of grace, he extends the consolation to 
all believers. On every occasion which calls 
both qualities, gentleness and lowliness, into 
exercise, Saint Paul shows himself not only to 
be the humblest, but the politest of men. 

Had a late noble and polished preceptor* been 
as conversant with the Holy Scriptures as he 
unquestionably was with polite literature, and 
had his principles been as sound as his taste, he 
would have had no occasion to look farther than 
the writings of Paul of Tarsus, for the most 
complete illustration of that favourite maxim, 
the adoption of which he so repeatedly enjoined 
on his misguided pupil. His fine sense, under 
the influence of religion, would have led him, 
while he pressed the injunction, to give it all it 
wanted, — a right direction. He would have 
found the suaviter in moda accompany the for- 
titer in re, more uniformly in our apostle than 
in any other writer. 

In addition to the numberless instances of 
this union, that occur in his Epistles, some of 
which we have already noticed, we cannot for- 
bear mentioning, that in writing to Timothy, he 
recommends ' the spirit of power and of a sound 
mind;' 1 to which he subjoins, ' hold fast the form 
of sound words.' But while he is so peremptory 
as to the force of the matter, he is not less atten- 
tive to the duty of mildness in the manner. He 
directs, that the dictates of this sound mind be 
conveyed with affection, — this form of sound 
words be communicated with love; and in ex- 
patiating on these gentle graces, we must not 
forget the situation under which he exercised 
them. 

In the days of prosperous fortune, we fre- 
quently see the appearance of cheerfulness and 
complacency in characters not remarkable for 
gentleness of mind : but Paul, under the most 
disastrous circumstances, never fails to exhibit 
the same amiable courtesies. It is therefore not 
easy to account for the prejudices of certain 
persons, who always speak of him, as a charac- 
ter of the most repulsive harshness. 

I should be very unwilling to suspect, if a few 
of these critics are to be found among my own 
sex, that their dislike to this apostle arises from 
a cause which is rather calculated to inspire 
gratitude than to provoke censure. His atten- 
tion, in not being limited to their highest inter- 
ests, but descending also to their minutest con- 
cerns is a proof surely that he thought nothing 
beneath his notice, which might raise the dig- 

* Lord Chesterfield 



nity and add to the beauty of the female charac- 
ter- I should be very unwilling to suppose that 
their disapprobation arises from his having said, 
'She that liveth in pleasure is dead while she 
liveth.' Nor could I presume to suspect, that 
his injunction of subm»sion to their husbands, 
— of subordination always, and of silence some, 
times, — can possibly be the cause of the hostility 
of any Christian ladies. 

Still- less would I venture to suppose, that 
their displeasure is owing to his having recom- 
mended ' that women should adorn themselves 
in modest apparel,' — nor that they should ob- 
ject to him for his preference of 'shamefaced- 
ness' to ' costly array,' — of ' sobriety' to ' broi- 
dered hair,' — of ' good works' to ' gold and 
pearls.'* 

It looks as if Saint Paul was of opinion, that 
the external appearance of women was an indi- 
cation of the disposition of the mind ; and this 
opinion it is probable made him so earnest in 
recommending these symbols of internal purity. 
He doubtless more strongly prohibits certain 
personal decorations, because they were the 
insignia of the notoriously unworthy females of 
his time. And it may be fairly presumed, that 
he never thought it could be construed into a 
hardship to be cautioned against wearing the 
badge of the profession of Lais. 

If they are of opinion, that his pointedly sug- 
gesting to them tha ornaments of a meek and 
quiet spirit, was at least a superfluous injunc- 
tion, they will forgive him on the ground that 
he might not think it unnecessary, even to the 
most gentle, to ' stir up their pure mind by way 
of remembrance.'' 

It is obvious that he could not possibly en- 
tertain any prejudices against a sex, in which 
he counted so many valuable friends. And 
let it be seriously observed, that in whatever re- 
lates to pious affections, to Christian practice, 
to disinterested kindness, to zeal and diligence, 
there was obviously, in Saint Paul's estimation, 
neither male nor female. For we do not hear 
more of his affectionate regard for good women, 
and of his generous testimony to their worth, 
than we hear of the friendship with the sex of 
any other character in history ? He delights in 
their praises. ' Phebe' is warmly commended 
for her good offices ' to the Saints at Rome,' 
not only as having been an important assistant 
to the apostle himself, but as ' the succour^er of 
many' Christians. 'Priscilla' is honourably re- 
corded as ' his helper in Christ Jesus,' as one 
who with her husband, had, ' for his life laid 
down their necks.' For this he thankfully ob- 
serves, they are entitled not only to his thanks, 
but also to ' the thanks of all the churches of 
the Gentiles.' He acknowledges that ' Mary 
had bestowed much labour on him and his con- 
verts.' The name of ' Apphia,' and that of 
' Julia,' is perpetuated by his affectionate gra- 
titude. That of ' Chloe' stands prominent in 
his grateful page. 'Tryphena and Tryphosa 
laboured much in the Lord.' To the honour of 
British ladies be it remembered, that his friend 
' Claudia' was our country woman.t 

* 1 Tim. cli. ii. 
[ f If a|) y consideration should increase the interest we 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



2G9 



Paul observes that, in the family of Timothy, 
piety on the female side was hereditary, and he 
congratulates his friend on the excellent princi- 
ples of his two maternal relations; and virtually 
ascribes to these instructresses, 'that from a child 
he was acquainted with the Scriptures.' Others 
he has named, whose praise is not only in the 
churches, but whose names are in the book of 
life. 

Are not these testimonies to female excellence 
from such an eulogist, and in such a cause, 

' Above all Greek, above all Roman fame ?' 

If it stands recorded on the monument of a no- 
ble Englishman, as his highest distinction, that 
he was friend to Sir Philip Sidney, it stands en- 
graven on a monument more durable than brass, 
even in the indestructible records of the Book 
of God, that so many women were the honoured 
friends of the chiefest apostle of Jesus Christ. 

If Saint Paul has been further accused by some 
persons of being an enemy to the state of mar- 
riage, it must be by those who forget to take 
into the account what a calamitous time, that in 
which he wrote was for Christians, ■ who forget 
also his own express declaration, that the sug- 
gested suspension of such an union was ' good 
for the present distress.' His compassionate 
mind foresaw the aggravated calamities to which 
the entrance into this tender connection would, 
at this particular juncture, involve the perse- 
cuted Christians. Is it not absurd to suppose 
that this zealous apostle of Christ would suggest, 
as a permanent practice, a measure which must 
in a few years, if persisted in, inevitably occa- 
sion the entire extinction of Christianity itself? 

Since, then, it would be derogatory to any, 
especially of my own sex, to suspect that their 
objection to Saint Paul can arise from any of 
these causes, may we not more rationally con- 
jecture, that it proceeds from a prejudice lightly 
taken upon hearsay evidence — a prejudice pro- 
pagated without serious inquiry, without having 
themselves closely examined his writings ? Such 
an examination, to which they are now earnest- 
ly invited, would convince them that, to all his 
exalted qualities, he added, in an eminent de- 
gree, urbanity, feeling, and liberality. 

But nothing more raises our veneration for 
Saint Paul's character, than that his extreme 
sensibility of heart, and his rare delicacy in con- 
sulting the feelings of others, to which we have 
so frequently referred, is never exercised at the 
expense of his integrity. There are, as wc have 
before observed, many upright minds, whose 
honesty is yet somewhat disfigured by a harsh 
temper. They are too conscientious to censure 
unjustly, but, knowing the censure to be merit- 
ed, they have rather a pleasure in inflicting the 
correction. And though they are not glad the 
offender deserves it, they are not sorry it is their 
duty to impart it. Saint Paul never severely 
reproved another, that he did not inflict a wound 
on his own feelings. Yet though he would ra- 

take in this blessed apostle, it would be the stiong pre- 
sumption, from testimonies iccently adduced by a learn- 
ed, pious, and labourious prelate, that Saint Paul, in all 
probability, preached the Gospel in Britain, to which 
country it'is conjectured, after the most diligent research, 
that he returned with the family of C'aructacus. 



ther have spared another than himself, he would 
spare neither when the imperative voice of duty 
demanded plain dealing. Gentleness of man- 
ner in our apostle was the fruit of his piety ; the 
good breeding of some men is a substitute for 
theirs. 

The conduct of Saint Peter and Saint Paul 
presents at once a striking instance of the inte- 
grity of Christian friendship, and of the imper- 
fection of human excellence. Before the apos- 
tles met at Antioch, Peter seems to have erred 
in a material point, not in associating freely 
with the Gentiles, but in disingenuously shun- 
ning their society on the relbrn of his Jewish 
friends. This fear of human censure, which 
was not yet entirely extinguished in this great 
apostle, while it strengthened the prejudices of 
the Jews, weakened the influence of the other 
apostles ; misled Barnabas ' though a good man, 
and a just; and not a little alarmed Paul. 

This vigilant minister thought the example so 
fraught with dangerous consequences, that he 
boldly remonstrated on this act of duplicity, — an 
act unlike the general character of Peter, which, 
except in one awful instance, rather inclined to 
indiscreet frankness. Paul himself informs us, 
in his Epistle to the Galatians, that he ' with- 
stood him to his face,' not to gratify any resent- 
ment of his own, but because his friend ' was to 
be blamed ;' not privately, to spare his confusion, 
but ' before them all,' to avert the'danger. Nor 
does this Christian sincerity appear to have in- 
terrupted their friendship ; for it did not prevent 
Peter, on a subsequent occasion, from alluding 
to Paul as his beloved brother. From this cir- 
cumstance we may learn among other things.. 
that the 'fear of man,' is one of the lingering 
evils which quits the human heart with the 
greatest reluctance : it shows that it may cleave 
to him, even in his renovated state, and that 
therefore the same vigilance is necessary in this, 
as in his previous character. 

Peter, on this occasion, gave an instance of 
that prompt repentance which he had so repeat- 
edly manifested after the commission of an error. 
He offered no justification of his fault, but ob- 
served a meek silence. We learn also, from the 
recorded failings of Saint Peter, that this first 
bishop of Rome, at least, did not arrogate to him- 
self the claim of infallibility. 

Saint Paul's kindness for his brethren never 
made him on any occasion lose sight of his cou- 
rageous integrity. Considering the Gentile pro- 
selytes to be peculiarly the objects of his care, 
he resolutely defended them from the necessity 
of submitting to the law of Moses, thus preserv- 
ing to the Gentiles their liberty, and to the 
Gospel its purity. By his firmness in this in- 
stance, a great obstacle to the reception of Chris- 
tianity was removed. 

May we here be allowed to observe, though 
somewhat out of place, that the characters of 
these two apostles are brought forward with 
such remarkable prominency and detail, in Sa- 
cred History, that it would be a subject well 
worthy some able pen, to delineate the cha 
racters of the men, and interweave that of their 
writings, in somo connected work. Thus placed 
in one frame, we should have a most interesting 
view of those two eminent persons as the repre- 



270 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



sentativesofthe Gentile and the Jewish Churches 
of Christ. This rep-esentation, incorporated 
with the circumstances which distinguished the 
first promulgation of the Gospel, renders every 
particular concerning them highly affecting. 

But to return. It is to be observed, as a fresh 
proof of the honesty and the spirit of self renun- 
ciation which governed our apostle, that when 
he reprehends the Corinthians for their impru- 
dence in opposing one minister to another; — in 
the partiality and favouritism which he con- 
dernns, he makes no exception for Paul : the pre- 
ference to himselfabove Apollos would not gra- 
tify a mind, who,T)eside the danger to the flat- 
tered individual, saw the evil of opposition, of 
rivalry, of division, let who will be the person 
preferred. 

He might have seen the dangerous and blind- 
ing influence of excessive prepossession and 
party attachment ; when even his wise and vir- 
tuous contemporary, Seneca, could say of Cato, 
that he would rather esteem drunkenness a vir- 
tue than think Cato vicious. Nor would he pro- 
bably have accepted of the same compliment 
which Cicero pays to the famous discourse on 
the Immortality of the Soul, — that though Plato 
had given no reason for it, yet his authority 
would have determined him. 



CHAP. XIV. 

Saint Paul on the Love of Money. 

Among the innumerable difficulties daily in- 
cident to the life of man, we may reckon as not 
among the least, the danger almost inseparable, 
which attends the yet inevitable necessity for 
money. To reconcile integrity in the pursuit 
with innocence in the possession, is indeed to 
convert a perilous trial into a valuable blessing. 
Riches are no evil in themselves : the danger 
lies, in not being able to manage the temptation 
they hold out to us. Even where the object is 
fairly pursued, and the acquisition not unfairly 
appropriated, a close application to the attain- 
ment of wealth is not without its snares to the 
most upright and liberal mind. 

Even these better-disposed persons, in spite of 
purity of intention and integrity of conduct, are 
in constant danger, while in pursuit of their ob- 
ject, of being entangled in complicated schemes, 
and overwhelmed with excessive solicitude ; of 
being so overcharged with the cares of this 
world, as to put that world which is out of sight, 
out of mind also. 

Others find, or fancy, that there is a shorter 
cut and a surer road to riches, than that in which 
plodding industry holds on his slow and weary 
way. Industry is too dull for an enterprising 
spirit; integrity too scrupulous for the mind 
which is bent on a quick accomplishment of its 
object. The rewards of both are too remote, too 
uncertain, and too penurious, for him 'who 
maketh haste to be rich.' 

Much occurs to this point, in Saint Paul's 
charge to Timothy, contained in the latter part 
of the last chapter of his first Epistle. Keeping 
one main end in view, the apostle has indeed 
adopted a sort of concealed method, which re- 



quires some attention in the reader to discover. 
The general drift of this powerful exhortation 
is, less to guard hi3 beloved friend himself, who 
was perhaps in comparatively small danger from 
the temptation, than to induce him to warn those 
over whom he had the spiritual superintendence, 
against the love of money. In order to this, he 
does not immediately enter upon the main sub- 
ject, but opens with another proposition, though 
in no very remote connection with it; a propo 
sition the most important, and the most incon 
trovertible, namely, the immense gain to that 
soul which should combine godliness with con. 
tentment. Heknew the union to be inseparable ; 
that as godliness cannot subsist without content- 
ment, so neither can true contentment spring 
from any other than an inward principle of real 
piety. All contentment, which has not its founda- 
tion in religion, is merely constitutional — animal 
hilarity, the flow of blood and spirits in the more 
sanguine character ; coldness and apathy in the 
more indifferent. 

The pressing, then, this preliminary principle, 
was beginning at the right end. A spirit of 
contentment is stifling covetousness in its birth ; 
it is strangling the serpent in the cradle. Strong 
and striking are the reasons which the apostle 
produces against discontent. To the indigent 
he says, ' they brought nothing into the world,' 
therefore they neod the less murmur at possess- 
ing little in it. To the wealthy he holds out a 
still more powerful argument against the rage 
canine of dying rich, when he reminds them that 
they ' can carry nothing out of it.' 

This reflection he intends at once to teach 
content to the poor, and moderation to the rich. 
The one should be satisfied with a bare subsist- 
ance, for the poorest cannot be poorer than when 
they came into the world : the other should not 
enlarge their desires for boundless indulgences, 
to the means of gratifying which, as well as to 
the gratification itself, the grave will so soon put 
a period. 

The apostle, having shown his deep insight 
into the human mind by his brief but just view 
of the subject, goes on to show the miserable 
consequences of discontent, or, which is the same 
thing, of an indefinite desire of wealth. ' They 
that will be rich, fall into temptation and a snare, 
and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which 
drown men in destruction and perdition.' The 
words are weighty and powerful, and amply ve- 
rified by experience, whether we consider money 
in its acquisition or in its possession. Its vota- 
ries ' fall into a snare.' 

We have need to be more intently on the 
watch against the intrusions of this unsuspected 
sin, because there is not one which intrenches 
itself within so many creditable pretences ; none 
in which more perverted passages are adduced 
from Scripture itself in its support. ' If any . 
provide not for those of his own house, he is 
worse than an infidel,' is frequently translated 
into a language foreign to its meaning, unfa- 
vourable to dispersing abroad. That charity 
begins at home, is not seldom pleaded as a rea- 
son why she should never turn out. Thero is 
one plea always ready as an apology for the 
eagerness for amassing superfluous wealth ; and 
it is a plea which has a good look. We must 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



271 



provide for our children is the pretence, but we 
must indulge our avarice, is the truth. The 
fact is, a man is provident for his family, but he 
is covetous for himself. The sordid mind and 
the grasping hand are too eager to put off their 
gratification to so remote a period as the future 
aggrandizement of those for whom they pretend 
to amass. The covetous man hungers for in- 
stant gratification, for the pleasure of counting 
his hoards, for the pride of ' calling his lands by 
his own name.' 

Even many professing Christians speak with 
horror of public diversions, or even of human 
literature, as containing the essence of all sin, 
yet seem to see no turpitude, to feel no danger, 
to dread no responsibility, in any thing that re- 
spects this private, domestic, bosom sin ; this 
circumspect vice, this discreet and orderly cor- 
ruption. Yet the sins which make no noise are 
often the most dangerous, and the vices of which 
the effect is to procure respect, instead of con- 
tempt, constitute the most deadly snare. 

Wit has not been more alert in shooting its 
pointed shafts at avarice, than argument has 
been busy in its defence. No advocate, it is 
true, will venture to defend it under its own pro- 
per character ; but avarice takes the license 
used by other felons, and, by the adoption of an 
alias, escapes the reprobation attached to its 
own name. Covetousness has a bad sound ; it 
is, if we may be allowed the application, a mo- 
ral cacophony, a fault which no critic in ethics 
can at any rate tolerate. It is a tacit confession 
of its hateful nature, and its possessor never 
avows its real name, even to himself. This qua- 
lity not only disguises its turpitude by conceal- 
ment, but shrouds its own character under the 
assumed name of half the virtues. When ac- 
cused, it can always make out a good case. It 
calls itself frugality, moderation, temperance, 
contempt of show, self-denial, sobriety ; thus at 
once cherishing the pleasure and the profit of 
the sin, and the escaping its infamy. 

Even the most careless in conduct, the most 
negligent of character, he who never defends 
himself against the charge of what he calls the 
more generous vices, indignantly fights off the 
imputation of this. While he deems it a venial 
offence to deny himself no guilty pleasures, to 
pay no just debts, he would repel the accusation 
of being sordid as strongly as a man of princi- 
ple, Yet at the same time his thirst of money 
may be as ardent, in order to make a bad use 
of it, as his who covets it without intending to 
use it at all. 

Let not therefore ' the snares of this world 
and the deceitfulness of riches' make us forget 
that he who covets money as a means to other 
forbidden gratifications, is as much guilty of 
covetousness as he who desires it as an end. He 
who makes it the minister to improper indul- 
gences, is not less criminal as an example, and 
is far more criminal as to the effects of his con- 
duct, than he who covets in order that he may 
amass. The Word of Inspiration calls covetous- 
ness idolatry ; but are not inordinate lovers of 
pleasure, for which money supplies the aliment, 
idolators also ; inasmuch as the sacrifices they 
offer to their idol prevents their being ' lovers 
of God?' 



If this ensnaring love of money assumes to 
be connected with the sober qualities, which 
is commonly the case in quiet minds, it is far 
otherwise in those of a different order. In most 
minds it is the enemy of charity. The demands 
of this great duty are amongst the first and 
most easy sacrifices at the shrine of Mammon, 
more especially where a too large scale of ex- 
pense has been established, and a reduced ex- 
penditure is thought necessary : how often do 
we see the first deduction made, by withholding 
a little paltry sum which had been assigned to 
charity ; a sum perhaps originally dispropor- 
tionate to the general habits of expense ; while 
no blow is aimed at the redundances of a de- 
vouring luxury, of an inordinate vanity ; though 
the retrenchment in the first instance will 
scarcely be felt, while, in the latter, it might 
restore the power, not only of perpetuating, but 
of augmenting beneficence. 

But the mischief is of still wider extent. In 
more animated minds the love of money is fre- 
quently allied to the bolder vices ; to rapacity 
to oppression, to injustice : and as these more 
formidable sins are usually practised for the pur- 
pose of obtaining the means of splendour, mag- 
nificence, and show : wealth, even thus obtained, 
not seldom procures its own protection. The 
gay and unthinking, whose grand object in life 
is to multiply the scenes of dissipation, and who 
enjoy these pleasant effects of their neighbour's 
vices by participating in the amusements they 
procure, are not very inquisitive as to the source 
from whence these prodigal pleasures flow. The 
unsuccessful aspirer after forbidden wealth is 
indeed not only avoided but stigmatized; with 
them his crime lies not so much in the attempt 
as in the failure ; while prosperous corruption 
easily works itself into favour : having first 
struggled for oblivion for the cause, it soon ob- 
tains praise for the effect, and finds little diffi- 
culty in maintaining a station which it required 
some management to reach. 

But if there are few vices which separate a 
man less from the friendship of the world, than 
avarice, there are few that separate him more 
widely from the duty which he owes to his 
neighbour, or stand more fearfully between his 
soul and his God ; ' it drowns men in destruc- 
tion and perdition.' When the eye is first open- 
ed on the eternal world, how will many among 
the rich, the powerful, the flattered, be astonish- 
ed to find all the attributes which made them 
great, extinct ; all the appendages which made 
them arrogant, vanish ; to find — nothing but 
themselves. 

It is to be observed, that Saint Paul not only 
calls the love of money an evil, for in this view, 
where the passion is acknowledged, it is com- 
monly considered ; but he proceeds further to 
denominate it the 'root,' the radical principle, 
not only of one evil, but of all evil. Besides 
that there is scarcely •• ny sin which the deter- 
mined lovers of money will not be led to commit, 
in order to gain money, there are also, as we 
have observed, innumerable evils in its misap- 
plication when gained ; these he probably in. 
eluded in their general condemnation. Other 
vices are loved for their own sake, but riches are 
idolized for the sake of every indulgence of 



272 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



■which they procure the enjoyment, of every vice 
to which that enjoyment leads. 

This it is which makes riches the general 
centre of human desire. They who*do not ac- 
cumulate money persuade themselves that they 
do not love it ; but many love it for far other 
ends than to hoard it. Saint Paul knew that 
it was the universal snare ; a trap appropriately 
baited with every allurement congenial to the 
taste of the person on whom the temptation is 
to be practised ; — to the elegant desires of the 
more refined, or the coarser appetite of the more 
grossly voluptuous. The sensual, the aspiring, 
the vain, and the prodigal, all consider it as the 
grand indispensable material with which to 
build their visionary fabrics of happiness. 

Money is the most efficient tool with which 
ambition works ; it is the engine of political 
mischief, and of domestic oppression ; the in- 
strument of individual tyranny, and of univer- 
sal corruption. Money is the elementary prin- 
ciple of pleasure; it is the magnet which, to 
the lover of flattery, attracts parasites ; which 
the vain man loves for the circje it describes 
about him, and the train which it draws after 
him, even more than for the actual enjoyments 
which it procures him. It is the grand spring 
and fountain of pride and self-sufficiency ; more 
especially to those who have nothing better to 
value themselves upon ; to those of inferior edu- 
cation, suddenly raised to wealth or power ; to 
those who are deficient in intellectual as well as 
spiritual endowments. In short, as the fabled 
king turned every thing into gold which he 
touched, so its craving possessor turns gold into 
every thing he desires. It is the substance and 
the essence which, under endless modifications, 
ensnares, betrays, and finally disappoints the 
heart of man. 

After enumerating the various moral dangers 
to which the love of money lays the heart open, 
the Apostle adverts to its highest possible cor- 
ruption ; he declares it to be the root of apostacy. 
He doubtless alluded to his own immediate 
knowledge of certain persons, who, while they 
' coveted after riches, had erred from the faith.' 
There is something extremely touching in this 
effect of covetousness, which Saint Paul appears 
himself to have witnessed among some of whom 
he had once seemed to hope better things ; — 
they had pierced themselves through with many 
sorrows, with incurable anguish perhaps for that 
abandonment of God, into which covetousness 
had seduced them. 

It was probably these living instances of the 
ruin of virtuous principles by this vice, which 
leads him to warn even Timothy, so great a 
proficient in piety, of the perils attached to the 
love of money. And nothing affords matter of 
more awful reflection to the most sincere Chris- 
tian, than that Paul thought it necessary to 
caution his ' dearly beloved Timothy, his own 
son in the faith,' Timothy, the exemplary Bishop 
of Ephesus, against the snares of this insidious 
enemy. Snail a common, shall even a sincere 
Christian, think vigilance superfluous, when 
this distinguished saint was not only charged 
to caution others, but to guard himself against 
this most treacherous of all temptations ? 

There is something peculiarly solemn in the 



apostle's mode of adjuring Timothy to avoid thin 
sin. The single apostrophe, 'Oman of God!' 
would be a panoply against the temptation. The 
implied impossibility that a man of God could 
be acoveter of money, was equal to a thousand 
arguments against it. 

The two-fold guard with which he arms Ti- 
mothy is equally applicable to all Christians 
He does not say, deliberate on your danger, rea- 
son on the temptation, produce your strong ar- 
guments against it, — but fiee these thingt. 
Flight is in this case the only courage ; escape 
the only security ; turning your back upon the 
enemy, the only sure means of conquering him. 
But Saint Paul does not only direct what is 
to be avoided, but what is to be done. The 
flight from sin is not a mere negative act, it 
involves positive duties ; in its view it involves, 
following after righteousness, godliness, faith, 
love, patience, meekness. All these spiritual and 
moral graces he draws up in battle array, to as- 
sist as auxiliaries in the combat he is about to 
enjoin. The Christian will have to maintain a 
conflict with corruption and temptation, during 
the whole scene of action. Going on to sustain 
the metaphor drawn from the military warfare, 
he calls on Timothy as a faithful soldier of Je- 
sus Christ ; and while he exhorts him to Jig ht 
the good fight of faith, he presents to his view 
the crown of victory. He assures him that it 
will not be a mere gratuitous fight, he will lay 
hold on eternal life. 

He reminds Timothy of his special vocation 
' whereunto thou art called.' He animates him 
with the quickening recollection of the glorious 
profession he had made ; and that, not in the 
retirement of devotion, but ' before many wit- 
nesses,' intimating how much the honour of 
the Gospel is concerned in the proficiency, the 
steadfastness, the perseverance to the end, of all 
its professors, especially of its appointed teach- 
ers. He not only reminds him of his profession 
at his baptism, and consecration to the ministry, 
but in order to elevate his mind to the highest 
pitch, he adjures him in the sight of God, who 
quickeneth all tilings, and could raise him to 
immortal glory ; and, as if he would fill his 
mind with every grand and awful image, re- 
minds him of the ' good confession made by the 
Divine Confessor before Pontius Pilate,' exhort- 
ing him from all these lofty motives, to ' keep 
this commandment spotless and unreproachable 
until the appearance of our Lord Jesus Christ !' 
In so doing, men could not rebuke him, religion 
would not be wounded by him, and his Saviour 
would finally receive him with the plaudit ho 
has promised, and the crown he had purchased. 
The sublime doxology which follows ; the 
ascription to God, of all power, praise, and do- 
minion, glory and immortality , the fervour of 
his mind, rapt as it seems to be with the present 
view of the blessed and only Potentate, Kinor 
of kings, Lord of lords, immortal, invisible, un- 
approachable, and surrounded with visions of 
glory, — do not make the apostle forget to revert 
to the main object of his charge, the danger of 
riches ; or rather the anticipation of future bliss 
had fired his soul with more intense zeal against 
that sin which he thought most likely to shut 
out his beloved converts from the enjoyment of 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



273 



it; 'Charge them that are rich in this world, 
that they trust not in uncertain riches.' 

Having thus shown the nature of riches — ' un- 
certain' in every thing but their danger, — he 
soon despatches the concluding and most plea- 
sant part of his office, by showing hov the Chris- 
tian use of riches may convert a snare into a 
blessing ; an instrument of ruin into an evidence 
of faith. He proposes a scheme of moral usury, 
shows that there is a species of avarice which 
he not only allows, but enjoins, that they who 
are rich in this world increase the interest of 
their money by laying it out in good works ; 
that they lay up in store against the day to come ; 
against a remoter period than that for which 
the covetous provide. This is beating the miser 
at his own weapons; this is indeed giving per- 
petuity to riches; what they lay out for the 
poor they lay up for themselves, by lending unto 
the Lord. This is a legitimate love of money, 
this is a covetousness worthy of a Christian. 
This is indeed lodging their treasure beyond 
the reach of moth, rust or thieves. 

He cautions them against the love of riches 
from their uncertainty ; an argument likely to 
weigh with those who are blind to higher con- 
siderations ; an argument more illustrated to us 
by actual instances in the late frenzy of revo- 
lution, than any other period of history. He 
then contrasts what is uncertain with what is 
solid and durable. That confidence which is 
not to be placed in ' uncertain riches,' he directs 
to be transfered to ' the living God,' the founda- 
tion of all substantial opulence, the giver of all 
the good that is enjoyed ; the giver of all ' the 
power to get wealth,' and of the heart to use it 
to his gloty. This readiness 'to distribute,' 
this willingness ' to communicate,' these un- 
equivocal fruits of faith, obedience, and love, 
not the purchase of heaven but the evidences of 
faith in him who died to purchase it for them, 
will not be rejected by real Christians, after his 
declaration, ' inasmuch as ye have done unto one 
of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done 
it unto me.' 

When we consider the contradiction which 
the lives of some authors, on religious subjects, 
form with their writings, may they not be said 
somewhat to resemble the workmen employed 
in building the ark ? These infatuated men 
spent years in preparing an asylum from the 
deluge, without practically believing that it 
would ever take place. While they were me- 
chanically employed in working for the salva- 
tion of the others, their labour made no provision 
for their own safety. The sweeping flood de- 
scends ; but the builders ara excluded from the 
very refuge which they have assisted in pro- 
viding ! 

How different was the conduct of our apostle ? 
His exhortation in this, as in all other instances, 
derives great additional weight from the consis- 
tency of his conduct with his writings. The 
philosopher Seneca, composed his excellent book 
of Ethics, in the same city, and near the same 
time in which this Epistle to Timothy was writ- 
ten. He suffered also a violent death under the 
same Roman emperor with Saint Paul. In the 
writings of the philosopher are many beautiful 
passages directed against the vice we have been 

Voi„ II. S 



considering, and no one ever inveighed more 
pointedly against the luxurious indulgences to 
which riches are applied. Yet Seneca, first the 
disciple of the abstinent school of Pythagoras, 
and afterwards of the self-denying sect of the 
Stoics, made himself, by his inordinate desire 
of amassing wealth, the richest man in Rome, 
and by his passion for splendour the most mag- 
nificent. 

This inconsistency of profession with practice, 
at once illustrates the exact difference between 
speculation and conviction, conceit and truth ; 
and serves, without any other arguments which, 
however, are not wanting, to demonstrate the 
real character of Seneca. Though acquainted 
probably with the religion of Jesus Christ, and 
not improbably with our apostle himself, from 
his near connection with Gallio, one of Paul's 
judges; yet he can never be considered as its 
convert; and trying them by the testimony of 
their lives, we are obliged to conclude of these 
two martyred moralists, that Paul lived a Chris, 
tian, and Seneca died a Heathen. 



CHAP. XV. 

On the genius of Christianity, as seen in Saint 
Paul. 

Had a sinful Human being, ignorant of Chris- 
tianity, labouring under the convictions of a 
troubled conscience, and dreading the retribu- 
tion which that conscience told him his offence 
merited, — had such a being, so circumstanced, 
been called upon to devise the means of pardon 
and acceptance from an offended Creator, how 
eagerly, in the hope of relieving his tormented 
spirit, would he have put his imagination to the 
stretch ! How busily would he have sharpened 
his invention, to suggest something difficult, 
something that should have exhausted all hu- 
man means, that should put nature to the rack 
— penances, tortures, sacrifices, — all Lebanon 
for a burnt offering, thousands of rams for an 
atonement, rivers of oil for an oblation, — still 
concluding that he must perform the act with 
his own hands, still expecting that himself must 
be the agent of his own deliverance. 

But when a full offer of peace, of pardon, of 
reconciliation, comes from the offended party, 
comes voluntarily, comes gratuitously, comes, 
not with the thunders of the burning mount, 
but in the still small voice of benignity and love, 
— free love, benignity, as unsought as un merit- 
ted ; — when the trembling penitent is assured, 
in the cheering words of our apostle, that he 
shall be 'justified freely, through the redemp- 
tion that is in Christ Jesus,' — when he is as- 
sured that all that is demanded on his part of 
the compact is to accept the propitiation m;ide 
for his sins, through the forbearance and tender 
mercy of God ; when he hears that to him, and 
not to him only, but to all who will accept it on 
the offered terms of faith and repentance, this 
previously inconceivable proposal is made ; — 
who would doubt that, overwhelmed with joy 
and gratitude at the report of a world redeemed, 
he would eagerly fly to lay hold on an offer, not 



274 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



only beyond his hope or expectation, but be- 
yond his possibility of conception ? 

Yet is not the fact too often directly the re- 
verse ? His pride had suggested to him, that if 
some difficult thing were to be done, he should 
have done it himself, — if something were to be 
suffered in the way of hardship and austerity, 
or something achieved in the way of glorious 
enterprise ; something that should be splendid 
in the act, which should bring renown to the 
doer, — then his natural powers would be set at 
work, his energies exerted, his emulation kind- 
led, for he would become the procurer of his own 
reward, the purchaser, or rather the rightful 
possessor of a heaven of his own earning. 

But while God, by a way of his own devising, 
by a process of his own conducting, had made 
foolish the wisdom of this world, and baffled the 
vain and impracticable schemes of impotent 
man, for effecting his deliverance by any con- 
ception or act of his own, — does not man's un- 
willingness to partake of the offered mercy, look 
as if his proud heart did not choose to be freely 
forgiven, as if his haughty independence re- 
volted at the plan, in which, though he has all 
the benefit, he has none of the merit? Does it 
not seem as if he would improve the terms of 
the treaty ? as if he would mend the plan of 
salvation, and work it up into a kind of partner- 
ship scheme, in which his own contribution 
should have the predominance ? 

But it will be urged men do not say this ; we 
reply, they do not profess it in words ; but do 
not some say it virtually, when they practically 
decline the terms ; or, if they do not entirely 
disbelieve them, give at least a reluctant, and 
partial and qualified assent? 

With the genius of Christianity, with its pe- 
culiarities, with its applicableness to the wants 
of man, the whole soul of Saint Paul was singu- 
larly imbued. His acute mind, his lofty quali- 
ties, his penetrating spirit, and his renovated 
heart, entered profoundly into the character and 
essence of the gospel. His mind was a tran- 
script of divine truth ; his life an exemplification 
of it. What he conceived intimately, he im- 
parted explicitly. To combat the rebellion of 
the natural man, against the salvation wrought 
for him, is the leading object of his endeavour. 
He who was always looking unto Jesus, as the 
author and finisher of his own faith, uniformly 
holds him out to others as the sum and substance 
of theirs. 

He delights to dwell on the divine compas- 
sion ; he introduces it under every form, he illus- 
trates it by every figure, he magnifies it under 
every mode of expression. Reconciliation is 
the grand object of his mission. He exhibits 
the difference between the conduct of the Re- 
deemer, and that of man, in this negociation. 
In human cases it is usually the offender who 
makes the advances, who tries all means to re- 
cover the friend he has lost, the patron he has 
offended. But here he shows it to be just the 
"everse. Here it is tho insulted benefactor, 
here it is the injured friend, who conjures the 
offender to return, who entreats the enemy to 
be reconciled, who promises not only pardon 
but immunity, not only oblivion but reward. 
Tho penitent is every where encouraged to be- 



lieve, that his offences are forgiven, that his sini 
have been punished in his Saviour ; that the 
Judge has not only pardoned the malefactor, 
but has suffered in his stead. 

The apostle demonstrates, that God is the 
fountain, not only of our mercies, but of our 
virtues — if we turn, it is he who turns us — if 
we pray, it is he who invites us — if we apply to 
him, it is he who first draws us — if we repent, 
it is ' the grace of God which leads us to re- 
pentance.' Whatever right thing there may be 
in us, it is not our natural property, but hii 
gift. His bounty is the spring from which our 
goodness, if we have any, flows, instead of our 
goodness being the original motive of his love. 

Hitherto we have sketched, though very su- 
perficially, Christianity as to its spirit, its de- 
sign, its offers. We now turn to what is our 
more immediate object, its practical effects, its 
general results, its tranforming nature, its re- 
novating power. 

If the law of God is spiritual, it is not a con- 
formity to its letter, nor is it partial conformity, 
to its spirit, that constitutes Christian obedience. 
Christian obedience is ascertained by its univer- 
sality. It esteems all God's precepts concerning 
all things to be right ; it hates every false way. 
The prohibitory as well as the preceptive prin- 
ciple of the gospel is general. Though it makes 
much allowance for the infirmity of the act, it 
makes none as to its spirit ; it confines its pre 
scription to no particular duties, makes no ex- 
ception for favourite virtues, to the exclusion of 
such as are more difficult, or less palatable. If 
Scripture had barely informed us, that it was 
the perfection of the Christian character, to 
unite in itself, not only different, but opposite 
qualities ; if we had been only told that firmness 
is little worth, unless combined with meekness ; 
ihat integrity is imperfect, if separated from 
humility; that the warmest zeal for the good of 
others, must, in order to be acceptable, be con- 
nected with the most vigilant attention to our 
own heart ; that generosity is a spurious vir- 
tue, if disconnected with self-denial ; that re- 
ligion requires, with a consciousness of divinely 
infused strength, a deep sense of our own help- 
lessness ; that while it demands a trust in God, 
so complete, that we must renounce every other 
trust, it demands also a holiness so exact, as if 
we trusted only in ourselves. 

If we had been only shown, in some thin 
theory, that it is the genius of Christianity thus 
to amalgamate contraries, to blend into one com- 
mon principle, the deepest self-abasement with 
the most active exertions, — if all this had been 
proposed to us in an abstract way, or drily and 
didactically taught, we should have conceived 
Christianity to be a system of pleasing para- 
doxes, an invention of beautiful impracticabili- 
ties ; we should have thought it an institution 
fabricated for some world, different from ours, 
for some race of immaculate beings, for angels 
who had stood firm in their pristine purity, for 
creatures who had never lost the impression of 
the Divine image ; but never could we have 
imagined it to be a practical religion, intended 
for the fallible, peccable children of fallen mor- 
tality. 

Ithas, however, as we observed in an early 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



275 



chapter, pleased Infinite Wisdom to give us, in | By his patient continuance in well-doing-, he will 

be likely to lessen the objection not only to the 
individual professing, it, but to the doctrine it- 
self. 

When we compare this blessed apostle, who 
now fears to wound the feelings of others, with 
the same man who had lately no regard even for 
their lives ; the man who now treats with ten- 
derness the very prejudices of Christians, with 
him who 'before made havoc of the church ;' — 
the man whom we find weeping over all suffer- 
ings but his own, with him who had persecuted 
•to the death ;' when we consider him who afore- 
time was ' binding and imprisoning the followers 
of Jesus,' now burning with zeal for his cause, 
though he knew that punishments the most se- 
vere awaited himself; him who had been assist- 
ing at the death of the first martyr, now he- 
roically pursuing that course which he was fore- 
warned would lead to his own martyrdom; the 
man who ' destroyed them who called on the 
name of Jesus,' now 'confounding the Jews, and 
proving that this is indeed the very Christ' — 
shall we, when we see these astonishing results, 
refuse our homage to the transforming genius 
of Christianity — to that power which enabled 
this fierce assailant to ' put off the old man with 
his deeds, and to put on the new man, which 
after God is created in righteousness and true 
holiness?' 

Saint Paul'did not furnish such authentic evi- 
dence of that power of God which produced this 
total revolution in the character, merely by suf- 
fering death in confirmation of his faith — for 
error has had its confessors, and idolatry its 
martyrs, — but he proved it by the persevering 
holiness of a long and tormented life ; he proved 
it, by suffering himself as courageously as he 
taught others to suffer. May we venture to 
add, he gave a testimony, less accredited per- 
haps, but almost more convincing. The con- 
ceited Pharisee is become the humblest of men ; 
the proud bigot is meekness personified. — This 
change of disposition is the surest test of his to- 
tal renovation. The infusion of a heavenly tem- 
per, where a bad one had predominated, is one 
of the rarest results of Almighty Power. And 
it not only affords a substantial proof of the in- 
dividual improvement, but furnishes one of the 
most striking displays of the distinguishing cha- 
racter of our religion. 

It is owing to this specific character of Chris- 
tianity that, while philosophy had gloried in its 
wisdom, Saint Paul glories only in his weakness. 
If he ever exults, it is in the strength of the hand 
which employs him. His confidence in this su- 
pernatural strength explains his paradox, when 
I am weak then I am strong. Sometimes, in- 
deed, he boasts of himself, but it is always of his 
disadvantages. He avows his determination not 
to avail himself of any personal acquirements; 
and after his utmost success in ' winning souls,' 
he expressly disclaims that excellency of speech 
which others consider as the grand instrument 
for converting them. He strips himself of all 
ground of boasting ; acknowledges that he comes 
in weakness, in fear, in much trembling ; and 
requires that the glory of every success which 
attended his labours might be wholly ascribed 
to God. He demonstrates thut all the wisdom 



the sacred records, striking solutions of this 
enigma, actual instances of conflicting attributes 
in men of like passions with ourselves, men 
possessing qualities, which would seem to ex- 
clude each other, combining contrarieties of ex- 
cellence. Among these, there is not a brighter 
exemplification, than the great apostle of the 
Gentiles. 

Yet there is nothing in this high description, 
which exclusively belongs to Saint Paul. No- 
thing which does not address itself individually 
to U9. Though converted by a miracle, favoured 
with divine revelations, writing, and frequently 
acting, under immediate inspiration; yet was 
he, in the ordinary condition and transactions 
of life, weak and helpless. Though sustained 
by Divine power, he did not monopolize it. — Nor 
was it specially vouchsafed to him for his com- 
mon comforts ; or earthly deliverances. It was 
not given to rescue him from suffering, but to 
uphold him under it. He was, like his Lord, 
exposed to all the exigencies of a laborious and 
afrlicted life. He was obnoxious to all its trials, 
liable to the snares of the world, and to the 
temptations of the great spiritual enemy. Ifh 
conflicts were more in number, and greater in 
magnitude than ours, he obtained victory over 
them, by a power to which he directs us, a power 
to which we have equal access. The same sin- 
cerity of petition will procure the same gracious 
* assistance; that grand rcsolver of doubt, that 
omnipotent vanquisher of difficulty — my grace 
is sufficient for thee — though directly addressed 
to Saint Paul, is also, through him, addressed to 
every one of us. 

It was probably a charge brought against 
Saint Paul, that his conversion contributed little 
to the improvement of his moral and civil vir- 
tues. But such an allegation, if made, must 
have come from the party which he had quitted. 
They considered him as an apostate from the 
faith ; they considered his zeal for the religion 
which he had once persecuted, as a degrading 
inconsistency, as a defection from all moral 
goodness. His subsequent life, which afforded 
the most lively comment on the new doctrines, 
is the best answer to such an allegation. His 
perseverance afforded a rational conviction, that 
the change was neither the effect of fear nor of 
fancy. A conduct corresponding to his first 
emotions, and a continually growing excellence, 
completely repel the charge. — He who in the 
first moment of alarm, exclaimed, what wilt thou 
have me to do? did through life all which he 
then desired to be taught. 

Every convert should endeavour to produce 
in his measure and degree, the same proofs that 
he too is under no deception ; he should give the 
same evidence, that he is misled by no fanciful 
illumination ; and this can only be effected by 
exhibiting a change of conduct, not only obvious, 
but permanent; not only during the first terrors 
or transports of which we so frequently hear, 
but by a steady consecration of his whole future 
life to his Creator. Every other plea may be 
illusion, may be hypocrisy ; while this test, be- 
ing visible, will be incontrovertible. The more 
the penitent is observed ; the more this para- 
mount evidence will eventually remove all doubts. 



276 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



with which the world had been dazzled, was to 
be eclipsed by that hidden wisdom ' which none 
of the princes of this world knew,' and their ig- 
norance of which was the only extenuation that 
he offers of their guilt in ' crucifying the Lord 
of Glory.' 

The same trials seem in some measure to have 
been reserved for Saint Paul which had been 
sustained by his Lord. This was perhaps de- 
termined, that he might glorify God by meeting 
them in the same spirit ; and thus might leave 
a human example of the highest Christian at- 
tainment. Of Jesus it is recorded, that 'his 
disciples all forsook him and fled.' Like him 
Saint Paul declared, in his last appearance be- 
fore the Roman tribunal, ' no man stood by me, 
but all men forsook me.' As the Master had 
prayed for his cruel enemies, — ' Father forgive 
them, for they know not what they do,' so Paul 
interceded for his faithless — ' I pray God that it 
may not be laid to their charge.' Even under 
this severest blow to natural feelings, the deser- 
tion of those we love, holy Paul forgets not to glo- 
rify ' the Lord, who stood by him, and strength- 
ened him ;' and who enabled him to act a part 
consistent with his Christian profession, and to 
bear an honourable testimony to the truth of the 
Gospel before his persecuting judges. 

Thus again did he resemble his great Exem- 
plar, ' who, before Pontius Pilate, witnessed a 
good confession.' And may we not suppose that 
this example of heroic constancy assisted in sus- 
taining our Latimers and our Ridleys, when, by 
manifesting a similar spirit under similar suffer- 
ings, they showed their cause and their con- 
fidence to be so nearly allied to those of the 
apostle ? 

Nor does Christianity, (as we shall have occa- 
sion to observe more at large hereafter,) limit 
the exercise of this temper to apostles and mar- 
tyrs, but enjoins it under the inferior trials of 
common life. 

Finally, the judgments of heaven bore the 
same kind of testimony to the truth of the Gos- 
pel, in the prison at Philippi, as it had done on 
the Mount of Calvary. In the one instance, 
1 Behold the veil of the temple was rent in twain, 
and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent.' 
In the other, ' Suddenly there was a great earth- 
quake, the foundations of the prison were shaken, 
the doors were opened, the chains were loosened, 
the captives were freed, the jailor was convert- 
ed !' Are not all these circumstances, taken 
together, a clear solution of Saint Paul's other- 
wise obscure declaration, that he thus filled vp 
what remained of the sufferings of Christ ? Did 
the sense of victory, did the joys of peace, did 
the honourable scars brought from the field of 
battle, ever excite such a feeling in the mind of 
the conqueror as Saint Paul felt at thus bearing 
in his body the marks of the Lord Jesus, and at 
the encouragement they gave him to achieve 
new conquests ? 

What a strange use does Paul immediately 
make of his scourgings and imprisonment at 
Philippi ? He uses them as an argument why 
his entrance into Thessalonica was not in vain! 
His shameful treatment at the former place, in- 
stead of intimidating him from further services, 
redoubled his courage to preach to the Thcesa- 



lonians that very Gospel which had procured 
him such disgraceful treatment at Philippi. On 
this occasion he adduces a touching instance of 
the effect of his imprisonment, which, though 
striking, is not singular to those who understand 
the genius of Christianity. His unjust captivity, 
as the champion of the new faith, which, in the 
opinion of those to whom the motive principle 
of our religion is unknown, would have been 
likely to extinguish the flame, had only served 
in his estimation to fan it. Others, timid be. 
fore, 'grew more confident,' by the very bonds 
which were intended to discourage them. Their 
fears were absorbed in their faith, and the chains 
of the Saint caused a wider and more rapid diffu. 
sion of that Gospel which they were intended to 
stop. And though ' some preached Christ of 
contention,' yet holy Paul was so exhilarated by 
the general success, that he was less solicitous 
about the motives of the instructor, than the pro- 
gress of the instruction. He looked for the be- 
nefit rather from the power of the Gospel, than 
from the purity of the preacher. 

We have repeatedly observed, that an ardent 
affection was one of the prominent features in 
Saint Paul's character : it is natural, therefore, 
that the expression of this temper should be par- 
ticularly stamped on his writings. If he ex- 
presses this satisfaction with more unmingled 
delight to any one church than another, it seems 
to be to that which he had planted at Philippi. 
He appears to repose himself with grateful joy ^ 
on their fidelity, and with assured hope in their 
progress. In every prayer he makes request 
for them, with a joy, which manifested the de- 
pendence he had on their perseverance. This 
was a proof that his ' confidence' did not abate 
the necessity of his supplications, though he 
made them with a joy which this confidence in- 
spired. While his knowledge of the fluctuations 
of the human heart Jed him to rejoice with trem- 
bling, yet the continuanceof this favoured church 
in the principles into which they had been ini- 
tiated by his visit to them ten years before, gave 
him a reasonable ground of their persevering 
steadfastness. 

This church afforded an eminent proof not 
only of its attachment to Paul, its founder, but 
of its zeal for Christianity. Not satisfied with 
advancing the credit of religion, and assisting 
its ministers in their own country, with a truly 
catholic spirit, these Philippian converts repeat- 
edly sent money to Paul at Thessalonica, that, 
by relieving the Christians there from the ex- 
pense which would attend the establishment of 
the Gospel, they might be led to conceive a 
higher idea of the religion itself by tho disin- 
terestedness of its ministers. This generous 
superiority to any lucrative views, gave Paul a 
marked advantage over their philosophical teach 
ers, who bestowed no gratuitous instruction. 

The apostle gratefully considers it as one of 
the practical effects of the confirmed piety of 
his beloved Pliilippians, that they were so libe- 
rally kind to himself; he received their affec- 
tionate services to the aged, afflicted, and now 
imprisoned servant of Jesus Christ, as a proof 
of their fealty to his Lord. An ambassador, 
though in bonds, will still be considered as a re 
presentative of his king, by every liege subject. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



277 



With what cordiality does he solemnly attest the 
Omniscient to the truth of his attachment to 
them, and his desire to see them ! 

Highly, however, as lie estimates their reli- 
gious improvement, he does not consider them 
as having attained that elevation of character 
which renders monition superfluous, or advance- 
ment unnecessary ; for he exhorts even ' as ma- 
ny as be perfect,' that they press forward and 
reach forth unto those things which are before : 
in his usual humble way identifying himself 
with those he is admonishing — ' Let us be thus 
minded.' 

Again — ' Though he is confident that he that 
begun a good work in them,' will accomplish it, 
yet they must still work out their salvation ; but 
lest they might be tempted to value themselves 
on their exertions, they are instantly reminded 
who it is that l worketh in them to will and to 
do.' Though they professed ■ the Gospel, 'their 
conversation must be such as becometh it.' To 
accomplish his full desire, their love, already so 
great, must ' abound more and more.' Nor 
would he be satisfied with an ignorant or disor- 
derly piety— their love must manifest itself more 
and more 'in knowledge and judgment:' in 
knowledge, by a perpetual acquisition ; in judg- 
ment, by a practical application of that know- 
ledge. 

How little, in the eyes of the sober Christian, 
does the renowned Roman, who, scarcely half a 
century before, sacrificed his life to his appoint- 
ment, at this very Philippi, appear, in compari- 
son of the man who addressed this epistle to the 
same city ! Saint Paul was not less brave than 
Brutus, but his magnanimity was of a higher 
strain. Paul was exercised in a long series of 
sufferings, from which the sword of Brutus, di- 
rected by any hand but that of Paul himself, 
would have been a merciful deliverance. Paul, 
too, was a patriot, and set a proper value on his 
dignity as a Roman citizen. He too was a 
champion for freedom, but he fought for that 
higher species of liberty 

'Unsung by Poets, and by Senators unprais'd.' 

Was it courage of the best sort, in the Roman 
enthusiast for freedom, to abandon his country 
to her evil destiny, at the very moment when 
she most needed his support ? Was it true ge- 
nerosity or patriotism, after having killed his 
friend, to whom he owed his fortune and his 
life,* usurper though he was, voluntarily to 
leave this adored country a prey to inferior 
usurpers? Though Ccesar had robbed Rome of 
her liberty, should Brutus rob her of his own 
guardian virtues ? Why not say to the Romans, 
as Paul did to the Philippians — Though I de- 
sire to depart, nevertheless to abide in the Jlesh 
is more needful for you ? This would have been 
indeed patriotism, because it would have been 
disinterested. Was not Paul's the truer heroism? 
He also was in a strait between two events, life 
and death. He knew what Brutus, alas ! did 
not know, ' that to die was gain ;' but, instead 
of deserting his cause, by a pusillanimous self- 
murder, he submitted to live for its interest. 
The gloomy despair of the Stoic, and the cheer- 
* At the battle of Pharsalia. 



ful submission of the Saint, present a lively con- 
trast of the effects of the two religions on two 
great souls. 

It is a coincidence too remarkable to be pass- 
ed over in silence, that Paul was directed by 'a 
vision from heaven' to go to Philippi ; that Bru- 
tus was summoned to the same city by his evil 
genius. The hero obeyed the phantom ; the 
apostle was ' not disobedient to the heavenly 
vision ;' to what different ends, let the conclud- 
ing histories of the devoted suicide and the de- 
voted martyr declare ! Will it be too fanciful to 
add, that the spectre which lured the Roman 
to his own destruction, and the vision which in 
the same place invited the apostle to preach 
saltation to others, present no unapt emblem of 
the opposite genius of Paganism and Chris- 
tianity. 



CHAP. XVI. 

Saint PauVs respect for constituted authorities. 

The Gospel was never intended to dissolve 
the ancient ties between sovereign and subject, 
master and servant, parent and child, but rather 
to draw them closer, to strengthen a natural by 
a lawful and moral obligation. As the charge 
of disaffection was, from the first, most inju- 
rious to the religion of Jesus, it is obvious why 
the apostle was so frequent, and so earnest, in 
vindicating it from this calumny. 

It is apparent from every part of the New 
Testament, that our Lord never intended to in- 
troduce any change into the civil government 
of Judea, where he preached, nor into any part 
of the world to which his religion might extend. 
As his object was of a nature specifically differ- 
ent, his discourses were always directed to that 
other object. His politics were uniformly con- 
versant about his own kingdom, which was not 
of this world. If he spake of human govern- 
ments at all, it was only incidentally, as circum- 
stances led to it, and as it gave occasion to dis- 
play or enforce some act of obedience. He dis- 
creetly entangled the Pharisees in the insidious 
net which they had spread for him, by direct- 
ing, in answer to their ensnaring question, that 
the things which belonged even to the sovereign 
whom they detested, should be ' rendered' to 
him. 

Saint Paul exhibited at once a striking proof 
of the soundness of his own principles, and of 
the peaceable character of Christianity, in his 
full and explicit exposition of the allegiance due 
to the ruling powers. His thorough conviction 
that human nature was, and would be, the same 
in all ages, led him to anticipate the necessity 
of impressing on his converts the duty of rescu- 
ing the new religion, not only from present re. 
proach, but from that obloquy to which he fore- 
saw that it would always be exposed. 

He knew that a seditious spirit had been al- 
leged against his Lord. He knew, that as it 
was with the master so it must be with the 
servant. One was called a ' pestilent fellow ;' 
another ' a stirrer-up of the people:' others were 
charged with ' turning the world upside down.' 



278 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



These charges, invented and propagated by the 
Jews, were greedily adopted by the persecuting 
Roman emperors, and* their venal instruments ; 
and have always been seized on and brought 
forward as specious pretences for exile, pro- 
scription, massacre. 

Many of the Protestant Reformers were after- 
wards accused, or suspected, of the same facti- 
ous disposition; and if a similar accusation has 
not been boldly produced, it has been insidiously 
implied, against some of the most faithful 
friends of the government, and of the ecclesias- 
tical constitution of our own country ; as if a 
more than ordinary degree of religious activity 
rendered their fidelity to the state suspicious, 
and their hostility to the church certain. We 
do not deny, that though Christianity has never 
been the cause, it has often been made the pre- 
tence for disaffection. Religion has been made 
the handle of ambition by Pop r ry, and of sedi- 
tion by some of the Puritan Reformers. Cor- 
ruption in both cases was stamped upon the 
very face of those who so used it. Nothing, 
however, can be more unfair, than eagerly to 
charge religious profession with such dangers, 
which yet the instances alluded to have given 
some of our high churchmen a plausible plea for 
always doing. This plea, though in certain 
cases justly furnished, has been most unjustly 
used by being applied to instances to which it is 
completely inapplicable. 

For the truth is, that a factious spirit is so far 
from having any natural connection with the 
religion of the Gospel, that it stands in the most 
direct opposition to it. Saint Paul, in taking 
particular care to vindicate Christianity from 
any such aspersion, shows that obedience to 
constituted authorities is among the express 
commands of our Saviour. He might have added 
to the strength of his assertion, by adducing his 
example also; for, in order to be enabled to 
comply with a law of government, Christ did, 
what he had never done to supply his own ne- 
cessities — he wrought a miracle. 

The apostle knowing the various shifts of 
men, from their natural love of gain, to evade 
paying imposts, is not content with a general 
exhortation on this head, but urges the duty in 
every conceivable shape, and under every va- 
riety of name, as if to prevent the possibility of 
•ven a verbal subterfuge — tribute, custom, fear, 
love, honour, fidelity in payment; and then, 
having exhausted particulars, he sums them up 
in a general — owe no man any thing. Thus he 
leaves not., Shly no public opening, but no secret 
crevice to 'fiscal fraud. * 

Perhaps it is an evidence, in this instance, 
rather of the sagacious, than of the prescient, 
•pirit which governed Saint Paul ; that there is 
as much tendency to it now, as when the apos- 
tle first published his prohibitory letter. The 
known principles of human nature, as we have 
just observed, might lead us to expect it alike 
in all ages. At the same time, we cannot be toft 
mindful of that command of Inspiration, which, 
by enjoining us 1o render to all their dues, has 
enlarged the sphere of civil duty to the very 
utmost limit of human actions. And it ' is no 
little credit to Christianity, that intimations are 
* Romans xiii. 



so frequently repeated, by all the s ya'~.ss to all 
classes of society, that their \.*r- a.g become 
Christiana was the very reason w.i} all their 
lawful obligations should be the inoro scrupu- 
lously discharged. 

Saint Peter and Saint Paul vpreach the same 
doctrine, but most judiciously apply their in- 
junctions to the different modes of government 
under which their several converts lived. Saint 
Peter, who wrote to the strangers scattered 
through Fortius, Asia, &c. where the govern- 
ments were arbitrary, orders them first to obey 
the king as supreme. Saint Paul, addressing the 
people of Rome, where it is well known the em 
peror and the senate did not always act in con- 
currence, with his usual exquisite pruderce 
makes choice of an ambiguous expression, the 
higher powers, without specifically determining 
what those powers were. 

Loyalty is a cheap quality, where a good 
government makes a happy people. It is then 
an obligation, without being a virtue. — That 
every man should be obedient to the existing 
powers, is a very easy injunction to us, who are 
living under the mildest government, and the 
most virtuous king. When Paul enjoined his 
beloved disciple ' to put the people in mind to 
be subject to principalities and powers, and to 
obey magistrates,' — had the Episcopal Titus 
been acting under the merciful government of 
the Imperial Titus, Paul might have been de- 
nied any merit in givin« this authoritative man- 
date, or the bishop in obeying- it ; it might have 
been urged, that the injunctions were accommo- 
dated to a sovereign whose commands it would 
be unreasonable to dispute. 

The submission which Saint Paul practised 
and taught was a trial of a higher order, but 
though hard, it was not too hard for his princi- 
ples. To enjoin and to practice implicit obe- 
dience, where Nero was the supreme authority, 
furnished him with a fair occasion for exhibit- 
ing his sincerity on this point. — Never let it be 
forgotten for the honour of Christianity, and of 
the apostle who published it, that Paul chose to 
address his precepts of civil obedience to the 
Christians at Rome, under the most tyrannical 
of all their tyrants. He commands them to 
submit for conscience sake, to a sovereign, who, 
— their enemy, Tacitus, gives the relation, — 
made the martyrdom of the Christians his per- 
sonal diversion ; who burnt them alive by night 
in the streets, that the flames might light him 
to the scene of his licentious pleasures. 

In the first three centuries, till the Roman 
government became Christian, there is not, we 
believe, an instance upon record, of any insur- 
rection against legitimate authority. — Tertul- 
lian, in his ' Apology,' challenges the Pagans 
to produce a single instance of sedition, in which 
any of the Christians had been concerned ; 
though their numbers were become so great, as 
to have made their opposition formidable, while 
the well-known cruel and vengeful principle of 
their oppressors would have rendered it despe- 
rate. Even that philosophical politician Mon 
tesquieu acknowledged, that in those countries 
where Christianity had even imperfectly taken 
root, rebellions have been less frequent than in 
other places. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



979 



Nor did Saint Paul indemnify nimself for his 
public submission, by privately villifying the 
lawful tyrant : the emperor is not only not named, 
but is not pointed at. There is not one of those 
sly inuendos, which the artful subverters of 
states know how to employ, when I hey would 
undermine the stability of law, without f: incur- 
ing its penalty. — He betrays no symptom of an 
exasperating spirit, lurking behind the shelter 
of prudence, and the screen of legal security. 

It is observable, that in the very short period, 
from the origin of Christianity under Augustus 
to the time at which Saint Paul wrote, there 
were four successive Roman emperors, each of 
whom was worse than the preceding, as if it 
had been providentially so determined, as a test 
of the meek and quiet spirit of Christianity, 
whose followers never manifested resistance to 
any of these oppressive masters. 

Paul knew how to unite a respect for the 
government, with a just abhorrence of the vices 
of the governor. We are not advocating the 
cause of passive obedience — but it may be fairly 
observed, in this connection, that political pas- 
sions are so apt to inflame the whole mind, that 
it is dangerous for those, who are professionally 
devoted to the service of religion, to be too pow- 
erfully influenced by them. 

I believe there has been no government, under 
which Christianity has not been able to subsist. 
When the ruling powers were lenient to it, and 
especially when they afforded it protection, it 
h.as advanced in secular prosperity, and exter- 
nal grandeur ; when they have been intolerant, 
its spirit has received a fresh internal impulse ; 
it has improved in spiritual vigour, as if it had 
considered oppression only as a new scene for 
calling new graces into exercise. 

With the specific nature of the populace, in 
all countries, Paul was well acquainted. He 
knew that till religion has operated on their 
hearts, they have but one character. Of this 
character we have many correct, though slight 
sketches, in the New Testament. Now we 
hear the stupid clamour of the Ephesian idola- 
ters, vociferating, for two hours, their one* 
phrase. Then we see that picture of a mob, so 
exactly alike in all ages, from the uproar in the 
streets of Ephesus, to the riots in the streets of 
Westminster ; ' the greater part knew not where- 
fore they were come together.' On another oc- 
casion, ' the certainty could not be known for 
the tumult.' Then their mutable caprice, chang- 
ing with the impulse of the event, or of the mo- 
ment. When the viper fastened on Paul's hand, 
4 he was a murderer,' when he shook it off un- 
hurt, ' he was a god.'t At Lystra the same peo- 
ple who had offered him Divine honours, no 
sooner heard the false reports of the Jews from 
Antioch, than they stoned him and dragged him 
out of the city as a dead man^X It was the very 
spirit which dictated the ' Hosanna' of one day, 
and the 'crucify him' of the next. 

Saint Paul well knew these wayward motions 
of the mob. He knew also that, without the 
faculty of thinking', their gregarious habit gave 
them a physical force, which was a substitute 
for rational strength ; and that this instinctive 



* Acts, xix. 



t Acts, xxviii. 



X Acts, xv, 



| and headlong following the herd, without reason 
| without consistency, makes them as formidable 
by their aggregate number, as they are inconsi- 
derable by their individual weight. Yet, did 
he ever attempt to turn the knowledge, in which 
he was so well versed, to a political purpose ? Did 
he ever cajole the multitude, as an engine to 
lift himself into power or popularity ? Did he 
consider them, as some designing orators have 
done, the lowest round in ambition's ladder, by 
which, its foot fixed in the dirt, they strive to 
scale the summit of public favour; alluring by 
flattery beings they despise, and paying them 
by promises, which they know they shall never 
be able to keep. 

Saint Paul's love of order is an additional 
proof of the soundness of his political character. 
He uses his influence with the vulgar, only to 
lead them to obedience. Nor did he content 
himself with verbal instructions to obey ; ho 
seconded them by a method the most practically 
efficient. Together with order itself, he en- 
joined on the people those industrious habits 
which are the very soul of order. He was a 
most rigorous punisher of idleness, that power- 
ful cherisher of insubordination in the lower 
orders. Not to eat was the penalty he inflicted 
on those who would not work. He commands 
the Thessalonian converts ■ to correct the dis- 
orderly' — again enjoining, that ' with quietness 
they work and eat their own bread.' — 'Stirrers 
up of the people' never command them to work . 
and though they promise them bread, knowing 
they shall never be able to give it to them, yet 
they do not, like Paul, command them to eat it 
in peace. By thus encouraging peaceable and 
laborious habits, he was at once ensuring the 
comforts of the people, and the security of the 
state. Are these exhortations, is this conduct, 
any proof of that tendency to faction, which has 
been so often charged on the religion of Jesus? 

In his political discretion, as well as in all 
other points, Paul imitates his Lord. Jesus, 
in the earlier part of his ministry, was extreme, 
ly cautious of declaring who he was, never but 
once owned himself to be the Messiah ; when 
at last, knowing 'that his hour was come,' he 
scrupled not to express his resentment publicly 
against the Sanhedrim, by almost the only 
strong expression of indignation. Which In- 
finite Wisdom, clothed in Infinite Meekness, 
ever thought fit to use. Even then, he said no- 
thing against the civil governor. 

But while Paul thus proved himself a firm 
supporter of established authorities, as such, ha 
would not connive at any formal act of injustice , 
while he resigned himself to the Roman powers, 
his lawful judges, he would not submit to be 
condemned illegally by the Jews. When he 
appealed to Caesar, he declared with a dignified 
firmness becoming his character, that though he 
refused not to die, he would be tried by the 
rightful judicature. 

If it bo objected, that, in a single instance, he 
sharply rebuked Ananias for violating the taw, 
by commanding him to be punished unjustly; 
he immediately cleared himself from the charge 
of contumacy, by declaring ' he knew not that 
it was the High Priest ;' and instantly took oc- 
casion to extraot a maxim of obedience from hia 



280 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



own error; and to render it more impressive 
sanctioned it by Scriptural authority, It is writ- 
ten, thou shalt not speak evil of the ruler of thy 
people.'* 

It must have been obvious to his Pagan judges, 
that he never interfered with their rights, or 
even animadverted on their corruptions. His 
real crime in their eyes, was, not his intermed- 
dling with government, but his converting the 
people. It was by exposing the impositions of 
their mercenary priests, by declaring their idols 
ought not to be worshipped, that he inflamed the 
magistrates ; and they were irritated, not so 
much as civil governors, as guardians of their 
religion. He knew the consequences of his 
persevering fidelity, and like a true servant of 
the true God, never shrunk from them. 

To complete the character of his respect to 
authorities, he sanctifies loyalty, by connecting 
it with piety. He expressly exhorts the new 
bishop of the Ephesians,t that throughout his 
Episcopal jurisdiction, ' prayers, intercession, 
and giving of thanks be made for kings and all 
in authority ;' — and adds, as a natural conse- 
quence of the obligation, arising from the reci- 
procal connection, ' that subjects may lead a quiet 
and peaceable life, in all godliness and honesty.' 
There could not have been devised a more pro- 
bable method of insuring allegiance; for would 
it not be preposterous to injure or vilify those, 
for whom we make it a conscience to pray ? 

Yet even this important duty may be over- 
estimated, when men's submission lo kings is 
considered as paramount to their duty to ' an- 
other king, one Jesus.' An instance of this we 
have seen exemplified in our own time, though 
it has pleased Almighty Goodness to overrule it 
to the happiest results. And among the tri- 
umphs of religion which we have witnessed, it 
is not the least considerable, that, whereas Chris- 
tianity was originally charged with a design to 
overturn states and empires, we have seen the 
crime completely turned over to the accusers ; 
we have seen the avowed adversaries of Christ 
become the strenuous subverters of order, law, 
and government. 

To name only one of the confederated band : 
— Voltaire had reached the pinnacle of literary 
fame and general admiration, not, it is to be 
hoped, for his impiety, but in spite of it The 
fearful consequences of his audacious blasphe- 
mies were hid behind those graces of style, that 
gay wit, those fascinating pleasantries, that 
sharp, yet bitter raillery, which, if they did not 
conceal the turpitude, decorated it, and obtained, 
for his profaneness, something more than par- 
don. His boldness increased with his impunity. 
He carried it with a high hand, against the 
whole scheme of revelation ; substituting ridi- 
cule for argument, and assertion for fact ; and 
then, reasoning from his own misrepresenta- 
tions, as consequentially as if he had found the 
circumstances he invented. 

But the missile arrows of his lighter pieces, 
barbed, pointed, and envenomed, (the exact 
characters of that slender weapon) proved the 
most destructive in his warfare upon Christi- 
anity; and he could replenish his exhaustless 



* Acts, cli. xxiii. 



t Timothy. 



quiver, with the same unparalleled celerity with 
which he emptied it. The keen sagacity of 
his mind taught him, that witty wickedness is 
of all the most successful. Argumentative im- 
piety hurts but few, and generally those who 
were hurt before. Besides it requires in the 
reader a talent, or at least a taste, congenial 
with the writer ; in this idle age it requires also 
the rare quality of patient investigation ; a 
quality not to be generally expected, when our 
reading has become almost as dissipated as our 
pleasures, and as frivolous as our conversation. 

For though Voltaire contrived to make every 
department of literature the medium of corrup- 
tion ; though the most unpromising and least 
suspected vehicles were pressed into the service 
to assist his ruling purpose ; yet historical false- 
hoods might be refuted by adverting to purer 
sources, unfair citations might be contradicted, 
by refering to the originals. The popular en- 
gine of mischief is not the art of reasoning, but 
the art of raillery. The danger lies not in the 
attempt to prove a thing to be false, so much as 
in the talent which aims to make what is true, 
ridiculous ; not so much in attacking, as in mis- 
staling, not in inverting, but in discolouring. 

Metaphysical mischief is tedious to the tri- 
fling, and dull to the lively. Who now reads 
the 'Leviathan?' Who has not read Candide ? 
1 Political Justice,' a more recent work, sub- 
versive of all religious and social order, was too 
ponderous to be popular, and too dry to answer 
the end of general corruption. But when the 
substance, by that chemical process well known 
to the preparers of poison, was rubbed down into 
an amusing novel, then it began to operate; the 
vehiele, though made pleasant, did not lessen 
the deleterious quality. 

In Voltaire, a sentiment that cut up hope by 
the roots was compressed into a phrase as short 
as the motto of a ring, and as sparkling as the 
brilliants which encompass it. Every one can 
repeat an epigram, and even they who cannot 
understand, can circulate it. The fashionable 
laughed before they had time to think ; the 
dread of .not being supposed to have read, what 
all were reading, stimulated those who read, in 
order that they might talk. Little wits came 
to sharpen their weapons at the forge of this 
Philistine, or to steal small arms from his arsenal. 

The writer of these pages has not forgotten 
the time when it was a sort of modish compe- 
tition who could first produce proof that they 
had received the newest pamphlet from Ferney, 
by quoting from it ; and they were gratified to 
find that the attributes of intelligence and good 
taste were appended to their gay studies. Others 
indulged with a sort of fearful delight, in the 
perilous pleasure. Even those who could not 
read, without indignation, did not wait, without 
impatience. Each successive work, like the 
book in the Apocalypse, was 'so sweet in the 
mouth,' that they forgot lo anticipate the bitter- 
ness of digestion. Or, to borrow a more awful 
illustration from the same divine source, 'A 
star fell from heaven on the waters, burning 
like a lamp, and the star was called Wormwood ; 
and many died of the waters, because they were 
made bitter.' That bright genius, which might 
have illuminated the world, became a destructive 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



281 



flame, and, like the burning brand thrown by 
the Roman soldier into the Temple of Jerusalem, 
carried conflagration into the Sanctuary. 

At length, happily for rescuing the principles, 
but most injuriously for the peace and safety of 
society, the polished courtier became a furious 
anarchist. The idol of monarchical France, the 
equalized associate of the Royal Author of Ber- 
lin, changed his political note , the parasite of 
princes, and the despot of literature, sounded the 
trumpet of Jacobinism. The political and mo- 
ral world shook to their foundation. Earth be- 
low trembled. Heaven above threatened. All 
was insecurity. Order seemed reverting to ori- 
ginal chaos. The alarm was given. Britain 
first awoke, roused by the warning voice of 
Burke. Enthusiasm was converted into detesta- 
tion. The horror which ought to have been ex- 
cited by his impiety was reserved for his demo- 
cracy. But it was found that he could not sub- 
vert thrones with the same impunity with which 
he had laboured to demolish altars. He gave, 
indeed, the same impulse to sedition, which he 
had long given to infidelity, and by his own ac- 
tivity increased the velocity of both. The public 
feeling was all alive, and his political principles 
justly brought on his name that reprobation 
which had been long due to his blasphemies, but 
which his blasphemies had failed to excite. 

Divine Providence seems to have spared him 
to extreme old age, that by adding one crime 
more to his long catalogue, his political outrages 
might counteract his moral mischiefs. But his 
wisdom seems to have been equally short-sighted 
in both his projects. While the consequences 
of his designs against the governments of the 
world, probably outran his intentions, his scheme 
for the extinction of Christianity, and for the 
obliteration of the very name of its author, fell 
short of it. Peace, law, and order are restored 
to the desolated nations. Kings are reinstated 
on their rightful thrones, and many of the sub- 
jects of the King of kings, it is hoped, are re- 
turned to their allegiance. 

The abilities of this powerful but pernicious 
genius, were not more extraordinary than their 
headlong, yet diversified course. His talents 
took their bent from the turn of the age in which 
he was cast. His genius was his own, but its 
determination was given from without. He 
gave impressions as forcibly, as he yielded to 
them suddenly. It was action and reaction. He 
lighted on the period, in which, of all others, he 
was born to produce the most powerful sensa- 
tion. The public temper was agitated ; he help- 
ed on the crisis. Revolt was ripening ; he ma- 
tured it. Circumstances suggested his theories; 
his theories influenced circumstances. He was 
inebriated with flattery, and mad with success ; 
but his delirious vanity defeated its own ends ; 
in his greediness for instant adoration he ne- 
glected to take future fame into his bold but 
brief account. 

' Vaulting ambition overleap'd itself, 
And fell on t'other side.' 



CHAP. XVII. 

St. Paul's attention to Inferior Concerns. 
Vol.IL 



It is one great advantage of epistolary writing 
that it is not subject to the general laws of com- 
position, but admits of every diversity of miscel- 
laneous matter. Topics which might be thought 
beneath the dignity of a Treatise, or inconsis- 
tent with the solemnity of a Sermon, or the gra- 
vity of a Dissertation, find their proper place in 
a letter. Details of which are not of the first im- 
portance, may yet be of such a nature as to re- 
quire notice or animadversion. 

The epistolary form has also other advan- 
tages ; it not only admits of a variety of subjects, 
but of the most abrupt transition, from one sub- 
ject to another, however dissimilar. It requires 
not the connecting links of argumentative com- 
position, nor the regularity of historical, nor the 
uniformity of ethical ; nor the method and ar- 
rangement of each and of all these. The free 
mind, unfettered by critical rules, expatiates at 
wiH, soars or sinks, skims or dives, as the objects 
of its attention may be elevated or depressed, 
profound or superficial. 

Of the character of this species of writing, the 
authors of epistles of the New Testament have 
most judiciously availed themselves. Saint Paul, 
especially, has taken all due advantage of the 
latitude it allows. His epistles, though they 
contain the most profound reasoning, and on the 
most important subjects on which the mind of 
man can be engaged, are not, exclusively, regu- 
lar discussions of any set topics ; though they 
breathe strains of devotion almost angelic, yet 
do they also frequently stoop to the concerns of 
ordinary life : partaking, as occasion requires, 
of all that familiarity, versatility, and ease, which 
this species of writing authorizes. Yet though 
occasional topics and incidental circumstances 
are introduced, each epistle has some particular 
drift, tends to some determined point, and, 
amidst frequent digressions, still maintains a 
consistency with itself, as well as with the ge- 
neral tendency of Scripture ; the method being 
sometimes concealed, and the chain of argu- 
ment not obvious, the closest attention is re- 
quired, and the reader, while he may be gather- 
ing much solid instruction, reproof or consola- 
tion, from scattered sentences, and independent 
axioms, will not, without much application of 
mind, embrace the general argument. 

Amidst, however, all the higher parts of spi- 
ritual instruction ; amidst all the solidity of deep 
practical admonition, there is not, perhaps, a 
single instance in which this author has omitted 
to inculcate any one of the little morals, any one 
even of what may be called those minor circum- 
stances, which constitute the decorums and de- 
cencies of life. Nor does his zeal for promoting 
the greatest actions, ever make him unmindful 
of the grace, the propriety, the manner in which 
they are to be performed. 

It is one of the characteristic properties of a 
great mind that it can, 'contract as well as di- 
late itself;' and we have it from one of the high- 
est human authorities, that the mind which can- 
not do both is not great in its full extent.* The 
minuter shades of character do not of themselves 
make up a valuable person ; they may be pos- 
sessed in perfection, separate from great excel 

* Lord Bacon. 



383 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



lence. But as that would be a feeble mind, 
which should be composed of inferior qualities 
only, so that would be an imperfect one, in 
which they were wanting. To all the strong 
lines of character, Saint Paul added the lighter 
touches, the graceful filling up which finish the 
portrait. 

In a character which forcibly exhibits all the 
great features of Christianity, these subordinate 
properties do not only make up its completeness, 
they give also an additional evidence of the truth 
and perfection of a religion which makes such 
a provision for virtue, as to determine that no- 
thing which is right, however inconsiderable, 
can be indifferent. The attention to inferior 
duties is a symptom of a mind not satisfied with 
its attainments, not so full of itself, as to fancy 
that it can afford to be negligent ; it is indica- 
tive of a mind humble enough to be watchful, 
because it is suspicious of itself ; of a conscience 
ever on its guard, that its infirmities may not 
grow into vices, nor its occasional neglects into 
allowed omissions. But it is chiefly anxious, 
that its imperfections may not be brought, as a 
charge against religion itself; for may not its 
enemies say, if he is neglectful of small and easy 
duties, which cost little, is it probable that he 
will be at much pains about such as are labori- 
ous and difficult ? Saint Paul never leaves an 
opening for this censure. He always seems to 
have thought small avenues worth guarding, 
small kindnesses worth performing, small negli- 
gences worth avoiding : and his constant practi- 
cal creed is, that nothing that is a sin is small ; 
that nothing that is right is insignificant. But 
Saint Paul was an accurate master of moral 
proportion. He took an exact measure of the 
positive and relative value of things. If he did 
not treat small objects as great ones — If he did 
not lift proprieties into principles, he by no 
means overlooked them ; he never wholly neg- 
lected them. He graduated the whole scale of 
doctrine, and of action, of business and of opi- 
nion, assigning to every thing its place accord- 
ing to its worth. 

Though he did not think the dissention in re- 
ligious opinions between two individuals, Euo- 
dias and Syntyche* of as much importance ae 
the contentions and schisms in the church of 
the Corinthians, yet he thought it of sufficient 
importance to be healed ; and anxiously desired 
to reconcile them, to ' make them of one mind 
in the Lord.' He knew that disunion is not 
only unfavourable to the piety of the persons at 
variance, but that, while it gratifies the enemies, 
it injures the cause of religion. 

But if he gives their due importance to infe- 
rior, though necessary duties, he draws a still 
nicer line in regard to matters in themselves in- 
different. The eaters of herbs and the eaters 
of flesh are alike, in his estimation, as to the 
act ; but when the indulgence in the latter be- 
comes a temptation to an undecided believer, 
then, even, this trifling concession was no longer 
a matter of indifference. It became then a just 
ground for the exercise of self-denial, which 
perhaps he was not sorry to have the opportunity 
■of enforcing. 

* Philippians, ch. iv. 



He knew that there were persons who profess 
to have made a great proficiency in piety, who 
are not defective in point of cheap attainment, 
but are defective in the more difficult attain- 
ments which involve self-denial ; persons who, 
though very spiritual in their conversation, are 
somewhat selfish in their habits ; who talk much 
of faith, and yet decline the smallest sacrifice 
of ease ; who profess to do all for Christ, but do 
little for his poor membors. He wished to see a 
high profession always accompanied with a cor 
responding practice. The Israelites, who were 
so forward to exclaim, ' all that the Lord hath 
commanded us we will do,' went and made them 
a golden calf. 

In the mind of our apostle, all is consistent. 
He that said, ' Let the same mind be in you 
which was in Christ Jesus,' said also, let all 
things be. done decently and in order. Right 
things must be done in a right manner. This 
simple precept indicates the soberness of Paul's 
mind. An enthusiast has seldom much dislike 
to disorderly conduct; on the contrary, he has 
generally a sovereign contempt for small points, 
indeed for every tiling which does not exclusive- 
ly tend to advance the one object, whatever that 
may be, which is nearest his heart. 

Saint Paul sometimes appends small objects 
to great ones, thus increasing their importance 
by their position. Immediately after giving 
his exquisite portrait of charity,* he goes at 
once to recommend and enforce, by powerful 
illustrations, certain proprieties of behaviour in 
the public congregations. — Knowing the readi- 
ness of the world to catch at the slightest irre- 
gularity in religious professors, he puts them 
on their guard ' not to let their good be evil 
spoken of;' but wishes that they might acquit 
themselves unexceptionably as to manner, in 
things which were already right as to the 
matter. 

From the high duties of Episcopal dignity, he 
stoops to the concerns of individuals of the most 
degraded condition. From the most important 
points of moral action in women, he descends tc 
the very minutiae of their apparel. This indi- 
cates how well aware he was, that every ap 
pcarance of impropriety in personal adornment, 
is an implication of R wrong state of mind. If 
this seemingly inferior concern was not judged 
to be beneath the notice of an inspired apostle, 
surely it ought not to be unworthy the regard 
of my fair countrywomen. 

One might have suspected, in the case of 
Paul, that the heavy load of cares, and sorrows, 
and persecutions; with the addition of ecclesi- 
astical affairs, the most extensive and the most 
complicated, might have excused him from at- 
tending minutely to an object so inconsiderable, 
as the concerns of a poor run-away slave, ' the 
son of his bonds.' 

Yet this once guilty, but now penitent ser. 
vant, he condescends to make the exclusive sub- 
ject of a letter to his late master.t This applica- 
tion to Philemon, in behalf of Onesimus, is a 
model in its kind ; sincere, polite, tenderly af- 
fectionate to the convicted offender ; strong, yet 
respectfully kind to his friend. In point of ele. 

* 1 Corinthians, ch. xiii. and xiv. 
t Epistle to Philemon. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



283 



gance and delicacy, in every excellence of com- 
position, it may vie with any epistle of antiquity ; 
and is certainly far superior, in ingenuity, feel- 
ing, warmth, and argument, to the admired let- 
ter of Pliny, in recommendation of his friend 
Arrianus Maturius. 

There are people who sometimes forgive the 
piety of a man, in consideration of his influence, 
his reputation, his talents, or some other agree- 
able quality connected with it. — Genius is ac- 
cepted by the world as a sort of atonement for 
religion ; and wit has been known to obtain the 
forgiveness of the gay, for the strict principles 
of the grave. Here is a striking instance of 
two persons, connected by the closest ties of 
Christian friendship, who acted on other grounds. 
Philemon was not ashamed of his pious friend 
Paul, though a prisoner ; nor was Paul ashamed 
of Onesimus, though a servant. 

In urging his request on his friend, the apos- 
tle does not adopt the cdtrupt practice of too 
many, who, in order to put the person addressed 
in good humour, preface their petition by flat- 
tering him on some point, where, perhaps, he 
least deserves it. Paul, notwithstanding he 
would have reprobated such insincerity, yet 
thought it fair to remind Philemon of his high 
principles ; thus indirectly to furnish him with 
a standard to which he expected his friend would 
act up." 

He then proceeds to press his suit, with all 
the variety of argument and persuasion of which 
he was so great a master. His earnestness of 
entreaty, for so inconsiderable an object, con- 
veys a lesson to ministers and to heads of fami- 
lies, that there is no human being so low as to 
be beneath their kindness; no offender so great 
as to be beyond their hope. 

He had opened his request with a motive the 
most calculated to touch the heart of a Christian 
friend — that he always made mention of him in 
his prayers. This tender plea he follows up 
with the affectionate commendation of his Chris- 
tian virtue, that the friend he was beseeching 
abounded in love and faith, not only ' to the Lord 
Jesus, but to all saints.'' 

After this soothing address, he urges his 
claims to the boon he was about to ask ; in doing 
which, though he had been always mindful of 
the dignity of his Apostleship, he chose rather 
to sink this consideration in the more tender 
pleas of affection to his friend, and the distress- 
ed state of the person for whom he petitioned. 
'Paul the aged, and a prisoner of Jesus Christ,' 
were touching and powerful motives : but what 
was likely to penetrate a generous mind, was, 
that the aged and imprisoned Paul, in sending 
back the penitent servant to his own master, 
and depriving himself of his attendance, was at 
once performing an act of justice and of self-de- 
nial. He would not detain him from his rightful 
owner, though he was so great a comfort to him- 
self in his forlorn confinement. It was also a 
fine occasion of pressing on Onesimus, that the 
return to his duty would be the surest evidence 
of his conversion. 

Thus anxiously, for an offending slave, does 
he seek to touch every spring of pity in the 
heart of his friend. Who would imagine that 
the man, who thus labours in the cause of so ob- 



scure an individual, had the superintendence of 
all the christian churches in the world? 

But, with Paul, rectitude is always the pre- 
vailing principle. His zeal for his convert never 
makes him lose sight of the duty of restitution. 
Destitute, and a prisoner himself, he offers to 
make good the loss which Philemon might have 
sustained by his servant's misconduct. He can- 
didly reminds him, however, how much the spi- 
ritual obligations of Philemon (his convert also) 
exceeded in value the debt due to him from 
Onesimus; though he refuses to avail himself 
of the plea. Thy servant perhaps owes thee a 
paltry sum of money — thou owest me thine own 
self. 

With his characteristic disinterestedness, he 
not only thus pathetically pleads for him who 
was to receive the good, but for him who was to 
do it; as if he had said — Give me ground to re- 
joice in this evidence of thy christian benevo- 
lence. He farther stimulates him to this act of 
charity, by declaring the confidence he had in 
his obedience ; thus encouraging him to the du- 
ty, by intimating the certainty of his compli- 
ance. An additional lesson is given to religious 
professors, not only that their being Christians 
includes their being charitable, but that no act 
of charity should infringe on the rights of jus- 
tice. 

We conclude, by remarking on the union of 
judgment and kindness in Saint Paul's conduct 
respecting Onesimus. He sends him back to 
Philemon at Colosse, as a proof, on the part of 
Onesimus, of penitent humility, and, on the part 
of Paul, of impartial equity. At the same time, 
he more than takes away his disgrace, by ho- 
nouring him with the office, in conjunction with 
Tychicus, of being the bearer of his public 
epistle to the Colossian church. He confers on 
him the farther honour of naming him, in the 
body of his epistle, as a faithful and beloved 
brother. 

How different is this modest and rational re- 
port by an inspired apostle, of a penitent crimi- 
nal, a convert of his own ; one who had survived 
his crimes long enough to prove the sincerity 
of his repentance by the reformation of his life; 
— how different is this sober narrative by a wri- 
ter who considered restitution as a part of re- 
pentance, and humility as an evidence of faith, 
from those too sanguine reports which are now 
so frequently issuing from the press, of crimi- 
nals brought to execution for violating all the 
laws of God and man ! 

The Gospel presents us but with one such in- 
stance; an instance which is too often pressed 
into a service where it has nothing to do ; yet 
we far more frequently see the example of the 
penitent thief on the cross, brought forward as 
an encouragement to those who have been no- 
torious offenders, than that of Onesimus though 
the latter is of general application, and the for- 
mer is inapplicable to criminals in a Christian 
country ; for the dying malefactor embraced 
Christianity the moment it was presented to 
him. This solitary instance, however, no more 
offers a justification than an example of fanali- 
cal fervours; for if it exhibits a lively faith, it 
exhibits also deep penitence, humility, and self 
condemnation. Nor does the just confidence 



284 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



of the expiring criminal in the Redeemer's pow- 
er, swell him into that bloated assurance, of 
which we hear in some late converts. 

For in the tracts to which we allude, we hear 
not only of one, but of many, holy highwaymen, 
trimphant malefactors, joyful murderers ! True, 
indeed, it is, that good men on earth rejoice 
with the angels in heaven, over even one sinner 
that repenteth. We would hope many of these 
were penitents ; but as there was no space 
granted, as in the case of Onesimus, to prove 
their sincerity, we should be glad to see, in these 
statements, more contrition and less rapture. 
May not young delinquents be encouraged to 
go on from crime to crime, feeling themselves 
secure of heaven at last, when they see, from 
this incautious charity, that assurance of ac- 
ceptance, which is so frequently withheld from 
the close of a life of persevering holiness, grant- 
ed to the most hardened perpetrators of the most 
atrocious crime? 

As it has been observed, that the baskets of 
the hawkers have this year abounded in these 
dangerous, though doubtless well-meant tracts, 
may not the lower class in general, and our 
servants in particular, be encouraged to look 
for a happy termination of life, not so much to 
the dying bed of the exemplary Christian as to 
the annals of the gallows ? A few exceptions 
might be mentioned, honourable to the prudence, 
as well as to the piety, of the writers of some of 
these little narratives. 



CHAP. XVIII. 

Saint Paul on the Resurrection. 

Before the introduction of Christianity, so 
dark were the notices of a state beyond the 
grave, that it is no wonder if men were little in- 
clined to give up the pleasures and interest of 
one world, of which they were in actual posses- 
sion, for the possibility of another, doubtful at 
best, and too indistinct for hope, too uncertain 
for comfort. 

If a state of future happiness was believed, or 
rather guessed at, by a few of those who had 
not the light of revelation, no nation on earth 
believed it, no public religion in the world 
taught it. This single truth, then, firmly esta- 
blished, not only by the preaching of Jesus, but 
by his actual resurrection from the dead, pro- 
duced a total revolution in the condition of man. 
It gave a new impulse to his conduct; infused 
a new vitality into his existence. Faith became 
to man an anchor of the soul, sure and steadfast. 
This anchorage enables him to ride out the 
blackest storms; and though he must still work 
out his passage, the haven is near, and the de- 
liverance certain, ' while he keeps his eye to the 
star, and his hand to the stern.' 

The value and importance, then, of this doc- 
trine, seems to have made it an especial object 
of Divine care. Founded on the resurrection 
of Jesus Christ from the dead, perhaps it may 
have afforded one reason, why the long-suffer- 
ing of God permitted Jerusalem to stand near 
half a century after this last event had taken 



place. By this delay, not only the inhabitants 
of that city, but the multitudes who annually 
resorted thither, could gain full leisure to ex- 
amine into its truth. Had the destruction fol- 
lowed immediately upon the crime which caused 
it, occasion might have been furnished to the 
Rabbies for asserting, that a truth could not 
now be authenticated, whicli was buried in the 
ruins of the city. Nor would the enemies of 
Jesus have scrupled any subordination to discre. 
dit his pretensions, even though at the expense 
of a doctrine, which involved the happiness of 
worlds unborn. 

Jerusalem, however, survived for a time, and 
the doctrine of a resurrection was established 
for ever. And now, had it been a doctrine of 
any ordinary import, as Saint Paul was not 
writing to persons ignorant of the truths of 
Christianity, but to Christian converts, it might 
have been less his object to propound it dogmati- 
cally, than to devekjpe and expand it ; being a 
thing previously known, acknowledged, and re- 
ceived. In writing a letter, when we allude to 
facts already notorious, we do not think our no- 
tices the less acceptable, because we do not re- 
peat intelligence already popular; while we 
content ourselves with drawing inferences from 
it, making observations upon it, or allusions to 
it. The reader, having in view the same ob- 
ject with the writer, would catch at intimations, 
seize on allusions, and fill up the implied mean- 
ing. 

Such, however, was not Saint Paul's conduct 
with respect to this doctrine. There were in- 
deed, it should seem, among his converts, many 
sceptical Jews, infected with the philosophizing- 
spirit of the Grecian schools, and who doubted, 
what these last derided, the resurrection of the 
dead. Consequently, upon every account, Saint 
Paul is found to give it a peculiar prominence, 
and on all occasions to bestow upon it more ar- 
gument and illustration, than on most other 
tenets of the new faith. 

There is no profession, no class of men, whe- 
ther Jew or Gentile, before whom Paul was not 
ready to be examined on this subject, and was 
not prompt to give the most decided testimony. 
Uniformly he felt the strength of evidence on 
his side; uniformly he appealed to the resur- 
rection of Jesus Christ, as a fact established on 
the most solid basis, — a fact, not first propagated 
in distant countries, where the facility of impo- 
sition would have been greater ; not at a distant 
period of time, when the same objection against 
it might have been made ; but on the very spot 
where it occurred, at the very moment of its oc- 
currence. 

In his writings, also, the same confidence, the 
same urgency appears. He always adverts to 
this tenet, as to the main hinge on which the 
whole of Christianity turns. The more reason- 
ing oppugners of the faith thought, that if this 
doctrine could be got rid of, either by argument 
or ridicule, it would subvert the whole fabric of 
Christianity. It was, in reality, the only sensible 
proof that could be adduced of the immortality 
of the soul ; an opinion which, indeed, many of 
them professed to entertain, though they would 
not be indebted to this doctrine for its proof. 
The more, however, they oppugned, the more 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



285 



he withstood ; and of so high importance did he 
represent it, that he even makes ' believing in 
the heart that God hath raised Jesus from the 
dead,' to be a principal condition of salvation. 

We must not judge of the inspired Saint 
Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ, by the same 
canons of criticism, by which we pronounce 
judgment on other writers. Notwithstanding 
the elevation of his genius, his hand was in a 
great measure held, by the nature of his subject 
and his character, from the display of his talents 
as an author. From the warmth of his feelings, 
and the energy of his mind, we infer, that he 
possessed an imagination peculiarly bright. 
That he subdued, instead of indulging, this fa- 
culty, adds worth to his character, dignity to his 
writing, and confirmation to the truth. To 
suppress the exercise of a powerful imagination, 
is one sacrifice more, which a pious writer 
makes to God. Independently of that inspira- 
tion which guided him, his severe judgment 
would show him, that the'topics of which he 
treated were of too high and holy a nature to ad- 
mit the indulgence of a faculty rather calculated 
to excite admiration than to convey instruction. 

In considering his general style of composi- 
tion, we are not to look after the choice of words, 
so much as to the mind, and spirit, and charac- 
ter of the writer. If, however, we venture to 
select any one part of Saint Paul's writings, to 
serve as an exception to this remark, and to ex- 
hibit a more splendid combination of excellences 
than almost any other in his whole works, we 
should adduce the fifteenth chapter of the first 
Epistle to the Corinthians, in which he fully 
propounds the article in question. As our Lord's 
discourse, in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, 
is the only explicit description of the last judg- 
ment ; and Saint John's vision, at the close of 
the Apocalypse, the only distinct view given 
us of the heavenly glory ; so this is the only 
graphical representation which Scripture has 
presented to us of this most important and con- 
solatory doctrine, the resurrection of the dead. 

The subject of this fifteenth chapter is quite 
distinct from that which precedes or follows it ; 
it is interposed between matter quite irrelevant 
to it, forming a complete episode. As a com- 
position, it stands unrivalled for the unspeaka- 
ble importance of its matter, its deep reasoning, 
and lofty imagery. Saint Paul sometimes leaves 
it to others to beat out his massy thoughts into 
all the expansion of which they are so suscepti- 
ble. His eloquence, indeed, usually consists 
more in the grandeur of the sentiment than in 
the splendour of the language. Here both are 
equally conspicuous. Here his genius breaks 
out in its full force : here his mind lights upon 
a subject which calls out all its powers; and 
the subject finds a writer worthy of itself. It 
furnishes a succession of almost every object 
that is grand in the visible and the invisible 
world. A description becomes a picture ; an 
expostulation assumes the regularity of a syllo- 
gism ; an idea takes the form of an image ; the 
writer seems to be the spectator ; the relator 
speaks as one admitted within the veil. 

According to his usual practice of appealing 
to facts, as a substratum on which to build his 
reasoning, he produces a regular statement, in 



their order of succession, of the different times 
at which Jesus appeared after his death, authen- 
ticated by the unimpeachable evidence of the 
disciples themselves, by whom he was seen in- 
dividually, as well as in great bodies. The 
evidence he corroborates by his own personal 
testimony at his conversion ; an evidence which 
he produces with sentiments of the deepest self- 
absement. 

So important, he proceeds, was it to settle 
the belief of this doctrine, that if it were not 
true, all their hopes fell to the ground. To in- 
sist on this grand peculiarity of the Gospel, was 
establishing the truth of the whole by a part. It 
was the consummation of the validity of the mis- 
sion of Christ. Without this finishing circum- 
stance, what proof could his followers adduce, 
that hi3 atonement was accepted ; that his media- 
tion was ascertained ; that his intercession would 
be available ; that his final judgment would take 
place; that because He was risen, they should 
rise also ! It was not one thing, it was every 
thing. It was putting the seal to a testament 
which, without it, would not have been authen 
tic. It involved a whole train of the most awful 
consequences. Such a chain of inferences would 
be destroyed by this broken link, as nothing 
could repair. In short, it amounted to this tre- 
mendous conclusion: 'Those who have fallen 
asleep in Christ have perished.' You who live 
in the hope of the redemption wrought for you, 
' are yet in your sins.' If Jesus remains under 
the power of death, how shall we be delivered 
from the power of sin ? If the doctrine be false, 
then is my preaching a delusion, and your faith 
a nullity. He adds, that they who were now 
the happiest of men, in their assured hope of 
eternal life, would become, 'of all men most 
miserable ;' in short, as in another place he 
asks, to what purpose has Christ died for our 
sins, if he has not 'risen for our justification ?' 

The apostle having shown himself a consum- 
mate master of the art of reasoning, by his re- 
futation of the absurdities that would follow ar 
assumption, that Christ was not risen ; and 
having cleared the ground from most of the ob- 
jections and difficulties which had been thrown 
in his way, proceeds to the positive assertion, 
that not only Christ is risen, but that all his 
faithful followers have their own resurrection 
ascertained by his. — He illustrates this truth by 
an apposite allusion to the custom of a Jewish 
harvest, the whole of which was sanctified by 
the consecration of the first-fruits. 

In his distinguishing characteristics of the 
different properties of the body of man, in its 
different states of existence, every antithesis is 
exact. The body that is sown in corruption, 
dishonour, and weakness, is raised in incorrup- 
tion, glory, and power. — The material body is 
become spiritual. — 'The first man was made a 
living soul,' possessing that natural life com- 
municated by him to all his posterity ; but 
Christ was a quicking spirit, through whom, 
as from its source, spiritual life is conveyed to 
all believers. 

If Paul uniformly makes every doctrine a 
fountain flowing with practical uses, it is no 
wonder that he should make this triumphant 
consummation of all doctrine subservient to the 



286 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



great ends of holiness. For it is worthy of re- 
mark, that in this very place, with all the in- 
terest which his argument excites, in all the 
heat which his defence kindles, carried away, 
as he seems to be, by his faith and his feelings, 
— yet, in his usual manner, he checks his career 
to introduce moral maxims, to insinuate holy 
cautions. Not contented to guard the people 
against the danger of corrupt and corrupting 
society upon his own principles, he strengthens 
his argument by refering them to a Pagan poet, 
whose authority, with some at least, he might 
think would be more respected than his own, 
on the infection of ' evil communications.' Ho 
suggests ironically, as a practical effect of the 
disbelief of this truth, the propriety of Epicurean 
voluptuousness, and even ventures to recom- 
mend the utmost indulgence of a present enjoy- 
ment, upon the supposition of a death which is 
to cut off all future hope, and all posthumous re- 
sponsibility. 

Then assuming a loftier note, with an awfully 
warning, voice, he proceeds to this solemn ad- 
juration — ' Awake to righteousness and sin not; 
for some have not the knowledge of God.' As 
if he had said, — If you give into this incredulity, 
your practice will become consonant to your 
belief. Every man will defend his error when 
it favours his vice. Your evil habits will com- 
plete the corruption of your faith. If you find 
an interest in indulging your mistake, your 
next step will be to think it true. What is 
first a wish, will gradually become an opinion ; 
an opinion will as naturally become a ground of 
action ; and what you now permit yourself to do, 
you will soon become willing to justify. 

He produces, as the strongest proof of his be- 
lief in the doctrine in question, the complacency 
of Christians in suffering. Why did others 
press forward to martyrdom? — Why did he 
himself expose his life to perpetual peril ? Why, 
but from the firm persuasion, that as Christ 
was risen, they should rise also. Would not 
their voluntary trials be absurd ? Would it not 
be madness to embrace, when it was in their 
power to avoid, all the hardships which embit- 
tered life, all the dangers which were likely to 
shorten it. He and his colleagues were not im- 
passable substances, but feeling men, sensible 
to pain, keenly alive to suffering, with nerves as 
finely strung, with bodies as tenderly consti- 
tuted, with souls as reluctant to misery, as 
others. Take away this grand motive for pa- 
tience, rob them of this sustaining confidence, 
strip them of this glorious prospect, and their 
zeal would lose its character of virtue, their 
piety its claim to wisdom. Their perseverance 
would be fatuity. Mighty then must be their 
motive, powerful indeed their assurance, clear 
and strong their conviction, that their brief sor- 
rows were not worthy to be compared with the 
glories which were insured to them by the re- 
surrection of Christ. 

Again, he resumes the task of repelling the 
more plausible objections. But it is not our 
business to follow him through all his variety 
of illustration, all his diversified analogy, all his 
consecutive reasoning on the nature of the re- 
surrection of the body. Resemblances the most 
distant, substances the most seemingly dissimi- 



lar in themselves, are yet brought together by 
a skill the most consummate, by an aptness the 
most convincing. All the objects of our senses, 
whatever is familiar to the sight, or habitual to 
the mind, are put in requisition — all the ana- 
logies of nature are ransacked — the vegetable, 
the animal, the terrestrial and the celestial 
world, are brought into comparison ; and the 
whole is made to demonstrate the truth of this 
awful doctrine. Such a cluster of images, all 
bearing upon one point, at once fill the mind, 
dilate the conception, and confirm the faith. 

There is singular wisdom in the selection of 
these illustrations, not only as being the most 
apposite, but the most intelligible. — They are 
not drawn from things abstruse or recondite, 
but from objects with which all classes are 
equally acquainted. An incidental, but not un 
important proof of the universal design of Chris, 
tianity. The most ordinary man is as convcr 
sant with the springing up and growth of corn, 
with the distinction between the flesh of the 
different animal species, as the philosopher. He 
can also as clearly discern the exterior distinc- 
tion between the different luminaries of heaven, 
as the astronomer Here is no demand of 
knowledge, no appeal to science. — Sight is the 
witness, sense the arbiter in this question. 

To bestow immortality on mortals, and to re 
vive the dead, had been pronounced by a heathen 
author to be beyond the reach of divine power. 
To the bold Pyrrhonists therefore, who might 
be among the Corinthians, and who sought to 
perplex the argument by asking — ' how are the 
dead raised up ? — With what body do they 
come ?' he answers peremptorily, by refering 
them to the great resolver of difficulties — the 
power of god, inscribed in the book of daily ex- 
perience — God giveth it a body as it hath pleased 
him. He reminds them, that this divine power 
they perpetually saw exercised in a wonderful 
manner in the revolution of seasons in the re- 
susitation of plants apparently dead ; and in the 
springing up of corn, which dies first, in order 
that it may live. To that omnipotence which 
could accomplish the one, could the other be 
difficult? 

Who can pursue without emotion his rapid, 
yet orderly transition from one portion of his 
subject to another ? The interest still rising till 
it closes in the triumphant climax of the final 
victory over the two last enemies, death and 
the grave ! At length by a road, in which de- 
viation does not impede his progress, ho reaches 
the grand consummation. Behold I show you 
a mystery — we shall not all sleep — but we shall 
be changed — in a moment — in the twinkling of 
an eye — at the last trumpet — for the trumpet 
shall sound — and the dead shall be raised incor- 
ruptible — and we shall all be changed. It is 
almost profane to talk of beauties, where the 
theme is so transcendant ; but this is one of the 
rare instances in which amplification adds to 
spirit, and velocity is not retarded by repetition. 
The rythm adds to the effect, and soothes the 
mind ; while the sentiment elevates it. The 
idea was not newly conceived in the apostle's 
mind ; he had told the Thessalonians ' the Lord 
himself shall descend with a shout, with the 
voice of an Archangel, and the trump of God.* 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



287 



His grateful spirit does not forget to remind 
them to whom the victory is owing, to whom 
the thanks are due. 

In the solemn close, alighting again from the 
world of light, and life, and glory, he just touches 
upon earth to drop another brief, but most im- 
pressive lesson — that though the victory is ob- 
tained, though the last conquest is achieved, 
though Christ is actually risen — all these ends 
accomplished, are not to dismiss us from dili- 
gence, but to stimulate us lo it. They furnish 
only an additional argument for abounding in 
the work of the Lord.' It adds animation to the 
motive, that from this full exposition of the doc- 
trine they not only believe, but they know, that 
their labour is not in vain in the Lord. 

With this glorious hope what should arrest 
their progress ? With such a reward in view — 
eternal life, the purchase of their risen Saviour, 
he at once provides them with the most effectual 
spur to diligence, with the only powerful sup- 
port under the sorrows of life, with the only in- 
fallible antidote against the fear of death. 

To conclude, this blessed apostle never fails, 
where the subject is susceptible of consolation 
as well as of instruction, to deduce both from the 
same premises. What affectionate Christian 
will not here revert, with grateful joy, to the 
same writer's cheering address to the saints of 
another church, who might labour under the 
pressing affliction of the death of pious friends?* 
He there offers a new instance, not only of his 
never-failing rule of applying the truth he 
preaches, but of their immediate application to 
the feelings of the individual. This it is which 
renders his writings so personally interesting. 
That the mourner over the pious dead might 
not ' sorrow as those who have no hope,' after 
the declaration that ' Jesus died and rose again.' 
He builds on this general principle, the particu- 
lar assurance, ' Even them also who sleep in 
Jesus, will God bring with him.' 

What a balm to the breaking heart ! — What ! 
the loved companion of our youth, the friend of 
our age, the soLce of our life, with whom v>e 
took sweet counsel, with whom we went to the 
house of God as friends, will Christ bring with 
him ? Shall the bliss of our suspended inter- 
course be restored, unalloyed by the mutual in- 
firmities which here rendered it imperfect, un- 
diminished by the dread of another separation? 

Well then might the angel say to Mary at the 
forsaken tomb, ' Woman, why weepest thou ?' 
Well might Jesus himself repeat the question, 
4 Woman, why weepest thou?' Tears are wiped 
from all eves. 'The voice of joy and thanks- 
giving is in the tabernacles of the righteous.' 
•The right hand of the Lord bringeth mighty 
things to pass.' The resurrection of Christians 
is indissolubly involved in that of Christ : 'be- 
cause I live, ye shall live also.' — What are the 
splendid triumphs of earthly heroes, to his tri- 
umph over the grave ? What is the most sig- 
nal victory over a world of enemies, to his vic- 
tory over his last enemy ? ' Blessed be the God 
and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, ac- 
cording to his abundant mercy, hath begotten 
us again to a lively hope by the resurrection of 
Jesus Christ from the dead.' 

* 1 Thessalonians, iv. 14. 



CHAP. XIX. 

Saint Paul on Prayer, Thanksgiving, and Reli- 
gious Joy. 

Prayer is an act which seems to be so pre- 
pared in the frame of our nature ; to be so con- 
genial to our dependent condition, so suited to 
our exigencies, so adapted to every man's known 
wants, and to his possibilities of wants unknown; 
so full of relief to the soul, and of peace to the 
mind, and of gladness to the heart ; so produc- 
tive of confidence in God, and so reciprocally 
proceeding from that confidence, that we should 
think, if we did not know the contrary, that it 
is a duty which scarcely required to be enjoined , 
that he who had once found out his necessities, 
and that there was no other redress for them, 
would spontaneously have recourse as a delight, 
to what he had neglected as a command ; that 
he who had once tasted the bounties of God 
would think it a hardship not to be allowed to 
thank him for them ; that the invitation to pray 
to his Benefactor, was an additional proof of 
Divine goodness ; that to be allowed to praise 
him for his mercies, was itself a mercy. 

The apostle's precept, ' pray always,' — pray 
evermore, pray without ceasing, men ought al- 
ways to pi ay, — will not be criticised as a pleo- 
nasm, if we call to remembrance that there is 
no state of mind, no condition of life, in which 
prayer is not a necessity as well as an obligation. 
In danger, fear impels to it ; in trouble, we have 
no other resource ; in sickness, we have no other 
refuge ; in dejection, no other hope ; in death, 
no other comfort. 

Saint Paul frequently shows the word prayer 
to be a term of great latitude, involving the 
whole compass of our intercourse with God. He 
represents it to include our adoration of his per- 
fections, our acknowledgment of the wisdom of 
his dispensations, of our obligation for his bene- 
fits, providential and spiritual ; of the avowal of 
our entire dependance on him, of our absolute 
subjection to him, the declaration of our faith in 
him, the expression of our devotedness to him ; 
the confession of our own unworthiness, infirmi- 
ties, and sins; the petition for the supply of our 
wants, and for the pardon of our offences ; for 
succour in our distress ; for a blessing on our 
undertakings ; for the direction of our conduct, 
and the success of our affairs. 

If any should be disposed to think this general 
view too comprehensive, let him point out which 
of these particulars prayer does not embrace; 
which of these clauses, a rational, a sentient, an 
enlightened, a dependent being can omit in his 
scheme of devotion. 

But as the multifarious concerns of human 
life will necessarily occasion a suspension of the 
exercise ; Saint Paul, ever attentive to the prin- 
ciple of the act, and to the circumstances of the 
actor, reduces all these qualities to their essence, 
when he resolves them into the spirit of suppli- 
cation. 

To pray incessantly, therefore, appears to he, 
in his view of the subject, to keep the mind in 
an habitual disposition and propensity to devo- 
tion ; for there is a sense in which we may be 
said to do that which we are toilling to do, 



288 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



though there are intervals of thought, as well as 
intermissions of the act. — 'As a traveller,' says 
Dr. Barrow, ' may be said to be still on his jour- 
ney, though he stops to take needful rest, and 
to transact necessary business.' If he pause, he 
does not turn out of the way ; his pursuit is not 
diverted, though occasionally interrupted. 

Constantly maintaining the disposition, then, 
and never neglecting the actual duty ; never 
slighting the occasion which presents itself, nor 
violating the habit of stated devotion, may, we 
presume, be called ■ to pray without ceasing.' 
The expression ' watching unto prayer,' implies 
this vigilance in finding, and this zeal in laying 
hold on these occasions. 

The success of prayer, though promised to all, 
who offer it in perfect sincerity, is not so fre- 
quently promised to the cry of distress, to the 
impulse of fear, or the emergency of the mo- 
ment, as to humble continuance in devotion. It 
is to patient waiting, to assiduous solicitation, to 
unwearied importunity, that God has declared 
that he will lend his ear, that he will give the 
communication of his Spirit, that he will grant 
the return of our requests. Nothing but this 
holy perseverance can keep up in our minds an 
humble sense of our dependence. It is not by a 
mere casual petition, however passionate, but by 
habitual application, that devout affections are 
excited and maintained ; that our converse with 
heaven is carried on. It is by no other means 
that we can be assured, with Saint Paul, that 
* we are risen with Christ,' but this obvious one, 
that we thus seek the things which are above ; 
that the heart is renovated ; that the mind is 
lifted above this low scene of things; that the 
spirit breathes in a purer atmosphere ; that the 
whole man is enlightened, and strengthened, 
and purified ; and that the more frequently, so 
the more nearly, he approaches to the throne of 
God. He will find also, that prayer not only 
expresses, but elicits the Divine grace. 

Yet do we not allow every idle plea, every 
frivolous pretence, ta divert us from our better 
resolves ? Business brings in its grave apology ; 
pleasure its bewitching excuse. But if we would 
examine our hearts truly, and report them faith- 
fully, we should find the fact to be, that disin- 
clination to this employment, oftener than our 
engagement in any other, keeps us from this sa- 
cred intercourse with our Maker. 

Under circumstances of distress, indeed, prayer 
is adopted with comparatively little reluctance : 
the mind, which knows not where to fly, flies to 
God. In agony, nature is no atheist. The soul 
is drawn to God by a sort of natural impulse ; 
not always, perhaps by an emotion of piety ; but 
from a feeling conviction, that every other re- 
fuge is ' a refuge of lies.' Oh ! thou afflicted, 
tossed with tempests, and not comforted, happy 
if thou art either drawn or driven, with holy 
David, to say to thy God, * Thou art a place to 
hide me in.' 

But if it is easy for the sorrowing heart to 
give up a world, by whom itself seems to be 
given up, there are other demands for prayer 
equally imperative. There are circumstances 
more dangerous, yet less suspected of danger, 
in which, though the call is louder, it is less 
heard ; because the voice of conscience is drown- 



ed by the clamours of the world. Prosperous 
fortunes, unbroken health, flattering friends, 
buoyant spirits, a spring-tide of success — these 
are the occasions when the very abundance of 
God's mercies is apt to fill the heart till it hard- 
ens it. Loaded with riches, crowned with dig- 
nities, successful in enterprise ; beset with snares 
in the shape of honours, with perils under the 
mask of pleasures ; then it is, that to the already 
saturated heart, 'to-morrow shall be as this day, 
and more abundant,' is more in unison than 
' what shall I render to the Lord?' 

Men of business, especially men in power and 
public situations, are in no little danger of per- 
suading themselves, that the affairs which occupy 
their time and mind, being, as they really are, 
great and important duties, exonerate those who 
perform them from the necessity of the same 
strictness in devotion, which they allow to be 
right for men of leisure ; and which, when they 
become men of leisure themselves, they are re- 
solved to adopt ; — but now is the accepted time, 
here is the accepted place, however they may be 
tempted to think that an exact attention to pub- 
lic duty, and an unimpeachable rectitude in dis- 
charging it, is itself a substitute for the offices 
of piety. 

But these great and honourable persons are 
the very men to whom superior cares, and loftier 
duties, and higher responsibilities, render prayer 
even more necessary, were it possible, than to 
others. Nor does this duty trench upon other 
duties, for the compatibilities of prayer are uni- 
versal. It is an exercise which has the property 
of incorporating itself with every other ; not only 
not impeding, but advancing it. If secular 
thoughts, and vain imaginations, often break in 
on our devout employments, let us allow religion 
to vindicate her rights, by uniting herself with 
our worldly occupations. There is no crevice 
so small at which devotion may not slip in : no 
other instance of so rich a blessing being an-, 
nexed to so easy a condition ; no other case in 
which there is any certainty, that to ask is to 
have. This the suitors to the great do not al- 
ways find so easy from them, as the great them- 
selves find from God. 

Not only the elevation on which they stand 
makes this fence necessary for their personal 
security, by enabling them to bear the height 
without giddiness, but the guidance of God's 
hand is so essential to the operations they con- 
duct, that the public prosperity, no less than 
their own safety, is involved in the practice of 
habitual prayer. God will be more likely to 
bless the hand which steers, and the' head which 
directs, when both are ruled by the heart which 
prays. Happily we need not look out of our own 
age or nation for instances of public men, who, 
while they govern the country, are themselves 
governed by a religious principle: who petition 
the Almighty for direction, and praise him for 
success. 

The duty which Paul enjoins — ' praying al- 
ways with all prayer and supplication in the 
Spirit, and watching thereto with all persever- 
ance,' — would be the surest means to augment 
our love to God. We gradually cease to love a 
benefactor of whom we cease to think. The fre- 
quent recollection would warm our affections, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



289 



nnd we should more cordially devote our lives 
to him to whom we should more frequently con- 
secrate our hearts. The apostle therefore incul- 
cates prayer, not only as an act, but as a frame 
of mind. 

In all his writings effectual prayer uniformly 
supposes accompanying preparatory virtue. 
Prayer draws all the Christian graces into its 
focus. It draws Charity, followed by her lovely 
train — of forbearance with faults; forgiveness 
of injuries, pity for errors, and relieving of 
wants. It draws repentance, with her holy sor- 
rows, her pious resolutions, her self-distrust. It 
attracts Faith, with her elevated eye — Hope, 
with her grasped anchor — Beneficence, with 
her open hand — Zeal, looking far and wide to 
6erve — Humility, with introverted eye, looking 
at home. Prayer, by quickening these graces 
in the heart, warms them into life, fits them for 
service, and dismisses each to its appropriate 
practice. Prayer is mental virtue ; virtue is 
spiritual action. The mould into which genuine 
prayer cests the soul, is not effaced by the sus- 
pension of the act, but retains some touches of 
the impression till the act is repeated. 

Prayer, divested of the love of God, will ob- 
tain nothing, because it asks nothing cordially. 
It is only the interior sentiment that gives life 
and spirit to devotion. To those who possess 
this, prayer is not only a support, hut a solace : 
to those who want it, it is not only an insipid 
task, but a religious penalty. Our apostle every 
where shows that purity of heart, resignation of 
spirit, peace and joy in believing, can by no 
other expedient, be maintained in life, activity, 
and vigour. — Prayer so circumstanced is the ap- 
pointed means for drawing down the blessing 
we solicit, and the pardon we need. 

Yet that the best things are liable to abuse is 
a complaint echoed by all writers of ethics. Cer- 
tain mystics, pretending to extraordinary illu- 
mination, have converted this holy exercise into 
a presumptuous error. Intense meditation it- 
self has been turned into an instrument of spi- 
ritual pride, and led the mistaken recluse to 
overlook the appointed means of instruction ; 
to reject the scriptures, to abandon the service 
of the sanctuary, and to expect to be snatched, 
like holy Paul, up to the third heaven, deserting 
those prescribed and legitimate methods which 
would more surely have conducted him thither. 
The history of the apostle himself presents a 
striking lesson in this case. ' Let us remember,' 
says one nf the fathers, ' that though Paul was 
miraculously converted by an immediate vision 
from heaven, he was nevertheless sent for bap- 
tism and instruction to a man.' 

Holy Paul calls upon us to meditate on the 
multitude and the magnitude of the gifts of God. 
When we consider how profusely he bestows, 
and how little he requires ; that while he con- 
fers like Deity, he desires only such poor returns 
as can be made by indigent, mendicant mor- 
tality ; that he requires no costly oblation ; no- 
thing that will impoverish, but, on the contrary, 
will inconceivably enrich the giver. When we 
consider this, we are ready to wonder that he 
will accept so poor a thing as impotent gratitude 
for immeasurable bounty. When we reflect, 
that our very desire to praise him is his gift — 

Vol. II. T 



that his grace must purify the offering, before 
he condescends to receive it, must confer on it 
that spirit which renders it acceptable — that he 
only expects we should consecrato to Him, what 
we have received from him — that we should on- 
ly confess, that of all we enjoy, nothing is our 
due — we may well blush at our insensibility. 

We think, perhaps, as we have observed in 
another place, had he commanded us ' to do 
some great thing,' to raise some monument of 
splendor, some memorial of notoriety and osten- 
tation, something that would perpetuate our own 
name with his goodness, we should gladly have 
done it. How much more when He only re- 
quires, 

Our thanks how due ! 

When he only asks the homage of the heart, the 
expression of our dependence, the recognition 
of his right! 

Concerning the duty of intercessory prayer for 
those we love, the apostle hath bequeathed us a 
high and holy example. He has given us not 
only injunctions, but specimens. Observe for 
what it is that ' he bows his knees to God' in 
behalf of his friends. Is it for an increase of 
their wealth, their power, their fame, or any 
other external prosperity ? No : it is that ' God 
would grant them according to the riches of his 
glory, to be strengthened with might in the in- 
ner man:' — it is that 'Christ may dwell in 
their hearts by faith ;' — it is ' that they may be 
rooted and grounded in love,' and this to a glo- 
rious end — ' that they may be able, with all 
saints, to comprehend' the vast dimensions of 
the love of Christ ; — that • they may be filled 
with all the fulness of God.' These are the sort 
of petitions which we need never hesitate to pre- 
sent. These are the requests which we may 
rest assured are always agreeable to the divine 
will ; here we are certain we cannot ' pray 
amiss.' These are intercessions of which the be- 
nefit may be felt, when wealth, and fame, and 
power shall be forgotten things. 

Why does Paul ' pray day and night that he 
might see the face of his Thessalonian converts?' 
Not merely that he might have the gratification 
of once more beholding those he loved — though 
that would sensibly delight so affectionate a 
heart — but 'that he might perfect that which 
was lacking in their faith.' 

Here is an instance of a spirit so large in its 
affections, so high in their object; of a man who 
had so much of Heaven in his friendships, so 
much of soul in his attachments, that he thought 
time too brief, earth too scanty, worldly bless- 
ings too low, to enter deeply into his petitions 
for those to whom time and earth, the transitory 
blessings of life, and life itself, would so soon be- 
no more. 

In exciting us to perpetual gratitude, Saint 
Paul stirs us up to the duty of keeping before 
our eyes the mercies which so peremptorily de- 
mand it. These mercies succeed each other 
so rapidly, or rather, are crowded upon us so 
simultaneously, that if we do not count them as 
they are received, and record them as they are 
enjoyed, their very multitude which ought to 
penetrate the heart more deeply, will cause them 
to slip out of the memory. 



S90 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



The apostle acknowledges the gratitude due 
to God to arise from his being the universal 
proprietor, — whose I am, and whom I serve ; 
thus making the obedience to grow out of the 
dependence. He serves his Maker because he 
is his property. We should reflect on the supe- 
riority of the bounties of our heavenly Father, 
over those of our earthly friends, not only in 
their number and quality, but especially in their 
unremitting constancy. The dearest friends 
only think of us occasionally, nor can we be so 
unreasonable as to expect to be the constant ob- 
ject of their attention. If they assist us under 
the immediate pressure of distress, their cares 
are afterwards remitted. 

Many, besides us, have a claim upon their 
kindness, and they could not invariably attend 
to us without being unjust to others. If a man 
were to lay out his whole stock of affection up- 
on one individual, how many duties must he 
neglect, how many claims must he slight, how 
much injustice must he commit, of how much 
ingratitude would he be guilty ! And as an 
earthly friend cannot divide his benefits, or even 
the common acts of kindness among an indefi- 
nite number, and as human means have limits, 
so his benevolence can generally be little more 
than good will. But the exhaustless fund of 
infinite love can never be diminished ; — though 
the distribution is universal, though the diffusion 
is as wide as his rational creation, though the 
continuance is as durable as his own eternity, 
the beneficence of almighty power needs not, 
like his creatures, deduct from one because it is 
liberal to another. 

Our kindest friend may not always know our 
secret sorrows, and with the utmost goodness 
of intention cannot apply a balsam, where he does 
not know there is a wound ; or it may be a 
wound deeper than human skill can reach, or 
human kindness cure. Again, our weaknesses 
may often weary, and sometimes disgust, even 
an attached friend ; but it is the feeling of these 
very infirmities with which our divine High 
Priest is so tenderly touched. His compassion 
arises from a deep and intimate sense of sympa- 
thy — for he was in all points tempted like as 
we are, yet in no point did he sin. 

It is in this view that we become so person- 
ally interested in the attributes of God ; that 
they come in so completely in aid of our neces- 
sities, and to the supply of our comforts. As 
his omniscience brings him fully acquainted 
with all our wants, and his omnipotence enables 
him to relieve them ; so his immortality is 
pledged for our's, and ensures to us the perpe- 
tuity of our blessings. What a glorious idea, 
that the attributes of the self-dependent and 
everlasting God are laid out in the service of his 
children ! 

But the apostle, not contented with the dou- 
ble injunctions, — pray evermore ; in every thing 
give thanks — links to it a most exhilirating duty 
— rejoice for ever more. This single exhorta- 
tion — rejoice in the Lord — is not sufficient, it is 
reiterated without limit, again I say rejoice ! 
But what are the chief causes of Paul's joy ? — 
4 that God hath made us meet to be partakers 
of the inheritance of the saints in light,' — 'that 
he hath delivered us from the powers of dark- 



ness,' — • that he hath translated us into the 
kingdom of his dear Son' — that we have redemp- 
tion through his blood, even the forgiveness of 
sins.' What is ' his hope, or joy, or crown of 
rejoicing ! — that he should meet his converts in 
the presence of our Lord Jesus Christ at his 
coming. 

But this blessed saint found surprising sub- 
jects of joy, subjects with which a stranger does 
not desire to intermeddle. To rejoice in tribu- 
lation ; to take joyfully the spoiling of his goods; 
to rejoice in the sufferings of his friends ; to re- 
joice that he was counted worthy to suffer for the 
sake of Christ. This is, indeed, a species of 
joy which the world does not desire to take 
from him, nor to share with him. In the close 
of the description of his way of life, of which 
temptation, and trial, and sorrow, and sufferings, 
are the gradations, the climax is commonly not 
merely resignation, but triumph : not submission 
only, but joy. 

It is worth our observation, that by persever- 
ance in prayer he was enabled to glory in the 
infirmity which he had thrice besought the 
Lord might depart from him. And it is a most 
impressive part of his character, that he never 
gloried in 'those visions and revelations of the 
Lord,' but in the infirmities, reproaches, neces- 
sities, persecutions for Christ's sake, which were 
graciously sent to counteract any elation of 
heart, which such extraordinary distinctions 
might have occasioned. Like his blessed Lord, 
he disclosed all the circumstances of his degra- 
dation to the eye of the world, and concealed 
only those of his glory. 

The same spirit of Christian generosity which 
directed his petitions, influenced also his thanks, 
givings for his friends. What are the subjects 
for which he praises God on their behalf? — not 
that they are enriched or exalted, but ' that their 
faith groweth exceedingly.' Again to the Phi- 
lippians, ' holding forth the word of life, that I 
may rejoice in the day of Christ that I have not 
run in vain, neither laboured in vain. 

But the apostle endeavours most especially to 
kindle our grateful joy for the redemption of 
the world by our Lord Jesus Christ ; a blessing 
which, though thrown open to the acceptance of 
all on the offered terms, is to every believer dis- 
tinctly personal. He endeavours to excite our 
praises for every instance of faith and holiness 
recorded in Scripture. He teaches, us that what- 
soever was written aforetime, was written for 
our instruction. The humble believer may claim 
his share — for in this case appropriation is not 
monopoly — of every doctrine, of every precept, ' 
of every promise, of every example. The Chris- 
tian may exultingly say, the Holy Scriptures 
were written for my reproof, for my coriection, 
for my instruction in righteousness. The Holy 
Spirit, who teaches me to apply it to myself, 
dictated it for me. Not a miracle upon record, 
not an instance of trust in God, not a pattern of 
obedience to Him, not a gratulation of David, 
not a prophecy of Isaiah, not an office of Christ, 
not a doctrine of an Evangelist, not an exhorta- 
tion of an apostle, not a consolation of Saint 
Paul, but has its immediate application to my 
wants; but makes a distinct call on my' grati- 
tude ; but furnishes a personal demand upon my 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



291 



responsibility. The whole record of the sacred 
Canon is but a record of the special mercies of 
God to me, and of his promises to myself, and 
Jo every individual Christian to the end of the 
world. 

That Divine Spirit, which dictated the in- 
spi-ed Volume, has taken care that we should 
never be at a loss for materials for devotion. Not 
a prophet or apostle but has more or less contri- 
buted to the sacred fund, but has cast his mite 
into the treasury. The writings of Saint Paul, 
especially, are rich in petitions, abundant in 
thanksgivings, overflowing in praises. The 
Psalms of David have enlarged the medium of 
intercourse between earth and heaven. They 
have supplied to all ages materials for Christian 
worship, under every supposeable circumstance 
of human life. They have facilitated the means 
of negociation for the penitent, and of gratitude 
for the pardoned. They have provided confes- 
sion for the contrite, consolation for the broken 
hearted, invitation to the weary, and rest for the 
heavy laden. They have furnished petitions for 
the needy, praise for the grateful, and adoration 
for all. However indigent in himself, no one 
can complain of want who has access to such a 
magazine of intellectual and spiritual treasure. 
These variously gifted compositions, not only 
kindle the devoutest feeling, but suggest the 
aptest expressions: they invest the sublimest 
meanings with the noblest eloquence. They 
have taught the tongue of the stammerer to 
speak plainly; they have furnished him who 
was ready to perish for the lack of knowledge, 
with principles as well as feelings ; they have 
provided the illiterate with the form, and the de- 
vout with the spirit of prayer. To him who 
previously felt not his wants, they have imparted 
fervent desires, they have inspired the faint with 
energy, and the naturally dead, with spiritual 
life. 

The writings and the practice of Saint Paul 
do not less abundantly, than the compositions of 
David, manifest the supreme power of fervent 
devotion. The whole tenor of his life proves 
that his heart was habitually engaged in inter- 
course with the Father of spirits. His conver- 
sation, like the face of Moses, betrays, by its 
brightness, that he had familiar admission to the 
presence of God. He exhibits the noblest in- 
stance, with which the world has presented us, 
of this peculiar effect of vital religion : that sup- 
plication is the dialect of the poor in spirit, 
thanksgiving the idiom of the genuine Christian, 
praise his vernacular tongue. 



CHAP. XX. 

Saint Paul an Example to Familiar Life. 

The highest state of moral goodness is com- 
pounded of the avowed properties of ripened ha- 
bits, growing out of genuine Christian princi- 
ples, invigorated and confirmed by the energy 
of the Holy Spirit : — this is evangelical virtue. 

Saint Paul contrasts the power of opposite 
habits with wonderful force in his two pictures, 
one of the debasing slavery of a vicious mind, 



and the other of the almost mechanical power 
of superinduced good habits in a virtuous one 
— ' Know ye not that to whom ye yield yourselves 
servants to obey, his servants ye are to whom ye 
obey, xchether of sin unto death, or of obedience 
unto righteousness ?'* What a dominion must 
holy principles and holy habits have obtained in 
that mind, when he could say, ' The. life that I 
now live, I live by the faith of the Son of God, 
who loved me, and gave himself for me,'' — ' / am 
crucified to the world, and the world is crucified 
to me ." Mere morality never rose to this super- 
human triumph, never exhibited such a proof of 
its own power to establish Christian practice. 
To these rooted habits the sacred writers some- 
times apply the term perfection. 

Saint Paul, when he speaks of perfection, could 
only mean that fixedness of principle, and Chris- 
tian elevation of character, which, under the in- 
fluence of Divine grace, is actually attainable ; 
he could not mean to intimate that he expected 
man to be freed from liability to error, to be com- 
pletely exempted from the inroads of passion, to 
be no longer obnoxious to deviations and deflec- 
tions from the law, by which he is yet mainly 
guided and governed. He could not expect him 
to be entirely and absolutely delive.jd from the 
infirmities of his frail and fallen nature. But 
though this general uniformity of good habits 
may occasionally, through the surprise of pas- 
sion and the assaults of temptation, be in some 
degree broken, yet these invaders are not en- 
couraged, but repelled : though some actions 
may be more imperfect, and some wrong tem- 
pers may still unhappily intrude themselves, yet 
vigilance and prayer obtain such a power of re- 
sistance, as finally almost to subdue these cor 
ruptions ; and those that are not altogether con 
quered, but occasionally break out, induce a 
habit of watchfulness over the suspected places, 
and keep the heart humble, by a feeling of these 
remains of infirmity. 

But even here, such are the stratagems of the 
human heart for concealing its corruptions, not 
only from others, but from itself, that it is in- 
cumbent on every individual so to examine, as 
clearly to discover, his own real character ; to 
inquire, whether he is at the same time sincerely 
mourning over his remaining disorders, and 
earnestly desiring and diligently cultivating a 
new vital principle of faith and holiness ; or 
whether he has only been making a certain de- 
gree of improvement in this or that particular 
quality, while he continues both destitute and 
undesirous of this vital principle, which is the 
first seed of the Divine Life. 

It should seem, that the term • perfect,' as 
well in other parts of Scripture as in the writings 
of St. Paul, not only has not always the exact 
meaning which we assign to it, but has different 
meanings, according to the occasion on which 
it is employed. Sometimes this term expresses 
the aim rather than the acquisition, as in that 
injunction of our Saviour — ' Be ye perfect, as 
your Father who is in heaven is perfect.' Some- 
times it appears to imply, being furnished with 
needful instruction in all points, as in Paul's di- 
rection to Timothy, — ' that the man of God may 

* Romans, cb. vt. 



292 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



be perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good 
works.' Often it means nearly the same with 
religious sincerity, as in Proverbs, — ' for the up- 
right shall dwell in the land, and the perfect 
shall remain in it.' Sometimes it is used with 
a special reference to abhorrence of idolatry, as 
when the expression ' perfect heart' is applied 
to various kings of Judah. The meaning in 
Philippians, * Let us therefore, as many as be 
perfect, be thus minded,' seems to import only 
real earnestness. Perfection, in the precise no- 
tion of it, admits not of gradation, nor of ad- 
vancement in the same quality. 

The highest kind of perfection of which man 
is capable, is to 'love God and Jesus Christ 
whom he has sent, with all his heart ;' that is, 
so to love as to obey the laws of the one, while 
he rests on the merits of the other. Paul inti- 
mates that our happiness consists in the pardon 
of our sins, and our holiness in our conquest 
over them ; and perhaps there is not a more 
dangerous delusion, than to separate the forgive- 
ness from the subjugation : the pardon, indeed, 
is absolute, the conquest comparative. He places 
attainable perfection in the obedience of faith, 
in the labours of charity, in the purity of holi- 
ness ; proving that to aspire after this perfection, 
all men, according to their respective advan- 
tages, are under equal obligation ; and it is not 
too much to assert, that no one lives up to the 
dignity of man, who does not habitually aspire 
to the perfection of a Christian. For to como as 
near to God, that is, as near to perfection as our 
nature was intended to approach, is but to an- 
swer the end for which we were sent into the 
world. — And do we not defeat that end, while we 
are not only contented to live so much below our 
acknowledged standard, but while we rest satis- 
fied, without even aspiring towards it ? 

While Paul strenuously endeavours to abate 
confidence, and beat down presumption he is 
equally careful, not by lowering the tone of per- 
fection, to foster negligence, or to cherish indo- 
lence. He speaks as one who knew that sloth 
is an enemy, the more dangerous for being in- 
sidiously quiet. It saps the principle as effec- 
tually, if not as expeditiously, as other vices 
storm it. It is, indeed, in the power of this one 
inert sin, to perform the worst work of all the 
active ones — to destroy the soul. He admo- 
nishes us equally, by his writings and by his 
example, to carry all the liveliness of our feel- 
ings, and the vigour of our faculties, into our re- 
ligion. He knew that a cold indifference, that 
a lifeless profession, would ill prepare us for that 
vital world, that real land of the living, that im- 
mortality which ia all life, and soul, and spirit. 
He therefore prescribes for us patients who need 
to be stimulated, full as often as to be lowered, 
in our moral temperature ; nay, whose general 
constitution of mind presents a large portion of 
languor to be invigorated, and of lethargy to be 
animated. ' A physician,' says bishop Jeremy 
Taylor, 'would have small employment on the 
Riphrean mountains, if he could cure nothing 
but calentures ; dead palsies and consumptions 
are their diseases. 

The apostle, however, intimates frequently 
that perfection does not consist in a higher he- 
roic elevation in some particular point, which, 



as few could reach, so fewer would aim at it : 
but in a steady principle, an equable piety, a 
consistent practice, an unremitting progress. 
If the standard held up were singular, it would 
be unprofitable. An exhibition of character 
rather to be wondered at, than imitated, would 
be a useless perfection. A prodigy is not a mo- 
del. It would be no duty to copy a miracle, but 
presumptuous to expect that a miracle would be 
wrought for us. To call on all to ' perfect holi- 
ness in the fear of God' — to exhort men to ' go 
unto perfection,' would be mocking human in- 
firmity, if the apostle meant something which 
only a very few could attain. — ' Pressing on unto 
perfection,' can mean little more than a perpe- 
tual improvement in piety and virtue. 

Let us then be animated and encouraged by 
Scripture instances of excellence, and not de- 
terred by them, as if they were too sublime for 
our imitation, as if exalted piety were to be li- 
mited to a few peculiar favourites of Heaven, 
were tiie exclusive prerogative of some distin- 
guished servants of God, the rare effect of some 
miraculous gift. All grace is indeed a miracle, 
but it is not a singular, it is not an exclusive 
miracle. Whole churches, with exceptions no 
doubt, have been favoured with it. Saint Paul 
speaks of large communities, not universally, 
we presume, but generally, touched by divine 
grace, so as collectively to become ' the joy and 
crown of his rejoicing.' Hear him declare of 
his Roman converts, that they ' were full of all 
goodness, filled with all knowledge ;' of the Co- 
rinthians — that they ' were enriched in every 
thing — that they abounded in all faith and dili- 
gence :' mark the connexion of these two attri- 
butes, ' faith' in one, nor in another, is not the 
slackener of duty, but in all the principle and 
spring of the eame 'diligence.' These high 
commendations are not limited to Apollos, his 
associate in the ministry, nor to ' Timothy, his 
dearly beloved son ;' nor to Titus, his ' own son 
after the common faith,' nor to any other of 
those distinguished saints 'who laboured with 
him in the Gospel.' 

We may therefore fairly consider Saint Paul, 
not as an instructor nor as a model, exclusively 
for martyrs, and ministers, and missionaries. 
As the instruction of Christ's sermon on the 
mount, though primarily addressed to his disci, 
pies, was by no means restricted to them ; so 
the exhortations of Paul are not confined to 
ecclesiastical teachers, though he had them much 
in view. The inclosure lies open to all ; the en- 
trance is left free; the possibility of salvation is 
universal, the invitation is as largo as the bene- 
volence of God, the persons invited as numerous 
as his whole rational creation. 

It is a beautiful part of his character, and it 
is what contributes to make him so uniformly a 
pattern, that all his strength is not reserved for, 
nor expended entirely on, those great demands 
which so frequently occurred, to answer which 
he was always so fully prepared, and which he 
encountered with such unshaken fortitude. 

His intervals were filled up with shades of the 
same colour : the same principle was sot at work 
in all the common events of his daily life : the 
same dispositions which were ripening him for 
his final suffering, operated in the humble, ten- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



293 



der, forbearing habits, in which he was perpe- 
tually exercised. The Divine principle had re- 
solved itself into a settled frame of mind. And 
it was in the hourly cultivation of that most 
amiable branch of it, Christian charity, that he 
acquired suoh maturity in the heroic virtue of 
enduring patience. To deny his own inclina- 
tion to sustain the infirmities of the weak, to bear 
the burden of others, he considered, as indis- 
pensable in the followers of Him, whose lovely 
characteristic it was, that he pleased not him- 
self. In enjoining this temper on his Roman 
converts, he winds up his injunction, with as- 
cribing to the Almighty the two attributes 
which render Him the fountain of grace, for the 
production of this very temper in all alike who 
call upon Him for it. He denominates Him the 
God of patience and consolation. 

We must not therefore fancy that this emi- 
nent saint was not an example to private life, 
because his destination was higher, and his 
trials greater than ours. This superiority can- 
not disqualify him for a copy. We must aim at 
the highest point. It is easier to reduce a por- 
trait than enlarge it. All may have the same 
grace ; and some actually have great, if not 
equal trials. IfChristians are not now called like 
him, to martyrdom, they are frequently called 
to bear the long protracted sufferings of sick- 
ness without mitigation, of penury without re- 
lief, of sorrows without redress. Some are 
called to bear them all, without even the com- 
fort of witnesses, without the soothing of pity. 

If the elevation of his conduct does not place 
this great apostle above our imitation, no more 
does the sublimity of his principles, as we find 
them exhibited in his writings. His piety in 
both is equally of a practical nature. We rise 
from perusing many a treatise of metaphysical 
morality, without clearly ascertaining its pre- 
cise object; at least, without carrying away any 
one specific principle for the regulation of our 
own heart and life. We admire the ingenuity 
of the work, as we admire the contrivance of a 
labyrinth ; it is curiously devised ; but its intri- 
cacy, while it has amused, has embarrassed us. 
We feel that we might have made our way, and 
attained our end, more easily and more speedily, 
in a plain path, where less perplexity required 
no artificial clue. The direct morality of our 
apostle has none of this Dcedalian enginery. 

Saint Paul, in one sense, always writes like a 
man of the actual world. His is not a religion 
of theory, but of facts, of feelings, of principles; 
a religion exactly accommodated to the being 
for whom he prescribes. Our passions and our 
reason, our hopes and our fears, our infirmities 
and our supports, our lapse and our restoration, 
all find their place in his discussions. He consults 
every part-ofour nature; he writes for material 
and immaterial, for mortal and immortal man. 
He does not abound in those desultory and 
random discussions, which distract the mind, 
and leave the reader at a loss what he is to think 
and what he is to do. He does not philosophize 
upon abstract truths, nor reason upon conjec- 
tural notions; but bears witness to what he has 
seen and known, and deduces practical instruc- 
tion from actual events. He is therefore dis- 
tinct in his exposition of doctrines and duties ; J 



explicit in his injunctions and reproofs ; and this 
because truth is absolute. Wc can scarcely 
peruse a sentence in his writings, without find- 
ing something to bring away from them for our 
own use, something which belongs to ourselves, 
something which would have been seasonably 
addressed to us, had he been our personal cor- 
respondent. 

He knew mankind too well, not to know the 
necessity of speaking out: he knew, that if any 
opening was left, they would interpret it in 
their own favour ; that they would slip out of 
every thing which was not precisely explain- 
ed and definitely enjoined. He was aware 
that the reason why men profit so little by scrip- 
ture instruction is because, in applying it, they 
are disposed to think only of other people, and 
are apt to forget themselves. He knew it was 
riot easy to lower the world's good opinion of 
itself. That the quicksightedness of certain 
persons, errs, not in misunderstanding the just- 
ness of a reproof, but only in mistaking its ob- 
ject; and that, by directing the censure to 
others, they turn away the point of the weapon 
from their own bosoms. Yet he makes charita- 
ble allowance for the capacities, the exigencies, 
and the temptations of a world so diversely cir- 
cumstanced. Like his blessed Master, he would 
have all men every where to be saved ; and, like 
him, left no means unessayed, which might 
promote this great end. 

We must not imagine that Christianity is not 
precisely the s^rne thing now, as it was when 
our Apostle published it, because its exter- 
nal marks are not so completely identified. A 
more animated zeal in religion might have been 
visible and legitimate in the first ages of the 
Church, than commonly in the present. The 
astonishing change then effected in the minds 
of men, was rapid, and often instantaneous. In 
our day, it is usually gradual. It is no wonder 
that persons should have been overwhelmed 
with joy and gratitude, at being suddenly res- 
cued from the darkness of Pagan idolatry, a 
being delivered from the bondage of the Jewish 
ritual, and trauslated into the glorious liberty 
of the children of God. The total revolution in 
the mind, and in the principles, would certainly 
produce a sensible alteration in the external 
habits and visible practice of the Gentile con- 
vert ; whose morals, if he were indeed a convert, 
would be as different from what they had pre- 
viously been, as his faith ; and he as different 
from his former self, as any two men from each 
other. This, consequently, would make the 
change more obvious than in the renovated 
character of a nominal Christian, now brought 
to embrace vital Christianity ; in whose out- 
ward observances, antecedent and subsequent to 
his change, there might probably be no very 
apparent alteration. 

In the days of the apostle, the holy sacrament 
of baptism was likely to be, in the very highest 
sense of the word, regeneration. It was not 
only the outward and visible sign of an inward 
and spiritual grace ; but it was also, for the 
most part, an actual evidence that such grace 
had been effectually received unto eternal sal. 
vation. The convert then was an adult, and 
received baptism as his explicit confession and 



294 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



open adoption of the new faith. To bring men 
4 to believe with the heart, and to confess with 
the tongue,' the Divinity of the Redeemer, was 
.o bring them to be truly converted. ' No man 
could say that Jesus was the Lord, but by the 
Holy Ghost.' As the Apostles had neither re- 
putation to influence, nor authority to compel, 
nor riches to bribe, so it is obvious that there 
, was nothing to attract men to Christianity, ex- 
cept their full conviction of its divine truth. It 
was hostile to their secular advancement, to 
their interests, their reputation, their safety. 
Hypocrisy was consequently a rare, when it 
was a losing sin. A hypocrite was not likely to 
embrace a faith by which he was sure to gain 
nothing in this world, if it were false ; and no- 
thing till after his death, if it were true. Chris- 
tians were such optionally, or not at all. 

It was not then probable, that he who was 
baptized under such circumstances, would be 
merely an external convert. According to all 
human means of judging, that ' faith' existed, 
which is said by an article to be ' confirmed' in 
baptism ; and this holy Sacrament became not 
only an initiatory, but a confirmatory rite. 
• There were at that time no hereditary pro- 
fessors ; there was no such thing as Christianity 
by transmission. There was therefore a broad 
line to step over, whenever the new faith was 
adopted. There was no gradual introduction 
into it by education, no slipping into it by habit, 
no wearing its badge by fashion. 
. But if the novelty attending the early intro- 
duction to Christianity has ceased ; if living in 
a land where it is universally professed, being 
educated in some acquaintance with the Chris- 
tian faith, finding easy access into the Temples 
in which it is preached, habitually attending on 
its services, living under laws which are im- 
bued with its spirit; if all this takes off the ap- 
parent effect, if it lessens the surprise, if it mode- 
rates the joy and wonder, which a total change 
in external circumstances was calculated to ex- 
cite ; if it even lessens in a degree the visible 
alteration produced in hearts awakened by it ; 
if this change was more obvious in the conver- 
sion of those who were before wallowing in 
the grossest abominations, or sunk in the most 
degrading superstitions, than in those who are 
conversant with the decencies of life, who had 
previously observed the forms of religion, and 
practised many of the social virtues; yet, in the 
views and in the feelings, in the heart and in 
the spirit, in the principle of the- mind, and in 
the motive of the conduct, the change in the 
one case has a very near affinity to the change 
in the other. The difference of circumstances 
diminishes nothing of the real povver of Divine 
grace ; it does not alter the nature of the change 
inwardly effected ; it does not manifest now, less 
than it did then, the pitifulness of God's great 
mercy in delivering, those who are tied and 
bound with the chain of their sins. 

Had Saint Paul been a profligate or immoral 
man, we apprehend that his conversion would, 
as an example have lost much of its power. The 
two extremes of character might in that case, 
indeed, more forcibly strike the superficial in- 
quirer. But to show the turpitude of gross 
\vice, a miracle is not necessary ; Christianity J 



is not necessary. The thing was self-evident ; 
Antoninus and Epictetus could have shown it. 
But for a man who had previously such strong 
claims to respect from others, such pretensions 
on which to value himself, — his Hebrew de- 
scent ; his early initiation into the distinguish- 
ing Jewish rite ; hi.= Pharisaic exactness, an ex- 
actness not hypocritical, but conscientious ; his 
unquestionable morals, his blameless righteous- 
ness in all that pertained to the law, his correct- 
ness of demeanour, his strict observance of re- 
ligious forms ; that such a man should need the 
further subjugation of his passions, his pride, 
his bigotry, and uncharitableness ; that, in short, 
he should require a total and radical renovation 
of the character. and of the soul, — this was in- 
deed a wonder worthy of Divine inspiration to 
declare, as well as of Divine grace to accom- 
plish ; and this change, when really effected, 
afforded an appeal for the truth of the doctrine, 
both to the heart and to the understanding, more 
powerful than volumes of arguments. 

Saint Paul was aware, that there is frequent- 
ly more danger where there is less scandal ; 
that some fancy they are reformed, because they 
have exchanged the sensual for the spiritual 
vices; thatin truth, men oftener change their sins 
than their nature, put pride into their correctness, 
and violence into their zeal, and uncharitableness 
into their sobriety, and covetousness into their 
prudence, and censoriousness into their absti- 
nence. Among the better disposed, he knew 
there were many who, after they are brought 
to embrace religion, think they have nothing 
more to do. They were, perhaps, sincere ia 
their inquiries, and their convictions were strong, 
But having once obtained a confidence in their 
acceptance, they conclude that all is well. They 
live upon their capital, if we may be allowed 
the expression ; and so depend upon their as 
surance, as if their personal work was done. 
To both of these classes he directs the warning 
voice, Go on unto perfection. To both he virtually 
represents, that if the transformation were real, 
it would animate them to increased earnestness ; 
while their desires would be more fervent, their 
piety would not evaporate in desires, their con- 
stant fear of relaxing would quicken their pro- 
gress. 

It is worth remarking, that throughout the 
Holy Scriptures, and especially thoughout the 
writings of the Apostle — striving with princi- 
palities and power, putting on the whole armour 
of God, continuing instant in prayer, seeking 
those things which are above, ?nortifying your 
?nembers, avoiding inordinate affections and 
covetousness, which is idolatry, are not applied 
to the profane, or even to the careless, but to 
those who had made a great proficiency in re- 
ligion ; not to novices, but to saints. These are 
continually cautioned against sitting down at 
ease in their religious possessions ; they are 
exhorted, on the contrary, to augment them. It 
is not, as an able writer says, ' longing after 
great discoveries, nor after great tastes of the 
love of God, nor longing to be in Heaven, nor 
longing to die, that are such distinguishing 
marks of a perfect Christian, as longing after 
a more holy heart, and living a more holy life.'* 
*JJr. Owen on the Holy Spirit 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



295 



The apostle shows that we must not sit down 
satisfied even in the habitual desire, even in the 
general tendency to what is right. He frequent- 
ly stirs up the reader to actual exercise, to quick- 
ening exertions : without such movements, he 
knew that desire might sink into unproductive 
wishes ; that good tendencies might come short 
of their aim. This brief, but comprehensive 
hint — not as though I had already attained — fre- 
quently recollected and acted upon, will serve to 
keep up in the mind, that we are capable of 
much higher things than we have yet achieved 
— and that, while we are diligently ascending 
by each progressive step, we must still stretch 
forward our view to the culminating point. 

If, then, even the most conspicuous converts 
of Saint Paul required to be confirmed by in- 
cessant admonition ; if he did not think the 
most heroic Christians so established as to be 
arrived at their ultimate state ; if he did not 
think the most advanced so secure as to be trust- 
ed to go alone, so complete in themselves as to 
lose sight of their dependence; if they required 
to be exhorted to go on unto perfection ; to be re- 
newed from day to day ; to stand fast; to quit 
themselves like men ; to be strong in the Lord, 
and in the power of his might to stand against 
the wiles of the Devil ; and having done all, to 
stand — ' Let us not be high minded, but fear.' 
If we believe that the Spirit was poured out in 
more abundant measures in the incipient state, 
than on us in the more established position of 
the Church ; yet we see their superiority, in 
this respect, neither lessened the necessity of 
caution in the instructor, nor of diligence in the 
hearer. 



CHAP. XXI. 

On the superior advantages of the present period, 
for the attainment of Knowledge, Religion, and 
Happiness. 

We have heard of a Royal infidel, who was 
impious enough to declare, that had the Maker 
of the universe consulted him at the Creation, he 
could have given him hints for the improvement 
of his plan. Many, who do not go so far as to 
regret that their advice was not asked when the 
world was made, practically intimate that they 
could improve upon the scheme of Providence in 
carrying it on. We have met with persons, 
who, not fully satisfied with the evidences of 
Christianity, at least not quite firm in the prac- 
tical adoption of its truths, have expressed a 
wish, that for the more complete confirmation 
of their faith, their lot had been cast in this, or 
in that particular age, in which they might 
have cleared up their doubts, and removed their 
difficulties. 

Now, though it is not permitted to indulge 
any wish contrary to the appointment of Him 
who fixes the bounds of our habitation, and or- 
dains our whole lot in life; yet it should seem 
that we, in this age and country, have the most 
abundant reason, not only to be peculiarly grate- 
ful that it has fallen at this precise period. Who, 
that reflects at all will maintain, that any asra 



in the history of the world, whether antecedent 
or subsequent, to the institution of Christianity, 
could have afforded clearer lights or higher aids 
than the present ? or would have conduced to 
make us wiser, better, or happier ? Let us be 
assured, that if we do not see truth with suffi- 
cient distinctness, it is not our own position, nor 
that of the object, which is in fault, but the organ 
itself. 

It is not to our present purpose to insist on 
the internal evidence of Christianity ; on that 
witness within — that conviction of the Chris- 
tian's own mind, arguing so strongly the truth 
of Revelation from its correspondence to his own 
wants — because this is an evidence equally ac- 
cessible to the believer of every period. Wo 
shall, therefore, only offer a few observations on 
the superior advantages which we at present 
enjoy, as well from other causes, as from the 
fulness of the external evidence which has been 
undeniably established upon the profoundest 
knowledge and closest examination of the Sacred 
Records, by so many of our wisest and soundest 
divines. 

We have, for our assistance in religious know- 
ledge, the collective wisdom of sacred antiquity ; 
and for our furtherance in piety, its precepts, its 
monitions, its examples. It is also the peculiar 
honour of our apostle, that from his life and 
writings alone, a new confirmation of the truth 
of the Gospel which he preached, has been re- 
cent)}' and completely made out. In addition 
to the fullest general evidence of the authenticity 
of the New Testament, two of our own contem- 
poraries — men of different rank, habits, educa- 
tion, and turn of mind, — have extracted from the 
writings of Saint Paul exclusively, particular 
and collateral evidence of a most interesting and 
important nature. We refer, in the first in- 
stance, to a small but valuable work of a noble 
author,* himself a convert of no common order, 
in which he lays down, and substantially proves 
the truth of his position, that the conversion and 
apostleship of St. Paul alone, duly considered, 
is, of itself, a demonstration sufficient to prove 
Christianity to be a Divine Revelation. Into 
these circumstances, which it is probable power- 
fully assisted his own convictions, he has with 
great diligence examined ; and has with irre r 
sistible strength proposed them for the convic- 
tion of others. 

In the other instance, we refer to that exqui T 
site work, the ' Horse Paulina?,' of Doctor Paley ; 
a work which exhibits a species of evidence as 
original as it is incontrovertible. It is a corro- 
boration of the truth of the New Testament, de. 
rived from the incidental but close correspond- 
ence of numberless passages in the life and 
travels of Saint Paul, related in the Acts, with 
his own repeated reference, in his Epistles, to 
th# same circumstances, persons, places, and 
events ; together with their most correct geo- 
graphical agreement ; — the respective authors 
of both writings uniformly and consistently 
though unintentionally, throwing light on each 
other. 

This interesting work, in a more especial 
manner, adds weight to facts which were already 

* Lord Littleton 



296 



THE WORKS Of HANNAH MORE. 



fully established, and strength to that ' truth' 
which was before • barred up with ribs of iron.' 
We cannot too highly estimate this subsidiary 
evidence to the Christian revelation, derived as 
it were casually and incidentally from our apos- 
tle, from him to whom we were already un- 
speakably indebted for so much direct spiritual 
and practical instruction. It is a species of evi- 
dence so ingenious, yet so solid, so clear and so 
decisive, that the author must have carried his 
point in any court of judicature before which the 
cause might have been brought. 

If it were not the very genius of scepticism to 
shrink its • shrivelled essence' down to the mi- 
nutest point, when it wishes to work itself an 
entrance where no visible opening seems previ- 
ously to have been left, we should think, that, 
after the able defences of Revelation which have 
been made on general grounds, the addition of 
these partial and subordinate, but not less con- 
vincing proofs, had not left even the smallest 
crevice through which Unbelief could force, or 
even Doubt insinuate its way. 

But to quit this more limited channel of con- 
viction for the broad current of general Scrip- 
ture, let us examine what period would have 
been more favourable, not only for the confirma- 
tion of our belief, but for our moral, our intel- 
lectual and spiritual improvement. Let us in- 
stitute an inquiry, (if a few cursory and super- 
ficial remarks may be so called,) whether all 
those whose supposed superior opportunities of 
religious improvement we are disposed to envy, 
really possessed more advantages than ourselves ; 
and whether many among them were induced, 
in consequence of their peculiar situation to 
make the best use of those which they actually 
did possess. 

How very few of those who were not only 
countrymen, but contemporaries of our blessed 
Redeemer, believed in him, or at least perse- 
vered in their belief! Even of his immediate 
disciples, even of his select friends, of the fa- 
voured few who beheld the beautiful consistency 
of his daily life, who were more intimately pri- 
vileged to hear the gracious words which pro- 
ceeded from his lips : we pass by the Son of 
Perdition : — one had not courage so much as to 
acknowledge that he knew him ; another doubted 
his identity after his resurrection. In the mo- 
ment of exquisite distress, they all forsook him. 
His own ' familiar friends' abandoned him, ' and 
of the people there was none with him.' 

Where then were the peculiar, the enviable 
advantages, of that situation, placed in which, 
the fervent Peter, who declared that though all 
men should forsake him, yet would not he ; yet 
Peter forgot his oath, and forfeited his fidelity ! 
Can we affirm, that we have stronger or more 
tender religious attachments,' than ' the disciple 
whom Jesus loved ?' Yet was he one of that 
all who forsook him. Are we sure that it is a 
superiority in our faith, rather than in our cir- 
cumstances, which makes us to differ from those 
affectionate but troubled companions, who, after 
his crucifixion, sunk into the most hopeless des- 
pondency : — ' We trusted that this should have 
been He who should have redeemed Israel.' 
Cannot we, on the contrary, exultingly say, We 
know that this was He who has redeemed, not 



Israel only, but every penitent believer, of every 
people, and kindred, and nation, to the end of 
the world. After the truth of our Lord's divinw 
mission had been ratified by his resurrection 
from the dead, and the descent of the Holy Spi- 
rit, how many who heard the preaching, and 
beheld the miracles of his apostles, remained 
hardened in incredulity ! In the ages immedi- 
ately succeedipg the promulgation of the Gos- 
pel, even while its verities were new, and the 
sense of its blessings fresh, many of its professors 
fell into gross errors ; some tainted its purity by 
infusions of their own ; others incorporated with 
it the corruptions of Paganism. Many became 
heretics, some became apostates, not a few re- 
nounced Christianity, and more perhaps disho- 
noured it. , 

Does not Saint Paul, after his incessant la- 
bours, even after his apparent success in one 
quarter of the globe, sorrowfully exclaim to his 
friend, ' Thou knowest that all they which are 
in Asia be turned away from me.' He then 
proceeds to enumerate individuals, of whom, it 
may be presumed, that he once entertajned bet- 
ter hopes. While, therefore, we possess the 
works of this great apostle, and still many con- 
tinue to receive so little benefit from them, let 
not any deceive themselves with the notion, that 
they would have derived infallible sanctification 
from his personal preaching; but let them re- 
member, that all proconsular Asia,* who enjoy- 
ed that blessing, deserted both him and the 
Gospel. May not even the advantage, consider- 
ed in some points of view, be reckoned on our 
side ? If we may trust his own humble report 
of himself, 'his letters,' he says, ' were allowed 
to be more weighty and powerful than his bodily 
presence.' 

If so many were perverted, who had the pri 
vilege of standing the nearest to the fountain of 
light, who even drank immediately from the 
living spring itself, shall we look for a more lu- 
minous exhibition or more privileged exercise, 
or more sincere 'obedience' of Christian 'faith,' 
in the middle ages, when, in truth, religion was 
in a good measure extinguished; when the Chris- 
tian world had sunk into almost primeval dark- 
ness; 'when Christianity,' to borrow the words 
of Melancthon, ' was become a mere compound 
of philosophy and superstition ;' when what re- 
ligion did survive, was confined to a few, was 
immured in cloisters, was exhausted in quibbles, 
was wasted in unprofitable subtleties, was exhi- 
bited with little speculative clearness, and less 
practical influence ? 

Even when literature and religion awoke to- 
gether from their long slumber, when Chris- 
tianity was renovated and purified, the glorious 
beams of the Reformation did not diffuse uni- 
versal illumination. Even by better disposed 
but partially enlightened minds, contention was 
too frequently mistaken for piety, and debate 
substituted for devotion. 

Of how different a spirit from these wrangling 
Polemics was Saint Paul ! Though he repeat- 
edly exhorts his friends, especially Timothy, in 
instructing his people, to watch particularly 
' over their doctrine,' the grand foundation on 

* 2 Timothy, ch. i. 



THE WORKS OP HANNAH MORE. 



997 



which all preaching must be built, yet he ever 
shows himself an enemy to controversy, to fri- 
volous disputes, and idle contention. He directs 
his converts, not to waste the time and strength, 
which should be reserved for great occasions, 
about words to no profit, but subverting the hear- 
ers. And, perhaps, there has seldom been less 
genuine piety in the church than when intricate 
and theoretical points in theology have been 
most pertinaciously discussed. This is not ' con- 
tending for the faith once delivered to the saints,' 
but diverting the attention from faith, and alien- 
ating the heart from charity. 

We do not mean to censure a spirit of enquiry, 
nor to repress earnestness, in the solution of 
difficulties. It is indeed the very essence of an 
inquiring mind freely to start doubts, as it is 
of a learned and enlightened age rationally to 
solve them. On this point we are quite of the 
opinion of a good old Divine, that ' nothing is 
so certain as that which is certain after doubts.' 
But compared even with the latter period of re- 
ligious light and information, how far superior 
is our own ? We who have the happiness to 
live in the present age, live, when truth has had 
time to force its way through all the obscurities 
which had been raised about it, to prevent its 
access to the understanding. If we rightly ap- 
preciate our advantages, we shall truly find that 
no country, in any age, was ever placed in a 
fairer position for improvement in wisdom, in 
piety, and happiness. A black cloud indeed, 
charged with sulphureous matter, for a long 
time was suspended over our heads ; but, provi- 
dentially directed, it passed on, and bursting, 
Bpread conflagtalion over other lands. By the 
most exact retributive justice, those very coun- 
tries in which the modern Titans first assaulted 
Heaven, became the first scene of total desola- 
tion. — In other places we have seen experiments 
tried, new in their nature, terrible in their pro- 
gress, and worse than fruitless in their results. 
We have seen a great nation endeavouring to 
show the world that they could do without God. 
We have seen them exclude the Maker from 
his own creation ! and to complete the opposi- 
tion between their own government and His 
whom they gloried in dethroning, they used 
their impiously assumed power for the extermi- 
nation of the species which he had created, for 
the destruction of the souls whom he had sent 
his Son to redeem. 

If, however, in our own age, and perhaps our 
own country, Christianity has not only been 
boldly opposed, but audaciously villified, it has 
been only so much the more seriously examined, 
so much the more vigorously defended. If its 
truth has been questioned by some, and denied 
by others, it has been only the more carefully 
sifted, the more satisfactorily cleared. The 
clouds in which sophistry had sought to en- 
velope it, are dispersed ; the charges which 
scepticism had brought against it are repelled. 
The facts, arch-like, have been strengthened by 
being trampled upon. Infidelity has done its 
worst, and by the energy of its efforts, and the 
failure of its attempts, has shown how little it 
could do. Wit, and ingenuity, and argument 
have contributed each its quota to confirm the 
truths which wit, and ingenuity, and argument, 

Vol.IL 



had undertaken to subvert. Talents on the 
wrong side have elicited superior talents on the 
right, and the champions of the Gospel have 
beaten its assailants with their own weapons. 
Phyrrhonism has been beneficial, for by propa- 
gating its doubts it has caused them to be ob- 
viated. Even Atheism itself has not been with- 
out its uses, for by obtruding its impieties, it 
has brought defeat on the objections, and ab- 
horrence on their abettors. Thus the enemies 
of our faith have done service to our cause, for 
they have not advanced a single charge against 
it, which has not been followed by complete re- 
futation ; the shaking of the torch has caused 
it to diffuse a clearer and stronger light. 

Let us once more resume the comparison of 
our advantages, and the use wo make of them, 
with the advantages and the conduct of these 
ancient servants of God, in considering whom, 
perhaps, we mingle envy with our admiration. 
How fervently did these saints of the Old Tes- 
tament pant for that full blaze of light under 
which we live, and for which we are so little 
thankful ! — ' I have waited for thy salvation, O 
Lord !' was the heart- felt apostrophe of a devout 
patriarch. The aged saint who ' waited for the 
consolation of Israel, and rapturously sung his 
Nunc dimittis? — the ancient prophetess, who 
departed not from the temple, who desisted not 
from prayer day or night; — the father of th8 
Baptist, who ' blessed the Lord God of Israel 
that he had visited and redeemed his people ;'* 
— how small were their advantages compared 
with ours.' How weak is our faith, how freez- 
ing our gratitude compared with theirs ! t They 
only beheld in their Saviour a feeble infant; — 
they had not heard, as we have heard, from the 
most undeniable authority, the perfections of 
his life, nor the miracles of his power, nor the 
works of his mercy, nor his triumph over death, 
nor his ascension into Heaven, nor the descent 
of the Comforter. They had witnessed a large 
portion of the globe brought within the Chris- 
tian pale by the preaching of that Gospel, the 
dawn of which so exhilirated their overflowing 
hearts. If full beatitude is promised to them 
who have not seen, and yet have believed ; what 
will be the state of those who virtually have 
seen, and yet have not believed ? 

Had any patriarch, or saint, who was permit- 
ted only some rare and transient glimpses of tho 
promised blessing, being allowed in prophetic 
vision to penetrate through the long vista of 
ages, which lay in remote futurity before him— • 
had he been asked whether, if his power con- 
curred with his choice, in what age and in what 
nation he would have wished his lot assigned 
him — is it not more than probablo that he would 
have replied — in great Britain, in the begin- 
ning OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 

May we not venture to assert, that there are, 
at this moment, on the whole, more helps and 
fewer hindrances to the operation of Christian 
piety, than at any preceding period? May we 
not assert, that at no lime has the genuine reli- 
gion of the Gospel been more precisely defined, 
more completely stript of human inventions, 
more purified from philosophical infusions on 



* Luke, cb. L 



f Luke, co. ii 



298 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



one hand, and on the other more cleared from 
superstitious perversions, fanatical intemper- 
ance, and debasing associations ? That there 
still exist among us philosophists and fanatics, 
not a few, we are far from denying ; but neither 
is the distortion of faith in the one party, nor 
its subversion in the other, the prevailing cha- 
racter ; good sense and right mindedness pre- 
dominate in our general views of Christianity. 

If it be objected that there is a very powerful 
aid wanting to the confirmation of our faith, 
which the age of the apostles presented — that 
of miraculous gifts — the obvious answer is, that 
if they have ceased, it is because they have fully 
answered the end for which they were conferred, 
and is not the withdrawing of these extraordi- 
nary endowments more than compensated by 
the fulfilment of so many of the prophecies of 
the New Testament, and the anticipation of the 
near approach of others, yet unaccomplished ? 
In the mean time have we not the perpetual 
attestation of those living miracles, the unalter- 
ed state of the Jewish Church, and the frequent 
internal renovation of the human heart? 

There is not a more striking feature in the 
character of the Royal Psalmist, than the fer- 
vent and reiterated expressions of his love and 
admiration of the Holy Scriptures. In what a 
variety of rapturous strains does he pour out the 
overflowings of his ardent soul! ' Oh I how I 
love thy law ! Thy word is a lamp to my feet — 
Oh teach me thy statutes ! Thy words have I 
hid within my heart — Open thou mine eyes, 
that I may see the wondrous things of thy law !' 
To give a full view of his affectionate effusions, 
would be to transcribe the larger portion of the 
Psalms. To paraphrase his words, would be to 
dilute essential spirit. 

Let us pause a moment, and while we admire 
this holy fervency, let us blush at our own in- 
gratitude for advantages so superior : let us la- 
ment our own want of spiritual sensibility. Let 
us be humbled at the reflection, how very small 
was the portion of Scripture with which David 
was acquainted! How comparatively little did 
he know of that divine book, yet what holy 
transport was kindled by that little ! He knew 
scarcely more than the Pentateuch, and one or 
two contemporary prophets. Then let us turn 
our eyes to the full Revelation under which we 
live, and be grateful for the meridian splendour. 
Had David seen, as we see, the predictions 
of the late prophetical writers, those of Isaiah 
especially, to say nothing of his own, fulfilled — 
had he seen, as we have seen their glorious ac- 
complishment in the New Testament — the in- 
carnation and resurrection of Christ, the plenary 
gift of the Holy Spirit, the fulfilment of types, 
the substantiation of shadows, the solution of 
figures, the destruction of Jerusalem, the wide 
propagation of the everlasting Gospel, and that 
in far more tongues than were heard on the day 
of Pentecost,— had he seen a Bible in every cot- 
tage—a little seminary of Christian institution 
in every village — -had he beheld the firm esta- 
blishment of the Christian Church, no longer 
opposed, but supported by secular powers, after 
having conquered opposition by weapons purely 
spiritual — had he seen d. standing ministry con- 
tinued in a regular succession from the age of 



the apostles to the present hour — had he seen, 
in addition to these domestic blessings, England 
emancipating Africa and evangelizing India, 
commerce spreading her sails to promote civiliz- 
ation, and Christianity elevating civilization and 
sanctifying commerce — had the Royal Saint 
witnessed this combination of mercies in one 
single country, what had his feelings been ? 

He who so passionately exclaimed, ' Oh how 
amiable are thy dwellings, thou Lord of Hosts . 
— my soul hath a desire and a longing to enter 
into the courts of the Lord — blessed are they 
that dwell in thine house — one day in thy courts 
is better than a thousand — one thing have I de- 
sired of the Lord, that I may dwell in the house 
of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the 
fair beauty of the Lord, and to visit his temple' 
— this conqueror of the heathen, this denouncer 
of false gods, this chosen monarch of the chosen 
people, this fervent lover of the devotions of the 
Sanctuary, this hallowed poet of Sion, this noble 
contributor to our public worship, this man after 
God's own heart, was not permitted to build one 
single church — we in this island only, possess 
ten thousand. 

But some may say, the apostles had super- 
natural supports, which are withheld from us. 
Their supports were doubtless proportioned to 
the fervency of their faith, and to the extraordi- 
nary emergencies on which they were called to 
act. But as we had occasion to remark in a 
former chapter, these assistances seem to have 
been reserved for occasions to which we are not 
called ; and to be dispensed to them for others 
rather than for themselves. We do not find that . 
they who could cure diseases, were exempted 
from suffering them ; that they who could raise 
others from the dead, escaped a violent death 
themselves. We do not find that the aids afford- 
ed them, were given to extinguish their natural 
feelings, to lighten their burdens, to rescue them 
from the vicissitudes of a painful life, from po- 
verty or sorrows, from calumny or disgrace. 
Though Saint Paul converted the jailor, he had 
nevertheless been his prisoner ; though he had 
been the instrument of making ' saints even in 
Cfesar's household,' he was not delivered from 
perishing by Caesar's sword. 

It does not appear that in their ordinary trans- 
actions they had the assistance of more than the 
ordinary operations of the Spirit. These, blessed 
be Almighty Goodness ! are not limited to 
prophets or apostles, but promised to all sincere 
believers to the end of the world : communicated 
in a measure proportioned to their faith, and 
accommodated to their exigencies. The trea- 
sures of grace, unlike all other treasures, are 
not to be exhausted by using ; but like the mul- 
tiplication of loaves, more is left to be gathered 
up after the gift is used, than was imparted in 
the first instance. 



CHAP. XXII. 

Conclusion. — Cursory inquiry into some of the 
causes which impeded General Improvement. 

I> we, in this favourite country, and at thia 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



999 



favoured period, are not as internally happy as 
we are outwardly prosperous ; if we do not 
reach that elevation in piety ; if we do not ex- 
hibit that consistency of character, which, from 
the advantages of our position, might be expect- 
ed ; if innumerable providential distinctions are 
conferred without being proportionally improv- 
ed ; if we are rejoicing for public blessings, 
without so profiting by them as to make advance- 
ment in private virtue and personal religion ; — 
should we not diligently inquire in what parti- 
culars our deficiencies chiefly consist, and what 
are the obstructions which especially impede 
our progress ? 

That middle course which the luke-warm 
istian takes, he takes partly because it seems 

carry with it many present advantages, which 
the genuine Christian loses. This measured 
conduct obtains for him that general popularity, 
the desire of which is his main spring of action. 
He secures the friendship of worldly men, be- 
cause he can accommodate his taste to their 
conversation, and bend his views to their prac- 
tices. As he is not profligate, the pious who 
are naturally candid, judge him favourably, and 
entertain hopes of his becoming all they wish ; 
so that he unites the credit of their good opinion 
with the pleasure derived from the society of 
the others. A neutral character thus converts 
every thing to his own profit, avoids the suspi- 
cion attached to saints, and the disgrace insepa- 
rable from sinners. To disoblige the world, is, 
upon his principles, a price almost too high for 
the purchase of heaven itself. Is it not doubtful, 
whether he who accounts it so ea'sy a matter to 
be a Christian, is a Christian in reality? To 
such an one, indeed, it is as easy as it is plea- 
sant to reckon upon heaven ; but can any, with- 
out faith and without patience, be followers of 
them, who, ' through faith and patience inherit 
the promises V 

The truth is, mere men of the world do not 
conceive a very formidable opinion of the real 
•evil of sin : they think slightly of it because it 
is so common ; they even think almost favour- 
ably, at least they think charitably of it, when 
they see that even good men are not altogether 
exempt from it. From carelessness, or an 
erroneous kindness, they entertain a tender 
opinion of what they perceive to be a constant 
attendant on human nature : they plead, in 
its vindication, the mercy of God, the weak- 
ness of man, the power of temptation ; and 
are apt to construe a strict judgment on the 
thing into an uncharitable harshness on the man. 
For this forbearance they expect to be paid in 
kind, to be paid with interest ; for their very 
charity is usurious. The least religious how- 
ever, often resent keenly those crimes which 
offend against society ; of sins which affect 
their own interest, they are the most forward to 
seek legal redress. But they do not feel that 
some of the worst corruptions are of a spiritual 
nature ; and to those which only offend God, 
they never show themselves tenderly alive. 

But if they were brought to entertain just no- 
tions of the glorious majesty of God, they would 
«oon learn to see how sin dishonours it ; nor 
could an adequate view of his unspeakable holi- 
ness fail of leading them to a thorough hatred 



of every thing which is in direct opposition to 
it. If, however, their own impure vision pre- 
vents them from perceiving how deeply sin 
must offend the infinite purity of God, they 
might at least be awfully convinced of its malig- 
nant nature, by contemplating the wide and 
lasting ravages it has made among the human 
race. That can be no inconsiderable evil, which 
has been perpetuating itself, and entailing misery 
on its perpetrators for nearly six thousand years. 

Many are too much disposed to confound a 
confident feeling of security with religious peace. 
Conscience, whose suggestions were perhaps 
once clamorous, may, from long neglect, have 
become gradually less and less audible. The 
more obtuse the feelings grow, the less distur- 
bance they give. This moral deadness assumes 
the name of tranquillity and, as Galgacus said 
of the Roman conquerors, in his noble speech on 
the Grampian hills, ' when they have laid all 
waste, they call the desolation Peace.' 

Is there not a growing appearance, that many 
are substituting for the integrity of Christian 
doctrine, as taught in the Gospel, a religion com- 
pounded chiefly of the purer elements of Deism, 
amalgamated with some of the more popular at- 
tributes of Christianity ! If the apostle, after all 
his high attainments, ' was determined to know 
nothing but Jesus Christ, and him crucified,' 
shall a deteriorated, or, as it is pleased to call 
itself, a liberal Christianity, lead its votaries to 
be satisfied with knowing every thing except 
him ; that is, to be satisfied without knowing 
him in such a manner, as at once to believe in 
him as a prophet, and to be ruled by him as a 
king ; at once to obey him as a teacher, and 
trust in him as a Saviour ? 

On the other hand, let us remember, that we 
may be correct in our. creed without possessing 
a living faith. We may be right in our opinions, 
without any cordial concurrence of the heart, or 
any obedient subjugation of the will. We may 
be regular in the forms of devotion, and irre- 
gular in our passions. We may be temperate 
in what regards the animal appetites, and in- 
temperate in the indulgence of evil tempers. 
We may be proud of our own orthodoxy, while 
we ridicule a serious spirit in another professor 
of the same opinions. We may maintain a 
customary habit of prayer, while we are desti- 
tute of that spirit, without which prayer is un- 
available. May not some pray without invoking 
the mediation of the great Intercessor ? May he 
not say to some now, as he said to his disciples, 
Hitherto ye have asked nothing in my name ? 
We do not mean so invoking him, as to round 
the closing period with his name, but so regard- 
ing him, as to make him the general medium of 
our intercourse with heaven. 

And is it not an increasing evil, that there 
seems to prevail among some, a habit, so to speak, 
of generalizing religion, of melting down the 
peculiar principles of Christianity, till its grand 
truths are blended in the fusion, and come out 
of the crucible without any distinctive charac- 
ter? A fundamental doctrine of our religion is, 
with many, grown not only into disuse, but dis- 
credit. But unless a man can seriously say 
that his natural powers are fully effectual for 
his practical duties ; that he is uniformly able 



300 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



of himself to pursue the right which he ap- 
proves, and to avoid the wrong which he con- 
demns, and to surmount the evil which he la- 
ments, and to resist the temptations which he 
feels, it should seem that he ought in reason to 
be deeply thankful for that divine aid which the 
Gospel promises, and on which Saint Paul des- 
cants with such perpetual emphasis; that he 
ought gladly to implore its communication by 
the means prescribed by this great apostle. 

If a man does not set upon his own strength ; 
if he cannot live upon his own resources, if he 
finds that his good intentions are often frustrat- 
ed, his firmest purposes forgotten, his best reso- 
lutions broken ; if he feels that he cannot change 
his own heart; if he believes that there is a real 
spiritual assistance offered, and that the com- 
munication of this aid is promised to fervent 
prayer ; it should seem to follow, as a necessary 
consequence, that this interior sentiment would 
lower his opinion of himself, change his notions 
of the Divine character, diminish his feeling of 
self-dependence, loosen his attachment to sense, 
make him more indifferent to human opinion, 
and more solicitous for the favour of God. This 
humbling, yet elevating intercourse with heaven, 
would seem to convince him feelingly, that of 
himself he can do nothing; that human estima- 
tion can confer no intrinsic value, because it can- 
not make us what we are not; and that we are, 
in reality, only what we are in the sight of 
God. 

There is another cause which hurts the in- 
terests of religion. Injurious names are reci- 
procally given to the most imperious duties; 
parties take different sides, and match them 
each against the other as if they were opposite 
interests. But no power of words can alter the 
nature of things. Good works are not Popery; 
nor is faith Methodism. Yet, is not a spiritual 
litigation vigorously carried on between two 
principles, buth of which are of the very essence 
of the Gospel, and bound up therein in the most 
intimate and indissoluble union ? Let us not 
reject a truth because it is misrepresented by 
those who do not understand it. We know that 
a learned bishop was condemned by an ignorant 
pope, for propagating no worse a heresy than 
that there were Antipodes. 

M my, again, desire to be religious, but suffer 
the desire to die away without any effort to sub- 
stantiate it ; without any cordial adoption of the 
means which might produce the effect. Yet, 
with this inoperative desire, the languid Chris, 
tian quiets conscience, and is satisfied with re- 
ferring to this unproductive wish as an evidence 
of his sincerity. The effect is similar to that 
of a deceitful anodyne, which lulls pain without 
removing its cause. There are those who may 
be said to swallow religion as something which 
they are told it is their duty to lake, in order to 
do them good. They therefore receive it in the 
lump, and then dismiss it from their thoughts 
as a thing done. It is no wonder if tho suc- 
cess is proportioned to the measure. But would 
the apostle have so strenuously insisted on the 
necessity of being, ' renewed from, day to day,' 
if there were any definite day in which it could 
be affirmed that the work had been accomplish- 
ed ? and can any thing short of such accomplish* 



ment, justify us in desisting to press forward 
after it ? 

If, then, we would embrace Christianity as a 
life-giving principle, we must examine it analy- 
tically ; we must resolve it into the several parts 
of which it is compounded, instead of consider- 
ing it as a nostrum the effect of which is to be 
produced by our ignorance of the ingredients of 
which it is made up. To subscribe articles of 
faith, without knowing what consequences they 
involve — to be satisfied with having them pro- 
pounded, without entering into the spirit of our 
obligation to obey them — to acknowledge their 
truth, without examining our own interest in 
them, is not only to be an imperfect, but an irra- 
tional Christian. 

While the political and moral improvement 
of the world around us seems, in many respects, 
to be constantaneously advancing, let not us, of 
this highly distinguished land, frustrate the 
grand objects which we have been the honour- 
ed instruments of establishing. Britain presents 
a spectacle, on which, if the world gazes with 
an admiring, it will gaze also with a scruti- 
nizing eye. Those whom we have served and 
saved, will jealously inquire — for the obliged are 
not the least prying — Whether we live up to the 
high tone we assume? — Whether we obey the 
Gospel we extol? — Whether wc are religious 
in person, or by proxy ? — Whether all who dis- 
perse the Scriptures, read them? — May not the 
critical observer be inclined to parody the inter- 
rogatories of our apostle to the censorious Jews.* 
Thou that sayest anothej should not swear, art 
thou guilty ot profane levity ? Thou that sayest 
a man should keep the sixth and seventh com- 
mandments, dost thou shrink from duelling and 
libertinism ? Thou, who holdest out a fair ex- 
ample in attending the solemnities of the Sunday 
morning's worship, dost thou attend likewise 
the unhallowed festivities of the evening ? Thou 
that art valiant in the field, art thou also ' valiant 
for the truth ?' Thou who, professing ' pure re- 
ligion and undefiled,' visitest the fatherless and 
widow with thy purse, dost thou keep thyself 
1 unspotted from the world ?' Let it be observed, 
that these are hypothetical questions, not rash 
accusations. 

The public munificence and private bounties 
of this age and country have outgone all example. 
An almost boundless benevolence has annihila- 
ted all distinction of religion and of party, of 
country and ofcolour. No difference of opinion, 
no contrariety of feeling, has checked its as- 
tonishing operation, has chilled its ardent flame. 
No object is too vast for its grasp, none is too 
minute for its attention. The moral energies 
of the country have kept pace with the military 
and political. Charity, too, has been intimately 
connected with religion ; and we may hope, it 
is to the growth of the latter principle, that we 
are to ascribe the former practical effect. 

It remains with us to give substantial proof, 
that the right practice has flowed from the true 
principle. Let us never give occasion to the 
members of another church to infer, that even 
Protestants are not practically averse from the 
purchase of indigencies. Let us not give them 

• Roman, xxi. 22. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



301 



the slightest cause for imputing to any of our 
acts of beneficence a spirit of commutation. Let 
iliem not see, that sobriety, purity, and self- 
control, are considered by many of us as minor 
statutes in the Christian code. Let it not be said, 
that personal holiness is laid asleep by the sooth- 
ing blandishments of liberal profession ; by the 
misapplied tenderness of candid construction ; 
by a toleration which justifies the doing much 
which is not right in ourselves, because we make 
large allowances for whatever is wrong in others. 
To judge charitably, is a Christian precept ; but 
religion no more permits us to jud^e falsely, 
than to act censurably. To the affluent it is 
cheaper, and to the inconsiderate it is easier, to 
relieve others, than to deny ourselves. Let them 
remember, however, that though to give liberally 
is nobly right ; yet to act consistently is indis- 
pensably requisite, if we would make that which 
is in itself right acceptable to God ; and let even 
the most benevolent never fail to reflect, that 
nothing can swell the tide of charity to its full 
flow, but self-denial. 

If some among us were to make their public 
bounties the measure of their domestic conduct, 
it would be setting up for themselves a high 
practical standard : yet it might be fair to make 
it so. Such liberal persons might do well to 
consider how far, in every subscription they pay, 
they do not give a sort of public pledge of their 
general practice ; and how far, in order to be 
honest, they are not bound to redeem the depo- 
sit by their general correctness. Is it not a 
species of deceit to appear better than we are ? 
And do we not virtually practice this deceit when 
our self-government is obviously not of a piece 
with our liberality ? 

Do we then undervalue charity ? God forbid. 
Charity is a grace so peculiarly Christian, that 
it is said to have been practised in those coun- 
tries only where Revelation has been enjoyed 
either by possession or tradition. Of the histo- 
rians of ancient times, who have transmitted to 
us the fiune of their military skill, their political 
glory, their literary talents, their public spirit, 
or domestic virtues, none have made any men- 
tion of their charitable institutions ; none have 
made any mention of a great nation receiving 
into its bosom, in the moment of imminent dan- 
ger, of foreign war, and pressing domestic dis- 
tress, myriads of exiles from the enemy's coun- 
try ; of their receiving and supporting thousands 
upon thousands of the. priesthood of a religion so 
hostile to their own, as scarcely to allow them to 
believe that there was salvation for their bene- 
factors. 

Benevolence is the most lovely associate of 
the other Christian virtues. We mistake only 
when we adopt her as their substitute. Excel- 
lence in this grand article is so far from pro- 
curing a dispensation from the other graces of 
piety, that she only raises the demand for their 
loftier exercise. In the Christian race, however, 
the fleeter virtue must not slacken her speed, 
lest her competitors should be distanced. No ; 
tie lagging attributes must quicken theirs. 

We trust that we have not, in any part of this 
little work, attempted to degrade human reason. 
Is it degrading any quality or faculty, to assign 
to it its proper place, to ascribe to it its precise 



value ? Reason and religion accord as com- 
pletely in practice as in principle ; and is it not 
a subject of gratitude to God, that as there is 
nothing in Christian belief, so there is nothing 
in Christian practice, but what is consonant to 
views purely rational. Every disorder, irregu- 
larity, and excess, which religion prohibits, is 
as con-trary to our comfort, health, and happi- 
ness here, as it is fatal to our eternal interests ; 
and should be equally avoided on the ground of 
natural and spiritual judgment. Nay, if Chris, 
lians are accused by the infidel of selfish mo- 
tives, in obeying God for their own interest ; is 
there not more absurdity in disobeying Him, 
when, by so doing, we forfeit every thing which 
a well-directed self-love would show to be our 
highest advantage, and which common sense, 
human prudence, worldly wisdom, would teach 
us to pursue. 

Saint Paul combats all those partialities of 
judgment which arise from the understanding 
submitting itself to the will, from conviction 
yielding to inclination. As it was the truth of 
the principle, the rectitude of the act, which de- 
termined his judgment, so we read him to little 
purpose, if the same qualities do not also deter 
mine ours. But. men submit to unexamined 
predilections ; they do not allow themselves to 
be convinced of any thing with which they are 
not first pleased. Practical errors are rarely 
adopted from conviction, but almost always from 
inclination. 

Our apostle frequently includes ' lovers of 
their ownselves' in his catalogue of grievous 
offenders. He considers selfishness as a state of 
mind inconsistent with Christianity. No other 
religion, indeed, had ever shown (hat it was sin- 
ful ; no other had ever taught its followers to re- 
sist it; no other had furnished arms against it, 
had enabled its disciples to conquer it. Yet, 
may we not venture to assert, that among the 
prominent faults of this our age, is a growing 
selfishness. We mean not that sullen selfish, 
ncss which used to display itself in penurious 
habits, in shabby parsimony, and a sordid fru- 
gality, which received part of its punishment in 
the self-inflicted severities of its votary, and part 
in the discredit and contempt which attended 
it. But we mean, that luxurious selfishness 
which has its own grstification in the vanity it 
indulges ; and its own reward in the envy it 
secretly awakens, in the admiration it openly 
excites. 

The tide of an increasing dissipation, gorge- 
ous, costly, and voluptuous beyond all precedent, 
has swept away the mounds and ramparts within 
which prudence in expense, and sobriety in man- 
ners, had heretofore confined it. Strange ! that 
fashion and custom, and the example of others, 
are brought forward as a vindication by beings, 
who know they must be themselves individually 
responsible for the errors and the sins into which 
they are plunged by imitation, as well as by ori 
ginal evil. Numbers are pleaded as a valid apo- 
logy for being carried headlong down the tor- 
rent. But have we ever heard that the plague 
was thought a slighter distemper from the great- 
ness of the numbers infected ? On the contrary, 
is not the extent of the ravage its most alarming 
symptom ? and is not the weekly diminution ic 



302 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the numbers publicly registered as the only sig- 
nal of returning health ? 

God has blessed the late unparalleled exer- 
tions of this country with a proportionate suc- 
cess. Honour and glory crown our land. But 
honour and glory are not primary stars ; they 
borrow their lustre from that immortal principle 
which is the fountain of all moral illumination. 
Let us bear in mind that to be prosperous with- 
out piety, or joyful without gratitude, or thankful 
without repentance, or penitent without amend- 
ment, is to forfeit the favour of Him from whom 
all prosperity is derived. We are told in the 
oracles of God, that the corruptions of an irreli- 
gious nation converted blessings into sins, when 
' pride and abundance of idleness' were the un- 
grateful returns for 'fulness of bread.' 

Though we no longer perceive that open ali- 
enation from God, so apparent in the commence- 
ment of the French Revolution, yet do we per- 
ceive that return to Him which the restoration 
of our prosperity demands ? Has the design of 
the Almighty, in visiting us with the calamities 
of a protracted war been answered by a renun- 
ciation of the sins for which it was sent ? Has 
his goodness, in putting a happy period to these 
calamities, been practically acknowledged ? ac- 
knowledged, not merely by the public recogni- 
tion of a wisely appointed day, but by a visible 
reformation of our habits and manners? 

We are now most imperatively called upon to 
give unequivocal proof, that our devotion, in the 
late twenty years succession of national fasts, 
had some meaning in it, beyond the bare com- 
pliance with authority, beyond the mere impulse 
of terror. Let it not be inferred, from any ap- 
parent slackness of principle, that ours was the 
prayer of nature for relief, more than of grace 
for pardon ; the cry for escape from danger, ra- 
ther than for deliverance from sin. ' 

As God has abundantly granted us all the 
temporal blessings for which we then solicited, 
let us give full proof that our petitions were spi- 
ritual as well as political ; as He, in pity, has 
withdrawn the anger of his chastisements, let 
us, in gratitude, take away the provocation, of 
our offences. He has long tried us with correc- 
tion, he is now trying us with mercies. If, as 
we are told, when his judgments are abroad in 
the earth, we should learn righteousness, what 
should we not learn, what should we not prac- 
tice, when blessings are accumulated upon us — 
blessings, more multiplied in their number, more 
ample in their extent, more valuable in their na- 
ture, more fraught with present advantages, 
more calculated for our eternal good, than ever 
were experienced by our ancestors in any period 
of our history ? 

Let us not triumphantly compare ourselves 
with worse nations, unless we know what use 
they would have made of mercies which we have 
neglected ; let us not glory in our superiority to 
countries who have had to plead a bad govern- 
ment, and a worse religion. To be better than 
those who are bad, is a low superiority now, and 
will not be admitted as a reason for our acquit- 
tal hereafter. Corrupt Tyre, profligate Zidon, 
whose extinction the prophet Ezekiel had pre- 
dicted in the most portentous menaces, were 
pronounced by Infinite Compassion to be far less 



criminal than the instructed people to whom feie 
pathetic admonition was addressed. If blind- 
ness and ignorance might be offered as a plea 
for those heathen cities, what should extenuate 
the guilt of the enlightened regions of Galilee. 

It was on the most solemn of all occasions 
that of a description of the general resurrection, 
that St. Paul breaks in on his own awful dis- 
cussion, to suggest the ' corruption of manners' 
inseparable from ' evil communications.' Does 
it not give an alarming idea of his serious view 
of the subject, that he should so intimately con- 
nect it with the immmediate concerns of the 
eternal world ? Can we safely separate a cause 
and a consequence which he has so indissolubly 
joined ? 

As the joy felt by the patriarchal family in 
the ark, when the bird of peace, with its symbol 
in her mouth, returned to this little remnant of 
an annihilated world ; such, in its kind was the 
joy experienced when the voice of the charmer 
was recently heard on our shores, and through- 
out an almost desolated quarter of the globe. But 
let not our own country forget that this peace, 
so fervently desired, and so graciously accorded, 
may, by our neglecting to improve the blessing, 
become more fatally and irretrievably injurious, 
than that state of hostility which we have so 
long and so justly deplored. Let us not forget, 
that shutting the gates of the temple of Janus, by 
opening those of Paris, may only have changed 
the nature, while it has deteriorated the charac- 
ter, of the warfare. 

What incantation is there in the name of 
Peace, that could, as by the touch of a magi- 
cian's wand, produce, at once, a total revolution 
in the character of a people, and in our opinion 
of them ? What charm is there in a sound that 
could so transform a great nation, abandoned 
for a quarter of a century to boundless vice, and 
avowed infidelity, as to render familiar inter- 
course with them profitable, or their society even 
safe ; which could instantaneously convert this 
scene of alarm, into a scene of irrefjstible at- 
traction ; could cause, at once, this land of ter- 
ror to be desired as impatiently, and sought as 
impetuously, as if it had been the Land of Pro- 
mise ? 

Will the borrowed glory, or rather the stolen 
renown, arising from pilfered pictures, or plun- 
dered statues ; will the splendour of public build- 
ings, buildings cemented with Ihejalood of mil- 
lions ; will all the works of art, however exqui- 
site, atone for the degradation of the human, and 
it may be almost said the extinction of the Chris- 
tian character ? Will marbles, and paintings, 
and edifices, expiate the utter contempt of mo- 
rality, and all the other still lingering effects of 
the legal abolition of Christianity and the public 
disavowal of God ? Will the flower of England, 
the promising sons and blooming daughters of 
our nobles and our gentry reap a measure of 
improvement from these exhibitions of genius, 
which may be likely to compensate for the per- 
nicious associations with which they may be ac- 
companied ? 

Have we forgotten, that the mother of the fine 
arts, licentious Greece, injured Rome in her vi- 
tal interests, her character, her honour, and her 
principles, more irretrievably, than all her Icese* 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



303 



during her military conflict with them had done? 
that this great people, the England of antiquity, 
never lost sight of her grandeur, never sacrificed 
her superiority, but when she stooped to imitate 
the vices, to adopt the manners, and to import 
the philosophy of the vanquished enemy ; and, 
in short, that Greece amply revenged herself on 
her conqueror by a contact, which communicated 
an inextinguishable moral contagion. 

To revert to a remoter, and a higher .source ; 
did not the chosen people of God suffer more 
essentially in their most important interests, by 
their familiar communications, after their con- 
quest, with the polluted Canaanites, than in their 
long and perilous warfare with them ? 

Let not these necessary inquiries be construed 
into the language of vulgar prejudice, into the 
unchristian wish to perpetuate an unjustifiable 
aversion to a nation, beeausethey have been our 
political enemies. We feel no desire, like the 
Carthagenian father, to entail our own hatred 
on our offspring, to make our posterity vow in- 
terminable hostility to a people, beeause their 
predecessors have suffered by them. We have 
no wish to persist in personal alienation from 
any country, especially from one which Divine 
Providence has made our nearest neighbour. — 
God forbid ! 

But may we not venture, with all diffidence, 
to ask, should there not be a little space allowed 
them, after their deep pollution, to perform that 
quarantine, which even our ships are obliged to 
undergo, before we receive them on our own 
shores ? May we not further ask, in the present 
instance, if by plunging into the infection on 
theirs, we do not fearfully aggravate the peril 
of the pestilence ? 

In these observations we are conscious of 
wandering into illimitable topics — topics which 
may appear irrelevant to our general object. 
It is fit we should resume that object, and draw 
to a close. 

Let us observe, for our own imitation, that 
what Saint Paul might be called to do, or to 
suffer, in the intermediate stages to his final 
rest, he knew not, nor was he solicitous to know. 
Of one thing he was assured, that a day was 
coming, when, whatever now appeared myste- 
rious, would be made clear. — While others only 
knew Him of whom they had heard, he knew 
Him in whom he believed. He desired no other 
ground of confidence. All those superior con- 
cerns, on which his heart was set, lay beyond 
the grave; lay in the hands of Him to whom he 
had trusted all which he accounted valuable. 
The soul which he had committed to his Sa- 
viour, he knew that this Saviour ' was able to 
preserve against that day.' Swallowed up in 
the grandeur of the thought, he disregards the 
common forms of speech, and leaves it to his 
friend to supply what was rather understood 
than expressed — what day he meant. 

If it is astonishing that any should disbelieve 
a religion, which has such unparalleled attesta- 
tions to its truth, as the religion which Saint 
Paul preached, is it not far more astonishing 
that, professing not to have any doubt of its 
truth, any should continue to live as if they be- 
lieved it to be false ; that any should live with- 
out habitual reference to that day, to which his 



writings so repeatedly point, without labouring 
after a practical conviction of that paramount 
doctrine on which he so unweariedly descants, 
the benefits of the death of Christ ? 

This doctrine our apostle has, beyond all other 
writers, irrefragably proved to be the only argu- 
ment of real efficacy against our own fear of 
death. All the reasonings of philosophy, all tho 
motives drawn from natural religion, all the 
self-complacent retrospection of our own virtues, 
afford no substantial support against it. This 
great doctrine, as the apostle also repeatedly 
proves, supplies the only principles which can 
set us above the sorrows of life. Mere morality 
often raises us above the grosser corruptions of 
sense, but it does not raise us above the entan- 
glements of the world ; it does not lift us above 
perplexing fears and anxious solicitudes ; it does 
not raise us above the agitations of desire ; it 
does not rescue us from the doubts and harass- 
ings of an unsettled mind ; it does not deliver 
us from the pangs of an awakened conscience. 
A mere moral taste may sustain character and 
support credit, but it does not produce present 
holiness, nor peace, nor a hope full of immortal- 
ity. It neither communicates strength to obey, 
nor power to resist, nor a heart to love, nor a 
will to serve. 

Let us then study with holy Paul, that Gos- 
pel wherein the true secret of happiness, as well 
as the great mystery of godliness, is revealed. 
Our Divine Teacher does not say read, but 
search the Scriptures. Its doctrines are of ever- 
lasting interest. All the great objects of history 
lose their value, as through the lapse of time 
they recede farther from us ; but those of the 
book of God are commensurate with the immor- 
tality of our nature. All existing circumstances, 
as they relate to this world merely, lose their 
importance as they lose their novelty ; they even 
melt in air as they pass before us. 

While we are discussing events they cease to 
be ; while we are criticising customs they be- 
come obsolete ; while we are adopting fashions 
they vanish ; while we are condemning or de- 
fending parties, they change sides. While we 
are contemplating feuds, opposing factions, or 
deploring revolutions, they are extinct. Of 
created things, mutability is their character at 
the best, brevity their duration at the longest. 
But ' the word of the Lord endureth for ever.' 
All that the heart craves, that word supplies. 
This 6tate of things is all instability ; the Gos- 
pel points ' to a city which hath foundations.' 
Here we have, beyond any other age or people, 
seen the kingdoms of this world transferred, de- 
populated, destroyed : there we are promised a 
kingdom which cannot be moved. 

With Holy Paul then let us take the Bible 
for the subject of our meditation, for the ground 
of our prayer, the rule of our conduct, the an- 
chor of our hope, the standard of our faith. Let 
us seriously examine whether this faith is built 
on the same eternal basis with that of the apos- 
tle, whose character we have been contemplat- 
ing, whether we are endeavouring to erect upon 
it a superstructure of practical goodness worthy 
of the broad and sure faundation ? 

Let us close our frequent reference to Saint 
Paul as a pattern for general imitation, by re- 



304 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



peating one question illustrative of those oppo- 
eite qualities which ought to meet in every 
Christian. If the most zealous advocate of spi- 
ritual influences were to select, from all the 
writers of sacred antiquity, the most distinguish- 
ed champion of his great cause, on whom would 
he fix his choice ? And if the most strenuous 
asserter of the duty of personal activity in mo- 
ral virtue were to choose from all mankind the 
man who most completely exemplified this cha 
racter in himself, where must he search ? Would 
not the two antagonists, when they meet in the 
field of controversy, each in defence of his fa- 
vourite tenet, find that they had fixed on the 
same man, — Paul, the Apostle of the Gentiles? 
If then we propose him as our model, let us not 
rest till something of the same combination be 
formed in ourselves. 

To this end let us diligently study his epis- 
tles, in which the great doctrines of Salvation 
are amply unfolded, and the mode of its attain- 
ment completely detailed. In contemplating 
the works of this great master of the human 
mind, we more than perceive, we feel their ap- 
plicableness to all times, places, circumstances, 
and persons: and this, not only because the 
Word of Eternal Life is always the same; but 
because the human heart, which that word re- 
veals to itself, is still the same also. We behold, 
as in a mirror, the fidelity, we had almost said 
the identity, of his representation, — face an- 
swering to face. We feel that we are personally 
interested in every feature he delineates. He lets 
us into the secrets of our own bosoms. He dis- 
closes to us the motives of our own conduct. He 
touches the true springs of right and wrong, 
lays bare the moral quality of actions, brings 
every object to the true point of comparison 
with each other, and all to the genuine standard 



of the unerring Gospel. By him we are clearly 
taught that the same deed done from the desire 
of pleasing God, or the desire of popular favour, 
becomes as different in the eye of religion, as 
anj' two actions in the eye of men. 

There we shall see also, that Saint Paul 
evinced the sincerity of his eternal hopes by 
constantly preparing himself for their fruition. 
These hopes shaped his conduct, and moulded 
his spirjt to a resemblance of the state he hoped 
for: and he best proved his belief that there 
really was such a state by labouring to acquire 
the dispositions which might qualify him for its 
enjoyment. Without this aim, without this effort, 
without this perseverance, his faith would have 
been fruitless, his hope delusive, his profession 
hypocrisy, and his ' preaching vain.' 

Let us image to ourselves the Saviour of the 
world, holding up professing Christians as a 
living exemplification of his religion; of that 
religion which he taught by his doctrines, and 
ratified by his blood. Let us represent him to 
our imagination as referring to the lives of his 
followers for the truth of his word. Do we not 
tremble at such a responsibility? Do we not 
shrink from such a comparison ? Are we not 
alarmed at the bare idea of bringing reproach 
on his Gospel, or dishonour on his name ? 

Christians ! why would you wait till you ar- 
rive at heaven, before you contribute to the great 
end of every dispensation, — namely, that God 
may be glorified in his Saints, and admired in 
all them that believe ? Even now, something of 
that assimilation should be taking place, which 
will be perfected when ' we shall see Him as He 
is,' and which will never take place if the re. 
semblance begin not here. Beatification i3 only 
the finishing of the likenesss. Intuition will 
only complete the transformation. 



CXELEBS IN SEARCH OF A WIFE. 

COMPREHENDING 

OBSERVATIONS ON DOMESTIC HABITS AND MANNERS, RELIGION AND 

MORALS. 

For not to know at large of things remote 
From use, obscure and subtle, but to know 
That which before us lies in daily life, 
Is the prime wisdom. — Milton. 



PREFACE. 

When I quitted home on a little excursion in the spring of this present year, 1808, a thought 
struck me, which I began to put into immediate execution. I determined to commit to paper 
any lrltle circumstance that might arise, and any conversations in which I might be engaged, 
when the subject was at all important, though there might be nothing particularly new or inter- 
esting in the discussion thereof. 

I fulfilled my intention as occasions arose to furnish me with materials, and on my return to 
the north, in the autumn of this same year, it was my amusement on my journey to look over 
and arrange these papers. 

As soon as I arrived at my native place, I lent my manuscript to a confidential friend, as th» 
shortest way of imparting to him whatever had occurred to me during our separation, together 
with my reflections on thoso occurrences. I took care to keep his expectations low, by apprizing 
him, that in a tour from my own house in Westmoreland, to the house of a friend in Hampshire, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 305 

he must not look for adventures, but content himself with the every day details of common life 
diversified only by the different habits and tempers of the persons with whom I had conversed 
He brought back my manuscript in a few days, with an earnest wish that I would consent to 
its publication ; assuring me that ho was of opinion it might not bo altogether useless, not only to 
young men engaged in the same pursuit with myself, but to the general reader. He obviated all 
objections arising from my want of leisure, during my present interesting engagements, by offer- 
ing to undertake the whole business himself, and to release me from any further trouble, as he 
was just setting out for London, where he proposed passing more time than the printing would 
require. 

Thus I am driven to the stale apology for publishing what perhaps it would have been more 
prudent to have withheld — the importunity of friends ; an apology so commonly unfounded, and 
so repeatedly alleged, from the days of John Faustus to the publication of Ccelebs. 

But whether my friend or my vanity had the largest share of influence, I am willing to in- 
dulge the hope that a better motive than either friendship or vanity was an operating ingredient 
in my consent. Be that as it may, I sent him my copy, " with all its imperfections on its head." 
It was accompanied by a letter, of which the following extract shall conclude these short pre- 
fatory remarks : 

"I here send you my manuscript, with permission to make what use of it you please. By 
publishing it I fear you will draw on me the particular censure of two classes of critics. The 
novel reader will reject it as dull. The religious may throw it aside as frivolous. The one will 
accuse it of excessive strictness ; the other of censurable levity. Readers of the former description 
must be satisfied with the following brief and general answer — 

" Had it been my leading object to have indulged in details that have amusement only for their 
end, it might not have been difficult to have produced a work more acceptable to the tastes accus- 
tomed to be gratified with such compositions. But to entertain that description of readers makes 
no part of my design. 

" The persons with whom I have associated in my excursion, were, principally, though not ex- 
clusively, the family of a country gentleman, and a few of his friends — a narrow field, and un- 
productive of much variety ! The generality of these characters move in the quiet and regular 
course of domestic life. I found them placed in no difficult situations. It was a scene rather 
favourable to reflection than description. Social intercourse, and not striking events, marked the 
daily progress of my visit. I had little of pathetic scenes or trying circumstances to work on my 
own feelings, or, by the relation of them, to work on the feelings of others. My friend's house 
resembled the reign of some pacific sovereigns. It was the pleasantest to live in, but its annals 
were not the most splendid to record. The periods which make life happy, do not always render 
history brilliant. 

"Great passions, therefore, and great trials growing out of them, as I did not witness, I have 
not attempted to delineate. Love itself appears in these pages, not as an ungovernable impulse, 
but as a sentiment arising out of qualities calculated to inspire attachment in persons under the 
dominion of reason and religion, brought together by the ordinary course of occurrences, in a 
private family party. 

"The familiar conversations of this little society comprehend a considerable portion of this 
slender work. The texture of the narrative is so slight, that it barely serves for a ground into 
which to weave the sentiments and observations which it was designed to introduce. 

"It may not be unnecessary to anticipate an objection to which these conversations may some- 
times be thought liable. In a few instances, the speeches may be charged with a degree of 
stiffness, and with a length not altogether consistent with familiar dialogue. I must apologize 
for this by observing, that when the subjects were serious, the dialogue would not, in every in- 
stance, bend to such facilities, nor break into such small parcels, as may easily be effected in the 
discussion of topics of gayer intercourse. 

"But it is time to meet the objections of the more pious reader, if any such should condescend 
to peruse this little performance. If it be objected, that religious characters have been too in- 
dustriously brought forward, and their faults somewhat too severely treated, let it be remember- 
ed, that while it is one of the principal objects of the work to animadvert on those very faults, it 
has never been done with the insidious design of depreciating the religion, but with the view, by 
exposing the fault, to correct the practice. Grossly vicious characters have seldom come in my 
way, but I had frequent occasion to observe the different shapes and shades of error in various 
descriptions of society, not only in those worldly persons who do not quite leave religion out of 
their scheme, but on the mistakes and inconsistencies of better characters, and even on the errors 
of some who would be astonished not to find themselves reckoned altogether religious. I have 
not so much animadverted on the unavoidable faults and frailties inseparable from humanity, ever 
in the best characters, and which the best characters most sensibly fee), and most feelingly de 
plore, as on those errors which are often tolerated, justified, and in some instances systematized. 

" If I have been altogether deceived in the ambitious hope that these pages may not be entirely 
useless ; if I have failed in my endeavours to show how religion may be brought to mix with the 
concerns of ordinary life, without impairing its activity, lessening it cheerfulness, or diminishing 
its usefulness ; if I have erred in fancying that material defects exist in fashionable education ; 
if I have been wrong in supposing that females of the higher class may combine more domestic 
knowledge with more intellectual acquirement, that they may be at the same time more knowing 
and more useful, than has always been thought necessary or compatible" in short, if I shall be 

Vol. II. U 



306 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



found to have totally disappointed you, my friend, in your too sanguine opinion that some little 
benefit might arise from the publication, 1 shall rest satisfied with a low and negative merit. I 
must be contented with the humble hope that no part of these volumes will be found injurious tc 
the important interests, which it was rather in my wish than in my ability to advance ; that 
where I failed in effecting good, little evil has been done : that if my book has answered no 
valuable purpose, it has at least, not added to the number of those publications, which, by impair- 
ing the virtue, have diminished the happiness of mankind : that if I possessed not talents to pro- 
mote the cause of Christian morals, I possessed an abhorrence of those principles which lead to 
their contamination. 

« CXELEBS." 



CCELEBS. 



CHAP. I. 

I have been sometimes surprised, w en in 
conversation I have been expressing my admi- 
ration of the character of Eve in her state of in- 
nocence, as drawn from our immortal poet, to 
hear objections stated by those, from whom, of 
all critics, I should have least expected it — the 
ladies. I confess that, as the Sophia of Rousseau 
had her young imagination captivated by the 
character of Fenelon's Telemachus, so I early 
became enamoured of that of Milton's Eve. 
I never formed an idea of conjugal haopiness, 
but my mind involuntarily adverted to the 
graces of that finished picture. 

The ladies, in order to justify their censure, 
assert that Milton, a harsh domestic tyrant, 
must nteds be a very inadequate judge, and, of 
course, a very unfair delineator of female ac- 
complishments. These fair cavillers draw their 
inference from premises, from which I have 
always been accustomed to deduce a directly 
contrary conclusion. They insist that it is 
highly derogatory from the dignity of the sex, 
that the poet should affirm that it is the perfec- 
tion of the character of a wife, 

" To study household good, 
And good works in her husband to promote." 

Now according to my notion of 'household 
good,' which does not include one idea of drud- 
gery or servility, but which involves a large and 
comprehensive scheme of excellence, I will ven- 
ture to affirm, that let a woman know what she 
may, yet if she knows not this, she is ignorant 
of the most indispensable, the most appropriate 
branch of female knowledge. Without it, how- 
ever, she may inspire admiration abroad, she will 
never excite esteem, nor of course durable affec- 
tion at home, and will bring neither credit nor 
comfort to her ill-starred partner. 

The domestic arrangements of such a woman 
as filled the capacious mind of the poet, re- 
sembles, if I may say it without profaneness, 
those of Providence, whose under-agent she was. 
Her wisdom is seen in its effect. Indeed it is 
rather felt than seen. It is sensibly acknow- 
ledged in the peace, the happiness, the virtue 
of the component parts ; in the order, regularity 
and beauty of the whole system, of which she is 
the moving spring. The perfection of her 
character, as the divine poet intimates, does 
not arise from a prominent quality, or a showy 
talent, or a brilliant accomplishment ; but it is 
the beautiful combination and result of them 



all. Her excellences consist not so much in acts 
as in habits, in 

Those thousand decencies which daily flow 
From a!) her words and actions. 

A description more calculated than any I 
ever met with to convey an idea of the purest 
conduct resulting from the best principles. It 
gives an image of that tranquillity, smoothness, 
and quiet beauty, which is of the very essence 
of perfection in a wife ; while the happily chosen 
verb flow takes away any impression of dulness, 
or stagnant torpor, which the still idea might 
otherwise suggest. 

But the offence taken by the ladies against 
this uncourtly bard, is chiefly occasioned by his 
having presumed to intimate that conjur^l obe- 
dience 

Is woman's highest honour and her piaise. 

This is so nice a point, that I, as a bachelor, 
dare only just hint, that on this delicate question 
the poet has not gone an inch farther than the 
apostle. Nay Paul is still more uncivilly expli- 
cit than Milton. If, however, I could hope to 
bring over to my side critics, who, being of the 
party, are too apt to prejudge the cause, I would 
point out to them, that the supposed harshness 
of the observation is quite done away by the 
recollection that this scruple ' obedience' is so 
far from implying degradation, that it is con- 
nected with the injunction to the woman ' to 
promote good works' in her husband ; an in- 
junction surely inferring a degree of influence 
that raises her condition, and restores her to all 
the dignity of equality ; it makes her not only 
the associate, but the inspirer of his virtues. 

But to return to the economical part of the 
character of Eve. And here she exhibits a con- 
summate specimen and beautiful model of do- 
mestic skill and elegance. How exquisitely 
conceived is her reception and entertainment 
of Raphael ! How modest, and yet how digni- 
fied ! I am afraid I know some husbands who 
would have had to encounter very ungracious 
looks, not to say words, if they had brought 
home even an angel, unexpectedly to dinner 
Not so our general mother. 

' Her despatchful looks.' 

Her hospitable thoughts, intent 

What choice to choose for delicacy best, 

all indicate not only the ' prompt,' but the cheer- 
ful ' obedience.' Though her repast consisted 
only of the fruits of paradise 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



307 



Whatever eartn, all bearing mother, yields ; 

Yet of these, with a liberal hospitality, 

She gathered tribute large, and on the board, 
Heaps with unsparing hand. 

The finest modern lady need not disdain the 
arrangement of her table, which was 

So contrived as not to mix 
Tastes not well join'd, inelegant, but bring 
Taste after taste, upheld by kindliest change. 

It must, however, I fear, be conceded, by the 
way, that this ' taste after taste' rather holds out 
an encouragement to second courses. 

When this unmatched trio had finished their 
repast, which, let it be observed, before they 
tasted, Adam acknowledged that 

These bounties from our Nourisher are given, 
From whom all perfect good descends, 

Milton with great liberality to that sex, against 
which he is accused of so much severity, obliging- 
ly permitted Eve to sit much longer after dinner 
than most modern husbands would allow. She 
had attentively listened to all the historical and 
moral subjects so divinely discussed between the 
first Angel and the first Man ; and perhaps there 
can scarcely be found a more beautiful trait of a 
delicately attentive wife, than she exhibits by 
withdrawing at the exact point of propriety. 
She does not retire in consequence of any look 
or gesture, any broad sign of impatience, much 
less any command or intimation of her husband ; 
but with the ever watchful eye of vigilant affec- 
tion and deep humility : 

When by his countenance he seemed 
Entering on thoughts abstruse, 

instructed only by her own quick intuition of 
what was right and delicate, she withdrew. And 
here again how admirably does the poet sustain 
her intellectual dignity, softened by a most ten- 
der stroke of conjugal affection. 

Yet went she not. as not with such discourse 
Delighted, or not capable her ear 
Of what was high — such pleasures she reserved, 
Adam relating, she sole auditress 

On perusing, however, the tete-a-tete, which 
her absence occasioned, methinks I hear some 
sprightly lady, fresh from the Royal Institution, 
express her wonder why Eve should be banish- 
ed by her husband from Raphael's fine lecture 
on astronomy, which follows : was not she as ca- 
pable as Adam of understanding all he said, of 

Cycle and Epicycle, Orb on Orb ! 

If, however, the imaginary fair objector will 
take the trouble to read to the end of the eighth 
book of this immortal work, it will raise in her 
estimation both the poet and the heroine, when 
she contemplates the just propriety of her being 
absent before Adam enters on the account of 
the formation, beauty, and attractions of his 
wife, and of his own love and admiration. She 
will farther observe, in her progress through tins 
divine poem, that the author is bo far from 



making Eve a mere domestic drudge, an unpo- 
lished housewife, that he pays an invariable at- 
tention even to external elegance in his whole 
delineation, ascribing grace to her steps, and 
dignity to her gesture. He uniformly keeps up 
the same combination of intellectual worth and 
polished manners ; 

For softness she, and sweet attractive grace, 

And her husband, so far from a churlish in- 
sensibility to her perfections, politely calls her 

Daughter of God and man, accomplished Eve. 

I will not, however, affirm that Adam, or even 
Milton, annexed to the term accomplished pre- 
cisely the idea with which it is associated in the 
mind of a true modern-bred lady. 

If it be objected to the poet's gallantry, that 
he remarks, 

How beauty is excelled by manly grace, 
And wisdom, which alone is truly fair ; 

let it be remembered, that the observation pro- 
ceeds from the lips of Eve herself, and thus adds 
to her other graces, the crowning grace of hu- 
mility. 

But it is high time I should proceed from my 
criticism to myself. The connection, and of 
course the transition, will be found more natural 
than may appear, till developed by my slight 
narrative. 



CHAP. II. 

I am a young man, not quite four and twenty 
of an ancient and respectable family, and consi- 
derable estate in one of the northern counties. 
Soon after I had completed my studies in the 
University of Edinburgh, my father fell into a 
lingering illness. I attended him with an assi- 
duity which was richly rewarded by the lessons 
of wisdom, and the example of piety which I 
daily received from him. After languishing 
about a year, I lost him, and in him the most 
affectionate father, the most enlightened compa- 
nion, and the most Christian friend. 

The grief of my mother was so poignant, so 
lasting, that I could never prevail on myself to 
leave her even for the sake of attaining those 
advantages, and enjoying those pleasures, which 
may be reaped by a wider range of observation, 
by a more extended survey of the multifarious 
tastes, habits, pursuits, and characters of general 
society. I felt with Mr. Gray, that we can never 
have but one mother, and postponed from timo 
to time the moment of leaving home. 

I was her only child, and thought it was now 
her sole remaining wish to see me happily mar- 
ried, yet I was desirous of first putting myself 
in a situation which might afford me a more ex- 
tensive field of inquiry, before I ventured to take 
so irretrievable a step, a step which might per- 
haps affect my happiness in both worlds. But 
time did not hang heavy on my hands; if I had 
little society, I had rr.any books. My father had 
left me a copious library, and I had learnt from 



308 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



him to select whatever was most valuable in that 
best species of literature, which tends to form 
the principles, the understanding, the taste, and 
the character. My father had passed the early 
part of his life in the gay and busy world ; and 
our domestic society in the country had been 
occasionally enlivened by visits from some of his 
London friends, men of some sense and learning, 
and some of them men of piety. 

My mother, when she was in tolerable spirits, 
was now frequently describing the kind of wo- 
man, whom she wished me to marry. 'lam 
bo firmly persuaded, Charles,' would she kindly 
say, 'of the justness of your taste, and the recti- 
tude of your principles, that I am not much 
afraid of your being misled by the captivating 
exterior of any woman who is greatly deficient 
either in sense or conduct ; but remember, my 
son, that there are many women against whose 
characters there lies nothing very ojectionable, 
who are yet little calculated to taste, or to com- 
municate rational happiness. Do not indulge 
romantic ideas of super-human excellence. Re 
member that the fairest creature is a fallen crea- 
ture. Yet let not your standard be low. If it 
be absurd to expect perfection, it is not unrea- 
sonable to expect consistency. Do not suffer 
yourself to be caught by a shining quality, till 
you know it is not counteracted by the opposite 
defect. Be not taken in by strictness in one 
point, till you are assured there is no laxity in 
others. In character, as in architecture, pro- 
portion is beauty. The education of the present 
race of females is not very favourable to domes- 
tic happiness. For my own part, I call educa- 
tion, not that which smothers a woman with ac- 
complishments, but that which tends to consoli- 
date a firm and regular system of character ; 
that which tends to form a friend, a companion, 
and a wife. I call education, not that which is 
made up of the shreds and patches of useless 
arts, but that which inculcates principles, po- 
lishes taste, regulates temper, cultivates reason, 
subdues the passions, directs the feelings, habi- 
tuates the reflection, trains to self-denial, and, 
more especially, that which refers all actions, 
feelings, sentiments, tastes, and passions, to the 
love and fear of God.' 

I as yet had little opportunity of contrasting 
the charms of my native place with the less wild 
and romantic beauties of the south. I was pas- 
sionately fond of the scenery that surrounded 
me, which had never yet lost that power of 
pleasing, which it is commonly imagined that 
novelty can alone confer. 

The Priory, a handsome Gothic mansion, 
stands in the middle of a park, not extensive, 
but beautifully varied. Behind are lofty moun- 
tains, the feet of which are covered with wood 
that descends almost to the house. On one side 
a narrow cultivated valley winds among the 
mountains ; the bright variegated tints of its 
meadows and corn fields, with here and there a 
little white cottage, embosomed in trees, are 
finely contrasted with the awful and impassable 
fells which contain it. 

An inconsiderable but impetuous river rushes 
from the mountains above, through this unadorn- 
ed butenchantinglittlevalley.and passes through I 
the Park at the distance of about a hundred yards | 



from the house. The ground falls beautifully 
down to it ; and on the other side is a fine wood 
of birch over-hanging the river, which is here 
crossed by a small rustic bridge ; after being 
enlarged by many streams from the neighbour- 
ing hills, it runs about half a mile to the lake 
below, which, from the front of the house, is 
seen in full beauty. It is a noble expanse of 
water. The mountains that surround it are 
some of them covered with wood, some skirted 
with cultivation, some rocky and barren to the 
water's edge ; while the rugged summits of 
them all present every variety of fantastic out- 
line. Towards the head of the lake a neat little 
village ornaments the banks, and wonderfully 
harmonizes with the simplo beauty of the scene. 
At an opening among the hills, a view is caught 
of the distant country, a wide vale richly wooded, 
adorned every where with towns, villages, and 
gentlemen's houses, and backed by sublime 
mountains, rivalling in height, though not in 
their broken and Alpine forms, those that more 
immediately surround us. 

While I was thus dividing my time between 
the enjoyment of this exquisite scenery, my 
books, the care of my affairs, my filial attention, 
and my religious duties, I was suddenly deprived 
of my inestimable mother. She died the death 
of the righteous. 

Addison has finely touched on the singular 
sort of delicate and refined tenderness of a father 
for a daughter : but I am persuaded that there 
is no affection of the human heart more exqui- 
sitely pure, than that which is felt by a grateful 
son towards a mother, who fostered his infancy 
with fondness, watched over his childhood with 
anxiety, and his youth with an interest com- 
pounded of all that is tender, wise, and pious. 

My retirement was now become solitude ; the 
former is, I believe, the best state for the mind 
of man, the latter almost the worst. In com- 
plete solitude the eye wants objects, the heart 
wants attachments, the understanding wants re- 
ciprocation. The character loses its tenderness 
when it has nothing to love, its firmness when 
it has none to strengthen it, its sweetness when 
it has nothing to soothe it, its patience when it 
meets no contradiction, its humility when it is 
surrounded by dependants, and its delicacy in 
the conversation of the uninformed. Where the 
intercourse is very unequal, society is somewhat 
worse than solitude. 

I had naturally a keen relish for domestic 
happiness : and this propensity had been cherish- 
ed by what I had seen and enjoyed in my fa- 
ther's family. Home was the scene in which 
my imagination had pictured the only delights 
worthy of a rational, feeling, intellectual, im- 
mortal man ; 

Sole bliss of Paradise 
Which has surviv'd the fall. 

This inclination had been much increased by 
my father's turn of conversation. He often said 
to me, ' I know your domestic propensities ; and 
I know, therefore, that the whole colour of your 
future life will be, in a particular manner, de- 
termined by the turn of mind of the woman you 
may marry. — Were you to live in the busy 
haunts of men ; were you of any profession, or 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



309 



likely to bo engaged in public life, though I 
would still counsel you to be equally careful in 
your choice, yet your happiness would not so 
immediately, so exclusively depend on the indi- 
vidual society of a woman, as that of a retired 
country gentleman must do. A man of sense, 
who loves home, and lives at home, requires a 
wife who can and will be at half the expense of 
mind necessary for keeping up the cheerful, 
animated, elegant intercourse which forms so 
great a part of the bond of union between intel- 
lectual and well bred persons. Had your mo- 
ther been a woman of an uninformed, inelegant 
mind, virtuous and pious as she is, what abate- 
ment must there havo been in the blessings of 
my lot ! The exhibiting, the displaying wife 
may entertain your company, but it is only the 
informed, the refined, the cultivated woman who 
can entertain yourself; and I presume when- 
ever you marry you will marry primarily for 
yourself, and not for your friends ; you will want 
a companion : an artist you may hire. 

' But remember, Charles, that when I am in- 
sisting so much on mental delicacy, I am as- 
suming that all is right in still more essential 
points. Do not be contented with this super- 
structure, till you have ascertained the solidity 
of the foundation. The ornaments which deco- 
rate do not support the edifice ! Guarded as you 
are by Christian principles, and confirmed in 
virtuous habits, I trust you may safely look 
abroad in the world. Do not, however, irrevo- 
cably dispose of your affections till you have 
made the long promised visit to my earliest, 
wisest, and best friend, Mr. Stanley. I am far 
from desiring that your friend should direct 
your choice. It is what even your father would 
not do : but he will be the most faithful and 
most disinterested of counsellors.' 

I resolved now for a few months to leave the 
Priory, the seat of my ancestors, to make a tour 
not only to London, but to Stanley Grove, in 
Hampshire, the residence of my father's friend; 
a visit I was about to make with him just be- 
fore his last illness. He wished me to go alone, 
but I could not prevail on myself to desert his 
sick bed for any scheme of amusement. 

I began to long earnestly for the pleasures of 
conversation, pleasures which, in our small, but 
social and select circle of cultivated friends, I 
had been accustomed to enjoy. I am aware 
that certain fine town-bred men would ridicule 
the bare mention of learned and polished con- 
versation at a village in Westmoreland, or in- 
deed at any place out of the precincts of the me- 
tropolis ; just as a London physician, or lawyer, 
smiles superciliously at the suggested merits of 
a professional brother, in a provincial town. 
Good sense, however, is of all countries, and 
even knowledge is not altogether a mere local 
advantage. These, and not the topics of the hour, 
furnish the best raw materials for working up 
an improving intercourse. 

It must be confessed, however, as I have since 
found, that to give a terseness and a polish to 
conversation ; for rubbing out prejudices ; for 
correcting egotism ; for keeping self-importance 
out of sight, if not curing it ; for bringing a 
man to condense what he has to say, if he in- 
tends to be listened to ; for accustoming him to j 



endure opposition ; for teaching him not to 
think every man who differs from him in mat- 
ters of taste, a fool, and in politics, a knave ; for 
cutting down harangues ; for guarding him 
from producing as novelties and invention what 
has been said a thousand times ; for quickness 
of allusion, which brings the idea before you 
without detail or quotation ; nothing is equal to 
the miscellaneous society of London. — The ad- 
vantages too which it possesses, in being the 
seat of the court, the parliament, and the courts 
of law, as well as the common centre of arts and 
talents of every kind, all these raise it above 
every other scene of intellectual improvement, 
or colloquial pleasure, perhaps in the whole 
world. 

But this was only the secondary motive of 
my intended migration. I connected with it the 
hope, that in a more extended survey, I might 
be more likely to select a deserving companion 
for life. 4 In such a companion,' said I, as I 
drove along in my post-chaise, ' I do not want a 
Helen, a Saint Cecilia, or a Madame Dacier ; 
yet she must be elegant, or I should not love 
her ; sensible, or I should not respect her ; pru- 
dent, or I could not confide in her ; well in- 
formed, or she could not educate my children ; 
well bred, or she could not entertain my friends ; 
consistent, or I should offend the shade of my 
mother ; pious, or I should not be happy with 
her, because the prime comfort in a companion 
for life is the delightful hope that she will be a 
companion for eternity. 

After this soliloquy, I was frightened to re- 
fleet that so much was requisite ; and yet when 
I began to consider in which article I could 
make any abatement, I was willing to persuade 
myself that my requisitions were moderate. 



CHAP. III. 

I had occasionally visited two or three fami- 
lies in our county, who were said to make a 
very genteel appearance on narrow fortunes. 
As I was known not to consider money as a 
principal consideration, it had often been inti- 
mated to me what excellent wives the daugh. 
ters of these families would make, because on a 
very slender allowance their appearance was as 
elegant as that of women of ton times their ex- 
pectations. I translated this respectable ap- 
pearance into a language not the most favoura- 
ble, as I instantly inferred, and afterwards was 
convinced, that this personal figure was made 
by the sacrifice of their whole time to those de- 
corations which procured them credit, by put- 
ting their outward figure on a par with the most 
affluent. If a girl with a thousand pounds rivals 
in her dress one with ten thousand, is it not ob- 
vious, that not only all her time must be em- 
ployed, but all her money devoted to this one 
object ? Nothing but the clippings and parings 
from her personal adornments could enable her 
to supply the demands of charity ; and these sa- 
crifices, it is evident she is not disposed to 
make. 

Another inducement suggested to me was, 
that these young ladies would make better wives. 



310 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



because they had never been corrupted by the 
expensive pleasures of London, and had not 
been spoilt by the gay scenes of dissipation 
which it afforded. This argument would have 
weighed powerfully with me, had I not observed 
that they never abstained from any amusement 
in the country that came within their reach. 

I naturally inferred, that she who eagerly 
grasped at every petty provincial dissipation, 
would with increased alacrity have plunged into 
the more alluring gaieties of the metropolis, had 
it been in her power. I thought she had even 
less apology to plead than the town lady ; the 
fault was equal, while the temptation was less ; 
and she who was as dissipated as her limited 
bounds permitted, where there was little to at- 
tract, would, I feared, be a3 dissipated as she 
possibly could be, when her temptations were 
multiplied, and her facilities increased. 

I had met with several young ladies of a 
higher description, daughters of our country 
gentlemen, a class which furnishes a number 
of valuable and elegant women. Some of these, 
whom I knew, seemed unexceptionable in man- 
ner and mind. They had seen something of 
the world, without having been spoilt by it ; had 
read with advantage ; and acquitted themselves 
well in the duties which they had been called 
to practise. But I was withheld from cultivat- 
ing that degree of intimacy which would have 
enabled me to take an exact measure of their 
minds, by the injunction of my father, that I 
would never attach myself to any woman till I 
had seen and consulted Mr. Stanley. This di- 
rection, which, like all his wishes was a law to 
me, operated as a sort of sedative in the slight 
intercourse I had had with ladies ; and resolving 
to postpone all such intimacy as might have led 
to attachment, I did not allow myself to come 
near enough to feel with interest, or to judge 
with decision. 

As soon as I got to town, I visited some of 
my father's friends. I was kindly received for 
his sake, and at their houses soon enlarged the 
ephere of my acquaintance. I was concerned 
to remark that two or three gentlemen, whom I 
had observed to be very regular in their attend- 
ance on public worship in the country, seldom 
went to church in London ; in the afternoon 
never. 'Religion,' they said, by way of apology, 
* was entirely a thing of example, it was of 
great political importance ; society was held to- 
gether by the restraints it imposed on the lower 
orders. When they were in the country it was 
highly proper that their tenants and workmen 
6hould have the benefit of their example, but in 
London the case was different. When there 
were so many churches, no one knew whether 
you went or not, and where no scandal was 
given, no harm was done. As this was a logic 
which had not found its way into my father's 
religion, I was not convinced by it. I remem- 
ber°Mr. Burke, speaking of the English, who 
were so humane at home, and whom he unjustly 
accused of wanting humanity in India, says, 
> that the humanity of Britain is a humanity of 
points and parallels.' Surely the religion of the 
gentlemen in question is not a less geographi- 
cal distinction. 

This error, J conceive, arises from religion 



being too much considered as an institution of 
decorum, of convention, of society ; and not as 
an institution founded on the condition of human 
nature, a covenant of mercy for repairing the 
evils which sin has produced. It springs from 
the want of a conviction that Christianity is an 
individual as well as general concern ; that re- 
ligion is a personal thing, previous to its being 
a matter of example ; that a man is not infalli- 
bly saved or lost as a portion of any family, or 
any church, or any community ; but that, as he 
is individually responsible, he must be individu- 
ally brought to a deep and humbling sense of 
his own personal wants, without taking any re- 
fuge in the piety he may see around him, of 
which he will have no benefit if he be no par- 
taker. 

I regretted, even for inferior reasons, the little 
distinction which was paid to this sacred day. 
To say nothing of the elevating views which 
the soul acquires from devoting itself to its pro- 
per object ; the man of business, methinks, 
should rejoice in its return ; the politician should 
welcome its appearance, not only as a rest from 
anxiety and labour, but as an occasion of cool- 
ing and quieting the mind, of softening its irri- 
tation, of allaying its ferment, and thus restor- 
ing the repaired faculties of invigorated spirits 
to the demands of the succeeding week, in a 
frame of increased aptitude for meeting its diffi- 
culties and encountering its duties. 

The first person whom I visited was a good 
natured, friendly man, whom I had occasionally 
seen in the north. As I had no reason to believe 
that he was religious in the true sense of the 
word, I had no intention of looking for a wife 
in his family. I, howover, thought it not amiss 
to associate a little with persons of different de- 
scriptions, that by a wider range I might learn 
to correct my general judgment, as well as to 
guide my particular pursuit. Nothing, it is true, 
would tempt me to select a woman on whose 
pious disposition I could not form a reasonable 
dependance ; yet to come at the reality of those 
dispositions was no easy matter. 

I had heard my father remark, that he had, 
more than once, known a right-minded girl, 
who seemed to have been first taught of heaven, 
and afterwards supported in herChristian course, 
under almost every human disadvantage ; who 
boldly, but meekly, maintained her own princi- 
ples, under all the hourly temptations and oppo- 
sition of a worldly and irreligious family, and 
who had given the best evidences of her piety 
towards God, by her patient forbearance towards 
her erring friends. Such women had made ad- 
mirable wives when they were afterwards trans- 
planted into families where their virtues wera 
understood, and their piety cherished. While, 
on the other hand, he had known others, who 
accustomed from childhood to the 6ober habits 
of family religion, under pious but injudicious 
parents, had fallen in mechanically with the 
domestic practices, without having ever been in- 
structed in Christian principles, or having ever 
manifested any religious tendencies. The im- 
plantation of a new principle never having been 
inculcated, the religious habit has degenerated 
into a mere form, the parents acting as if they 
thought that religion must come by nature or 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



Si- 



infection in a religious family. The girls hav- 
ing never had their own hearts impressed, nor 
their own characters distinctly considered nor 
individually cultivated, but being taken out as 
a portion from the mass, have afterwards taken 
the cast and colour of any society into which 
they have happened to be thrown ; and they 
who had lived religiously with the religious, 
have afterwards assimilated with the gay and 
dissipated, when thus thrown into their com- 
pany, as cordially as if they had never been 
habituated to better things. 

At dinner there appeared two pretty looking 
young ladies, daughters of my friend, who had 
been sometime a widower. I placed myself 
between them, for the purpose of prying a little 
into their minds, while the rest of the company 
were conversing on indifferent subjects. Hav- 
ing formerly heard this gentleman's deceased 
wife extolled as the mirror of managers, and 
the arrangements of his table highly commend- 
ed, I was surprised to see it so ill appointed, and 
every thing wearing marks of palpable inele- 
gance. Though no epicure, I could not forbear 
observing that many of the dishes were out of 
season, ill chosen, and ill dressed. 

While I was puzzling my head for a solution, 
I recollected that 1 had lately read in a most re- 
spectable periodical work, a paper (composed, I 
believe, however, by a raw recruit of that well 
disciplined corps) which insisted that nothing 
tended to make the ladies so useless and in- 
efficient in the menage as the study of the dead 
languages. I jumped to the conclusion, and 
was in an instant persuaded that my young hos- 
tesses must not only be perfect mistresses of 
Latin, but the tout ensemble was so ill arranged 
as to induce me to give them credit for Greek 
also. 

Finding, therefore, that my appetite was 
baulked, I took comfort in the certainty that 
my understanding would be well regaled ; and 
after secretly regretting that learning should so 
effectually destroy usefulness, I was resolved to 
derive intellectual comfort from this too classi- 
cal repast. Turning suddenly to the eldest 
lady, I asked her at once if she did not think 
Virgil the finest poet in the world. She blushed, 
and thus confirmed me in the opinion that her 
modesty was equal to her erudition. I repeat- 
ed my question with a little circumlocution. 
She stared, and said she had never heard of the 
person I mentioned, but that she had read Tears 
of Sensibility, and Rosa Matild^, and Sympa- 
thy of Souls, and Too Civil by Half, and the 
Sorrows of Werter, and the Stranger, and the 
Orphan of Snowden, 

1 Yes, Sir,' joined in the younger sister, who 
did not rise to so high a pitch of literature, 
•and we have read Perfidy Punished, and 
Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy, and the Fortunate 
Footman, and the Illustrious Chambermaid.' I 
blushed and stared in my turn ; and here the 
conversation, through the difficulty of our being 
intelligible to each other, dropped ; and I am 
persuaded that I sunk much lower in their 
esteem for not being acquainted with their fa- 
vourite authors, than they did in mine for never 
having heard of Virgil. 

I arose from the table with a full conviction 



that it is very possible for a woman to be to- 
tally ignorant of the ordinary but indispensable 
duties of common life, without knowing one 
word of Latin ; and that her being a bad com- 
panion is no infallible proof of her being a good 
economist. 

I am afraid the poor father saw something of 
my disappointment in my countenance, for 
when we were alone in the evening, he observ- 
ed that a heavy addition to his other causes of 
regret for the loss of his wife, was her excellent 
management of his family. I found afterwards 
that though she had brought him a great for- 
tune, she had a very low education. Her father, 
a coarse country Squire, to whom the pleasures 
of the table were the only pleasures for which 
he had any relish, had no other ambition for his 
daughter but that she should be the most fa- 
mous housewife in the country. He gloried in 
her culinary perfections, which he understood ; 
of the deficiencies of her mind he had not the 
least perception. Money and good eating, he 
owned, were the only things in life, which had 
a real intrinsic value ; the value of all other 
things, he declared, existed in the imagination 
only. 

The poor lady, when she became a mother, 
and was brought out into the world, felt keenly 
the deficiencies of her own education. The 
dread of Scylla, as is usual, wrecked her on 
Charybdis. Her first resolution, as soon as she 
had daughters, was that they should learn every 
thing. All the masters who teach things of 
little intrinsic use were extravagantly paid for 
supernumerary attendance ; and as no one in the 
family was capable of judging of their improve- 
ments, their progress was but slow. Though 
they were taught much they learnt but little, 
even of these unnecessary things ; and of things 
necessary they learnt nothing. The well-inten- 
tioned mother was not aware that her daugh- 
ter's education was almost as much calculated 
to gratify the senses, though in a different way, 
and with more apparent refinement, as her own 
had been; and that mind is left nearly as much 
out of the question in making an ordinary artist 
as in making a good cook. 



CHAP. IV. 

From my fondness for conversation, my ima- 
gination had been early fired with Dr. John, 
son's remark that there is no pleasure on earth 
comparable to the fine fall flow of London talk. 
I, who, since I had quitted college, had seldom 
had my mind refreshed, but witli the petty rills 
and penurious streams of knowledge which 
country society afforded, now expected to meet 
it in a strong and rapid current, fertilizing 
wherever it flowed, producing in abundance the 
rich fruits of argument, and the gay flowers of 
rhetoric. I look for an uninterrupted course of 
profit and delight. I flattered myself that every 
dinner would add to my sjock of images ; that 
every debate would clear up some difficulty, 
every discussion elucidate some truth ; that 
reveiv allusion would be purely classical, every 



312 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



■entence abound with instruction, and every 
period be pointed with wit. 

On the tiptoe of expectation I went to dine 
with Sir John Belfield, in Cavendish-square. I 
looked at my watch fifty times. I thought it 
would never be six o'clock. I did not care to 
show my country-breeding, by going too early 
to incommode my friend, nor my town-breeding, 
by going too late and spoiling his dinner. Sir 
John is a valuable, elegant minded man, and, 
next to Mr. Stanley, stood highest in my father's 
esteem for his mental accomplishments and cor- 
rect morals. As I knew he was remarkable for 
assembling at his table men of sense, taste, and 
learning, my expectations of pleasure were very 
high. ' Here at least,' said I, as I heard the 
name of one clever man announced after an- 
other, ' here, at least, I cannot fail to find. 

The feast of reason and the flow of soul : 

Here at least all the energies of my mind will 
be brought into exercise. From this society I 
shall carry away documents for the improve- 
ment of my taste ; I shall treasure up hints to 
enrich my understanding, and collect aphorisms 
for the conduct of life.' 

At first there was no fair opportunity to in- 
troduce any conversation beyond the topics of 
the day, and to those, it must be confessed, this 
eventful period gives a new and powerful in- 
terest. I should have been much pleased to 
have had my country politics rectified, and any 
prejudices, which I might have contracted, re- 
moved, or softened, could the discussion have 
been carried on without the frequent interrup- 
tion of the youngest man in the company. 
This gentleman broke in on every remark, by 
descanting successively on the merits of the 
various dishes; and if it be true that experience 
only can determine the judgment, he gave proof 
of that best right to peremptory decision, by not 
trusting to delusive theory, but by actually eat- 
ing of every dish at table. 

His animadversions were uttered with the 
gravity of a German philosopher, and the science 
of a French cook. If any of his opinions hap- 
pened to be controverted, he quoted, in confirma- 
tion of his own judgment, f Almanac des Gour- 
mands, which he assured us was the most valu- 
able work that had appeared in France since 
the Revolution. — The author of this book he 
seemed to consider of as high authority in the 
science of eating, as Coke or Hale in that of 
jurisprudence, or Quintilian in the art of criti- 
cism. To the credit of the company, however, 
be it spoken, he had the wholo of this topic to 
himself. The rest of the party vvcro, in gene- 
ral of quite a different caliber, and as little ac- 
quainted witli his favourite author, as he pro- 
bably was with theirs. 

The lady of the house was perfectly amiable 
and well bred. Her dinner was excellent ; and 
every thing about her had an air of elegance 
and splendour : of course she completely esca- 
ped the disgrace of being thought a scholar, but 
not the suspicion of having a very good taste. 
I longed for the removal of the cloth, and was 
eagerly anticipating the pleasure and improve- 
ment which awaited me. 

As soon as the servants were beginning to 



withdraw, we got into a sort of attitude of con- 
versation ; all except the eulogist of l'Almanac 
des Gourmands, who, wrapping himself up in 
the comfortable consciousness of his own supe- 
rior judgment, and a little piqued that he had 
found neither support nor opposition, (the next 
best thing to a profound talker,) he seemed to 
have a perfect indifference to all topics except 
that on which he has shown so much eloquence, 
with so little effect. 

The last tray was now carried out, the last 
lingering servant had retired. I was beginning 
to listen with all my powers of attention to an 
ingenious gentleman who was about to give an 
interesting account of Egypt, where he had 
spent a year, and from whence he was lately 
returned. He was just got to the catacombs, 

When on a sudden open fly, 
With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, 

the mahogany folding doors, and in at once, 
struggling who should be first, rushed half a 
dozen children, lovely, fresh, gay, and noisy. 
This sudden and violent irruption of the pretty 
barbarians necessarily caused a total interrup- 
tion of conversation. The sprightly creatures 
ran round the table to choose where they would 
sit. At length this great difficulty of courts and 
cabinets, the choice of places, was settled. The 
little things were jostled in between the ladies, 
who all contended who should get possession of 
the little beauties. One was in raptures with 
the rosy cheeks of a sweet little girl she held in 
her lap. A second exclaimed aloud at the 
beautiful lace with which the frock of another 
was trimmed, and which she was sure mamma 
had given her for being good. A profitable, 
and doubtless a lasting and inseparable asso- 
ciation, was thus formed in the child's mind be- 
tween lace and goodness. A third cried out, 
' Look at the pretty angel ! — do but observe — 
her bracelets are as blue as her eyes. Did you 
ever see a match ?' ' Surely, lady Bedfield,' 
cried a fourth, ' you carried the eyes to the shop, 
or there must have been a shade of difference.' 
I myself, who am passionately fond of children, 
eyed the sweet little rebels with complacency, 
notwithstanding the unseasonableness of their 
interruption. 

At last, when they were all disposed of, I 
resumed my inquiries about the resting place 
of the mummies. But the grand dispute, who 
should have oranges, and who should have 
almonds and raisins, soon raised such a clamour 
that it was impossible to hear my Egyptian 
friend. This great contest was, however, at 
length settled, and I was returning to the an- 
tiquities of Memphis, when the important point, 
who should have red wine, and who should have 
white, who should have half a glass, and who a 
whole one, set us again in an uproar. Sir 
John was visibly uneasy, and commanded si- 
lence. During this interval of peace, I gave 
up the catacombs, and took refuge in the pyra- 
mids. But I had no sooner proposed my ques- 
tion about the serpent said to be found in one of 
them, than the son and heir, a fine little fellow, 
just six years old, reaching out his arm to dart 
an apple across the table at his sister, roguishly 
intending to overset her glass, unluckily over 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



313 



threw his own, brimful of port wine. The whole 
contents were discharged on the elegant dra- 
pery of a white robed nymph. 

All was now agitation and distress, and dis- 
turbance and confusion ; the gentlemen ringing 
for napkins, the ladies assisting the dripping 
fair one ; each vying with the other who should 
recommend the most approved specific of getting 
out the stain of red wine, and comforting the 
sufferer by stories of similar misfortunes. The 
poor little culprit was dismissed, and all difficul- 
ties and disasters seemed at last surmounted. 
But you cannot heat up again an interest which 
has been shorten cooled. The thread of conver- 
sation had been so frequently broken, that I 
despaired of seeing it tied together again. I 
sorrowfully gave up catacombs, pyramids, and 
serpents, and was obliged to content myself with 
a little desultory chat with my next neighbour ; 
sorry and disappointed to glean only a few scat- 
tered ears, where I had expected so abundant a 
harvest ; and the day from which I had pro- 
mised myself so much benefit and delight, passed 
away with a very slender acquisition of either. 



CHAP. V. 

I went almost immediately after, at the invi- 
tation of Mr. Ranby, to pass a few days at his 
villa at Hampstead. Mr. and Mrs. Ranby were 
esteemed pious persons, but having risen to great 
affluence by a sudden turn of fortune in a com- 
mercial engagement, they had a little self-suffi- 
ciency, and not a little disposition to ascribe an 
undue importance to wealth. This I should 
have thought more pardonable under their cir- 
cumstances, had I not expected that religion 
would in this respect have more than supplied 
the deficiencies of education. Their religion, 
however, consisted almost exclusively in a dis- 
proportionate zeal for a very few doctrines. And 
though they were far from being immoral in 
their own practice, yet, in their discourse, they 
affected to undervalue morality. 

This was, indeed, more particularly the case 
with the lady, whose chief object of discourse 
seemed to be, to convince me of her great supe- 
riority to her husband in polemical skill. Her 
chaste conversation certainly was not coupled 
with fear. In one respect she was the very re- 
verse of those Pharisees who were scrupulously 
exact about their petty observances. Mrs. Ran- 
by was, on the contrary, anxious about a very 
few important particulars, and exonerated her- 
self from the necessity of all inferior attentions. 
She was strongly attached to one or two preach- 
ers, and discovered little candour for all others, 
or for those who attended them. Nay, she some- 
what doubted of the soundness of the faith of 
her friends and acquaintance, who would not in- 
cur great inconvenience to attend one or other 
of her favourites. 

Mrs. Ranby's table was ' more than hospita- 
bly good.' There was not the least suspicion 
of Latin here. The eulogist of female ignorance 
might have dined in comfortable security against 
the intrusion and vanity of erudition. She had 
three daughters, not unpleasing young women. 

Vol. IL 



But I was much concerned to observe, that they 
were not only dressed to the very extremity of 
the fashion, but their drapery was as transpa- 
rent, as short, and as scanty ; there was as se 
dulous a disclosure of their persons, and as great 
a redundancy of ornaments, as I had seen in the 
gayest circles. 

' Expect not perfection,' said my good mother, 
' but look for consistency? This principle my 
parents had not only taught me in the closet, 
but had illustrated by their deportment in the 
family and in the world. They observed a uni- 
form correctness in their general demeanor. 
They were not over anxious about character for 
its own sake, but they were tenderly vigilant 
not to bring any reproach on the Christian name 
by imprudence, negligence, or inconsistency, 
even in small things. ' Custom,' said my mo- 
ther, ' can never alter the immutable nature of 
right ; fashion can never justify any practice 
which is improper in itself; and to dress inde- 
cently is as great an offence against purity and 
modesty, when it is the fashion, as when it is 
obsolete. There should be a line cT demarcation 
somewhere. In the article of dress and appear 
ance, Christian mothers should make a stand. 
They should not be so unreasonable as to ex- 
pect that a young girl will of herself have cou- 
rage to oppose the united temptations of fashion 
without, and the secret prevalence of corruption 
within ; and authority should be called in where 
admonition fails.' 

The conversation after dinner took a religious 
turn. Mrs. Ranby was not unacquainted with 
the subject, and expressed herself with energy 
on many serious points. I could have been glad, 
however, to have seen her views a little more 
practical, and her spirit a little less censorious. 
I saw she took the lead in debate, and that Mr. 
Ranby submitted to act as subaltern ; but whe- 
ther his meekness was the effect of piety or fear, 
I could not at that time determine. She pro- 
tested vehemently against all dissipation, in 
which I cordially joined her, though I hope with 
something less intemperance of manner, and 
less acrimony against those who pursued it. I 
began, however, to lose sight of the errors of the 
daughters' dress in the pleasure I felt at con- 
versing with so pious a mother of a family. For 
pious she really was, though her piety was a 
little debased by coarseness, and not a little dis- 
figured by asperity. 

I was sorry to observe that the young ladies 
not only look no part in the conversation, but 
that they did not even seem to know what was 
going on ; and I must confess the manner in 
which it was conducted was not calculated to 
make the subject inteiesting. The girls sat 
jogging and whispering each other, and got away 
as fast as they could. 

As soon as they were withdrawn — 'There, 
sir,' said the mother, ' are three girls who will 
make excellent wives. — They never were at a 
ball or a play in their lives ; and yet, though I 
say it, who should not say it, they are as highly 
accomplished as any ladies at St. James's.' I 
cordially approved the former part of her asser- 
tion, and bowed in silence to the latter. 

I took this opportunity of inquiring what had 
been her mode of religious instruction for her 



314 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



daughters ; but though I put the question with 
much caution and deference, she looked dis- 
pleased, and said that she did not think it ne- 
cessary to do a great deal in that way ; all these 
things must come from above ; it was not hu- 
man endeavours, but divine grace which made 
Ghristians. I observed, that the truth appeared 
to be, that divine grace blessing human endea- 
vours, seemed most likely to accomplish that 
great end. She replied, that experience was not 
on my side, for that the children of religious pa- 
rents were not always religious. I allowed that 
it was too true. I knew she drew her instances 
from two or three of her own friends, who, while 
they discovered much earnestness about their 
own spiritual interests, had almost totally ne- 
glected the religious cultivationof their children; 
the daughters in particular had been suffered to 
follow their own devices, and to waste their days 
in company of their own choosing, and in the 
most frivolous manner. ' What do ye more than 
others ?' is an interrogation which this negli- 
gence has frequently suggested. Nay, profess- 
ing serious piety, if ye do not more than those 
who profess it not, ye do less. 

I took the liberty to remark, that though there 
was no such thing as hereditary holiness, no en- 
tail of goodness ; yet the Almighty had promised 
in the scriptures many blessings to the offspring 
of the righteous. He never meant, however, 
that religion was to be transferred arbitrarily 
like an heir-loom ; but the promise was accom- 
panied with conditions and injunctions. The 
directions were express and frequent, to incul- 
cate early and late the great truths of religion ; 
nay, it was enforced with all the minuteness of 
detail,' precept upon precept, line upon line, here 
a little, and there a little' — at all times and sea- 
sons, ' walking by the way, and sitting in the 
house.' I hazarded the assertion, that it would 
generally be found that where the children of 
pious parents turned out ill, there had been some 
mistake, some neglect, or some fault on the part 
of the parents ; that they had not used the right 
methods. I observed that I thought it did not 
at all derogate from the sovereignty of the Al- 
mighty, that he appointed certain means to ac- 
complish certain ends ; and that the adopting 
these in conformity to his appointment, and de- 
pendence on his blessing, seemed to be one of 
the cases in which we should prove our faith by 
our obedience. 

I found I had gone too far— she said, with 
some warmth, that she was not wanting in any 
duty to her daughters; she set them a good ex- 
ample, and she prayed daily for their conver- 
sion. I highly commended her for both, but 
risked the observation, ' that praying without 
instilling principles, might be as inefficacious 
as instruction without prayer. That it was like 
a husbandman, who should expect that praying 
for sunshine, should produce a crop of corn in a 
field where not one grain had been sown. God, 
indeed, covld effect this, but he does not do it ; 
and the means being of his own appointment, 
his omnipotence is not less exerted, by his di- 
recting certain effects to follow certain causes, 
than it would by any arbitrary act.' As it was 
evident that she did not choose to quarrel with 
me, she contented herself with saying coldlp 



that she perceived I was a legalist, and had but 
a low view of divine things. 

At tea I found the young ladies took no more 
interest in the conversation than they had done 
at dinner, but sat whispering and laughing, and 
netling white silk gloves, till they were sum- 
moned to the harpsichord. Despairing of get- 
ting on with them in company, I proposed a 
walk in the garden. I now found them as wil- 
ling to talk, as destitute of any thing to say. 
Their conversation was vivid and frivolous. 
They laid great stress on small things. They 
seemed to have no shades in their understand- 
ing, but used the strongest terms 4§r the com- 
monest occasions, and admiration was excited 
by things hardly worthy to command attention. 
They were extremely glad and extremely sorry, 
on subjects not calculated to excite affections of 
any kind. They were animated about trifles, 
and indifferent on things of importance. They 
were, I must confess, frank and good-natured ; 
but it was evident, that as they were too open, 
to have any thing to conceal, so they were too 
uninformed to have any thing to produce; and 
I was resolved not to risk my happiness with a 
woman who could not contribute her full share 
towards spending a wet winter cheerfully in the 
country. 

' The next day, all the hours from breakfast to 
dinner were devoted to the harp. I had the va- 
nity to think that this sacrifice of time was made 
in compliment to me, as I had professed to like 
music ; till I found that all their mornings were 
spent in the same manner; and the only fruit 
of their education, which seemed to be used to 
any purpose, was, that after their family devo- 
tions in the evening, they sung and played a 
hymn. This was almost the only sign they 
gave of intellectual or spiritual life. They at- 
tended morning prayers, if they were dressed 
before the bell rang. One morning when they 
did not appear till late, they were reproved by 
their father; Mrs. Ranby said, ' she should be 
more angry with them for their irregularity, 
were it not that Mr. Ranby obstinately persisted 
in reading a printed form, which she was per- 
suaded could not do any body much good.' The 
poor man, who was really well disposed, very 
properly defended himself, by saying, that ho 
hoped his own heart went along with every word 
he read ; and as to his family, he thought it 
much more beneficial for them to join in an ex- 
cellent composition of a judicious divine, than 
to attend to any such crude rhapsody as he 
should be able to produce, whose education had 
not qualified him to lead the devotions of others. 
I had never heard him venture to make use of 
his understanding before; and I continued to 
find it much better than I had at first given him 
credit for. The lady observed, with some aspe- 
rity, that where there were gifts and graces, it 
superseded the necessity of learning. 

In vindication of my own good breeding, I 
should observe that, in my little debates with 
Mrs. Ranby, to which I arn always challenged 
by her, I never lost sight of that becoming ex. 
ample of the son of Cato, who, when about to 
deliver sentiments which might be thought too 
assuming in so young a man, introduced his ad- 
monitions with this modest preface, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



315 



Remember what our father oft has taught us. 

I, without quoting the son of the sage of Uti- 
cn, constantly adduced the paternal authority 
for opinions, which might savour too much of 
arrogance without such a sanction. 

I observed in the course of mv visit, that self- 
denial made no part of Mrs. Ranby's religious 
plan. She fancied, I believe, that it savoured 
of works, and of works she was evidently afraid. 
She talked as if activity were useless, and exer- 
tion unnecessary, and as if, like inanimate mat- 
ter, we had nothing to do but to sit still and be 
shone upon. 

I assured her that though I depended on the 
mercy of God, through the merits of his Son, 
for salvation, as entirely as she could do, yet I 
thought that Almighty grace, so far from set- 
ting aside diligent exertion, was the principle 
which promoted it- That salvation is in no 
part of scripture represented as attainable by 
the indolent Christian, if I might couple such 
contradictory terms. That I had been often 
awfully struck with the plain declarations, ' that 
the kingdom of heaven suffereth violence' — 
• strive to enter in at the strait gate' — ' whatso- 
ever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy 
might' — 'give diligence to make your calling 
sure' — * work out your own salvation.' — To this 
labour, this watchfulness, this sedulity of endea- 
vour, the crown of life is expressly promised, 
and salvation is not less the free gift of God, 
because he has annexed certain conditions to 
our obtaining it. 

The more I argued, the more I found my re- 
putation decline; yet to argue she compelled 
me. I really believed she was sincere, but she 
was ill-informed, governed by feelings and im- 
pulses, rather than by the plain express rule of 
scripture. It was not that she did not read 
scripture, but she interpreted it in her own way; 
built opinions on insulated texts ; did not com- 
pare scripture with scripture, except as it con- 
curred to strengthen her bias. She considered 
with a disproportionate fondness, those passages 
which supported her peconceived opinions, in- 
stead of being uniformly governed by the gene- 
ral tenor and spirit of the sacred page. She 
had far less reverence for the preceptive than 
for the doctrinal parts, because she did not suffi- 
ciently consider faith as an operative influential 
principle ; nor did she conceive that the sub- 
limest doctrines involve deep practical conse- 
quences. She did not consider the government 
of the tongue, nor the command of her passions, 
as forming any material part of the Christian 
character. Her zeal was fiery, because her 
temper was so ; and her charity was cold, be- 
cause it was an expensive propensity to keep 
warm. Among the perfections of the Redeem- 
er's character, she did not consider his being 
'meek and lowly' as an example, the influence 
of which was to extend to her. She considered 
it indeed as admirable, but not as unliable ; a 
distinction she was very apt to make in all her 
practical dissertations, and in her interpretation 
of scripture. 

In the evening Mrs. Ranby was lamenting, 
in general and rather customary terms, her own 
exceeding sinfulness. Mr. Ranby said, ' You 
accuse yourself rather too heavily, my dear ; 



' you have sins, to be sure.' * And pray what 
sins have I, Mr. Ranby?' said she, turning up- 
on him with so much quickness that the poor 
man started. 'Nay,' said he, meekly: ' I did 
not mean to offend you ; so far from it, that 
hearing you condemn yourself so grievously, I 
intended to comfort you, and to say that, except 

a few faults ' ' And pray what faults ?' 

interrupted she, continuing to speak however, 
lest he should catch an interval to tell them. ' I 
defy you, Mr. Ranby, to produce one.' ' My 
dear,' replied he, 'as you charged yourself with 
all, I thought it would be letting you oft' cheaply 

by naming only two or three, such as .* 

Here, fearing matters would go too far, I inter- 
posed, and softening things as much as I could 
for the lady, said, ' I conceived that Mr. Ranby 
meant, that though she partook of the general 

corruption ' Here Ranby interrupting me 

with more spirit than I thought he possessed, 
said, ' Genera] corruption, Sir, must be a source 
of particular corruption. I did not mean that 
my wife was worse than other women.' ' Worse, 
Mr. Ranby, worse ?' cried she. Ranby for the 
first time in his life, not minding her, went on, 
' As she is always insisting that the whole spe- 
cies is corrupt, she cannot help allowing that 
she herself has not quite escaped the infection. 
Now, to be a sinner in the gross, and a saint in 
the detail ; that is, to have all sins and no faults, 
is a thing I do not quite comprehend.' 

After he had left the room, which he did as 
the shortest way of allaying the storm, she apo- 
logized for him, and said, ' he was a well mean- 
ing man, and acted up to the little light he had;' 
but added, 'that he was unacquainted with re- 
ligious feelings, and knew little of the nature 
of conversion.' 

Mrs. Ranby, I found, seems to consider Chris- 
tianity, as a kind of free-masonry, and there- 
fore thinks it superfluous to speak on serious 
subjects to any but the initiated. If they do 
not return the sign, she gives them up as blind 
and dead. — She thinks she can only make her- 
self intelligible to those to whom certain pecu- 
liar phrases are familiar ; and though her friends 
may be correct, devout, and both doctrinally and 
practically pious, yet if they cannot catch a cer- 
tain mystic meaning, if there is not a sympathy 
of intelligence between her and them, if they do 
not fully conceive of impressions, and cannot 
respond to mysterious communications, she 
holds them unworthy of intercourse with her. 
She does not so much insist on high moral ex- 
cellence as the criterion of their worth, as on 
their own account of their internal feelings. 

She holds very cheap that gradual growth in 
piety which is in reality no less the effect of 
divine grace, than those instantaneous conver- 
sions which she believes to be so common. She 
cannot be persuaded that, of every advance in 
piety, of every improvement in virtue, of every 
illumination of the understanding, of every 
amendment in the heart, of every ratification of 
the will, the Spirit of God is no less the author 
because it is progressive, than if it were sudden 
It is true, Omnipotence can, when he pleases, 
still produce these instantaneous effects, as he 
has sometimes done ; but as it is not his esta- 
blished or common mode of operation, it seem 



316 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



vain and rash, presumptuously to wait for these 
miraculous interferences. An implicit depend- 
ence, however, on such interferences is certain- 
ly more gratifying' to the genius of enthusiasm, 
than the anxious vigilance, the fervent prayer, 
the daily struggle, the sometimes scarcely per- 
ceptible, though constant progress of the sober- 
minded Christian. Such a Christian is fully 
ftware that his heart requires as much watching 
in the more advanced as in the earliest stages 
of his religious course. He is cheerful in a 
well-grounded hope, and looks not for ecstacies, 
till that hope be swallowed up in fruition. 
Thankful if he feel in his heart a growing love 
of God, and an increasing submission to his 
will, though he is unconscious of visions, and 
unacquainted with any revelation but that which 
God has made in his word. He remembers, 
and he derives consolation from the remem- 
brance, that his Saviour, in his most gracious 
and soothing invitation to the ' heavy laden,' 
has mercifully promised ' rest,' but he has no 
where promised rapture. 



CHAP. VI. 

But to return to Mrs. Ranby's daughters. 
Is this consistency, said I to myself, when I com- 
pared the inanity of the life with the serious- 
ness of the discourse ; and contrasted the vacant 
way in which the day was spent, with the de- 
cent and devout manner, in which it was begun 
and ended ? I recollected that under the early 
though imperfect sacred institution, the fire of 
the morning and evening sacrifice was never 
Buffered to be extinguished during the day. 

Though Mrs. Ranby would have thought it a 
little heathenish to have had her daughters in- 
structed in polite literature, and to have filled a 
leisure hour in reading to her a useful book, 
that was not professedly religious, she felt no 
compunction at their waste of time, or the tri- 
fling pursuits in which the day was suffered to 
spend itself. The pianoforte, when they were 
weary of the harp, copying some different draw- 
ings, gilding a set of flower pots, and netting 
white gloves and veils, seemed to fill up the 
whole business of these immortal beings, of 
these Christians, for whom it had been solemnly 
engaged that they should manfully fight under 
Christ's banner. 

On a further acquaintance, I was much more 
inclined to lay the b^imeon their education than 
their dispositions. I found them not only good 
humoured, but charitably disposed ; but their 
charities were small and casual, often ill appli- 
ed, and alwa_ys without a plan. They knew no- 
thing of the state, character, or wants of the 
neighbouring poor ; and it had never been point- 
ed out to them that the instruction of the young 
and ignorant made any part of the duly of the 
rich towards them. 

When I once ventured to drop a hint on this 
subject to Mrs. Ranby, she drily said there were 
many other ways of doing good to the poor, be- 
sides exposing her daughters to the probability 
of catching diseases, and the certainty of get- 
ting dirt by such visits. Her subscription was 



never wanting when she was quite sure that the 
object was deserving. As I suspected that she 
a little overrated her own charity, I could not 
forbear observing, that I did not think it de- 
manded a combination of all the virtues to entitle 
a poor sick wretch to a dinner. And though I 
durst not quote so light an author as Ham- 
let to her, I could not help saying to myself, 
give every man his due and who shall 'scape 
whipping 1 O ! if God dealt so rigidly with us ; 
if he wailed to bestow his ordinary blessipgs 
till we were good enough to deserve them, who 
would be clothed ? who would be fed ? who 
would have a roof to shelter him? 

It was not that she gave nothing away, but 
she had a great dislike to relieve any but those 
of her own religious persuasion. — Though her 
Redeemer laid down his life for all people, na- 
tions, and languages, she will only lay down 
her money for a very limited number of a very 
limited class. To be religious is not claim suffi- 
cient on her bounty ; they must be religious in 
a particular way. 

The Miss Ranbys had not been habituated to 
make any systematic provision for regular cha- 
rity, or for any of those accidental calamities, 
for which the purse of the affluent should al- 
ways be provided : and being very expensive in 
their persons, they had often not a six-pence to 
bestow, when the most deserving case presented 
itself. This must frequently happen when there 
is no specific fund for charity which should be 
included in the general arrangementof expenses: 
and the exercise of benevolence, not be left to 
depend on the accidental state of the purse. If 
no new trinket happened to be wanted, these, 
young ladies were liberal to any application, 
though always without judging of its merits by 
their own eyes and ears. But if there was a 
competition between a sick family and a new 
brooch, the brooch was sure to carry the day. 
This would not have been the case, had they 
been habituated to visit themselves the abodes 
of penury and woe. Their flexible young hearts 
would have been wrought upon by the actual 
sight of miseries, the impression of which was 
feeble when it reached their ears at a distance, 
surrounded as they were with all the softnesses 
and accommodations of luxurious life. ' They 
would do what they could. They hoped it was 
not so bad as it was represented.' They fell into 
the usual way of pacifying their consciences by 
their regret3 ; and brought themselves to believe 
that their sympathy with the suffering was an 
atonement for their not relieving it. 

I observed, with concern, during my visit, 
how little the Christian temper seemed to be 
considered as a part of the Christian religion. 
This appeared in the daily concerns of this high 
professor. An opinion contradicted, a person 
of different religious views commended, the 
smallest opposition to her will, the intrusion of 
an unseasonable visitor, even an imperfection 
in the dressing of some dish at table : such tri- 
fles not only discomposed her, but the discom- 
posure was manifested with a vehemence, which 
she was not aware was a fault ; nor did she 
seem at all sensible that her religion was ever 
to be resorted to but on great occasions, forget- 
ting that great occasions but rarely occur in 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



317 



common life, and that these small passes, at 
which the enemy is perpetually entering, the 
true Christian will vigilantly guard. 

I observed in Mis. Ranby one striking incon- 
sistency. While she considered it as forming 
a complete line of separation from the world, 
that she and her daughters abstained from pub- 
lic places, she had no objection to their indem- 
nifying themselves for this forbearance, by de- 
voting so monstrous a disproportion of their 
time to that very amusement which constitutes 
so principal a part of diversion abroad. The 
time which is redeemed from what is wrong, is 
of little value, if not dedicated to what is right; 
and it is not enough that the doctrines of the 
gospel furnish a subject for discussion, if the}' 
do not furnish a principle of action. 

One of the most obvious defects which struck 
me in this, and two or three other families, 
whom I afterwards visited, was the want of 
companionableness in the daughters. They 
did not seem to form a part of the family com- 
pact; but made a kind of distinct brancli of 
themselves. Surely, when only the parents and 
a few select friends are met together, in a family 
way, the daughters should contribute their por- 
tion to enliven the domestic circle. They were 
always ready to sing and to play, but did not 
take the pains to produce themselves in con- 
versation ; but seemed to carry on a distinct in- 
tercourse, by herding, and whispering, and 
laughing together. 

In some women who seemed to be possessed 
of good ingredients, they were so ill mixed up 
together as not to produce an elegant, interest- 
ing companion. It appeared to me that three 
of the grand inducements in the choice of a wife, 
are, that a man may have a directress for his 
family, a preceptress for his children, and a 
companion for himself. Can it ba honestly 
affirmed that the present habits of domestic life 
are generally favourable to the union of these 
three essentials ? Yet which of them can a man 
of sense and principle consent to relinquish in 
his conjogal prospects? 



CHAP. VII. 

I returned to town at the end of a fow days. 
To a speculative stranger, a London day pre- 
sents every variety of circumstance in every 
conceivable shape of which human life is sus- 
ceptible. When you trace the solicitude of the 
morning countenance, the anxious exploring of 
the morning paper, the eager interrogation of 
the morning guest — when you hear the dismal 
enumeration of losses by land, and perils by sea 
— taxes trebling, dangers multiplying, com- 
merce annihilating, war protracted, invasion 
threatening, destruction impending — your mind 
catches and communicates the terror, and you 
feel yourself' falling with a falling state.' 

But when, in the course of the very same 
day, you meet these gloomy prognosticators at 
the sumptuous, not ' dinner, but hecatomb,' at 
the gorgeous fete, the splendid spectacle ; when 
you hear the frivolous discourse, witness the 
luxurious dissipation, contemplate the bound- 



less indulgence, and observe the ruinous gaming 
you would be ready to exclaim, 'Am I not sup 
ping in the Antipodes of that land in which I 
breakfasted ? Surely this is a country of differen* 
men, different characters, and different circum 
stances. This is at least a place in which 
there is neither fear nor danger, nor want, nor 
misery, nor war. 

If you observe the overflowing subscriptions 
raised, the innumerable societies formed, the 
committees appointed, the agents employed, the 
royal patrons engaged, the noble presidents 
provided, the palace like structures erected ; and 
all this to alleviate, to cure, and even to prevent 
every calamity, which the indigent can suffer, 
or the affluent conceive ; to remove not only want 
but ignorance ; to suppress not only misery but 
vice, would you not exclaim with Hamlet, 
' What a piece of work is man ? How noble in 
reason ! How infinite in faculties ! In action how 
like an angel ! In compassion, how like a God !' 
If you look into the whole comet like eccen- 
tric orb of the human character; if you com- 
pared all the struggling contrariety of principle 
and of passion ; the clashing of opinion and of 
action, of resolution and of performance ; the 
victories of evil over the propensities to good; 
if you contrasted the splendid virtue with the 
disorderly vice ; the exalted generosity with the 
selfish narrowness ; the provident bounty with 
the thoughtless prodigality ; the extremes of all 
that is dignified, with the excesses of all that is 
abject, would you not exclaim in the very spirit 
of Pascal, 'O! the grandeur and the littleness, 
the excellence and the corruption, the majesty 
and the meanness of man ! 

If you attended the debates in our great de- 
liberative assemblies; if you heard the argu- 
ment and the eloquence, ' the wisdom and the 
wit,' the public spirit and the disinterestedness; 
Curtius's devotedness to his country, and Regu- 
lus's disdain of self, expressed with all the logic 
which reason can suggest, and embellished with 
all the rhetoric which fancy can supply, would 
you not rapturously cry out, this is 

Above all Greek, above all Roman fame? 

But if you discern the bitter personality, the 
incurable prejudice, the cutting retort, the sus- 
picious implication, the recriminating sneer, the 
cherished animosity ; if you beheld the interests 
of an empire standing still, the business of the 
civilized globe suspended, while two intellectual 
gladiators are thrusting each to give the other 
a fall, and to show his own strength ; would you 
not lament the littleness of the great, the infir- 
mities of the good, and the weaknesses of the 
wise? Would you not, soaring a flight far above 
Hamlet or Pascal, apostrophize with the Royal 
Psalmist, 'Lord, what is man that thou art 
mindful of him, or the son of man that thou re- 
gardest him ?' 

But to descend to my individual concerns. — 
Among my acquaintance I visited two sepa- 
rate families, where the daughters were remark- 
ably attractive, and more than usually endowed 
with beauty, sense, and elegance ; but I was de- 
terred from following up the acquaintance, by 
observing in each family, practices which 



318 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



though very different, almost equally revolted 
rae. 

In one, where the young ladies had large for- 
tunes, they insinuated themselves into the ad- 
miration, and invited the familiarity of young 
men, by attentions the most flattering, and civi- 
lities the most alluring. When they had made 
Sure of their aim, and the admirers were en- 
couraged to make proposals, the ladies burst 
into a loud laugn, wondered what the man could 
mean ; they never dreamt of any thing more 
than common politeness ; then petrified them 
with distant looks, and turned about to practice 
the same arts on others. 

The other family, in which I thought I had 
secured an agreeable intimacy, I instantly de- 
serted on observing the gracious and engaging 
reception given by the ladies to more than one 
libertine of the most notorious profligacy. The 
men were handsome, and elegant, and fashion- 
able, and had figured in newspapers and courts 
of justice. This degrading popularity rather 
attracted than repelled attention ; and while the 
guilty associates in their crime were shunned 
with abhorrence by these very ladies, the spe- 
cious undoers were not only received with com- 
plaisance, but there was a sort of competition 
who should be most strenuous in their endea- 
vours to attract them. Surely women of fash- 
ion can hardly make a more corrupt use of in- 
fluence, a talent for which they will be peculiar- 
ly accountable. Surely, mere personal purity 
can hardly deserve the name of virtue in those 
who can sanction notoriously vicious characters, 
which their reprobation, if it could not reform, 
would at least degrade. 

On a further acquaintance, I found Sir John 
and Lady Belfield to be persons of much worth. 
— They were candid, generous and sincere. 
They saw the errors of the world in which they 
lived, but had not resolution to emancipate 
themselves from its shackels. They partook, 
indeed, very sparingly of its diversions, not so 
much because they suspected their evil ten- 
dency, as because they had better resources in 
themselves. 

Indeed, it is wonderful that more people, 
from mere good sense and just taste, without 
the operation of any religious consideration, do 
not, when the first ardour is cooled, perceive the 
futility of what is called pleasure, and decline 
it as the man declines the amusements of the 
child. But fashionable society produces few 
persons who, like the ex-courtier of King David, 
assign their four-score years as a reason for no 
longer ' delighting in the voice of singing men 
and singing women.' 

Sir John and Lady Belfield, however, kept up 
a large and general acquaintance ; and it is not 
easy to continue to associate with the world, 
without retaining something of its spirit. Their 
standard of morals was high, compared with 
that of those with whom they lived ; but when 
the standard of the gospel was suggested they 
drew in a little, and thought things might be 
carried too far. There was nothing in their 
practice whicli made it their interest to hope 
that Christianity might not be true. They both 
assented to its doctrines, and lived in a kind of 
general hope of its final promises. But their 



views were neither correct nor elevated. They 
were contented to generalize the doctrines of 
scripture, and though they venerated its awful 
truths in the aggregate, they rather took them 
upon trust than laboured to understand them, or 
to imbue their minds with a spirit of them 
Many a high professor, however, might have 
blushed to see how carefully they exercised not 
a few Christian dispositions ; how kind and 
patient they were ! how favourable in their con- 
structions of the actions of others ! how chari- 
table to the necessitous ! how exact in vera- 
city ! and how tender of the reputation of their 
neighbour ! 

Sir John had been early hurt by living so 
much with men of the world, with wits, politi- 
cians, and philosophers. This, though he had 
escaped the contagion of false principles, had 
kept back the growth of such as were true. 
Men versed in the world, and abstracted from 
all religious society, begin, in time, a little to 
suspect whether their own religious opinions 
may not possibly be wrong, or at least rigid, when 
they see them so opposite to those of persons to 
whose judgment they are accustomed to look 
up in other points. He found, too, that in the 
society in which he lived, the reputation of re- 
ligion detracted much from that of talents, and 
a man does not care to have his understanding 
questioned by those in whose opinion he wishes 
to stand well. This apprehension did not, in- 
deed, drive him to renounce his principles, but 
it led him to conceal them ; and that piety which 
is forcibly kept out of sight, which has nothing 
to fortify, and every thing to repel it, is too apt 
to decline. 

His marriage with an amiable woman, whose 
virtues and graces attached him to his own 
home, drew him off from the most dangerous of 
his prior connexions. This union had at once 
improved his character and augmented his hap. 
piness. If Lady Belfield erred, it was through 
excess of kindness and candour. Her kindness 
led to the too great indulgence of her children ; 
and her candour to the too favourable construe- 
tion of the errors of her acquaintance. She was 
the very reverse of my Hampstead friend. 
Whereas Mrs. Ranby thought hardly any body 
would be saved, Lady Belfield comforted herself 
that hardly any body was in danger. This 
opinion was not taken up as a palliative to quiet 
her conscience, on account of the sins of her 
own conduct, for her conduct was remarkably 
correct ; but it sprung from a natural sweetness 
of temper, joined to a mind not sufficiently in- 
formed and guided by scripture truth. She was 
candid and teachable, but as she could not help 
seeing that she had more religion than most of 
her acquaintance, she felt a secret complaceney 
in observing how far her principles rose above 
theirs, instead of an humbling conviction of 
how far her own fell below the requisitions of 
the gospel. 

The fundamental error was, that she had no 
distinct view of the corruption of human nature. 
She often lamented the weaknesses and vices 
of individuals, but thought all vice an incidental 
not a radical mischief, the effect of thoughtless- 
ness and casual temptation. She talked with 
discrimination of the faults of some of her chil- 



THE WORKS Ol< HANNAH MORE. 



319 



dren ; but while she rejoiced in the happier dis- 
positions of others, she never suspected that 
they had all brought into the world with tiieni a 
natural tendency to evil ; and thought it cruel to 
suppose that such innocent little things, had any 
such wrong propensities as education would not 
effectually cure. In eveiy thing the complete con- 
trast of Mrs. Ranby — as the latter thought edu- 
cation could do nothing, Lady Belfield thought 
it would do every thing ; that there was no good 
tendency which it would not bring to perfection, 
and no corruption which it could not completely 
eradicate. On the operation of a higher influ- 
ence she placed too little dependence ; while 
Mrs. Ranby rested in an unreasonable trust on 
an interference not warranted by scripture. 

In regard to her children, Lady Belfield was 
led by the strength of her affection to extreme 
indulgence. She encouraged no vice in them, 
but she did not sufficiently check those indica- 
tions which are the seeds of vice. She reproved 
the actual fault, but never thought of implanting 
a principle which might extirpate the evil from 
whence the fault sprung ; so that the individual 
error and the individual correction were conti- 
nually recurring. 

As Mrs. Ran-by, I had observed, seldom quoted 
any sacred writer but St. Paul, I remarked that 
Lad-y Belfield admired almost exclusively Eccle- 
siastes, Proverbs, and the historical books of the 
Bible. Of the Epistles, that of St. James was 
her favourite ; the others she thought chiefly, if 
not entirely applicable to the circumstances of 
the Jews and Pagans, to the converts from among 
whom they were addressed. If she entertained 
rather an awful reverence for the doctrinal parts, 
than an earnest wish to study them, it arose 
from the common mistake of believing that they 
were purely speculative, without being aware of 
their deep importance. But if these two ladies 
were diametrically opposite to each other in 
certain points, both were frequently right in 
what they assumed, and both wrong only in 
what they rejected. Each contended for one 
half of that which will not save, when disjoined 
from the other, but which, when united to it, 
makes up the complete Christian character. 

Lady Belfield, who was, if I may so speak, 
constitutionally charitable, almost thought that 
heaven might be purchased by charity. She in- 
verted the valuable superstructure of good works, 
and laid them as her foundation ; and while Mrs. 
Ranby would not perhaps much have blamed 
Moses for breaking the tables of the law, had he 
only demolished the second, Lady Belfield would 
have saved the second as the more important of 
the two. 

Lady Belfield had less vanity than any woman 
I ever knew, who was not governed by a very 
strict religious principle. Her modesty never 
courted the admiration of the world, but her ti- 
midity too much dreaded its censure. She 
would not do a wrong thing to obtain any ap- 
plause, but she omitted some right ones from 
the dread of blame. 



CHAP. VIII. 

The house of Sir John Belfield was become a 
pleasant kind of home to me. He and his lady 



seldom went out in an evening. Happy in each 
other and in their children, though they lived 
much with the rational, they associated as little 
as they thought possible with the racketing 
world. Yet being known to be generally at 
home, they were exposed to the inroads of cer- 
tain invaders, called fine ladies, who. always 
afraid of being too early for their parties, are 
constantly on the watch, how to disburden them- 
selves, for the intermediate hour, of the heavy 
commodity time ; a raw material, which as they 
seldom work up at home, they are always wil- 
ling to truck against the time of their more do- 
mestic acquaintance. Now, as these last haoe 
always something to do, it is an unfair traffic ; 
'all the reciprocity is on one side,' to borrow the 
expression of an illustrious statesman ; and the 
barter is as disadvantageous to the sober home 
trader, as that of the honest negroes, who ex- 
change their gold dust and ivory for the beads 
and bits of glass of the wily English. 

These nightly irruptions, though sometimes 
inconvenient to my friends, were of use to 
me, as they enabled me to see and judge more 
of the gay world, than I could have done with- 
out going in search of it ; a risk, which I thought 
bore no proportion to the gain. It was like 
learning the language of the enemy's country at 
home. 

One evening, when we were sitting happily 
alone in the library. Lady Belfield, working at 
her embroidery, cheerfully joining in our little 
discussions, and comparing our peaceful plea- 
sures with those pursued by the occupiers of the 
countless carriages which were tearing up the 
' wheel-worn streets,' or jostling each other at 
the door of the next house, where a grand assem- 
bly was collecting its mvriads — Sir John asked 
what should be the evening book. Then rising, 
he took down from the shelf Akenside's Plea- 
sures of Imagination. 

' Is it,' said he, as soon as he sat down, ' the 
rage for novelty, or a real degeneracy of taste, 
that we now so seldom hear of a poet, who, when 
I was a boy, was the admiration of every man 
who had a relish for true genius ? I cannot de- 
fend his principles, since in a work, of which 
Man is professedly the object, he has overlooked 
his immortality ; a subject, which one wonders 
did not force itself upon him, as so congenial to 
the sublimity of his genius, whatever his reli- 
gious views might have been. But to speak of 
him only as a poet ; a work, which abounds in a 
richer profusion of images, and a more varie- 
gated luxuriance of expression than the Plea- 
sures of Imagination, cannot easily be found. 
The flimsy metre of our day seems to add fresh 
value to hi3 sinewy verse. We have no happier 
master of poetic numbers, none who better knew 

To build the lofty rhyme. 

The condensed vigour, so indispensable to blank 
verse, the skilful variation of the pause, the mas- 
terly structure of the period, and all the occult 
mysteries of the art, can perhaps be best learnt 
from Akenside. If he could have conveyed to 
Thompson his melody and rhythm, and Thomp- 
son would have paid him back in perspicuity 
and transparency of meaning, how they might 
have enriched each other I' 



320 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



' I confess,' said I, ' in reading Akenside, I 
have now and then found the same passage at 
once enchanting and unintelligible. As it hap- 
pens to many frequenters of the Opera, the mu- 
sic always transports, but the words are not al- 
ways understood.' I then desired my friend to 
gratify us with the first book of the Pleasures 
of Imagination. 

Sir John is a passionate lover of poetry, in 
which he has a fine taste. He read it with much 
spirit and feeling, especially these truly classical 
lines. 

Mind, mind alone, bear witness earth and heaven, 

The living fountains in itself contains 

Of beauteous and sublime : here hand in hand 

Sit paramount the graces; here enthrou'd, 

Celestial Venus, with divinest airs 

Invites the soul to never-fading joy. 

• The reputation of this exquisite passage,' said 
he, laying down the book, ' is established by the 
consenting suffrage of all men of taste, though 
by the critical countenance you are beginning 
to put on, you look as if you had a mind to at- 
tack it.' 

'So far from it,' said I, 'that I know nothing 
more splendid in the whole mass of our poetry. 
And I feel almost guilty of high treason against 
the majesty of the sublimer Muses, in the re- 
mark I am going to hazard, on the celebrated 
lines which follow. The Poet's object, through 
this and the two following pages, is to establish 
the infinite superiority of mind over unconscious 
matter, even in its fairest forms. The idea is 
as just as the execution is beautiful : so also is 
his supreme elevation of intellect, over 

Greatness of bulk, or symmetry of parts. 

Nothing again can be finer than his subsequent 
preference of 

The powers of genius and design, 

over even the stupendous range 

Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres. 

He proceeds to ransack the stores of the men- 
tal and the moral world, as he had done the 
world of matter, and with a pen dipped in Hip- 
pocrene, opposes to the latter 

The charms of virtuous friendship, &c. 
***** 
Thp candid blush 
Of him who strives with fortune to be just. 

***** 

All the wild majesty of private life. 

***** 
The graceful tear that streams from others' woes. 

' Why, Charles,' said Sir John, ' I am glad to 
find you the enthusiastic eulogist of the passage 
of which I suspected you were about to be the 
saucy censurer.' 

• Censure,' replied I, ' is perhaps too strong a 
term for any part, especially the most admired 

fiart of this fine poem. I need not repeat the 
ines on which I was going to risk a slight ob- 
servation ; they live in the mind and memory 
of every lover of the Muses.' 

' I will read the next passage, however,' said 



Sir John, 'that I may be better able to contro 
vert your criticism.' 

Look then abroad through nature to the range 
Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres. 
Wheeling unshaken through the void immense. 
And speak, oh man ! does this capacious scene 
With half that kindling majesty dilate 
Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose 
Refulgent from the stroke of Ca;sar's fate 
Amid the crowd of patriots, and his arm 
Aloft extending, like eternal Jove 
When guilt brings down the thunder call'd aloud 
(Jn Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel, 
And bade the father of his country hail; 
For lo! the tyrant prostrate in the dust, 
And Rome again is free ! 

' What a grand and powerful passage !' said 
Sir John. 

' I acknowledge it,' said I, ' but is it as just 
as it is grand ? Le vrai est le seul beau. It is 
a fair and direct opposition between mind and 
matter ! The poet couid not have expressed the 
image more nobly ; but might he not, out of the 
abundant treasures of his opulent mind, have 
chosen it with more felicity ? Is an act of mur- 
der, even of an usurper, as happily contrasted 
with the organization of matter, as the other 
beautiful instances I named, and which he goes 
on to select ? The superiority of mental beauty 
is the point he is establishing, and his elaborate 
preparation leads you to expect all his other in- 
stances to be drawn from pure mental excel- 
lence. His other exemplifications are general, 
this is particular. They are a class, this is only 
a variety. I question if Milton, who was at 
least as ardent a champion for liberty, and as 
much of a party man as Akenside, would have 
used this illustration. Milton, though he often 
insinuates a political stroke in his great poem, 
always, I think, generalizes. Whatever had 
been his principles, or at whatever period he had 
written, I question, when he wanted to describe 
the overthrow of authority by the rebel angels, 
if he would have illustrated it by Cromwell's 
seizing the mace, or the decapitation of Charles; 
much less, if he would have selected these two 
instances as the triumph of mind over matter.' 

' But,' said Sir John, ' you forget that Aken- 
side professedly adopts the language of Cicero 
in his second philippic' He then read the note 
beginning with, Coesare interfecto, &.c. 

' True,' said I, ' I am not arguing the matter 
as a point of fact, but as a point of just applica- 
tion. I pass over the comparison of Brutus with 
Jove, which by the way would have become 
Tully better than Akenside, but which Tully 
would have perhaps thought too bold. Cicero 
adorns his oration with this magnificent descrip. 
tion. He relates it as an event, the other uses 
it as an illustration of that to which I humbly 
conceive it does not exactly apply. The orator 
paints the violent death of a hero ; the poet 
adopts the description of this violent death, or 
rather of the stroke which caused it, to illustrate 
the perfection of intellectual grandeur. — After 
all, it is as much a party question as a poetical 
one. A question on which the ci itic will be apt to. 
be guided in his decision, by his politics rather 
than by his taste. The splendour of the pas- 
sage, however, will inevitably dazzle the feeling 
reader, till it produce the common effect of ex 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



321 



cessive brightness, that of somewhat blinding 
the beholder. 



CHAP. IX. 

While we were thus pleasantly engaged, the 
servant announced Mrs. Fentham; and a fashion- 
able looking woman, about the middle of life, 
rather youthfully drest, and not far from hand- 
some, made her appearance. Instead of break- 
ing forth into the usual modish jargon, she po- 
litely entered into the subject in which she 
found us engaged ; envied lady Bel field the hap- 
piness of elegant quiet, which she herself might 
have been equally enjoying at her own house, 
and professed herself a warm admirer of poetry. 
She would probably have piofessed an equal 
fondness for metaphysics, geometry, military 
tactics, or the Arabic language, if she had hap- 
pened to have found us employed in the study 
of either. 

From poetry the transition to painting was 
easy and natural. Mrs. Fentham possessed all 
the phraseology of connoisseurship, and asked 
me if I was fond of pictures. I professed the 
delight I took in them in strong, that is, in true 
terms. She politely said, that Mr. Fentham had 
a very tolerable collection of the best masters, 
and particularly a Titian, which she would be 
happy to have the honour of showing me the 
next morning. I bowed my thankful assent ; 
she appointed the hour, and soon after, looking 
at her watch, said she was afraid she must leave 
the delights of such a select and interesting so- 
ciety for a far less agreeable party. 

When she was gone, I expressed my obliga- 
tions to her politeness, and anticipated the plea- 
sure I should have in seeing her pictures. *She 
is much more anxious that you should see her 
Originals,'' said Lady Belfield, smiling; 'the 
kindness is not quite disinterested ; take care 
of your heart.' Sir, John, rather gravely, said, 
' It is with reluctance that I ever say any thing 
to the prejudice of any body that I receive into 
my house ; but as the son of my valued friend, 
I think it fair to tell you that this vigilant ma- 
tron keeps a keen look-out after all young men 
of fortune. This is not the first time that that 
Titian has been made the bait to catch a pro- 
mising acquaintance. Indeed, it is now grown 
so stale, that had you not been a new'man, she 
would hardly have risked it. If you had hap- 
pened not to like painting, some book would 
have been offered you. The return of a book 
naturally brings on a visit. But all these de- 
vices have not yet answered. The damsels still 
remain, like Shakespeare's plaintive maid, ' in 
single blessedness.' — They do not, however, 
like her, 6pend gloomy nights 

Cuauntingcold hymns to thfc pale, lifeless moon, 

but in singing sprightlier loundelays to livelier 
auditors.' 

I punctually attended the invitation, effectu- 
ally shielded from danger by the friendly inti- 
mation, and a still more infallible iEgis, the 
charge of my father never to embark in any en- 

Voi» II. X 



gagement till I had made my visit to Mr. Stan- 
ley. My veneration for his memory operated aa 
a complete defence. 

I saw and admired the pictures. The pic- 
tures brought on an invitation to dinner. I 
found Mrs. Fentham to be in her conversation, 
a sensible, correct, knowing woman. Her daugh- 
ters were elegant in their figures, well instruct- 
ed in the usual accomplishments, well bred and 
apparently well tempered. Mr. Fentham was a 
man of business, and of the world. He had a 
great income from a place under government, 
out of which the expenses of his family permit- 
ted him to save nothing. Private fortune he 
had little or none. His employment engaged 
him almost entirely, so that he interfered but 
little with domestic affairs. A general air of 
elegance, almost amounting to magnificence, 
pervaded the whole establishment. 

I at first saw but little to excite any suspicion 
of the artificial character of the lady of the house. 
The first gleam of light which let in the truth 
was the expressions most frequent in Mrs. Fen- 
tham's mouth — ' What will the world say V 
' What will people think?' 'How will such a 
thing appear?' 'Will it have a good look?' 
' The world is of opinion.' ' Won't such a thing 
be censured?' On a little acquaintance I dis- 
covered that human applause was the motive of 
all she said, and reputation her great object in 
all she did. Opinion was the idol to which she 
sacrificed. Decorum was the inspirer of her 
duties, and praise the reward of them. The 
standard of the world was the standard by which 
she weighed actions. She had no higher prin- 
ciple of conduct. She adopted the forms of re- 
ligion, because she saw that, carried to a certain 
degree, they rather produce credit than censure. 
While her husband adjusted his accounts on 
the Sunday morning, she regularly carried her 
daughters to church, except a head-ache had 
been caught at the Saturday's opera ; and as re- 
gularly exhibited herself and them afterwards 
in Hyde Park. As she said it was Mr. Fen- 
tham's leisure day, she complimented him with 
always having a great dinner on Sundays, but 
alleged her piety as a reason for not having 
cards in the evening at home, though she had 
no scruple to make one at a private party at a 
friend's house ; soberly conditioning, however, 
that there should not be more than three tables ; 
the right or wrong, the decorum or impropriety, 
the gaiety or gravity always being made specifi- 
cally to depend on the number of tables. 

She was, in general, extremely severe against 
women who had lost their reputation ; though 
she had no hesitation in visiting a few of the 
most dishonourable, if they were of high rank, 
or belonged to a certain set. In that case, she 
excused herself by saying, ' that as fashionable 
people continued to countenance them, it was 
not for her to be scrupulous — One must sail 
with the stream — I can't set my face against the 
world.' But if an unhappy girl had been drawn 
aside, or one who had not rank to bear her out 
had erred, that altered the case, and she then 
expressed the most virtuous indignation. When 
modesty happened to be in repute, not the necks 
of Queen Elizabeth and her courtly virgins were 
more entrenched in ruffs and shrouded in tuck 



322 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ers, than those of Mrs. Fentham and her daugh- 
ters ; but when display became the order of the 
day, the Grecian Venus was scarcely more un- 
conscious of a veil. 

With a very good understanding she never 
allowed herself one original thought, or one 
spontaneous action. Her ideas, her language, 
and her conduct, were entirely regulated by the 
ideas, language, and conduct of those who stood 
well with the world. Vanity in her was a steady, 
inward, but powerfully pervading principle. It 
did not evaporate in levity or indiscretion, but 
was the hidden though forcible spring of her 
whole course of action. She had all the grati- 
fication which vanity affords in secret, and all 
the credit which its prudent operation procures 
in public. She was apparently guilty of no ex- 
cess of any kind. She had a sober scale of cre- 
ditable vices, and never allowed herself to exceed 
a few stated degrees in any of them. She re- 
probated gaming, but could not exist without 
cards. Masquerades she censured as highly ex- 
travagant and dangerous, but when given by la- 
dies of high quality, at their own houses, she 
thought them an elegant and proper amusement. 
Though she sometimes went to the play, she did 
not care for what passed on the stage, for she 
confessed the chief pleasure the theatre afforded, 
was to reckon up, when she came home, how 
many dutchesses and countesses had bowed to 
her across the house. 

A complete despot at home, her arbitrariness 
is so veiled by correctness of manner, and stu- 
died good breeding, that she obtains the credit 
of great mildness and moderation. She is said 
not to love her daughters who come too near 
her in age, and go too much beyond her in 
beauty to be forgiven; yet like a consummate 
politician, she is ever labouring for their ad- 
vancement. She has generally several schemes 
in hand, and always one scheme under another, 
the under plot ready to be brought forward if 
the principal one fails. Though she encourages 
pretenders, yet she is afraid to accept of a tole- 
rable proposal, lest a better should present itself: 
but if the loftier hope fails, she then contrives 
to lure back the inferior offer. She can balance 
to a nicety, in the calculation of chances, the 
advantages or disadvantages of a higher possi- 
bility against a lower probability. 

Though she neither wants reading nor taste, 
her mind is never sufficiently disengaged to 
make her an agreeable companion. Her head 
is always at work, conjecturing the event of 
every fresh ball and every new acquaintance- 
She cannot even 

Take her tea without a stratagem. 

She set out in life with a very slender acquaint- 
ance, and clung for a while to one or two da- 
maged peereses, who were not received by wo- 
men of their own rank. But I am told it was 
curious to see with what adroitness she could 
extricate herself from a disreputable acquaint- 
ance, when a more honourable one stepped in 
to fill the niche. She made her way rapidly by 
insinuating to one person of note how intimate 
ehe was with another, and to both what hand- 
some things each said of the other. By constant 



attentions, petty offices, and measured flattery, 
she has got footing into almost every house of 
distinction. Her decorum is invariable. She 
boasts that she was never guilty of the indecen- 
cy of violent passion. Poor woman ! she fan- 
cies there is no violent passion but that of an- 
ger. Little does she think that ambition, vanity, 
the hunger of applause, a rage for being univer- 
sally known, are all violent passions, howeveT 
modified by discretion, or varnished by art. She 
suffers too, all that 'vexation of spirit' which 
treads on the heels of' vanity.' Disappointment 
and jealousy poison the days devoted to pleasure. 
The party does not answer. The wrong people 
never stay away, and the right ones never come. 
The guest for whom the fete is made is sure to 
fail. Her party is thin, while that of her com- 
petitor overflows ; or there is a plenty of dowa- 
gers and a paucity of young men. When the 
costly and elaborate supper is on the table, ex- 
cuses arrive : even if the supper is crowded the 
daughters remain upon hands. How strikingly 
does she exemplify the strong expression of— 
' labouring in the fire for very vanity' — ' of giv- 
ing her money for that which is not bread, and 
her labour for that which satisfieth not !' 

After spending the day at Mrs. Fentham's I 
went to sup with my friends in Cavendish 
square. Lady Belfield was impatient for my 
history of the dinner. But Sir John said, laugh- 
ing, ' You shall not say a word, Charles — I can 
tell how it was as exactly as if I had been there. 
Charlotte, who has the best voice, was brought 
out to sing, but was placed a little behind, as 
her person is not quite perfect ; Maria, who is 
the most picturesque figure, was put to attitu- 
dinize at the harp, arrayed in the costume, and 
assuming the fascinating graces of Marmion's 
Lady Heron : 

Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er 
The strings her fingers flew. 

Then, Charles, was the moment of peril ! then, 
according- to your favourite Milton's most incon- 
gruous image, 

You took in sounds that might create a soul 
Under the ribs of death. 

For fear, however, that your heart of adamant 
should hold out against all these perilous as- 
saults, its vulnerability was tried in other quar- 
ters. The Titian would naturally lead to La- 
vinia's drawings. A beautiful sketch of the 
lakes would be produced, with a gentle intima- 
tion, what a sweet place Westmoreland must be 
to live in ! When you had exhausted all proper 
raptures on the art and on the artist, it would 
be recollected, that as Westmoreland was so 
near Scotland, you would naturally be fond of a 
reel. The reel of course succeeded.' Then, put- 
ting himself into an attitude, and speaking the 
atrically, he continued 

' Then universal Pan, 
Knit with the graces and the hours in dance—. 

Oh ! no, I forget, universal Pan could not join ' 
but he could admire. Then all the perfections 
of all the nymphs burst on you in full blaze. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



32a 



Such a concentration of attractions you could 
never resist ! You are but a man, and now 
doubtless a lost man.' Here he stopped to finish 
his iaugh, and I was driven reluctantly to ac- 
knowledge that his picture, though a carrica- 
ture, was, notwithstanding, a resemblance. 

' And so,' said Sir John, * you were brought 
under no power of incantation, by this danger- 
ous visit. You will be driven, like the tempted 
Ithican. to tie yourself to a mast, or flee for 
safety from the enchantment of these Syrens.' 

While we were at supper, with more gravity, 
he said, ' Among the various objects of ambition, 
there are few in life which brings less accession 
to its comfort, than an unceasing struggle to 
rise to an elevation in society very much above 
the level of our own condition, without being 
aided by any stronger ascending power than 
mere vanity. Great talents, of whatever kind, 
have a natural tendency to rise, and to lift their 
possessor. The flame, in mounting, does but 
obey its impulse. But when there is no energy 
more powerful than the passion to be great, 
destitute of the gifts which confer greatness, 
the painful efforts of ambition aTe like water, 
forced above its level by mechanical powders. 
It requires constant exertions of art, to keep up 
what art at first set a-going. Poor Mrs. Fen- 
tham's head is perpetually at work to maintain 
the elevation she has reached. And how little, 
after all, is she considered by those on whose 
caresses her happiness depends ! She has lost 
the esteem of her original circle, where she 
might have been respected, without gaining that 
of her high associates, who, though they receive 
her, still refuse her claims of equality. She is 
not considered as of their establishment, it is but 
toleration at best.' 

At Mrs. Fentham's I encountered Lady Bab 
Lawless, a renowned modish dowager, famous 
for laying siege to the heart of every distin- 
guished man, with the united artillery of her 
own wit and her daughter's beauty. How many 
ways there are of being wrong ! She was of a 
character diametrically opposite to that of Mrs. 
Fentham. She had the same end in view, but 
the means she used to accomplish it were of a 
bolder strain. Lady Bab affected no delicacy, 
she laughed at reserve, she had shaken hands 
with decorum. 

She held the noisy tenor of her way, 

with no assumed refinement ; and, so far from 
shielding her designs behind the mask of decency, 
she disdained the obsolete expedient. Her plans 
succeeded the more infallibly, because her frank- 
ness defeated all suspicion. A man could never di- 
vine that such gay and open assaults could have 
their foundation in design, and he gave her full 
credit for artless simplicity, at the moment she 
was catching him in her toils. If she now and 
then had gone too far, and by a momentary over- 
sight or excessive levity had betrayed too much, 
with infinite address she would make a crane- 
neck turn, and fall to discussing, not without 
ability, some moral or theological topic. Thus 
she affected to establish the character of a wo- 
man thoughtless through wit, indiscreet through 
simplicity, but religious on principle. 

As there is no part of the appendage to a 



wife, which I have ever more dreaded than a 
Machiavelian mother, I should have been deaf 
to wit and blind to beauty, and dead to advances, 
had their united batteries been directed against 
me. But I had not the ambition to aspire to 
that honour. I was much too low a mark for 
her lofty aim. She had a natural antipathy to 
every name that could not be found in the red 
book. She equally shrunk from untitled opu- 
lence and indigent nobility. She knew by in- 
stinct if a younger son was in the room, and by 
a petrifying look checked his most distant ap- 
proaches ; while with her powerful spells, she 
never failed to draw within her magic circle 
the splendid heir, and charm him to her purpose. 

Highly born herself, she had early been mar- 
ried to a rich man of inferior rank, for the sake 
of a large settlement. Her plan was, that her 
daughters (who, by the way, are modest and 
estimable) should find in the man they married, 
still higher birth than her own, and more riches 
than her husband's. 

It was a curious speculation to compare these 
two friends, and to observe how much less the 
refined manoeuvres of Mrs. Fentham answered, 
than the open assaults of the intrepid Lady Bab. 
All the intricacies and labyrinths which the 
former had been so skilful and so patient in 
weaving, have not yet enthralled one captive ; 
while the composed effrontery, the affecting to 
take for granted the offer which was never 
meant to be made, and treating that as con- 
cluded, which was never so much as intend- 
ed, drew the unconscious victim of the other 
into the trap, before he knew it was set ; the 
depth of her plot consisting in not appearing to 
have any. It was a novelty in intrigue. An 
originality which defied all competition, and in 
which no imitator has any chance of success. 



CHAP. X. 

Sir John carried me one morning to call on 
Lady Denham, a dowager of fashion, who had 
grown old in the trammels of the world. Though 
she seems resolved to die in the harness, yet she 
piques herself on being very religious, and no 
one inveighs against infidelity or impiety with 
more pointed censure. ' She has a grand-daugh- 
ter,' said Sir John, ' who lives with her, and 
whom she has trained to walk precisely in her 
own steps, and which, she thinks, is the way 
she should go. ' The girl,' added he, smiling, 
' is well looking, and will have a handsome for- 
tune, and I am persuaded that, as my friend, I 
could procure you a good reception.' 

We were shown into her dressing-room, 
where we found her with a book lying open be- 
fore her. From a glance which I caught of 
the large black letter, I saw it was a Week's 
Preparation. This book it seems constantly lay 
open before her from breakfast till dinner, at 
this season. It was Passion week. But as this 
is the room in which she sees all her morning 
visitors, to nono of whom is she ever denied, 
even at this period of retreat, she could only 
pick up momentary snatches of reading in the 
short intervals between one person bowing out 



S24 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



and another courtseying in. Miss Denham sat 
by, painting flowers. 

Sir John asked her Ladyship if she would go 
and dine in a family way with Lady Belfield. 
She drew up, looked grave, and said, with much 
solemnity, that she should never think of dining 
abroad at this holy season. Sir John said, ' as 
we have neither cards nor company, I thought 
you might as well have eaten your chicken in 
my house as in your own.' But though she 
thought it a sin to dine with a sober family, she 
made herself amends for the sacrifice, by letting 
us see that her heart was brimful of the world, 
pressed down and running over. She indem- 
nified herself for her abstinence from its diver- 
sions, by indulging in the only pleasures which 
she thought compatible with the sanctity of the 
season, uncharitable gossip, and unbounded ca- 
lumny. She would not touch a card for tho world, 
but played over to Sir John the whole game of 
the preceding Saturday night ; told him by what 
a shameful inattention her partner had lost the 
odd trick ; and that she should not have been 
beaten after all, had not her adversary, she 
verily believed, contrived to look over her hand. 

Sir John seized the only minute in which we 
were alone, to ask her to ad J a guinea to a little 
sum he was collecting for a poor tradesman 
with a large family, who had been burnt out a 
few nights ago. ' His wife,' added he, * was 
your favourite maid Dixon, and both are de- 
serving peop'e.' — ' Ah, poor Dixon ! she was 
always unlucky,' replied the Lady. ' How could 
they be so careless ? Surely they might have 
put the fire out sooner. They should not have 
let it get ahead. I wonder people are not more 
active.' — l It is too late to inquire about that,' 
said Sir John; 'the question now is, not how 
their loss might have been prevented, but how 
it may be repaired.' — ' I am really quite sorry,' 
said she, * that I can give you nothing. I have 
had so many calls lately, that my charity-purse 
is completely exhausted — and that abominable 
Property-tax makes me quite a beggar.' 

While she was speaking, I glanced on the 
open leaf at, '£Jharge them that are rich in this 
world that they be ready to give ;' and directing 
my eye further, it fell on, * Be not deceived. 
God is not mocked.' These were the awful pas- 
sages which formed a part of her preparation, 
and this was the practical use she made of them ! 

A dozen persons of both sexes ' had their exits 
and their entrances' during our stay ; for the 
Bcene was so strange, and the character so new 
to me, that I felt unwilling to stir. Among 
other visitors was Signor Squallini, a favourite 
opera singer, whom she patronized. Her face 
was lighted up with joy at sight of him. He 
brought her an admired new air, in which he 
was preparing himself, and sung a few notes, 
that she might say she heard it the first. She 
felt all the dignity of the privilege, and extolled 
the air with all the phrases, cant, and rapture 
of dilettanteism. 

After this, she drew a paper from between the 
leaves of her still opened book, which she show- 
ed him. It contained a list of all the company 
she had engaged to attend his benefit. ' I will 
call or» some others,' said she, ' to-morrow after 
prayers ; I am sorry this is a week in which I. 



1 cannot see my friends at their assemblies, but 
I on Sunday you know it will be over, and I shall 
| have my house full in the evening. Next Mon- 
day will be Easter, and I shall be at our dear 
Dutchess's private masquerade, and then I hope 
to see and engage, the whole world. ' Here are 
ten guineas,' said she in a half whisper to the ob- 
sequious Signor, ' you may .mention what I 
gave for my ticket, and it may set the fashion 
going.' She then pressed a ticket on Sir John 
and another on me. He declined, saying with 
great saner froid, ' You know we are Hande. 
Hans.' What excuse I made I do not well 
know ; I only know that I saved my ten guineas 
with a very bad grace, but felt bound in con- 
science to add them to what I had before sub- 
scribed to poor Dixon. 

Hitherto I had never seen the gnat-strainer, 
and the camel-swallower, so strikingly exem- 
plified. — And it is observable how forcibly the 
truth of Scripture is often illustrated by those 
who live in the boldest opposition to it. If you 
have any doubt while you are reading, go into 
the world, and your belief will be confirmed. 

As we took our leave, she followed us to the 
door, I hoped it was with the guinea for the 
fire ; but she only whispered Sir John, though 
he did not go himself, to prevail on such and 
such ladies to go to Squallini's benefit. 'Pray 
do,' said she, 'it will be charity. Poor fellow ! 
he is sadly out at elbows, he has a fine liberal 
spirit, and can hardly make his large income do. 
When we got into the street we admired the 
splendid chariot and laced liveries of this indi- 
gent professor, for whom our charity had been 
just solicited, and whose 'liberal spirit,' my 
friend assured me, consisted in sumptuous living, 
and the indulgence of every fashionable vice. 

I could not restrain my exclamations as soon 
as we got out of hearing. To Sir John the 
scene was amusing, but to him it had lost the 
interest of novelty. ' I have known her lady- 
ship about twelve years,' said he, 'and of course 
have witnessed a dozen of these annual pa- 
roxysms of devotion. I am persuaded that 
she is a gainer by them on her own principle, 
that is, in the article of pleasure. This short 
periodical abstinence whets her appetite to a 
keener relish for suspended enjoyment ; and 
while she fasts from amusements, her blinded 
conscience enjoys a feast of self-gratulation. 
She feeds on the remembrance of her self-denial, 
even after she has returned to those delights 
which she thinks her retreat has fairly pur- 
chased. She considers religion as a system of 
pains and penalties, by the voluntary enduring 
of which, for a short time, she shall compound 
for all the indulgences of the year. — She is 
persuaded that something must be annually 
forborne, in order to make her peace. After 
these periodical atonements, the Almighty be- 
ing in her debt, will be obliged at least to pay 
her with heaven. This composition, which 
rather brings her in on the creditor side, not 
only quiets her conscience for the past, but 
enables her joyfully to enter on a new score.' 
I asked Sir John, how Lady Belfield could 
associate with a woman of a character so oppo- 
site to her own ? ' What can we do ?' said he ; 
' we cannot be singular. We must conform 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



325 



»iltU to the world in which we live.' Trusting 
to his extreme good nature, and fired at the 
scene to which I had been a witness, I ventured 
to observe that non-conformity to such a world 
as that of which this lady was a specimen, was 
the very criterion of the religion taught by Him 
who had declared by way of pre-eminent dis- 
tinction, that his kingdom was not of this world.' 

' You are a yoChg man,' answered he, mildly, 
• and this delicacy and these prejudices would 
Boon wear off, if you were to live some time in 
the world.' — ' My dear Sir John,' said I, warm- 
ly, ■ by the grace of God, I never will live in the 
world ; at least, I will never associate with that 
part of it, whose society would be sure to wear 
off that delicacy and remove those prejudices. 
Why this is retaining all the worst part of 
popery. — Here is the abstinence without the de- 
votion ; the outward observance without the in- 
terior humiliation ; the suspending of sin, not 
only without any design of forsaking it, but with 
a fixed resolution of returning to it, and of in- 
creasing the gust by the forbearance. Nay the 
sins she retains in order to mitigate the horrors 
of forbearance, are as bad as those she lays 
down. A postponed sin, which is fully intended 
to be resumed, is as much worse than a sin per- 
sisted in, as deliberate hypocrisy is worse than 
the impulse of passion. I desire not a more ex- 
plicit comment on a text, which I was once al- 
most tempted to think unjust ; I mean, the great- 
er facility of the entrance of gross and notorious 
offenders into heaven than of these formal- 
ists. No! if Miss Denham were sole heiress 
to Croesus, and joined the beauty of Cleopatra to 
the wit of Sappho, I never would connect my- 
self with a disciple of that school.' 

• How many ways there are of being unhap- 
py !' said Sir John, as we returned one day from 
a ride we had taken some miles out of town, to 
call on a friend of his. ' Mr. Stanhope, whom 
we have just quitted, is a man of great elegance 
of mind. His early life was passed in liberal 
studies, and in the best company. But his fair 
prospects were blasted by a disproportionate 
marriage. He was drawn in by a vanity too na- 
tural to young men, that of fancying himself 
preferred by a woman who had no one recom- 
mendation but beauty. To be admired by her 
whom all his acquaintance admired, gratified his 
amour propre. He was overcome by her marked 
attentions so far as to declare himself, without 
knowing her real disposition. It was some time 
before his prepossession allowed him to discover 
that she was weak and ill-informed, selfish and 
bad tempered. What she wanted in understand- 
ing, she made up in spirit. The more she ex- 
acted, the more he submitted ; and her demands 
grew in proportion to his sacrifices. My friend, 
with patient affection, struggled for a long time 
to raise her character, and to enlighten her 
mind ; but finding that she pouted whenever 
he took up a book, and that she even hid the 
newspaper before he had read it, complaining 
that he preferred any thing to her company ; the 
Boftnessof his temper and his habitual indolence 
at length prevailed. His better judgment sunk 
in the hopeless contest. For a quiet life, he has 
submitted to a disgraceful life. The compro- 
mise has not answered. He has incurred the 



degradation which, by a more spirited conduct, 
he might have avoided, and has missed the quiet 
which he sacrificed his dignity to purchase. He 
compassionates her folly, and continues to trans- 
late her wearisome interruptions into the flatter- 
ing language of affection. 

In compliment to her, no less than in justifi- 
cation of his own choice, he has persuaded him- 
self that all women are pretty much alike. That 
in point of capacity, disposition, and knowledge, 
he has but drawn the common lot, with the 
balance in his favour, of strong affection and 
unsullied virtue. He hardly ever sees his fine 
library, which is the object of her supreme aver- 
sion, but wastes his days in listless idleness, and 
his evenings at cards, the only thing in which 
she takes a lively interest. — His fine mind is, I 
fear, growing mean and disingenuous. The gen- 
tleness of his temp?r leads him not only to sa- 
crifice his peare, b-*l to infringe on his veracity 
in order to kee^ hei quiet. 

' All the ente^aii.ment he finds at dinner, is a 
recapitulation of the faults of her maids, or the 
impertinence of her footmen, or the negligence 
of her gardener. If to please her he joins in the 
censure, she turns suddenly about, and defends 
them. If he vindicates them, she insists on 
their immediate dismission ; and no sooner are 
they irrevocably discharged, than she is conti- 
nually dwelling on their perfection, and then it 
is only their successors who have any faults. 

He is now so afraid of her driving out his few 
remaining old servants, if she sees his partiality 
for them, that in order to conceal it, he affects 
to reprimand them as the only means for them 
to secure her favour. Thus the integrity of his 
heart is giving way to a petty duplicity, and the 
openness of his temper to shabby artifices. He 
could submit to the loss of his comfort, but sen 
sfljly feels the diminution of his credit. The 
loss of his usefulness too is a constant source of 
regret. She will not even suffer him to act as a 
magistrate, lest her doors should be beset with 
vagabonds, and her house dirtied by men of 
business. If he chance to commend a dish he 
has tasted at a friend's house — Yes, every body's 
things are good but her's — she can never please ; 
he had better always dine abroad, if nothing is 
fit to be eaten at home. 

'Though poor Stanhope's conduct is so correct, 
and his attachment to his wife so notorious, he 
never ventures to commend any thing that is said 
or done by another woman. She has, indeed, no 
definite object of jealousy, but feels an uneasy, 
vague sensation of envy at any thing or person 
he admires. I believe she would be jealous of a 
fine day, if her husband praised it. 

' If a tale reaches her ears of a wife who has 
failed of her duty, or if the public papers record 
a divorce, then she awakens her husband to a 
sense of his superior happiness, and her own ir- 
reproachable virtue. Charles, the woman 
who, reposing on the laurels of her boasted vir- 
tue, allows herself to be a disobliging, a peevish, 
a gloomy, a discontented companion, defeats one 
great end of the institution, which is happiness. 
The wife who violates the marriage vow, is in- 
deed more criminal ; but the very magnitude of 
her crime emancipates her husband ; while she 
who makes him not dishonourable, but wretched, 



326 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



fastens on him a misery for life, from which no 
laws can free him, and under which religion 
alone can support him.' 

We continued talking till we reached home, 
on the multitude of marriages in which the par- 
ties are 'joined, not matched,' and where the 
term union is a miserable misnomer. I endea- 
voured to turn all these new acquaintances to 
account, and considered myself at every visit I 
made, as taking a lesson for my own conduct. 
I beheld the miscarriages of others, not only 
with concern for the individual, but as beacons 
to light me on the way. It was no breach of 
charity to use the aberrations of my acquaint- 
ance for the purpose of making my own course 
more direct. I took care, however, never to lose 
eight of the humbling consideration that my own 
deviations were equally liable to become the ob- 

i'ect of their animadversion, if the same motive 
lad led them to the same scrutiny. 

I remained some weeks longer in town in- 
dulging myself in all its safe sights, and all its 
sober pleasures. I examined whatever was new 
in art, or curious in science. I found out the 
best pictures, saw the best statues, explored the 
best museums, heard the best speakers in the 
courts of law, the best preachers in the church, 
and the best orators in parliament ; attended the 
best lectures, and visited the best company, in 
the most correct, though not always the most 
fashionable sense of the term. I associated with 
many learned, sensible, and some pious men, 
commodities with which London, with all its 
faults abounds, perhaps, more than any other 
place on the habitable globe. I became ac- 
quainted with many agreeable, well-informed 
valuable women, with a few who even seemed 
in a good measure to live above the world while 
they were living in it. # 

There is a large class of excellent female cha- 
racters, who, on account of that very excellence, 
are little known, because to be known is not 
their object. Their ambition has a better taste. 
They pass through life honoured and respected 
in their own small, but not unimportant sphere, 
and approved by him, ' whose they are, and 
whom they serve,' though their faces are hardly 
known in promiscuous society. If they occa- 
sion little sensation abroad, they produce much 
happiness at home. And when once a woman 
who has all ' appliances and means to get it,' 
ean withstand the intoxication of the flatterer, 
and the adoration of the fashionable ; can con- 
quer the fondness for public distinction, can re- 
sist the temptations of that magic circle to which 
•he is courted, and in which she is qualified to 
shine — this is indeed a trial of firmness ; a trial 
in which those who have never been called to 
resist themselves, can hardly judge of the merit 
of resistance in others. 

These are the women who bless, dignify, and 
truly adorn society. The painter indeed does 
not make his fortune by their sitting to him : 
the jeweller is neither brought into vogue by 
furnishing- their diamonds, nor undone by not 
being paid for them ; the prosperity of the mil- 
liner does not depend on affixing their name to 
n cap or a colour ; the poet does not celebrate 
them ; the novelist does not dedicate to them ; 
but they possess the affection of their husbands, 



the attachment of their children, the esteem of 
the wise and good, and, above all, they possess 
his favour, ' whom to know is life eternal.' 
Among these I doubt not I might have found 
objects highly deserving of my heart, but the in- 
junction of my father was a sort of panoply 
which guarded it. 

I am persuaded that such women compose a 
larger portion of the sex thdi is generally al- 
lowed. It is not the number, but the noise which 
makes a sensation, and a set of fair dependent 
young creatures who are every night forced.some 
of them reluctantly, upon the public eye ; and a 
bevy of faded matrons rouged and repaired for 
an ungrateful public, dead to their blandish- 
ments, do not compose the whole female world ! 
I repeat it — a hundred amiable women, who are 
living in the quiet practice of their duties, and 
the modest exertion of their talents, do not fill 
the public eye, or reach the public ear, like one 
aspiring leader, who, hungering for observation, 
and disdaining censure, dreads not abuse, but 
oblivion : who thinks it more glorious to head a 
little phalanx of fashionable followers, than to 
hold out, as from her commanding eminence, 
and imposing talents she might have done, a 
shining example of all that is great, and good, 
and dignified in woman. These self-appointed 
queens maintain an absolute but ephemeral em- 
pire over that little fantastic aristocracy which 
they call the world — Admiration besets them, 
crowds attend them, conquests follow them, in- 
feriors imitate them, rivals envy them, newspa- 
pers extol them, sonnets deify them. A few 
ostentatious charities are opposed as a large 
atonement for a few amiable weaknesses, while 
the unpaid tradesman is exposed to ruin by their 
vengeance, if he refuse to trust them, and to a 
gaol if he continue to do it. 



CHAP. XI. 

The three days previous to my leaving Lon- 
don were passed with Sir John and Lady Bel- 
field. Knowing I was on the wing for Hamp- 
shire they promised to make their long intended 
visit to Stanley Grove during my stay there. 

On the first of these days we were agreeably 
surprised at the appearance of Dr. Barlow, an 
old friend of Sir John, and the excellent Rector 
of Mr. Stanley's parish. — Being obliged to come 
to town on urgent business for a couple of days, 
he was charged to assure me of the cordial wel- 
come which awaited me at the Grove. I was 
glad to make this early acquaintance with this 
highly respectable divine. I made a thousand 
inquiries about his neighbours, and expressed 
my impatience to know more of a family, in 
whose characters I already felt a more than 
common interest. 

' Sir,' said he, ' if you set me talking of Mr- 
Stanley, you must abide by the consequences of 
your indiscretion, and bear with the loquacity 
of which that subject never fails to make me 
guilty. He is a greater blessing to me as a friend, 
and to my parish as an example and a benefac- 
tor than I can describe. I assured him that he 
could not be too minute in speaking of a man. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



327 



whom I had been early taught to admire, by that 
exact judge of merit, my late father. 

J Mr. Stanley,' said the worthy Doctor, ' is 
about six and forty ; his admirable wife is about 
six or seven years younger. He passed the 
early part of his life in London, in the best so- 
ciety. His commerce with the world, was to a 
mind like his, all pure gain : for he brought 
away from it all. the good it had to give, with- 
out exchanging for it one particle of his own in- 
tegrity He acquired the air, manners, and sen- 
timents of a gentleman, without any sacrifice 
of his sincerity. Indeed he may be said to have 
turned his knowledge of the world to a religious 
account, for it has enabled him to recommend 
religion to those who do not like it well enough 
to forgive, for its sake, the least awkwardness 
of gesture, or inelegance of manner. 

' When I became acquainted with the family,' 
continued he, ' I told Mrs. Stanley that I was 
afraid her husband hurt religion in one sense, 
as much as he recommended it in another ; for 
that somo men who would forgive him his piety 
for the sake of his agreeableness, would be led 
to dislike religion more than ever in other men, 
in whom the jewel was not so well set. ' We 
should like your religious men well enough,' 
will they say, ' if they all resembled Stanley.' — 
Whereas, the truth is, they do not so much like 
Mr. Stanley's religion as bear with it for the 
pleasure which his other qualities afford them. 
She assured me, that this was not altogether the 
case, for that his other qualities having pioneer'd 
his way, and hewed down the prejudices whicli 
the reputation of piety naturally raises, his en- 
deavours to be useful to them were much facili- 
tated, and he not only kept the ground he had 
gained, but was often able to turn this influence 
over his friends to a better account than they 
had intended. He converted their admiration 
of him into arms against their own errors. 

4 He possesses, in perfection,' continued Dr. 
Barlow, ' that sure criterion of abilities, a great 
power over the minds of his acquaintance, and 
has in a high degree that rare talent, the art of 
conciliation without the aid of flattery. I have 
seen more men brought over to his opinion by a 
management derived from his knowledge of 
mankind, and by a principle which forbade his 
ever using this knowledge but for good purposes, 
than I ever observed in any other instance ; and 
this without the slightest deviation from his 
scrupulous probity. 

' He is master of one great advantage in con- 
versation, that of not only knowing what to say 
that may be useful, but exactly when to say it ; 
in knowing when to press a point and when to 
forbear ; in his sparing the self-love of a vain 
man, whom he wishes to reclaim by contriving 
to make him feel himself wrong without mak- 
ing him appear ridiculous. The former he 
knows is easily pardoned, the latter never. He 
has studied the human heart long enough to 
know that to wound pride is not the way to 
cure, but to inflame it; and that exasperating 
aelf-conceit, will never subdue it. He seldom, 
I believe, goes into company without an earnest 
desire to be useful to some one in it ; but if cir- 
cumstances are adverse ; if the mollia tempora 
'andi does not present itself, he knows he should 



lose more than they would gain, by trying to 
make the occasion when he does not find it. 
And I have often heard him say, that when 
he cannot benefit others, or be benefitted by 
them, he endeavours to benefit himself by the 
disappointment, which does his own mind as 
much good by humbling him with the sense of 
his own uselessness, as the subject he wished 
to have introduced might have done them. 

1 The death of his only son, about six years 
ago, who had just entered his eighth year, is 
the only interruption his family have had to a 
felicity so unbroken, that I told Mr. Stanley 
some such calamity was necessary to convince 
him that he was not to be put off with so poor a 
portion as this world has to give. I added, that 
I should have been tempted to doubt his being 
in the favour of God, if he had totally escaped 
chastisement. A circumstance which to many 
parents would have greatly aggravated the blow, 
rather lightened it to him. The boy, had he 
lived to be of age, was to have had a large in- 
dependent fortune from a distant relation, which 
will now go to a remote branch, unless there 
should be another son. ' This wealth,' said he 
to me, ■ might have proved the boy's snare, and 
this independence his destruction. He who does 
all things well, has afflicted the parents, but he 
has saved the child.' The loss of an only son, 
however, sat heavy on his heart ; but it was the 
means of enabling him to glorify God by his 
submission, I should rather say by his acqui- 
escence. Submission is only yielding to what 
we cannot help. Acquiescence is a more sub- 
lime kind of resignation. It is a conviction that 
the divine will is holy, just, and good. He one 
day said to me, ' We were too fond of the mer- 
cy, but not sufficiently grateful for it. We lovea 
him so passionately that we might have forgot- 
ten who bestowed him. To preserve us from 
this temptation, God in great mercy withdrew 
him. Let us turn our eyes from the one bless- 
ing we have lost, to the countless mercies which 
are continued to us, and especially to the hand 
which confers them; to the hand which, if we 
continue to murmur, may strip us of our re- 
maining blessings.' 

' I cannot,' continued Dr. Barlow, * make a 
higher eulogium of Mrs. Stanley than to say, 
that she is every way worthy of the husband 
whose happiness she makes. They have a large 
family of lovely daughters of all ages. Lueilla, 
the eldest, is near nineteen ; you would think 
me too poetical were I to say she adorns every 
virtue with every grace ; and yet I should only 
speak the simple truth. Phoebe, who is just 
turned of fifteen, has not less vivacity and sweet- 
ness than her sister, but, from her extreme nai- 
vete and warm-heartedness, she has somewhat 
less discretion ; and her father says, that her 
education has afforded him not less pleasure, 
but more trouble, for the branches shot so fast 
as to call for more pruning.' 

Before I had time to thank the good Doctor 
for his interesting little narrative, a loud rap 
announced company. It was Lady Bab Law* 
less. With her usual versatility she plunged at 
once into every subject with every body. She 
talked to Lady Belfield of the news and her nur. 
sery, of poetry, with Sir John, of politics with 



328 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



me, and religion with Dr. Barlow. She talked 
well upon most of these points, and not ill upon 
any of them: for she had the talent of embel- 
lishing' subjects of which she knew but little, 
and a kind of conjectural sagacity and rash dex- 
terity, which prevented her from appearing ig- 
norant, even when she knew nothing. She 
thought that a full confidence in her own powers 
was the sure way to raise them in the estima- 
tion of others, and it generally succeeded. 
Turning suddenly to Lady Belfield, she said, 

* Pray, my dear, look at my flowers.' • They 
are beautiful roses, indeed,' said Lady Belfield, 

and as exquisitely exact as if they were arti- 
ficial.' — ' Which in truth they are,' replied Lady 
Bab. ' Your mistake is a high compliment to 
them, but not higher than they deserve. Look 
especially at these roses in my cap. You posi- 
tively shall go and get some at the same place.' 
— ' Indeed,' said Lady Belfield, ' I am thinking 
of laying aside flowers, though my children are 
hardly old enough to take them.' ' What affec- 
tation !' replied Lady Bab ; ' why you are not 
above two or three and thirty ; I am almost as 
old again, and yet I don't think of giving up 
flowers to my children, or my grand-children, 
who will be soon wanting them. Indeed, I only 
now wear white roses.' I discovered by this, 
that white roses made the same approximation 
to sobriety in dress, that three tables made to it 
in cards. 'Seriously though,' continued Lady 
Bab, 'you must and shall go and buy some of 
Fanny's flowers. I need only tell you, it will 
be the greatest charity you ever did, and then 
I know you won't rest till you have been. A 
beautiful girl maintains her dying mother by 
making and selling flowers. ' Here is her di- 
rection,' throwing a card on the table. — ' Oh no, 
this is not it. I have forgot the name, but it is 
within two doors of your hair-dresser, in what 
d'ye call the lane, just out of Oxford street. It 
is a poor miserable hole, but her roses are as 
bright as if they grew in the gardens of Armida.' 
She now rung the bell violently, saying she had 
overstayed her time, though she had not been 
in the house ten minutes. 

Next morning I attended Lady Belfield to the 
exhibition. In driving home through one of the 
narrow passages near Oxford-street, I observed 
that we were in the street where the poor flower- 
maker lived. Lady Belfield directed her foot- 
man to inquire for the house. We went into it, 
and in a small but clean room, up three pair of 
stairs, we found a very pretty and very genteel 
young girl at work on her gay manufacture. 
The young woman presented her elegant per- 
formances with an air of uncommon grace and 
modesty. 

She was the more interesting because the de- 
licacy of her appearance seemed to proceed 
from ill health, and a tear stood in her eye while 
ehe exhibited her works. ' You do not seem 
well, my dear,' said Lady Belfield, with a kind- 
ness which was natural to her. ' I never care 
about my own health, Madam,' replied she, ' but 
I fear my dear mother is dying.' She stopped, 
and the tears which she had endeavoured to re- 
strain now flowed plentifully down her cheeks. 

* Whore is your mother, child ?' said Lady Bel- 
field. ' In the next room, Madura.' ' Let us see 



her,' said her Ladyship, ' if it won't too much 
disturb her.' So saying, she led the way, and 
I followed her. 

We found the sick woman lying on a little 
poor, but clean bed, pale and emaciated, but she 
did not seem so near her end, as Fanny's affec- 
tion had made her apprehend. After some kind 
expressions of concern, Lady Belfield inquired^ 
into their circumstances, which she found were 
deplorable. ' But for that dear girl, Madam, I 
should have perished with want, said the good 
woman ; ' since our misfortunes I have had no- 
thing to support me but what she earns by 
making these flowers. She has ruined her own 
health, by sitting up the greatest part of the 
night to procure me necessaries, while she her- 
self lives on a crust.' 

I was so affected with this scene, that I drew 
Lady Belfield into the next room : ' If we can- 
not preserve the mother, at least let us save the 
daughter from destruction,' said I ; ' you may 
command my purse.' — 'I was thinking of the 
same thing,' she replied. ' Pray, my good girl, 
what sort of education have you had?' — 'O, 
Madam,' said she, 'one much too high for my 
situation. But my parents, intending to qualify 
me for a governness, as the safest way of pro- 
viding for me, have had me taught every thing 
necessary for that employment. I have had the 
best masters, and I hope I have not misemploy- 
ed my time.' — ' How comes it then,' said I, 
' that you were not placed out in some family ?' 
— ' What, Sir ! and leave my dear mother help. 
less and forlorn ? I had rather live only on my 
tea and dry bread, which, indeed I have done 
for many months, and supply her little wants, 
than enjoy all the luxuries in the world at a dis- 
tance from her.' 

' What were your misfortunes occasioned by?' 
said I, while Lady Belfield was talking with the 
mother. ' One trouble followed another, Sir,' 
said she, ' but what most completely ruined us, 
and sent my father to prison, and brought a pa- 
ralytic stroke on my mother, was his being ar- 
rested for a debt of seven hundred pounds. This 
sum, which he had promised to pay, was long 
due to him for laces, and to my mother for mil- 
linary and fancy dresses, from a lady who has 
not paid it to this moment, and my father is 
dead, and my mother dying ! this sum would 
have, saved them both !' 

She was turning away to conceal the excess 
of her grief, when a venerable clergyman enter- 
ed the room. It was the rector of the parish 
who came frequently to administer spiritual con- 
solation to the poor woman. Lady Belfield 
knew him slightly, and highly respected hi9 
character. She took him aside and questioned 
him as to the disposition and conduct of these 
people, especially the young woman. His testi- 
mony was highly satisfactory. The girl, he 
said, had not only had an excellent education, 
but her understanding and principles were 
equally good. He added, that he reckoned her 
beauty among her misfortunes. It made good 
people afraid to take her into the house, and 
exposed her to danger from those of the oppo- 
site description. 

I put my purse into Lady Belfieid's hands, 
declining to make any present myself, lest after 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the remark he had just made, I should incur the 
suspicions of the worthy clergyman. 

We promised to call again the next day, and 
took our leave, but not till we had possessed 
ourselves of as many flowers as she could spare. 
I begged that we might stop and send some 
medical assistance to the sick woman, for 
though it was evident that all relief was hope- 
less, yet it would be a comfort to the affectionate 
girl's heart to know that nothing was omitted 
which might restore her mother 



CHAP. XII. 

In the evening we talked over our little ad- 
venture with Sir John, who entered warmly into 
the distresses of Fanny, and was inclined to 
adopt our opinion, that if her character and at- 
tainments stood the test of a strict inquiry, she 
might hereafter probably be transplanted into 
their family as governess. We were interrupt- 
ed in the formation of this plan by a visit from 
Lady Melbury, the acknowledged queen of 
beauty and of ton. I had long been acquainted 
with her character, for her charms and her ac- 
complishments were the theme of every man of 
fashion, and the envy of every modish woman. 

She is one of those admired but pitiable cha- 
racters, who, sent by Providence as an example 
to their sex, degrade themselves into a warning. 
— Warm-hearted, feeling, liberal on the one 
hand ; on the other vain, sentimental, romantic, 
extravagantly addicted to dissipation and ex- 
pense, and with that union of contrarieties which 
distinguishes her, equally devoted to poetry and 
gaming, to liberality and injustice. She is too 
handsome to be envious, and too generous to 
have any relish for detraction, but she gives to 
excess into the opposite fault. As Lady Den- 
ham can detect blemishes in the most perfect, 
Lady Melbury finds perfections in the most de- 
praved. From a judgment which cannot discri- 
minate, a temper which will not censure, and a 
hunger for popularity, which can feed on the 
coarsest applause, she flatters egregiously and 
universally, on the principle of being paid back 
usuriously in the same coin. Prodigal of her 
beauty, she exists but on the homage paid to it 
from the drawing-room at St. James's to the 
mob at an election. Candour in her is as mis- 
chievous as calumny in others, for it buoys up 
characters which ought to sink. Not content 
with being blind to the bad qualities of her fa- 
vourites, she invents good ones for them, and 
you would suppose her corrupt ' little senate' 
was a choir of seraphims. 

A recent circumstance related by Sir John 
was quite characteristical. Her favourite maid 
was dangerously ill, and earnestly begged to see 
her lady who always had loaded her with fa- 
vours. To all company she talked of the vir- 
tues of the poor Toinette, for whom she not only 



it, she received a fresh entreaty to see her maid 
and was actually got to the door in order to go 
up stairs, when the milliner came in with such 
a distracting variety of beautiful new things, 
that there was no possibility of letting them go 
till she had tried every thing on, one after the 
other. This took up no little time. To deter- 
mine which she should keep and which return, 
where all was so attractive, took up still more. 
After numberless vicissitudes and fluctuations 
of racking thought, it was at length decided 
she should take the whole. The milliner with- 
drew ; the lady went up — Toinette had just ex- 
pired. 

I found her manners no less fascinating than 
her person. With all her modish graces, there 
was a tincture of romance and an appearance 
of softness and sensibility which gave her the 
variety of two characters. She was the en- 
chanting woman of fashion, and the elegiac 
muse. 

Lady Belfield had taken care to cover her 
work table with Fanny's flowers, with a view to 
attract any chance visitor. Lady Melbury ad- 
mired them excessively. 'You must do more 
than admire them,' said Lady Belfield, 'you 
must buy and recommend.' She then told her 
the affecting scene we had witnessed, and de- 
scribed the amiable girl who supported the dying 
mother by making these flowers. 'It is quite 
enchanting,' continued she, resolving to attack 
Lady Melbury in her own sentimental way, ' to 
see the sweet girl twisting rose buds, and fonni.ng 
hyacinths into bouquets.' ' Dear, how charm- 
ing !' exclaimed Lady Melbury; 'it is really 
quite touching. I will make a subscription for 
her, and write at the head of the list a melting 
description of her case. She shall bring me all 
her flowers and as many more as she can make, 
But no, we will make a party, and go and see 
her. You shall carry me. How interesting to 
see a beautiful creature making roses and hya- 
cinths ! her delicate hands and fair complexion 
must be amazingly set off by the contrast of the 
bright flowers. If it were a coarse looking girl, 
spinning hemp, to be sure one should pity her, 
but it would not be half so moving. It will be 
delightful. I will call on you to-morrow, ex- 
actly at two, and carry you all. Perhaps,' 
whispered she to Lady Belfield, ' I may work 
up the circumstance into a sonnet. Do think of 
a striking title for it. On second thoughts, the 
sonnet shall be sent about with the subscription, 
and I'll get a pretty vignette to suit it.' 

' The fine creature,' said Sir John, in an ac- 
cent of compassion, as she went out, ' was made 
for nobler purposes. How grievously does she 
fall short of the high expectations her early 
youth had raised ! Oh ! what a sad return does 
she make to Providence for his rich and varied 
bounties ! Vain of her beauty, lavish of her 
money, careless of her reputation ; associating 
with the worst company, yet formed for the 
best; living on the adulation of parasites, whose 
expressed but felt real compassion. Instead of I understanding she despises ! I grieve to com- 
one apothecary who would have sufficed, two i pare what she is with what she might have been, 
physicians were sent for; and she herself re- had she married a man of spirit, who would pru- 
eolved to go up and visit her, as soon as she had Hently have guided and tenderly have restrained 
finished setting to music an elegy on the death her. He has ruined her and himself by his in. 
o' her Java Sparrow. Just as she had completed | difference and easiness of temper. Satisfied 
Vol. IL 



330 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



with knowing how much she is admired and he 
envied, he never thought of reproving or re- 
stricting her. He is proud of her, but has no 
particular delight in her company ; and trusting 
to her honour, lets her follow her own devices, 
while he follows his. She is a striking instance 
of the eccentricity of that bounty which springs 
from mere sympathy and feeling. Her charity 
requires stage effect ; objects that have novelty, 
and circumstances which, as Mr. Bayes says, 
' elevate and surprise.' She lost, when an in- 
fant, her mother, a woman of sense and piety ; 
who, had she lived, would have formed the duc- 
tile mind of the daughter, turned her various 
talents into other channels, and raised her cha- 
racter to the elevation it was meant to reach.' 

' How melancholy a consideration is it,' said 
I, ' that so superior a woman should live so much 
Dulow her high destination ! She is doubtless 
Utterly destitute of any thought of religion.' 

'You are much mistaken,' replied Sir John, 
1 1 will not indeed venture to pronounce that she 
entertains much thought about it; but she by no 
means denies its truths, nor neglects occasion- 
ally to exhibit its outward and visible signs. She 
has yet not completely forgotten 

All that the nurse and all the priest have taught. 

I do not think that, like Lady Denham, she con- 
siders it as a commutation, but she preserves it 
as a habit. A religious exercise, however, never 
interferes with a worldly one. They are taken 
up in succession, but with this distinction, the 
worldly business is to be done, the religious one 
is not altogether to be left undone. She has a 
moral chemistry which excels in the amalgama- 
tion of contradictory ingredients. On a Sunday, 
at Melbury castle, if by any strange accident 
she and her lord happen to be there together, 
she first reads him a sermon, and plays at crib- 
bage with him the rest of the evening. In town 
one Sunday when she had a cold, she wrote a 
tract on the sacrament, for her maids, and then 
eet up all night at deep play. She declared if 
she had been successful she would have given 
her winnings to charity ; but as she lost some 
hundreds, she said, she could now with a safe 
conscience borrow that sum from her charity 
purse, which she had hoped to add to it, to pay 
her debt of honour.' 

Next day, within two hours of her appointed 
time, she came, and was complimented by Sir 
John, on her punctuality. ' Indeed,' said she, 
' I am rather late, but I met with such a fasci- 
nating German novel, that it positively chained 
me to my bed till past three. I assure you I 
never lost time by not rising. In the course of 
a few winters I have exhausted half Hookman's 
catalogue, before some of my acquaintance are 
awake, or myself out of bed.' 

We soon stopped at the humble door of which 
we were in search. Sir John conducted Lady 
Melbury up the little winding stairs. I assisted 
Lady Belfield. We reached the room, where 
Fanny was just finishing a beautiful bunch of 
jonquils. ' How picturesque,' whispered Lady 
Melbury to me — ' Do lend me your pencil ; I 
must take a sketch of that sweet girl with the 
jonquils in her hand. My dear creature,' con- 
tinued she, 'you must not only let me have 



these, but you must make me twelve dozen more 
flowers as fast as possible, and be sure let me 
have a great many sprigs of jessamine and myr- 
tle. Then snatching up a wreath of various co- 
loured geraniums — ' I must try this on my head 
by the glass.' So saying, she run into an ad- 
joining room, the door of which was open ; Lady 
Belfield having before stolen into it to speak to 
the poor invalid. 

As soon as Lady Melbury got into the room, 
she uttered a loud shriek. Sir John and I ran 
in, and were shocked to find her near fainting. 
' Oh, Belfield,' said she, ' this is a trick, and a 
most cruel one ! Why did you not tell me where 
you were bringing me 1 Why did you not tell 
me the people's name ?' — ' I have never heard it 
myself,' said Sir John ; ' on my honour I do not 
understand you. — You know as much of the 
woman as I know,' said Lady Belfield. ' Alas ! 
much more,' cried she, as fast as her tears would 
give her leave to speak. She retired to the win- 
dow for air, wringing her hands, and calling for 
a glass of water to keep her from fainting. I 
turned to the sick woman for an explanation ; I 
saw her countenance much changed. 

'This, Sir,' said she, 'is the lady, whose debt 
of seven hundred pounds ruined me, and was 
the death of my husband.' I was thunderstruck, 
but went to assist Lady Melbury, who implored 
Sir John to go home with her instantly, saying 
her coach should come back for us. ' But, dea. 
Lady Belfield, do lend me twenty guineas, I 
have not a shilling about me.' — ' Then, my dear 
Lady Melbury,' said Lady Belfield, ' how could 
you order twelve dozen expensive flowers V 
'Oh,' said she, 'I did not mean to have paid for 
them till next year.' ' And how,' replied Lady 
Belfield, 'could the debt which was not to have 
been paid for a twelvemonth have relieved the 
pressing wants of a creature, who must pay 
ready money for her materials ? However, as 
you are distressed, we will contrive to do with- 
out your money.' ' I would pawn my diamond 
necklace directly,' returned she, but speaking 
lower, ' to bwn the truth, it is already in the 
jeweller's hands, and I wear a paste necklace 
of the same form.' 

Sir John knowing I had been at my banker's 
that morning, gave me such a significant look, 
as restrained my hand, which was already on 
my pocket-book. In great seeming anguish she 
gave Sir John her hand, who conducted her to 
her coach. As he was leading her down stairs, 
she solemnly declared she would never again 
run in debt, never order more things than she 
wanted, and above all would never play while 
she lived. She was miserable because she durst 
not ask Lord Melbury to pay this woman, he 
having already given her money three times for 
the purpose, which she had lost at faro. Then 
retracting, she protested, if ever she did touch a 
card again, it should be for the sole purpose of 
getting something to discharge this debt. Sir 
John earnestly conjured her not to lay 'that 
flattering unction to her soul,' but to convert the 
present vexation into an occasion of felicity, by 
making it the memorable and happy sera of 
abandoning a practice, which injured her fortune, 
her fame, her principles, and her peace. ' Poor 
thing,' said Sir John, when he repeated to us, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



331 



Each will recant 
Vows made in pain, as violent and void. 

1 In an interval of weeping, she told me,' 
added he, ' that she was to be at the opera to- 
night. To the opera, faro will succeed, and to- 
morrow probably the diamond ear-rings will go 
to Grey's in pursuit of the necklace.' 

Lady Belfield inquired of Fanny how it hap- 
pened that Lady Melbury, who talked with her 
without surprise or emotion, discovered so much 
of both at the bare sight of her mother. The 
girl explained this by saying, that she had 
never been in the way while they lived in Bond- 
street, when her Ladyship used to come, having 
been always employed in an upper room, or at- 
tending her master. 

Before we parted, effectual measures were 
taken for the comfortable subsistence of the 
sick mother, and for alleviating the sorrows, and 
lightening the labours of the daughter ; and 
next morning I set out on my journey for 
Stanley Grove, Sir John and Lady Belfield pro- 
mising to follow me in a few weeks. 



As soon as I got into my post-chaise, and 
fairly turned my back on London, I fell into a 
variety of reflections on the persons with whom 
I had been living. In this soliloquy, I was 
particularly struck with that descrepancy of 
characters, all of which are yet included under 
the broad comprehensive appellation of Chris- 
tians. I lbund that though all differed widely 
from each other, they differed still more widely 
from that rule by which they professed to 
walk. Yet not one of these characters was 
considered as disreputable. There was not 
one that was profane or profligate. Not one 
who would not in conversation have defended 
Christianity if its truth had been attacked. 
Not one who derided or even neglected its 
forms ; and who in her own class would not have 
passed for religious. Yet how little had any 
one of them adorned the profession she adopted ! 
Of Mrs. Ranby, Mrs. Fentham, Lady Bab 
Lawless, Lady Denham, Lady Melbury, which 
of them would not have been startled had her 
Christianity been called in question ? Yet how 
merely speculative was the religion of oven the 
most serious among them ! How superficial, or 
inconsistent, or mistaken, or hollow, or hypo- 
critical, or self-deceiving was that of all the 
others ! Had either of them been asked from 
what source she drew her religion, she would 
indignantly have answered, from the bible. Yet 
if we compare the copy with the model, the 
Christian with Christianity, how little can we 
trace the resemblance ! In what particular did 
their lives imitate the life of Him icho pleased 
not himself, who did the will of his Father : who 
went about doing good 1 How irreconcileable is 
their faith with the principles which He taught ! 
How dissimilar their practice with the precepts 
He delivered ! How inconsistent their lives with 
the example which he bequeathed ! How un- 
founded their hope of heaven, if an entrance 
into heaven be restricted to those who are like 
minded with Christ I 



CHAP. XIII 

My father had been in early life intimately 
connected with the family of Mr. Stanley. 
Though this gentleman was his junior by seve- 
ral years, yet there subsisted between them such 
a similarity of tastes, sentiments, views and 
principles, that they lived in the closest friend- 
ship ; and both their families having in the 
early part of their lives resided in London, the 
occasions of that thorough mutual knowledge 
that grows out of familiar intercourse, were 
much facilitated. I remembered Mr. Stanley, 
when I was a very little boy, paying an annual 
visit to my father at the Priory, and I had re- 
tained an imperfect but pleasing impression of 
his countenance and engaging manners. 

Having had a large estate left him in Hamp- 
shire, he settled there on his marriage ; an inter- 
course of letters had kept up the mutual at- 
tachment between him and my father. On the 
death of each parent, I had received a cordial 
invitation to come and soothe my sorrows in his 
society. My father enjoined me that one of 
my first visits after his death should be to the 
Grove ; and, in truth, I now considered my 
Hampshire engagement as the bonne bouche of 
my southern excursion. 

I reached Stanley Grove before dinner. I 
found a spacious mansion, suited to the ample 
fortune and liberal spirit of its possessor, I was 
highly gratified with the fine forest scenery in 
the approach to the park. The house had a 
noble appearance without; and within it was at 
once commodious and elegant. It stood on the 
south side of a hill, nearer the bottom than the 
summit, and was sheltered on the north-east by 
a fine old wood. The park, though it was not 
very extensive, was striking from the beautiful 
inequality of the ground, which was richly 
clothed with the most picturesque oaks I ever 
saw, interspered with stately beeches. The 
grounds were laid out in good taste, but though 
the hand of modern improvement was visibie, 
the owner had in one instance spared 

' The obsolete prolixity of shade,* 

for which the most interesting of poets so pa- 
thetically pleads. The poet's plea had saved the 
avenue. 

I was cordially welcomed by Mr. and Mrs. 
Stanley ; and by that powerful and instanta- 
neous impression which fine sense and good 
breeding, joined to high previous veneration of 
character, produce on the feelings of the guest, 
I at once felt myself at home. All the prelimi- 
naries of gradual acquaintance were in a man. 
ner superseded, and I soon experienced that 
warm and affectionate esteem, which seemed 
scarcely to require intercourse to strengthen, or 
time to confirm it. Mr. Stanley had only a few- 
minutes to present me to his lady and two lovely 
daughters, before we were summoned to dinner, 
to which a considerable party had been invited ; 
for the neighbourhood was populous and rather 
polished. 

The conversation after dinner was rational, 
animated, and instructive. I observed that Mr 
Stanley lost no opportunity which fairly offered, 



332 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



for suggesting useful reflections. But what 
chiefly struck me in his manner of conversing 
was, that without ever pressing religion unsea- 
sonably into the service, he had the talent of 
making the most ordinary topics subservient to 
instruction, and of extracting some profitable 
hint, or striking out some important light, from 
subjects which in ordinary hands would have 
been unproductive of improvement. It was 
evident that piely was the predominating prin- 
ciple of his mind, and that he was consulting 
its interests as carefully when prudence made 
him forbear to press it, as when propriety allow- 
ed him to introduce it. This piety was rather 
visible in the sentiment than the phrase. He 
was of opinion that bad taste could never ad- 
Vance the interests of Christianity. And he 
gave less offence to worldly men, than most re- 
ligious people Lhave known, because though he 
would on no human consideration, abate one 
atom of zeal, or lower any doctrine, nor disguise 
any truth, nor palliate, nor trim, nor compro- 
mise, yet he never contended for words or tri- 
fling distinctions. He thought it detracted 
from no man's piety to bring all his elegance of 
expression, his correctness of taste, and his ac- 
curacy of reasoning to the service of that cause, 
which lies the nearest to the heart of every 
Christian, and demands the best exertion of 
his best faculties. 

He was also forward to promote subjects of 
practical use in the affairs of common life suit- 
ed to the several circumstances and pursuits of 
his guests. But he particularly rejoiced that 
there was so broad, and safe, and unenclosed a 
field as general literature. This, he observed, 
always supplies men of education with an ample 
refuge from all vulgar, and dangerous, and un- 
productive topics. ' If we cannot,' said he., ' by 
friendly intercourse, always raise our principles, 
we may always keep our understandings in ex- 
ercise ; and those authors who supply so peace- 
able a creature as man, with subjects of elegant 
and innocent discussion, I do not reckon among 
the lowest benefactors of mankind.' 

In my further acquaintance with Mr. Stanley, 
I have sometimes observed with what address 
he has converted a merely moral passage to 
a religious purpose. I have known him, when 
conversing with a man who would not have 
relished a more sacred authority, seize on a sen- 
timent in Tully's Offices, for the lowest degree 
in his scale of morals, and then, gradually as- 
cending, trace and exalt the same thought 
through Paley or Johnson, or Addison, or Bacon, 
till he has unexpectedly landed his opponent in 
the pure ethics of the gospel, and surprised him 
into the adoption of a Christian principle. 

As I had heard there was a fine little flock of 
children, I was surprised, and almost disap- 
pointed every time the door opened, not to see 
them appear, for I had already began to take an 
interest in all that related to this most engaging 
family. The ladies having, to our gratification, 
sat longer than is usual at most tables, at length 
obeyed the signal of the mistress of the 
house. They withdrew, followed by the Miss 
Stanleys, 

With grace 
Which won who saw to wish their stay. 



After their departure, the conversation was not 
changed. There was no occasion ; it could not 
become more rational, and we did not desire 
that it should become less pure. Mrs. Stanley 
and her fair friends had taken their share in it 
with a good sense and delicacy which raised the 
tone of our society ; and we did not give them 
to understand by a loud laugh before they were 
out of hearing, that we rejoiced in being eman- 
cipated from the restraint of their presence. 

Mrs. Stanley is a graceful and elegant woman. 
Among a thousand other excellencies, she is 
distinguished for her judgment in adapting her 
discourse to the character of her guests, and 
for being singularly skilful in selecting her 
topics of conversation. I never saw a lady who 
possessed the talent of diffusing at her table so 
much pleasure to those around her without the 
smallest deviation from her own dignified purity. 
She asks such questions as strangers may be 
likely to gain, at least not to lose credit by an- 
swering : and she suits her interrogations to the 
kind of knowledge they may be supposed likely 
to possess. By this, two ends are answered : 
while she gives her guest an occasion of appear- 
ing to advantage, she pnts herself in the way of 
gaining some information. From want of this 
discernment, I have known ladies ask a gentle- 
man just arrived from the East Indies, ques- 
tions about America ; and others, from the ab- 
sence of that true delicacy, which, where it ex- 
ists, shows itself on the smallest occasions, who 
have inquired of a person, how he liked such a 
book, though she knew that in the nature of 
things, there was no probability of his ever 
having heard of it ; thus assuming an unge- 
nerous superiority herself, and mortifying an- 
other by a sense of his own comparative igno- 
rance. If there is any one at table, who, from 
his station, has least claim to attention, he is 
sure to be treated with particular kindness by 
Mrs. Stanley, and the diffident never fail to be 
encouraged, and the modest to be brought for- 
ward, by the kindness and refinement of her at- 
tentions. 

When we were summoned to the drawing 
room I was delighted to see four beautiful chil- 
dren, fresh as health, and gay as youth could 
make them, busily engaged with the ladies. 
One was romping; another singing; a third 
was showing some drawings of birds, the na- 
tural history of which she seemed to understand 
a fourth had spread a dissected map on the car- 
pet, and had pulled down her eldest sister on thy 
floor to show her Copenhagen. It was an ani- 
mating scene. I could have devoured the sweet 
creatures. I got credit with the little singer by 
helping her to a line which she had forgotten, 
and with the geographer by my superior ac- 
quaintance with the shores of tie Baltic. 

In the evening, when the company had left 
us, I asked Mrs. S anley how she came so far to 
deviate from established custom as not to pro- 
duce her children immediately after dinner? 
' You must ask me,' said Mr. Stanley, smiling, 
for it was I who first ventured to suggest this 
bold innovation. 1 love my children fondly, 
but my children I have always at home ; I have 
my friends bul seldom ; and I do not choose that 
any portion of the lime that I wish to dedicate 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



333 



to intellectual and social enjoyment should be 
broken in upon by another, and an interfering 
pleasure, which I have always within my reach. 
At the same time I like my children to see my 
friends. Company amuses, improves, and po- 
lishes them. I therefore consulted with Mrs. 
Stanley, how we could so manage, as to enjoy 
our friends without locking up our children. 
She recommended this expedient. The time, 
she said, spent by the ladies from their leaving 
the dining-room till the gentlemen came in to 
tea, was ofien a little heavy, it was rather an in- 
terval of anticipation than of enjoyment ; those 
ladies who had not much mind, had soon ex- 
hausted their admiration of each others' worked 
muslins, and lace sleeves, and those who had, 
would be glad to rest it so agreeably. She there- 
fore proposed te enliven that dull period by in- 
troducing the children. 

' This little change has not only succeeded in 
our own family, but has been adopted by many 
of our neighbours. For ourselves, it has an- 
swered a double purpose. It not only delights 
the little things, but it delights them with less 
injury than the usual season of their appearance. 
Our children have always as much fruit as they 
like after their own dinner ; they do not there- 
fore want or desire the fruits, the sweetmeats, 
the cakes and the wine with which the guests, 
in order to please mamma, are too apt to cram 
them. Besides, poor little dears, it mixes too 
much selfishness with the natural delight that 
they have in seeing company, by connecting 
with it the idea of the good things they shall get. 
But by this alteration, we do all in our power to 
infuse a little disinterestedness into the pleasure 
they have in coming; to us. We love them too 
tenderly to crib their little enjoyments, so we 
give them two pleasures instead of one, for they 
have their desert and our company in succes- 
sion.' 

Though I do not approve of too great fami- 
liarity with servants, yet I think that to an old 
and faithful domestic, superior consideration is 
due. My attendant on my present tour had 
lived in our family from his youth, and had the 
care of me before I can remember. His fidelity 
and good sense, and I may add his piety, had 
obtained for him the privilege of free speaking. 
' Oh, Sir,' said he, when he came to attend me 
next morning, ' we are got into the right house 
at last. — Such a family ! so godly ! so sober ! so 
charitable ! 'Tis alt of a piece here, Sir, Mrs. 
Comfit, the housekeeper, tells me that her mas- 
ter and mistress are the example of all the rich, 
and the refuge of all the poor in the neighbour- 
hood. And as to Miss Lucilla, if the blessing 
of them that are ready to perish can send any 
body to heaven, she will go there sure enough.' 

This rhapsody of honest Edwards warmed 
my heart, and put me in rnind, that I had ne- 
glected to enquire after this worthy housekeeper, 
who had lived with my grand-father, and was at 
his death transplanted into the family of Mr. 
Stanley. I paid a visit, the first opportunity, to 
the good woman in her room, eager to learn 
more of a family who so much resembled my 
own parents, and for whom I had already con- 
ceived something more tender than mere respet. 

I congratulated Mrs. Comfit on the happiness 



of living in so valuable a family. In return, she 
was even eloquent in their praises. ' Her mis- 
tress,' she said, ' was a pattern for ladies, so 
strict, and yet so kind ! but now indeed Miss 
Lucilla has taken almost all the family cares 
from her mamma. The day she was sixteen, 
Sir, that is about two years and a half ago, she 
began to inspect the household affiirs a little, 
and as her knowledge increased, she took more 
and more upon her. Miss Phoebe will very soon 
be old enough to relieve her sister ; but my mis- 
tress won't let her daughters have any thing to 
do with family affairs, till they are almost wo- 
men grown, both for fear it should lake them 
off from their learning, and also give them a 
low turn about eating and caring for niceties, 
and lead them into vulgar gossip and familiarity 
with servants. It is time enough, she says, 
when their characters are a little formed ; they 
will then gain all the good, and escape all the 
danger.' 

Seeing me listen with the most eager and de- 
lighted attention, the worthy woman proceeded. 
'In summer, Sir, Miss Stanley rises at six, and 
spends two hours in her closet, which is stored 
with the best books. At eight she consults me 
on the state of provisions, and other family mat- 
ters, and gives me a bill of fare, subject to the 
inspection of her mamma. The cook has great 
pleasure in acting under her direction, because 
she allows that Miss understands when things 
are well done, and never finds fault in the wrong 
place; which, she says, is a great mortification 
in serving ignorant ladies, who praise or find 
fault by chance : not according to the cook's 
performance, but their own humour. She looks 
over my accounts ever}' week, which being kept 
so short give her but little trouble ; and once a 
month she settles every thing with her mother. 

"Tis a pleasure, Sir, to see how skilful she 
is in accounts ! One can't impose upon her a 
farthing if one would; and yet she is so mild 
and so reasonable ! and so quick at distinguish- 
ing what are mistakes, and what are wilful 
faults! Then she is so compassionate ! It will 
be a heart-breaking day at the Grove, Sir, when- 
ever Miss marries. — When my master is sick, 
she writes his letters, reads to him, and assists 
her mamma in nursing him. 

'After her morning's work, Sir, does she 
come into company, tired and cross, as ladies do 
who have done nothing, or are but just up? No, 
she comes in to make breakfast for her parents,, 
as fresh as a rose, and as gay as a lark. An 
hour after breakfast, she and my master read 
some learned books together. She then assists 
in teaching her little sisters, and never were 
children better instructed. One day in the week, 
she sets aside both for them and herself to work 
for the poor, whom she also regularly visits at 
their own cottages, two evenings in the week r 
for she says it would be troublesome and look 
ostentatious to have her father's doors crowded 
with poor people ; neither could she get at their 
wants and their characters half so well as by go 
ing herself to their own houses. My dear mistress 
has given her a small room as a store-house for 
clothing and books for her indigent neighbours. 
In this room each of the younger daughters, tho 
day she is seven years old, has her own drawer, 



334 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



with her name written on it ; and almost the only 
competition among them is, whose shall be soon- 
est filled with caps, aprons, and handkerchiefs. 
The working day is commonly concluded by one 
of these charitable visits. The dear creatures are 
loaded with their little work baskets, crammed 
with necessaries. This, Sir, is the day, — and it 
is always looked forward to with pleasure by 
them all. Even little Celia, the youngest, who 
is but just turned of five, will come to me and 
beg for something good to put in her basket for 
poor Mary or Betty such a one. I wonder I do 
not see any thing of the little darlings ; it is 
about the time they used to pay me a visit. 

' On Sundays before church they attend the 
village school ; when the week's pocket money, 
which has been carefully hoarded for the pur- 
pose, is produced for rewards to the most de- 
serving scholars. And yet, Sir, with all this, 
you may be in the house a month without hear- 
ing a word of the matter ; it is all done so quiet- 
ly ; and when they meet at their meals they 
are more cheerful and gay than if they had been 
ever so idle.' 

Here Mrs. Comfit stopped, for just then two 
sweet little cherry cheeked figures presented 
themselves at the door, swinging a straw basket 
between them, and crying out in a little begging 
voice, ' Pray Mrs. Comfit bestow your charity, 
— we want something coarse for the hungry, 
and something nice for the sick, — poor Dame 
Alice and her little grand daughter!' They 
were going on, but spying me, they coloured up 
to the ears, and ran away as fast as they could, 
though I did all in my power to detain them. 



CHAP. XIV. 

When Miss Stanley came in to make break- 
fast, she beautifully exemplified the worthy 
house-keeper's description. I have sometimes 
seen young women, whoso simplicity was desti- 
tute of elegance, and others in whom a too ela- 
borate polish had nearly effaced their native 
graces : Lucilla appeared to unite the simpli- 
city of nature to the refinement of good breed- 
ing. It was thus she struck me at first sight. 
I forbore to form a decided opinion, till I had 
leisure to observe whether her mind fulfilled all 
that her looks promised. 

Lucilla Stanley is rather perfectly elegant 
than perfectly beautiful. I have seen women 
as striking, but I never saw one so interesting. 
Her beauty is countenance : it is the stamp of 
mind intelligibly printed on the face. It is not 
so much the symmetry of features, as the joint 
triumph of intellect and sweet temper. A fine 
old poet has well described her : 

Her pure and eloquent blood 
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
That one could almost say her body thought. 

Her conversation, like her countenance, is com- 
pounded of liveliness, sensibility, and delicacy. 
She does not say things to be quoted, but the 
effect of her conversation is, that it leaves an 
impression of pleasure on the mind, and a love 
of goodness on the heart. She enlivens without 



dazzling, and entertains without overpowering 
Contented to please, she has no ambition to 
shine. — There is nothing like effort in her ex- 
pression, or vanity in her manner. She has ra- 
ther a playful gaiety than a pointed wit. Of 
repartee she has little, and dislikes it in others : 
yet I have seldom met with a truer taste for in- 
offensive wit. Taste is indeed the predominat- 
ing quality of her mind ; and she may rather be 
said to be a nice judge of the genius of others, 
than to be a genius herself. She has a quick 
perception of whatever is beautiful or defective 
in composition or in character. The same true 
taste pervades her writing, her conversation, 
her dress, her domestic arrangements, and her 
gardening, for which last she has both a passion 
and a talent. Though she has a correct ear, she 
neither sings nor plays ; and her taste is so ex- 
act in drawing, that she really seems to have le 
compass dans Vceuil ; yet I never saw a pencil 
in her fingers, except to sketch a 3eat or a bower 
for the pleasure ground. — Her notions are too 
just to allow her to be satisfied with mediocrity 
in many things, and for perfection in any thing, 
she thinks that life is too short, and its duties 
too various and important. Having five younger 
sisters to assist, has induced her to neglect some 
acquisitions which she would have liked. Had 
she been an only daughter, she owns that she 
would have indulged a little more in the gar- 
nish and decoration of i-fe. 

At her early age, the soundness of her judg- 
ment on persons and things cannot be derived 
from experience ; she owes it to a tact so fine 
as to enable her to seize on the strong feature, 
the prominent circumstance, the leading point, 
instead of confusing her mind and dissipating 
her attention, on the inferior parts of a charac- 
ter, a book, or a business. This justness of 
thinking teaches her to rate things according 
to their worth, and to arrange them according 
to their place. Her manner of speaking adds 
to the effect of her words, and the tone of her 
voice expresses with singular felicity, gaiety or 
kindness as her feelings direct, and the occasion 
demands. This manner is so natural, and her 
sentiments spring so spontaneously from the 
occasion, that it is obvious that display is never 
in her head, nor an eagerness for praise in her 
heart. I never heard her utter a word which I 
could have wished unsaid, or a sentiment I 
would have wished unthought. 

As to her dress it reminds me of what Dr. 
Johnson once said to an acquaintance of mine, 
of a lady who was celebrated for dressing well. 
' The best evidence that I can give you of her 
perfection in this respect is, that one can never 
remember what she had on.' The dress of Lu- 
cilla is not neglected, and it is not studied. She 
is as neat as the strictest delicacy demands, and 
as fashionable as the strictest delicacy permits ; 
and her nymph-like form does not appear to 
less advantage for being veiled with scrupulous 
modesty. 

Oh ! if women in general knew what was their 
real interest ! if they could guess with what a 
charm even the appearance of modesty invests 
its possessor, they would dress decorously from 
mere self-love, if not from principle. The de- 
signing would assume modesty as an artifice, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



33$ 



the coquet adopt it as an allurement, the pure as 
her appropriate attraction, and the voluptuous as 
the most infallible art of seduction. 

What I admire in Miss Stanley, and what I 
have sometimes regretted the want of in some 
other women is, that I am told she is so lively, 
so playful, so desirous of amusing her father and 
mother when alone, that they are seldom so gay 
as in their family party. It is then that her ta- 
lents are all unfolded, and that her liveliness is 
without restraint. She was rather silent the two 
or three first days after my arrival, yet it was 
evidently not the silence of reserve or inattention, 
but of delicate propriety. Her gentle frankness 
and undesigning temper gradually got the better 
of this little shyness, and she soon began to treat 
me as the son of her father's friend. I very 
early found that though a stranger might behold 
her without admiration, it was impossible to con- 
verse with her with indifference. Before I had 
been a week at the Grove, my precautions va- 
nished, my panoply was gone, and yet I had not 
consulted Mr. Stanley. 

In contemplating the captivating figure, and 
the delicate mind of this charming girl, I felt 
that imagination which misleads so many youth- 
ful hearts had preserved mine. The image my 
fancy had framed, and which had been suggest- 
ed by Milton's heroine, had been refined indeed, 
but it had not been romantic. I had early formed 
an ideal standard in my mind ; too high, perhaps; 
but its very elevation had rescued me from the 
common dangers attending the society of the 
sex. I was continually comparing the women 
with whom I conversed with the fair conception 
which filled my mind. The comparison might 
bo unfair to them : I am sure it was not unfa- 
vourable to myself, for it preserved me from the 
fascination of mere personal beauty, the allure- 
ments of factitious character, and the attractions 
of ordinary merit. 

I am aware that love is apt to throw a radiance 
around the being it prefers, till it becomes daz- 
zled, less, perhaps, with the brightness of the 
object itself, than with the beams with which 
imagination has invested it. , But religien, though 
it had not subdued my imagination, had chas- 
tised it. It had sobered the splendours of fancy, 
without obscuring them. It had not extinguish- 
ed the passions, but it had taught me to regu- 
late them. I now seemed to have found the be- 
ing of whom I had been in search. My mind 
felt her excellences, my heart acknowledged its 
conqueror. I struggled, however, not to aban- 
don myself to its impulses. I endeavoured to 
keep my own feelings in order, till I had time 
to appreciate a character, which appeared as 
artless as it was correct. And I did not allow 
myself to make this slight sketch of Lucilla, 
and of the effect she produced on my heart, till 
more intimate acquaintance had justified my 
prepossession. 

But let me not forget that Mr. Stanley had 
another daughter. If Lucilla's character is more 
elevated, Phoebe's is not less amiable. Her face 
is equally handsome, but her figure is somewhat 
less delicate. She has a fine temper, and strong 
virtues. The little faults she has, seem to flow 
from the excess of her good qualities. Her sus- 
ceptibility is extreme, and to guide and guard 



it, finds employment for her mother's fondness, 
and her father's prudence. Her heart overflows 
with gratitude for the smallest service. This 
warmth of her tenderness keeps her affections in 
more lively exercise than her judgment ; it leads 
her to over-rate the merit of those she loves, and 
to estimate their excellences, less by their own 
worth than by their kindness to her. She soon 
behaved to me with the most engaging frank- 
ness, and her innocent vivacity encouraged, in 
turn, that affectionate freedom with which one 
treats a beloved sister. 

The other children are gay, lovely, interest- 
ing, and sweet tempered. Their several acqui- 
sitions, for I detest the term accomplishments, 
since it has been warped from the true meaning 
in which Milton used it, seem to be so many in- 
dividual contributions brought in to enrich the 
common stock of domestic delight. Their ta- 
lents are never put into exercise by artificial ex- 
citements. Habitual industry, quiet exertion, 
successive employments, affectionate intercourse, 
and gay and animated relaxation make up the 
round of their cheerful day. 

I could not forbear admiring in this happy 
family the graceful union of piety with cheer- 
fulness ; strictness of principle embellished, but 
never relaxed, by gaiety of manners ; a gaiety, 
not such as requiies turbulent pleasures to sti- 
mulate it, but evidently the serene, yet animated 
result of well-regulated minds ; of minds actuated 
by a tenderness of conscience, habitually alive 
to the perception of the smallest sin, and kindling 
into holy gratitude at the smallest mercy. 

I often called to mind that my father, in order 
to prevent my being deceived, and run away 
with by persons who appeared lively at first 
sight, had early accustomed me to discriminate 
carefully, whether it was not the animal only 
that was lively, and the man dull. I have found 
this caution of no small use in my observations 
on the other sex. I had frequently remarked, 
that the musical and the dancing ladies, and 
those who were most admired for modish attain- 
ments, had little intellectual gaiety. In nu- 
merous instances I found that the mind was the 
only part which was not kept in action ; and no 
wonder, for it was the only part which had 
received no previous forming, no preparatory 
moulding. 

When I mentioned this to Mr. Stanley, * the 
education,' replied he, ' which now prevails, is a 
Mahometan education. It consists entirely in 
making woman an object of attraction. There 
are, however, a few reasonable people left, who, 
while they retain the object, improve upon the 
plan. They too would make woman attractive ; 
but it is by sedulously labouring to make the 
understanding, the temper, the mind, and the 
manners, of their daughters as engaging as 
these Circassian parents endeavour to make tho 
person. 



CHAP. XV 

The friendly rector frequently visited at Stan- 
ley Grove, and for my father's sake, honoured 
me with his particular kindness. Dr. Barlow 



336 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



filled up all my ideas of a country clergyman of 
the higher class. There is an uniform consis- 
tency runs through his whole life and character, 
which often brings to my mind, allowing for the 
revolution in habits that almost two hundred 
years have necessarily produced, the incompara- 
ble con nti~y parson of the ingenious Mr. George 
Herbert.* 

' I never saw zeal without innovation? said 
Mr. Stanley,' more exemplified than in Barlow. 
His piety is as enlightened as it is sincere. No 
errors in religion escape him through ignorance 
of their existence, or through carelessness in 
their detection, or through inactivity in opposing 
them. He is too honest not to attack the pre- 
vailing evil, whatever shape it may assume ; too 
correct to excite in the wise any fears that his 
zeal may mislead his judgment, and too upright 
to be afraid of the censures which active piety 
must ever have to encounter from the worldly 
and the indifferent, from cold hearts and unfur- 
nished heads. 

'From his affectionate warmth, however, and 
his unremitting application, arising from the 
vast importance he attaches to the worth of 
souls, the man of the world might honour him 
with the title of enthusiast ; while his prudence, 
sober-mindedness, and regularity, would draw 
on him from the fanatic, the appellation of 
formalist. Though he is far from being ' con- 
tent to dwell in decencies,' he is careful never 
to neglect them. He is a clergyman all the 
week as well as on Sunday ; for he says, if he 
did not spend much of the intermediate time in 
pastoral visits, there could not be kept up that 
mutual intercourse of kindness which so much 
facilitates his own labours, and his people's im- 
provement. They listen to him because they 
love him, and they understand him, because he 
has familiarized them by private discourse to 
the great truths which he delivers from the 
pulpit. 

Dr. Barlow has greatly diminished the growth 
of innovation in his parishes, by attacking the 
innovator with his own weapons. Not indeed 
by stooping to the same disorderly practices, 
but by opposing an enlightened earnestness to 
an eccentric earnestness ; a zeal loith knowledge 
to a zeal without it. He is of opinion that ac- 
tivity does more good than invective, and that 
the latter is too often resorted to, because it is 
the cheaper substitute. 

4 His charity, however, is large, and his spirit 
truly catholic. He honours all his truly pious 
brethren, who are earnest in doing good, though 
they may differ from him as to the manner of 
doing it. Yet his candour never intrenches on 

* See Herbert's Country Parson, under the heads of 
the parson in his house, the parson praying, the parson 
preaching, the parson comforting, the parson's church, 
the parson catechising, the parson in mirth, Sec. Sic. 
Th? term parson lias now. indeed, a vulgar and disre- 
spectful sound, hut in Herbert's time it was used in its 
true sense, persona ecclesia. I would recommend to 
those who have not seen it, this sketch of the ancient 
clerical life. As Mr. Herbsrt was a man of quality, he 
knew what became the more opulent of his function ; as 
he was eminently pious, he practised all that he recom- 
mended. ' This appellation of parson, 'says Julge Black- 
stone, • however depreciated by clownish and familiar 
use, is the most legal, most beneficial, and most honour- 
able title which a parish priest can enjoy.— Vide Black- 
stone's Commentaries. 



his firmness ; and while he will not dispute with 
others about shades of difference, he maintains 
his own opinions with the steadiness of one who 
embraced them on the fullest conviction. 

' He is a ' scholar, and being a good ripe one,' 
it sets him above aiming at the paltry reputation 
to be acquired by those false embellishments of 
style, those difficult and uncommon words, and 
that laboured inversion of sentences, by which 
some injudicious clergymen make themselves 
unacceptable to the higher, and unintelligible to 
the lower, and of course, the larger part of their 
audience. He always bears in mind that the 
common people are not foolish, they are only 
ignorant. To meet the one he preaches good 
sense, to suit the other, plain language. But 
while he seldom shoots over the heads of the un- 
informed, he never offends the judicious. He 
considers the advice of Polonius to his son to be 
as applicable to preachers as to travellers — 

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. 
In his pulpit he is no wrangling polemic, but a 
genuine Bible Christian, deeply impressed him- 
self, with the momentous truths he so earnestly 
presses upon others. His mind is so imbued, so 
saturated, if I may hazard the expression, with 
scriptural knowledge, that from that rich store- 
house, he is ever ready to bring forth treasures, 
new and old, and to apply them wisely, tem- 
perately, and seasonably. 

'Though he carefully inculcates universal 
holiness in all his discourses, yet his practical 
instructions aro constantly deduced from those 
fundamental principles of Christianity which 
are the root, and life, and spirit of all goodness. 
Next to a solid piety, and a deep acquaintance 
with the Bible, he considers it of prime impor- 
tance to a clergyman to be thoroughly acquaint- 
ed with human nature in general, and with the 
state of his own parish in particular. The know- 
ledge of both will alone preserve him from 
preaching too personally so as to hurt, or too 
generally so as not to touch. 

' He is careful not to hurry over the prayers 
in so cold, inattentive, and careless a manner, as 
to make the audience suspect he is saving him- 
self, that he may make a greater figure in de- 
livering the sermon. Instead of this, the de- 
vout, reverential, and impressive manner in 
which he pronounces the various parts of the 
Liturgy, best prepares his own heart, and the 
hearts of his people, to receive benefit from his 
discourse. His petitions are delivered with 
such sober fervour, his exhortations with such 
humble dignity, his thanksgivings with such 
holy animation as carry the soul of the hearer 
along with him. When he ascends the pulpit, 
he never throws the liturgical service into the 
back ground by a long elaborate composition of 
his own, delivered with superior force and em- 
phasis. And he pronounces the Lord's prayer 
with a solemnity which shows that he recollects 
its importance and its author. 

'In preaching, he is careful to be distinctly 
heard, even by his remotest auditors, and by 
constant attention to this important article, he 
has brought his voice, which was not strong, to 
be particularly audible. Ho affixes so much im- 
portance to a distinct delivery, that he smilingly 
told me, he suspected the grammatical definition 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



337 



of a substantive was originally meant for a 
clergyman, whose great object it was, if possi- 
ble, to be seen, but indispensibly to be heard, fell 
and understood. 

' His whole performance is distinguished by a 
grave and majestic simplicity, as far removed 
from the careless reader of a common story, as 
from the declamation of an actor. His hearers 
leave the church not so much in raptures with 
the preacher, as affected with the truths ho has 
delivered. He says, he always finds he has 
done most good when he has been least praise- 
ed, and that he feels most humbled when he re- 
ceives the warmest commendation, because men 
generally extol most the sermons which have 
probed them least ; whereas those which really 
do good, being often such as make them most 
uneasy, are consequently the least likely to at- 
tract panegyric. — ' They only bear true testi- 
mony to the excellence of a discourse,' added he, 
'not who commend the composition or the de- 
livery, but they who are led by it to examine 
their own hearts, to search out its corruptions 
and to reform their lives. Reformation is the 
flattery I covet.' 

' He is aware that the generality of hearers 
like to retire from a sermon with the comfort- 
able belief, that little is to be done on their parts. 
Such hearers he always disappoints, by leaving 
on their minds at the close some impressive 
precept, deduced from, and growing out of, the 
preparatory doctrine. He does not press any 
one truth to the exclusion of all others. He 
proposes no subtilties, but labours to excite 
seriousness, to alarm the careless, to quicken 
the supine, to comfirm the doubting. He presses 
eternal things as things near at hand ; as things 
in which every living man has an equr interest.' 

Mr. Stanley says, that ' though Dr. Barlow 
was considered at Cambridge as a correct young 
man, who carefully avoided vice and even irre- 
gularity, yet being cheerful, and addicted to 
good society, he had a disposition to innocent 
conviviality, which might, unsuspectedly, have 
led him into the errors he abhorred. He was 
struck with a passage in a letter from Dr. John- 
son to a young man who had just taken orders, 
in which, among other wholesome counsel, he 
advises him 'to acquire the courage to refuse 
eometimes invitations to dinner.' It is incon- 
ceivable what a degree of force and indepen- 
dence his mind acquired by the occasional adop- 
tion of this single hint. ' He is not only,' con- 
tinued Mr. Stanley, ' the spiritual director, but 
the father, the counsellor, the arbitrator, and the 
friend of those whom Providence has placed 
under his instruction. 

' He is happy in an excellent wife, who, by 
bringing him a considerable fortune, has greatly 
enlarged his power of doing good. But still 
more essentially has she increased his happiness, 
and raised his character by her piety and pru- 
dence. By the large part she takes in his affairs, 
he is enabled to give himself wholly up to the 
duties of his profession. She is as attentive to 
the bodies, as her husband is to the souls of his 
people, and educates her own family as sedu- 
lously as he instructs his parish. 

' One day when I had been congratulating 
Dr. Barlow on the excellence of his wife's cha- 

Vol. ii. y 



racter, the conversation fell by a sudden transfc, 
tion, on the celibacy of the Roman clergy. Ho 
smiled and said, ' Let us ministers of the Refos, 
mation bo careful never to provoke the people 
to wish for the restoration of that part of popery. 
I often reflect how peculiarly incumbent it is 
on us, to select such partners as shall never 
cause our emancipation from the old restrictions 
to be regretted. And we ourselves ought, by 
improving the character of our wives, to repay 
the debt we owe to the ecclesiastical laws of 
protestantism for the privilege of possessing 
them.' 

' Will it be thought too trifling to add, how 
carefully this valuable pair carry their consis- 
tency into the most minute details of their 
family arrangements ? Their daughters are no 
less patterns of decorum and modesty in their 
dress and appearance, than in the more impor- 
tant parts of their conduct. The Doctor says, 
that the most distant and inconsiderable ap- 
pendages to the temple of God, should have 
something of purity and decency. Besides,' 
added he, ' with what face could I censure im- 
proprieties from the pulpit, if the appearance of 
my own family in the pew below were to set 
my precepts at defiance, by giving an example 
of extravagance and vanity to the parish, and 
thus by making the preacher ridiculous, make 
his expostulations worse than ineffectual V 

' So conscientious a rector,' added Mr. Stan- 
ley, ' could not fail to be particularly careful in 
the choice of a curate; and a more humble, 
pious, diligent assistant than Mr. Jackson could 
not easily be found. He is always a welcome 
guest at my table. But this valuable man, who 
was about as good a judge of the world as the 
great Hooker, made just such another indiscreet 
marriage. He was drawn in to choose his wife, 
the daughter of a poor tradesman in the next 
town, because he concluded that a woman bred 
in humble and active life, would necessarily be 
humble and active herself. Her reason for ac- 
cepting him was because she thought that as 
every clergyman was a. gentleman, she of course, 
as his wife, should be a gentlewoman, and fit 
company for any body. 

' He instructs my parish admirably,' said Dr. 
Barlow, ' but his own little family he cannot 
manage. His wife is continually reproaching 
him, that though he may know the way to 
heaven, he does not know how to push his way 
in the world. His daughter is the finest lady 
in the parish, and outdoes them all, not only in 
the extremity, but the immodesty of the fashion. 
It is her mother's great ambition that she 
should excel the Miss Stanley's and my daugh- 
ters in music, while her good father's linen be- 
trays sad marks of negligence. I once ventured 
to tell Mrs. Jackson, that there was only one 
reason which could excuse the education she 
had given her daughter, which was, that I pre- 
sumed she intended to qualify her for getting 
her bread ; and that if she would correct the im- 
proprieties of the girl's dress, and get her in- 
structed in useful knowledge, I would look out 
for a good situation for her. This roused her 
indignation. She refused my offer with scorn, 
6aying, that when she asked my charity, she 
would take my advice ; and desired I would re- 



338 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



member that one clergyman's daughter was as 
good as another. I told her that there was in- 
deed a sense in which one clergyman was as 
good as another, because the profession dignified 
the lowest of the order, if, like her husband, he 
was a credit to that order. Yet still there were 
gradations in the church as well as in the state. 
But between the vAves and daughters of the 
higher and lower clergy, there was the same 
distinction which riches and poverty have es- 
tablished between those of the higher and lower 
orders of the laity ; and that rank and indepen- 
dence in the one case confer the same outward 
superiority with rank and independence in the 
other.' 



CHAP. XVI. 

Among the visiters at Stanley Grove, there 
Was a family of ladies, who, though not parti- 
cularly brilliant, were singularly engaging from 
their modesty, gentleness, and good sense. 
One day when they had just left us, Mr. Stan- 
ley obliged me with the following little relation : 
Mrs. Stanley and Lucilla only being present. 

1 Lady Aston has been a widow almost seven 
years. On the death of Sir George, she retired 
into this neighbourhood with her daughters, the 
eldest of whom is about the age of Lucilla. She 
herself had a pious but a very narrow education. 
Her excessive grief for the loss of her husband 
augmented her natural love of retirement, which 
she cultivated, not to the purpose of improve- 
ment, but to indulgence of melancholy. Soon 
after she settled here, we heard how much good 
she did, and in how exemplary a mariner she 
lived, before we saw her. She was not very 
easy of access even to us ; and after we had 
made our way to her, we were the only visiters 
she admitted for a long time. We soon learnt 
to admire her deadness to the world, and her un- 
affected humility. Our esteem for her increased 
with our closer intercourse, which, however, 
enabled us also to observe some considerable 
mistakes in her judgment, especially in the 
mode in which she was training up her daugh- 
ters. — These errors we regretted, and with all 
possible tenderness ventured to point out to her. 
The girls were the prettiest demure little nuns 
you ever saw, mute and timid, cheerless and 
inactive, but kind, good and gentle. 

'Their pious mother, who was naturally of a 
fearful and doubting mind, had had this pensive 
turn increased by several early domestic losses, 
which, even previous to Sir George's death, had 
contributed to fix something of a too tender and 
hopeless melancholy on her whole character. 
There are two refuges for the afflicted ; two 
diametrically opposite ways df getting out of 
sorrow — religion and the world. Lady Aston 
had wisely chosen the former. But her scru- 
pulous spirit had made the narrow way narrower 
than religion required. She read the scriptures 
diligently, and she prayed over them devoutly ; 
but she had no judicious friend to direct her in 
these important studies. As your Mrs. Ranby 
attended only to the doctrines, and our friend 
Lady Belfield trusted indefinitely to. the pro- 



mises, so poor Lady Aston's broken spirit was 
too exclusively carried to dwell on the threaten, 
ings; together with the rigid performance of 
those duties which she earnestly hoped might 
enable her to escape them. This round of 
duty, of watchfulness and prayer, she inva- 
riably performed with almost the sanctity of 
an Apostle, but with a little too much of the 
scrupulosity of an ascetic. While too many are 
rejoicing with unfounded confidence in those 
animating passages of scripture, which the 
tenor of their lives demonstrates not to belong to 
them, she trembled at those denunciations which 
she could not fairly apply to herself. And the 
promises from which she might have derived 
reasonable consolation, she overlooked as de- 
signed for others. 

' Her piety, though sincere, was a little tinc- 
tured with superstition. If any petty strictness 
was omitted, she tormented herself with cause- 
less remorse. If any little rule was broken, she 
repaired the failure with treble diligence the 
following day ; and laboured to retrieve her per- 
plexed accounts with the comfortless anxiety of 
a person who is working out a heavy debt. I 
endeavoured to convince her, that an inferior 
duty which clashed with one of a higher order 
might be safely postponed at least, if not omitted. 
' A diary has been found useful to many pious 
Christians, as a record of their sins, and of their 
mercies. But this poor lady spent so much time 
in weighing the offences of one day against those 
of another, that before the scruple was settled, 
the time for action was past. She brought her- 
self into so much perplexity by reading over 
this journal of her infirmities, that her difficul- 
ties were augmented by the very means she 
had employed to remove them ; and her con- 
science was disturbed by the method she had 
taken to quiet it. This plan, however, though 
distressing to a troubled mind, is wholesome to 
one of a contrary cast. 

' My family, as you have seen, are rather exact 
in the distribution of their time, but we do not 
distress ourselves at interruptions which are un- 
avoidable : but her arrangements were carried 
on with a rigour which made her consider the 
smallest deviation as a sin that required severe 
repentance. Her alms were expiations, her 
self-denial penances. She was rather a disciple 
of the mortified Baptist, than of the merciful 
Redeemer. Her devotions were sincere, but 
discouraging. They consisted much in con- 
trition, but little in praise ; much in sorrow 
for sin, but little in hope of its pardon. She 
did not sufficiently cast her care and confi- 
dence on the great propitiation. She firmly 
believed all that her Saviour had done and 
suffered, but she had not the comfort of prac- 
tically appropriating the sacrifice. While she 
was painfully working out her salvation with 
fear and trembling, she indulged the most 
unfounded apprehensions of the divine displea- 
sure. At Aston Hall the Almighty was lite- 
rally feared, but he was not glorified. It was 
the obedience of a slave, not the reverential af- 
fection of a child. 

'When I saw her denying herself and her 
daughters the most innocent enjoyments, and 
suspecting sin in the most lawful indulgences, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



I took the liberty to tell her how little accepta- 
ble uncommanded austerities and arbitrary im- 
positions were to the God of mercies. I observed 
to her, that the world, that human life, that our 
own sins and weaknesses found us daily and 
hourly occasions of exercising patience and self- 
denial ; that life is not entirely made up of great 
evils or heavy trials, but that the perpetual re- 
currence of petty evils and small trials is the or- 
dinary and appointed exercise of the Christian 
graces. To bear with the failings of those about 
us with their infirmities, their bad judgment, 
their ill-breeding, their perverse tempers ; to en- 
dure neglect where we feel we have deserved 
attention, and ingratitude where we expected 
thanks; to bear with the company of disagree- 
able people, whom Providence has placed in our 
way, and whom He has perhaps provided on 
purpose for the trial of our virtue : these are the 
best exercises ; and the better, because not cho- 
sen by ourselves. To bear with vexations in 
business, with disappointments in our expecta- 
tions, with interruptions of our retirement, with 
folly, intrusion, disturbance, in short, with what- 
ever opposes our will and contradicts our hu- 
mour ; this habitual acquiescence appears to be 
more of the essence of self denial than any little 
rigours or inflictions of our own imposing. 
These constant, inevitable, but inferior evils, 
properly improved, furnish a good moral dis- 
cipline, and might well, in the days of ignorance, 
have superseded pilgrimage and penance. It 
has this advantage too over the other, that it 
sweetens the temper and promotes humility, 
while the former gives rigidness instead of 
strength, and inflexibility instead of firmness. 

' I have often thought,' said I, when Mr. Stan- 
ley made a pause, * that we are apt to mistake 
our vocation by looking out of the way for oc- 
casions to exercise great and rare virtues, and 
by stepping over those ordinary ones which lie 
directly in the road before us. When we read, 
we fancy we could be martyrs, and when we 
come to act, we cannot bear even a provoking 
word.? 

Miss Stanley looked pleased at my remark, 
and in a modest tone observed, that ' in no one 
instance did we deceive ourselves more than in 
fancying we could do great things well, which 
we were never likely to bo called to do at all ; 
while, if we were honest, we could not avoid 
owning how negligently we performed our own 
little appointed duties, and how sedulously we 
avoided the petty inconveniences which these 
duties involved.' 

4 By kindness,' resumed Mr. Stanley, ' we 
gradually gained Lady Aston's confidence, and 
of that confidence we have availed ourselves to 
give something of a new face to the family. Her 
daughters, good as they were dutiful, by living 
in a solitude unenlivened by books, and unva- 
ried by improving company, had acquired a 
manner rather resembling fearfulness than deli- 
cacy. Religious they were, but they had con- 
tracted gloomy views of religion. They consi- 
dered it as something that must be endured in 
order to avoid punishment, rather than as a 
principle of peace, and trust, and comfort ; as a 
task to be gone through, rather than as a privi- 
lege to be enjoyed. They were tempted to con- 



sider the Almighty as a hara! master, whom 
however they were resolved to serve, rather than 
as a gracious father, who was not only loving 
but love in the abstract. — Their mother was 
afraid to encourage a cheerful look, lest it might 
lead to levity ; or a sprightly thought for fear it 
might have a wrong tendency. She forgot, or 
rather she did not know, that young women 
were not formed for contemplative life. She for 
got that in all our plans and operations we should 
still bear in mind that there are two worlds. As 
it is the fault of too many to leave the next out 
of their calculation, it was the error of Lady 
Aston, in forming the minds of her children, to 
leave out this. She justly considered heaven as 
their great aim and end ; but neglected to qua- 
lify them for the present temporal life, on the 
due use and employment of which so obviously 
depends the happiness of that which is eternal. 

' Her charities were very extensive, but of 
these charities her sweet daughters were not 
made the active dispensers, because an old ser- 
vant, who governed not only the family, but her 
lady also, chose that office herself. Thus the 
bounty being made to flow in partial channels, 
the woman's relations and favourites almost 
entirely engrossing it, it did little comparative 
good. 

1 With fair understandings the Miss Astona 
had acquired very little knowledge : their mo- 
ther's scrupulous mind found something dan- 
gerous in every author, who did not professedly 
write on religious subjects. If there were one * 
exceptionable page in a book, otherwise valua- 
ble, instead of suppressing the page, she sup- 
pressed the book. And indeed, my dear Charles, 
grieved am I to think how few authors of the 
more entertaining kind we can consider as per- 
fectly pure, and put without caution, restriction, 
or mutilation into the hands of our daughters. 
I am, however, of opinion, that as they will not 
always have their parents for tasters, and as 
they will every where, even in the most select 
libraries, meet with these mixed works, in 
which, though there is much to admire, yet 
there is something to expunge, it is the safest 
way to accustom them early to hear read the 
most unexceptionable parts of these books. Read 
them yourself to them without any air of mys- 
tery ; tell them that what you omit is not worth 
reading, and then the omissions will not excite 
but stifle curiosity. The books to which I al- 
lude are those where the principle is sound and 
the tendency blameless, and where the few faults 
consist rather in coarseness than in corruption. 

' But to return ; she fancied that these inex- 
perienced creatures, who have never tried the 
world, and whose young imaginations had per- 
haps painted it in all the brilliant colours with 
which erring fancy gilds the scenes it has never 
beheld, and the pleasure it has never tried, could 
renounce it as completely as herself, who had 
exhausted what it has to give and was weary of 
it. She thought they could live contentedly in 
their closets, without considering that she had 
neglected to furnish their minds with that know- 
ledge which may make the closet a place of en- 
joyment, by supplying the intervals of devotional 
with entertaining reading. 

* We carried Lucilla and Phoebe to visit them • 



340 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



I believe she was a little afraid of their gay 
countenances. I talked to her of the necessity 
of literature to inform her daughters, and of 
pleasures to enliven them. The term pleasure 
alarmed her still more than that of literature. 
• What pleasures were allowed to religious peo- 
ple ? She would make her daughters as happy 
as she dared without offending her Maker.' I 
quoted the devout but liberal Hooker, who ex- 
horts us not to regard the Almighty as a captious 
sophist, but as a merciful Father. 

' During this conversation, we were sitting 
under the fine spreading oak on my lawn in 
front of that rich bank of flowers which you so 
much admire. It was a lovely evening in the 
end of June ; the setting sun was all mild ra- 
diance, the sky all azure, the air all fragrance. 
— The birds were in full song. The children, 
sitting on the grass before us, were weaving 
chaplets of wild flowers. 

It looked like nature in the world's first spring. 

1 My heart was touched with joy and grati- 
tude. ' Look, Madam,' said I, ' at the bountiful 
provision which a beneficent Father makes, not 
only for the necessities, but for the pleasures of 
his children ; 



-not content 



With every food of life to nourish man, 
He makes all nature beauty to his eye, 
And music to his ear. 

' These flowers are of so little apparent use, 
that it might be thought profuseness in any 
economy short of that which is divine, to gratify 
us at once with such forms, and such hues, and 
such fragrance. It is a gratification not neces- 
sary, yet exquisite, which lies somewhere be- 
tween the pleasures of sense and intellect, and 
in a measure partakes of both. It elevates while 
it exhilirates, and lifts the soul from the gift to 
the giver. God has not left his goodness to be 
inferred from abstract speculation, from the con- 
clusions of reason, from deduction and argu- 
ment ; we not only collect it from observation, 
but we have palpable evidences of his bounty, 
we feel it with our senses. Were God a hard 
master, might he not withhold these superflui- 
ties of goodness? Do you think he makes such 
rich provision for us, that we should shut our 
eyes and close our ears to them ? Does he pre- 
sent such gifts with one hand, and hold in the 
other a stern interdict of ' touch not, taste not, 
handle not?' And can you believe he is less 
munificent in the economy of grace, than in that 
of nature ? Do you imagine that he provides 
Buch abundant supplies for our appetites and 
senses here, without providing more substantial 
pleasures for our future enjoyment ? Is not what 
we see a prelude to what we hope for, a pledge 
of what we may expect? A specimen of larger, 
higher, richer bounty, an encouraging cluster 
from the land of promise ? If from his works 
we turn to his word, we shall find the same in- 
exhaustible goodness exercised to still nobler 
purposes. Must we not hope then, even by 
analogy, that he has in store blessings exalted 
in their nature, and eternal in their duration, for 
all those who love and serve him in the Gospel 
of his Son ?' 



1 We now got on fast. She was delighted 
with my wife, and grew less and less afraid of 
my girls. I believe, however, that we should 
have made a quicker progress in gaining her 
confidence if we had looked less happy. I sug- 
gested to her to endeavour to raise the tone of 
her daughters' piety, to make their habits Icsb 
monastic, their tempers more cheerful, their 
virtues more active ; to render their lives more 
useful, by making them the immediate instru- 
ments of her charity ; to take them out of them- 
selves, and teach them to compare their facti- 
tious distresses with real substantial misery, 
and to make them feel grateful for the power 
and the privilege of relieving it. 

4 As Dr. Barlow has two parishes which join, 
and we had pre-occupied the ground in our own, 
I advised them to found a school in the next, 
for the instruction of the young, and a friendly 
society for the aged of their own sex. We pre- 
vailed on them to be themselves not the nominal 
but the active patronesses ; to take the measure 
of all the wants and all the merit of their im- 
mediate neighbourhood ; to do every thing un- 
der the advice and superintendence of Dr. Bar- 
low, and to make him their ' guide, philosopher, 
and friend.' By adopting this plan, they now 
see the poverty of which they only used to hear, 
and know personally the dependants whom they 
protect. 

'Dr. Barlow took infinite pains to correct 
Lady Aston's views of religion. 'Let your no- 
tions of God' said he, ' be founded, not on your 
own gloomy apprehensions, and visionary ima- 
ginations, but what is revealed in his word, else 
the very intenseness of your feelings, the very 
sincerity of your devotion, may betray you into 
enthusiasm, into error, into superstition, into 
despair. Spiritual notions which are not ground- 
ed on scriptural truth, and directed and guarded 
by a close adherence to it, mislead tender hearts 
and warm imaginations. But while you rest 
on the sure unpervertcd foundation of the word 
of God, and pray for his Spirit to assist you in 
the use of his word, you will have little cause to 
dread that you shall fear him too much, or 
serve him too well. I earnestly exhort you,' 
continued he, 'not to take the measure of your 
spiritual state from circumstances which have 
nothing to do with it. Be not dismayed at an 
incidental depression which may depend on the 
state of your health, or your spirits, or your af- 
fairs. Look not for sensible communications. 
Do not consider rapturous feelings as any crite- 
rion of the favour of your Maker, nor the ab- 
sence of them as any indication of his displea- 
sure. An increasing desire to know him more, 
and serve him belter ; an increasing desire to 
do, and to suffer his whole will ; a growing re- 
signation to his providential dispensations, is a 
much surer, a much more unequivocal test.' 

' I next,' continued Mr. Stanley, ' carried our 
worthy curate, Mr. Jackson, to visit her, and 
proposed that she should engage him to spend a 
few hours every week with the young ladies. I 
recommended that after he had read with them 
a portion of Scripture, of which he would give 
them a sound and plain exposition, he should 
convince them he had not the worse taste for 
being religious, by reading with them somo 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



341 



books of general instruction, history, travels, 
and polite literature. This would imbue their 
minds with useful knowledge, form their taste, 
and fill up profitably and pleasantly that time 
which now lay heavy on their hands ; and, 
withqut intrenching on any of their duties, 
would qualify them to discharge them more 
cheerfully. 

' I next suggested that they should study gar- 
dening; and that they should put themselves 
under the tuition of Luoilla, who is become the 
little Repton of the valley. To add to the inter- 
est, I requested that a fresh piece of ground 
might be given them, that they might not only 
exercise their taste, but be animated with see- 
ing the complete effect of their own exertions ; 
as a creation of their own would be likely to 
afford them more amusement, than improving 
on the labours of another. 

* I had soon the gratification of- seeing my 
little Carmelites, who used when they walked 
in the garden, to look as if they came to dig a 
daily portion of their own graves, now enjoying 
it, embellishing it, and delighted by watching 
its progress; and their excellent mother, who, 
like Spenser's Despair, used to look 'as if she 
never dined,' now enjoying the company of her 
select friends. The mother is become almost 
cheerful and the daughters almost gay. Their 
dormant faculties are awakened. Time is no 
longer a burden, but a blessing: the day is too 
short for their duties, which are performed with 
alacrity since they have been converted into 
pleasures. You will believe I did not hazard all 
these terrible innovations as rapidly as I recount 
them, but gradually, as they were able to 
bear it. 

1 This happy change in themselves has had 
the happiest consequences. Their friends had 
conceived the strongest prejudices against reli- 
gion, from the gloomy garb in which they had 
seen it arrayed at Aston Hall. The uncle, who 
was also the guardian, had threatened to remove 
the girls before they were quite moped to death ; 
the young baronet was actually forbidden to 
come home at the holidays ; but now the uncle 
is quite reconciled to them, and almost to reli- 
gion. He has resumed his fondness for the 
daughters ; and their brother, a fine youth at 
Cambridge, is happy in spending his vacations 
with his family, to whom he is become tenderly 
attached. He has had his own principles and 
character much raised by the conversation and 
example of Dr. Barlow, who contrives to be at 
Aston Hall as much as possible when Sir George 
is there. He is daily expected to make his mo- 
ther a visit, when I shall recommend him to 
your particular notice and acquaintance.' 

Lucilla, blushing, said, she thought her father 
had too exclusively recommended the brother to 
my friendship ; she would venture to say the 
sisters were equally worthy of my regard, add- 
ing, in an affectionate tone, ' they are every 
thing that is amiable and kind. The more you 
know them, Sir, the more you will admire them ; 
for their good qualities are kept back, by the 
best quality of all, their modesty.' This candid 
and liberal praise did not sink the fair eulogist 
herself in my esteem. 



CHAP. XVII. 



I had now been near three weeks at the 
Grove. Ever since my arrival I had contracted 
the habit of pouring out my heart to Mr. and 
Mrs. Stanley, with grateful affection and filial 
confidence. I still continued to do it on all sub- 
jects except one. 

The more I saw of Lucilla, the more difficult 
I found it to resist her numberless attractions. 
I could not persuade myself that either prudence 
or duty demanded that I should guard my heart 
against such a combination of amiable virtues 
and gentle graces : virtues and graces, which, 
as I observed before, my rnind had long been 
combining as a delightful idea, and which I now 
saw realized in a form more engaging than 
even my own imagination had allowed itself to 
picture. J 

I did not feel courage sufficient to risk the 
happiness I actually enjoyed, by aspiring too 
suddenly to a happiness more perfect. I dared 
not yet avow to the parents, or the daughter, 
feelings, which my fears told me, might possibly 
be discouraged, and which, if discouraged, would 
at once dash to the ground a fabric of felicity 
that my heart, not my fancy, had erected, and 
which my taste, my judgment, and my princi- 
ples equally approved, and delighted to contem- 
plate. 

The great critic of antiquity, in his treatise 
on the drama, observes that the introduction of 
a new person is of the next importance to a new 
incident. Whether the introduction of two in- 
terlocutors is equal in importance to two inci- 
dents, Aristotle has forgotten to establish. This 
dramatic rule was illustrated by the arrival of 
Sir John and Lady Belfield, who, though not 
new to the reader or the writer, were new at 
Stanley Grove. 

The early friendship of the two gentlemen had 
suffered little diminution from absence, though 
their intercourse had been much interrupted ; 
Sir John, who was a few years younger than his 
friend, since his marriage, having lived as en- 
tirely in the town, as Mr. Stanley had done in 
the country. Mrs. Stanley had indeed seen 
Lady Belfield a few times in Cavendish Square, 
but her ladyship had never before been intro- 
duced to the other inhabitants of the Grove. 

The guests were received with cordial affec- 
tion, and easily fell into the family habits, which 
they did not wish to interrupt, but from the ob- 
servation of which they hoped to improve their 
own. They were charmed with the interesting 
variety of characters in the lovely young 
family, who in return were delighted with the 
politeness, kindness, and cheerfulness of their 
father's guests. 

Shall I avow my own meanness ? Cordially 
as I loved the Belfields, I am afraid I saw them 
arrive with a slight tincture of jealousy. They 
would, I thought, by enlarging the family circle, 
throw me at a farther distance from the being 
whom I wished to contemplate nearly. They 
would, by dividing her attention, diminish my 
proportion. I had been hitherto the sole guest, 
I was now to be one of several. This was the 
first discovery I made that love is a narrower 
of the heart. I tried to subdue the ungenerous 



342 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



feeling, and to meet my valuable friends with a 
Warmth adequate to that which they so kindly 
manifested. I found that a wrong feeling at 
which one has virtue enough left to blush, is sel- 
dom lasting, and shame soon expelled it. 

The first day was passed in mutual inquiries 
and mutual communications. Lady Belfield told 
me that the amiable Fanny, after having wept 
over the grave of her mother, was removed to 
the house of the benevolent clergyman, who had 
kindly promised her an asylum, till Lady Bel- 
field's return to town, when it was intended she 
should be received into her family ; that worthy 
man and his wife having taken on themselves a 
full responsibility for her character and disposi- 
tion, and generously promised that they would 
exert themselves, to advance her progress in 
knowledge during the interval. Lady Belfield 
added that every inquiry respecting Fanny, 
whom we must now call Miss Stokes, had been 
attended with the most satisfactory result, her 
principles being as unquestionable as her ta- 
lents. 

After dinner I observed that whenever the 
door opened, Lady Belfield's eye was always 
turned towards it, in expectation of seeing the 
children. Her affectionate heart felt disappoint- 
ed on finding that they did not appear, and she 
could not forbear whispering me, who sat next 
her, 'that she was afraid the piety of our good 
friends was a little tinctured with severity. For 
her part she saw no reason why religion should 
diminish one's affection for one's children, and 
rob them of their innocent pleasures.' ' I assured 
her gravely I thought so too ; but forbore telling 
her how totally inapposite her application was 
to Mr. and Mrs. Stanley. She seemed glad to 
find me of her opinion, and gave up all hopes of 
seeing the ' little melancholy recluses,' as she 
called them, ' unless,' she said, laughing, ' she 
might be permitted to look at them through the 
grate of their cells.' I smiled, but did not un- 
deceive her, and affected to join in her compas- 
sion. When we went to attend the ladies in the 
drawing room, I was delighted to find Lady 
Belfield sitting on a low stool, the whole gay 
groupe at play round her. A blush mixed it- 
self with her good natured smile, as we inter- 
changed a significant look. She was question- 
ing one of the elder ones, while the youngest 
sat on her lap singing. Sir John entered, with 
that kindness and good humour so natural to 
him, into the sports of the others, who, though 
wild with health and spirits, were always gentle 
and docile. He had a thousand pleasant things 
to entertain them with. He too, it seems, had 
not been without his misgivings. 

' Are not these poor miserable recluses ?' 
whispered I maliciously to her Ladyship ; ' and 
are not these rueful looks proof positive that re- 
ligion diminishes our affection for our children ? 
and is it not abridging their innocent pleasures, 
to give them their full range in a fresh airy 
apartment, instead of cramming them into an 
eating room, of which the air is made almost 
foetid by the fumes of the dinner and a crowded 
table ? and is it not better that they should spoil 
the pleasure of the company, though the mis- 
chief they do is bought by the sacrifice of their 
»wn liberty ?' * I make my amende, said she, 



' I never will be so forward again to suspect pie- 
ty of ill nature.' ' So far from it, Caroline,' 
said sir John, ' that we will adopt the practice 
we were so forward to blame ; and I shall not do 
it,' said he, ' more from regard to the company, 
than to the children, who I am sure will be 
gainers in point of enjoyment ; liberty I per- 
ceive is to them positive pleasure, and paramount 
to any which our false epicurism can contrive 
for them.' 

' Well, Charles,' said Sir John, as soon as he 
saw me alone, ' now tell us about this Lucilla, 
this paragon, this nonpariel of Dr. Barlow's. 
Tell me what is she? or rather what is she not ?' 

1 First,' replied I, ' I will, as you desire, de- 
fine her by negatives — she is not a professed 
beauty, she is not a professed genius, she is not 
a professed philosopher, she is not a professed 
wit, she is not a professed any thing ; and, I 
thank my stars, she is not an artist !' ' Bravo, 
Charles ; now as to what she is !' ' She is,' re- 
plied I, ' from nature — a woman, gentle, feeling, 
animated, modest. She is, by education, ele- 
gant, informed, enlightened. She is, from reli- 
gion, pious, humble, candid, charitable.' 

' What a refreshment will it be,' said sir John, 
' to see a girl of fine sense, more cultivated than 
accomplished, — the creature, not of fiddlers and 
dancing masters, but of nature, of books, and of 
good company ! If there is the same mixtur* 
of spirit and delicacy in her character, that ther» 
is of softness and animation in her countenance, 
she is a dangerous girl, Charles.' 

' She certainly does,' said I, ' possess the es- 
sential charm of beauty where it exists ; and the 
most effectual substitute for it, where it does 
not ; the power of prepossessing the beholder, 
by her look and manner, in favour of her under- 
standing and temper.* 

This prepossession, I afterwards found con- 
firmed, not only by her own share in the conver- 
sation, but by its effect on myself; I always feel 
that our intercourse unfolds not only her powers 
but my own. In conversing with such a woman, 
I am apt to fancy that I have more understand- 
ing, because her animating presence brings it 
more into exercise. 

After breakfast, next day, the conversation 
happened to turn on the indispensable impor 
tance of unbounded confidence to the happiness 
of married persons. Mr. Stanley expressed his 
regret, that though it was one of the grand in 
gredients of domestic comfort, yet it was some- 
times unavoidably prevented by an unhappy in. 
equality of mind between the parties, by vio- 
lence, or imprudence, or imbecility on one side, 
which almost compelled the other to a degree of 
reserve, as incompatible with the design of th« 
union, as with the frankness of the individual. 

' We have had an instance among our own 
friends,' replied Sir John, ■ of this evil being 
produced, not by any of the faults to which you 
have adverted, but by an excess of misapplied 
sensibility, in two persons of near equality as to 
merit, and in both of whom the utmost purity 
of mind, and exactness of conduct, rendered all 
concealment superfluous. Our worthy friendst 
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton married from motives' 
of affection, and with an high opinion of each 
other's merit, which their long and intimate 



THE WORKS O* HANNAH MORE. 



connection has rather contributed to exalt than 
to lower ; and yet, now at the end of seven 

?ears, they are only beginning to be happy, 
'hey contrived to make each other as comfor- 
table by an excess of tenderness, as some mar- 
ried pairs are rendered by want of it. A mis- 
taken sensibility has intrenched not only on 
their comfort, but on their sincerity. Their re- 
solution never to give each other pain, has led 
them to live in a constant state of petty con- 
cealment. They are neither of them remark- 
ably healthy, and to hide from each other every 
little indisposition, has kept up a continual 
vigilance to conceal illness on the one part, and 
to detect it on the other, till it became a trial of 
skill which could make the other most unhappy ; 
each suffering much more by suspicion when 
there was no occasion for it, than they could 
have done by the acknowledgment of slight 
complaints, when they actually existed. 

'This valuable pair, after seven years appren- 
ticeship to a petty martyrdom, have at last found 
out, that it is better to submit to the inevitable 
ills of life cheerfully and in concert, and to com- 
fort each other under them cordially, than alter- 
nately to suffer and inflict the pain of perpetual 
disingenuousness. They have at last discover- 
ed that uninterrupted prosperity is not the lot 
of man. — Each is happier now with knowing 
that the other is sometimes sick, than they used 
to be with suspecting they were always so. 
The physician is now no longer secretly sent 
for to one, when the other is known to be from 
home. The apothecary is at last allowed to 
walk boldly up the public stair-case, fearless of 
detection. 

' These amiable persons have at length at- 
tained all that was wanting to their felicity, that 
of each believing the other to be well, when they 
say they are so. They have found out that un- 
reserved communication is the lawful com- 
merce of conjugal affection, and that all con- 
cealment is contraband.' 

' Surely,' said I, when Sir John had done 
speaking, ' it is a false compliment to the objects 
of our affection, if, for the sake of sparing them 
a transient uneasiness, we rob them of the com- 
fort to which they are entitled, of mitigating 
our suffering by partaking it. All dissimula- 
tion is disloyalty to love. Besides, it appears 
to me to be an introduction to wider evils; and 
I should fear, both for the woman I loved and 
for myself, that if once we allowed ourselves 
concealment in one point, where we thought 
the motive excused us, we might learn to adopt 
it in others, where the principle was more evi- 
dently wrong.' 

' Besides,' replied Mr. Stanley, ' it argues a 
lamentable ignorance of human life, to set out 
with an expectation of health without interrup- 
tion, and of happiness without alloy. When 
young persons marry with the fairest prospects, 
they should never forget that infirmity is inse- 
parably bound up with their very nature, and 
that in bearing one another's burthens, they 
fulfil one of the highest duties of the union.' 



CHAP. XVIII. 

After supper, when only the family party 



were present, the conversation turned on the 
unhappy effects of misguided passion. Mrs> 
Stanley lamented that novels, with a very few 
admirable exceptions, had done infinite mischief 
by so completely establishing the omnipotence 
of love, that the young reader was almost sys- 
tematically taught an unresisting submission to 
a feeling, because the feeling was commonly re- 
presented as irresistible. 

' Young ladies,' said Sir John, smiling, ' in 
their blind submission to this imaginary omni- 
potence, are apt to be necessarians. When they 
fall in love, as it is so justly called, they then 
obey their fate ; but in their stout opposition to 
prudence and duty, they most manfully exert 
their free will; so that they want nothing but 
the knowledge absolute, of the miseries attendant 
on an indiscreet attachment, completely to ex- 
emplify the occupation assigned by Milton to a 
class of beings to whom it would not be gallant 
to resemble young ladies.' 

Mrs. Stanley continued to assert, that ill- 
placed affection only became invincible, because 
its supposed invincibility had been first erected 
into a principle. She then adverted to the 
power of religion in subduing the passions, that 
of love among the rest. 

I ventured to ask Lucilla, who was sitting 
next me, (a happiness which by some means or 
other, I generally contrived to enjoy,) what were 
her sentiments on this point ? With a little con- 
fusion, she said, ' to conquer an ill-placed at- 
tachment, I conceive may be effected by mo- 
tives inferior to Religion. Reason, the hum- 
bling conviction of having made an unworthy 
choice, for I will not resort to so bad a motive as 
pride, may easily accomplish it. But to con- 
quer a well founded affection, a justifiable at- 
tachment, I should imagine, requires the power- 
ful principle of Christian piety ; and what can- 
not that effect ?' She stopped, and blushed, as 
fearing she had said too much. 

Lady Belfield observed, that she believed a 
virtuous attachment might possibly be subdued 
by the principle Miss Stanley had mentioned ; 
yet she doubted if it were in the power of reli- 
gion itself, to enable the heart to conquer aver- 
sion, much less to establish affection for an ob- 
ject for whom dislike had been entertained. 

' I believe,' said Mr. Stanley, ' the example is 
rare, and the exertion difficult; but that which 
is difficult to us, is not impossible to Him who 
has the hearts of all men in his hand. And I 
am happy to resolve Lady Belfield's doubt by a 
case in point. 

' You cannot, Sir John, have forgotten our old 
London acquaintance, Carlton ?'-^- 1 No,' replied 
he, ' nor can I ever forget what I have since 
heard, of his ungenerous treatment to that most 
amiable woman, his wife. I suppose he has 
long ago broken her heart.' 

' You know,' resumed Mr. Stanley, ' they 
married not only without any inclination on 
either side, but on her part, with something 
more than indifference, with a preference for 
another person. She. married through an im- 
plicit obedience to her mother's will, which she 
had never in any instance opposed : He, because 
his father had threatened to disinherit him if 
he married any other woman ; for as they wero 



344 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



distant relations, there was no other way of 
securing the estate in the family.' 

* What a motive for a union so sacred and so 
indissoluble !' exclaimed I, with an ardour which 
raised a smile in the whole party. I asked par- 
don for my involuntary interruption, and Mr. 
Stanley proceeded. 

' She had long entertained a partiality for a 
most deserving young clergyman, much her in- 
ferior in rank and fortune. But though her 
high sense of filial duty led her to sacrifice this 
innocent inclination, and though she resolved 
never to see him again, and had tven prevailed 
on him to quit the country and settle in a dis- 
tant place, yet Carlton was ungenerous and in- 
consistent enough to be jealous of her without 
loving her. He was guilty of great irregulari- 
ties, while Mrs. Carlton set about acquitting 
herself of the duties of a wife, with the most 
meek and humble patience, burying her sor- 
rows in her own bosom, and not allowing her- 
self even the consolation of complaining. 

' Among the many reasons for his dislike, her 
piety was the principal. He said, religion was 
of no use, but to disqualify people for the busi- 
ness of life ; that it taught them to make a merit 
of despising their duties, and hating their re- 
lations ; and that pride, ill-humour, opposition, 
and contempt for the rest of the world, were the 
meat and drink of all those who pretended to 
religion. 

'At first she nearly sunk under his unkind- 
ness ; her health declined, and her spirits failed. 
In this distress she applied to the only sure re- 
fuge of the unhappy, and took comfort in the 
consideration that her trials were appointed by 
a merciful Father to detach her from a world 
which she might have loved too fondly, had it 
not been thus stripped of its delights. 

' When Mrs. Stanley, who was her confiden- 
tial friend, expressed the tenderest sympathy in 
her sufferings, she meekly replied, 'Remember 
who are they whose robes are washed white in 
the kingdom of glory, it is they who come out of 
great tribulation. I endeavour to strengthen 
my faith with a view of what the best Chris- 
tians have suffered, and my hope with meditat- 
ing on the shortness of all suffering. I will 
confess my weakness,' added she : ' of the va- 
rious motives to patience under all the ills of 
life, which the Bible presents, though my rea- 
son and religion acknowledges them all, there 
is not one that comes home so powerfully to my 
feelings as this, — the time is short.' 

'Another time Mrs. Stanley, who had heard 
of some recent irregularities of Carlton, called 
upon her, and lamented the solitude to which 
she was often left for days together, advised her 
to have a female friend in her house, that her 
mind might not be left to prey upon itself by 
living so much alone. She thanked her for the 
kind suggestion, but said she felt it was wiser 
and better not to have a confidential friend al- 
ways at hand, ' for of what subject should we 
talk,' said she, ' but of my husband's faults ? 
Ought I to allow myself in such a practice ? It 
would lead me to indulge a habit of complaint 
which I am labouring to subdue. The compas- 
sion of my friend would only sharpen my feel- 
ings which I wish to blunt. Giving vent to a 



flame only makes it rage the more ; if suppress • 
ing cannot subdue it, at least the consciousness 
that I am doing my duty will enable me to sup- 
port it. When we feel,' added she, ' that we 
are doing wrong, the opening of our heart, may 
strengthen our virtue ; but when we are suffer- 
ing wrong, the mind demands another sort of 
strength ; it wants higher support than friend- 
ship has to impart. It pours out its sorrows in 
prayer with fuller confidence, knowing that he 
who sees can sustain ; that he who hears will 
recompense ; that he will judge, not our weak- 
ness but our effort to conquer it ; not our suc- 
cess but our endeavours ; with him endeavour 
is victory. 

' The grace I most want,' added she, ' is 
humility. A partial friend, in order to support 
my spirits, would flatter my conduct ; gratified 
with her soothing, I should, perhaps, not so 
entirely cast myself for comfort on God. Con- 
tented with human praise, I might rest in it. 
Besides having endured the smart, I would not 
willingly endure it in vain- We know who has 
said, ' If you suffer with me, you shall also 
reign with me.' It is not, however, to mere 
suffering that the promise is addressed, but to 
suffering for his sake, and in his spirit., Then 
turning to the Bible which lay before her, and 
pointing to the sublime passage of St. Paul, 
which she had just been reading, 'our light 
affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh 
for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight 
of glory.' — ' Pray,' said she, ' read this in con- 
nection with the next verse, which is not 
always done. When is it that it works for us 
this weight of glory ? Only ' while we are look- 
ing at the things which are not seen.' Do ad- 
mire the beauty of this position, and how the 
good is weighed against the evil, like two scales 
differently filled ; the affliction is light, and but. 
for a moment ; the glory is a weight, and it is 
for ever. 'Tis a feather against lead, a grain 
of sand against the universe, a moment against 
eternity. Oh ! how the scale which contains 
this world's light trouble kicks the beam when 
weighed against the glory which shall be re- 
vealed.' 

' At the end of two years she had a little girl ; 
this opened to her a new scene of duties, and a 
fresh source of consolation. Her religion proved 
itself to be of the right stamp, by making her 
temper still more sweet, and diffusing the hap- 
piest effects through her whole character and 
conversation. When her husband had staid out 
late, or even all night, she never reproached 
him. When he was at home, she received his 
friends with as much civility as if she had liked 
them. He found that his house was conducted 
with the utmost prudence, and that while she 
maintained his credit at his table, her personal 
expenses were almost nothing ; indeed, self 
seemed nearly annihilated in her. He some- 
times felt disappointed, Decause he had no cause 
of complaint, and was angry that he had no- 
thing to condemn. 

•As he has a very fine understanding, he was 
the more provoked, because he could not help 
seeing that her blameless conduct put him con- 
tinually in the wrong. All this puzzled him.— 
He never suspected that there was a principle. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



345 



Out of which such consequences could grow, 
and was ready to attribute to insensibility, that 
patience which nothing short of Christian piety 
could have inspired. He had conceived of re- 
ligion, as a visionary system of words and 
phrases, and concluded that from so unsubstan- 
tial a theory, it would be a folly to look for prac- 
tical effects. 

'Sometimes when he saw her nursing his 
child, of whom he was very fond, he was almost 
tempted to admire the mother, who is a most 
pleasing figure ; and now and then, when his 
heart was thus softened for a moment, he would 
ask himself, what reasonable ground of objection 
there was either to her mind or person 1 

' Mrs. Carlton, knowing that his affairs must 
necessarily be embarrassed by the extraordinary 
expenses he had incurred, when the steward 
brought her usual year's allowance, she refused 
to take more than half, and ordered him to em- 
ploy the remainder on his master's account. 
The faithful old man was ready to weep, and 
could not forbear saying, ' Madam, you could 
not do more for a kind husband. Besides, it is 
but a drop of water in the ocean.' — ' That drop,' 
Baid she, ' it is my duty to contribute.' When 
the steward communicated this to Carlton, he 
was deeply affected, refused to take tho money, 
and again was driven to resort to the wonderful 
principle, from which such right but difficult 
actions could proceed.' 

Here I interrupted Mr. Stanley. ' I am quite 
of the steward's opinion,' said I. 'That a wo- 
man should do this, and much more for the man 
who loved her, and whom she loved, is quite in- 
telligible to every being who lias a heart. But 
for a cruel, unfeeling tyrant ! I do not compre- 
hend it. What say you, Miss Stanley ? 

' Under the circumstances you suppose,' said 
she, blushing, ' I think the woman would have 
no shadow of merit ; her conduct would be a 
mere gratification, an entire indulgence of her 
own feelings. The triumph of affection would 
have been cheap: Mrs. Carlton's was the tri- 
umph of religion ; of a principle which could 
subdue an attachment to a worthy object, and 
act with such generosity towards an unworthy 
one.' 

Mr. Stanley went on. ' Mrs. Carlton frequent- 
ly set up late reading such books as might qua- 
lify her for the education of her child, but al- 
ways retired before she had reason to expect 
Mr. Carlton, lest he might construe it into up- 
braiding.' One night, as he was not expected 
to come home at all, she sat later than usual, 
and had indulged herself with taking her child 
to pass the night in her bed. With her usual 
earnestness she knelt down and offered up her 
devotions by her bed-side, and in a manner par- 
ticularly solemn and affecting prayed for her 
husband. Her heart was deeply touched, and 
she dwelt on these petitions in a strain peculiar- 
ly fervent. She prayed for his welfare in both 
worlds, and earnestly implored that she might 
be made the humble instrument of his happiness. 
She meekly acknowledged her own many of- 
fences ; of his she said nothing. 

1 Thinking herself secure from interruption, 
her petitions were uttered aloud ; her voice often 
faltering, and her eyes streaming with tears. 

Vol. II. 



Little did she think that the object of her pray • 
ers was within hearing of them. He had re- 
turned home unexpectedly, and coming softly 
into the room, heard her pious aspirations. He 
was inexpressibly affected. He wept and sighed 
bitterly. The light from the candles on the ta- 
ble fell on the blooming face of his sleeping in- 
fant, and on that of his weeping wife. It was 
too much for him. But he had not the virtuous 
courage to give way to his feelings. He had 
not the generosity to come forward and express 
the admiration he felt. He withdrew unper 
ceived and passed the remainder of the night in 
great perturbation of spirit. Shame, remorse, 
and confusion, raised such a conflict in his mind, 
as prevented him from closing his eyes ; while 
she slept in quiet, and awoke in peace. 

' The next morning, during a very short inter- 
view, he behaved to her with a kindness which 
she had never before experienced. He had not 
resolution to breakfast with her, but promised, 
with affection in his words and manner to re- 
turn to dinner. The truth was, he never quitted 
home, but wandered about his woods to compose 
and strengthen his mind. This self-examination 
was the first he had practised ; its effects were 
salutary. 

' A day or two previous to this they had dined 
at our house. He had always been much ad- 
dicted to the pleasures of the table. He ex- 
pressed high approbation of a particular dish, 
and mentioned again when he got home how 
much he liked it. The next morning Mrs. 
Carlton wrote to Lucilla to beg the receipt for 
making this ragout ; and this day, when he re- 
turned from his solitary ramble and ' compunc- 
tious visitings,' the favourite dish, most exqui- 
sitely dressed was produced at his dinner. He 
thanked her for this obliging attention, and turn- 
ing to the butler, directed him to tell the cook 
that no dish was ever so well dressed. Mrs. 
Carlton blushed when the honest butler said, 
' Sir, it was my mistress dressed it with her own 
hands, because she knew your honour was fond 
of it.' 

1 Tears of gratitude rushed into Carlton's eyes, 
and tears of joy overflowed those of the old do- 
mestic, when his master, rising from the table, 
tenderly embraced his wife, and declared he was 
unworthy of such a treasure. ' I have been 
guilty of a public wrong, Johnson,' said he to his 
servant, ' and my reparation shall be as public. 
I can never deserve her, but my life shall be 
spent in endeavouring to do so.' 

' The little girl was brought in, and her pre- 
sence seemed to cement this new formed union. 
An augmented cheerfulness on the part of Mrs. 
Carlton invited an increased tenderness on that 
of her husband. He began every day to disco- 
ver new excellences in his wife, which he readi- 
ly acknowledged to herself, and to the world. 
The conviction of her worth had gradually been 
producing esteem, esteem now ripened into affec- 
tion, and his affection for his wife was mingled 
with a blind sort of admiration of that piety 
which had produced such effects. He now be- 
gan to think home the pleasantest place, and his 
wife the pleasantest companion. 

' A gentle censure from him on the excessive 
frugality of her dress, mixed with admiration 



346 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



of the purity of its motive, was an intimation to 
her to be more elegant. He happened to ad- 
mire a gown worn by a lady whom they had vi- 
sited. She not only sent for the same materials 
but had it made by the same pattern. A little 
attention, of which he felt the delicacy. 

' He not only saw, but in no long time ac- 
knowledged, that a religion which produced such 
admirable effects, could not be so mischievous a 
principle as he had supposed, nor could it be an 
inert principle. Her prudence has accomplished 
what her piety began. She always watched the 
turn of his eye, to see how far she might ven- 
ture, and changed the discourse when the look 
was not encouraging. She never tired him with 
lectures, never intruded serious discourse un- 
seasonably, nor prolonged it improperly. His 
early love of reading, which had for some years 
given way to more turbulent pleasures, he has 
resumed ; and frequently insists, that the books 
he reads to her shall be of her own choosing. In 
this choice she exercises the nicest discretion, 
selecting such as may gently lead his mind to 
higher pursuits, but which at the same time are 
so elegantly written, as not to disgust his taste. 
In all this Mrs. Stanley is her friend and coun- 
sellor. 

' While Mrs. Carlton is advancing her hus- 
band's relish for books of piety, he is forming 
her's to polite literature. She herself often pro- 
poses an amusing book, that he may not suspect 
her of a wish to abridge his innocent gratifica- 
tions ; and by this complaisance she gains more 
than she loses, for, not to be outdone in gene- 
rosity, he often proposes some pious one in re- 
turn. Thus their mutual sacrifices are mutual 
benefits. She has found out that he has a highly 
cultivated understanding, and he has discovered 
that she has a mind remarkably susceptible of 
cultivation. He has by degrees dropt most of 
his former associates, and has entirely renounced 
-he diversions into which they led him. He is 
become a frequent and welcome visitor here. 
His conduct is uniformly respectable, and I look 
forward with hope to his becoming even a shining 
character. There is, however, a pertinacity, I 
may say a sincerity, in his temper, which some- 
what keeps him back. He will never adopt any 
principle without the most complete conviction 
of his own mind ; nor profess any truth, of 
which he himself does not actually feel the 
force.' 

Lady Belfield, after thanking Mr. Stanley for 
his interesting little narrative, earnestly request- 
ed that Sir John would renew his acquaintance 
with Mr. Carlton, that she herself might be en- 
abled to profit by such an affecting example of 
the power of genuine religion as his wife exhi- 
bited ; confessing that one such living instance 
would weigh more with her than a hundred ar- 
guments. Mrs. Stanley obligingly promised to 
invite them to dinner the first leisure day. 

Mr. Stanley now informed us that Sir George 
Aston was arrived from Cambridge on a visit to 
his mother and sisters ; that he was a youth of 
great promise, whom he begged to introduce to 
us as a young man in whose welfare he took a 
lively concern, and on the right formation of 
whose character much would depend, as he had 
a large estate, and the family interest in the 



country would give him a very considerable in 
fluence ; to this influence it was, therefore, of 
great importance to give aright direction. Wo 
next morning took a ride to Aston Hall, and I 
commenced an acquaintance with the engaging 
young baronet, which I doubt not, from what I 
saw and heard, will hereafter ripen into friend- 
ship. 



CHAP. XIX. 

The good rector joined the party at dinner. 
The conversation afterwards happened to turn on 
the value of human opinion, and Sir John Bel. 
field made the hackneyed observation, that tl 
desire of obtaining it should never be discouraged, 
it being highly useful as a motive of action. 

4 Yes,' said Dr. Barlow, ' it certainly has its 
uses in a world, the affairs of which must be 
chiefly carried on by worldly men ; a world 
which is itself governed by low motives. But 
human applause is not a Christian principle of 
action ; nay, it is so adverse to Christianity, that 
our Saviour himself assigns it as a powerful 
cause of men's not believing, or at least not con- 
fessing him, because they loved the praise of men. 
The eager desire of fame is a sort of separation 
line between Paganism and Christianity. Tho 
ancient philosophers have left us many shining 
examples of moderation in earthly things, and 
of the contempt of riches. So far the light of 
reason, and a noble self-denial carried them ; 
and many a Christian may blush at these in- 
stances of their superiority ; but of an indiffer- 
ence to fame, of a deadness to human applause, 
except as founded on a loftiness of spirit, disdain 
of their judges, and self-sufficient pride, I do not 
recollect any instance.' 

1 And yet,' said Sir John, ' I remember Seneca 
says in one of his epistles, that no man expresses 
such a respect and devotion to virtue, as he who 
forfeits the repute of being a good man, that he 
may not forfeit the conscience of being such.' 

' They might,' replied Mr. Stanley, ' inci- 
dentally express some such sentiment, in a well 
turned period, to give antithesis to an expression,' 
or weight to an apothegm ; they might declaim 
against it in a fit of disappointment, in the burst 
of indignation excited by a recent loss of popu- 
larity ; but I question if they ever once acted 
upon it. I question if Marius himself, sitting 
amidst the ruins of Carthage, actually felt it. 
Seldom, if ever, does it seem to have been incul- 
cated as a principle, or enforced as a rule of ac- 
tion : nor could it it was ' against the 

canon law of their foundation.' 

Sir John. 'Yet a good man struggling with 
adversity is, I think, represented by one of their 
authors, as an object worthy of the attention of 
the gods.' 

Stanley. ' Yes — but the divine approbation 
alone was never proposed as the standard of 
right, or the reward of actions, except by divine 
revelation.' 

' Nothing seems more difficult,' said I, ' to 
settle than the standard of right. Every man 
has a standard of his own, which he considers 
as of universal application. One makes his own 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



347 



tastes, desires and appetites, his rule of right ; 
another the example of certain individuals, falli- 
ble like himself; a third, and indeed the gene- 
rality, the maxims, habits, and manners of the 
fashionable part of the world.' 

Sir John. ' But since it is so difficult to dis- 
criminate between allowable indulgence and 
criminal conformity, the life of a conscientious 
man, if he bo not constitutionally temperate, or 
habitually firm, must be poisoned with solicitude, 
and perpetually racked with the fear of exceed- 
ing his limits.' 

Stanley. ' My dear Belfield, the peace and se- 
curity of a Christian, we well know, are not left 
to depend on constitutional temperance, or ha- 
bitual firmness. These are, as the young Nu- 
midian says, 

Perfections that are placed in bones and nerves. 

There is a higher and surer way to prevent the 
solicitude which, by correcting the principle ; 
to get the heart set right ; to be jealous over 
ourselves ; to be careful never to venture to the 
edge of our lawful limits ; in short, and that is 
the only infallible standard, to live in the con- 
scientious practice of measuring all we say, and 
do, and think, by the unerring rule of God's 
word.' 

Sir John. ' The impossibility of reaching the 
perfection which that rule requires, sometimes 
discourages well meaning men, as if the attempt 
were hopeless. 

Dr. Barlow. ' That is, Sir, because they take 
up with a kind of hearsay Christianity. Its re- 
puted pains and penalties drive them off from 
inquiring for themselves. They rest on the 
surface. — If they would go deeper they would 
see that the Spirit which dictated the Scripture 
is a Spirit of power as well as a Spirit of pro- 
mise. All that he requires us to do, he enables 
us to perform. He does not prescribe ' rules' 
without furnishing us with arms.' 

In answer to some further remarks of Sir 
John, who spoke with due abhorrence of any in- 
stance of actual vice, but who seemed to have 
no just idea of its root and principle. Dr. Bar- 
low observed : ' While every one agrees in re- 
probating wicked actions, few, comparatively, 
are aware of the natural and habitual evil which 
lurks in the heart. To this the Bible particu- 
larly directs our attention. In describing a bad 
character, it does not say that his actions are 
flagitious, but that • God is not in all his 
thoughts.' This is the description of a tho- 
roughly worldly man. Those who are given up 
completely to the world, to its maxims, its prin- 
ciples, its cares, or its pleasures, cannot enter- 
tain thoughts of God. And to be unmindful of 
his providence, to be regardless of his presence, 
to be insensible to his mercies, must be nearly 
as offensive to Him as to deny his existence. 
Excesssive dissipation, a supreme love of mo- 
ney, or an entire devotedness to ambition, drinks 
up that spirit, swallows up that affection, ex- 
hausts that vigour, starves that zeal, with which 
a Christian should devote himself to serve his 
Maker. 

' Pray observe,' continued Dr. Barlow, ' that 
I am not speaking of avowed profligates, but 
<of decent characters; men who, while they are, 



pursuing, with keen intenseness, the great ob- 
jects of their attachment, do not deride or even 
totally neglect religious observances ; yet think 
they do much and well, by affording some old 
scraps of refuse time to a few wary prayers 
and sleepy thoughts, from a mind worn down 
with engagements of pleasure, or projects of ac- 
cumulation, or schemes of ambition. In all 
these several pursuits, there may be nothing- 
which, to the gross perceptions of the world, 
would appear to be moral turpitude. The plea- 
sure may not be profligacy, the wealth so che- 
rished may not have been fraudulently obtained, 
the ambition, in human estimation, may not be 
dishonourable ; but an alienation from God, an 
indifference to eternal things, a spirit incom- 
patible with the spirit of the gospel, will be 
found at the bottom of all these restless pur- 
suits.' 

1 1 am entirely of your opinion, Doctor,' said 
Mr. Stanley,' 'it is taking up with something- 
short of real Christianity ; it is an apostacy 
from the doctrines of the Bible , it is the sub- 
stitution of a spurious and popular religion, for 
that which was revealed from heaven ; it is a 
departure from the faith once delivered to the 
saints that has so fatally sunk our morality, and 
given countenance to that low standard of prac- 
tical virtue which prevails. If we lower the 
principle, if we obscure the light, if we reject, 
the influence, if we sully the purity, if we 
abridge the strictness of the divine law, there 
will remain no ascending power in the soul, no 
stirring spirit, no quickening aspiration after 
perfection, no stretching forward after that ho- 
liness to which the beatific vision is specifically 
promised. It is in vain to expect that the prac- 
tice will rise higher than the principle which 
inspires it; that the habits will be superior to 
the motives which govern them.' 

Dr. Barlow. ' Selfishness, security, and sen 
suality are predicted by our Saviour as the cha- 
racter of the last times. In alluding to the ante- 
diluvian world, and the cause of its destruction, 
eating, drinking, and marrying, could not be 
named in the Gospel as things censurable in 
themselves, they being necessary to the very 
existence of that world, which the abuse of them 
was tending to destroy. Our Saviour does not 
describe criminality by the excess, but by the 
spirit of the act. He speaks of eating, not 
gluttony ; of drinking, not intoxication ; of mar- 
riage, not licentious intercourse. This seems 
a plain intimation, that carrying on the trans- 
actions of the world in the spirit of the world, 
and that habitual deadness to the concerns of 
eternity, in being so alive to the pleasures or 
the interests of the present moment, do not indi- 
cate a state of safety, even where gross acts of 
vice may be rare.' 

Stanley. ' It is not by a few, or even many 
instances of excessive wickedness that the mo. 
ral state of a country is to be judged, but by a 
general averseness and indifference to real reli- 
gion. A few examples of glaring impiety may 
furnish more subject for declamation, but are 
not near so deadly a symptom. It is no new re. 
mark, that more men are undone by an exces- 
sive indulgence in things permitted, than by the 
commission of avowed sins.' 



343 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Sir John. ' How happy are those, who, by 
their faith and piety are delivered from these 
difficulties !' 

Stanley. ' My dear Belfield where are those 
privileged beings ? It is one sad proof of human 
infirmity, that the best men have continually 
these things to struggle with. What makes the 
difference is, that those whom we call good men 
struggle on to the end, while the others, not see- 
ing the danger do not struggle at all.' 

'Christians,' said Dr. Barlow, 'who would 
etrictly keep within the bounds prescribed by 
their religion, should imitate the ancient Ro- 
mans, who carefully watched that their god 
Terminus, who defined their limits, should ne, 
ver recede ; the first step of his retreat, they 
Said, would be the destruction of their security.' 

Sir John. ' But, Doctor, pray what remedy 
do you recommend against this natural, I had 
almost said this invincible propensity to over- 
Value the world ? I do not mean a propensity 
merely to overrate its pleasures and its honours, 
but a disposition to yield to its domination over 
the mind, to indulge a too earnest desire of 
standing well with it, to cherish a too anxious 
regard for its good opinion !' 

Dr. Barlow. ' The knowledge of the disease 
should precede the application of the remedy. — 
Human applause is by a worldly man reckoned 
not only among; the luxuries of life, but among 
articles of the first necessity. An undue desire 
to obtain it, has certainly its foundation in vani- 
ty ; and it is one of our grand errors to reckon 
vanity a trivial fault. And over estimation of 
character, and an anxious wish to conciliate all 
suffrages, is an infirmity from which even 
worthy men are not exempt ; nay, it is a weak- 
ness from which, if they are not governed by a 
Strict religious principle, worthy men are in 
most danger. Reputation being in itself so very 
desirable a good, those who actually possess it, 
and in some sense deserve to possess it, are apt 
to make it their standard, and to rest in it as 
their supreme aim and end.' 

Sir John. ' You have exposed the latent prin- 
ciple, it remains that you suggest its cure.' 

Dr. Barlow. ' I believe the most effectual re- 
medy would be, to excite in the mind frequent 
thoughts of our divine Redeemer, and of his es- 
timate of that world on which we so fondly set 
our affections, and whose approbation we are too 
apt to make the chief object of our ambition.' 

Sir John. ' I allow it to have been necessary, 
that Christ in the great end which he had to ac- 
complish, should have been poor, and neglected 
and contemned, and that he should have tram- 
pled on the great things of this world, human 
applause among the rest ; but I do not conceive 
that this obligation extends to his followers, nor 
that we are called upon to partake the poverty 
which he preferred, or to renounce the wealth 
and grandeur which he set at nought, or to imi- 
tate him in making himself of no reputation.' 

Dr. Barlow. ' We are not indeed called to re- 
semble him in his external circumstances. It is 
not our bounden duty to be necessarily exposed 
to the same contempt; nor are we obliged to 
embrace the same ignominy. Yet it seems a 
natural consequence of our Christian profession, 
that the things which he despised, we should 



not venerate ; the vanities he trampled on, wo 
should not admire ; the world which he cen- 
sured, we ought not to idolize; the ease which 
he renounced, we should not rate too highly ; 
the fame which he set at nought, we ought not 
anxiously to covet — Surely the followers of him 
who was ' despised and rejected of men,' should 
not seek their highest gratification from the flat- 
tery and applause of men. The truth is, in all 
discourses on this subject, we are compelled 
continually to revert to the observation that 
Christianity is a religion of the heart. And 
though we are not called upon to partake the 
poverty and meanness of his situation, yet the 
precept is clear and direct, respecting the tem- 
per by which we should be governed. 

' Let the same mind be in you which was also 
in Christ Jesus.' If, therefore, we happen to 
possess that wealth and grandeur which he dis- 
dained, we should possess them as though we 
possessed them not. We have a fair and liberal 
permission to use them as his gift, and to his 
glory, but not to erect them into the supreme 
objects of our attachment. In the same manner 
in every other point, it is still the spirit of the 
act, the temper of the mind to which we are to 
look. For instance, I do not think that I am 
obliged to show my faith by sacrificing my son, 
nor my obedience, by selling all that I have to 
give to the poor; but I think I am bound by 
the spirit of these two powerful commands, to 
practice a cheerful acquiescence in the whole 
will of God, in suffering and renouncing, as 
well as in doing, when I know what is really 
his will.' 

CHAP. XX. 

The pleasant reflections excited by the in- 
teresting conversation of the evening were cru- 
elly interrupted by my faithful Edwards. ' Sir,' 
said he, when he came to attend me, ' do you 
know that all the talk of the Hall to night at 
supper was, that Miss Stanley is going to be 
married to young Lord Staunton ? He is a cou- 
sin of Mrs. Carlton's, and Mrs. Stanley's coach 
man brought home the news from thence yes- 
terday. I could not get at the very truth, be- 
cause Mrs. Comfit was out of the way ; but all 
the servants agree, that though he is a lord, and 
rich, and handsome, he is not half good enough 
for her. Indeed, Sir, they say he is no better 
than he should be.' 

I was thunderstruck at this intelligence. It 
was a trial I had not suspected. ' Does he visit 
here then, Edwards,' said I, ' for I had neither 
seen nor heard of him.' — ' No Sir,' said he, ' but 
Miss meets him at Mr. Carlton's.' This shock- 
ed me beyond expression. Lucilla meet a man 
at another house ! Lucilla carry on a clandes- 
tine engagement! Can Mrs. Carlton be capable 
of conniving at it ! Yet if it were not clandes- 
tine, why should he not visit the Grove ?' 

These tormenting reflections kept me awake 
the whole night. To acquit Lucilla, Edward's 
story made difficult ; to condemn her, my heart 
found* impossible. One moment I blamed my 
own foolish timidity, which had kept me back 
from making any proposal, and the next, I was 
glad that the delay would enable ruo to sift the 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



truth, and to probe her character. ' If I do not 
find consistency here,' said I, ' I shall renounce 
all confidence in human virtue.' 

I arose early and went to indulge my medita- 
tions in the garden. I saw Mr. Stanley sitting 
under the favourite oak. I was instantly tempt- 
ed to go and open my heart lo him, but seeing 
a book in his hand, I feared to interrupt him ; 
and was turning into another walk, till I had 
acquired more composure — He called after me, 
and invited me to sit down. 

How violent were my fluctuations ! How in- 
consistent were my feelings ! How much at 
variance was my reason with my heart! The 
man on earth with whom I wished to confer in- 
vited me to a conference. Willi a mind under 
the dominion of a passion which I was eager to 
declare, yet agitated with an uncertainty which 
I had as much reason to fear might be painfully 
as pleasantly removed ; I stood doubtful whether 
to seize or to decline the occasion which thus 
presented itself to me. A moment's reflection, 
however convinced me that the opportunity was 
too inviting to be neglected. My impatience 
for an eclaircissement on Lord Staunton's sub- 
ject was too powerful to be any longer resisted. 

At length with the most unfeigned diffidence, 
and a hesitation which I feared would render 
my words unintelligible, I ventured to express 
my tender admiration of Miss Stanley, and im- 
plored permission to address her. 

My application did not seem to surprise him. 
He only gravely said, ' We will talk of this some 
future day.' This cold and laconic reply in- 
stantly sunk my spirits. I was shocked and 
visibly confused. ' It is too late,' said I to my- 
self. 'Happy Lord Staunton!' He saw my 
distress, and taking my hand with the utmost 
kindness of voice and manner, said, My dear 
young friend, content yourself for the present 
with the assurance of my entire esteem and 
affection. This is a very early declaration. 
You are scarcely acquainted with Lucilla ; you 
do not yet know,' added he, smiling, ' half her 
faults.' 

■ Only tell me, My dear Sir,' said I, a little 
re-assured, and grasping his hand, 'that when 
you know all mine, you will not reject me. 
Only tell me that you feel no repugnance — that 
you have no other views — that Miss Stanley has 

no other ' here I stopt, my voice failed — the 

excess of my emotion prevented me from finish- 
ing my sentence. — He encouragingly said, ' I 
know not that Lucilla has any attachment. For 
myself, I have no views hostile to your wishes. 
You have a double interest in my heart. You 
are endeared to me by your personal merit, 
and by my tender friendship for your beloved 
father. But be not impetuous. Form no sud- 
den resolution. Try to assure yourself of my 
daughter's affection, before you ask it of her. 
Remain here another month as my welcome 
guest, as the son of my friend. Take that 
month to examine your own heart, and to en- 
deavour to obtain an interest in her's ; we will 
then resume the subject.' 

1 But, my dear Sir,' said I, ' is not Lord Staun- 
ton — ' ' Set your heart at rest,' said he. ' Though 
we are both a little aristocratic in our political 
principles, yet when the competition is for the 



happiness of life, and the interests of virtue, 
both Lucilla and her father think with Dumont 
that 

' A lord 
' Opposed against a man, is but a man.' 

So saying, he quitted me ; but with a benignity 
in his countenance and manner that infused not 
only consolation, but joy into my heart. My 
spirits were at once elated. To be allowed to 
think of Lucilla ! To be permitted to attach my 
selt to her ! To be sure her heart was not en- 
gaged ! To be invited to remain a month longer 
nnder the same roof with her — to see her — to 
hear her — to talk to her — all this was a happi- 
ness so great that I did not allow myself (o re- 
pine, because it was not all I had wished to ob- 
tain. 

I met Mrs. Stanley soon after. I perceived 
by her illuminated countenance, that my propo- 
sal had been already communicated to her. I 
ventured to take her hand, and with the most 
respectful earnestness entreated her friendship 
— her good offices. ' I dare not trust myself 
with you just now,' said she, with an affection- 
ate smile ; ' Mr. Stanley will think I abet re- 
bellion, if through my encouragement you 
should violate your engagements with him. 
' But,' added she, kindly pressing my hand, 
' you need not be much afraid of me. Mr. 
Stanley's sentiments on this point, as on all 
others, are exactly my own. We have but one 
heart and mind, and that heart and mind are not 
unfavourable to your wishes.' With a tear in 
her eyes, and affection in her looks, she tore 
herself away, evidently afraid of giving way to 
her feelings. 

I did not think myself bound by any point of 
honour to conceal the state of my heart from 
Sir John Belfield, who with his lady joined me 
soon after in the garden. I was astonished to 
find my passion for Miss Stanley was no secret 
to either of them. — Their penetration had left 
me nothing to disclose. Sir John however look- 
ed serious, and affected an air of mystery which 
a little alarmed me. ' I own,' said he, 'there is 
some danger of your success.' I eagerly en 
quired what he thought I had to fear? — 'You 
have every thing to fear,' replied he in a tone 
of grave irony, 'which a man not four and 
twenty, of an honourable family, with a clear 
estate of four thousand a year, a person that all 
the ladies admire, a mind which all the men 
esteem, and a temper which endears you to 
men, women, and children, enn fear from a 
little country girl, whose heart is as free as 
a bird, and who, if I may judge by her smiles 
and blushes whenever you are talking to her,, 
would have no mortal objection to sing in the 
same cage with you.' 

'It will be a sad dull novel however,' said 
Lady Belfield — ' all is likely to go on so smoothly 
that we shall flag for want of incident. No diffi- 
culties, nor adventures to heighten the interest. 
No cruel step-dame, no tyrant father, no capri- 
cious mistress, no moated castle, no intriguing 
confidante, no treacherous spy, no formidable 
rival, not so much as a duel or even a challenge, 
I fear, to give variety to the monotonous scene.' 

I mentioned Edward's report respecting Lord 



350 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Staunton, and owned how much it had disturbed 
me. 'That he admires her,' said Lady Bel- 
field, 'is notorious. That his addresses have 
not been encouraged, I have also heard, but not 
from the family. As to Lucilla, she is the last 
girl that would ever insinuate even to me, to 
whom she is so unreserved, that she had reject- 
ed so great an offer. I have heard her express 
herself with an indignation, foreign to her gene- 
ral mildness, against women who are guilty of 
this fashionable, this dishonourable indelicacy.' 

■ Well, but Charles,' said Sir John, ' you must 
positively assume a little dejection, to diversify 
the business. It will give interest to your coun- 
tenance, and pathos to your manner, and ten- 
derness to your accent. — And you must forget 
all attentions, and neglect all civilities. And 
you must appear absent, and distrait and reveur; 
especially while your fate hangs in some sus- 
pense. — And you must read Petrarch, and re- 
peat Tibullus, and write sonnets. And when 
you are spoken to, you must not listen. And 
you must wander in the grove by moon-shine, 
and talk to the Oreads, and the Dryads, and the 
Naiads — Oh ! no, unfortunately, I am afraid 
there are no Naiads within hearing. — You must 
make the woods vocal with the name of Lucilla ; 
luckily 'tis such a poetical name that echo won't 
be ashamed to repeat it. I have gone through 
it all, Charles, and know every high way and 
bye way in the map of love. I will, however, 
be serious for one moment, and tell you for your 
comfort, that though at your age I was full as 
much in for it as you are now, yet after ten 
years union, Lady Belfield has enabled me to 
declare 

How much the wife is dearer than the bride.' 
A tear glistened in her soft eyes at this tender 
compliment. 

Just at that moment Lucilla happened to cross 
the lawn at a distance. At sight of her, I could 
not, as I pointed to her, forbear exclaiming, in 
the words of Sir John's favourite poet, 

There doth beauty dwell, 
There most conspicuous, even in outward shape. 
Where dawns the high expression of a mind. 

'This is very fine,' said Sir John, sarcasti- 
cally ; ' I admire all you young enthusiastic 
philosophers, with your intellectual refinement 
You pretend to be captivated only with mind. 
I observe, however, that previous to your rap- 
tures, you always take care to get this mind 
lodged in a fair and youthful form. This men- 
tal beauty is always prudently enshrined in some 
elegant corporeal frame before it is worshipped. 
I should be glad to see some of these intellec- 
tual adorers in love with the mind of an old or 
ugly woman. I never heard any of you fall 
into ecstacies in descanting on the mind of your 
grand-mother.' After some further irony, they 
left me to indulge my meditations, in the na- 
ture of which a single hour had made so plea- 
sant a revolution. 



CHAP. XXI. 

The conversation of two men bred at the same 



school or college, when they happen to meet 
afterwards, is commonly uninteresting, not to 
say tiresome, to a third person, as involving 
local circumstances in which he has no concern 
But this was not always the case since the meet, 
ing of my two friends. — Something was gene, 
rally to be gained by their communications even 
on these unpromising topics. 

At breakfast, Mr. Stanley said, ' Sir John, you 
will see here at dinner to morrow our old college 
acqaintance, Ned Tyrrel. Though he does not 
commonly live at the family house in this 
neighbourhood, but at a little place he has in 
Buckinghamshire, he comes among us periodi- 
cally to receive his rents. He always invites 
himself, for his society is not the most engaging." 

' I heard,' replied Sir John, ' that he became 
a notorious profligate after he left Cambridge, 
though I have lost sight of him ever since we 
parted there. But I was glad to learn lately 
that he has become quite a reformed man.' 

' He is so far reformed,' replied Mr. Stanley, 
' that he is no longer grossly licentious. But in 
laying down the vices of youth, he has taken up 
successively those which he thought better 
suited to the successive stages of his progress. 
As he withdrew himself from his loose habits and 
connections, ambition became his governing pas- 
sion ; he courted public favour, thirsted for place 
and distinction, and laboured by certain obliqui- 
ties and some little sacrifices of principle to ob- 
tain promotion. Finding it did not answer, and 
all his hopes failing, he now rails at ambition, 
wonders men will wound their consciences and 
renounce their peace for vain applause and 
' the bubble reputation. — His sole delight at pre- 
sent, I hear, is in amassing money and reading 
controversial divinity. Avarice has supplanted 
ambition, just as ambition expelled profligacy. 

' In the interval in which he was passing from 
one of these stages to the other, in a very uneasy 
state of mind, he dropped in by accident where 
a famous irregular preacher was disseminating 
his Antinomian doctrines. Caught by his ve- 
hement but coarse eloquence, and captivated by 
an alluring doctrine, which promised much 
while it required little, he adopted the soothing 
but fallacious tenet. It is true, I hear he is be- 
come a more respectable man in his conduct, 
but I doubt, though I have not lately seen him, 
if his present state may not be rather worse 
than his former ones. 

1 In the two previous stages, he was disturb- 
ed and dissatisfied. Here he has taken up his 
rest. Out of this strong hold it is not probable 
that any subsequent vice will ever drive him, or 
true religion draw him. He sometimes attends 
public worship, but as he thinks no part of it 
but the sermon of much value, it is only when 
he likes the preacher. He has little notion of 
the respect due to established institutions, and 
does not heartily like any precomposed forms of 
prayer, not even our incomparable Liturgy. He 
reads such religious books only as tend to es- 
tablish his own opinions, and talks and disputes 
loudly on certain doctrinal points. But an ac- 
cumulating Christian, and a Christian who, for 
the purpose of accumulation, is said to be un- 
charitable, and even somewhat oppressive, is 
paradox which I cannot solve, and an anomaly 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



351 



which I cannot comprehend. Covetousness is, 
6s I said, a more creditable vice than Ned's for- 
mer ones, but, for that very reason more danger- 
ous.' 

' From this sober vice,' said I, ' proceeded the 
blackest crime ever perpetrated by human wick- 
edness : for it does not appear that Judas, in his 
direful treason, was instigated by malice. It is 
observable, that when our Saviour names this 
sin, it is with an emphatical warning, as know- 
ing its mischief to be greater because its scan- 
dal was less. Not content with a single caution, 
he doubles his exhortation, ' Take heed and be- 
ware of covetousness.' 

After some remarks of Sir John which I do 
not recollect, Mr. Stanley said, ' I did not intend 
making a philippic against covetousness, a sin 
to which I believe no one here is addicted. Let 
us not, however, plume ourselves in not being 
guilty of a vice, to which, as we have no natural 
bias, so in not committing it, we resist no tempta- 
tion. What I meant to insist on was, that ex- 
changing a turbulent for a quiet sin, or a scan- 
dalous for an orderly one, is not reformation ; 
or if you will allow me the strong word, 13 not 
conversion.' 

Mr. Tyrrel, according to his appointment, 
came to dinner, and brought with him his ne- 
phew, Mr. Edward Tyrrel, whom he had lately 
entered at the university, with a design to pre- 
pare him for holy orders. He was a well-dis- 
posed young man, but his previous education 
was said to have been very much neglected, and 
he was rather deficient in the necessary learn- 
ing. Mr. Stanley had heard that Tyrrel had 
two reasons for breeding him to the church. In 
the first place, he fancied it was the cheapest 
profession, and in the next, he had laboured to 
infuse into him some particular opinions of his 
own, which he wished to disseminate through 
his nephew. Sir George Aston having accident- 
ally called, he was prevailed on to stay, and Dr. 
Barlow was of the party. 

Mr. Tyrrel, by his observations, soon enabled 
us to discover that his religion had altered no- 
thing but his language. He seemed evidently 
more fond of controversy than of truth, and the 
whole turn of his conversation indicated that he 
derived his religious security rather from the 
adoption of a party than from the implantation 
of a new principle. ' His discourse is altered,' 
said Mr. Stanley to me afterwards, ' but I great- 
ly fear his heart and affections remain un- 
changed.' 

Mr. Stanley contrived, for the sake of his two 
academical guests, particularly young Tyrrel, 
to divert the conversation to the subject of learn 
ing, more especially clerical learning. 

In answer to a remark of mine on the satis- 
faction I had felt in seeing such a happy union 
of learning and piety in two clergymen who had 
lately dined at the Grove, Mr. Stanley said, 'Li- 
terature is an excellent thing, when it is not the 
best thing a man has. It cannot surely be an 
offence to our Maker to cultivate carefully his 
highest natural gift, our reason. In pious men 
it is peculiarly important, as the neglect of such 
cultivation, in certain individuals, has led to 
much error in religion, and given much just 
offence to the irreligious, who are very sharp- 



sighted to the faults of pious characters, t, 
therefore truly rejoice to see a higher tone of 
literature now prevailing, especially in so many 
of our pious young divines ; the deficiency of 
learning in some of their well-meaning prede- 
cessors having served to bring not only them- 
selves, but religion also into contempt, especially 
with men who have only learning. 

Tyrrel. ' I say nothing against the necessity 
of learning in a lawyer, because it may help 
him to lead a judge, and to mislead a jury ; nor 
in a physician, because it may advance his cre- 
dit by enabling him to conceal the deficiencies 
of his art; nor in a private gentleman, because 
it may keep him out of worse mischief. But I 
see no use of learning in the clergy. There is 
my friend Dr. Barlow. I would willingly give 
up all his learning, if he would go a little deeper 
into the doctrines he professes to preach.' 

Mr. Stanley. ' I should indeed think Dr. Bar- 
low's various knowledge of little value, did he 
exhibit the smallest deficiency in the great 
points to which you allude. But when I am per- 
suaded that his learning is so far from detract- 
ing from his piety, that it enables him to render 
it more extensively useful, I cannot wish him 
dispossessed of that knowledge which adorns his 
religion without diminishing its good effects.' 

Tyrrel. ' You will allow that those first great 
publishers of Christianity, the Apostles, had 
none of th's vain learning.' 

Stanley. ' It is frequently pleaded by the de- 
spisers of learning, that the Apostles were illite- 
rate. The fact is too notorious, and the answer 
too obvious to require to be dwelt upon. But it 
is unfortunately adduced to illustrate a position 
to which it can never apply, the vindication of 
an unlettered clergy. It is a hacknied remark, 
but not the less true for being old, that the wis- 
dom of God chose to accomplish the first pro- 
mulgation of the gospel by illiterate men, to 
prove that the work was his own, and that the 
success depended not on the instruments em- 
ployed, but on the divinity of the truth itself. 
But if the Almighty chose to establish his reli- 
gion by miracles, he chooses to carry it on by 
other means. And he no more sends an ignorant 
peasant or fisherman to instruct men in Chris- 
tianity now, than he appointed a Socrates or a 
Plato to be its publishers at first. As, however, 
there is a great difference in the situations, so 
there may be a proportionable difference allow- 
ed in the attainments of the clergy. I do not 
say it is necessary for every village Curate to be 
a profound scholar ; but as he may not always 
remain in obscurity, there is no necessity for 
his being a contemptible one.' 

Sir John. ' What has been said of those who 
affect to despise birth has been applied also to 
those who decry learning ; neither is ever un- 
dervalued except by men who are destitute of 
them : and it is worthy of observation, that as 
literature and religion both sunk together in the 
dark ages, so both emerged at'the same auspi- 
cious a?ra. 

Mr. Stanley, finding that Dr. Barlow was not 
forward to embark in a subject which he con- 
sidered as rather personal, said, ' Is it presump- 
tuous to observe, that though the Apostles were 
unlettered men, yet those instruments who were 



352 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



to be employed in services singularly difficult, 
the Almighty condescended partly to fit for 
their peculiar work by great human attain- 
ments ? The Apostle of the Gentiles was 
brought up at the feet of Gamaliel ; and Moses, 
who was destined to the high office of a great 
legislator, was instructed in all the wisdom of 
the most learned nation then existing. The 
Jewish law-giver, though under the guidance of 
inspiration itself, did not fill his station the 
worse for this preparatory instruction. To how 
important a use the Apostle converted his erudi- 
tion, we may infer from his conduct in the most 
learned and polished assembly in the world. He 
did not unnecessarily exasperate the polite Athe- 
nians by coarse upbraiding, or illiterate clamour, 
but he attacked them on their own ground. With 
what discriminating wisdom, with what power- 
ful reasoning did he unfold to them that God 
whom they ignorantly worshipped ! With what 
temper, with what elegance did he expose their 
shallow theology ! Had he been as unacquainted 
with their religion, as they were with his, he 
had wanted the appropriate ground on which 
to build his instruction. He seized on the in- 
scription of their own pagan altar, as a text 
from which to preach the doctrines of Chris- 
tianity. From his knowledge of their errors, 
he was enabled to advance the cause of truth. 
He made their poetry, which he quoted, and 
their mythology which he would not have been 
able to explode if he had not understood it, a 
thesis from which to deduce the doctrine of the 
Resurrection: thus softening their prejudices 
and letting them see the infinite superiority of 
that Christianity which he enforced, to the mere 
learning and mental cultivation on which they 
so highly valued themselves. By the same so- 
Der discretion, accurate reasoning, and graceful 
elegance, he afterwards obtained a patient hear- 
ing, and a favourable judgment from king 
Agrippa.' 

Dr. Barlow. ' It has always appeared to me, 
that a strong reason why the younger part of a 
clergyman's life should be in a good measure 
devoted to learning is, that he may afterwards 
discover its comparative vanity. It would have 
been a less difficult sacrifice for St. Paul to pro- 
fess that he renounced all things for religion, if 
he had had nothing to renounce ; and to count 
all things as dross in the comparison, if he had 
had no gold to put in the empty scale. Gregory 
Nazianzen, one of the most accomplished mas- 
ters of Greek literature, declared that the chief 
value which he set upon it was, that in possess- 
ing it he had something of worth in itself to 
esteem as nothing in comparison of Christian 
truth. And it is delightful to hear Selden and 
Grotius, and Pascal and Salmasius, whom I 
may be allowed to quote, without being suspect- 
ed of professional prejudice, as none of them 
were clergymen, while they warmly recom- 
mended to others, that learning, of which they 
themselves were the most astonishing examples, 
at the same time dedicating their lives to the 
advancement of religion. It is delightful, I say, 
to hear them acknowledge that their learning 
wa9 only valuable as it put it in their power to 
promote Christianity, and to have something to 
sacrifice for its sake.' 



Tyrrel. • I can willingly allow that a poet, a 
dramatic poet especially, may study the works 
of the groat critics of antiquity with some profit; 
but that a Christian writer of sermons can have 
any just ground for studying a Pagan critic, is 
to me quite inconceivable.' 

Stanley. ' And yet, Mr. Tyrrel, a sermon is 
a work which demands regularity of plan, as 
well as a poem. It requires too, something of 
the same unity, arrangement, divisions and lucid 
order as a tragedy ; something of the exordium 
and the peroration which belong to the compo- 
sition of the orator. I do not mean that he is 
constantly to exhibit all this, but he should al- 
ways understand it. And a discreet clergyman, 
especially one who is to preach before auditors 
of the higher rank, and who, in order to obtain 
respect from them, wishes to excel in the art of 
composition, will scarcely be less attentive to 
form his judgment by some acquaintance with 
Longinus and Quintilian than a dramatic poet. 
A writer of verse, it is true, may please to a cer- 
tain degree by the force of mere genius, and a 
writer of sermons will instruct by the mere 
power of his piety; but neither the one nor the 
other will ever write well, if they do not possess 
the principles of good writing, and form them- 
selves on the models of good writers.' 

' Writing,' said Sir John, ' to a certain degree 
is an art, or, if you please, a trade. And as no 
man is allowed to set up in an ordinary trade 
till he has served a long apprenticeship to its 
mysteries, (the word, I think, used in inden- 
tures,) so no man should set up for a writer, till 
he knows somewhat of the mysteries of the art 
he is about to practice. He may, after all, if 
he wants talents, produce a vapid and inefficient 
book ; but possess what talents he may, he will 
without knowledge, produce a crude and indi- 
gested one.' 

Tyrrel. ' Still I insist upon it, that in a Chris- 
tian minister the lustre of learning is tinsel, and 
human wisdom folly.' 

Stanley. 'I am entirely of your opinion, if he 
rests in his learning as an end instead of using 
it as a means ; if the fame, or the pleasure, or 
even the human profit of learning be his ulti- 
mate object. Learning in a clergyman without 
religion is dross, is nothing ; not so religion 
without learning. I am persuaded that much 
good is done by men who, though deficient in 
this respect, are abundant in zeal and piety ; 
but the good they do arises from the exertion 
of their piety, and not from the deficiency of 
their learning. Their labours are beneficial 
from the talent they exercise, and not from their 
want of another talent. The Spirit of God can 
work, and often does work by feeble instruments; 
and divine truth by its own omnipotent energy, 
can effect its own purposes. But particular in- 
stances do not go to prove that the instrument 
ought not to be fitted and polished, and sharpen 
ed for its allotted work. Every student should 
be emulously watchful that he does not diminish 
the stock of professional credit by his idleness • 
he should be stimulated to individual exertion, 
by bearing in mind that the English clergy 
have always been allowed by foreigners to be 
the most learned body in the world.' 

Dr. Barlow. ' What Mr. Stanley has said of 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



353 



►he value of knowledge, does not at all militate 
against such fundamental prime truths — 'This 
is eternal life to know God and Jesus Christ 
whom he has sent — I desire to know nothing, 
save Jesus Christ. — The natural man cannot 
know the things of the Spirit of God,' and a hun- 
dred other such passages.' 

Tyrrcl. 'Ave, Doctor, now you talk a little 
more lrke a Christian minister. But from the 
greater part of what has been asserted, you are 
all of you such advocates for human reason and 
human learning, as to give an air of paganism 
f o your sentiments.' 

Stanley. ' It does not diminish the utility, 
Plough it abases the pride of learning, that Chris- 
tianity did not come into the world by human 
discovery, or the disquisitions of reason, but by 
immediate revelation. Those who adopt your 
way of thinking, Mr. Tyrrel, should bear in 
mind, that the work of God, in changing the 
heart, is not intended to supply the place of the 
human faculties. God expects, in his most 
highly favoured servants, the diligent exercise 
of their natural powers ; and if any human being 
has a stronger call for the exercise of wisdom 
and judgment than another, it is a religious 
clergyman. Christianity does not supersede the 
use of natural gifts, but turns them into their 
proper channel. 

' One distinction has often struck me. The 
enemy of mankind seizes on the soul through 
the medium of the passions and senses ; the 
divine friend of man addresses him through 
his rational powers — the eyes of your under- 
standing being enlightened, says the Apostle.' 

Here I ventured to observe, that the highest 
panegyric bestowed on one of the brightest lu- 
minaries of our church, is that his name is sel- 
dom mentioned without the epithet judicious 
being prefixed to it. Yet does Hooker want 
fervour? — Does Hooker want zeal? — Does 
Hooker want courage in declaring the whole 
counsel of God? 

Sir John. ' I hope we have now no clergyman 
to whom we may apply, the biting sarcasm of 
Dr. South, on some of the popular but illite- 
rate preachers of the opposite party in his day, 
that there was all the confusion of Babel, with- 
tut the gift of tongues.' 

Stanley. ' And yet that party produced some 
r eat scholars, and many eminently pious men. 
Bat look back to that day, and especially to the 
period a little antecedent to it, at those prodi- 
gies of erudition, the old Bishops and other di- 
vines of our Church. They were, perhaps, some- 
what too profuse of their learning in their dis- 
courses, or rather they were so brimful, that 
they involuntarily overflowed. A juster taste, 
in our time, avoids that lavish display, which 
then not only crowded the margin, but forced it- 
self into every part of the body of the work. 
The display of erudition might be wrong, but 
one thing is clear, it proved they had it, and as 
Dryden said, when he was accused of having 
too much wit, 'after all, it is a good crime.' 

' We may justly,' said Dr. Barlow, ' in the re- 
finement of modern taste, censure their prolixity, 
and ridicule their redundancies ; we may smile 
at their divisions, '.vhich are numberless ; and 
at their sub-divisions, which are endless : we 

Vol. II. Z 



may allow that this labour for perspicuity some- 
times produced perplexity. But let us confess 
they always went to the bottom of whatever 
they embarked in. They ransacked the stores 
of ancient learning, and the treasures of modern 
science, not to indulge their vanity by obtruding 
their acquirements, but to prove, to adorn, and 
to illustrate the doctrine they delivered. How 
incredible must their industry have been, when 
the bare transcript of their volumnious folios 
seems alone sufficient to have occupied a loner 
life !' ^ B 

' The method,' said I, ' which they adopted 
of saying every thing that could be said on all 
topics, and exhausting them to the very dregs, 
though it may and does tire the patience of 
the reader, yet it never leaves him ignorant ; and, 
of two evils, had not an author better be tedious 
than superficial ? From an overflowing vessel 
you may gather more indeed than you want, 
but from an empty one you can gather nothing.' 

Tyrrel. ' It appears to me that you wish to 
make a clergyman every thing but a Christian, 
and to bestow upon him every requisite except 
faith.' 

Stanley. • God forbid that I should make any 
comparison between human learning and Chris, 
tian principle ; the one is indeed lighter than the 
dust of the balance, when weighed against the 
other. All I contend for is, that they are not 
incompatible, and that human knowledge, used 
only in subserviency to that of the Scriptures, 
may advance the interests of religion. For the 
better elucidation of those scriptures a clergy- 
man should know not a little of ancient lan- 
guages. Without some insight into remote his- 
tory and antiquities, especially the Jewish, he 
will be unable to explain many of the manners 
and customs recorded in the sacred volume. 
Ignorance in some of these points, has drawn 
many attacks on our religion from sceptical 
writers. As to a thorough knowledge of eccle- 
siastical history, it would be superfluous to re- 
commend that, it being the history of his own 
immediate profession. It is therefore requisite, 
not only for the general purposes of instruction, 
but that he may be enabled to guard against 
modern innovation, by knowing the origin and 
progress of the various heresies with which the 
Church in all ages has been infested. 

Tyrrel. ' But he may be thoroughly acquaint- 
ed with all this, and not have one spark of light.' 

Dr. Barlow. ' He may indeed with deep con- 
cern I allow it. I will go further. The pride 
of learning, when not subdued by religion may- 
help to extinguish that spark. — Reason has 
been too much decried by one party, and too 
much deified by the other. Tne difference 
between reason and revelation seems to be 
the same as between the eye and the light ; the 
one is the organ of vision, the other the souice 
of illumination.' 

Tyrrel. ' Take notice, Stanley, that if I can 
help it, I'll never attend your accomplished 
clergyman.' 

Stanley. (Smiling) 'I have not yet completed 
the circle of his accomplishment — Besides what 
we call book learning, there is another species 
of knowledge in which some truly good men 
are sadly deficient; I mean an acquaintance 



354 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



with human nature. The knowledge of the 
world, and of Him who made it ; the study of 
the heart of man, and of him, who has the hearts 
of all men in his hand, enables a minister to excel 
in the art of instruction ; one kind of knowledge 
reflecting light upon the other. The knowledge 
of mankind, then, I may venture to assert, is, 
next to religion, one of the first requisites of a 
preacher; and I cannot help ascribing the little 
success which has sometimes attended the mi- 
nistry of even worthy men, to their want of this 
grand ingredient. It will diminish the use they 
might make of the great doctrines of our reli- 
gion, if they are ignorant of the various modifi- 
cations of the human character to which those 
doctrines are to be addressed. 

' As no man ever made a true poet without 
this talent, one may venture to say, that few 
without it have ever made eminent preachers. 
Destitute of this, the most elaborate addresses 
will be only random shot, which if they hit, will 
be more owing to chance than to skill. With- 
out this knowledge, warned by Christian affec- 
tion, guid-ed by Christian judgment, and tem- 
pered with Christian meekness, a clergyman 
will not be able in the pulpit to accommodate 
himself to the various wants of his hearers; 
without this knowledge, in his private spiritual 
visits, he will resemble those empirics in medi- 
cine who have but one method of treatment for 
all diseases, and who apply indiscriminately the 
same pill and the same drop to the various dis- 
tempers of all ages, sexes, and constitutions. 
This spirit of accommodation does not consist 
in falsifying, or abridging, or softening, or dis- 
guising, any truth ; but in applying truth in 
every form, communicating it in every direc- 
tion, and diverting it into every channel. Some 
good men seem sadly to forget that precept — 
making a difference — for they act as if all cha- 
racters were exactly alike.' 

Tyrrel. ' You talk as if you would wish 
clergymen to depart from the singleness of 
truth, and preach two gospels.' 

Stanley. ' Far from it. But though truth is 
single, the human character is multiplied almost 
to infinity, and cannot be addressed with advan- 
tage if it be not well understood. I am ashamed 
of having said so much on such a subject in 
presence of Dr. Barlow, who is silent through 
delicacy. I will only add, that a learned young 
clergyman is not driven for necessary relaxa- 
tion to improper amusements. His mind will 
be too highly set, to be satisfied with those 
light diversions which purloin time without af- 
fording the necessary renovation to the body 
and spirits, which is the true and lawful end of 
all amusement. In all circumstances, learning 
confers dignity on his character. It enables 
him to raise the tone of general conversation, 
and is a safe kind of medium with persons of a 
higher class who are not religious ; and it will 
always put it in his power to keep the standard 
of intercourse above the degrading topics of di- 
version, sports and vulgar gossip.' 

Dr. Barlow. ' You see, Mr. Tyrrel, that a 
prudent combatant thinks only of defending 
himself on that side where he is assaulted. If 
Mr. Stanley's antagonist had been a vehement 
advocate for clerical learning as the great es- 



sential of his profession, he would have been 
the first to caution him against the pride and in- 
flation which often attend learning, when not 
governed by religion. — Learning not so govern- 
ed might injure Christian humility, and thus 
become a far more formidable enemy to religion 
than that which it was called in to oppose.' 

Sir John said, smiling, ' I will not apply to 
the clergy, what Rasselas says to Imlac, after he 
had been enumerating the numberless qualities 
necessary to the perfection of the poetic art— 
'Thou hast convinced me that no man can be a 
poet;' — but if all Stanley says be just, I will 
venture to assert that no common share of in- 
dustry and zeal will qualify a young student 
for that sacred profession. I have indeed no 
experience on the subject, as it relates to the 
clerical order ; but I conceive in general, that 
learning is the best human preservative of vir 
tue ; that it safely fills up leisure, and honour, 
ably adorns life, even where it does not form the 
business of it.' 

' Learning too,' said I, ' has this strong re- 
commendation, that it is the offspring of a most 
valuable virtue, I mean industry ; a quality on 
which I am ashamed to see Pagans frequently 
set a higher value than we seem to do.' 

' I believe indeed,' replied Sir John, ' that the 
ancients had a higher idea of industry and se- 
vere application than we have. Tully calls them 
the imperatori® virtutcs, and Alexander said that 
slaves might indulge in sloth, but that it was a 
most royal thing to labour.' 

Stanley. ■ It has been the error of sensible 
men of the world, to erect talents and learning 
into idols, which they would have universally 
and exclusively worshipped. — This has perhaps 
driven some religious men into such a fear of 
over culfivating learning, that they do not culti- 
vate it at all. Hence the intervals between their 
religious employments, and intervals there must 
be while we are vested with these frail bodies, 
are languid and insipid, wasted in trifling and 
sauntering. Nay, it is well if this disoccupation 
of the intellect do not lead from sloth to impro- 
per indulges.' 

' You are perfectly right,' said Sir John ; • our 
worthy friend Thompson is a living illustration 
of your remark. He was at college with us ; 
he brought from thence a competent share of 
knowledge ; has a fair understanding, and the 
manners of a gentleman. For several years past 
he has not only adopted a religious character, 
but is truly pious. As he is much in earnest, 
he very properly assigns a considerable portion 
of his time to religious reading. But as he is 
of no profession, the intermediate hours often 
hang heavy on his hands. He continues to live 
in some measure in the world, without the in- 
consistency of entering into its pursuits; but 
having renounced the study of human learning, 
and yet accustoming himself to mix occasion- 
ally with general society, he has few subjects in 
common with his company, but is dull and si- 
lent in all rational conversation, of which re- 
ligion is not the professed object. He takes so 
little interest in any literary or political discus- 
sion, however useful, that it is evident nothing 
but his good breeding prevents his falling asleep. 
At the same time he scruples not to violate con- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



355 



eistcncy in another respect, for his table is so 
elaborately luxurious, that it seems as if he 
were willing to add to the pleasures of sense, 
what he deducts from those of intellect.' 

4 1 have often thought,' said Mr. Stanley, ' of 
sending' him Dr. Barrow's three sermons on in- 
dustry in our calling as Christians, industry as 
gentlemen, and industry as scholars ; which ser- 
mons, by the way, I ir.tended to have made my 
son read at least once a year, had he lived, that 
he might see the consistency, the compatability, 
nay, the analogy of the two latter with the for- 
mer. I wish the spirit of these three discourses 
was infused into every gentleman, every scholar, 
and every Christian through the land. For my 
own part I should have sedulously laboured to 
make my son a sound scholar while I should 
have laboured still more sedulously to convince 
him that the value of learning depends solely on 
the purposes to which it is devoted. I would 
have a Christian gentleman able to beat the 
world at its own weapons, and convince it, that 
it is not from penury of mind, nor inability to 
distinguish himself in other matters, that he 
applies himself to seek that wisdom which is 
from above : that he does not fly to religion as 
a shelter from the ignominy of ignorance, but 
from a deep conviction of the comparative vani- 
ty of that very learning, which he yet is so as- 
siduous to acquire.' 

During this conversation, it was amusing to 
observe the different impressions made on the 
minds of our two college guests. Young Tyr- 
rel, who, with moderate parts and slender ap- 
plication, had been taught to adopt some of his 
uncle's dogmas, as the cheapest way of being 
wise, greedily swallowed his eulogium of cleri- 
cal ignorance, which the young man seemed to 
feel as a vindication of his own neglected stu- 
dies, and an encouragement to his own medi- 
ocrity cf intellect. While the interesting young 
baronet, though silent through modesty, disco- 
vered in his intelligent eyes, evident marks of 
satisfaction, in hearing that literature, for which 
he was every day acquiring a higher relish, 
warmly recommended as the best pursuit of a 
gentlemen, by the two men in the world, for 
whose judgment he entertained the highest 
reverence. At the same time it raised his vene- 
ration for Christian piety when he saw it so 
sedulously practised by these advocates for hu- 
man learning 



CHAP. XXII. 

During these conversations, I remarked that 
Lucilla, though she commonly observed the 
most profound silence, had her attention always 
riveted on the speaker. If that speaker was Dr. 
Barlow, or her father, or any one whom she 
thought entitled to particular respect, she gently 
laid down her work, and as quietly resumed it 
when they had done speaking. 

I observed to Sir John Beliield, afterwards, as 
we were walking together, how modestly flatter- 
ing her manner was when any of us were read- 
ing ! How intelligent her silence ' How well- 
bred her attention '. 



• I have often contrasted it,' replied he, ■ with 
the manner of some other ladies of my acquaint- 
ance, who are sometimes of our quiet evening 
party. When one is reading history, or any or- 
dinary book aloud to them, I am always pleased 
that they should pursue their little employments. 
It amuses themselves and gives ease and fami- 
liarity to the social circle. But while I have 
been reading, as has sometimes happened, a 
passage of the highest sublimity, or most tender 
inteiest, I own I feel a little indignant to see 
the shuttle plied with as eager assiduity, as if 
the destinies themselves were weaving the 
thread. I have known a lady take up the can- 
dlestick to search for her netting-pin, in the 
midst of Cato's soliloquy ; or stoop to pick up 
her scisrars while Hamlet says to the ghost, 
'I'll go no farther.' I remember another who 
would whisper across the table to borrow thread 
while Lear has been raving in the storm, or 
Macbeth starting at the spirit of Banquo ; and 
make signs for a thread-paper, while cardinal 
Beaufort ' dies, and makes no sign.' Nay, once 
I remember when I was with much agitation 
hurrying through the gazette of the battle of 
Trafalgar, while I pronounced almost agonized, 
the last memorable words of the immortal Nel- 
son, I heard one lady whisper to another, that 
she had broke her needle.' 

' It would be difficult to determine, replied I, 
whether this inattention most betrays want of 
sense, of feeling, or of good breeding. The habit 
of attention should be carefully formed in early 
life, and then the mere force of custom would 
teach these ill-bred women ' to assume the virtue 
if they have it not.' 

The family at the Grove was, with us, an in- 
exhaustible topic whenever we met. I observed 
to Sir John, ' that I had sometimes observed in 
charitable families a display, a bustle, a kind of 
animal restlessness, a sort of mechanical besoin 
to be charitably bu3y. That though they ful- 
filled conscientiously one part of the Apostolic 
injunction, that of 'giving,' yet they failed in 
the other clause, that of doing it ' with simpli- 
city.' ' Yes,' replied he, ' I visit a charitable 
lady in town, who almost puts me out of love 
with benevolence. Her own bounties form the 
entire subject of her conversation. As soon as 
the breakfast is removed, the table is always re- 
gularly covered with plans, and proposals, and 
subscription papers. This display conveniently 
performs the three-fold office of publishing her 
own charities, furnishing subjects of altercation, 
and raising contributions on the visitor. Her 
narratives really cost me more than my sub- 
scription. She is so full of debate, and detail, 
and opposition ; she makes you read so many 
papers of her own drawing up, and so many an- 
swers to the schemes of other people, and she 
has so many objections to every other person's 
mode of doing good, and so many arguments to 
prove that her own is the best, that she appears 
less like a benevolent lady than a chicaning 
attorney.' 

' Nothing,' said I, ' corrects this bustling 
bounty so completely, as when it is mixed up 
with religion ; I should rather say, as when it 
flows from religion. This motive, so far from 
diminishing the energy, augments it; but it 



356 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



cures the display, and converts the irritation in- 
to a principle. It transfers the activity from the 
tongue to the heart. It is the only sort of cha- 
rity which ' blesses twice.' All charity, indeed, 
blesses the receiver; but the blessing promised 
to the giver, I have sometimes trembled to think, 
may be forfeited even by a generous mind, from 
ostentation and parade in the manner, and want 
of purity in the motive.' 

4 In Stanley's family,' replied he, in a more 
serious tone, ' I have met with a complete refuta- 
tion of that favourite maxim of the world, that 
religion is a dull thing itself, and makes its pro- 
fessors gloomy and morose. Charles! I have 
often frequented houses where pleasure was the 
avowed object of idolatry. But to see the vota- 
ries of the ' reeling goddess,' after successive 
nights passed in her temples ! to see the languor, 
the listlessness, the discontent — you would ra- 
ther have taken them for her victims than her 
worshippers. So little mental vivacity, so little 
gayety of the heart ! In short, after no careless 
observation, I am compelled to declare, that I 
never saw two forms less alike than those of 
Pleasure and Happiness.' 

4 Your testimony, Sir John,' said I, 4 is of 
great weight in a case of which you are so ex- 
perienced a judge. What a different scene do 
we now contemplate! Mr. Stanley seems to 
have diffused his own spirit through the whole 
family. What makes his example of such effi- 
cacy is, that he considers the Christian temper 
as so considerable a part of Christianity. This 
temper seems to imbue his whole soul, pervade 
his whole conduct, and influence his whole con- 
versation. I see every day some fresh occasion 
to admire his candour, his humility, his con- 
stant reference, not as a topic of discourse, but 
as a principle of conduct, to the gospel, as the 
standard by which actions are weighed. His 
conscientious strictness of speech, his serious 
reproof of calumnies, his charitable construction 
of every case which has two sides; 4 his simpli- 
city and godly sincerity ;' his rule of referring 
all events to providential direction, and his in- 
variable habit of vindicating the divine good- 
ness under dispensations apparantly the most 
unfavourable.' 

Here Sir John left me, and I could not for- 
bear pursuing the subject in soliloquy as I pro- 
ceeded in my walk.— I reflected with admira- 
tion that Mr. Stanley in his religious conversa- 
tion, rendered himself so useful, because instead 
of the uniform nostrum of the drop and the pill, 
he applied a different class of arguments as the 
case required, to objectors to the different parts 
of Christianity ; to ill informed persons who 
adopted a partial gospel without understanding 
it as a scheme, or embracing it as a whole. — 
To those who allow its truth merely on the same 
ground of evidence that establishes the truth of 
any other well authenticated history ; and who, 
satisfied with this external evidence, not only 
do not feel its power on their own heart, but de- 
ny that it has any such influence on the hearts 
of others ;— to those who believe the gospel to 
be a mere code of ethics ; — to their antipodes 
who assert that Christ has lowered the requisi- 
tions of the law ; — to Lady Belfield who rests on 
her charities, — Sir John on his correctness, — 



Lady Aston on her austerities ; — to this man 
who values himself solely on the stoutness of 
his orthodoxy ; to another on the firmness of his 
integrity ; to a third on the peculiarities of his 
party, he addresses himself with a particular 
view to their individual errors. This ho does 
with such a discriminating application to the 
case, as might lead the ill informed to suspect 
that he was not equally earnest in those other 
points, which not being attacked he docs not 
feel himself called on to defend, but which, had 
they been attacked, he would then have defend 
ed with equal zeal as relative to the discussion. 
To crown all, I contemplated that affectionate 
warmth of heart, that sympathizing kindness, 
that tenderness of feeling, of which the gay and 
the thoughtless fancy that they themselves pos- 
sess the monopoly, while they make over harsh- 
ness, austerity, and want of charity to religious 
men, as their inseparable characteristics. 

These qualities excite in my heart a freling 
compounded of veneration, and of love. And 
oil ! how impossible it is, even in religion itself, 
to be disinterested! All these excellencies I 
contemplate with a more heartfelt delight from 
the presumptuous hope that I may one daj h»ve 
the felicity of connecting myself still motr* in 
timately with them. 



CHAP. XXIII. 

Some days after, while we were conversing 
over our tea, we heard the noise of a carriage; 
and Mr. Stanley looking out from a bow win- 
dow in which he and I were sitting, said, it 
was Lady and Miss Rattle driving up the ave- 
nue. He had just time to add, ' these are our 
fine neighbours. They always make us a visit 
as soon as they come down, while all the gloss 
and lustre of London is fresh upon them. We 
have always our regular routine of conversation. 
While her Ladyship is pouring the fashions into 
Mrs. Stanley's ear, Miss Rattle, who is about 
Phrebe's age, entertains my daughters and me 
with the history of her own talents and acquire- 
ments.' 

Here they entered. After a few compliments, 
Lady Rattle seated herself between Lady Bel- 
field and Mrs. Stanley, at the upper end of the 
room ; while the fine, sprightly, boisterous girl 
of fifteen or sixteen threw herself back on the 
sofa at nearly her full length, between Mr. Stan- 
ley and me, the Miss Stanleys and Sir John 
sitting near us, within hearing of her lively lo- 
quacity. 

4 Well, Miss Amelia,' said Mr. Stanley, 4 1 
dare say you have made good use of your time 
this winter ; I suppose you have ere now com- 
pleted the whole circle of the arts. Now let me 
hear what you have been doing, and tell me 
your whole achievements, as frankly as you 
used to do when you were a very little girl.* 
4 Indeed,' replied she, 4 1 have not been idle, if 
I must speak the truth. One has so many things 
to learn you know. I have gone on with my 
French and Italian of course, and I am begin- 
ning German. Then comes my drawing-master, 
he teaches me to paint flowers and shells, and 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



357 



to draw ruins and buildings, and to take views. 
He is a good soul, and is finishing a set of pic- 
tures, and half a dozen fire screens which I 
began for mamma. He does help me to be sure, 
but indeed, I do some of it myself, don't I, mam- 
ma ?' calling out to her mother, who was too 
much absorbed in her own narratives to attend 
to her daughter. 

' And then,' pursued the young prattler, ' I 
learn varnishing, and gilding, and japanning. 
And next winter I shall learn modelling, and 
etching, and engraving in mezzotinto and aqua- 
tin ta, for Lady Di. Dash learns etching, and 
mamma says, as I shall have a better fortune 
than Lady Di, she vows I shall learn every thing 
she does. Then I have a dancing-master, who 
teaches me the Scotch and Irish steps; and an- 
other who teaches me attitudes, and I shall soon 
learn the waltz, and I can stand longer on one 
leg already than Lady Di. Then I have a sing- 
ing-master, and another who teaches me the 
harp, and another for the piano-forte. And 
what little time I can spare from these principal 
things, I give by odd minutes to ancient and mo- 
dern history, and geography, and astronomy, and 
grammar, and botany. Then I attend lectures on 
chemistry, and experimental philosophy, for as I 
am not yet come out, I have not much to do in the 
evenings ; and mamma says, there is nothing in 
the world that money can pay for, but what I 
shall learn. And I run so delightfully fast from 
one thing to another that I am never tired. 
What makes it so pleasant is, as soon as I am 
fairly set in with one master, another arrives. 
I should hate to be long at the same tiling. 
But I shan't have a great while to work so hard, 
for as soon as I come out, I shall give it all up, 
except music and dancing.' 

All this time Lucilla sat listening with a 
smile, behind the complacency of which she 
tried to conceal her astonishment. Phrebe, who 
had less self-controul, was on the very verge of 
a broad laugh. Sir John, who had long lived in 
a soil where this species is indigenous, had been 
too long accustomed to all its varieties, to feel 
much astonishment at this specimen, which, 
however, he sat contemplating with philosophi- 
cal, but discriminating coolness. 

For my own part, my mind was wholly ab- 
sorbed in contrasting the coarse manners of 
this voluble and intrepid, but good humoured 
girl, with the quiet cheerful, and unassuming 
elegance of Lucilla. 

' I should be afraid, Miss Rattle,' said Mr. 
Stanley, ' if you did not look in such blooming 
health, that with all these incessant labours, you 
did not allow yourself time for rest. Surely 
you never sleep?' 

' Oh yes, that I do, and eat too,' said she ; ' my 
life is not quite so hard and moping as you fancy. 
What between shopping and morning visits with 
mamma, and seeing sights, and the park, and 
the gardens, (which, by the way, I hate, except 
on a Sunday when they are crowded,) and our 
young balls, which are four or five in a week 
after Easter, and mamma's music parlies at 
home, I contrive to enjoy myself tolerably ; 
though after I have been presented, I shall be a 
thousand time better off, for then I shan't have 
a moment to myself. Won't that be delightful ?' 



said she, twitching my arm, rather roughly, by 
way of recalling my attention, which however 
had seldom wandered. 

As she had now run out her London mate- 
rials, the news of the neighbourhood next fur- 
nished a subject for her volubility. After she 
had mentioned in detail one or two stories of 
low village gossip; while I was wondering how 
she should come at them, she struck me dumb 
by quoting the coachman as her authority 
This enigma was soon explained. The mother 
and daughter having exhausted their different 
topics of discourse nearly at the same time, they 
took their leave, in order to enrich every family 
in the neighbourhood, on whom they were going 
to call, with the same valuable knowledge which 
they had imparted to us. 

Mr. Stanley conducted Lady Rattle, and led 
her daughter ; but as I offered to hand her into 
the carriage, she started back with a sprightly 
motion, and screamed out, ' Oh no, not in the 
inside, pray help me up to the Dickey. I al- 
ways protest I never will ride with any body 
but the coachman, if we go ever so far.' So say- 
ing, with a spring which showed how much she 
despised my assistance, the little hoyden was 
seated in a moment, nodding familiarly at me, 
as if I had been an old friend. 

Then with a voice, emulating that which, 
when passing by Charing-Cross, I have heard 
issued from an over stuffed stage vehicle, when 
a robust sailor has thrust his body out at the 
window, the fair creature vociferated, ' Drive on, 
coachman !' He obeyed, and turning round her 
whole person, she continued nodding at me till 
they were out of sight. 

' Here is a mass of accomplishments,' said I, 
' without one particle of mind, one ray of com- 
mon sense, or one shade of delicacy ! — Surely 
somewhat less time, and less money might have 
sufficed to qualify a companion for the coach- 
man!' 

' What poor creatures are we men,' said I to 
Mr. Stanley as soon as he came in ! ' We think 
it very well, if after much labour and long ap- 
plication we can attain to one or two of the 
innumerable acquirements of this gay little girl. 
Nor is this I find the rare achievement of one 
happy genius. There is a whole class of these 
miraculous females. — Miss Rattle 

' Is knight o' th' shire, and represents them all.' 

' It is only young ladies,' replied he, • whose 
vast abilities, whose mighty grasp of mind, can 
take in every thing. Among men, learned men, 
talents are commonly directed into some one 
channel, and fortunate is he, who in that one at- 
tains to excellence. The linguist is rarely a 
painter, nor is the mathematician often a poet. 
Even in one profession there are divisions and 
subdivisions.— The same lawyer never thinks 
of presiding both in the King's Bench, and in 
the Court of Chancery. The science of heal- 
ing is not only divided into its three distinct 
branches, but in the profession of Surgery only, 
how many are the subdivisions ! One professor 
undertakes the eye, another the ear, and a third 
the teeth. But woman, ambitious, aspiring, 
universal, triumphant, glorious woman, even at 
the age of a school boy, encounters the whole 



358 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



range of arts, attacks the whole circle of 
sciences !' 

'A mighty maze, and quite without a plan,' 
replied Sir John, laughing. ' But the truth 
is, the misfortune does not so much consist 
in their learning every thing as in their know- 
ing nothing; I mean nothing well. When 
gold is beaten out so wide, the lamina must 
needs be very thin. And you may observe, the 
more valuable attainments, though they are not 
to be left out of the modish plan, are kept in the 
back ground ; and are to be picked up out of 
the odd remnants of that time, the sum of which 
is devoted to frivolous accomplishments. All 
this gay confusion of acquirements, these holi- 
day splendours, this superfluity of enterprize, 
enumerated in the first part of her catalogue, is 
the real business of education ; the latter part is 
incidental, and if taught is not learnt. 

'As to the lectures so boastfully mentioned, 
they may doubtless be made very useful sub- 
sidiaries to instruction. They most happily 
illustrate book-knowledge; but if the pupil's in- 
struction in private do not precede, and keep 
pace, with these useful public exhibitions, her 
knowledge will be only presumptuous igno- 
rance. She may learn to talk of oxygen and 
hydrogen, and deflagration, and trituration, but 
she will know nothing of the science except the 
terms. It is not knowing the name of his tools 
that makes an artist ; and I should be afraid of 
the vanity which such superficial information 
would communicate to a mind, not previously 
prepared, nor exercised at home in correspond- 
ing studies. But as Miss Rattle honestly con- 
fessed, as soon as she comes out all these things 
will die away of themselves, and dancing and 
music will be almost all which will survive her 
multifarious pursuits.' 

4 1 look upon the great predominance of music 
in female education,' said Mr. Stanley, ' to be 
the source of more mischief than is suspect- 
ed ; not from any evil in the thing itself, but 
from its being such a gulph of time, as really to 
leave little room for solid acquisitions. I love 
music, and were it only cultivated as an amuse- 
ment, should commend it. But the monstrous 
proportion, or rather disproportion of life which 
it swallows up, even in many religious families, 
and this is the chief subject of my regret, has 
converted an innocent diversion into a positive 
sin. I question if many gay men devote more 
hours in a day to idle purposes, than the daugh- 
ters of many pious parents spend in this amuse- 
ment. All these hours the mind lies fallow, im- 
provement is at a stand, if even it does not re- 
trogade. Nor is the shreds and scraps of time, 
stolen in the intervals of better things, that is so 
devoted ; but it is the morning, the prime, the 
profitable, the active hours, when the mind is 
vigorous, the spirits light, the intellect awake 
and fresh, and the whole being wound up by the 
refreshment of sleep, and animated by the re- 
turn of light and life, for nobler services.' 

' If,' said Sir John, music were cultivated to 
embellish retirement, to be practised where 
pleasures are scarce, and good performers are 
not to be had, it would quite alter the case. But 
the truth is, these highly taught ladies are not 
only living in public where they constantly hear 



the most exquisite professors, but they have them 
also at their own houses. Now one of these two 
things must happen ; Either the performance 
of the lady will be so inferior as not to be worth 
hearing on the comparison, or so good that she 
will fancy herself the rival, instead of the ad- 
mirer of the performer, whom she had better pay 
and praise than fruitlessly emulate.' 

' This anxious struggle to reacli the unattain- 
able excellence of the professor,' said Mr. Stan- 
ley, 'often brings to my mind the contest for 
victory between the ambitious nightingale and 
the angry lunatist in the beautiful Prolusion of 
Strada.' 

' It is to the predominance of this talent,' re- 
plied I, ' that I ascribe that want of companion- 
ableness of which I complain. The excellence 
of musical performance is a decorated screen, 
behind which all defects in domestic knowledge, 
in taste, judgment and literature, and the ta. 
lents which make an elegant companion, are 
credibly concealed. 

I have made,' said Sir John, ' another remark. 
Young ladies, who from apparent shyness do 
not join in the conversation of a small select 
party, are always ready enough to entertain 
them with music on the slightest hint. Surely 
it is equally modest to say as to sing, especially 
to sing those melting strains we sometimes hear 
sung, and which we should be ashamed to hear 
said. After all, how few hours are there in a 
week, in which a man engaged in the pursuits 
of life, and a woman in the duties of a family 
wish to employ in music. I am fond of it myself, 
and Lady Belfield plays admirably; but with 
the cares inseparable from the conscientious dis- 
charge of her duty with so many children, how 
little time has she to play, or I to listen ! But 
there is no day, no hour, no meal in which I do 
not enjoy in her the ever ready pleasure of an 
elegant and interesting companion. A man of 
sense, when all goes smoothly, wants to be en- 
tertained ; under vexation to be soothed ; in 
difficulties to be counselled ; in sorrow to be com- 
forted. In a mere artist can he reasonably look 
for these resources'?' 

' Only figure to yourself,' replied Mr. Stanley, 
'my six girls daily playing their four hours a 
a piece, which is- now a moderate allowance! 
As we have but one instrument they must be at 
it in succession, day and night, to keep pace 
with their neighbours. If I may compare light 
things with serious ones, it would resemble,' 
added he, smiling, 'the perpetual psalmody of 
good Mr. Nicholas Ferrar, who had relays of 
musicians every six hours to sing the whole 
Psalter through every day and night ! I mean 
not to ridicule that holy man ; but my girls thus 
keeping their useless vigils in turn, we should 
only have the melody without any of the piety. 
No, my friend ! I will have but two or three 
singing birds to cheer my little grove. If all 
the world are performers, there will soon be no 
hearers. Now, as I am resolved in my own 
family that some shall liaten, I will have but 
few to perform.' 

' It must be confessed,' said Sir John, 'that 
Miss Rattle is no servile imitator of the vapid 
tribe of the superficially accomplished. Her 
violent animal spirits prevent her from growing 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



359 



smooth by attrition. She is as rough and angu- 
lar as rusticity itself could have made her. 
Where strength of character, however, is only 
marked by the worst concomitant of strength, 
which is coarseness, I should almost prefer in- 
sanity itself.' 

' I should a little fear,' said I, 'that I lay too 
much stress on companionableness, on the posi- 
tive duty of being agreeable at home, had 1 not 
early learnt the doctrine from my father, and 
see« it exemplified so happily in the practice of 
my mother.' 

' I entirely agree with you, Charles,' said Mr. 
Stanley, ' as to the absolute morality of being 
agreeable, and even entertaining in one's own 
family circle. Nothing so soon and so certainly 
wears out the happiness of married persons, as 
that too common bad effect of familiarity, the 
sinking down into dulness and insipidity ; ne- 
glecting to keep alive the flame by the delicacy 
which first kindled it; want of vigilance in 
keeping the temper cheerful by Christian dis- 
cipline, and the faculties brig lit by constant use. 
Mutual affection decays of itsolf, even where 
there is no great moral turpitude, without mu- 
tual endeavours, not only to improve, but to 
amuse. 

* This,' continued he, * is one of the great arts 
of home enjoyment. That it is so little prac- 
tised accounts in a good measure for the undo- 
mestic turn of too many married persons. The 
man meets abroad with amusement, and the wo- 
man with attentions, to which they are not ac- 
customed at home. Whereas a capacity to 
please, on the one part, and a disposition to be 
pleased on the other, in their own house, would 
make most visits appear dull. But then the dis- 
position and the capacity must be cultivated an- 
tecedent to marriage. A woman whose whole 
education' has been rehearsal, will always be 
dull, except she lives on the stage, constantly 
displaying what she has been sedulously ac- 
quiring. Books, on the contrary, well chosen 
books, do not lead to exhibition. The knowledge 
a woman acquires in private desires no witness- 
es ; the possession is the pleasure. It improves 
herself, it embellishes her family society, it en- 
tertains her husband, it informs her children. 
The gratification is cheap, is safe, is always to 
be had at home.' 

'It is superfluous,' said Sir John, 'to deco- 
rate women so highly for early youth ; youth is 
itself a decoration. » We mistakenly adorn most 
that part of life which least requires it, and ne- 
glect to provide for that which will want it most. 
It is for that sober period, when life has lost its 
freshness, the passions their intenseness, and the 
spirits their hilarity, that we should be prepar- 
ing. Our wisdom would be to anticipate the 
wants of middle life, to lay in a store of notions, 
ideas, principles, and habits, which may pre- 
serve, or transfer to the mind that affection, 
which was at first partly attracted by the per- 
son. But to add a vacant mind to a form which 
has ceased to please ; to provide no subsidiary 
aid to beauty while it lasts, and especially no 
substitute when it is departed, is to render life 
comfortless, and marriage dreary.' 

' The reading of a cultivated woman,' said 
Mr. Stanley, ' commonly occupies less time than 



the music of a musical woman, or the idleness 
of an indolent woman, or the dress of a vain 
woman, or the dissipation of a fluttering woman, 
she is therefore likely to have moie leisure for 
her duties, as well as more inclination, and a 
sounder judgment for performing them. But, 
pray observe, that I assume my reading woman 
to be a religious woman ; and I will not answer 
for the effect of a literary vanity, more than for 
that of any other vanity, in a mind not habitually 
disciplined by Christian principle, the only safe 
and infallible antidote for knowledge of every 
kind. 

Before we had finished our conversation, we 
were interrupted by the arrival of the post. Sir 
John eagerly opened the newspaper ; but, in- 
stead of gratifying our impatience with the in- 
telligence for which we panted from the glorious 
Spaniards, he read a paragraph which stated 
' that Miss Den ham had eloped with Signior 
Squallini, that they were on their way to Scot- 
land, and that Lady Denham had been in fits 
ever since.' 

Lady Belfield, with her usual kindness, was 
beginning to express how much she pitied her 
old acquaintance. ' My dear Caroline,' said Sir 
John, ' there is too much substantial and inevi- 
table misery in the world, for you to waste much 
compassion on thip foolish woman. Lady Den- 
ham has little reason to be surprised at an event 
which all reasonable people must have antici- 
pated. Provoking and disgraceful as it is, what 
has she to blame but her own infatuation ? This 
Italian was the associate of all her pleasures ; 
the constant theme of her admiration. He was 
admitted when her friends were excluded. The 
girl was continually hearing that music was 
the best gift, and that Signior Squallini was the 
best gifted. ' Miss Denham,' added he laugh- 
ing, ' had more wit than your Strada's nightin- 
gale. Instead of dropping down dead on the 
lute for envy, she thought it better to run away 
with the lutanist for love. I pity the poor girl, 
however, who has furnished such a commenta- 
ry to our text, and who is rather the victim of a 
wretched education than of her own bad pro- 
pensities.' 



CHAP. XXIV. 

I had generally found that a Sunday passed 
in a visit was so heavy a day, that I had been 
accustomed so to arrange my engagements, as 
commonly to exclude this from the days spent 
from home. I had often found that even where 
the week had been pleasantly occupied, the ne- 
cessity of passing several hours of a season pe- 
culiarly designed for religious purposes, with 
people whose habits have little similarity with 
our own, either draws one into their relaxed 
mode of getting rid of the day, or drives one to 
a retirement, which having an unsociable ap- 
pearance, is liable to the reproach of austerity 
and gloom. 

The case was quite different at Stanley Grove. 
The seriousness was without severity, and the 
cheerfulness had no mixture of levity. The 
family seemed more than usually animated, and 
there was a variety in the religious pursuits of 



360 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the young people enlivened by intervals of cheer- 
ful and improving conversation, which peculiar- 
ly struck Lady Bel field. She observed to me 
that the difficulty of getting through the Sun- 
day, without any mixture of worldly occupations 
or amusements on the one hand, or of disgust 
and weariness on the other, was among the 
many right things which she had never been 
able to accomplish in her own family. 

As we walked from church on Sunday, Miss 
Stanley told me that her father does not approve 
the habit of criticising the sermon. He says 
that the custom of pointing out the faults can- 
not be maintained, without the custom of watch- 
ing for them ; that it gives the attention a 
wrong turn, and leads the hearer only to trea- 
sure up such passages as may serve for animad- 
version, and a display, not of Christian temper, 
but of critical skill. If the general tenor and 
principle be right, that is the main point they 
are to look to, and not to hunt for philological 
errors. That the hearer would do well to ob- 
serve, whether it is not ' he that sleeps,,' as often 
at least, as 'Homer nods:' a remark exempli- 
fied at church, as often as on the occasion which 
suggested it. That a critical spirit is the worst 
that can be brought out of church, being a 
symptom of an unhumbled mind, and an evi- 
dence, that whatever the sermon may have done 
for others, it has not benefitted the caviller. 

Here Mr. Stanley joined us. I found he did 
not encourage his family to take down the ser- 
mon. ' It is no disparagement,' said he, ' to 
the discourse preached, to presume that there 
may be as good already printed. Why there- 
fore not read the printed sermon at home in the 
evening, instead of that, by which you ought to 
have been improving while it was delivering ? 
If it be true that faith cometh by hearing, an in- 
ferior sermon, ' coming warm and instant from 
the heart,' assisted by all the surrounding so- 
lemnities which make a sermon heard so differ- 
ent from one read, may strike more forcibly 
than an abler discourse coolly perused at home. 
In writing, the mechanical act must necessarily 
lessen the effect to the writer, and to the spec- 
tator it diminishes the dignity of the scene, and 
seems like short-hand writers taking down a 
trial.' 

' But that my daughters may not plead this 
as an excuse for inattention,' continued ho, ' I 
make it a part of their evening duty to repeat 
what they retain, separately to me in my libra- 
ry. The consciousness that this repetition will 
be required of them, stimulates their diligence; 
and the exercise itself not only strengthens the 
memory, but habituates to serious reflection.' 

At tea, Phoebe, a charming warm-hearted 
creature, but who, now and then carried away 
by the impulse of the moment, forgets habits 
and prohibitions, said, ' I think, papa, Dr. Bar- 
low was rather dull to-day. There was nothing 
new in the sermon.' ' My dear,' replied her 
father, ' we do not go to church to hear news. 
Christianity is no novelty ; and though it is true 
that we go to be instructed, yet we require to 
be reminded full as much as to be taught. Gene- 
ral truths are what we all acknowledge, and all 
forget. We acknowledge them, because a gene- 
ral assent of the understanding costs but little ; 



, and we forget them, because the remembrance 
would force upon the conscience a great deal of 
practical labour. To believe, and remember, 
and act upon, common, undisputed, general 
truths, is the most important part of religion. 
This, though in fact very difficult, is overlooked, 
on account of its being supposed very easy. To 
keep Tip in the heart a lively impression of a ' 
few plain momentous truths, is of more use than 
the ablest discussion of an hundred controvert- 
ed points. 

' Now tell me, Phoebe, do you really think 
that you have remembered and practised all the 
instructions that you have received from Dr. 
Barlow's sermons last year 1 If you have, 
though you will have a better right to be criti- 
cal, you will be less disposed to be so. If you 
have not, do not complain that the sermon is 
not new, till you have made all possibie use of 
the old ones ; which if you had done, you would 
have acquired so much humility, that you would 
meekly listen even to what you already know. 
But however the discourse may have been su- 
perfluous to such deep divines as Miss Phoebe 
Stanley, it will be very useful to me, and to 
other hearers who are not so wise.' 

Poor Phoebe blushed up to her ears ; tears 
rushed into her eyes. She was so overcome 
with shame that, regardless of the company, she 
flew into her father's arms, and softly whisper- 
ed that if lie would forgive her foolish vanity, 
she would never again be above being taught. 
The fond, but not blind father, withdrew with 
her. Lucilla followed with looks of anxious love. 

During their short absence, Mrs. Stanley said, ■ 
' Lucilla is so practically aware of the truth of 
her father's observation, that she often says she 
finds as much advantage as pleasure in teaching 
the children at her school. This elementary in- 
struction obliges her continually to re'eur to first 
principles, to keep constant])' uppermost in her 
mind those great truths contained in the articles 
of our belief, the commandments, and the prayer 
taught by our Redeemer. This perpetual sim- 
plifying of religion, she assures me, keeps her 
more humble, fixes her attention on the funda- 
mental truths, and makes her more indifferent 
to controverted points.' 

In a few minutes Mr. Stanley and his daugh- 
ters returned cheerful and happy : Lucilla smil- 
ing like the angel of peace and love. 

1 If I were not afraid,' said Lady Belfield, * of 
falling under the same censure with my friend 
Phoebe,' smiling on the sweeet girl, ' I should 
venture to say that I thought the sermon rather 
too severe.' 

' Do not bo afraid, Madam,' replied Mr. Stan- 
ley : ' though I disapprove that cheap and cruel 
criticism which makes a man an offender for a 
word, yet discussion does not necessarily involve 
cehsoriousness ; so far from it, it is fair to dis- 
cuss whatever seems to be doubtful, and I shall 
be glad to hear your Ladyship's objections. 

' Well then,' replied she, in the most modest 
tone and accent, ' with all my reverence for Dr. 
Barlow, I thought him a little unreasonable in 
seeming to expect universal goodness from crea- 
tures whom he yet insisted were fallen crea- 
tures.' 

'Perhaps, Madam,' said Mr. Stanley, «you 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



361 



mistook his meaning, for he appeared to me 
perfectly consistent, not only with himself, but 
with his invariable rule and guide, the Scrip- 
tures. Sanctification, will you allow me to use 
so serious a word, however imperfect, must be 
universal. It is not the improvement of any 
one faculty, or quality, or temper, which divines 
mean, when they say we are renewed in part, 
so much as that the change is not perfect, the 
holiness is not complete in any part, or power, 
or faculty, though progressive in all. He who 
earnestly desires an universal victory over sin, 
knows which of his evil dispositions or affections 
it is, that is yet unsubdued. This rebellious 
enemy he vigilantly sets himself to watch against, 
to struggle with, and, through divine grace, to 
conquer. The test of his sincerity does not so 
much consist in avoiding many faults to which 
he has no temptation, as in conquering that one 
to which his natural bent and bias forcibly im- 
pels him.' 

Lady JBelfield said, ' But is it not impossible 
to bring every part of our nature under this ab- 
solute dominion ? Suppose a man is very pas- 
sionate and yet very charitable ; would yon look 
upon that person to be in a dangerous state ?' 

' It is not my province, Madam, to decide, 1 
replied Mr. Stanley. ' God,' as Bishop Sander- 
son says, 'reserves this royalty to himself, of 
being the searcher of hearts.' I cannot judge 
how far he resists anger, nor what are his secret 
struggles against it. — God, who expects not per- 
fection, expects sincerity. Though complete, 
unmixed goodness is not to be attained in this 
imperfect state, yet the earnest desire after it is 
the only sure criterion of the sincerity we pro- 
fess. If the man you allude to does not watch 
and pray, and strive against the passion of anger, 
which is his natural infirmity, I should doubt 
whether any of his affections were really re- 
newed : and I should fear that his charity was 
rather a mere habitual feeling, though a most 
amiable one, than a Christian grace. He in- 
dulges in charity, because it is a constitutional 
bias, and costs him nothing. He indulges in 
passion because it is a natural bias also ; and to 
set about a victory over it would cost him a great 
deal. This should put him on a strict self-ex- 
amination ; when he would probably find that, 
while he gives the uncontrolled reins to any one 
wrong inclination, his religion, even when he 
does ri^ht things, is questionable. True reli- 
gion is seated in the heart : that is the centre 
from which all the lines of right practice must 
diverge. It is the great duty and chief business 
of a Christian to labour to make all his affec- 
tions, with all their motives, tendencies, and 
operations, subservient to the word and will of 
God. His irregular passions, which are still apt 
to start out into disorder, will require vigilance 
to the end. — He must not think all is safe, be- 
cause the more tractable ones are not rebellious ; 
but he may entertain a cheerful hope, when 
those which were once rebellious are become 
trar table.' 

' I feel the importance of what you say,' re- 
turned Lady Belfield ; ' but I feel also my utter 
inability to set about it.' 

' My dear Madam,' said Mr. Stanley, ' this is 
the best and most salutary feeling you can have. 

VrfL. II. 



That very consciousness of inefficacy will, I 
trust, drive you to the fountain of all strength 
and power ; it will quicken your faith and ani- 
mate your prayer ; faith which is the habitual 
principle of confidence in God ; and prayer, 
which is the exercise of that principle toward 
Him who is the object of it.' 

' But, Dr. Barlow,' said Lady Belfield, ' was so 
discouraging ! He seemed to intimate, as if the 
conflict of a Christian with sin must be as last- 
ingas his life; whereas I had hoped that victory 
once obtained, was obtained forever.' 

' The strait gate,' replied Mr. Stanley, ■ is 
only the entrance of religion ; the -narrow way 
is a continued course. The Christian life, my 
dear Lady Belfield, is not a point but a progress. 
It is precisely in the race of Christianity as in 
the race of human glory. Julius Caesar and St. 
Paul describe their respective warfares in nearly 
the same terms. — We should count nothing done, 
while anything remains undone,* says the War- 
rior. — Not. counting myself to have attained — 
forgetting the things which are behind, and 
pressing forward to those which are before, says 
the Apostle. And it is worth remarking, that 
they both made the disqualifying observation 
after attainments almost incredible. As there 
was no being a hero by any idler way, so there 
is no being a Christian by any easier road. The 
necessity of pursuit is the same in both cases, 
though the objects pursued differ as widely 
as the vanities of time from the riches of eter- 
nity. 

' Do not think, my dear Madam,' added Mr. 
Stanley, * that I am erecting myself into a cen- 
sor, much less into a model. The corruptions 
which I lament, I participate. The deficiencies 
which I deplore, I feel. Not only when I look 
abroad, am I persuaded of the general prevalence 
of evil by what I see ; but when I look into my 
own heart, my conviction is confirmed by what 
I experience. I am conscious, not merely of 
frailties, but of sins. I will not hypocritically 
accuse myself of gross offences which I have not 
temptation to commit, and from the commission 
of which, motives inferior to religion would 
preserve me. But I am continually humbled 
in detecting mixed motives in almost all I do. 
Such strugglings of pride with my endeavours 
after humility ! Such irresolution in my firmest 
purposes ! So much imperfection in my best 
actions ! So much want of simplicity in my 
purest designs ! Such fresh shoots of selfish- 
ness where I had hoped the plant itself had been 
eradicated ! Such frequent deadness in duty ! 
Such coldness in my affections ! Such infirmity 
of will ! Such proneness to earth in my highest 
aspiration after heaven ! All these you see would 
hardly make in the eyes of those who want 
Christian discernment, very gross sins ; yet 
they prove demonstrably the root of sin in the 
heart, and the infection of nature tainting my 
best resolves.' 

4 The true Christian,' said I, when Mr. Stan- 
ley had done speaking, 'extracts humility from 
the very circumstance which raises pride in the 
irreligious. The sight of any enormity in ano- 
ther, makes the mere moralist proud that he is 

* Nil actum reputansdura quod superesset agendum 

— LUCXM. 



362 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



exempt from it, while the religious man is hum- 
bled from a view of the sinfulness of that na- 
ture he partakes, a nature which admits of such 
excesses, and from which excesses he knows 
that he himself is preserved by divine grace 
alone. I have often observed that comparison 
is the aliment of pride in the worldly man, and 
of self-abasement in the Christian.' 

Poor Lady Belfield looked comforted on find- 
ing that her friend Mr. Stanley was not quite 
so perfect as she had feared. ' Happy are those,' 
exclaimed she, looking at Lucilla, ' the inno- 
cence of whose lives recommends them to the 
divine favour.' 

' Innocence,' replied Mr. Stanley, ' can never 
be pleaded as a ground of acceptance, because 
the thing does not exist. Innocence excludes 
the necessity of repentance ; and where there is 
no sin, there can be no need of a Saviour. What- 
ever therefore we may be in comparison with 
others, innocence can afford no plea for our ac- 
ceptance, without annulling the great plan of 
our redemption.' 

' One thing puzzles me,' said Lady Belfield. 
■ The most worthless people I converse with de- 
ny the doctrine of human corruption, a doctrine 
the truth of which one should suppose their own 
feelings must confirm ; while those few excel- 
lent persons who almost seem to have escaped 
it, insist the most peremptorily on its reality. 
But if it be really true, surely the mercies of 
God are so great, that he will overlook the frail- 
ties of such weak and erring mortals. So gra- 
cious a Saviour will not exact such rigorous obe- 
dience from creatures so infirm.' 

' Let not what I am going to say, my dear 
'Lady Belfield,' replied Mr. Stanley, ' offend you; 
the correctness of your conduct exempts you 
from any particular application. But there are 
too many Christians, who while they speak with 
reverence of Christ as the Saviour of sinners, do 
not enough consider him as a deliverer from sin. 
They regard him rather as having lowered the 
requisitions of the law, and exonerated his fol- 
lowers from the necessity of that strictness of 
life which they view as a burthensome part of 
their religion. From this burthen they flatter 
themselves it was the chief object of the gospel 
to deliver them ; and from this supposed deliver- 
ance it is that they chiefly consider it as a mer- 
ciful dispensation. A cheap Christianity, of 
which we can acquit ourselves by a general re- 
cognition, and a few stated observances, which 
require no sacrifices of the will, nor rectification 
of the life, is, I assure you, the prevailing sys- 
tem ; the religion of that numerous class who 
like to save appearances, and to decline reali- 
ties ; who expect every thing hereafter while 
they resolve to give up nothing here ; but who 
keep heaven in view as a snug reversion after 
they shall have squeezed out of this world, to 
the very last dregs and droppings, all it has to 
give.' 

Lady Belfield, with great modesty, replied, 
' Indeed I am ashamed to have said so much 
upon a topic on which I am unable, and unused 
to debate. Sir John only smiles, and looks re- 
solved not to help me out. Believe me, however, 
my dear Sir, that what I have said proceeds not 
from presumption, but from an earnest desire 



of being set right. I will anly ventu e to offer 
one more observation on the afternoon sermon. 
Dr. Barlow, to my great surprise, spoke of the 
death of Christ as exhibiting practical lessons. 
Now, though I have always considered it in a 
general way, as the cause of our salvation, yet 
its preceptive and moral benefits, I must con- 
fess, do not appear to me at all obvious.' 

'I conceive,' replied Mr. Stanley, 'our de- 
liverance from the punishment incurred by sin 
to be one great end and object of the death of 
our Redeemer; but I am very far from consider- 
ing this as the only benefit attending it. I con- 
ceive it to be most abundant in instruction, and 
the strongest possible incentive to practical 
goodness; and that in a great variety of ways. 
The death of our Redeemer shows us the infi- 
nite value of our souls, by showing the inesti- 
mable price paid for them, and thus leads us to 
more diligence in securing their eternal felicity. 
It is calculated to inspire us with an unfeigned 
hatred of sin, and more especially to convince 
us of God's hatred to that, for the pardon of 
which such a sacrifice was deemed necessary. 
Now, if it actually produce such an effect, it 
consequently stimulates us to repentance, and 
to an increasing dread of violating those en- 
gagements which we have so often made to lead 
a better life. Then the contemplation of this 
stupendous circumstance will tend to fill our 
hearts with such a sense of gratitude and obe- 
dience, as will be likely to preserve us from re- 
lapsing into fresh offences. Again — can any mo- 
tive operate so powerfully on us towards pro- 
ducing universal charity and forgiveness ? 
Whatever promotes our love to God will dispose 
us to an increased love for our fellow-creatures. 
We cannot converse with any man, we cannot 
receive a kindness from any man, nay, we can- 
not receive an injury from any man, for whom 
the Redeemer has not died. The remembrance 
of the sufferings which procured pardon for 
the greatest offences, has a natural tendency to 
lead us to forgive small ones.' 

Lady Belfield said, ' I had not indeed ima- 
gined there were any practical uses in an event 
to which I had been, however, accustomed' to 
look with reverence as an atonement for sin.' 

' Of these practical effects,' replied Mr. Stan- 
ley, ' I will only farther observe, that all human 
considerations put together, cannot so power- 
fully inspire us with an indifference to the va- 
nities of life, and the allurements of unhallowed 
pleasures. No human motive can be so effica- 
cious in sustaining: the heart under trials, and 
reconciling it to afflictions. For what trials and 
afflictions do not sink into nothing in compari- 
son with the sufferings attending that august 
event, from which we derive this support ? The 
contemplation of this sacrifice also degrades 
wealth, debases power, annihilates ambition. 
We rise from this contemplation with a mind 
prepared to bear with the infirmities, to relieve 
the wants, to forgive the unkindness of men. 
We extract from it a more humbling sense of 
ourselves, a more subdued spirit, a more sober 
contempt of whatever the world calls great, than 
all the lectures of ancient philosophy, or the 
teachers of modern morals ever inspired.' 

During this little debate Sir John maintained 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



363 



the most invincible silence. His countenance 
bore not the least mark of ill-humour or impa- 
tience, but it was serious and thoughtful ; ex- 
cept when his wife got into any little difficulty ; 
he then encouraged her by an affectionate smile, 
but listened like a man who has not quite made 
up his mind, yet thinks the subject too impor- 
tant to be dismissed without a fair and candid 
hearing. 



CHAP. XXV. 

While we were at breakfast next morning, 
a sweet little girl flew into the room almost 
breathless with joy ; and running to her mother, 
presented her with a beautiful nosegay. 

'O, I see you were the industrious girl last 
week, Kate,' said Mrs. Stanley, embracing her, 
and admiring the flowers. Lady Belfield looked 
inquisitively. ' It is an invention of Lucilla's,' 
6aid the mother, ' that the little one who per- 
forms best in the school- room, instead of having 
any reward which may excite vanity or sensu- 
ality, shall be taught to gratify a better feeling, 
by being allowed to present her mother with a 
nosegay of the finest flowers, which it is reward 
enough to see worn at dinner, to which she is 
always admitted when there is no company ; 
Oh ! Pray do not consider us as company ; 
pray let Kate dine with us to-day,' said Lady 
Belfield. Mrs. Stanley bowed her assent and 
went on. But this is not all. — The flowers they 
present, they also raise. I went rather too far, 
when I said that no vanity was excited ; they 
are vain enough of their carnations, and each is 
eager to produce the largest. In this competi- 
tion, however, the vanity is not personal. Lu- 
cilla has some skill in raising flowers, each girl 
has a subordinate post under her. Their father 
often treats them with half a day's work, and 
then they all treat me with tea and cakes in the 
honey-suckle arbour of their own planting, 
which is called Lucilla's bower. It would be 
hard to say whether parents or children most 
enjoy these happy holidays.' 

At dinner Mrs. Stanley appeared with her 
nosegay in a large knot of ribbons, which was 
eyed with no small complacency by little Kate. 
I observed that Lucilla, who used to manifest 
much pleasure in the conversation after dinner, 
was beckoned out of the room by Phoebe, as 
Boon as it was over. I felt uneasy at an absence 
to which I had not been accustomed ; but the 
cause was explained, when at six o'clock, Kate 
who was the queen of the day, was sent to in- 
vite us to drink tea in Lucilla's bower. We in- 
stantly obeyed the summons. 

' I knew nothing of this,' said the delighted 
mother, while we were all admiring the elegant 
arrangements of this little fete. The purple 
clematis twisting its flexible branches with 
those of the pale woodbine, formed a sweet and 
fragrant canopy to the arched bower, while 
the flowery tendrils hung down on all sides. 
Large bunches of roses, intermixed with the 
sil-ver stars of the jessamine, were stuok into 
the moss on the inside as a temporary decora- 
tion only. The finest plants had been brought 
from the green-house for the occasion It was 



a delicious evening, and the little fairy festivity, 
together with the flitting about of the airy spirits 
which had prepared it, was absolutely enchant- 
ing. Sir John, always poetical, exclaimed in 
rapture, 

'Hesperian fables true,' 
If true, here only.' 

I needed not this quotation to bring the garden 
of Eden to my mind, for Lucilla presided. 
Phoebe was all alive. The other little ones had 
decorated Kate's flaxen hair with a wreath of 
woodbines. They sung two or three baby stan- 
zas, which they had composed among them, 
selves, in which Kate was complimented as queen 
of the fete. The youngest daughter of Lady 
Aston, who was about Kate's age, and two little 
girls of Dr. Barlow's were of the children's party 
on the green. The elder sisters of both families 
made part of the company within. 

When we were all seated in our enchanting 
bower, and drinking our tea, at which we had 
no other attendants than the little Hebes them- 
selves, I asked Kate how it happened that she 
seemed to be distinguished on this occasion from 
her little sisters. ' Oh Sir,' said she, ' it is be- 
cause it is my birth-day. I am eight years old 
to-day. I gave up all my gilt books with pic- 
tures this day twelve-month, and to-day I give 
up all my little story books, I am now going to 
read such books as men and women read.' 

She then ran to her companions, who ranged 
themselves round a turf seat at a little distance 
before us, to which were transferred a profusion 
of cakes and fruit from the bower. While they 
were devouring them, I turned to Mr. Stanley, 
and desired an explanation of Kate's speech. 

' I make,' said he, * the renouncing their babv 
books a kind of epocha, and by thus distinctly 
marking the period, they never think of return- 
ing back to them. We have in our domestic 
plan several of these artificial divisions of life. 
These little celebrations are ffiras, that we use 
as marking posts, from which we set out on 
some new course.' 

* But as to Kate's books ?' said Lady Belfield 
' We have,' replied Mr. Stanley, ' too many ele- 
mentary books. They are read too much and 
too long. The youthful mind, which was for- 
merly sick from inanition, is now in danger 
from a plethora. * 

' Much, however, will depend on capacity and 
disposition. A child of slower parts may be 
indulged till nine years old with books which 
a lively genius will look down upon at seven. 
A girl of talents will read. To her no excite- 
ment is wanting. The natural appetite is a 
sufficient incentive. The less brilliant child 
requires the allurement of lighter books. She 
wants encouragement as much as the other re- 
quires restraint.' 

'But don't you think,' said Lady Belfield, 
that they are of great use in attracting chil- 
dren to love reading ?' ' Doubtless they are,' 
said Mr. Stanley. ' The misfortune is, that 
the stimulants used to attract at first must ba 
not only continued but heightened, to keep up 
the attraction. These books are novels in mi- 
niature, and the excess of them will lead to the 
want of novels at full length. The early use of 
savory dishes is not usually followed by an ap- 



364 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



petite for plain food. To the taste thus pam- 
pered, history becomes dry, grammar laborious, 
and religion dull. 

4 My wife, who was left to travel through 
the wide expanse of universal history, and the 
dreary deserts of Rapin and Mezerai, is, I 
will venture to assert, more completely skilled 
in ancient French, and English history, than 
any of the girls who have been fed, or rather 
starved on extracts and abridgements. I mean 
not to recommend the two last named authors 
for very young people. They are dry and te- 
dious, and children in our days have opportu- 
nities of acquiring the same knowledge with 
less labour. We have brighter, I wish I could 
eay safer lights. Still fact, and not wit is the 
leading object of history. 

'Mrs. Stanley says, that the very tediousness 
of her historians had a good effect: they were 
a ballast to her levity, and a discipline to her 
mind, of which she has felt the benefit in her 
subsequent life. 

* But to return to the mass of children's books. 
The too great profusion of them protracts the 
imbecility of childhood ; they arrest the under- 
standing instead of advancing it ; they give for- 
wardness without strength ; they hinder the 
mind from making vigorous shoots, teach it to 
stoop when it should soar, and to contract when 
it should expand ; yet I allow that many of them 
are delig fitfully amusing and to a certain degree 
instructive; but they must not be used as the 
basis of instruction, but sparingly used at all as 
refreshment from labour.' 

' They inculcate morality and good actions 
surely,' said Lady Belfield. ' It is true,' re- 
plied Mr. Stanley,' ' but they often inculcate 
them on a worldly principle, and rather teach 
the pride of virtue, and the profit of virtue, than 
point out the motive of virtue, and the principle 
of sin. They reprobate bad actions as evil and 
injurious to others, but not as an offence against 
the Almighty. Whereas the Bible comes with 
a plain, straight-forward, simple, but powerful 
principle — ' How shall I do this great wicked- 
ness against God V Against Thee, Thee only 
have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight.' 

' Even children should be taught that when a 
man has committed the greatest possible crime 
against his fellow creature, still the offence 
against God is what will strike a true penitent 
with the most deep remorse. All morality 
which is not drawn'from this scriptural source 
is weak, defective, and hollow. These enter- 
taining authors seldom ground their stories on 
any intimation that human nature is corrupt ; 
that the young reader is helpless and wants as- 
sistance ; that he is guilty and wants pardon.' 

' Surely, my dear Mr. Stanley,' said Lady Bel- 
field, ' though I do not object to the truth and 
reasonableness of any thing you have said, I 
cannot think that these things can possibly be 
made intelligible to children.' 

•The framers of our catechism, Madam, 
thought otherwise,' replied Mr. Stanley. ' The 
catechism was written for children, and contains 
all the seeds and principles of Christianity for 
men. It evidently requires much explanation, 
much developement; still it furnishes a wide 
and important field for colloquial instruction, 



without which young persons can by no means 
understand a composition so amiable, but so con- 
densed. The catechism speaks expressly of a 
' death unto sin' — of 'a new birth unto righte- 
ousness' — of being born in sin' — of ' being the 
children of wrath' — of becoming ' the children 
of grace' — of' forsaking sin by repentance' — of 
' believing the promise of God by faith.' Now, 
while children are studying these great truths 
in the catechism, they are probably, at the 
same time, almost constantly reading some of 
those entertaining stories which are grounded 
and built on a quite opposite principle, and do 
not even imply the existence of any such funda- 
mental truths.' 

'Surely,' interrupted Lady Belfield, 'you 
would not have these serious doctrines brought 
forward in story books ?' 

' By no means, Madam,' replied Mr. Stanley . 
' but I will venture to assert that even story 
books should not be found on a principle directly 
contradictory to them, nay, totally subversive 
of them. The Arabian Nights, and other 
oriental books of fable, though loose and faulty 
in many respects, yet have always a refer- 
ence to the religion of the country. Nothing 
is introduced against the law of Mahomet : 
nothing subversive of the opinions of a MussuL 
man. I do not quarrel with books, for having 
no religion, but for having a false religion. A 
book which in nothing opposes the principle of 
the Bible, I would be far from calling a bad book, 
though the Bible was never named in it.' 

Lady Belfield observed, ' That slje was sorry 
to say her children found religious studies very 
dry and tiresome; though she took great pains, 
and made them learn by heart a multitude of 
questions and answers, a variety of catechisms 
and explanations, and the best abridgments of 
the. Bible.' 

' My dear Lady Belfield,' replied Mr. Stanley, 
'you have fully accounted for the dryness and 
dulness of which you complain. Give them the 
Bible itself. I never yet knew a child who did 
not delight in the Bible histories, and who would 
not desire to hear them again and again. From 
the histories, Mrs. Stanley and I proceed with 
them to the parables ; and from them to the 
miracles, and a few of the most striking pro- 
phecies. When they have acquired a good deal 
of this desultory knowledge, we begin to weave 
the parts into a whole. The little girl who had 
the honour of dining with you to-day, has begun 
this morning to read the Scriptures with her 
mother systematically. We shall soon open to 
her something of the scheme of Christianity, 
and explain how those miracles and prophecies 
confirm the truth of that religion in which she 
is to be more fully instructed. 

'Upon their historical knowledge, which they 
acquired by picking out the most interesting 
stories, we endeavour to ground principles t© 
enlighten their minds, and precepts to influence 
their conduct. With the genuine language of 
Scripture I have taken particular care they 
shall be well acquainted, by digging for the 
ore in its native bed. While they have been 
studying the stories, their minds have at the 
same time been imbued with the impressive 
phraseology of Scripture. I make a great point 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



365 



of this, having often seen this useful impression 
effectually prevented by a multitude of subsi- 
diary histories, and explanations, which too much 
supersede the use of the original text. 

' Only observe,' continued he, 4 what divine 
sentiments, what holy precepts, what devout eja- 
culations, what strokes of self-abasement, what 
flights of gratitude, what transports of praise, 
what touches of penitential sorrow, are found 
comprised in some one short sentence woven 
into almost every part of the historical scrip- 
tures ! observe this, and then confess what a 
pity it is that children should be commonly set 
to read the history in a meagre abridgment, 
stripped of those gems with which the original 
is so richly inlaid ! These histories and expo- 
sitions become very useful afterwards to young 
people who are thoroughly conversant with the 
Bible itself.' 

Sir John observed, that he had been struck 
with the remarkable disinterestedness of Mr, 
Stanley's daughters, and their indifference to 
things about which most children were so eager. 
' Selfishness,' said Mr. Stanley, ' is the hydra we 
are perpetually combating; but the monster has 
so much vitality, that new heads spring up as 
fast as the old ones are cut off. To counteract 
seljishness, that inborn, inbred mischief, I hold 
to be the great art of education. Education 
therefore, cannot be adequately carried on, ex- 
cept by those who are deeply convinced of the 
doctrine of human corruption. This evil prin- 
ciple, as it shows itself early, must be early 
lopped, or the rapid shoots it makes will, as your 
favourite Eve observes, 

' Soon mock our scant manuring.' 

' This counteraction,' continued Mr. Stanley, 
* is not like an art or a science, which is to be 
taken up at set times, and laid aside till the al- 
lotted period of instruction returns ; but as the 
evil shows itself at all times, and in all shapes, 
the whole force of instruction is to be bent against 
it. Mrs. Stanley and I endeavour that not one 
reward we bestow, not one gratification we afford, 
shall be calculated to promote it. Gratifications 
children ought to have. The appetites and in- 
clinations should be reasonably indulged. We 
are only cautious not to employ them as the in- 
struments of recompense, which would look as 
if we valued them highly, and thought them a 
fit remuneration for merit. I would rather show 
a little indulgence to sensuality as sensuality, 
than make it the reward of goodness, which 
seems to be the common way. While I indulged 
the appetite of a child, I would never hold out 
that indulgence which I granted to the lowest, 
the animal part of his nature, as a payment for 
the exertion of his mental or moral fiieulties.' 

' You have one great advantage,' said Sir 
John, ' and I thank God it is the same in Caven- 
dish-square, that you and Mrs. Stanley draw 
evenly together. Nothing impedes domestic re- 
gulations so effectually as where parents, from 
difference of sentiment, ill-humour, or bad judg- 
ment, obstruct each other's plans, or where one 
parent makes the other insignificant in the eyes 
of their children.' 

'Mr. Reynolds,' replied Mr. Stanley, ' a friend 
of mine in this neighbourhood, is in this very 



predicament. To the mother's weakness the 
father's temperate discipline seems cruelty. Sho 
is perpetually blaming him before the children 
for setting them to their books. Her attentions 
are divided between their health, which is per- 
fect, and their pleasure, which is obstructed by 
her foolish zeal to promote it, far more than by 
his prudent restrictions. Whatever the father 
helps them to at table, the mother takes from 
them lest it should make them sick. What he 
forbids is always the very thing which is good 
for thern. She is much more afraid, however, 
of overloading their memories than their sto- 
machs. Reading, she says, will spoil the girls' 
eyes, stooping to write, will ruin their chests, 
and working will make them round shouldered. 
If the boys run, they will have fevers ; if they 
j mp, they will sprain their ankles ; if they play 
at cricket, a blow may kill them ; if they swim, 
they will be drowned, the shallowness of the 
stream is no argument of safety. 

' Poor Reynolds's life is one continued strug- 
gle between his sense of duty to his children, 
and his complaisance to his wife. If he carries 
his point, it is at the expense of his peace ; if he 
relaxes, as he commonly does, his children are 
the victims. He is at length brought to submit 
his excellent judgment to her feeble mind, lest 
his opposition should hurt her health : and he 
has the mortification of seeing his children train- 
ed as if they had nothing but bodies. 

4 To the wretched education of Mrs. Reynolds 
herself all this mischief may be attributed ; for 
she is not a bad, though an ignorant woman ; 
and having been harshly treated by her own pa- 
rents, she fell into the vulgar error of vulgar 
minds, that of supposing the opposite of wrong 
must necessarily be right. As she found that 
being perpetually contradicted had made her- 
self miserable, she concluded that never being 
contradicted at all would make her children 
happy. The event has answered as might have 
been foreseen. Never was a more discontented, 
disagreeing, troublesome family. The gratifi- 
cation of one want instantly creates a new one. 
And it is only when they are quite worn out 
with having done nothing, that they take refuge 
in their books, as less wearisome than idleness.' 

Sir John, turning to Lady Belfield, said in a 
very tender tone, ' My dear Caroline, this story, 
in its principal feature, does not apply to us. 
We concur completely, it is true, but I fear we 
concur by being both wrong; we both err by 
excessive indulgence. As to the case in point, 
while children are young, they may perhaps 
lean to the parent who spoils them ; but I have 
never yet seen an instance of young persons, 
where the parents differed, who did not after- 
wards discover a much stronger affection for the 
one who had reasonably restrained them, than 
for the other, whose blind indulgence had at 
once diminished her importance and their own 
reverence.' 

I observed to Mr. Stanley, that as he had so 
noble a library, and wished to inspire his chil- 
dren with the lcjye of literature, I was surprised 
to see their apartment so slenderly provided with 
books. 

■ This is the age of excess in every thing,' re- 
plied he ; ' nothing is a gratification of which 



366 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the want has not been previously felt. The 
wishes of children are all so anticipated, that 
they never experience the pleasure excited by 
wanting and waiting. Of their initiatory books 
they must have a pretty copious supply. But as 
to books of entertainment or instruction of a 
higher kind, I never allow them to possess one 
of their own, till they have attentively read and 
improved by it ; this gives them a kind of title 
to it ; and that desire of property so natural to 
human creatures, I think stimulates them in 
despatching books which are in themselves a 
little dry. Expectation with them, as with men, 
quickens desire, while possession deadens it.' 

By this time the children had exhausted all 
the refreshments set before them, and had re- 
treated to a little farther distance, where, with- 
out disturbing us, they freely enjoyed their in- 
nocent gambols — playing, singing, laughing, 
dancing, reciting verses, trying which could 
puzzle the other in the name of plants, of which 
they pulled single leaves to increase the diffi- 
culty, all succeeded each Other. Lady Belfield 
looking consciously at me, said, ' These are the 
creatures whom I foolishly suspected of being 
made miserable by restraint, and gloomy through 
want of indulgence.' 

' After long experience,' said Mr. Stanley, ' I 
will venture to pronounce, that not all the anxi- 
ous cutting out of pleasure, not all the costly in- 
dulgences which wealth can procure, not all the 
contrivances of inventive man for his darling 
youthful offspring, can find out an amusement 
so pure, so natural, so cheap, so rational, so 
healthful, I had almost said so religious, as that 
unbought pleasure connected with a garden.' 

Kate and Celia, who had for some time been 
peeping into the bower in order to catch an in- 
terval in the conversation, as soon as they found 
our attention disengaged, stole in among us ; 
each took the fond father by a hand, and led 
him to the turf seat. Phoebe presented him a 
book which he opened, and out of it read with 
infinite humour, grace and gaiety, The diverting 
History of John Gilpin. This it seems was a 
pleasure to which they had been led to look for- 
ward for some time, but which, in honour of 
Kate, had been purposely withheld till this me- 
morable day. His little auditors, who grouped 
themselves round him on the grass, were nearly 
convulsed with laughter, nor were the tenants 
of the bower much less delighted. 

As we walked into the house, Mr. Stanley 
said, ' Whenever I read to my children a light 
and gay composition, which I often do, I gene- 
rally take care it shall be the work of some va- 
luable author, to whose writings this shall be a 
pleasant and a tempting prelude. What child 
of spirit who hears John Gilpin, will not long 
to be thought old and wise enough to read the 
' Task ?' The remembrance of the infant rap- 
ture will give a predilection for the poet. De- 
siring to keep their standard high, I accustom 
them to none but good writers, in every sense 
of the word ; by this means they will be less 
likely to stoop to ordinary ones when they shall 
hereafter come to choose for themselves.' 

Lady Belfield regretted to me that she had 
not brought some of her children to the Grove : 
' To confess a disgraceful truth,' said she, ' I 



was afraid they would have been moped to death, 
and to confess another truth still more disgrace- 
ful to my authority, my indulgence has been so 
injudicious, and I have maintained so little con- 
trol, that I durst not bring some of them for fear 
of putting the rest out of humour ; I am now in 
a school, where I trust I may learn to acquire 
firmness, without any diminution of fondness.' 



CHAP. XXVI. 

The next morning Mr. Stanley proposed that 
we should pay a visit to some of his neighbours. 
He and Sir John Belfield rode on horseback, and 
I had the honour of attending the ladies in the 
sociable. Lady Belfield, who was now become 
desirous of improving on her own too relaxed 
domestic system, by the experience of Mrs. 
Stanley, told her how much she admired the 
cheerful obedience of her children. She said, 
4 she did not so much wonder to see them so 
good, but she owned she was surprised to see 
them so happy.' 

' I know not,' replied Mrs. Stanley, ' whether 
the increased insubordination of children is ow- 
ing to the new school of philosophy and politics, 
but it seems to me to make part of the system. 
When I go sometimes to stay with a friend in 
town to do business, she is always making apo- 
logies that she cannot go out with me — ' her 
daughters want the coach.' If I ask leave to 
see the friends who call on mo in such a room, 
— ' her daughters have company there, or they 
want the room for their music, or it is preparing 
for the children's ball in the evening.' If a 
messenger is required — 'her daughters want 
the footman.' There certainly prevails a spirit 
of independence, a revolutionary spirit, a sepa- 
ration from the parent state. It is the children's 
world.' 

' You remind me, Madam,' said I, ' of an old 
courtier, who being asked by Louis XV. which 
age he preferred, his own or the present, replied, 
' Sire, I passed my youth in respecting old age, 
and I find I must now pass my old age in re- 
specting children.' 

' In some other houses,' said Mrs. Stanley, 
' where we visit, besides that of poor Mr. Rey- 
nolds, the children seem to have all the accom- 
modations ; and I have observed that the con- 
venience and comfort of the father is but a sub- 
ordinate consideration. The respectful terms 
of address are nearly banished from the voca- 
bulary of children, and the somewhat too order- 
ly manner which once prevailed is superceded 
by an incivility, a roughness, a want of atten- 
tion, which is surely not better than the harm- 
less formality which it has driven out.' 

Just as she had said this, we stopt at Mr. Rey- 
nolds' gate ; neither he nor his lady were at 
home. Mr. Stanley, who wished to show us a 
fine reach of the river from the drawing-room 
window, desired the servant to show us into it. 
There we beheld a curious illustration of what 
we had heard. In the ample bow-window lay a 
confused heap of the glittering spoils of the 
most expensive toys. — Before the rich silk chairs 
knelt two of the children, in the act of rapidlv 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



367 



demolishing their fine painted play-things ; 
'others sat apart on the floor retired,' and more 
deliberately employed in picking to pieces their 
little gaudy works of art. A pretty girl who 
had a beautiful wax doll on her lap, almost as 
big as herself, was pulling out its eyes, that she 
might see how they were put in. Another, 
weary of this costly baby, was making a little 
doll of rags. A turbulent looking boy was tear- 
ing out the parchment from a handsome new 
drum, that he might see, as he told us, where 
the noise came from. These I forgave, they had 
meaning in their mischief. 

Another, having kicked about a whole little 
gilt library, was sitting, with the decorated 
pages torn asunder at his feet, reading a little 
dirty penny book, which the kitchen maid had 
bought of a hawker at the door. — The Persian 
carpet was strewed with the broken limbs of a 
painted horse, almost as large as a poney, while 
the discontented little master was riding astride 
on a long rough stick. A bigger boy, after hav- 
ing broken the pannels of a fine gilt coach, we 
saw afterwards in the court-yard, nailing to- 
gether a few dirty bits of ragged elm boards, to 
make himself a wheel-barrow. 

' Not only the disciple of the fastidious Jean 
Jacques,' exclaimed I, ' but the sound votary of 
truth and reason, must triumph, at such an in- 
stance of the satiety of riches, and tho weari- 
ness of ignorance and idleness. — One such 
practical instance of the insufficiency of afflu- 
ence to bestow the pleasures which industry 
must buy ; — one such actual exemplification of 
the folly of supposing that injudicious profusion 
and mistaken fondness can supply that plea- 
sure which must be worked out before it can be 
enjoyed, is worth a whole folio of argument or 
exhortation.' — The ill-bred little flock paid no 
attention to us, and only returned a rude ' n — o' 
or ' yes' to our questions.' 

' Caroline,' said Sir John; ' these painted ruins 
afford a good lesson for us. We must desire our 
rich uncles and our generous god-mothers to 
make an alteration in their presents, if they can- 
not be prevailed upon to withhold them.' 

' It is a sad mistake,' said Mr. Stanley, * to 
suppose that youth wants to be so incessantly 
amused. They want not pleasures to be chalk- 
ed out for them. Lay a few cheap and coarse 
materials in their way, and let their own busy 
inventions be suffered to work. They have 
abundant pleasure in the mere freshness and 
novelty of life, its unbroken health, its elastic 
spirit, its versatile temper, and its ever new re- 
sources.' 

'So it appears, Stanley,' said Sir John, ' when 
I look at your little group of girls, recluses as 
they are called. How many cheap yet lively 
pleasures do they seem to enjoy ! — their suc- 
cessive occupations, their books, their animating 
exercise, their charitable rounds, their ardent 
friendships, the social table at which the elder 
ones are companions, not mutes ; the ever-vary- 
ing pleasures of their garden, 

' Increasing virtue and approving heaven.' 

While we were sitting with Lady Aston, on 
whom we next called, Mr. Stanley suddenly ex- 



claimed, 'The Miss Flams are coming up the 
gravel walk !' Lady Aston looked vexed, but 
correcting herself, said Mr. Stanley, we ow 
this visit to you, or rather to your friend,' bow- 
ing to me ; ' they saw your carriage stop here, 
or they would not have done so dull a thing as 
to have called on me.' 

These new guests presented a new scene 
very uncongenial to the timid and tranquil spt 
rit of the amiable hostess. There seemed to be 
a contest between the sisters, who should be 
most eloquent, most loud, or most inqusitive. 
They eagerly attacked me all at once, as sup- 
posing me to be overflowing with intelligence 
from the metropolis, a place which they not only 
believed to contain exclusively all that was 
worth seeing, but all that was worth hearing. 
The rest of the world they considered as a bar- 
ren wilderness, of which the hungry inhabit- 
ants could only be kept from starving, by such 
meagre aliment as the occasional reports of its 
pleasures, fashions, and anecdotes, which might 
now and then be conveyed by some stray tra- 
veller, might furnish. 

' It is so strange to us,' said Miss Bell, ' and 
so monstrously dull and vulgar, to be in the 
country at this time of the year, that we don't 
know what to do with ourselves.' 

' As to the time of year, Madam,' said I, ' if 
ever one would wish to be in the country at all, 
surely this month is the point of perfection. The 
only immoral thing with which I could ever 
charge our excellent Sovereign is, that he was 
born in June, and has thus furnished his fashion- 
able subjects with a loyal pretence for encoun- 
tering ' the sin and sea-coal of London,' to bor- 
row Will Honeycomb's phrase, in the finest 
month of the twelve. But where that is the 
real motive with one, it is the pretence of a thou- 
sand.' 

' How can you be so shocking ? said she ; 
' but papa is really grown so cross and so 
stingy, as to prevent our going to town at all 
these last two or three years ; and for so mean 
a reason that I am ashamed to tell you.' Out 
of politeness I did not press to know ; I needed 
not, for she was resolved I should ' not burst in 
ignorance.' 

She went on — ' Do you know he pretends that 
times are hard, and public difficulties increasing; 
and he declares that whatever privations we en- 
dure, government must be supported : so that 
he says, it is right to draw in, in the only way 
in which he can do it honestly ; I am sure it is 
not doing it creditably. Did yon ever hear any 
thing so shabby ?' ' Shabby, Madam,' replied 
I; 'I honour a gentleman who has integrity 
enough to do a right thing, and good sense 
enough not to be ashamed to own it.' 

'Yes, but papa need not. The steward de- 
clares, if he would only raise his tenants a very 
little, he would have more than enough ; but 
papa is inflexible. He says my brother must do 
as he pleases when he comes to the estate, but 
that he himself promised, when he came in- 
to possession, that he would never raise the 
rents, and tharBI will never be worse than his 
word.' As I could not find it in my heart to 
join in abusing a gentleman for resolving never 
to bg worse than his word, I was silent. 



368 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



She then inquired, with more seriousness, if 
there were any prospect of peace. I was better 
pleased with this question, as it implied more 
anxiety for the lives of her fellow creatures, 
than I nad given her credit for. ' I am anxiously 
looking into all the papers,' continued she, with- 
out giving me time to speak, ' because as soon 
as there is peace, papa has promised we shall 
go to town again. If it was not for that, I should 
not care if there was war till doomsday, for what 
with marching regiments, and militia, and vo- 
lunteers, nothing can be pleasanter than it 
makes the country, I mean as far as the country 
can be pleasant' They then ran over the names 
and respective merits of every opera singer, 
every dancer, and every actor, with incredible 
volubility; and I believe they were not a little 
shocked at my slender acquaintance with the 
nomenclature, and the little interest I took in 
the criticisms they built upon it. 

Poor Lady Aston looked oppressed and fa- 
tigued, but inwardly rejoiced, as she afterwards 
owned to me, that her daughters were not with- 
in hearing. I was of a different opinion, upon 
the Spartan principle, of making their children 
sober, by the spectacle of the intoxicated Helots. 
Miss Bell's eloquence seemed to make but little 
impression on Sir George ; or rather it produced 
an effect directly contrary to admiration. His 
good taste seemed to revolt at her flippancy. 
Every time I see this young man he rises in 
my esteem. His ingenuous temper and engag- 
ing modesty set off to advantage a very fair un- 
derstanding. 

In our way home we were accosted by Mr. 
Flam. After a rough but hearty salutation, and 
cordial invitation to come and dine with him, he 
gallopped off, being engaged on business. ' This 
is an honest country 'squire of the old cut,' said 
Mr. Stanley afterwards. ' He has a very good 
estate, which he has so much delight in manag- 
ing, that he has no pleasure in any thing else. 
He was prevailed on by his father to marry his 
present wife for no other reason than because 
her estate joined to his, and broke in a little on 
the arrondissement ; but it was judged that both 
being united, all might be brought within a 
ring fence. This was thought a reason suffi- 
ciently powerful for the union of two immoital 
beings, whose happiness here and hereafter 
might be impeded or promoted by it. The fe- 
licity of the connection has been in exact pro- 
portion to the purity of the motive.' 

I could not forbear interrupting Mr. Stanley, 
by observing that nothing had surprised or hurt 
me more in the little observation I had made on 
the subject of marriage, than the frequent indif- 
ference of parents to the moral, and especially 
to the religious character of the man who pro- 
posed himself. ' That family, fortune, and con- 
nections should have their full share in the busi- 
ness, I readily admit,' added I ; * but that it 
should ever form the chief, often the only 
ground of acceptance, has, I confess, lowered 
mankind in my esteem more completely, than 
almost any other instance of wnbition, avarice, 
or worldliness. That a very young girl, who 
has not been carefully educated, should be cap- 
tivated by personal advantages, and even infatu- 
ated by splendour, is less surprising, than that 



parents, who having themselves experienced the 
inefficiency of riches to happiness — that they 
should be eagerly impatient to part from a be- 
loved daughter, reared with fondness at least, 
if not with wisdom, to a man of whose princi- 
ples they have any doubt, and of whose mind 
they have a mean opinion, is a thing I cannot 
understand. And yet what proposal almost is 
rejected on this ground ?' Lucilla's eyes at this 
moment shone with such expressive brightness, 
that I exultingly said to myself, ' Lord Staunton! 
I defy thee !' 

' The mischief of this lax principle is of wide 
extent,' replied Mr. Stanley. ' When girls are 
continually hearing what an advantageous, what 
a desirable marriage such a young friend has 
made, with a man so rich, so splendid, so great; 
though they have been accustomed to bear this 
very man condemned for his profligacy, per- 
haps, at least they know him to be destitute of 
piety — when they hear that these things are 
not considered as any great objection to the 
union, what opinion must these girls form, not 
only of the maxims by which the world is go- 
verned, but of the truth of that religion which 
those persons profess ? 

1 But to return to Mr. Flam. He passed 
through the usual course of education, but has 
profited so little by it, that though he has a cer- 
tain natural shrewdness in his understanding, I 
believe he has scarcely read a book these twenty 
years, except Burn's Justice and ' The Agricul- 
tural Reports.' Yet when he wants to make a 
figure he now and then lards his discourse with 
a scrap of thread-bare Latin which he used to 
steal in his school boy exercises. He values 
himself on his integrity, and is not destitute of 
benevolence. These, he says, are the sum and 
substance of religion ; and though I combat this 
mistaken notion as often as he puts it in my 
power, yet I must say that some who make 
more profession would do well to be as careful 
in these points. He often contrasts himself with 
his old friend Ned Tyrrel, and is proud of show- 
ing how much better a man he is without reli- 
gion, than Ned is with all his pretensions to it. 
It is by thus comparing ourselves with worse 
men, that we grow vain, and with more fortu- 
nate men that we become discontented. 

'All the concern he gives himself about his 
wife and daughters is, that they shall not run 
him in debt ; and indeed he is so liberal, that he 
does not drive them to the necessity. In every 
thing else, they follow their own devices. They 
teazed him, however, to let them spend two or 
three winters in town, the mother hinting that 
it would answer. He was prevailed on to try it 
as a speculation, but the experiment failed. He 
now insists that they shall go no more till the 
times mend, to any of the advertising places, 
such as London, Brighton, or Bath : he says, 
that attending so many fairs and markets is 
very expensive, especially as the girls don't go 
off. He will now see what can be done by pri- 
vate contract at home, without the cost of jour- 
neys, with fresh keep and. trimming, and dock- 
ing into the bargain. They must now take 
their chance among country dealers ; and pro- 
vided they will give him a son-in-law, whose 
estate is free from ineuirbraneas, who pays his 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



3(0 



debts, lives within his income, does not rack 
his tenants, never drinks claret, hates the 
French, and loves field sports, he will ask no 
more questions.' 

I could not but observe, how perferable the 
father's conduct, with all its faults, was to that 
of the rest of the family. 'I had imagined,' 
said I, ' that this coarse character was quite out 
of print. Though it is religiously bad, and of 
course morally defective, yet it is so politically 
valuable, that 1 should not be sorry to see a new 
edition of these obsolete squires, somewhat cor- 
rected, and belter lettered.' 

' All his good qualities,' said Mr. Stanley, ' for 
want of religion, have a flaw in them. His 
good nature is so little directed by judgment, 
that while it serves the individual, it injures the 
public. As a brother magistrate, I am obliged 
to act in almost constant opposition to him, and 
his indiscretions do more mischief, by being of 
a nature to increase his popularity. He is fully 
persuaded that occasional intoxication is the 
best reward for habitual industry ; and in- 
sists that it is good old English kindness, to 
make the church ringers periodically tipsy at 
the holidays, though their families starve for it 
the whole week. He and I have a regular con- 
test at the annual village fairs, because he in- 
sists that my refusing to let them begin on a 
Sunday is abridging their few rights, and rob- 
bing them of a day which they might add to 
their pleasure, without injury to their profit. 
He allows all the strolling players, mountebanks, 
and jugglers to exhibit, because he says, it is a 
charity. His charity, however, is so short- 
sighted, that he does not see, that while these 
vagabonds are supplying the wants of the day, 
their improvident habits suffer them to look no 
farther : that his own workmen are spending 
their hard-earned money in these illegal diver- 
sions, while the expense is the least mischief 
which their daughters incur.' 

Our next visit was to Mr. Carlton, whom I had 
found in one or two previous interviews to, be a 
man of excellent sense, and a perfect gentle- 
man. Sir John renewed with pleasure his ac- 
quaintance with the husband, while Lady Bel- 
field was charmed to be introduced to the wife, 
with whose character she was so enamoured, 
and whose gentle manners were calculated to 
confirm the affection which her little history 
had inspired. 



CHAP. XXVII 

Ik the morning Mr. Stanley, Sir John Belfield 
and I took a walk to call on our valuable rec- 
tor. On our return home, amidst that sort of 
desultory conversation which a walk often pro- 
duces, ' Since we left the parsonage, sir,' said I, 
addressing myself to Mr. Stanley, 'I have been 
thinking how little justice has been done to the 
clerical character in those popular works of 
imagination which are intended to exhibit a 
picture of living manners. There are, indeed, 
& very few happy exceptions. Yet I cannot but 
regret that so many fair occasions have been 
lost of advancing the interests of religion by 
i ersonifying her amiable graces in the charac- 

Vou II. 2 A 



ter of her ministers. I alludo not to the attack 
of the open infidel, nor the sly insinuation of the 
concealed sceptic, nor do I advert to the broad 
assault of the enemy of good government, who 
falling foul of every established institution, 
would naturally be expected to show little fa- 
vour to the ministers of the church. But I ad- 
vert to those less prejudiced and less hostile 
writers, who having, as I would hope, no poli- 
tical or moral motive for undermining the order, 
would rather desire to be considered as among 
its friends and advocates.' 

' I understand you, ' replied Mr. Stanley, ' I 
believe that this is often done, not from any dis- 
respect to the sacred function, not from any 
wish to depreciate an order which even com 
mon sense and common prudence, without the 
intervention of religion, tells us cannot be set in 
too respectable a light. I believe it commonly 
arises from a different cause. The writer him- 
self having but a low idea of the requirements 
of Christianity, is consequently neither able nor 
willing to affix a very elevated standard for the 
character of its ministers. Some of these wri- 
ters, however, describe a clergyman in general 
terms, as a paragon of piety, but they seldom 
make him act up to the description with which 
he sets out. He is represented, in the gross, as 
adorned with all the attributes of perfection, but 
when he comes to be drawn out in detail he is 
found to exhibit little of that superiority which 
had been ascribed to him in the lump. You are 
told how religious he is, but when you come to 
hear him converse you are not always quite cer- 
tain whether he professes the religion of the 
Shaster or the Bible. You hear of his moral 
excellence, but you find him adopting the max- 
ims of the world, and living in the pursuits of 
ordinary men. In short, you will find that he 
has little of a clergyman, except the name.' 

1 A sensible little work of fiction,' replied I, 
' lately fell in my way. Among its characters 
was that of a grave divine. From the strain of 
panegyric bestowed on him, I expected to have 
met with a rival to the fathers of the primitive 
church. He is presented as a model, and, in- 
deed, he counsels, he reproves, he instructs, — 
but he goes to a masquerade.' 

'This assimilation of general piety,' said Mr. 
Stanley, ' with occasional conformity to the 
practice of the gay world, I should fear would 
produce two ill effects. It will lower the pro- 
fessional standard to the young reader while he 
is perusing the ideal character, and the compa- 
rison will dispose him to accuse of forbidding 
strictness the pious clergyman of real life 
After having been entertained with the mix-- 
ture of religion and laxity in the imaginary di- 
vine, whom he has been following from the 
serious lecture to the scene of revelry, will he 
not be naturally disposed to accuse of morose- 
ness the existing divine who blends no such 
contradiction ? 

4 But the evil of which I more particularly 
complain,' continued he, ' because it exists in 
works universally read, and written, indeed, 
with a life and .spirit which make them both 
admired and remembered, is found in the in- 
genious and popular novels of the witty class 
In some of these, even where the author intend* 



370 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



to give a favourable representation of a clergy- 
man, he more frequently exhibits him for the pur- 
pose of merriment than for that of instruction.' 
' I confess with shame,' said Sir John, 'that 
the spirit, fire, and knowledge of mankind, of 
the writers to whom you allude, have made me 
too generally indulgent to their gross pictures 
of life, and to the loose morals of their good men.' 
' Good men ." said Mr. Stanley. ' After read- 
ing some of those works in the early part of 
my life, I amused myself with the idea that I 
should like to interweave the character of a 
Christian among the heroes of Fielding and 
Smollet as the shortest way of proving their 
good men to be worthless fellows : and to show 
how little their admired characters rise in pointof 
morals, above the heroes of the Beggar's Opera. 
' Knowledge of the world,' continued he, 
* should always be used to mend the world. A 
writer employs his knowledge honestly when 
he points out the snares and pitfalls of vice. 
But when he covers those snares and pitfalls 
with flowers, when he fascinates in order that 
he may corrupt, when he engages the affections 
by polluting them, I know not how a man can do 
a deeper injury to society, or more fatally in- 
flame his own future reckoning.' 

1 But to return to our more immediate sub- 
ject,' said I, ' I cannot reiish their singling out 
the person of a pious clergyman as a peculiarly 
proper vehicle for the display of humour. Why 
qualities which excite ridicule should be neces- 
sarily blended with such as command esteem, is 
what I never have been able to comprehend.' 

' Even where the characters,' replied Mr. 
Stanley, ' have been so pleasingly delineated as 
to attract affection by their worth and benevo- 
lence, there is always a drawback from their 
respectability by some trait that is ludicrous, 
some situation that is unclerica), some incident 
that is absurd. There is a contrivance to ex- 
pose them to some awkward distress; there is 
some palpable weakness to undo the effect of 
their general example, some impropriety of con- 
duct, some gross error in judgment, some excess 
of simplicity, which, by infallibly diminishing 
the dignity, weakens the influence of the charac- 
ter, and of course lessens the veneration of the 
reader.' 

' I have often,' replied I, • felt, that though we 
may love the man we laugh at, we shall never 
reverence him. We may like him as a com- 
panion, but we shall never look up to him as an 
instructor.' 

* I know no reason,' observed Mr. Stanley, 
' why a pious divine may not have as much wit 
and humour as any other man. And we have 
it on the word of the wittiest of the whole body, 
Dr. South, that ' piety does not necessarily in- 
volve dulness.' An author may lawfully make 
his churchman as witty as he pleases, or rather 
as witty as he can : but he should never make 
him the butt of the wit of other men, which is, 
in fact, making him the butt of his own wit. 
What is meant to be a comical parson is no re- 
spectable or prudent exhibition ; nor with the ut- 
most stretch of candour, can I believe that the mo- 
tive of the exhibitor is always of the purest kind. 

1 How far,' continued Mr. Stanley, ' authors 
have found it necessary to add these diverting 



appendages in order to qualify piety, how far 
they have been obliged to dilute religion, so aa 
to make it palatable and pardonable, I will not 
pretend to decide. But whether such a mixture 
be not calculated to leave a lasting effect on the 
mind, unfavourable to the clerical character 
whether these associations are not injurious even 
to religion itself, let those declare, if they will 
speak honestly who have been accustomed to be 
excessively delighted with such combinations.' 

• I am a little afraid,' returned Sir John, ' that 
I have formerly in some degree fallen under 
this censure. But surely, Stanley, you would 
not think it right to lavish undue praise, even 
on characters of a better stamp; you would no* 
commend ordinary merit highly, and above all 
you would not, I presume screen the faults of 
the worthless ?' 

1 1 am as far from insisting,' replied he, ' on 
the universal piety of the clergy, as for bespeak 
ing reverence for the unworthy individual : all 
that I contend for is, that no arts should ever be 
employed to discredit the order. The abettors 
of revolutionary principles, a few years ago, had 
the aculeness to perceive, that so to discredit it 
was one of the most powerful engines. Had 
not that spirit been providently extinguished, 
they would have done more mischief to religion 
by their artful mode of introducing degrading 
pictures of our national instructors, in their po- 
pular tracts, than the Hobbes and the Boling- 
brokes had done by blending irreligion with 
their philosophy, or the Voltaires and the Gib- 
bons by interweaving it into their history. 
Whatever is mixed up with our amusements is 
swallowed with more danger, because with 
more pleasure, and less suspicion than any thing 
which comes under a graver name, and more 
serious shape.' 

' I presume,' said Sir John, * you do not mean 
to involve in your censure the exquisitely keen 
satires of Erasmus on the ecclesiastics of hia 
day : and I remember that you yourself could 
never read without delight, the pointed wit of 
Boileau against the spiritual voluptuaries of his 
time, in his admirable Lutrin. Perhaps you 
are not disposed to give the same quarter to the 
pleasant ridicule of Le Sage ?' 

' We justify ourselves as good protestanls,' 
rejoined Mr. Stanley, ' for pardoning the severe 
but just attacks of the reformer and the poet 
on the vices of a corrupt church. — Though, to 
speak the truth, I am not quite certain that even 
tbese two discriminating and virtuous authors 
did not, especially Erasmus, now and then in- 
dulge themselves in a sharpness which seemed 
to bear upon religion itself, and not merely on the 
luxury and idleness of its degenerate ministers. 
— As to Le Sage, who, with all his wit, I should 
never have thought of bringing into such good 
company, he was certainly withheld by no re 
straints either moral or religious. And it is ob< 
vious to me that he seems rather gratified, that 
he had the faults to expose, than actuated by an 
honest zeal, by exposing to correct them.' 

' I wish I could say,' replied Sir John, ' that 
the Spanish Friar of Dryden, and the witty 
Opera of the living Dryden did not fall under 
the same suspicion. I have often observed, that 
as Lucien dashes with equal wit and equal viru 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



37i 



Ience at every religion, of every name and every 
nation, so Dryden with the same diffusive zeal 
attacks the ministers of every religion. In ran- 
sacking muftis, monks, and prelates to confirm 
his favourite position, 

That Priests of all rel.gions are the same, 

he betrays a secret wish to intimate that not only 
the priests of all religions, but the religions of 
all priests are pretty much alike.' 

' He has, however,' said Mr. Stanley, ' made 
a sort of palinode, by his consummately beauti- 
ful poem of the good parson. — Yet even this 
lovely picture he could not allow himself to com- 
plete without a fling at the order, which he de- 
clares at the conclusion, he only spares for the 
sake of one exception.' 

' Rousseau,' said Sir John, ' seems to be the 
only sceptic who has not in this respect acted 
unfairly. His Savoyard vicar is represented as 
a grave, consistent, and exemplary character.' 

' True,' replied Mr. Stanley, ' but don't you 
perceive why he is so represented ? He is ex- 
hibited as a model of goodness, in order to exalt 
the scanty faith and unsound doctrines of which 
he is the teacher.' 

' I would not,' continued he, * call that man an 
enemy to the church who should reprobate cha- 
racters who are a dishonour to it. — But the just 
though indignant biographer of a real Sterne, or 
a real Churchill, exhibits a very different spirit, 
and produces a very different effect from the 
painter of an imaginary Thwackum or Supple. 
In the historian, concealment would be blame- 
able, and palliation mischievous. He fairly ex- 
poses the individual without wishing to bring 
any reproach on the profession. What I blame 
is, employing the vehicle of fiction for the pur- 
pose of blackening, or in any degree discredit- 
ing, a body of men, who depend much for the 
success of their labours on public opinion, and 
on the success of whose labours depends so large 
a portion of the public virtue.' 

' I have sometimes,' said I, ' heard my father 
express his surprise that the most engaging of 
all writers, Mr. Addison, a man so devout him- 
self, so forward to do honour to religion on all 
occasions, should have let slip so fair an oppor- 
tunity for exalting the value of a country cler- 
gyman as the description of Sir Roger de Co- 
verly's chaplain naturally put in his hands.'* 

1 You must allow,' said Sir John, ' that he has 
made him worthy, and that he has not made 
him absurd.' 

' I grant it,' replied I, ' but he has made him 
dull and acquiescent. Ha has made him any 
thing rather than a pattern.' 

' But what I most regret,' said Mr. Stanley, 
is, that the use he has made of this character 
is to give the stamp of his own high authority 
to a practice, which though it is characteristi- 
cally recommended by the whimsical knight, 
whose original vein of humour leaves every other 
far behind it, yet should never have had the 
sanction of the author of the Saturday pieces in 
the Spectator — I mean, the practice of the mi- 
nister of a little country parish, preaching to 
farmers and peasants the most learned, logi- 

* See Spectator.. Vol ii. No. 107 



cal, and profound discourses in the English Ian 
guage.' 

1 It has, I believe,' replied Sir John, ' excited 
general wonder that so consummate a judge of 
propriety should have commended, as suitable 
instruction for illiterate villagers, the sermons 
of those incomparable scholars Fleetwood, South, 
Tillotson, Barrow, Calamy, and Sanderson.' 

1 But this is not the worst,' said Mr. Stanley, 
'for Mr. Addison not only clearly approves it in 
the individual instance, but takes occasion from 
it, to establish a general rule, and indefinitely to 
advise the country clergy to adopt the custom 
of preaching these same discourses, ' instead of 
wasting their spirits in laborious compositions 
of their own.'' 

' Surely,' replied I, ' an enemy of religion 
could not easily have devised a more effectual 
method for thinning the village church, or les- 
sening the edification of the unlettered auditor, 
than this eminent advocate for Christianity has 
here incautiously suggested.' 

' I am sorry,' said Mr. Stanley, ' that sucn a 
man has given such a sanction for reducing re- 
ligious instruction to little more than a form, 
and for seeming to consider the mere act of at- 
tending public worship as the sole end of its in- 
stitution, without sufficiently taking into the 
account the nature and the importance of the 
instruction itself; and without considering that 
nothing can be edifying which is not intelligible. 
Besides, it is not only preventing the improve- 
ment of the people, but checking that of the 
preacher. It not only puts a bar to his own ad- 
vancement in the art of teaching, but retards 
that growth in piety which might have been 
promoted in himself while he was preparing in 
secret to promote that of his hearers.' 

1 And yet,' replied Sir John, ' to speak honest- 
ly, I am afraid, had I been the patron, I should 
have been so gratified myself with hearing those 
fine compositions, that I could not heartily have 
blamed my chaplain for preaching no other.' 

' My dear Sir John,' said Mr. Stanley, ' neither 
your good sense, nor your good nature would, I 
am persuaded, allow you to purchase your own 
gratification at the expense of a whole congre- 
gation. You, a man of learning and of leisure, 
can easily supply any deficiency of ability in 
plain but useful sermons. But how would the 
tenants, the workmen, and the servants, (for of 
such at least was Sir Roger's congregation com- 
posed,) how would those who have little other 
means of edification indemnify themselves for 
the loss of that single opportunity which the 
whole week affords them ? Is not that a most 
inequitable way of proportioning instruction 
which, while it pleases or profits the well-in- 
formed individual, cuts off* the instruction of the 
multitude ? If we may twist a text from its na- 
tural import, is it • rightly dividing the word 
of truth' to feast the patron and starve the pa. 
rish ?' 



CHAP. XXVIII. 

Though Mr. Stanley had cheeked my impe. 
tuosity in my application to him, and did not 



372 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



encourage my addresses with a promptitude 
suited to the ardour of my affection, yet as the 
warmth of my attachment, notwithstanding I 
made it a duty to restrain its outward expres- 
sion, could not escape either his penetration, or 
that of his admirable wife, they began a little to 
relax in the strictness with which they had 
avoided speaking of their daughter. They never 
indeed introduced the subject themselves, yet it 
some how or other never failed to find its way 
into all conversation in which I was one of the 
interlocutors. 

Sitting one day in Lucilla's bower with Mrs. 
Stanley, and speaking, though in general terms, 
on the subject nearest my heart, with a tender- 
ness and admiration as sincere as it was fervent, 
I dwelt particularly on some instances which I 
had recently heard from Edwards, of her tender 
attention to the sick poor, and her zeal in often 
visiting them without regard to weather, or the 
accommodation of a carriage. 

'I assure you,' said Mrs. Stanley, 'you over- 
rate her. Lucilla is no prodigy dropped down 
from the clouds. Ten thousand other young 
women, with natural good sense, and good tem- 
per, might, with the same education, the same 
neglect of what is useless, and the same atten- 
tion to what is necessary, acquire the same ha- 
bits and the same principles. Her being no 
prodigy, however, perhaps makes her example, 
as far as it goes, more important. She may be 
more useful, because she carries not that dis- 
couraging superiority, which others might be 
deterred from imitating, through hopelessness 
to reach. If she is not a miracle whom others 
might despair to emulate, she is a Christian 
whom every girl of a fair understanding and 
good disposition may equal, and whom, I hope 
and believe, many girls excel.' 

I asked Mrs. Stanley's permission to attend 
the young ladies in one of their benevolent 
rounds. ' When I have leisure to be of the par- 
ty,' replied she, smiling, 'you shall accompany 
us. I am afraid to trust your warm feelings. 
Your good nature would perhaps lead you to 
commend as a merit, what in fact deserves no 
praise at all, the duty being so obvious, and so 
indispensable. I have often heard it regretted 
that ladies have no stated employment, no pro- 
fession. It is a mistake. Charity is the calling 
of a ladyf the care of the poor is her profession. 
Men have little time or taste for details. Women 
of fortune have abundant leisure, which can in 
no way be so properly or so pleasantly filled up, 
as in making themselves intimately acquainted 
with the worth and the wants of all within their 
reach. With their wants, because it is their 
bounden duty to administer to them ; with their 
worth, because without this knowledge, they 
cannot administer prudently and appropriately.' 

I expressed to v Mrs. Stanley the delight with 
which I had heard of the admirable regulations 
of her family, in the management of the poor, 
and how much their power of doing good was 
said to be enlarged by the judgment and discri- 
mination with which it was done. 

' We are far from thinking,' replied she, 'that 
our charity should be limited to our own imme- 
diate neighbourhood. We are of opinion, that 
it should not be left undone any where, but that 



there it should be done indispensably. We con- 
sider our own parish as our more appropriate 
field of action, where Providence, by ' fixing the 
bounds of our habitation,' seems to have made 
us peculiarly responsible for the comfort of those 
whom he has doubtless placed around us for that 
purpose. It is thus that the Almighty vindicates 
his justice, or rather calls on us to vindicate it. 
It is thus he explains why he admits natural 
evil into the world, by making the wants of one 
part of the community an exercise for the com- 
passion of the other. 

' Surely,' added Mrs. Stanley, ' the reason is 
particularly obvious, why the bounty of the afflu- 
ent ought to be most liberally, though not ex- 
clusively, extended to the spot whence they de- 
rived their revenues. There seems indeed to be 
a double motive for it. The same act involves 
a duty both to God and to man. The largest 
bounty to the necessitous on our' estates, is ra- 
ther justice than charity. ' Tis but a kind of 
pepper-corn acknowledgment to the great Lord 
and proprietor of all, from whom we hold them. 
And to assist their own labouring poor is a kind 
of natural debt, which persons who possess great 
landed property owe to those from the sweat of 
whose brow they derive their comforts, and even 
their riches. 'Tis a commutation, in which, as 
the advantage is greatly on our side, so is our 
duty to diminish the difference, of paramount 
obligation.' 

I then repeated my request, that I might bo 
allowed to take a practical lesson in the next pe- 
riodical visit to the cottages. 

Mrs. Stanley replied, ' As to my girls, the 
elder ones, I trust, are such veterans in their 
trade that your approbation can do them no 
harm, nor do they stand in need of it as an in- 
centive. But should the little ones find that 
their charity procures them praise, they might 
perhaps be charitable for the sake of praise, their 
benevolence might be set at work by their va- 
nity, and they might be led to do that, from the 
love of applause, which can only please God 
when the principle is pure. The iniquity of our 
holy things, my good friend, requires much 
Christian vigilance. Next to not giving at all 
the greatest fault is to give from ostentation. 
The contest is only between two sins. The mo- 
tive robs the act of the very name of virtue, while 
the good work that is paid in praise, is stripped 
of the hope of higher retribution.' 

On my assuring Mrs. Stanley, that I thought 
such an introduction to their systematic schemes 
of charity might inform my own mind and im- 
prove my habits, she consented, and I have since 
been a frequent witness of their admirable me- 
thod ; and have been studying plans which in- 
volve the good both of body and soul. Oh ! if I 
am ever blest with a coadjutress, a directress, 
let me rather say, formed under such auspices, 
with what delight shall I transplant the princi- 
ples and practices of Stanley Grove to the Pri- 
ory ! Nor indeed would I ever marry but with 
the animating hope that not only myself, but all 
around me, would be the better and the happier 
for the presiding genius I shall place there. 

Sir John Belfield had joined us while we were 
on this topic. I had observed sometimes that 
though he was earnest on the general principle 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



373 



of benevolence, which he considered as a most 
imperious duty, or, as he said in his warm way, 
as so lively a pleasure, that he was almost ready 
to suSpect if it were a duty ; yet I was sorry to 
find that his generous mind had not viewed this 
large subject under all its aspects. He had not 
hitherto regarded it as a matter demanding- any 
thing but money ; while time, inquiry, discri- 
mination, system, he confessed he had not much 
taken into the account. He did a great deal of 
good, but had not allowed himself timeor thought 
for the best way of doing it. Charity, as opposed 
to hard-heartednessand covetousness, he warmly 
exercised ; but when, with a willing liberality, 
he had cleared himself from the suspicion of 
those detestable vices, he was indolent in the 
proper distribution of money and somewhat 
negligent of its just application. Nor had he 
ever considered, as every man should do, because 
every man's means are limited, how the greatest 
quantity of good could be done with any given 
sum. 

But the worst of all was, he had imbibed cer- 
tain popular prejudices respecting the more re- 
ligiotts charities ; prejudices altogether unwor- 
thy of his enlightened mind. He too much limit- 
ed his ideas of bounty to bodily wants. This 
distinction was not with him, as it is with many, 
invented as an argument for saving his money, 
which he rnostwillingly bestowed for feeding and 
clothing the necessitous. But as to the propriety 
of afford ing them religious instruction, he own- 
ed he had not made up his mind. He had some 
doubts whether it were a duty. Whether it 
were a benefit, he had still stronger doubts; add- 
ing, that he should begin to consider the sub- 
ject more attentively than he had yet done. 

Mrs. Stanley in reply, said, ' I am but a poor 
casuist, Sir John, and I must refer you to Mr. 
Stanley for abler arguments than I can use. I 
will venture however to say, that even on your 
own ground it appears to be a pressing duty. 
If sin be the cause of so large a portion of the 
miseries of human life, must not that be the no- 
blest charity which cures, or lessens, or prevents 
sin ? And are not they the truest benefactors 
even to the bodies of men, who by their reli- 
gious exertions to prevent the corruption of vice, 
prevent also, in some measure, that poverty and 
disease which are the natural concomitants of 
vice? If in endeavouring to make men better, 
by the infusion of a religious principle which 
shall check idleness, drinking, and extrava- 
gance, we put them in the way to become 
healthier, and richer, and happier, it will fur- 
nish a practical argument which I am sure will 
satisfy your benevolent heart.' 



CHAP. XXIX. 

Mr. Tyrrel and his nephew called on us in 
the evening, and interrupted a pleasant and 
useful conversation, on which we were just en- 
tering. 

'Do you know, Stanley,' * said Mr. Tyrrel, 
* that you have absolutely corrupted my nephew, 
by what passed at your house the other day in 
favour of reading. He has ever since been ran- 
sacking the shelves for idle books ' 



' I should be seriously concerned,' replied Mr 
Stanley, ' if any thing I had said should have 
drawn Mr. Edward off from more valuable stu- 
dies, or diverted him from the important pur- 
suit of religious knowledge.' 

'Why to do him justice, and you too,' re- 
sumed Mr. Tyrrel, ' he has since that conver- 
sation begun assiduously to devote his mornings 
to serious reading, and it is only an hour's lei- 
sure in the evening which he used to trifle away, 
that he gives to books of taste ; but I had rather 
he would let them all alone. The best of them 
will only fill his heart with cold morality, and 
stuff his head with romance and fiction. I 
would not have a religious man ever look into a 
book of your belles lettres nonsense ; and if he 
be really religious, he will make a general bon- 
fire of the poets.' 

'That is rather two sweeping a sentence,' 
said Mr. Stanley. ' It would, I grant you, have 
been a benefit to mankind, if the entire works 
of some celebrated poets, and a considerable por- 
tion of the works of many not quite so excep- 
tionable, were to assist the conflagration of your 
pile.' 

' And if fuel failed,' said Sir John Belfield, 
' we might not only rob Belinda's altar of her 

Twelve tomes of French romances neatly gilt, 



but feed the flame with countless marble cover- 
ed octavos from the modern school. — But having 
made this concession, allow me to observe, that 
because there has been a voluptuous Petronius, 
a profane Lucretius, and a licentious Ovid, to 
say nothing of the numberless modern poets, or 
rather individual poems, that are immoral and 
corrupt — shall we therefore exclude all works 
of imagination from the library of a young man? 
Surely we should not indiscriminately banish 
the Muses, as infallible corruptors of the youth- 
ful mind ; I would rather consider a blameless 
poet as the auxiliary of virtue. — Whatever talent 
enables a writer to possess an empire over the 
heart, and to lead the passions at his command 
puts it in his power to be of no small service to 
mankind. It is no new remark that the abuse 
of any good thing is no argument against its 
legitimate use. Intoxication affords no just 
reason against the use of wine, nor prodigality 
against the possession of wealth. In the instance 
in dispute I should rather infer that u talent ca- 
pable of diffusing so much mischief, was sus- 
ceptible of no small benefit. That it has been 
so often abused by its misapplication, is one of 
the highest instances of the ingratitude of man 
for one of the highest gifts of God.' 

' I cannot think,' said I, ' that the Almighty 
conferred such a faculty with a wish to have it 
extinguished. Works of imagination have in 
many countries been a chief instrument of civil- 
ization. Poetry has not only preceded science 
in the history of human progress, but it has in 
many countries preceded the knowledge of the 
mechanical arts ; and I have somewhere read, 
that in Scotland they could write elegant Latin 
verse before they could make a wheel-barrow. 
For my own part, in my late visit to London, I 
thought the decline of poetry no favourable 
symptom.* 



374 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH M6RE. 



* I rejc tie to hear it is declining,' said Tyrrel. 
I hope that what is decaying, may in time be 
extinguished.' 

' Mr. Tyrrel would have been delighted with 
what I was displeased,' replied I. ' I met with 
philosophers, who were like Plato in nothing but 
in his abhorrence of the Muses ; with politicians, 
who resembled Burleigh only in his enmity to 
Spenser ; and with warriors, who however they 
might emulate Alexander in his conquests, 
would never have imitated him in sparing 'the 
house of Pindarus.' 

' The art of poetry,' said Mr. Stanley, ' is to 
touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on 
the side of virtue. To raise and to purify the 
amusements of mankind ; to multiply and to 
exalt pleasures, which being purely intellectual, 
may help to exclude such as are gross, in beings 
so addicted to sensuality, is surely not only to 
give pleasure, but to render service. It is allow- 
able to seize every avenue to the heart of a be- 
ing so prone to evil ; to rescue him by every 
fair means not only from the degradation of 
vice, but from the dominion of idleness. I do 
not now speak of gentlemen of the sacred func- 
tion, to which Mr. Edward Tyrrel aspires, but 
of those who, having no profession, have no 
stated employment; and who, having more lei- 
sure, will be in danger of exceeding the due 
bounds in the article of amusement. Let us 
then endeavour to allure our youth of fashion 
from the low pleasures of the dissolute ; to 
snatch them, not only from the destruction of 
the gaming-table, but from the excesses of the 
dining-tabl.e, by inviting them to an elegant de- 
light that is safe, and especially by enlarging 
the range of pure mental pleasure. 

' In order to this, let us do all we can to culti- 
vate their taste, and innocently indulge their 
fancy. Let us contend with impure writers, 
those deadliest enemies to the youthful mind, 
by opposing to them in the chaster author, 
images more attractive, wit more acute, learn- 
ing more various; in all which excellencies our 
first-rate poets certainly excel their vicious com- 
petitors.' 

4 Would you, Mr. Tyrrel,' said Sir John, 
•throw into the enemy's camp all the light arms 
which often successfully annoy where the heavy 
artillery cannot reach ?' 

4 Let us,' replied Mr. Stanley, rescue from 
the hands of the profane and the impure, the 
monopoly of wit which they affect to possess, 
and which they would possess, if no good men 
b.ad written works of elegant literature, and if 
all good men totally despised them.' 

4 For my own part,' said Mr. Tyrrel, 4 1 be- 
lieve that a good man, in my sense of the word, 
will neither write works of imagination, nor 
read them.' 

4 At your age and mine, and better employed 
as we certainly may be,' said Mr. Stanley, ■ we 
want no such resources. I myself, though I 
strongly retain the relish, have little leisure for 
the indulgence, which yet I would allow, though 
with great discrimination, to the young and the 
unoccupied. What is to whet the genius of the 
champions of virtue, so as to enable them suc- 
cessfully to combat the leaders of vice and infi- 
delity, if w e refuse to let them be occasionally 



sharpened and polished by such studies ? That 
model of brilliant composition, Bishop Jeremy 
Taylor, was of this opinion, when he said 4 by 
whatever instrument piety is advantaged, use 
that, though thou grindest thy spears and ar- 
rows at the forges of the Philistines.' 

4 1 know,' continued Mr. Stanley, 4 that a 
Christian need not borrow weapons of attack or 
defence from the classic armoury ; but, to drop 
all metaphor, if he is called upon to defend truth 
and virtue against men whose rr.inds are adorn- 
ed with all that is elegant, strengthened with 
all that is powerful, and enriched with all that 
is persuasive, from the writers in question — Is 
he likely to engage with due advantage if his 
own mind be destitute of the embellishments 
with which their's abound ? While wit and 
imagination are their favourite instruments, 
shall we consider the aid of either as useless, 
much less as sinful in their opponents?' 

4 While young men toill be amused,' said Sir 
John, ' it is surely of importance that they 
should be safely amused. We should not there- 
fore wish to obliterate in authors such faculties 
as wit and fancy, nor to extinguish a taste for 
them in readers.' 

4 Show me any one instance of good that ever 
was effected by any one poet,' said Mr. Tyrrel, 
1 and I will give up the point ; while on the other 
hand, a thousand instances of mischief might 
doubtless be produced.' 

4 The latter part of your assertion, Sir,' said 
I, 4 1 fear is too true : but to what evil has ele- 
vation of fancy led Milton, or Milton his readers? 
In what labyrinths of guilt did it involve Spen- 
ser or Cowley ? Has Thomson, or has Young 
added to the crimes or the calamities of man- 
kind? Into what immoralities did it plunge 
Gay or Goldsmith ? Has it tainted the purity 
of Beattie in his Minstrel, or that of the living 
minstrel of the Lay ? What reader has Mason 
corrupted, or what reader has Cowper not bene- 
fitted ? Milton was an enthusiast both in reli- 
gion and politics. Many enthusiasts with whom 
he was connected, doubtless condemned the ex- 
ercise of his imagination in his immortal poem 
as a crime ; but his genius was too mighty to 
be restrained by opposition, and his imagination 
too vast and powerful to be kept down by a 
party. Had he confined himself in his prose 
writings, weighty and elaborate as some of them 
are, how little service would he have done the 
world, and how little would he now be read or 
quoted ! In his life time politics might blind his 
enemies, and fanaticism his friends. But now, 
who, comparatively, reads the Iconoclastes ? 
Who does not read Comus ?' 

4 What then,' said Mr. Tyrrel, 4 you would 
have our young men spend their time in read- 
ing idle verses, and our girls, I suppose, in read- 
ing loose romances ?' 

4 It is to preserve both from evils which I de- 
precate,' said Mr. Stanley, 4 that I would con- 
sign the most engaging subjects to the best 
hands, and raise the taste of our youth, by al- 
lowing a little of their leisure, and of their lei. 
sure only, to such amusements ; and that chiefly 
with a view to disengage them from worse pur 
suits. It is not romance, but indolence; it is 
not poetry, but sensuality, which are the p. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



375 



vailing evils of the day — evils far more fatal in 
themselves, far more durable in their effects, 
than the perusal of works of wit and genius. 
Imagination will cool of itself. The efferves- 
cence of fancy will soon subside ; but absorbing 
dissipation, but paralyzing idlcnes, but degrad- 
ing self-love, 

Grows with their growth, and strengthens with their 
strength. 

' A judicious reformer,' said Sir John, ' will 
accommodate his remedy to an existing and not 
an imaginary evil. When the old romances, 
the grrand Cyruses, the Clelias, the Cassandras, 
the Pharamonds, and the Amadises, had turned 
all tha young heads in Europe ; or when tke 
fury of knight errantry demanded the powerful 
reign of Cervantes to check it — it was a duty to 
attempt to lower the public delirium. When, in 
our own age and country, Sterne wrote his cor- 
rupt but too popular lesser work, he became the 
mischievous founder of the school of sentiment. 
A hundred writers communicated, a hundred 
thousand readers caught the infection. Senti- 
mentality was the disease which then required 
to be expelled. The reign of Sterne is past. 
Sensibility is discarded, and with it the softness 
which it must be confessed belonged to it. Ro- 
mance is vanished, and with it the heroic, though 
somewhat unnatural elevation which accompa- 
nied it. We have little to regret in the loss of 
either : nor have we much cause to rejoice in 
what we have gained by the exchange. A per- 
vading and substantial selfishness, the striking 
characteristic of our day, is no great improve- 
ment on the wildness of the old romance, or the 
vapid puling of the sentimental school.' 

' Surely,' said I, (L' Almanac des Gourmands 
at that instant darting across my mind,) 'it is 
as honourable for a gentleman to excel in criti- 
cal as in culinary skill. It is as noble to culti- 
vate the intellectual taste, as that of the palate. 
It is at least as creditable to discuss the compa- 
rative merits of Sophocles and Shakspeare, as 
the rival ingredients of a soup or a sauce. I 
will even venture to affirm that it is as dignified 
an amusement to run a tilt in favour of Virgil 
or Tasso against their assailants, as to run a 
barouche against a score of rival barouches ; 
and though I own that, in Gulliver's land of the 
Houyhnhnms, the keeping up the breed of horses 
might have been the nobler patriotism, yet in 
Great Britain it is hitherto at least become no 
contemptible exertion of skill and industry to 
keep up the breed of gentlemen.' 



CHAP. XXX. 

I strolled out alone, intending to call at the 
Rectory, but was prevented by meeting the 
worthy Doctor Barlow, who was coming to the 
Grove. I could not lose so fair an opportunity 
of introducing a subject that was seldom absent 
from my thoughts. I found it was a subject, on 
which I had no new discoveries to impart. He 
told trie, he had seen and rejoiced in the election 
my heart Had made. I was surprised at his pe- 
netration. He smiled, and told me, * he took no 



great credit for his sagacity, in perceiving what 
was obvious to spectators far more indifferent 
than himself. That I resembled those animals 
who by hiding- their heads in the earth fancied 
nobody could see them.' 

I asked him a thousand questions about Lu- 
cilla, whose fine mind I knew he hnd in some 
measure contributed to form. I inquired with 
an eagerness which he called jealousy, who were 
her admirers? 'As many men as have seen 
her,' replied he, ' I know of no man who has so 
many rivals as yourself. To relieve your ap- 
prehensions, however, I will tell you, that though 
there havo been several competitors for her fa- 
vour, not one has been accepted. There has, 
indeed, been this summer a very formidable 
candidate, young Lord Staunton, who has a large 
estate in the country, and whom she met on a 
visit.' At these words I fejt my fears revive. 
A young and handsome peer seemed so redoubt- 
able a rival, that for a moment I only remem- 
bered she was a woman, and forgot that she was 
Lucilla. 

' You may set your heart at rest,' said Dr. 
Barlow, who saw my emotion. ' She heard he 
had seduced the innocent daughter of one of his 
tenants, under the most specious pretence of 
honourable love. This, together with the loose- 
ness of his religious principles, led her to give 
his lordship a positive refusal, though he is nei- 
ther destitute of talents, nor personal accom- 
plishments.' 

How ashamed was I of my jealousy ! How I 
felt my admiration increase ! Yet I thought it 
was too great before to achnit of augmentation. 
'Another proposal,' said Dr. Barlow, ' was made 
to her father by a man every way unexception- 
able. But she desired him to be informed that 
it was her earnest request, that he would pro- 
ceed no further, but spare her the pain of re- 
fusing a gentleman, for whose character she en- 
tertained a sincere respect ; but being persuaded 
she could never be ableto feel more than respect, 
she positively declined receiving his addresses, 
assuring him at the same time, that she sincere- 
ly desired to retain as a friend, him whom she 
felt herself obliged to refuse as a husband. She 
is as far from the vanity of seeking to make 
conquests, as from the ungenerous insolence of 
using ill, those whom her merit has captivated, 
and whom her judgment cannot accept.' 

After admiring in the warmest terms the puri. 
ty and generosity of her heart, I pressed Dr, 
Barlow still farther, as to the interior of her 
mind. I questioned him as to her early habits, 
and particularly as to her religious attainments, 
telling him that nothing was indifferent to me 
which related to Lucilla. 

'Miss Stanley,' replied he, 'is governed by a 
simple, practical end, in all her religious pur- 
suits. She reads her bible, not from habit, that 
she may acquit herself of a customary form ; nor 
to exercise her ingenuity by allegorizing literal 
passages, or spiritualizing plain ones, but that 
she may improve in knowledge, and grow in 
grace. She accustoms herself to meditation, in 
order to get her mind more deeply imbued with 
a sense of eternal things. She practices self- 
examination, that she may learn to watch against 
the first rising of bud dispositions, and to detect 



376 



T'HE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



every latent evil in her heart. She lives in the 
regular habit of prayer ; not only that she may 
implore pardon for sin, but that she may obtain 
strength against it. She told me one day when 
she was ill, that if she did not constantly exa- 
mine the aotual state of her mind, she should 
pray at random, without any certainty what 
particular sins she should pray against, or what 
were her particular wants. She has read much 
scripture and little controversy. There are some 
doctrines that she does not pretend to define, 
■which she yet practically adopts. She cannot 
perhaps give you a disquisition on the mysteries 
of the Holy Spirit, but she can and does fervent- 
ly implore his guidance and instruction ; she 
believes in his efficacy, and depends on his sup- 
port. She is sensible that those truths, which 
from their deep importance are most obvious, 
have more of the vitality of religion, and influ- 
ence practice more, than those abstruse points, 
which unhappily split the religious world into 
so many parties. 

' If I were to name what are her predominant 
virtues, I should say sincerity and humility. 
Conscious of her own imperfections, she never 
justifies her faults, and seldom extenuates them. 
She receives reproof with meekness, and advice 
with gratitude. Her own conscience is always 
30 ready to condemn her, that she never wonders, 
nor takes offence at the censure of others. 

•That softness of manner which you admire 
in her, is not the varnish of good breeding, nor 
is it merely the effect of good temper, though in 
both she excels, but it is the result of humility. 
She appears humble, not because a mild exterior 
is graceful, but because she has an inward con- 
viction of unworthiness which prevents an as- 
suming manner. Yet her humility has no cant; 
the never disburthens her conscience by a few 
disparaging phrases, nor lays a trap for praise 
by indiscriminately condemning herself. Her 
humility never impairs her cheerfulness ; for the 
sense of her wants directs her to seek, and her 
faith enables her to find, the sure foundation of 
& better hope than any which can be derived from 
r. delusive confidence in her own goodness. 

' One day,' continued Dr. Barlow, ' when I 
blamed her gently for her backwardness in ex- 
pressing her opinion on some serious point, she 
said, ' I always feel diffident in speaking on 
these subjects, not only lest I should be thought 
to assume, but lest I really should assume a de- 
gree of piety which may not belong to me. My 
great advantages make me jealous of myself 
My dear father so carefully instructed me, and 
I live so much in the habit of hearing his pious 
sentiments, that I am often afraid of appearing 
better than I am, and of pretending to feel in 
my heart, what perhaps I only approve in my 
judgment. When my beloved mother was ill,' 
continued she, • I often caught myself saying 
mechanically, ' God's will be done !' when I 
blushed to own, how little I felt in my heart of 
that resignation of which my lips were so la- 
vish.' 

I hung with inexpressible delight on every 
word Dr. Barlow uttered, and expressed my fears 
that such a prize was too much above my de- 
serts, to allow me to encourage very sanguine 
hopes. • You have my cordial wishes for your 



success,' said he, ' though I shall lament the day 
when you snatch so fair a flower from our fields, 
to transplant it into your northern gardens.' 

We had now reached the Park-gate, where 
Sir John and Lady Belfield joined us. As it 
was very hot, Dr. Barlow proposed to conduct 
us a nearer way. He carried us through a small 
nursery of fruit trees, which I had not before 
observed, though it was adjoining the ladies' 
flower garden, from which it was separated and 
concealed by a row of small trees. I expressed 
my surprise that the delicate Lucilla would al- 
low so coarse an enclosure to be so near her or- 
namented ground. • You see she does all she 
can to shut it out,' replied he. ' I will tell you 
how it happens, for I cannot vindicate the taste 
of my fair friend, without exposing a better qua- 
lity in her. But if I betray her you must not 
betray me. 

' It is a rule when any servant who has lived 
seven years at the Grove marries, provided they 
have conducted themselves well, and made a 
prudent choice, for Mr. Stanley to give them a 
piece of ground on the waste to build a cottage ; 
he also allows them to take stones from his 
quarry, and lime from his kiln ; to this he adds 
a bit of ground for a garden. Mrs. Stanley pre- 
sents some kitchen furniture, and gives a wed- 
ding dinner ; and the Rector refuses his fee for 
performing the ceremony.' 

' Caroline,' said Sir John, ' this is not the first 
time since we have been at the Grove, that I 
have been struck with observing how many be- 
nefits naturally result to the poor, from the rich 
living on their own estates. Their dependants 
have a thousand petty local advantages, which 
cost almost nothing to the giver, which are yet 
valuable to the receiver, and of which the absent 
never think.' 

' You have heard,' said Dr. Barlow, 'that Miss 
Stanley, from her childhood, has been passion 
ately fond of cultivating a garden. When she 
was hardly fourteen, she began to reflect that 
the delight she took in this employment was at 
tended neither with pleasure nor profit to any 
one but herself, and she became jealous of a gra- 
tification which was so entirely selfish. She 
begged this piece of waste ground of her father, 
and stocked it with a number of fine young fruit 
trees of the common sort, apples, pears, plums, 
and the smaller fruits. When there is a wedding 
among the older servants, or when any good 
girl out of her school marries, she presents their 
little empty garden with a dozen young apple 
trees, and a few trees of the other sorts, never 
forgetting to embellish their little court with 
roses and horjy-suckles. These last she trans- 
plants from the shrubbery, not to fill up the vil- 
lage garden, as it is called, with any thing that 
is of no positive use. She employs a poor lame 
man in the village a day in the week to look 
after this nursery, and by cuttings and grafts a 
good stock is raised on a small space. It is 
done at her own expense, Mr. Stanley making 
this a condition when he gave her the ground ; 
' otherwise,' said he, ' trifling as it is, it would 
be my charity and not her's, and she would get 
thanked for a kindness which would cost her 
nothing.' The warm-hearted little Phoebe co-ope- 
rates in this, and all her sister's labours of love.' 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE, 



377 



* Some such union of charity with every per- 
sonal indulgence, she generally imposes on her- 
self and from this association she has acquired 
another virtue, for she tells me smiling, she is 
sometimes obliged to content herself with prac- 
tising frugality instead of charity. When she 
finds she cannot afford both her own gratifica- 
tion, and the, charitable act which she wanted 
to associate with it, and is therefore compelled 
to give up the charity, she compels herself to 
give up the indulgence also. By this self-denial 
she gets a little money in hand, for the next de- 
mand, and thus is enabled to afford both next 
time.' 

As he finished speaking, we spied the lame 
gardener pruning and clearing the trees. ' Well, 
James,' said the Doctor, ' how does your nursery 
thrive ?' ' Why, Sir,' said the poor man, ' we arc 
rather thin of stout trees at present. You know 
we had three weddings at Christmas, which 
took thirty-six of my best apple trees at a blow, 
besides half a dozen tall pear trees, and as many 
plums. But we shall soon fetch it up, for Miss 
Lucilla makes me plant two for every one that 
is removed, so that we are always provide^ for 
a wedding, come when it will.' 

I now recollected that I had been pleased with 
observing so many young orchards ajid flo-.rish- 
ing cottage gardens in the village ; little did I 
suspect the fair hand which could thus in a 
very few years diffuse an air of smiling comfort 
around these humble habitations, and embellish 
poverty itself. She makes, they told me, her 
periodical visits of inspection to see that neat- 
ness and order do not degenerate. 

Not to appear too eager, I asked the poor 
man some questions about his health, which 
seemed infirm. ' I am but weak, Sir,' said he, 
' for the matter of that, but I should have been 
dead long ago but for the 'Squire's family. He 
gives me the run of his kitchen, and Miss Lu- 
cilla allows me half a crown a week, for one 
day's work and any odd hour I can spare ; but 
she don't let me earn it, for she is always watch- 
ing for fear it should be too hot or too cold, or 
too wet for me : and she brings me my dose of 
bark herself into this tool-house, that^he may 
be sure I take it ; for she says servants and poor 
people like to have medicines provided for them, 
but don't care to take them. Then she watches 
that I don't throw my coat on the wet grass, 
which, she says, gives labouring men so much 
rheumatism ; and she made me this nice flannel 
waistcoat, Sir, with her own hands. At Christ- 
mas they gave me a new suit from top to toe, so 
that I want nothing but a more thankful heart, 
for I never c-uj be grateful enough to God and 
r-af Lenefactors.' 

a. asked some further questions, only to have 
the pleasure of hearing him talk longer about 
Lucilla. ' But, Sir,' said he, interrupting me, 
* I hear bad news, very bad news. Pray your 
honour forgive me.' 'What do you mean, 
James v said I, seeing his eye fill. ' Why, 
Sir, all the servants at the Grove will have it 
that you are come to carry off Miss Lucilla. 
God bless her whenever she goes. Your Mr. 
Edwards, Sir, says yon are one of the best of 
gentlemen, but indeed, indeed, I don't know who 
can deserve her. She will carry a blessing 

Vol. a. 



wherever she goes.' The honest fellow put up 
the sleeve of his coat to brush away his tears, 
nor was I ashamed of those with which his 
honest affection filled my own eyes. While 
we were talking, a poor little girl, who I knew 
by her neat uniform belonged to Miss Stanley's 
school, passed us with a little basket in her hand. 
James called to her, and said", ' make haste, 
Rachel, you are after your time.' 

' What, this is market day, James, is it,' said 
Dr. Barlow, ' and Rachel is come for her nose- 
gays ?' 'Yes, Sir,' said James; 'I forgot to 
tell their honours, that every Saturday, as soon 
as the school is over, the younger Misses give 
Rachel leave to come and fetch some flowers 
out of her garden, which she carries to the 
town to sell ; she commonly gets a shilling, half 
of which they make her lay out to bring home 
a little tea for her poor sick mother, and the 
other half she lays up to buy shoes and stock- 
ings for herself and her crippled sister. Every 
little is a help where there is nothing, Sir.' 

Sir John said nothing, but looked at Lady 
Belfield, whose eyes glistened while she softly 
said, 'O how little do the rich ever think what 
the aggregate even of their own squandered shil- 
lings would do in the way of charity, were they 
systematically applied to it.' 

James now unlocked a little private door, 
which opened into the pleasure ground. There, 
at a distance, sitting in a circle on the new-mown 
grass, under a tree, we beheld all the little 
Stanleys, with a basket of flowers between them, 
out of which they were earnestly employed in 
sorting and tying up nosegays. We stood some 
time admiring their little busy faces and active 
finger's without their perceiving us, and got up 
to them just as they were putting their prettily 
formed bouquets into Rachel's basket, with 
which she marched off, with many charges from 
the children to waste no time by the way, and 
to be sure and leave the nosegay that had the 
myrtle in it at Mrs. Williams's. 

' How many nosegays have you given to Ra- 
chel to-day, Louisa ?' said Dr. Barlow to the 
eldest of the four. ' Only three a-piece, Sir,' 
replied she. ' We think it a bad day when wc 
can't make up our dozen. They are all our own ; 
we seldom touch mamma's flowers, and we 
never suffer James to take ours, because Phoebe 
said it might be tempting him.' Little Jane 
lamented that Lucilla had given them nothing 
to-day, except two or three sprigs of her best 
flowering myrtle, which, added she, ' we make 
Rachel give into the bargain to a poor sick lady, 
who loves flowers, and used to have good ones 
of her own, but who has now no money to spare, 
and could not afford to give more than the com- 
mon price for a nosegay for her sick room ! So 
we always slip a nice flower or two out of the 
green-house into her little bunch, and say no- 
thing. When we walk that way we often leave 
her some flowers ourselves, and would do it 
oflener, if it did not hurt poor Rachel's trade.' 

As we walked away from the sweet prattlers 
Dr. Barlow said, 'These little creatures already 
emulate their sisters in associating some pretty 
kindness with their own pleasures. The act is 
trifling, but the habit is good ; as is every habit 
which helps to take us out of self; which teaches 



378 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



us to transfer our attention from our own grati- 
fication, to the wants and pleasures of another.' 

'I confess,' said Lady Belfield, as we entered 
the house, l that it never occurred to me that it 
was any part of charity to train my children to 
the habit of sacrificing their time or their plea- 
Pure for the benefit of others, though, to do them 
justice, they are very feeling and very liberal 
with their money.' 

'My dear Caroline,' said Sir John, 'it is our 
money, not their's. It is, I fear, a cheap libe- 
rality, and abridges not themselves of one en- 
joyment. They well know we are so pleased 
to see them charitable, we shall instantly repay 
them with interest, whatever they give away, 
so that we have hitherto afforded them no op- 
portunity to show their actual dispositions. Nay 
I begin to fear they may become charitable 
through covetousness, if they find out that the 
more they give the more they shall get. We 
must correct this artificial liberality as soon as 
we go home.' 



CHAP. XXXI. 

A few days after, Sir John Belfield and I 
agreed to take a ride to Mr. Carlton's, where 
we breakfasted. Nothing could be more rational 
than the whole turn of his mind, nor more agree- 
able and unreserved than his conversation. His 
behaviour to his amiable wife was affectionately 
attentive, and Sir John, who is a most critical 
observer, remarked that it was quite natural and 
unaffected. It appeared to be the result of 
esteem inspired by her merit, and quickened by 
a sense of his former unworthiness, which made 
him feel as if he could never do enough to efface 
the memory of past unkindness. He manifest- 
ed evident symptoms of a mind earnestly intent 
on the discovery and pursuit of moral and re- 
ligious truth ; and from the natural ardour of 
his character, and the sincerity of his remorse, 
his attainments seemed likely to be rapid and 
considerable. 

The sweet benignity of Mrs. Carlton's coun- 
tenance was lighted up at our entrance with a 
smile of satisfaction. We had been informed 
witli what pleasure she observed every accession 
of right-minded acquaintance which her hus- 
band made. Though her natural modesty pre- 
vented her from introducing any subject herself, 
yet when any thing useful was brought forward 
by others, she promoted it by a look compound- 
ed of pleasure and intelligence. 

Aftera variety of topics had been despatched, 
the conversation fell on the prejudices which 
were commonly entertained by men of the world 
against religion. ' For my own part,' said Mr. 
Carlton, ' I must confess that no man had ever 
more and stronger prejudices to combat than 
myself. I mean not my own exculpation, when 
I add, that the imprudence, the want of judg- 
ment, and above all the incongruous mixtures 
and inconsistencies in many characters who 
are reckoned religious, and are ill calculated to 
do away the unfavourable opinions of men 
of an opposite way of thinking. As I pre- 
sume that you, gentlemen, are not ignorant of 
the errors of my early life — error indeed is an 



appellation far too mild — I shall not scruple ta 
own to you the source of those prejudices whicu 
retarded my progress, even after I became 
ashamed of my deviations from virtue. I had 
felt the turpitude of my habits long before I 
had courage to renounce them ; and I renounced 
them long before I had courage to avow my ab- 
horrence of them.' 

Sir John and I expressed ourselves extreme- 
ly obliged by the candour of his declaration, and 
assured him that his further declarations would 
not only gratify but benefit us. 

' Educated as I had been,' said Mr. Carlton, 
' in almost entire ignorance of religion, mine 
was rather an habitual indifference than a sys- 
tematic unbelief. My thoughtless course of 
life, though it led me to hope that Christianity 
might not be true, yet had by no means been 
able to convince me that it was false. As I had 
not been taught to search for truth at the foun- 
tain, for I was unacquainted with the Bible, 
I had no readier means for forming my judg- 
ment, than by observing, though with a careless 
and casual eye, what effect religion produced in 
those who professed to be influenced by it.^ 
My observations augmented my prejudices. 
What I saw of the professors increased my dis- 
like of the profession. All the charges brought 
by their enemies, for I had been accustomed to 
weigh the validity of testimony, had not rivetted 
my dislike so much, as the difference between 
their own. avowed principles and their obvious 
practice. Religious men should be the more 
cautious of giving occasion for reproach, as 
they know the world is always on the wat-ch, 
and is more glad to have its prejudices confirm- 
ed than removed. 

' I seized the moment of Mrs. Carlton's absence 
(who was just then called out of the room, but 
returned almost immediately) to observe, that 
what rooted my disgust, was, the eagerness with 
which the mother of my inestimable wife, who 
made a great parade of religion, pressed the mar- 
riage of her only child with a man whose con- 
duct she knew to be irregular, and of whose 
principles she entertained a just, that is, an un- 
favourable opinion. To see, I repeat, the re 
ligious mother of Mrs. Carlton obviously govern- 
ed in her zeal for promoting our union by mo- 
tives as worldly as those of my poor father, who 
pretended to no religion at all, would have e, 
tremely lowered any respect which I might 
have previously been induced to entertain for 
characters of that description. Nor was this 
disgust diminished by my acquaintance with 
Mr, Tyrrel. I had known him while a profes- 
sed man of the world, and had at that time, I 
fear, disliked his violent temper, his narrow 
mind, and his coarse manners, more than his 
vices. 

'I had heard of the power of religion to 
change the heart, and I ridiculed the wild chi- 
mera. My contempt for this notion was con- 
firmed by the conduct of Mr. Tyrrel in his new 
character. I found it had produced little change 
in him, except furnishing him with a new sub- 
ject of discussion. I saw that he had only laid 
down one set of opinions, and taken up another, 
with no addition whatever to his virtues, and 
with the addition to his vices of spiritual pxide 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



379 



and self-confidence ; for with hypocrisy I have 
no right to charge any man. I observed that 
Tyrrel and one or two of his new friends, rather 
courted attack than avoided it. They consider- 
ed discretion as the infirmity of a worldly mind, 
and every attempt at kindness or conciliation as 
an abandonment of faith. They eagerly as- 
cribed to their piety, the dislike which was 
often excited by their peculiarities. I found 
them apt to dignify the disapprobation which 
their singularity occasioned with the name of 
persecution. I have seen them take comfort in 
the belief that it was their religion which was 
disliked, when perhaps it was chiefly their od- 
dities. 

' At Tyrrel's I became acquainted with your 
friends Mr. and Mrs. Ranby. I leave you to 
judge whether their characters, that of the lady 
especially, were calculated to do away my pre- 
judices. I had learned from my favourite Ro- 
man poet a precept in composition, of never 
making a God appear, except on occasions 
worthy of a God, I have since had reason to 
think this rule as justly theological as it is clas- 
sical. So thought not the Ranbys. 

* It will indeed readily be allowed by every 
reflecting mind, as God is to be viewed in all 
his works, so his ' never-failing Providence or- 
dereth all things both in heaven and on earth.' 
But surely there is something very offensive in 
the indecent familiarity with which the name 
of God and Providence is brought in on every 
trivial occasion, as was the constant practice of 
Mr. and Mrs. Ranby. I was not even then so 
illogical a reasoner as to allow a general and 
deny a particular providence. If the one were 
true, I inferred that the other could not be false. 
But I felt that the religion of these people was 
of a slight texture and a bad taste. I was dis- 
gusted with littleness in some instances, and 
with inconsistency in others. Still their ab- 
surdity gave me right to suspect their sincerity. 
4 Whenever Mrs. Ranbj' had a petty inclina- 
tion to gratify, she had always recourse to what 
she called the leadings of Providence. In mat- 
ters of no more moment than whether she should 
drink tea with one neighbour instead of another, 
she was impelled, or directed, or overruled. I 
observed that she always took care to interpret 
these leadings to her own state, and under their 
sanction she always did what her fancy led her 
to do. She professed to follow this guidance on 
such minute occasions, that I had almost said, 
her piety seemed a little impious. To the actual 
dispensations of Providence, especially when 
they came in a trying or adverse shape, I did 
not observe more submission than I had seen in 
persons who could not be suspected of religion. 
I must own to you also, that as I am rather fas- 
tidious, I began to fancy that vulgar language, 
quaint phrases, and false grammer, were neces- 
sarily connected with religion. The sacrifice 
of taste and elegance seemed indispensable, and 
I was inclined to fear that if they were right, it 
would be impossible to get to heaven with good 
English.' 

'Though I grant there is some truth in your 
remarks, Sir,' said I, ' you must allow that when 
men are determined at all events to hunt down 
religious characters, they are never at a loss to 



find plausible objections to justify their disliKe ; 
and while they conceal, even from themselves, 
the real motive of their aversion, the vigilance 
with which they pry into the characters of men 
who are reckoned pious, is exercised with the 
secret hope of finding faults enough to confirm 
their prejudices.' 

• As a general truth, you are perfectly right,' 
said Mr. Carlton ; ' but at the period to which I 
allude, I had now got to that stage of my pro- 
gress, as to be rather searching for instances to 
invite than to repel me in my inquiry.' 

• You will grant, however,' said I, ' that it is 
a common effect of prejudice to transfer the 
faults of a religious man to religion itself. Such 
a man happens to have an uncouth manner, an 
awkward gesture, an unmodulated voice; his 
allusions may be coarse, his phraseology quaint, 
his language slovenly. The solid virtues which 
may lie disguised under these incumbrances go 
for nothing. The man is absurd, and therefore 
Christianity is ridiculous. Its truth, however, 
though it may be eclipsed, cannot be extinguish- 
ed. Like its divine Author, it is the same yes- 
terday, to-day, and for ever.' 

'There was another repulsive circumstance,' 
replied Mr. Carlton, ' the scanty charities both 
of Tyrrel and his new friends, so inferior to the 
liberality of my father and of Mr. Flam, who 
never professed to be governed by any higher 
motive than mere feeling, strengthened my dis- 
like. The calculations of mere reason taught 
me that the religious man who does not greatly 
exceed the man of the world in his liberalities, 
falls short of him; because the worldly man 
who gives liberally, acts above his principle, 
while the Christian who does no more, falls short 
of his. And though I by no means insist that 
liberality is a certain indication of piety, yet I 
will venture to assert that the want of the one 
is no doubtful symptom of the absence of the 
other.' 

' I next resolved to watch carefully the con- 
duct of another description of Christians, who 
come under the class of the formal and Ihe de- 
cent. They were considered as more creditable, 
but I did not perceive them to be more exem- 
plary. They were more absorbed in the world, 
and more governed by its opinion. I found them 
clamorous in defence of the church in words, but 
neither adorning it by their lives, nor embrac- 
ing its doctrines in their hearts. Rigid in the 
observance of some of its external rites, but lit- 
tle influenced by its liberal principles and cha- 
ritable spirit. They venerated the establishment 
merely as a political institution ; but of her out- 
ward forms they conceived as comprehending 
the whole of her excellence. Of her spiritual 
beauty and superiority they seemed to have no 
conception. I observed in them less warmth of 
affection for those with whom they agreed in 
external profession, than of rancour for those 
who differed from them, though but a single 
shade, and in points of no importance. Thoy 
were cordial haters, and frigid lovers. Had they 
lived in the early ages, when the church was 
split into parties by paltry disputes, they would 
have thought the controversy about the time of 
keeping Easter, of more consequence than the 
event itself, which that festival celebrates.' 



380 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



* My dear Sir,' said I, as soon as he had done 
speaking, ' you have accounted very naturally 
for your prejudices. Your chief error seems to 
have consisted in the selection of the persons 
you adopted as standards. They all differed as 
much from the right as they differed from each 
other ; and the truth is, their vehement desire 
to differ from each other wa3 a chief cause why 
they departed so much from the right. But 
your instances were so unhappily chosen, that 
they proved nothing against Christianity. The 
two opposite descriptions of persons who deter- 
red you from religion, and who passed muster 
in their respective corps, under the generic 
term of religious, would, I believe, be scarcely 
acknowledged as such by the soberly and sound- 
ly pious.' 

' My own subsequent experience,' resumed 
Mr. Carlton, ' has confirmed the justness of your 
remark. When I began, through the gradual 
change wrought in my views and actions by the 
silent but powerful preaching of Mrs. Carlton's 
example, to have less interest in believing that 
Christianity was false, I then applied myself to 
search for reasons, to believe that it was true. 
But plain, abstract reasoning, though it might 
catch hold on beings who are all pure intellect, 
arid though it might have given a right bias 
even to my opinions, would probably never have 
determined my conduct, unless I saw it clothed, 
as it were, with a body. I wanted examples 
which should influence me to act, as well as 
proofs which should incline me to believe ; 
something which would teach me what to do, as 
well as what to think. I wanted exemplifications 
as well as precepts. I doubted of all merely 
speculative truth. I wanted, from beholding 
tbe effect, to refer back to the principle. I want- 
ed arguments more palpable and less theoretic. 
Surely, said I to myself, if religion be a real 
principle it must be an operative one, and I 
would rationally infer that Christianity were 
true, if the tone of Christian practice were high. 

' I Began to look clandestinely into Henrietta's 
Bible. There indeed I found that the spirit of 
religion was invested with just such a body as 
I had wished to see ; that it exhibited actions as 
well as sentiments, characters as well as doc- 
trines ; the life pourtrayed evidently governed 
by the principle inculcated; the conduct and 
the doctrine in just correspondence. But if the 
Bible be true, thought I, may wc not reasonably 
expect, that the principles which once produced 
the exalted practice which that Bible records 
will produce similar effects now ? 

' I put, rashly perhaps, the truth of Chris- 
tianity on this issue, and sought society of a 
higher stamp. Fortunately, the increasing ex- 
ternal decorum of my conduct, began to make 
my reception less difficult among good men 
than it had been. Hitherto, and that for the 
sake of my wife, my visits had rather been en- 
dured than encouraged; nor was I myself for- 
ward to seek the society which shunned me. 
Even of those superior characters, with whom I 
did occasionally associate, I had not come near 
enough to form an exact estimate.' 

'Disinterestedness and consistency had be- 
come with me a sort of touch-stone, by which 
to trv the characters I was investigating. My 



experiment was favourable. I had for some 
time examined my wife's conduct, with a mix- 
ture of admiration as to the act, and incredulity 
as to the motive. I had seen her foregoing her 
own indulgences, that she might augment those 
of a husband whom she had so little reason to 
love. Here were the two qualities I required, 
with a renunciation of self without parade or 
profession. Still this was a solitary instance. 
When, on a nearer survey, I beheld Dr. Barlow 
exhibiting, by his exemplary conduct during the 
week, the best commentary on his Sunday's 
sermon : when I saw him refuse a living of 
nearly twice the value of that he possessed, be- 
cause the change would diminish his usefulness, 
I was staggered. 

' When I saw Mr. and Mrs. Stanley spending 
their time and fortune as entirely in acts of be- 
neficence, as if they had built their hope on 
charity alone, and yet utterly renouncing any 
such confidence, and trusting entirely to another 
foundation ; — when I saw Lucilla, a girl of 
eighteen, refusing a young nobleman of a clear 
estate, and neither disagreeable in his person or 
manner, on the single avowed ground of hi3 
loose principles ; when the noble rejection of the 
daughter was supported by the parents, whose 
principles no arguments drawn from rank or 
fortune could subvert or shake — I was con- 
vinced. 

4 These, and some other instances of the same 
nature, were exactly the test I had been seeking. 
Here was disinterestedness upon full proof. 
Here was consistency between practice and pro- 
fession. By such examples, and by cordially 
adopting those principles which produced them, 
together with a daily increasing sense of my 
past enormities, I hope to become in time less 
unworthy of the wife to whom I owe my peace 
on earth, and my hope in heaven.' 

The tears which had been collecting in Mrs. 
Carlton's eyes for some time, now silently stole 
down her cheeks. Sir John and myself were 
deeply affected with the frank and honest nar- 
rative to which we had been listening. It raised 
in us an esteem and affection for the narrator 
which has since been continually augmenting. 
I do not think the worse of his state, for the dif- 
ficulties which impeded it, nor that his advance- 
ment will be less sure, because it has been gra- 
dual. His fear of delusion has been a salutary 
guard. Tho apparent slowness of his progress 
has arisen from his dread of self-deception, and 
the diligence of his search is an indication of 
his sincerity. 

' But did you not find,' said I, ' that the piety 
of these more correct Christians drew upon 
them nearly as much censure and suspicion as 
the indiscretion of the enthusiasts ? And that 
the formal class who were nearly as far remov- 
ed from effective piety as from wild fanaticism, 
ran away with all the credit of religion ?' 

' With those,' replied Mr. Carlton, ' who are 
on the watch to discredit Christianity, no con- 
sistency can stand their determined opposition ; 
but the fair and candid inquirer will not reject 
the truth, when it forces itself on the mind with 
a clear and convincing evidence.' 

Though I had been joining in the general 
subject, yet my thoughts had wandered from it 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



381 



to Lucilla, ever since her noble rejection of 
Loid Staunton had been named by Mr. Carlton 
as one of the causes which had strengthened his 
unsteady faith. And while he and Sir John 
were talking over their youthful connections, I 
resumed with Mrs. Carlton, who sat next me, 
the interesting topic. 

' Lord Staunton,' said she, ' is a relation, and 
not a very distant one, of ours. He used to take 
more delight in Mr. Carlton's society when it 
was less improving, than he does now, that it 
is become really valuable ; yet he often visits us. 
Miss Stanley now and then indulges me with 
her company for a day or two. In the visits 
Lord Staunton happened to meet her two or 
three times. He was enchanted with her per- 
son and manners, and exerted every art and 
faculty of pleasing, which, it must be owned, 
he possesses. Though we should both have re- 
joiced in an alliance with the excellent family 
at the Grove, through this sweet girl, I thought 
it my duty not to conceal from her the irregu- 
larity of my cousin's conduct in one particular 
instance, as well as the general looseness of his 
religious principles. The caution was the more 
necessary, as he had so much prudence and 
good breeding as to behave with general pro- 
priety when under our roof; and he allowed me 
to speak to him more freely than any other per- 
son. When I talked seriously, he sometimes 
laughed, always opposed, but was never angry. 

1 One day he arrived quite unexpectedly when 
Miss Stanley was with me. He found us in 
my dressing-room reading together a Disserta- 
tion on the power of religion to change the heart. 
Dreading some 'evity, I strove to hide the book, 
but he took it out of my hand, and glancing his 
eye on the title, he said, laughing, 'This is a 
foolish subject enough ; a good heart does not 
want changing, and with a bad one none of 
us three having any thing to do.' Lucilla spoke 
not a syllable. All the light thing3 he uttered, 
and which he meant for wit, so far from raising 
a smile, increased her gravity. She listened, 
but with some uneasiness, to a desultory con- 
versation between us, in which I attempted to 
assert the power of the Almighty to rectify the 
mind, and alter the character. Lord Staunton 
treated my assertion as a wild chimera, and 
said, ' He was sure I had more understanding 
than to adopt such a methodistical notion ; pro- 
fessing at the same time a vague admiration of 
virtue and goodness, which he said, bowing to 
Miss Stanley, were natural where they existed 
at all ; that a good heart did not want mending, 
and a bad one could not be mended, with other 
similar expressions, all implying contempt of 
my position, and exclusive compliment to hei. 

' After dinner, Lucilla stole away from a 
conversation which was not very interesting to 
her, and carried her book to the summer-house, 
knowing that Lord Staunton liked to sit long 
at table. But his lordship, missing her for 
whom the visit was meant, soon broke up the 
party, and hearing which way she took, pur- 
sued her to the summer-house. After a pro- 
fusion of compliments, expressive of his high 
admiration, he declared his passion in very 
strong and explicit terms, and requested her 
permission to make proposals to her father, 



to which he conceived she could have no pos. 
sible objection. 

' She thanked him with great politeness for 
his favourable opinion, but frankly told him, 
that though extremely sensible cf the honour he 
intended her, thanks were al! she had to offer 
in turn ; she earnestly desired the business 
might go no further, and that he would spare 
himself the trouhle of an application to her 
father, who always kindly allowed her to de- 
cide for herself, in a concern of so much im- 
portance. 

' Disappointed, shocked, and irritated at a re- 
jection so wholly unexpected, he insisted on 
knowing the cause. Was it his person ? was it 
his fortune ? was it his understanding to which 
she objected ? She honestly assured him it was 
neither. His rank and fortune were above her 
expectations. To his natural advantages there 
could be no reasonable objection. He still ve- 
hemently insisted on her assigning the true 
cause. She was then driven to the necessity of 
confessing that she feared his principles were 
not those of a man with whom she could ven- 
ture to trust her own. 

1 He bore this reproof with more patience 
than she had expected. As she had made no 
exception to his person and understanding, 
both of which he rated very highly, he could 
bear with the charge brought against his prin- 
ciples, on which he did not set so great a value. 
She had indeed wounded his pride, but not in 
the part where it was most vulnerable. ' If 
that be all,' said he gaily, ' the objection is at 
an end ; your charming society will reform me, 
your influence will raise my principles, and 
your example will change my character.' 

1 What, my Lord,' said she, her courage in 
creasing with her indignation, ' this from you 
From you, who declared only this morning, that 
the work of changing the heart was too great 
for the Almighty himself? You do not now 
scruple to declare that it is in my power. That 
work which is too hard for Omnipotence, your 
flattery would make me believe a weak girl can 
accomplish. No my lord, I will never add to 
the number of those rash women who have risk- 
ed their eternal happiness on this vain hope. It 
would be too late to repent of my folly, after 
my presumption had incurred its just punish, 
ment.' 

' So saying, she left the summer-house with 
a polite dignity, which, as she afterwards told 
me, increased his passion, while it inflamed his 
pride almost to madness. Finding she refused 
to appear, he quitted the house, but not his de- 
sign. His applications have since been repeat- 
ed, but though he has met with the firmest re- 
pulses, both from the parents and the daughter, 
he cannot be prevailed upon to relinquish his 
hope. It is so far a misfortune to us, as Lu- 
cilla now never comes near us, except he is 
knownnottobeinthe country. Had the objection 
been to his person, or fortune, he says, as it 
would have been substantial, it might have been 
insuperable ; but where the only ground of dif- 
ference is mere matter of opinion, he is sure 
that time and perseverance will conquer such a 
chimerical objection.' 
I relumed to the Grove, not only cured of 



3«2 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



every jealous feeling, but transported with such 
a decisive proof of the dignity and purity of 
Miss Stanley's mind. 



CHAP. XXXII. 

Miss Sparkes, a neighbouring lady, whom 
the reputation of being a wit and an Amazon, 
had kept single at the age of five and forty, 
though her person was not disagreeable, and 
her fortune was considerable, called in one 
morning while we were at breakfast. She is 
remarkable for har pretension to odd and oppo- 
site qualities. She is something of a scholar, 
and a huntress, a politician, and a farrier. She 
out-rides Mr. Flam, and out-argues Mr. Tyrrel ; 
excels in driving four in hand, and in canvass- 
ing at an election. She is always anxious about 
the party, but never about the candidate, in 
whom she requires no other merit, but his being 
in the opposition, which she accepts as a pledge 
for all other merit. In her adoption of any ta- 
lent, or her exercise of any quality, it is always 
sufficient recommendation to her that it is not 
feminine. 

From the window we saw her descend from 
her lofty phaeton, and when she came in, 
The cap, the whip, the masculine attire, 

the loud voice, the intrepid look, the indepen- 
dent air, the whole deportment indicated a dis- 
position rather to confer protection than to ac- 
cept it. 

She made an apology for her intrusion, by 
saying that her visit was rather to the stable 
than the breakfast room. One of her horses was 
a little lame, and she wanted to consult Mr. 
Stanley's groom, who it seems was her oracle 
in that science, in which she herself is a pro- 
fessed adept. 

During her short visit, she laboured so sedu- 
lously, not to diminish by her conversation the 
character she was so desirous to establish, that 
her efforts defeated the end they aimed to se- 
cure. She was witty with all her mirth, and her 
sarcastic turn, for wit it was not, made little 
amends for her want of simplicity. I perceived 
that she was fond of the bold, the marvellous, 
and the incredible. She ventured to tell a 
story of two, so little within the verge of ordi- 
nary probability, that she risked her credit for 
veracity, without perhaps really vioJating truth. 
The credit acquired by such relations seldom 
pays the relater for the hazard run by the com- 
munication. 

As we fell into conversation, I observed the 
peculiarities of her character. She never sees 
any difficulties in any question. Whatever topic 
is started, while the rest of the company are 
hesitating as to the propriety of their determi- 
nation, she alone is never at a loss. Her an- 
swer always follows the proposition, without a 
moment's interval for examination herself, or, 
for allowing any other person a chanee of de- 
livering an opinion. 

Mr. Stanley, who always sets an example of 
strict punctuality to his family, had to-day come 
in to perform his family devotions somewhat 



latter than usual. I could perceive that he had 
been a little moved. His countenance wanted 
something of its placid serenity, though it seem- 
ed to be a seriousness untinctured with anger. 
He confessed, while we were at breakfast, that 
he had been spending above an hour, in bringing 
one of his younger children to a sense of a fault 
she had committed. ' She has not,' said he, 
'told an absolute falsehood, but in what she 
said there was a prevarication, there was pride, 
there was passion. Her perverseness has at 
length given way. Tears of resentment are 
changed into tears of contrition. But she is 
not to appear in the drawing-room to-day. She 
is to be deprived of the honour of carrying food 
to the poor in the evening. Nor is she to furnish 
her contingent of nosegay to Rachel's basket. 
This is a mode of punishment we prefer to that 
of curtailing any personal indulgences : the im- 
portance we should assign to the privation 
would be setting too much value on the enjoy- 
ment.' 

' You should be careful Mr. Stanley, said Miss 
Sparkes, ' not to break the child's spirits. Too 
tight a rein will check her generous ardour, 
and curb her genius. I would not subdue the 
independence of her mind, and make a tame, 
dull animal, of a creature whose very faults give 
indications of a soaring nature.' Even Ladv 
Belfield, to whose soft and tender heart the very 
sound of punishment, or even privation, carried 
a sort of terror, asked Mr. Stanley, ' if he did not 
think that he had taken up a trifling offence 
too seriously, and punished it too severely.' 

' The thing is a trifle in itself,' replied he, 
'but infant prevarication unnoticed, and un- 
checked, is the prolific seed of subterfuge, of 
expediency, of deceit, of falsehood, of hypocrisy.' 

' But the dear little creature,' said Lady Bel- 
field, ' is not addicted to equivocation. — I have 
always admired her correctness in her pleasant 
prattle.' 

' It is for the very reason,' replied Mr. Stanley, 
' that I am so careful to check the first indica- 
tion of the contrary tendency. — As the fault is a 
solitary one, I trust the punishment will be so 
too. For which reason I have marked it in a 
way to which her memory will easily recur. 
Mr. Brandon, an amiable friend of mine, but of 
an indolent temper, through a negligence in 
watching over an early propensity to deceit, 
suffered his only son to run on from one stage 
of falsehood to another, till he settled down in a 
most consummate hypocrite. His plausible 
manners enabled him to keep his more turbu- 
lent vices out of sight. Impatient when a youth 
of that contradiction to which he had never 
been accustomed when a boy, he became noto- 
riously profligate. His dissimulation was at 
length too thin to conceal from his mistaken 
father his more palpable vices. His artifices 
finally involved him in a duel, and his prema- 
ture death broke the heart of my poor friend. 

' This sad example led me in my own family 
to watch the evil in the bud. Divines often say, 
that unbelief lies at the root of all sin. This 
seems strikingly true in our conniving at the 
faults of our children. If we really believed 
the denunciation of Scripture, could we for the 
sake of a momentary gratification, not so mucb 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



383 



to our child as to ourselves, (which is the case 
in all blameable indulgence,) overlook that fault 
which may be the germ of unspeakable mise- 
ries ! In my view of things, deceit is no slight 
offence. I feel myself answerable in no small 
degree for the eternal happiness of these beloved 
creatures whom Providence has especially com- 
mitted to my trust.' 

' But it is such a severe trial,' said Lady Bel- 
field, ' to a fond parent to inflict voluntary pain !' 
•Shall we feel for their pain and not for their 
danger ?' replied Mr. Stanley. ' I wonder how 
parents, who love their children as I love mine, 
can put in competition a temporary indulgence, 
which may foster one evil temper, or fasten one 
bad habit, with the eternal welfare of that child's 
soul. A soul of such inconceivable worth, whe- 
ther we consider its nature, its duration, or the 
price which was paid for its redemption ! What 
parent, I say, can by his own rash negligence, 
or false indulgence, risk, the happiness of such a 
soul, not for a few days or years, but for a period 
compared with which the whole duration of 
time is but a point ? — A soul of such infinite fa- 
culties, which has a capacity for improving in 
holiness and happiness, through all the countless 
ages of eternity ?' 

Observing Sir John listen with some emotion, 
Mr. Stanley went on ; * what remorse, my dear 
friend, can equal the pangs of him who has rea- 
son to believe that his child has not only lost 
this eternity of glory, but incurred an eternity 
of misery, through the carelessness of that pa- 
rent, who assigned his very fondness as a reason 
for his neglect ? — Think of the state of such a 
father, when he figures to himself the thousands 
and ten thousands of glorified spirits that stand 
before the throne, and his darling excluded ! — 
excluded perhaps by his own ill-judging fond- 
ness. Oh, my friends, disguise it as we may, 
and deceive ourselves as we will, want of faith 
is as much at the bottom of this sin as of all 
others. Notwithstanding an indefinite, indis- 
tinct notion which men call faith, they do ac- 
tually believe in this eternity ; they believe it in 
a general way, but they do not believe in it 
practically, personally, influentially.' 

While Mr. Stanley was speaking with an 
energy which evinced how much his own heart 
was affected, Miss Sparkes, by the impatience 
of her looks, evidently manifested that she wish- 
ed to interrupt him. Good breeding, however, 
kept her silent till he had done speaking : she 
then said, ' that though she allowed that absolute 
falsehood, and falsehood used for mischievous 
purposes was criminal, yet there was a danger 
on the other hand of laying too severe restric- 
tions on freedom of speech. That there might 
be such a thing as tacit hypocrisy. That people 
might be guilty of as much deceit by suppress- 
ing their sentiments if just, as by expressing 
such as were not quite correct. — That a repulsive 
treatment was calculated to extinguish the fire 
of invention. She thought also that there were 
occasions where a harmless falsehood might not 
only be pardonable, but laudable. But then she 
allowed, that a falsehood to be allowed must be 
inoffensive.' 

Mr. Stanley said, ' that an inoffensive false- 
hood was a perfect anomaly. But allowing it 



possible, that an individual instance of deceit 
might be passed over, which however he never 
could allow, yet one successful falsehood, on the 
plea of doing good, would necessarily make way 
for another, till the limits which divide right and 
wrong would be completely broken down, and 
every distinction between truth and falsehood be 
utterly confounded. — If such latitude were a. 
lowed, even to obtain some good purpose, it 
would gradually debauch all human intercourse. 
The smallest deviation would naturally induce 
a pernicious habit, endanger the security of so- 
ciety, and violate an express law of God.' 

' There is no tendency,' said Sir John Bel- 
field, ' more to be guarded against among young 
persons of warm hearts and lively imaginations. 
The feeling will think falsehood good if it is 
meant to do good, and the fanciful will think it 
justifiable if it is ingenious.' 

Phoebe, in presenting her .father with a dish 
of coffee, said in a half whisper, ' surely, papa, 
there can be no harm in speaking falsely on a 
subject where I am ignorant of the truth.' 

' There are occasions, my dear Phoebe,' re- 
plied herjather, ' in which ignorance itself is a 
fault. Inconsiderateness is always one. It is 
your duty to deliberate before you speak. It is 
your duty not to deceive by your negligence in 
getting at the truth ; or by publishing false in- 
formation as truth, though you have reason to 
suspect it may be false. You well know who 
it is that associates him that loveth a lie with 
him that maketh it.' 

' But, Sir,' said Miss Sparkes, ' if by a false- 
hood I could preserve a life, or save my country, 
falsehood would then be meritorious, and I should 
glory in deceiving.' 

' Persons, Madam,' said Mr. Stanley, ' who, in 
debate, have a favourite point to carry, are apt 
to suppose extreme cases, which can and do very 
rarely if ever occur. This they do in order to 
compel the acquiescence of an opponent to what 
ought never to be allowed. It is a proud and 
fruitless speculation. The infinite power of God 
can never stand in need of the aid of a weak 
mortal to help him out of his difficulties. — If he 
sees fit to preserve the life, or save the country, 
he is not driven to such shifts. Omnipotence 
can extricate himself, and accomplish his own 
purposes without endangering an immortal soul.' 
Miss Sparkes took her leave soon after, in or- 
der, as she said, to go to the stable and take the 
groom's opinion. Mr. Stanley insisted that her 
carriage should be brought round to the door, to 
which we all attended her. He inquired which 
was the lame horse. Instead of answering, she 
went directly up to the animal, and after patting 
him with some technical jockey phrases, she 
fearlessly took up his hind leg, carefully exa- 
mined his foot, and while she continued stand- 
ing in what appeared to the ladies a perilous, 
and to me a disgusting situation, she run over 
all the terms of the veterinary art with the 
groom, and when Miss Stanley expressed some 
fear of her danger, and some dislike of her 
coarseness, she burst into a loud laugh, and 
slapping her on the shoulder, asked her if it was 
not better to understand the properties and dis- 
eases of so noble an animal, than to waste her 
time in studying confectionary with old Goody 



384 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Comfit, or in teaching the catechism to little 
ragged beggar-brats? 

As soon as she was gone, the lively Phcebe, 
who, her father says, has narrowly escaped be- 
ing a wit herself, cried out, ' Well, papa, I must 
say that I think Miss Sparkcs with all her faults 
is rather an agreeable woman.' ' I grant that 
she is amusing,' returned he, ' but I do not al- 
low her to be quite agreeable. Bstween these, 
Phoebe, there is a wide distinction. To a correct 
mind, no one can be agreeable who is incorrect. 
Propriety is so indispensable to agreeableness, 
that when a lady allows herself to make any, 
even the smallest, sacrifice of veracity, religion, 
modesty, candour, or the decorums of her sex, 
she may be shining, she may be showy, she may 
be amusing, but she cannot, properly speaking, 
be agreeable. — Miss Sparkes, I very reluctantly 
confess, does sometimes make these sacrifices, 
in a degree to alarm her own principles. She 
would not tell a direct falsehood for the world : 
she does not indeed invent, but she embellishes, 
enlarges, she exaggerates, she discolours. In 
her moral grammar there is no positive or com- 
parative degree. Pink with her is scarlet. The 
noise of a pop-gun is a cannon. A shower is a 
tempest. A person of small fortune is a beggar. 
— One in easy circumstances is a Croesus. — A 
girl, if not perfectly well made, is deformity per- 
sonified ; if tolerable, a Grecian Venus. Her 
favourites are Angels, her enemies Daemons. 

She would be thought very religious, and I 
hope that she will one day become so; yet she 
sometimes treats serious things with no small 
levity, and though she would not originally say 
a very bad word, yet she makes no scruple of 
repeating, with great glee, profane stories told 
by others. Besides she possesse's the dangerous 
art of exciting an improper idea, without using an 
improper word. Gross indecency would shock 
her, but she often verges so far towards indeli- 
cacy, as to make Mrs. Stanley uneasy. Then 
she is too much of a genius to be tied down by 
any considerations of prudence. If a good thing 
occurs, out it comes, without regard to time or 
circumstance. She would tell the same story 
to a bishop, as to her chambermaid. If she says 
a right tiling, which she often does, it is seldom 
in the right place. She makes her way in so- 
ciety without attaching many friends. Her bon 
mots are admired and repeated ; yet I never 
met with a man of sense who, though he may 
join in flattering her, did not declare, as soon as 
she was out of the room, that he would not for 
the world that she should be his wife or daugh- 
ter. It is irksome to her to converse with her 
own sex, while she little suspects that ours is 
not properly grateful for the preference with 
which she honours us. 

'She is,' continued Mr. Stanley, ' charitable 
with the purse, but not with her tongue ; she 
relieves her poor neighbours, and indemnifies 
herself by slandering her rich ones. — She has, 
however, many good qualities, is generous, feel- 
ing, and humane, and I would on no account 
speak so freely of a lady whom I receive at my 
house, were it not that, if I were quite silent, 
after Phoebe's expressed admiration, she might 
conclude that I saw nothing to condemn in Miss 
es and might be copying her faults, under 



the notion that being entertaining made amends 
for every thing.' 



CHAP. XXXIII. 

One morning, Sir John coming in from his 
ride, gaily called out to me, as I was reading, 
' Oh, Charles, such a piece of news ! the Miss 
Flams are converted. They have put on tuck- 
ers — they were at church twice on Sunday — 
Blair's Sermons are sent for, and you are the re- 
former.' This ludicrous address reminded Mr. 
Stanley, that Mr. Flam had told him we were 
all in disgrace ; for not having called on the la- 
dies, and it was proposed to repair this neglect. 

' Now take notice,' said Sir John, ' if you do 
not see a new character assumed. Thinking 
Charles to be a fine man of the town, the modish 
racket, which indeed is their natural state, was 
played off, but it did not answer. As they pro- 
bably, by this time, suspect your character to be 
somewhat between the Strephon and the Her- 
mit, we shall now, in return, see something be- 
tween the wood nymph and the nun ; I shall 
not wonder if the extravagantly modish Miss 
Bell 

Is now Pastora by a fountain's side. 

Though I would not attribute the change to 
the cause assigned by Sir John, yet I confess 
we found, when we made our visit, no small re- 
volution in Miss Bell Flam. The part of the 
Arcadian Nymph, the reading lady, the lover of 
retirement, the sentimental admirer of domestic 
life, the censurer of thoughtless dissipation, was 
each acted in succession, but so skilfully touch- 
ed, that the shades of each melted in the other, 
without any of those violent transitions which a 
less experienced actress would have exhibited. 
Sir John slily, yet with affected gravity, assist- 
ing her to sustain this newly adopted character, 
which, however, he was sure would last no longer 
than this visit. 

When we returned home we met the Miss 
Stanleys in the garden, and joined them. ' Don't 
you admire,' said Sir John, ' the versatility of 
Miss Bell's genius ? You, Charles, are not the 
first man on whom an assumed fondness for ru- 
ral delights has been practised. A friend of 
mine was drawn in to marry, rather suddenly, 
a thorough-paced town-bred lady, by her repeat- 
ed declarations of her passionate fondness for 
the country, and the rapture she expressed when 
rural scenery was the subject. All she knew 
of the country was, that she had now and then 
been on a party of pleasure at Richmond, in the 
fine summer months ; a great dinner at the Star 
and Garter, gay company, a bright day, lovely 
scenery, a dance on the green, a partner to her 
taste, French horns on the water, altogether con- 
stituted a feeling of pleasure, from which she 
had really persuaded herself that she was fond 
of the country. But when all these concomi- 
tants were withdrawn, when she had lost tho 
gay partner, the dance, the horns, the flattery 
and the frolic, and nothing was left but her 
books, her own dull mansion, her domestic em- 
ployments, and the sober society of her husband, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



385 



the pastoral vision vanished. She discovered, or 
rather he discovered, but too late, that the coun- 
try had not only no charms for her, but that it 
was a scene of constant ennui and vapid dull- 
ness. She languished for the pleasures she had 
quitted, and for the comforts she had lost. Op- 
posite inclinations led to opposite pursuits ; dif- 
ference of taste, however, needed not to have led 
to total disunion, had there been on the part of 
the lady such a degree of attachment as might 
have induced a spirit of accommodation, or such 
a fund of principle as might have taught her the 
necessity of making those sacrifices which affec- 
tion, had it existed, would have rendered plea- 
sant, or duty would have made light, had she 
been early taught self-government.' 

Miss Stanley, smiling said, 'she hoped Sir 
John had a little overcharged the picture.' He 
defended himself by declaring he drew from life, 
and that from his long observation he could pre- 
sent us with a whole gallery of such portraits. 
He left me to continue my walk with the two 
Miss Stanleys. 

The more I conversed with Lucilla, the more 
I saw that good breeding in her was only the 
outward expression of humility, and not an art 
employed for the purpose of enabling her to do 
without it. We continued to converse on the 
subject of Miss Flam's fondness for the gay 
world. This introduced a natural expression of 
my admiration of Miss Stanley's choice of plea- 
sures and pursuits, so different from those of 
most other women of her age. 

With the most graceful modesty she said, ' no- 
thing humbles me more than compliments ; for 
when I compare what I hear'with what I feel, 
I find the picture of myself, drawn by a flatter- 
ing friend, so utterly unlike the original in my 
own heart, that I am more sunk by my own 
consciousness of the want of resemblance, than 
elated that another had not discovered it. It 
makes me feel like an impostor. If I contiadicl 
this favourable opinion, I am afraid of being ac- 
cused of affectation ; and if I silently swallow it, 
I am contributing to the deceit of passing for 
what I am not.' This ingenuous mode of dis- 
claiming flattery only raised her in my esteem, 
and the more, as I told her such humble renun- 
ciation of praise could only proceed from that 
inward principle of genuine piety, and devout 
feeling, which made so amiable a part of her 
character. 

1 How little,' said she, ' is the human heart 
known except to him who made it. While a fel- 
low creature may admire our apparent devotion, 
He who appears to be its object, witnesses the 
wandering of the heart, which seems to be lifted 
up to him. He sees it roving to the ends of the 
larth, busied about any thing rather than him- 
self; running after trifles which not only dis- 
honour a Christian, but would disgrace a child. 
As to my very virtues, if I dare apply such a 
word to myself, they sometimes lose their cha- 
racter by not keeping their proper place. They 
become sins by infringing on higher duties. If 
I mean to perform an act of devotion, some 
crude plan of charity forces itself on my mind, 
and what with trying to drive out one, and to 
establish the other, I rise dissatisfied and unim- 
proved, and resting my sole hope not on the 

Vol. II. 2 B 



duty which I have been performing, but on tho 
mercy which I have been offending.' 

I assured her, with all the simplicity of truth, 
and all the sincerity of affection, that this con- 
fession only served to raise my opinion of the 
piety she disclaimed, that such deep conscious- 
ness of imperfection, so quick a discernment of 
the slightest deviation, and such constant vigi- 
lance to prevent it, were the truest indications 
of an humble spirit; and that those who thus 
carefully guarded themselves against small er- 
rors, were in little danger of being betrayed in 
to great ones. 

She replied, smiling, that ' she should not be 
so angry with vanity, if it would bo contented 
to keep its proper place among the vices ; but 
her quarrel with it was, that it would mix itself 
with our virtues, and rob us of their reward.' 

' Vanity, indeed,' replied I, ' differs from the 
other vices in this : they commonly are only op- 
posite to the one contrary virtue, while this vice 
is a kind of ubiquity, is on the watch to intrude 
every where, and weakens all the virtues which 
it cannot destroy. I believe vanity was the 
harpy of the ancient poets, which tell us tainted 
whatever it touched.' 

' Self-deception is so easy,' replied Miss Stan- 
ley, ' that I am even afraid of highly extolling 
any good quality, lest I should sit down satisfied 
with having borne my testimony in its favour, 
and so rest contented with the praise instead of 
the practice. Commending a right thing is a 
cheap substitute for doing it, with which we 
are too apt to satisfy ourselves.' 

'There is no mark,' I replied, ' which more 
clearly distinguishes that humility which has 
the love of God for its principle, from its coun- 
terfeit, a false and superficial politeness, than 
that, while this flatters, in order to extort in re- 
turn more praise than is due, humility like the 
divine principle from which it springs, seeketh 
not even its own.' 

In answer to some further remark of mine, 
with an air of infinite modesty, she said, ' I have 
been betrayed, Sir, into saying too much. It 
will, I trust however, have the good effect of 
preventing you from thinking better of me than 
I deserve. In general, I hold it indiscreet to 
speak of the state of one's mind. I have been 
taught this piece of prudence by my own in- 
discretion. I once lamented to a lady the fault 
of which we have been speaking, and observed 
how difficult it was to keep the heart right. She 
so little understood the nature of this inward 
corruption, that she told in confidence to two 
or three friends, that they were all much mis- 
taken in Miss Stanley, for though her character 
stood so fair with the world, she had secretly 
confessed to her that she was a great sinner.' 

I could not forbear repeating, though she had 
chid me for it before, how much I had been 
struck with several instances of her indifference 
to the world, and her superiority to its pleasures. 
' Do you know,' continued she, smiling, 'that 
you are more my enemy than the lady of whom 
I have been speaking ? She only defamed my 
principles, but you are corrupting them. The 
world, I believe, is not so much a place as a na- 
ture. It is possible to be religious in a court and 
worldly in a monastery. I find that the thought* 



3S6 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



may be engaged too anxiously about so petty a 
concern as a little family arrangement ; that 
the mind may be drawn off from better pursuits, 
and engrossed by things too trivial to name, as 
much as by objects more apparently wrong. 
The country is certainly favourable to religion, 
but it would be hard on the millions who are 
doomed to live in towns if it were exclusively 
favourable. Nor must we lay more stress on 
the accidental circumstance than it deserves. 
Nay I almost doubt if it is not too pleasant to 
be quite safe. An enjoyment which assumes a 
sober shape may deceive us, by making us be- 
lieve we are practising a duty when we are only 
gratifying a taste.' 

4 But do you not think,' said I, ' that there 
may be merit in the taste itself? May not a 
succession of acts forming a habit, and that ha- 
bit a good one, induce so sound a way of think- 
ing, that it may become difficult to distinguish 
the duty from the taste, and to separate the 
principle from the choice? This I really be- 
lieve to be the case in minds finely wrought 
and vigilantly watched. 

I observed that however delightful the coun- 
try might be a great part of the year, yet there 
were a few winter months when I feared it 
might be dull, though not in the degree Sir John 
Richmond's lady had found it. 

With a smile of compassion at my want of 
taste, she said ' she perceived I was no gardener. 
To me,' added she, ' the winter has charms of 
its own, If I were not afraid of the light habit 
of introducing Providence on an occasion not 
sufficiently important, I would say that he seems 
to reward those who love the country well 
enough to live in it the whole year, by making 
the greater part of the winter the busy season 
for gardening operations. If I happen to be in 
town a few days only, every sun that shines, 
every shower that falls, every breeze that blows, 
seems wasted, because I do not see their effect 
upon my plants.' ' But surely,' said I, ' the 
winter at least suspends your enjoyment. There 
is little pleasure in contemplating vegetation in 
its torpid state, in surveying 

The naked shoots, barren as lances, 

as Cowper describes the winter shrubbery.' 

' The pleasure is in the preparation,' replied 
she. ' When all appears dead and torpid to you 
idle spectators, all is secretly at work ; nature 
is busy in preparing her treasures under ground, 
and art has a hand in the process. When the 
blossoms of summer are delighting you mere 
amateurs, then it is that we professional people,' 
added she, laughing, 'are really idle. The silent 
operations of the winter now produce themselves 
— the canvass of nature is covered — the great 
Artist has laid on his colours — then we petty 
agents lay down our implements, and enjoy our 
leisure in contemplating his work.' 

I had never known her so communicative ; 
but my pleased attention, instead of drawing 
her on, led her to check herself. Phoebe, who 
had been busily employed in trimming a flaunt- 
ing yellow Azalia, now turned to me, and' said 
— ' Why, it is only the Christmas month that 
our labours are suspended, and then we have so 



much pleasure that we want no business ; such 
in-door festivities and aiversions, that the dull 
month is with us the gayest in the year.' So 
saying she called Lucilla to assist her in tying 
up the branch of an orange-tree, which the wind 
had broken. 

I was going to offer my services when Mrs. 
Stanley joined us, before I could obtain an an- 
swer to my question about these Christmas di- 
versions. A stranger, who had seen me pur- 
suing Mrs. Stanley in her walks, might have 
supposed not the daughter, but the mother was 
the object of my attachment. But with Mrs. 
Stanley I could always talk of Lucilla, with Lu- 
cilla I durst nut often talk of herself. 

The tbnd mother and I stood looking with 
delight on the fair gardeners. When I had ad- 
mired their alacrity in these innocent pursuits, 
their fondness for retirement, and their cheer- 
ful delight in its pleasures ; Mrs. Stanley repli- 
ed, ' yes, Lucilla is half a nun. She likes the 
rule, but not the vow. Poor thing ! her consci- 
ence is so tender that she oftener requires en- 
couragement than restraint. While she was 
making this plantation, she felt herself so ab- 
sorbed by it, that she came to me one day, and 
said that her gardening work so fascinated her, 
that she found whole hours passed unperceived, 
and she began to be uneasy by observing that 
all cares and all duties were suspended while 
she was disposing beds of Carnations, or knots 
of Anemonies. Even when she tore herself 
away, and returned to her employments, her 
flowers still pursued her, and the improvement 
of her mind gave way to the cultivation of her 
Geraniums.' 

'" I am afraid," said the poor girl, "that I 
must really give it up." I would not hear of 
this. I would not suffer her to deny herself so 
pure a pleasure. She then suggested the expe- 
dient of limiting her time, and hanging up her 
watch in the conservatory to keep her within 
her prescribed bounds- She is so observant of 
this restriction, that when her allotted time is 
expired, she forces herself to leave off even in 
the most interesting operation. By this limita- 
tion a treble end is answered. Her time is 
saved, self-denial is exercised, and the interest 
which would languish, by protracting the work 
is kept in fresh vigour.' I told Mrs. Stanley 
that I had observed her watch hanging in a 
citron tree the day I came, but little thought it 
had a moral meaning. She said, 'it had never 
been left there since I had been in the house for 
fear of causing interrogatories.' Here Mrs. 
Stanley left me to my meditations. 

It was wisely ordered that all mortal enjoy- 
ment should have some alloy. I never tasted 
a pleasure since I had been at the Grove, I never 
witnessed a grace, I never heard related an ex- 
cellence of Lucilla without a sigh that my be- 
loved parents did not share my happiness. ' How 
would they,' said I, delight in her delicacy, re- 
joice in her piety, love her benevolence, admire 
her humility, her usefulness ! O how do chil- 
dren feel, who wound the peace of living pa- 
rents by an unworthy choice, when not a little 
of my comfort springs from the certainty that 
the departed would rejoice in mine . Even from 
their blessed abode, my grateful heart seems to 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



38'. 



hear them say, ' This is the creature with 
whom we 6hall rejoice with thee through all 
eternity V 

Yet such was my inconsistency, that charmed 
as I was, that so young and lovely a woman 
could be so cheaply pleased, and delighted with 
that simplicity of taste which made her resem- 
ble my favourite heroine of Milton in her amuse- 
ments as well as in her domestic pursuits; still 
I longed to know what those Christmas diver- 
sions, so slightly hinted at, could be ; diversions 
which could reconcile these girls to their ab- 
sence not only from their green-house, but from 
London. I could hardly fear indeed to find at 
Stanley Grove what the newspapers pertly call 
Private Theatricals. Still I suspected it might 
he some gay dissipation, not quite suited to their 
general character, nor congenial to their amuse- 
ments. My mother's favourite rule of consist- 
ency strongly forced itself on my mind, though 
I tried to repel the suggestion as unjust and un- 
generous. 

Of what meannesses will not love be guilty ! 
It drove me to have recourse to my friend Mrs. 
Comfit to dissipate my doubts. — From her I 
learned that that cold and comfortless season 
was mitigated at Stanley Grove by several feasts 
for the [>nor ofdiftV.rent classes and ages. ' Then, 
Sir,' continued she, ' if you could see the blazing 
fires, and the abundant provisions ! the roasting, 
and the bailing, and the baking. The house is 
all alive ! On those days the drawers and shelves 
of Miss Lucilla's store-room are completely 
emptied. 'Tis the most delightful bustle, Sir, 
to see our young ladies tying on the good wo- 
men's warm cloaks, fitting their caps and aprons, 
and sending home blankets to the infirm who 
cannot come themselves. — The very little ones 
kneeling down on the ground to try on the poor 
girl's shoes ; even little Miss Celia ; and she is 
so tender to fit them exactly, and not hurt them ! 
Last feast-day, not finding a pair small enough 
for a poor little girl, she privately shpt off her 
own and put on the child. It was some time 
before it was discovered that she herself was 
without shoes. We are all alive, Sir. Parlour, 
and hall, and kitchen, all is in motion ! Books, 
and business, and walks, and gardening, all is 
forgotten for these few happy days.' 

How I hated myself for my suspicion ! — And 
how I loved the charming creatures who could 
find in these humble but exhilirating duties, an 
equivalent for the pleasures of the metropolis ' 
'Surely,' said I to myself, 'my mother would 
call this consistency, when the amusements of a 
religious family smack of the same flavour with 
its business and its duties.' My heart was 
more than easy ; it was dilated, while I con- 
gratulated myself in the thought that there were 
young ladies to be found who could spend a win- 
ter not only unrepiningly, but cheerfully and 
delightedly in the country. 

I am aware that were I to repeat my conver- 
sations with Lucilla, I should subject myself to 
ridicule, by recording such cold and spiritless 
discourse on my own part. But I had not yet 
declared my attachment. I made it a point of 
duty not to violate my engagement with Mr. 
Stanley. I was not addressing declarations, but 
•tudying the character of her on whom the hap. 



piness of my life was to depend. I had resolved 
not to show my attachment by any overt act. I 
confined the expression of my affection to that 
series of small, quiet attentions, which an accu- 
rate judge of the human heart has pronounced 
to be the surest avenue to a delicate mind. I 
had, in the mean time, the inexpressible felicity 
to observe a constant union of feeling, as well as 
a general consonancy of opinion between us. 
Every sentiment seemed a reciprocation of sym- 
pathy, and every look, of intelligence. This 
unstudied correspondence enchanted me the 
more, as I had always considered that a con- 
formity of tastes was nearly as necessary to con- 
jugal happiness, as a conformity of principles. 



CHAP. XXXIV. 

One morning I took a ride alone to breakfast 
at Lady Aston's, Mr. Stanley having expressed 
a particular desire that I should cultivate the 
acquaintance of her son. ' Sir George is not 
quite twenty,' said he, ' and your being a few 
years older, will make him consider your friend- 
ship as an honour to him : I am sure it will be 
an advantage.' 

In her own little family circle, I had the plea 
sure of seeing Lady Aston appear to more ad- 
vantage than I had yet done. Her understand- 
ing is gond, and her affections are strong. She 
had received a too favourable prepossession of 
my character from Mr. Stanley, and treated me 
with as much openness as if I had been his son. 

The gentle girls, animated by the spirit of 
their brother, seemed to derive both happiness 
and importance from his presence ; while the 
amiable young Baronet himself won my affec- 
tion by his engaging manners, and my esteem 
by his good sense, and his considerable acquire- 
ments in every thing which becomes a gentle- 
man. 

This visit exemplified a lemark I had some- 
times made, that 6hy characters, who from na- 
tural timidity are reserved in general society, 
open themselves with peculiar warmth and 
frankness to a few select friends, or to an indi- 
vidual of whom they think kindly. A distant 
manner is not always, as is suspected, the result 
of a cold heart, or a dull head ; nor is gaiety ne- 
cessarily connected with feeling. High animal 
spirits, though they often evaporate in mere talk, 
yet by their warmth and quickness of motion, 
obtain the credit of strong sensibility ; a sensi- 
bility however, of which the heart is not always 
the fountain. While in the timid, that silence, 
which is construed into pride, indifference, or 
want of capacity, is often the effect of keen feel- 
ings. Friendship is the genial climate in which 
such hearts disclose themselves ; they flourish 
m the shade, and kindness alone makes them 
expand. A keen discerner will often detect, i& 
such characters, qualities which are not alwavs 
connected with 

"^Tie rattling tongue 
Of saucy aud audacious eloquence. 

When people who have seen little of each 
other are thrown together, nothing brings on 



388 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



free communication so quickly or so pleasantly, 
as their being both intimate with a third person, 
for whom all parties entertain one common sen- 
timent. Mr. Stanley seemed always a point of 
union between his neighbours and me. 

After various topics had been discussed, Lady 
Aston remarked, that she could now trace the 
goodness of Providence in having so ordered 
events, as to make those things which she had 
so much dreaded at the time, work out advan- 
tages which could not have been otherwise ob- 
tained for her. 

' I had a singular aversion,' added she, ' to the 
thoughts of removing to this place, and quitting 
Sir George's estate in Warwickshire, where I 
had spent the happiest years of my life. When 
I had the misfortune to lose him,' (here a tear 
quietly strayed down her cheek,) ' I resolved ne- 
ver to remove from the place where ho died. I 
had fully persuaded myself that it was a duty to 
do all I could to cherish grief I obliged my- 
self, as a law, to spend whole hours every day in 
walking round the place where he was buried. — 
These melancholy visits, the intervals of which 
were filled with tears, prayers, and reading a 
few good but not well chosen books, made up 
the whole round of my sad existence. I had 
nearly forgotten that I had any duties to per- 
form, that I had any mercies left. Almost all 
the effect which the sight of my children pro- 
duced in me was, by their resemblance to their 
father, to put me in mind of what I had lost. 

I was not sufficiently aware how much more 
truly I should have honoured his memory, by 
training his lively representatives, in such a 
manner, as he, had he been living, would have 
approved. ' My dear George,' said she, smiling 
at her son, through her tears, ' was glad to get 
away to school, and my poor girls, when they 
lost the company of their brother, lost all the 
little cheerfulness which my recluse habits had 
left them. We sunk into total inaction, and our 
lives became as comfortless as they were unpro- 
fitable.' 

' My dear Madam,' said Sir George, in the 
most affectionate tone and manner, ' I can only 
forgive myself from the consideration of my be- 
ing then too young and thoughtless to know the 
value of the mother, whose sorrows ought to 
have endeared my home to me, instead of driving 
me from it.' 

1 They are my faults, my dear George, and 
not yours that I am relating. Few mothers 
would have acted like me ; few sons differently 
from you. Your affectionate heart deserved a 
warmer return than my broken spirits were ca- 
pable of making you. But I was telling you, 
Sir,' said she, again addressing herself to me, 
• that the event of my coming to this place, not 
only became the source of my present peace, and 
of the comfort of my children, but that its result 
enables me to look forward with a cheerful hope 
to that state where there is neither sin, sorrow, 
nor separation. The thoughts of death, which 
used to render me useless, now make me only 
serious. The reflection that ' the night cometh,' 
which used to extinguish my activity, pow kin- 
dles it. 

' Forgive me, Sir,' added she, wiping her eyes, 
' these are not such tears as I then shed. These 



are tears of gratitude, I had almost said of jdy 
In the family at the Grove, Providence had been 
providing for me friends, for whom, I doubt not, 
I shall bless him in eternity. 

' I had long been convinced of the importance 
of religion. I had always felt the insufficiency 
of the world to bestow happiness; but I had ne- 
ver before beheld religion in such a form. I had 
never been furnished with a proper substitute 
for the worldly pleasures which I yet despised, 
I did right in giving up diversions, but I did 
wrong in giving up employment, and in neglect- 
ing duties. I knew something of religion as a 
principle of fear, but I had no conception of it 
as a motive to the love of God, and as the spring 
of active duty ; nor did I consider it as a source 
of inward peace. Books had not been of any 
great service to me, for I had no one to guide 
me in the choice, or to assist me in the perusal. 
I went to my daily task of devotion with a heavy 
heart, and returned from it with no other sense 
of comfort but that I had not omitted it. 

' My former friends and acquaintances had 
been decent and regular ; but they had adopted 
religion as a form, and not as a principle. It 
was compliance and not conviction. It was con- 
formity to custom, and not the persuasion of the 
heart. Judge then how I must have been affect- 
ed, in a state when sorrow and disappointment 
had made my mind peculiarly impressible, with 
the conversation and example of Mr. and Mrs. 
Stanley ! I saw in them that religion was not 
a formal profession, but a powerful principle. It 
ran through their whole life and character. All 
the Christian graces were brought into action in 
a way, with a uniformity and a beauty, which 
nothing but Christian motives could have ef- 
fected. 

'The change which took place in my own 
mind, however, was progressive. The strict 
consonance which I observed between their sen- 
timents and actions, and those of Dr. Barlow and 
Mr. Jackson strengthened and confirmed mine. 
This similarity in all points, was a fresh con- 
firmation that they were all right. The light 
of religion gradually grew stronger, and the way 
more smooth. It was literally a ' lamp to my 
feet,' for I walked more safely as I saw more 
clearly. My difficulties insensibly lessened, and 
my doubts disappeared. I still indeed continue 
hourly to feel much cause to be humbled, but 
none to be unhappy.' 

When Lady Aston had done speaking, Sir 
George said, ' I owe a thousand obligations to 
my mother, but not one so great as her introduc- 
tion of me to Mr. Stanley. He has given a bent 
and bias to my sentiments, habits and pursuits, 
to which I trust every day will add fresh strength. 
I look up to him as my model : happy if I may, 
in any degree, be able to form myself by it ! 
Till I had the happiness of knowing you, Sir, I 
preferred the company of Dr. Barlow and Mr. 
Stanley 4 to that of any young man with whom I 
am acquainted.' 

After some further conversation, in which Sir 
George, with great credit to himself, bore a con- 
siderable part ; Miss Aston took courage to ask 
me if I would accompany them all into the gar- 
den, as she wished me to carry home intelli- 
gence to Miss Stanley, of the flourishing state 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



389 



of some American plants, which had been raised 
under her direction. To speak the truth, I had 
for some time been trying to bring Lucilla on 
the tapis, but had not found a plausible pretence, 
I now inquired if Miss Stanley directed their 
gardening pursuits. ' She directs all our pur- 
suits,' said the two bashful, blushing girls, who 
now, for the first time in their lives, spoke both 
at once ; the subject kindling an energy in their 
affectionate hearts, which even their timidity 
could not rein in. 

' I thought Clara,' said Sir George, ' that Miss 
Phoehe Stanley too had assisted in laying out 
the flower garden. Surely she is not behind 
her sister in any thing that is kind, or any thing 
that is elegant.' His complexion heightened as 
he spoke, and he expressed himself with an 
emphasis, which I had not before observed in 
his manner of speaking. I stole a glance at 
Lady Aston, whose meek eye glistened with 
pleasure, at the earnestness with which her son 
spoke of the lovely Phoebe. My rapid imagina- 
tion instantly shot forward to an event, which 
some years hence will probably unite two fa- 
milies so worthy of each other. Lady Aston, 
who already honours me with her confidence, 
afterwards confirmed my suspicions on a sub- 
ject, about which nothing but the extreme youth 
of both parties made her backward to express 
the secret hope she fondly entertained. 

In our walk round the gardens, the Miss As- 
tons continued to vie with each other, who 
should be warmest in the praise of our young 
friends at the Grove. To Miss Stanley they 
gratefully declared, they owed any little taste, 
knowledge, or love of goodness which they 
themselves might possess. 

It was delightful to observe these quiet girls 
warmed and excited by a subject so interesting. 
I was charmed to see them so far from feel- 
ing any shadow of envy at the avowed supe- 
riority of their young friends, and so unani- 
mously eloquent in the praise of merit so eclip- 
sing. 

After having admired the plants of which I 
promised to make a favourable report, I was 
charged with a large and beautiful bouquet for 
the young ladies at the Grove. They then drew 
me to the prettiest spot in the grounds. While 
I was admiring it, Miss Clara, with a blush, 
and some hesitation, begged leave to ask my 
advice about a little rustic building, which she 
and her sisters were just going to raise in ho- 
nour of the Miss Stanleys. It was to be dedi- 
cated to them, and called the Temple of Friend- 
ship. ' My brother,' said she, 'is kindly assist- 
ing us. The materials are all prepared, and we 
have now only to fix them up.' 

She then put into my hands a little plan. I 
highly approved it; venturing, however, to sug- 
gest some trifling alterations, which I told them 
I did in order to implicate myself a little in the 
pleasant project. How proud was I when Clara 
added, 'that Miss Stanley had expressed a high 
opinion of my general taste !' — They all begged 
me to look in on them in my rides, and assist 
them with my farther counsel; adding that, 
above all things, I must keep it a secret at the 
Grove. 

Lady Aston said, ' that she expected our whole 



party to dine at the Hall, some day next week. 
Her daughters entreated that it might be post 
poned till the latter end, by which time they 
doubted not their little edifice would be com- 
pleted. Sir George then told me, that his sis- 
ters had requested him to furnish an inscription, 
or to endeavour to procure one from me. Ha 
added his wishes to theirs that I would comply. 
They all joined so earnestly in the entreaty that 
I could not withstand them, ' albeit unused to 
the rhyming mood.' 

After some deliberation, Friday in the next 
week was fixed upon for the party at the Grove 
to dine at Aston-Hall, and I was to carry the 
invitation. I took a respectful leave of the ex- 
cellent Lady of the mansion, and an affection- 
ate one of the young people ; with whom the 
familiar intercourse of this quiet morning had 
contributed to advance my friendly acquaint- 
ance, more than could have been done by many 
ceremonious meetings. , 

When I returned to the Grove, which was 
but just in time to dress for dinner, I spoke with 
sincere satisfaction of the manner in which I 
had passed the morning. It was beautiful tc 
observe the honest delight, the ingenuous kind- 
ness, with which Lucilla heard me commend 
the Miss Astons. No little disparaging hint on 
the one hand, gently to let down her friends, nor 
on the other, no such exaggerated praise as I 
have sometimes seen employed as a screen for 
envy, or as a trap to make the hearer lower 
what the speaker had too highly raised. 

I dropped in at Aston-Hall two or three times 
in the course of the week, as well to notice the 
progress of the work, as to carry my inscription, 
in which as Lucilla was both my subject and 
my muse, 1 succeeded rather better than I ex- 
pected. 

On the Friday, according to appointment, 
our whole party went to dine in the Hall. In 
our way, Mr. Stanley expressed the pleasure it 
gave him, that Lady Aston was now so con- 
vinced of the duty of making home agreeable 
to her son, as delightedly to receive such of her 
friends as were warmly disposed to become his. 

Sir George, who is extremely well-bred, did 
the honours admirably for so young a man, to 
the great relief of his excellent mother, whom 
long retirement had rendered habitually timid 
in a party, of which some were almost stran- 
gers. 

The Miss Astons had some difficulty to re- 
strain their young guests from running directly 
to look at the progress of the American plants ; 
but as they grew near the mysterious spot, they 
were not allowed to approach it before the allot- 
ted time. 

After dinner, when the whole party were 
walking in the garden, Lady Aston, was de- 
sired by her daughters to conduct her company 
to a winding grass walk, near the little build- 
ing, but from whence it was not visible. While 
they were all waiting at the appointed place, 
the two elder Miss Astons gravely took a hand 
of Lucilla, Sir George and I each presented a 
hand to Phoebe, and in profound silence, and 
great ceremony, we led them up the turf steps 
into this simple, but really pretty temple. The 
initials of Lucilla and Phoebe were carved in 






390 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



cyphers over a little rustic window, under which 
was written, 

Sacred to Friendship. 

In two niches prepared for the purpose, we seve- 
rally seated the two astonished nymphs, who 
seemed absolutely enchanted. Above was the 
inscription in large Roman letters. 

The Astons looked so much alive, that they 
might have been mistaken for Stanleys, who in 
their turn, were so affected with this tender 
mark of friendship, that they looked as tearful 
as though they had been Astons. After reading 
the inscription, ' my dear Clara,' said Lucilla to 
Miss Aston, ' where could you get these beautiful 
verses ? Though the praise they convey is too 
flattering to be just, it is too delicate not to 
please. The lines are at once tender and ele- 
gant.' 'We got them,' said Miss Aston, with 
a sweet vivacity, ' where we get every thing 
that is good, from Stanley Grove,' bowing mo- 
destly to me. 

How was I elated ; and how did Lucilla blush ! 
but though she now tried to qualify her flattery, 
she could not recal it. And I would not allow 
myself to be robbed of the pure delight it had 
given me. All the company seemed to enjoy her 
confusion and my pleasure. 

I forgot to mention, that as we crossed the 
park, we had seen enter the house, through a 
back avenue, a procession of little girls neatly 
dressed in a uniform. In a whisper, I asked 
Lady Aston what it meant, 'you are to know,' 
replied her ladyship, 'that my daughters adopt 
all Miss Stanley's plans, and among the rest, that 
of associating with all their own indulgences 
some little act of charity, that while they are 
receiving pleasure, they may also be conferring 
it. The opening of the Temple of Friendship, 
is likely to afford too much gratification to be 
passed over without some sueh association. So 
my girls give to day a little feast, with prizes of 
merit, to their village school, and to a few other 
deserving young persons.' 

When we had taken our seats in the temple, 
Phoebe suddenly cried out, clasping her hands 
in an ecstacy, 'Only look Lucilla! There is no 
end to the enchantment. It is all fairy land.' 
On casting our eyes as she directed, we were 
agreeably surprised with observing a large kind 
of temporary shed or booth at some distance from 
us. It was picturesquely fixed near an old 
spreading oak, and was ingeniously composed 
of branches of trees, fresli and green. Under 
the oak stood ranged the village maids. We 
walked to the spot. The inside of the booth was 
hung round with caps, aprons, bonnets, hand- 
kerchiefs, and other coarse, but neat articles of 
female dress. On a rustic table was laid a 
number of Bibles, and specimens of several kinds 
of coarse works, and little manufactures. The 
various performances were examined by the 
company; some presents were given to all. 
But additional prizes were awarded by the young 
Patronesses, to the best specimens of different 
work ; to the best spinners, the best knitters, the 
best manufacturers of split straw, and the best 
performers in plain work, I think they called it. 
Three grown up young women, neatly dress- 
ed, and of modest manner, stood behind. It 



appeared that one of them had taken such good 
care of her young sisters and brothers, since 
their mother's death, and had so prudently 
managed their father's house, that it had saved 
him from an imprudent second choice. Another 
had postponed for many months a marriage, in 
which her heart was engaged, because she had 
a paralytic grandmother whom she attended 
day and night, and whom nothing, not even love 
itself, could tempt her to desert. Death had 
now released the aged sufferer, the wedding 
was to take place next Sunday. The third had 
for above a year worked two hours every day, 
over and above her set time, and applied the 
gains to clothe the orphan child of a deceased 
friend. She also was to accompany her lover 
to the altar on Sunday, but had made it a con- 
dition of her marrying him, that she should be 
allowed to continue her supernumerary hours 
work, for the benefit of the poor orphan. AH 
three had been exemplary in their attendance 
at church, as well as in their general conduct. 
The fair Patronesses presented each with a 
handsome Bible, and with a complete, plain, but 
very neat suit of apparel. 

While these gifts were distributing, I whis- 
pered Sir John that one such ticket as we were 
desired to take for Squallini's benefit, would 
furnish the cottages of these poor girls. ' And 
it shall,' replied he with emphasis. ' How little 
a way will that sum go in superfluities, which 
will make two honest couple happy ! How costly 
is vanity, how cheap is charity !' 

' Can these happy, useful young creatures be 
my little, inactive, insipid Astons, Charles ?' 
whispered Mr. Stanley, as wo walked away to 
leave the girls to sit down to their plentiful sup- 
per, which was spread on a long table under the 
oak, without the green booth. This group of 
figures made an interesting addition to the 
scenery, when we got back to the Temple, and 
often attracted our attention while we were en 
gaged in conversation. 



CHAP. XXXV 

The company were not soon weary of ad- 
miring the rustic building, which seemed raised 
as if by the stroke of a magician's wand, so 
rapidly had it sprung up. They were delighted 
to find that their pleasure was to be prolonged 
by drinking tea in the temple. 

While we were at tea Mr. Stanley, address- 
ing himself to me, said, ' I have always forgotten 
to ask you, Charles, if your high expectations of 
pleasure from the society in London had been 
quite answered ?' 

' I was entertained, and I was disappointed,' 
replied I. ' I always found the pleasure of the 
moment not heightened but effaced by the suc- 
ceeding moment. The ever restless, rolling tide 
of new intelligence at once gratified and excited 
the passion of novelty, which I found to be le 
grand poisson qui mange les pedis. This suc- 
cessive abundance of fresh supply gives an 
ephemeral importance to every thing, and a 
lasting importance to nothing. We skimmed 
every topic, but dived into none. Much de- 
sultory talk, but little discussion. The comba. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



391 



tants skirmished like men whose arms were kept 
bright by constant use ; who were accustomed 
to a flying fight, but who avoided the fatigue 
of coming to close quarters. What was old, 
however momentous, was rejected as dull, what 
was new, however insignificant, was thought 
interesting. Events of the past week were 
placed with those beyond the flood ; and the very 
existence of occurrences which continue to be 
matter of deep interest with us in the country, 
seemed there totally forgotten. 

' I found, too, that the inhabitants of the me- 
tropolis had a standard of merit of their own ; 
that knowledge of the town was concluded to be 
knowledge of the world ; that local habits, 
reigning- phrases, temporary fashions, and an 
acquaintance with the surface of manners, was 
supposed to be knowledge of mankind. Of 
course, he who was ignorant of the topics of the 
hour, and the anecdotes of a few modish leaders, 
was ignorant of human nature.' 

Sir John observed, that I was rather too 
young to be a praiser of past times, yet he allow- 
ed that the standard of conversation was not so 
high as it had been in the time of my father, by 
whose reports my youthful ardour had been in- 
flamed. He did not indeed suppose that men 
were less intellectual now, but they certainly 
were less colloquially intellectual. ' For this,' 
added he, ' various reasons may be assigned. 
In London man is every day becoming less of 
a social, and more of a gregarious animal. 
Crowds are as little favourable to conversation 
as to reflection. He finds, therefore, that he may 
figure in the mass with less expense of mind : 
and as to women they figure at no expense at 
all. They find that by mixing with myriads, 
they may carry on the daily intercourse of life, 
without being obliged to bring a single idea to 
enrich the common stock.' 

' I do not wonder,' said I, ' that the dull and 
uninformed love to shelter their insignificance 
in a crowd. In mingling with the multitude, 
their deficiencies elude detection. The vapid 
and the ignorant are like a bad play ; they owe 
the little figure they make to the dress, the 
scenery, the music, and the company. The 
noise and the glare take off all attention from 
the defects of the work. The spectator is amus- 
ed, and he does not inquire whether it is with 
the piece or the accompaniments. The end is 
attained, and he is little solicitous about the 
means. But an intellectual woman, like a well 
written drama, will please at home without all 
these aids and adjuncts, nay the beauties of the 
superior piece, and of the superior woman, will 
rise on a more intimate survey. But you were 
going, Sir John, to assign other causes for the 
decline and fall of conversation.' 

• One very affecting reason,' replied he, ' is 
that the alarming state of public affairs fills all 
men's minds with one momentous object. As 
every Englishman is a patriot, every patriot is 
a politician. It is natural that that subject 
should fill every mouth, which occupies every 
heart, and that little room should be left for ex- 
traneous matter.' 

' I should accept this,' said I, ' as a satisfac- 
tory vindication, had I heard that the same ab- 
sorbing cause had thinned the public places, or 



diminished the attraction of the private resorts 
of dissipation.' 

' There is a third reason,' said Sir John, ' po- 
lite literature has in a good degree given way 
to experimental philosophy. The admirers of 
science assert, that the last was an age of words, 
and that this is the age of Ihings,. A more sub- 
stantial kind of knowledge has partly superseded 
these elegant studies, which have caught such 
hold on your affections.' 

'I heartily wish,' replied I, 'that the new 
pursuits may be found to make men wiser ; they 
certainly have not made them more agreeable.' 

' It is affirmed,' said Mr. Stanley, ' that the 
prevailing philosophical studies have a religious 
use, and that they naturally tend to elevate the 
heart to the great Author of the Universe.' 

• I have but one objection to that assertion,' 
replied Sir John, 'namely, that it is not true. 
This should seem indeed, to be their direct ten- 
dency ; yet experiment, which you know is the 
soul of philosophy, has proved the contrary.' 

He then adduced some instances in our coun- 
try, which I forbear to name, that clearly evinc- 
ed, that this was not their necessary conse- 
quence ; adding, however, a few great name9 
on the more honourable side. He next adverted 
to the Baillies, the Condorsets, the D'Alamberts. 
and the Lalandes, as melancholy proofs of the 
inefficacy of mere science to make Christians. 

' Far be it from me,' said Sir John, ' to un- 
dervalue philosophical pursuits. The modern 
discoveries are extremely important, especially 
in their application to the purposes of common 
life ; but where these are pursued exclusively, I 
cannot help preferring the study of the great 
classic authors, those exquisite masters of life 
and manners, with whose spirited conversation, 
twenty or thirty years ago, was so richly im- 
pregnated.' 

' I confess,' said I, 'that there may be more 
matter, but there is certainly less mind in the 
reigning pursuits. The reputation of skill, it 
is true, may be obtained at a much less expense 
of time and intellect. The comparative cheap- 
ness of the acquisition holds out the powerful 
temptation of more credit with less labour. A 
sufficient knowledge of botany or chemistry to 
make a figure in company is easily obtained, 
while a thorough acquaintance with the histo- 
rians, poets, and orators of antiquity requires 
much time, and close application.' ' But,' ex- 
claimed Sir John, 'can the fashionable studies 
pretend to give the same expansion to the mind, 
the same elevation to the sentiments, the same 
energy to the feelings, the same stretch and 
compass to the understanding, the same correct- 
ness to the taste, the same grace and spirit to 
the whole moral and intellectual man ?' 

' For my own part,' replied I, ' so far from 
saying with Hamlet, ' Man delights not me, nor 
woman neither,' I confess, I have little delight 
in any thing else. The study of the human 
mind, is, of merely human studies, my chief 
pleasure. As a man, man is the creature with 
whom I have to do, and the varieties in his cha- 
racter interest me more than all the possible va- 
rieties of mosses, and shells, and fossils. To 
view this compound creature in the complexity 
of his actions, as portrayed by the hand of those 



392 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



immortal masters, Tacitus and Plutarch; to 
view him in the struggle of his passions, as dis- 
played by Euripides and Shakspeare : to con- 
template him in the blaze of his eloquence, by 
the two rival orators of Greece and Rome, is 
more congenial to my feelings, than the ablest 
disquisition of whiAi matter was ever the sub- 
ject.' Sir John, who is a passionate, and rather 
too exclusive an admirer of classic lore, warmly 
declared himself of my opinion. 

'I went to town,' replied I, 'with a mind 
eager for intellectual pleasure. My memory 
was not quite unfurnished with passages which 
I thought likely to be adverted to, and which 
might serve to embellish conversation, without 
incurring the charge of pedantry. But though, 
most of the men I conversed with were my 
equals in education, and my superiors in talent, 
there seemed little disposition to promote such 
topics as might bring our understanding into 
play. Whether it is that business, active life, 
and public debate, absorb the mind, and make 
men consider society rather as a scene to rest 
than to exercise it, I know not ; certain it is 
that they brought less into the treasury of con- 
versation than I expected; not because they 
were poor, but proud, or idle, and reserved their 
talents and acquisitions for higher occasions. 
The most opulent possessors, I often found the 
most penurious contributors.' 

1 Ricn de trop,' said Mr. Stanley, ' was the 
favourite maxim of an author,* whom I am not 
apt to quote for rules of moral conduct. Yet its 
adoption would be a salutary check against ex- 
cess in all our pursuits. If polite learning is 
undervalued by the mere man of letters : If it 
dignifies retirement, and exalts society, it is not 
the great business of life; it is not the prime 
fountain of moral excellence.' 

' Well, so much for man,'' said Sir John, 'but 
Charles, you have not told us what you had to 
say of women, in your observations on society.' 

'As to women,' replied I, 'I declare that I 
found more propensity to promote subjects of 
taste and elegant speculation among some of 
the superior class of females, than in many of 
my own sex. The more prudent, however, are 
restrained through fear of the illiberal sarcasms 
of men, who not contented to suppress their own 
faculties, ridicule all intellectual exertion in wo- 
men, though evidently arising from a modest 
desire of improvement, and not the vanity of 
hopeless rivalry.' 

' Charles is always the Paladin of the reading 
ladies,' said Sir John. ' I do not deny it,' re- 
plied I, ' if they bear their faculties meekly. 
But I confess that what is sneeringly called a 
learned lady is to me far preferable to a scien- 
tific one, such as I encountered one evening, 
who talked of the fulcrum, and the lever, and 
the statera, which she took care to tell us was 
the Roman steel-yard, with all the sang-froid of 
philosophical conceit.' 

' Scientific men,' said Sir John, ' are in gene- 
ral admirable for their' simplicity, but in a tech- 
nical woman I have seldom found a grain of 
taste or elegance.' 

' I own,' replied I, ' I should greatly prefer 

* Frederick the Great, King of Prussia. i 



a fair companion, who could modestly discrimi- 
nate between the beauties of Virgil and Milton, 
to one who was always dabbling in chemistry, 
and who came to dinner with dirty hands from 
the labratory. And yet I admire chemistry too; 
I am now only speaking of that knowledge 
which is desirable in a female companion ; for 
knowledge I must have. But arts, which are 
of immense value in manufactures, won't make 
my wife's conversation entertaining to me. 
Discoveries which may greatly improve dyeing 
and bleaching, will add little to the delights of 
our summer evening's walk, or winter fireside.' 
The ladies, Lucilla especially, smiled at my 
warmth. I felt that there was approbation in 
her smile, and though I had said too much al- 
ready, it encouraged me to go on. — ' I repeat 
that, next to religion, whatever relates to human 
manners, is most attracting to human creatures. 
To turn from conversation to composition. What 
is it that excites so feeble an interest, in perus- 
ing that finely written poem of the Abbe de 
Lille, ' Les Jar dins !' It is because his garden 
has no cultivators, no inhabitants, no men and 
women. What confers that powerful charm on 
the descriptive parts of Paradise Lost ? A fas- 
cination, I will venture to affirm, paramount to 
the lovely and magnificent scenery which adorns 
it. Eden itself, with all its exquisite landscape, 
would excite a very inferior pleasure did it ex- 
hibit only inanimate beauties. 'Tis the propri- 
etors, 'tis the inhabitants, 'tis the live stock of 
Eden, which sieze upon the affections, and twine 
about the heart. The gardens, even of Para- 
dise, would be dull without the gardeners. 'Tis 
mental excellence, 'tis moral beauty, which 
completes the charm. Where this is wanting, 
landscape poetry, though it may be read with 
pleasure, yet the interest it raises is cold. It is ad- 
mired, but seldom remembered, praised, but sel- 
dom quoted. It leaves no definite idea on the 
mind. If general, it is indistinct ; if minute, 
tedious.' 

' It must be confessed,' said Sir John, ' that 
some poets are apt to forget that the finest re- 
presentation of nature is only the scene, not the 
object ; the canvass, not the portrait. We had 
indeed some time ago, so much of this gorgeous 
scene-painting, so much splendid poetical bota- 
ny, so many amorous flowers, and so many ve- 
getable courtships ; so many wedded plants ; 
roots transformed to nymphs, and dwelling in 
emerald palaces ; that some how or other truth, 
and probability, and nature and man, slipt out 
of the picture, though it must be allowed that 
genius held the pencil.' 

' In Mason's English Garden,' replied I, ' Al- 
cander's precepts would have been no personi- 
fication. The introduction of character dra 
matizes what else would have been frigidly di- 
dactic. Thompson enriched his landscape with 
here and there a figure, drawn with more cor- 
rectness than warmth, with more nature than 
spirit, but exalts it every where by moral allu- 
sion and religious reference. The scenery of 
Cowper is perpetually animated with sketches of 
character, enlivened with portraits from real life, 
and the exhibition of human manners and pas- 
sions. His most exquisite descriptions owe 
their vividness to moral illustration. — Loyalty, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



393 



liberty, patriotism, charity, piety, benevolence, 
every generous feeling, every glowing senti- 
ment, every ennobling passion, grows out of his 
descriptive powers. His matter always bursts 
into mind. His shrubbery, his forest, his flower 
garden, all produce 

Fruits worthy of Paradise, 

and lead to immortality.' 

Mr. Stanley said, adverting again to the sub- 
ject of conversation, it was an amusement to him 
to observe, what impression the first introduction 
to general society made conversant with books, 
but to whom the world was in a manner new. 

' I believe,' said Sir John, ' that an overflowing 
Commerce, and the excessive opulence it has in- 
troduced, though favourable to all the splendours 
of art, and mechanic ingenuity, yet have lowered 
the standard of taste, and debilitated the mental 
energies. — They are advantageous to luxury, 
but fatal to intellect. It has added to the bril- 
liancy of the drawing-room itself, but deducted 
from that of the inhabitant. It has given per- 
fection to our mirrors, our candelabras, our gild- 
ing, our inlaying and our sculpture, but it has 
communicated a torpor to the imagination, and 
enervated our intellectual vigour.' 

'In one way,' said Mr. Stanley, smiling, 'luxu- 
ry has been favourable to literature. — From the 
unparalleled splendour of our printing, paper, 
engraving, illuminating, and binding, luxury 
has caused more bo >ks to be purchased, while, 
from the growth of time-absorbing dissipation, 
it causes fewer to be read. Even where books 
are not much considered as the vehicle of in- 
struction they are become an indispensable ap- 
pendage to elegance. But I believe we were 
much more familiar with our native poets in 
their former plain garb, than since they have 
been attired in the gorgeous dress which now 
decorates our shelves. 

'Poetry,' continued Mr. Stanley, ' has of late 
too much degenerated into personal satire, persi- 
flage and caricature, among one class of writers ; 
while among another it has exhibited the va- 
grancies of genius, without the inspiration ; the 
exuberance of fancy, without the curb of judg- 
ment, and the eccentricities of invention, with- 
out the restrictions of taste. The image has 
been strained, while the verse has been slack- 
ened. We have had pleonasm without fulness, 
and facility without force. Redundancy has 
been mistaken for plenitude, flimsiness for ease, 
and distortion for energy. An over desire of 
being natural, has made the poet feeble, and the 
rage for being simple has sometimes made him 
silly. The sensibility is sickly, and the eleva- 
tion virtiginous. 

'To Cowper,' said Sir John, ' master of melo- 
dy as he is, the mischief is partly attributable. 
Such an original must naturally have a herd of 
imitators. If they cannot attain to his excel- 
lences, his faults are always attainable. The 
resemblance between the master and the scholar 
is found chiefly in his defects. The determined 
imitator of an easy writer becomes vapid, of a 
sublime one, absurd. Cowpor's case appeared 
his most imitablo charm : but ease aggravated 
is insipidity. His occasional negligences his 
disciples adopted uniformly. la Covvpcr there 

Vol. IL 



might sometimes be carelessness in the versp, 
but the verse itself was sustained by the vigour 
of the sentiment. The imitator forgot that his 
strength lay in the thought : that his buoyant 
spirit always supported itself, that the figure 
though amplified was never distorted ; the image 
though bold was never incongruous, and the il 
lustration though new was never false. 

' The evil, however,' continued Sir John, 
' seems to be correcting itself. The real genius, 
which exists in several of this whimsical school, 
I trust, will at length lead them to prune their 
excrescences, and reform their youthful eccen- 
tricities. Their good sense will teach them that 
the surest road to fame, is to condescend to tread 
in the luminous track of their great precursors 
in the art. They will see that deviation is not 
always improvement ; that whoever wants to be 
better than nature, will infallibly be worse ; that 
truth in taste is as obvious as in morals, and as 
certain as in mathematics. In other quarters, 
both the classic and the Gothic music are emu- 
lously soaring, and I hail the restoration of ge- 
nuine poetry and pure taste.' 

' I must not,' said I, ' loquacious as I have al- 
ready been, dismiss the subject of conversation, 
without remarking that I found there was one 
topic, which seemed as uniformly avoided by 
common consent, as if it had been banished by 
the interdict of absolute authority ; and that 
some forfeiture, or at least dishonour and dis- 
grace, were to follow it on conviction — I mean 
religion.' 

' Surely, Charles,' said Sir John, 'you would 
not convert general conversation into a divini- 
ty school, and friendly societies into debating 
clubs.' 

' Far from it,' replied I, ' nor do I desire that 
ladies and gentlemen over their tea and coffee 
should rehearse their articles of faith, or fill the 
intervals of carving and eating with introducing 
dogmas, or discussing controversies. I do not 
wish to erect the social table, which was meant 
for innocent relaxation, into an arena for theolo- 
gical combatants. I only wish, as people live 
so much together, that if, when out of the mul- 
titude of topics which arise in conversation, an 
unlucky wight happens to start a serious thought, 
I could see a cordial recognition of its impor- 
tance ; I wish I could see a disposition to pur- 
sue it, instead of a chilling silence which obliges 
him to draw in, as if he had dropt something 
dangerous to the state, or inimical to the general 
cheerfulness, or derogatory to his own under- 
standing. I only desire, that as, without any 
effort on the part of the speaker, but merely 
from the overflowing fulness of a mind habitual- 
ly occupied with one leading concern, we easily 
perceive that one of the company is a lawyer, 
another a soldier, a third a physician ; I only 
wish, that we could oftener discover from the 
same plenitude, so hard to conceal where it ex- 
ists, that we were in a company of Christians.' 

' We must not expect in our days,' said Mr. 
Stanley, ' to see revive that animating picture 
of the prevalence of religious intercourse given 
by the prophet. ' Then they that feared the 
Lord spake often one to another.' And yet one 
cannot but regret that, in select society, men 
well informed as we know, well principled as 



394 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



we hope, having one common portion of being 
to fill, having one common faith, one common 
father, one common journey to perform, one 
common termination to that journey, and one 
common object in view beyond it, should, when 
together, be so unwilling to advert occasionally 
to these great points, which doubtless often oc- 
cupy them in secret; that they should on the 
contrary adopt a sort of inverted hypocrisy, and 
wish to appear worse than they really are ; that 
they should be 60 backward to give or to gain 
information, to lend or to borrow lights, in a 
matter in which they are all equally interested ; 
which cannot be the case in any other possible 
subject.' 

' In all human concerns,' said I, • we find that 
those dispositions, tastes, and affections, which 
are brought into exercise, flourish, while others 
are smothered, by concealment. 4 It is certain,' 
replied Mr. Stanley, ' that knowledge which is 
never brought forward, is apt to decline. Some 
feelings require to be excited, in order to know 
if they exist. In short, topics of every kind, 
which are kept totally out of sight, make a faint- 
er impression on the mind than such as are occa- 
sionally introduced. Communication is a great 
etrengthener of any principle. Feelings, as well 
as ideas, are often elicited by collision. Thoughts 
that are never to be produced, in time seldom 
present themselves, while mutual interchange 
almost creates as well as cultivates them. And 
as to the social affections, I am persuaded that 
men would love each other more cordially ; good 
will and kindness would be inconceivably pro- 
moted, were they in the habit of maintaining 
that sort of intercourse, which would keep up a 
mutual regard for their eternal interests, and 
lead them more to consider each other as candi- 
dates for the same immortality through the same 
common hope.' 

Just as he had ceased to speak, we heard a 
warbling of female voices, which came softened 
to us by distance and the undulation of the air. 
The little band under the oak had finished their 
cheerful repast, and arranged themselves in the 
same regular procession in which they had ar- 
rived. They si ill stood at a respectful distance 
from the temple, and in their artless manner 
sung Addison's beautiful version of the twenty- 
third psalm, which the Miss Astons had taught 
them because it was a favourite with their 
mother. 

Here the setting sun reminded us to retreat to 
the house. Before we quitted the lempIe,however, 
Sir George Aston ventured modestly to intimate 
a wish, that if it pleased the Almighty to spare 
our lives, the same party should engage always 
to celebrate this anniversary in the Temple of 
Friendship, which should be finished on a larger 
scale, and rendered less unwoithy to receive 
such guests. The ladies smiled assentingly. 
Phoebe applauded rapturously. Sir John Bel 
field and I warmly approved the proposal. Mr. 
Stanley said, it could not but meet with his cor- 
dial concurrence, as it would involve the as- 
surance of an annual visit from his valued 
friends. 

As we walked int; the house, Lady Aston, 
who helo. by my arm, in answer to the salisfac- 
tica 1 expressed at the day I had passed, said, 



' We owe what little we are and do under Pro 
vidence to Mr. Stanley. You will admire his 
discriminating mind, when I tell you that he re 
commends these little exhibitions for my dangh 
ters far more than to his own. He says, that 
they, being naturally cheerful and habitually 
active, require not the incentive of company to 
encourage them. But that for my poor timid 
inactive girls, the support and animating pre- 
sence of a few chosen friends, just gives them 
that degree of life and spirit which serves to 
warm their hearts, and keep their minds in 
motion.' 



CHAP. XXXVI. 

Miss Sparkks came to spend the next day, 
according to her appointment. Mr. Flam, who 
called accidentally staid to dinner. Mr. and 
Mrs. Carlton had been previously invited. After 
dinner, the conversation chanced to turn upon 
domestic economy, a quality which Miss Sparkes 
professed to hold in the most sovereign con- 
tempt. 

After some remarks of Mrs. Stanley, in favour 
of the household virtues, Mr. Carlton said, Mr. 
Addison, in the Spectator, and Dr. Johnson, in 
the Rambler, have each given us a lively picture 
ofa vulgar, ungentlewoman-like, illiterate house- 
wife. The notable woman of the one suffocated 
her guests at night with drying herbs in their 
chamber, and tormented them all day with plans 
of economy, and lectures on management. The 
economist of the other ruined her husband by 
her parsimonious extravagance, if I may be al- 
lowed to couple contradictions ; by her tent- 
stitch hangings, for which she had no walls, and 
her embroidery for which she had no use. The 
poor man pathetically laments her detestable ca- 
talogue of made wines, which hurt his fortune 
by their profusion, and his health by not being 
allowed to drink them till they were sour. Both 
ladies are painted as domestic tyrants, whose 
husbands had no peace, and whose children had 
no education.' 

' Those coarse housewives,' said Sir John, 
1 were exhibited as warnings. It was reserved 
for the pen of Richardson to exhibit examples. 
This author, with deeper and juster views of 
human nature, a truer taste for the proprieties 
of female character, and a more exact intuition 
into real life, than any other writer of fabulous 
narrative, has given, in his heroines, exemplifi- 
cations of elegantly cultivated minds, combined 
with the sober virtues of domestic economy. In 
no other writer of fictitious adventures has the 
triumph of religion and reason over the passions, 
and Ihe now almost exploded doctrines of filial 
obedience, and the household virtues, their na- 
tural concomitants been so successfully blended. 
Whether the works of this most original, but by 
no means faultless writer, were cause or effect, 
I know not; whether these well-imagined ex- 
amples induced the ladies of that day 'to study 
household good;' or whether the then existing 
ladies, by their acknowledged attention to femi- 
nine concerns, furnished Richardson with living 
models. I cannot determine. Certain it is, that 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



395 



the novel writers of the subsequent period, have 
in general been as little disposed to represent 
these qualities as forming an indispensable part 
of the female character, as the contemporary 
young ladies themselves have been to supply 
them with patterns. I a little fear that the pre- 
dominance of this sort of reading, has contri- 
buted its full share to bring such qualities into 
contempt.' 

Miss Sparkes characteristically observed, that 
• the meanest understanding and most vulgar 
education, were competent to form such a wife 
as the generality of men preferred. That a man 
of talents, dreading a rival, always took care to 
secure himself by marrying a fool.' 

4 Always except the present company, Ma- 
dam, I presume,' said Mr. Stanley, laughing. 
'But pardon me, if I differ from you. That 
many men are sensual in their appetites, and 
low in their relish of intellectual pleasures, I 
confess. That many others, who are neither 
sensual, nor of mean attainments, prefer women 
whose ignorance will favour their indolent habits, 
and whom it requires no exertion of mind to 
entertain, I allow also. But permit me to say, 
that men of the most cultivated minds, men who 
admire talents in a woman, are still of opinion, 
that domestic talents can never be dispensed 
with : and I totally dissent from you in thinking 
that these qualities infer the absence of higher 
attainments, and necessarily imply a sordid or 
a vulgar mind. 

• Any ordinary art, after it is once discovered, 
may be practised by a very common understand- 
ing. In this, as in every thing else, the kind 
arrangements of Providence are visible, because, 
as the common arts employ the mass of man- 
kind, they could not be universally carried on if 
they were not of easy and cheap attainment. 
Now cookery is one of these arts, and I agree 
with you, Madam, in thinking, that a mean un- 
derstanding, and a vulgar education, suffice to 
make a good cook. But a cook or housekeeper ; 
and a lady qualified to wield a considerable 
establishment, are two very different characters. 
To prepare a dinner, and to conduct a great 
family, requires talents of a very different size : 
and one reason why I could never choose to 
marry a woman ignorant of domestic affairs, 
is, that she who wants, or she who despises 
this knowledge, must possess that previous bad 
judgment which, as it prevented her from seeing 
this part of her duty, would be likely to operate 
on other occasions. 

' I entirely agree with Mr. Stanley,' said Mr. 
Carlton. ' In general I look upon the contempt, 
or the fulfilment, of these duties as pretty cer- 
tain indications of the turn of mind from which 
the one or the other proceeds. I allow, how- 
ever, that with this knowledge a lady may un- 
happily have overlooked more important acqui- 
sitions ; but without it I must ever consider the 
female character as defective in the texture, 
however it may be embroidered and spangled on 
the surface.' 

Sir John Belfield declared, that though he had 
not that natural antipathy to a wit, which some 
men have ; yet unless the wildness of a wit was 
tamed, like the wildness of other animals by 
domestic habits, he himself would cot choose to 



venture on one. He added, that he should pay 
a bad compliment to Lady Belfield, who had so 
much higher claims to his esteem, if he were to 
allege that these habits were the determining 
cause of his choice, yet had he seen no such ten- 
dencies in her character, he should have sus- 
pected her power of making him as happy as she 
liad done.' 

* I confess with shame,' said Mr. Carlton, 
1 that one of the first things which touched me 
with any sense of my wile's merit, was the ad- 
mirable good sense she discovered in the direc- 
tion of my family. Even at the time that I 
had most reason to blush at my own conduct, 
she never gave me cause to blush for hers. The 
praises constantly bestowed on her elegant yet 
prudent arrangements, by my friends, Mattered 
my vanity, and raised her in my opinion, though 
they did not lead me to do her full justice.' 

The two ladies who were thus agreeably flat- 
tered, looked modestly grateful. Mr. Stanley 
said, ' I was going to endeavour at removing 
Miss Sparkes's prejudices, by observing how 
much this domestic turn brings the understand- 
ing into action. The operation of good sense is 
requisite in making the necessary calculations 
for a great family in a hundred ways. Good 
sense is required to teach that a perpetually 
recurring small expense is more to be avoided 
than an incidental great one ; while it shows 
that petty savings cannot retrieve an injured 
estate. The story told by Johnson of a lady, 
who, while ruining her fortune by excessive 
splendour and expense, yet refused to let a two 
shilling mango be cut at her table, exemplifies 
exactly my idea. Shabby curtailments, without 
repairing the breach, which prodigality has 
made, discredit the husband, and bring the re- 
proach of meanness on the wife. Retrench- 
ments to be efficient must be applied to great 
objects. The true economist will draw in by 
contracting the outline, by narrowing the bot- 
tom, by cutting off with an unsparing hand 
costly superfluities, which affect not comfort, 
but cherish vanity.' 

' "Retrench the lazy vermin of thine hall," 
was the wise counsel of the prudent Venetian, 
to his thoughtless son-in-law,' said Sir John, 
'and its wisdom consisted in its striking at one 
of the most ruinous and prevailing domestic 
evils, an overloaded establishment.' 

If Miss Sparkes had been so long without 
speaking, it was evident, by her manner and 
turn of countenance, that contempt had kept her 
silent, and that she thought the topic under dis- 
cussion us unworthy of the support of the gen- 
tlemen as of her own opposition. 

'A discreet woman,' said Mr. Stanley, 'ad- 
justs her expenses to her revenues. Every 
thing knows its time, and every person his place. 
She will live within her income, be it large or 
small ; if large, she will not be luxurious, if 
small she will not be mean. Proportion and 
propriety are among the best secrets of domestic 
wisdom ; and there is no surer test both of integ- 
rity and judgment, than a well-proportioned ex- 
penditure. 

'Now the point to which I would bring al] 
this verbage,' continued he, ' is this, — will a 
lady of a meau understanding, or a vulgar edu 



396 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



cation, be likely to practise economy on this 
large scale ! And is not such economy a field in 
which a woman of the best sense may honour- 
ably exercise her own powers ?' 

Miss Sparkes, who was always a staunch op- 
poser in moral as well as in political debate, be- 
cause she said it was the best side for the exer- 
tion of wit and talents, comforted herself that 
though she felt she was completely in the mi- 
nority, yet she always thought that was rather 
a proof of being right than the contrary ; for if 
it be true, that the generality are either weak or 
wicked, it follows that the inferior number is 
most likely to be neither 

' Women,' said Mr Carlton, ' in their course 
of action describe a smaller circle than men ; 
but the perfection of a circle consists not in its 
dimensions, but in itsc orrectness. There may 
be,' added he carefully turning away his eyes 
from Miss Sparkes, 'here and there a soaring 
female who looks down with disdain on the pal- 
try affairs of "this dim speck called earth," 
who despises order and regularity as indications 
of a grovelling spirit. But a sound mind judges 
directly contrary. The larger the capacity, the 
wider is the sweep of duties it takes in. A sen- 
sible woman loves to imitate tnat order which 
is stamped on the whole creation of God. All 
the operations of nature are uniform even in 
their changes, and regular in their infinite va- 
riety. Nay, the great Author of Nature him- 
self disdains not to be called the God of order.' 

4 1 agree with you,' said Sir John. 'A philo- 
sophical lady may 'read Mallebranch, Boyle, 
and Locke:' she may boast of her intellectual 
superiority ; she may talk of abstract and con- 
crete; of substantial forms and essences; com- 
plex ideas and mixed modes, of identity and re- 
lation ; she may decorate all the logic of one 
sex with all the rhetoric of the other ; yet if 
her affairs are delabres, if her house is disor- 
derly, her servants irregular, her children ne- 
glected, and her table ill arranged, she will in- 
dicate the want of the most valuable faculty 
of the human mind, a sound judgment.' 

' It must, however, be confessed,' replied Mr. 
Stanley, ' that such instances are so rare, that 
the exceptions barely serve to establish the rule. 
I have known twenty women mismanage their 
affairs, through a bad education, through igno- 
rance, especially of arithmetic, that grand de- 
ficiency in the education of women, through a 
multiplicity of vain accomplishments, through 
an excess of dissipation, through a devotedness 
to personal embellishments, through an absorp- 
tion of the whole soul in music, for one who has 
made her husband metaphysically miserable.' 

4 What marks the distinction,' said Mr. Carl- 
ton, ' between the judicious and the vulgar eco- 
nomist is this : the narrow-minded woman suc- 
ceeds tolerably in the filling up, but never in the 
outline. She is made up of detail, but destitute 
of plan. Petty duties demand her whole grasp 
of mind, and after all the thing is incomplete. 
There is so much bustle and evident exertion in 
all she does! she brings into company a mind 
exhausted with her little efforts ! overflowing 
with a sense of her own merits ! looking up 
to her own performances as the highest possible 
slevation of the human intellect, and looking 



down on the attainments of more highly gifted 
women, as so many obstructions to their use- 
fulness ; always drawing comparisons to her 
own advantage, with the cultivated and the re- 
fined, and concluding that because she possesses 
not their elegance they must necessarily be de- 
ficient in her art. While economists of tho 
higher strain, I draw from living and not absent 
instances,' added he, looking benignantly around 
him, 'execute their well ordered plan, as an in- 
dispensable duty, but not as a superlative merit. 
They have too much sense to omit it, but they 
have too much taste to talk of it. It is their 
business, not their boast. The effect is pro- 
duced, but the hand which accomplishes it is not 
seen. The mechanism is set at work, but it is 
behind the scenes. The beauty is visible, the 
labour is kept out of sight.' 

' The misfortune is,' said Mr. Stanley, ' that 
people are apt to fancy, that judgment is a fa- 
culty only to be exercised on great occasions ; 
whereas it is one that every hour is called into ex- 
ercise. There are certain habits, which though 
they appear inconsiderable when examined indi- 
vidually, are yet of no small importance in the 
aggregate. Exactness, punctuality, and other 
minor virtues, contribute more than many are 
aware, to promote and to facilitate the exercise 
of the higher qualities. I would not erect them 
into a magnitude beyond their real size ; as per- 
sons are too apt to do who are only punctual, 
and are deficient in the higher qualities; but 
by the regular establishment of these habits in 
a family, it is inconceivable to those who have 
not made the experiment, how it saves, how it 
amplifies time, that canvass upon which all vir- 
tues must be wrought. It is incredible how an 
orderly division of the day gives apparent rapidity 
to the wings of time, while a stated devotion of 
the hour to its employment really lengthens life. 
It lengthens it by the traces which solid occupa- 
tion leaves behind it: while it prevents tedious- 
ness by affording, with the successive change, 
the charm of novelty, and keeping up an interest 
which would flag, if any one employment were 
too long pursued. Now all these arrangements of 
life, these divisions of time, and these selections 
and appropriations of the business to the hour, 
come within the department of the lady.' And 
how much will the cares of a man of sense be 
relieved, if he choose a wife who can do all this 
for him !' 

' In how many of my friends' houses,' said 
Mr. Carlton, 'have I observed the contrary 
habits produce contrary effects? A young lady 
bred in total ignorance of family management, 
transplanted from the house of her father, where 
she has learnt nothing, to that of her husband, 
where she is expected to know every thing, dis- 
appoints a prudent man : his affection may con- 
tinue, but his esteem will be diminished; and 
with his happiness, his attachment to home will 
be proportionably lessened.' 

' It is perfectly just,' said Sir John, 'and this 
comfortless deficiency has naturally taught men 
to inveigh against the higher kind of knowledge 
which they suppose, though unjustly, to be the 
cause of ignorance in domestic matters. It is 
not entirely to gratify the animal, as Miss 
Sparkes supposes, that a gentleman likes to 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



397 



have his tahle well appointed ; but because his 
own dignity and his wife's credit are involved 
in it. The want of this skill is one of the grand 
evils of modern life. From tho heiress of the 
man of rank, to the daughter of the opulent trades- 
man, there is no one quality in which young wo- 
men are so generally deficient as in domestic 
economy. And when I hear learning contend- 
ed for on one hand, and modish accomplishments 
on the other, I always contend for this interme- 
diate, this valuable, this neglected quality, so 
little insisted on, so rarely found, and so indis- 
pensably necessary.' 

' Besides,' said Mr. Carlton, addressing him- 
self to Miss Sparkes, ' you ladies are apt to con- 
sider versatility as a mark of genius. She there- 
fore, who can do a great thing well, ought to do 
a small one better ; for, as Lord Bacon well ob- 
serves, he who cannot contract his mind as well 
as dilate it, wants one great talent in life.' 

Miss Sparkes, condescending at length to 
break a silence which she had maintained with 
evident uneasiness, said, ' all these plodding em- 
ployments cramp the genius, degrade the intel- 
lect, depress the spirits, debase the taste, and 
clip the wings of imagination. And this poor, 
cramped, degraded, stinted, depressed, debased 
creature is the very being whom men, men of 
reputed sense too, commonly prefer to the mind 
of large dimensions, soaring fancy, and aspiring- 
tastes.' 

'Imagination,' replied Mr. Stanley, • well di- 
rected, is the charm of life ; it gilds every object, 
and embellishes every scene : but allow me to 
say, that where a woman abandons herself to the 
dominion of this vagrant faculty, it may lead to 
something worse than a disorderly table ; and 
the husband may find that the badness of his 
dinner is not the only ill consequence of her su- 
perlunary vagaries.' 

' True enough,' said Mr. Flam, who had never 
been known to be so silent, or so attentive; 
'true enough, I have not heard so much sense 
for a long time. I am sure 'tis sense, because 
'tis exactly my own way of thinking. There is 
my Bell now. I have spent seven hundred 
pounds, and more money, for her to learn music 
and whim-whams, which all put together are not 
worth sixpence. I would give them all up to 
see her make such a transy-pudding, as that 
which the widow in the Spectator helped Sir 
Roger to at dinner : why I don't believe Bell 
knows whether pie-crust is made of butter or 
cheese ; or whether a venison pasty should be 
baked or boiled. I can tell her, that when her 
husband, if she ever gets one, comes in sharp 
set from hunting, he won't like to be put off with 
a tune instead of a dinner. To marry a singing 
girl, and complain she does not keep you a good 
table, is like eating nightingales, and finding 
fault that they are not good tasted. They sing, 
but they are of no further use — to eat them, in- 
stead of listening to them, is applying to one 
sense, the gratification which belongs to an- 
other.' 

In the course of conversation, Miss Sparkes a 
little shocked the delicate feelings of the ladies, 
of Lucilla especially, by throwing out some ex- 
pressions of envy, at the superior advantages 
which men possess for distinguishing them- 



selves. ' Women,' she said, • with talents not in. 
ferior, were allowed no stage for display, while 
men had such a reach for their exertions, such 
a compass for exercising their genius, such a 
range for obtaining distinction, that they were 
at once the objects of her envy for the means 
they possessed, and of her pity for turning them 
to no better account. There were indeed,' she 
added, 'a few men who redeemed the credit of 
the rest, and for their sakes she gloried, since 
she could not be of their sex, that she was at 
least of their species.' 

' I know, Madam,' said Mr. Stanley, ' your 
admiration of heroic qualities and manly virtues 
— courage for instance. But there are still no- 
bler ways of exercising courage than even in 
the field of battle. There are more exalted 
means of showing spirit than by sending or ac- 
cepting a challenge. To sustain a fit of sick- 
ness may exhibit as true heroism as to lead an 
army. To bear a deep affliction well calls for 
as high exertion of soul as to storm a town and 
to meet death with Christian resolution is an act 
of courage, in which many a woman has tri- 
umphed, and many a philosopher, and even some 
generals, have failed. 

I thought I saw in Miss Sparkes's countenance 
a kind of civil contempt, aa if she would be glad 
to exchange the patient sickness and heroic 
death-bed for the renown of victory and the glo- 
ry of a battle : and I suspected that she envied 
the fame of the challenge, and the spirit of the 
duel more than those meek and passive virtues 
which we all agreed were peculiarly Christian, 
and peculiarly feminine. 



CHAP. XXXVII. 

In the afternoon, when the company were as- 
sembled in the drawing room, the conversation 
turned on various subjects. Mr. Flam, feeling 
as if he had not sufficiently produced himself at 
dinner, now took the lead. He was never soli- 
citous to show what he called his learning, but 
when Miss Sparkes was present, whom it was 
his grand delight to set down as he called it. 
Then he never failed to give broad hints that if 
he was now no great student, it was not from 
ignorance, but from the pressure of more indis- 
pensable avocations. 

He first rambled into some desultory remarks 
on the absurdity of the world, and the prepos- 
terousness of modern usages, which perverted 
the ends of education, and exalted things which 
were of least use into most importance. 

' You seem out of humour with the world, 
Mr. Flam,' said Mr. Stanley. ' I hate the world,' 
returned he. ' It is indeed,' replied Mr. Stanley, 
' a scene of much danger, because of much evil.' 

I don't value the danger a straw,' rejoined 
Mr. Flam ; 'and as to the evil, I hope I have 
sense enough to avoid that : but I hate it for its 
folly, and despise it for its inconsistency.' 

'In what particulars, Mr. Flam?' said Sir 
John Belfield. 

' In every thing,' replied he. ' In the first 
place, don't people educate their daughters en- 
tirely for holidays, and then wonder that they 
are c I no use ? Don't they charge them to bo 



398 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



modest, and teach them every thing that can 
make them bold ? Are we not angry that they 
don't attend to great concerns, after having in- 
structed them to take the most pains for the 
least things ! There is my Fan now, — they tell 
me she can dance as well as a posture mistress, 
but she slouches in her walk like a milk maid. 
Now as she seldom dances, and is always walk- 
ing, would it not be more rational to teach her 
to do that best which she is to doofienest ? She 
sin^s like a Syren, but 'tis only to strangers. I 
who paid for it, never heard her voice. She is, 
always warbling in a distant room, or in every 
room where there is company ; but if I have the 
gout and want to be amused, she is as dumb as 
a dormouse.' 

'So much for the errors in educating our 
daughters,' said Sir John, ' now for the sons.' 

' As to our boys,' returned Mr. Flam, ' don't 
we educate them in one religion, and then ex- 
pect them to practise another ? Don't we cram 
them with books of heathen philosophy, and then 
bid them go and be good Christians ? Don't we 
teach them to admire the heroes and gods of the 
old poets, when there is hardly one hero, and 
certainly not one god, who would not in this 
country have been tried at the Old Bailey, if not 
executed at Tyburn ? And as to the goddesses, 
if they had been brought before us on the bench, 
brother Stanley, there is scarcely one of them 
but we should have ordered to the house of cor- 
rection. The queen of them, indeed, I should 
have sent to the ducking stool for a scold. 

' Then again don't we tell our sons, when men, 
that they must admire a monarchical govern- 
ment, after every pains have been taken, when 
they were boys, to fill them with raptures for 
the ancient republics ?' 

' Surely, Mr. Flam,' said Sir John, ' the an- 
cient forms of government may be studied with 
advantage, were it only to show us by contrast 
the superior excellence of our own.' 

' We might,' said Miss Sparkes, in a super- 
cilious accent, ' learn some things from them 
which we much want. You have been speaking 
of economy. These republicans whom Mr. Flam 
is pleased to treat with so much contempt, he 
must allow, had some good, clever contrivance 
to keep down the taxes, which it would do us no 
harm to imitate. Victories were much better 
bargains to them than they are to us. A few 
laurel leaves or a sprig of oak was not quite so 
dear a pension.' 

• But you will allow, Madam,' said Sir John, 
smiling, ' that a triumph was a more expensive 
reward than a title.' 

Before she had time to answer, Mr. Flam said, 
• let me tell you, Miss Sparkes, that as to tri- 
umphs, our heroes are so used to them at sea, 
that they would laugh at them at home. Those 
who obtain triumphs as often as they meet their 
enemies, would despise such holiday play among 
their friends. We don't to be sure, reward them 
as your ancients did. We don't banish them, 
nor put them to death for saving their country 
like your Athenians. We don't pay them with 
a trumpery wreath like your Romans. We 
Englishmen don't put our conquerors off with 
leaves ; we give them fruits, as cheerfully be- 
stowed as they are fairly earned. God bless 



them ! I would reduce my table to one dish, 
my hall to one servant, my stable to one saddle- 
horse, and my kennel to one pointer, rather than 
to abridge the preservers of Old England of a 
feather.' 

'Signal exploits, if nationally beneficial,' said 
Sir John, ' deserve substantial remuneration ; 
and I am inclined to think that public honours 
are valuable, not only as rewards but incite- 
ments. They are as politic as they are just. 
When Miltiades and his illustrious ten thousand 
gained their immortal victory, would not a Blen- 
heim erected on the plains of Marathon, have 
stimulated unborn soldiers, more than the little 
transitory columns which barely recorded the 
names of the victors ?' 

' What warrior,' said Mr. Carlton, ' will here- 
after visit the future Palace of Trafalgar without 
reverence ? A reverence, the purity of which 
will be in no degree impaired by contemplating 
such an additional motive to emulation.' 

In answer to some further observations of 
Miss Sparkes, on the superiority of the ancient 
to British patriotism, Mr. Flam, whose indigna- 
tion now provoked him to display his whole 
stock of erudition, eagerly exclaimed — 'Do you 
call that patriotism in your favourite Athenians, 
to be so fond of rare shows, as not only to devote 
the money of the state to the play-house, but to 
make it capital to divert a little of it to the wants 
of the gallant soldiers, who were fighting their 
battles '! I hate to hear fellows called patriots, 
who preferred their diversions to their country.' 

Then erecting himself, as if he felt the taller 
for being an Englishman, he added, — ' What, 
Madam Sparkes, would your Greeks have said 
to a Patriotic Fund by private contribution, of 
near half a million, in the midst of heavy taxes 
and a tedious war, voluntarily raised and cheer- 
fully given to the orphans, widows, and mothers 
of their brave countrymen, who fell in their de- 
fence ? Were the poor soldiers who fought un- 
der your Cimons, and your , I forget their 

names, ever so kindly remembered? Make it 
out that they were — shew me such a spirit 
among your ancients, and I'll turn republican 
to-morrow. 

Miss Sparkes having again said something 
which he thought tended to exalt the ancient 
states at the expense of our own country, Mr. 
Flam indignantly replied — ' Tell me, Madam, 
did your Athens, or your Sparta, or your Rome, 
ever take in seven thousand starving priests, 
driven from a country with which they were at 
war; a country they had reason to hate, of a re- 
ligion they detested ? Did they ever receive 
them I say, maintain them like gentlemen ; and 
caress them like friends? If you can bring me 
one such instance, I will give up Old England, 
and turn Greek, or Roman, or — any thing but 
Frenchman.' 

' I should be inclined,' said Mr. Stanley, 'to 
set down that noble deed to the account of our 
national religion, as well as of our national ge- 
nerosity.' 

Miss Sparkes said, 'in one respect, however, 
Mr. Flam imitates the French whom he is abus- 
ing. He is very apt to triumph where he has 
gained no victory. If you hear his account of a 
defeat, you would take it like theirs for a con- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



399 



quest.' She added, however, ' that there were 
illustrious men in other countries besides his 
own, as their successes testified. For her part, 
she was a citizen of the world, and honoured he- 
roes wherever they were found, in Macedon, in 
Sweden, or even in France.' 

'True enough,' rejoined Mr. Flam, 'the rulers 
of other countries have gone about and deliver- 
ed kingdoms as we are doing : but there is this 
difference : they free them from mild masters 
to make them their own slaves ; we neither get 
them for ourselves or our minions, our brothers, 
or cousins, our Jeromes or Josephs. We raise 
the weak, they pull down the prosperous. If we 
redeem kingdoms, 'tis to bestow them on their 
own lawful kings. If we help this nation, 'tis 
to recal one sovereign from banishment; if we 
assist that, 'tis to deliver another from captivity.' 

' What a scene for Spain,' said Sir John, ' to 
behold in us their own national Quixotism so- 
berly exemplified and rationally realized ! The 
generous theory of their romantic knight-errant 
brought into actual practice. The fervour with- 
out the absurdity ; the sound principle of justice 
without the extravagance of fancy ! Wrongs re- 
dressed and rights restored, and upon the grand- 
est scale ! Deliverance wrought, not for ima- 
ginary princes, but for deposed and imprisoned 
monarchs ! Injuries avenged — not the ideal in- 
juries of ridiculous individuals, but the substan- 
tial wrongs of plundered empires !' 

Sir John, who was amused with the oddities 
of Mr. Flam, was desirous of still provoking 
him to talk ; much effort indeed was not requir- 
ed to induce him to do what he was fond of do- 
ing, whenever there was an opportunity of con- 
tradicting Miss Sparkes. 

'But, Mr. Flam,' said Sir John, 'you were 
interrupted as you began to enumerate the in- 
consistencies which you said had put you out 
of love with the world.' 

' Why, it makes nic mad,' replied he, ' to hear 
men who make the loudest outcry about the 
dangers of the state, cramming their houses 
with French governesses, French cooks, and 
French valets ; is not this adding flame to the 
fire ? Then I have no patience to see people 
who pretend great zeal for the church, delighted 
that an Italian singer should have a larger re- 
venue than the highest of our own bishops. 
Such patriots might have done well enough for 
Athenians,' added he, looking insultingly at 
Miss Sparkes, ' but they make miserable En- 
glishmen. Then I hate to see fellows who pay 
least taxes, complaining most of the burthen — 
those who most lament the hardness of the times, 
spending money in needless extravagance, and 
luxury increasing in exact proportion as means 
diminish. 

' Then I am sick of the conceit of the boys 
and girls. Do but observe how their vanity im- 
poses on their understanding, and how names 
disguise things. My son would start if I were 
to desire him to go to London in the stage coach, 
but he puts himself into the mail with great cool- 
ness. If I were to talk to Fan about living in 
a small house, she would not give me the hear- 
ing, whereas she is quite wild to live in a cot- 
tage? 

4 I do not quite agree with you, Mr. Flam,' 



said Sir John, smiling, 'as to the inconsistency 
of the world, I rather lament its dull uniformity. 
If we may rely on those living chronicles, the 
newspapers, all is one faultless scene of monoto- 
nous perfection. — Were it otherwise, 1 presume, 
those frugal philologers would not keep a set 
of phrases ready cut and dried, in order to ap- 
ply them universally in all cases. For instance, 
is not every public place from St. James to Ota- 
heite, or the Cape, invariably crowded with 
beauty and fashion ? Is not every public ser- 
mon pronounced to be excellent? Is not every 
civic speech, every provincial harangue neat and 
appropriate? And is not every military corps, 
from the veteran regiment of regulars, to the 
volunteer company of a month's standing, al- 
ways declared to be in the highest state of dis- 
cipline V 

Before the company went away, I observed 
that Mrs. Carlton gave Lucilla a significant 
glance, and both withdrew together. — In spite 
of my thorough belief of the injustice and ab- 
surdity of my suspicion, a pang darted through 
my heart, at the bare possibility that Lord Staun- 
ton might be the subject of this secret confer- 
ence. I was perfectly assured that Miss Stan- 
ley would never accept him, while he retained 
his present character; but that character might 
be improved. She had rejected him for his prin- 
ciples; if these principles were changed, there 
was no other reasonable ground of objection. 
He might be reformed. Dare I own, even to 
myself, that I dreaded to hear of his reformation. 
I hated myself for the thought. I will, said I 
faintly, endeavour to rejoice if it be so. I felt 
a conflict in my mind between my principles 
and my passion, that distressed me not a little. 
My integrity had never before been so assailed. 

At length they returned. I earnestly exam- 
ined their countenances. Both looked cheerful, 
and even animated ; yet it was evident from the 
redness of their eyes that both of them had been 
weeping. The company immediately took their 
leave ; all our party, as it was a fine evening, 
attended them out to their carriages, except 
Miss Stanley, she only pressed the hand of Mrs. 
Carlton, smiled, and looked as if she durst not 
trust herself to talk to her, withdrew to the bow 
window from whence she could see them depart. 
I remained in the room. 

As she was wiping her eyes to take away the 
redness, which was a sure way to increase it, I 
ventured to join her, and inquired with an in- 
terest I could not conceal, what had happened 
to distress her. ' These are not tears of distress,' 
said she, sweetly smiling. ' I am quite ashamed 
that I have so little self-controul ; but Mrs. Carl- 
ton has given me so much pleasure ! I have 
caught the infection of her joy, though my fool- 
ish sympathy looks more like sorrow.' Surely, 
said I, indignantly to myself, she will not own 
Staunton's love to my face ? 

All frank and open as Miss Stanley was, I 
was afraid to press her. I had not courage to 
ask what I longed to know. Though Lord 
Staunton's renewed addresses might not give 
them so much pleasure, yet his reformation I 
knew would. I now looked so earnestly inqui 
sitive at Lucilla, that she said, 'Oh he is all we 
could wish. He is a thoroughly converted man ! 



400 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Indignation and astonishment made me speech- 
less. Is this the modest Lucilla, said I to my- 
self? It is all over. She loves him to distrac- 
tion. As I attempted not to speak, she at length 
said, 'My poor I'riend is at last quite happy. I 
know you will rjjoice with us. Mr. Carlton has 
for some time regularly read the Bible with her. 
He condescends lo hear, and to invite her re- 
marks, telling her that if he is the better classic, 
she is the better Christian, and that their as- 
sistance in the things which each understands 
must be reciprocal. If he is her teacher in 
human literature, he says, she must be his in 
that which is divine. He has been very earnest 
to get his mind imbued with scriptural know- 
ledge.' How inexpressible was now my joy ! 
As I was still silent she went on. ' But this is 
not all. Last Saturday he said to her, ' Henri- 
etta, I have but one complaint to make of you ; 
and it is for a fault which I always thought 
would be the last I should ever have to charge 
you with. It is selfishness.' Mrs. Carlton was 
a little shocked, though the te.nderness of his 
manner mitigated her alarm, ' Henrietta,' re- 
sumed he, 'you intend to go to Heaven without 
your husband. I know you always retire to 
your dressing-room, not only for your private 
devotions, but to read prayers to your maids. 
What have your men-servants done, what has 
your husband done, that they should be exclud- 
ed ? Is it not a little selfish, my Henrietta,' 
added he, smiling, 'to confine your zeal to the 
eternal happiness of your own sex? Will you 
allow me and my men-servants to join you ? To- 
morrow is Sunday ; we will then, if you please, 
begin in the hall. You shall prepare what you 
would have read ; and I will be your chaplain. 
A most unworthy one, Henrietta, I confess ; but 
you vvill not only have a chaplain of your own 
making, but a Christian also. Yes, my angelic 
wife, I am a Christian upon the truest, the deep- 
est conviction.' 

" ' Never, my dear Lucilla,' continued Mrs. 
Carlton, ' did 1 know what true happiness was 
till that moment. My husband, with all his 
faults, had always been remarkably sincere. 
Indeed his aversion to hypocrisy had made him 
keep back his right feelings and sentiments, till 
he was assured they were well established in 
his mind. He has for some time been regular 
at church, a thing, he said, too much taken up 
as a customary form to be remarkable, and 
which therefore involved not much ; but family 
prayer adopted from conviction of its being a 
duty, rather pledged a man to consistent reli- 
gion. Never, I hope, shall I forget the joy I felt, 
nor my gratitude to that Being ' from whom all 
holy desires proceed,' when, with all hi3 family 
kneeling solemnly around him, I heard my once 
unhappy husband with a sober fervour begin, 

" ' To the Lord our God belong mercies and 
forgiveness, though we have rebelled against 
him, neither have we obeyed the voice of the 
Lord our God, to walk in his laws which he set 
before us.' 

' He evidently struggled with his own feel- 
ings ; but his manly mind carried him through 
it with an admirable mixture of dignity and 
feeling. He was so serenely cheerful the rest 
of the evening, that I felt he had obtained a 



great victory over himself, and his heart was at 
peace with him. Prayer with him was not a 
beginning form, but a consummation of his bet- 
ter purposes."' 

The sweet girl could not forbear weeping 
again, while she was giving me this interesting 
account. I felt as if I had never loved her till 
then. To see her so full of sensibility, without 
the slightest tincture of romance, so feeling, yet 
so sober-minded, enchanted me. I could now 
afford to wish heartily for Lord Staunton's re- 
formation, because it was not likely to interfere 
with my hopes. And now the danger was over, 
I even endeavoured to make myself believe that 
I should have wished it in any event; so treach- 
erous will the human heart be found by those 
who watch its motions. And it proceeds from 
not watching them, that the generality are so 
little acquainted with the evils which lurk with- 
in it. 

Before I had time to express half what I felt 
to the fair narrator, the party came in. They 
seemed as much puzzled at the position in which 
they found Lucilla and myself, she wiping her 
eyes, and I standing by in admiration, as I had 
been at her mysterious interview with Mrs. 
Carlton. The Belfields knew not what to make 
of it. The mother's looks expressed astonish- 
ment and anxiety. The father's eye demanded 
an explanation. All this mute eloquence passed 
in an instant, Miss Stanley gave them not time 
to inquire. She flew to her mother, and eagerly 
repeated the little tale which furnished matter 
for grateful joy and improving conversation the 
rest of the evening. 

Mr. Stanley expressed a thorough confidence 
in the smcern,}." of Carlton. ' He had always,* 
continued he, ' in his worst days an abhorrence 
of deceit, and such a dread of people appearing 
better than they are, that he even commended 
that most absurd practice of Dean Swift, who you 
know used to perform family prayer in a garret, 
for fear any one should call in and detect him 
in the performance.' Carlton defended this as 
an honourable instance of Swift's abhorrence 
of ostentation in his religion. I opposed it on 
the more probable ground of his being ashamed 
of it. For allowing, what however never can 
be allowed, that an ordinary man might have 
some excuse for the dread of being sneered at, 
as wanting to be thought righteous overmuch ; 
yet in a churchman, in a dignified churchman, 
family prayer would be expected as a customary 
decency, an indispensable appendage to his situ- 
ation ; which though it might be practised with- 
out piety, could not be omitted without dis- 
grace, and which even a sensible infidel, con- 
sidering it merely as a professional act could 
not say was a custom 

More honoured in the breach than the observance. 



CHAP. XXXVIII 

One evening, which Mr. Tyrrel happened to 
spend with us, after Mr. Stanley had performed 
the family devotions, Mr. Tyrrel said to him, 
• Stanley, I don't much like the prayer you read 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



401 



It seems, by the great stress it lays on holiness, 
to imply that a man has something in his own 
power. You did indeed mention the necessity 
of faith, and the power of grace; but there was 
too much about making the life holy, as if that 
were all in all. You seem to be putting us so 
much upon working and doing, that you leavo 
nothing to do for the Saviour.' 

'I wish,' replied Mr. Stanley, 'as I am.no 
'deep theologian, that you had started this ob- 

i'ection before Dr. Barlow went away, for I 
mow no man more able or more willing for 
serious discussion.' 

'No,' replied Tyrrel, ' I see clearly by some 
things which he dropt in conversation, as well 
as by the whole tenor of his sermons, that Bar- 
low and I should never agree. He means well, 
but knows little. He sees something, but feels 
nothing. More argument than' unction. Too 
much reasoning, and too little religion; a little 
light, and no heat. He seems to me so to 
' overload the ship with duties,' that it will sink 
by the means he takes to keep it afloat. I thank 
God my own eyes are opened, and I at last feel 
comfortable in my mind.' 

' Religious comfort,' said Mr. Stanley, ' is a 
high attainment. Only it is incumbent on every 
Christian to be assured that if he is happy it is 
on safe grounds.' 

' I have taken care of that,' replied Mr. Tyr- 
rel. ' For some years after I had quitted my 
loose habits, I attended occasionally at church, 
but found no comfort in it, because I perceived 
so much was to be done, and so much was to be 
sacrificed. But the great doctrines of faith, as 
opened to me by Mr. H — «, have at last given 
me peace and liberty, and I rest myself without 
solicitude on the mercy so freely offered in the 
Gospel. No mistakes or sins of mine can ever 
make me forfeit the divine favour.' 

' Let us hear, however,' replied Mr. Stanley, 
* what the Bible says ; for as that is the only rule 
by which we shall be judged hereafter, it may 
be prudent to be guided by it here. God says 
by the prophet, ' I will put my Spirit within 
you :' but he does this for some purpose ; for he 
says, in the very next words, 'I will cause you 
to walk in my statutes.' And for fear this 
Bhould not plainly enough inculcate holiness, 
he goes on {£ sa) r , ' And ye shall keep my judg- 
ments, and do them.' Show me, if you can, a 
single promise made to an impenitent, 1 unholy 
man.' 

Tyrrel. ' Why is not the mercy of God pro- 
mised to the wicked in every part of the Bible ?' 

Stanley. 'It is. But that is, 'if he forsake his 
way.' 

Tyrrel. ' This fondness for works is, in my 
opinion, nothing else but setting aside the free 
grace of God.' 

Stanley. ' Quite the contrary : so far from 
setting aside, it is the way to glorify it, for it is 
by that grace alone that we are enabled to per- 
form right actions. For myself, I always find 
it difficult to answer persons, who, in flying to 
one extreme, think they cannot too much de- 
grade the opposite. If we give faith its due 
prominence, the mere moralist reprobates our 
principles, as if we were depreciating works. 
If we magnify the beauty of holiness, the advo. 

Vol. II. 2 C 



cate for exclusive faith accuses us of being its 
enemy.' 

Tyrrel. ' For my own part, I am persuaded 
that unqualified trust is the only ground of 
safety.' 

Stanley. ' He who cannot lie has indeed told 
us so. But trust in God is humble dependence, 
not presumptuous security. The Bible does not 
say trust in the Lord and sin on, but, ' trust in 
the Lord, and be doing good.' We are else- 
where told that, ' God works in us to will and 
to do.' There is no getting over that little 
word to do. I suppose you allow the necessity 
of prayer.' 

Tyrrel. 'Certainly I do.' 

Stanley. 'But there are conditions to our 
prayers also, 'if I regard iniquity in my heart 
the Lord will not hear me.' ' 

Tyrrel. ' The scriptures affirm that we must 
live on the promises.' 

• Stanley. ' They are indeed the very aliment 
of the Christian life. But what are the promises V 

Tyrrel. ' Free pardon and eternal life to them 
that are in Christ Jesus.' 

Stanley. ' True. But who are they that are 
in Christ Jesus ! The Apostle tells us, ' they 
who walk not after the flesh but after the spirit.' 
Besides, is not holiness promised as well as par- 
don ? ' A new heart will I give you, and a new 
spirit will I put within you.' 

Tyrrel. ' Surely, Stanley, you abuse the grace 
of the Gospel, by pretending that man is saved 
by his own righteousness. 

Stanley. ' No, no, my dear Tyrrel, it is you 
who abuse it, by making God's mercy set aside 
man's duty. Allow me to observe, that he who 
exalts the grace of God, with a view to indulge 
himself in any sin, is deceiving no one but him- 
self ; and he who trusts in Christ, with a view to 
spare himself the necessity of watchfulness, 
humility, and self-denial, that man depends upon 
Christ for more than he has promised.' 

Tyrrel. ' Well, Mr. Stanley, it appears tome 
that you want to patch up a convenient accom- 
modating religion, as if Christ were to do a 
little, and we were to do the rest : a sort of 
partnership salvation, and in which man has the 
largest share.' 

Stanley. ' This, I fear, is indeed the danger- 
ous creed of many worldly Christians — No, 
God may be said to do all, because he gives 
power for all, strength for all, grace for all. But 
this grace is a principle, a vital energy, a life- 
giving spirit to quicken us, to make us abound 
in holiness. He does not make his grace abound, 
that we may securely live in sin, but that wo 
may subdue it, renounce it, live above it.' 

Tyrrel. ' When our Saviour was upon earth, 
there was no one quality he so uniformly com- 
mended, in those who came to be healed by him, 
as faith.' 

Stanley. ' It is most true. But we do not 
meet in any of them with such a presumptuous 
faith, as led them to rush into diseases on pur- 
pose to show their confidence in his power of 
healing them, neither are we to ' continue in sin 
that grace may abound.' — You cannot but ob- 
serve, that the faith of the persons you mention, 
was always accompanied with an earnest desire 
to get rid of their diseases. And it is worth re- 



402 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



marking, (hat to the words • thy faith has made 
thee whole,' is added ' sin no 7nore^ lest a worse 
thing- come unto thee.' 

Tyrrel. ' You cannot persuade me that any 
neglect, or even sin of mine, can make void the 
covenant of God.' 

Stanley. 'Nothing can set aside the covenant 
of God, which is sure and steadfast. — But as for 
him who lives in the allowed practice of any sin, 
it is clear that he has no part nor lot in the 
matter. It is clear that he is not one of those 
whom God has taken into the covenant. That 
God will keep his word is most certain, but such 
a one does not appear to be the person to whom 
that word is addressed. God as much designed 
that you should apply the faculties, the power, 
and the will he has given you, to a life of holi- 
ness, as he meant when he gave you legs, hands, 
and eyes, that you should walk, work, and see. 
His grace is not intended to exclude the use of 
his gifts, but to perfect, exalt, and ennoble them.' 

Tyrrel. ' I can produce a multitude of texts 
to prove that Christ has done every thing, and 
of course has left nothing for me to do, but to 
believe on him.' 

Stanley. ' Let us take the general tenor and 
spirit of scripture, and neither pack single texts 
together, detached from the connexion in which 
they stand ; nor be so unreasonable as to squeeze 
all the doctrines of Christianity out of every 
single text, which perhaps was only meant to 
inculcate one individual principle. How con- 
sistently are the great leading doctrines of faith 
and holiness balanced and reconciled in every 
part of the Bible ! If ever I had been in danger 
of resting on a mere dead faith, by one of those 
texts on which you exclusively build, in the very 
next sentence, perhaps, I am roused to active 
virtue, by some lively example, or absolute com- 
mand. If again I am ever in danger, as you say, 
of sinking the ship with my proud duties, the 
next passage calls me to order, by some power- 
ful injunction to renounce all confidence in my 
miserable defective virtues, and to put my whole 
trust in Christ. By thus assimilating the Creed 
with the Commandments, the Bible becomes its 
own interpreter, and perfect harmony is the re- 
sult. Allow me also to remark, that this inva- 
riable rule of exhibiting the doctrines of Scrip- 
ture in their due propoition, order, and relative 
connexion, i3 one of the leading excellences in 
the service of our Church. While no doctrine 
is neglected or undervalued, none is dispropor- 
tionately magnified, at the expense of the others. 
There is neither omission, undue prominence, 
nor exaggeration. There is complete symme- 
try and correct proportion. 

Tyrrel. ' I assert that we are freed by the 
Gospel from the condemnation of the law.' 

Stanley. 'But where do you find that we are 
free from the obligation of obeying it? For my 
own part I do not combine the doctrine of grace 
to which I most cordially assent, with any doc- 
trine which practically denies the voluntary 
agency of man. Nor, in my adoption of the be- 
lief of that voluntary agency, do I, in the re- 
motest degree, presume to abridge the sove- 
reignty of God. I adopt none of the meta- 
physical subtleties, none of the abstruse niceties 
of any party, nor do I imitate either in the re- 



probation of the other, firmly believing that 
heaven is peopled with the humble and the con- 
scientious out of every class of real Christians.' 
Tyrrel. 'Still I insist that if Christ has de. 
livered me from sin, sin can do mo no harm.' 

Stanley. ' My dear Mr. Tyrrel, if the king 
of your country were a mighty general, and had 
delivered the land from some powerful enemy, 
would it show your sense of the obligation, or 
your allegiance as a subject, if you were to join 
the enemy he had defeated ? By so doing, though 
the country might be 6aved, you would ruin 
yourself. Let us then live in confederacy with 
sin, the power of which indeed our Redeemer 
has broken, but both tho power and guilt of 
which the individual is still at liberty to incur.' 

Tyrrel. 'Stanley, I remember when you 
thought the Gospel was all in all. 

Stanley. ' I think so still : but I am now, as I 
was then, for a sober consistent Gospel, a Chris- 
tianity, which must evidence itself by its fruits. 
The first words of the Apostle after his conver- 
sion were, ' Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?' 
When he says, ' so run that ye may obtain,' he 
could never mean that we could obtain by sitting 
still, nor would he have talked of 'labouring in 
vain," 1 if he meant that we should not labour at all. 
We dare not persist in any thing that is wrong, 
or neglect any thing that is right, from an erro- 
neous notion, that we have such an interest in 
Christ, as will excuse us from doing the one, or 
persisting in the other.' 

Tyrrel. ' I fancy you think that a man's sal- 
vation depends on the number of good actions 
he can muster together.' 

Stanley. ' No, it is the very spirit of Christi- 
anity not to build on this or that actual work, 
but sedulously to strive for that temper, and 
those dispositions, which are the seminal prin- 
ciple of all virtues : and where the heart strug- 
gles, and prays for the attainment of this state, 
though the man should be placed in such cir. 
cumstances as to be able to do little to promote 
the welfare of mankind, or the glory of God, in 
the eyes of the world ; this very habitual aim 
and bent of the mind, with humble sorrow at 
its low attainments, is, in my opinion, no slight 
degree of obedience.' 

Tyrrel. ' But you will allow that the Scrip, 
tures affirm, that Christ is not only a sacrifice, 
but a refuge, a consolation, a rest. 

Stanley. ' Blessed be God, he is indeed all 
these. But he is a consolation only to the heavy 
laden, a refuge to those alone who forsake sin. 
The rest he promises is not a rest from labour, 
but a rest from evil. It is a rest from the drud 
gery of the world, but not from the service of 
God. It is not inactivity, but quietness of spirit ; 
not sloth but peace. He draws men indeed from 
slavery to freedom, but not a freedom to do evil, 
or to do nothing. He makes his service easy, 
but not by lowering the rule of duty, not by 
adapting his commands to the corrupt inclina- 
tions of our nature. He communicates his grace, 
gives fresh and higher motives to obedience, and 
imparts peace and comfort, not by any abatement 
in his demands, but by this infusion of his own 
grace, and this communication of his own 
Spirit.' 

Tyrrel. ' You are a strange fellow. Accord- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



403 



ing to you, we can neither be saved by good 
works, nor without them.' 

Stanley. ' Come, Mr. Tyrrel, you are nearer 
the truth than you intended. We cannot be 
saved by the merit of our good works, without 
setting at nought the merits and death of Christ ; 
and we cannot be saved without them, unless 
we set at nought God's holiness, and make him 
a favourer of sin. Now to this the doctrine of 
the atonement, properly understood, is most 
completely hostile. That this doctrine favours 
sin, is one of the false charges which worldly 
men bring against vital Christianity, because 
they do not understand the principle, nor inquire 
into the grounds on which it is adopted.' 

Tyrrel. ' Still I think you limit the grace of 
God, as if people must be very good first, in or- 
der to deserve it, and then he will come and add 
his grace to their goodness. Whereas grace 
has been most conspicuous in the most notorious 
sinners.' 

Stanley. • I allow that the grace of God has 
never manifested itself more gloriously than in 
the conversion of notorious sinners. But it is 
worth remarking, that all such, with St. Paul at 
their head, have ever after been eminently more 
afraid than other men of falling again into sin ; 
they have prayed with the greatest earnestness 
to be delivered from the power of it, and have 
continued to lament most deeply the remaining 
corruptions of their hearts.' 

In the course of the conversation, Mr. Tyrrel 
said, ' he should be inclined to entertain doubts 
of that man's state, who could not give an accu- 
rate account of the time and the manner in 
which he was first awakened, and who had no 
sensible manifestation of the divine favour.' 

• I believe,' replied Mr. Slanloy, ' that my no- 
tions of the evidence of being in the favour of 
God differ materially from yours. If a man feel 
in himself a hatred of all sin, without sparing 
his favourite corruption ; if he rest for salvation 
on the promise of tiie Gospel alone ; if he main- 
tain in his mind such a sense of the nearness 
and immeasurable importance of eternal things, 
as shall enable him to use temporal things with 
moderation, and anticipate theirend without dis- 
may ; if he delight in the worship of God, is 
zealous for his service, making his glory the end 
and aim of all his actions; if he labour to fulfil 
his allotted duties conscientiously ; if he love his 
fellow creatures as the children of the same 
common father, and partakers of the same com- 
mon hopa ; if he feel the same compassion for 
the immortal interests, as for the worldly dis- 
tresses of the unfortunate ; forgiving others, as 
he hopes to be forgiven ; if he endeavour accord- 
ing to his measure and ability, to diminish the 
vice and misery with which the world abounds, 
that man has a solid ground of peace and hope, 
though he may not have those sensible evidences 
which afford triumph, and exultation. In the 
mean while, the man of a heated imagination, 
who boasts of mysterious communications with- 
in, is perhaps exhibiting outwardly unfavourable 
marks of his real state, and holding out by his 
low practice, discouragements unfriendly to that 
religion of which he professes himself a shining 
instance. 

' Tho sober Christian ^9 as fully convinced, 



that only He who made the heart, can new make 
it, as the enthusiast. He is as fully persuaded 
that his natural dispositions cannot be changed, 
nor his affections purified, but by the agency of 
the Divine Spirit, as the fanatic. And though 
he presume not to limit omnipotence to a sudden 
or a gradual change, yet he does not think it 
necessary to ascertain the day, and the hour, 
and the moment, contented to be assured that 
whereas he was once blind he now sees. If he 
do not presume in his own case to fix the chro- 
nology of conversion, he is not less certain as to 
its effects. If lie cannot enumerate dates, and 
recapitulate feelings, he can and does produce 
such evidences of his improvement, as virtuous 
habits, a devout temper, an humble and charita- 
ble spirit, ' repentance towards God, and faith in 
our Lord Jesus Christ ;' and this gives an evi- 
dence less equivocal, as existing more in the 
heart than on the lips, and more in the life than 
in the discourse. Surely if a plant be flourish- 
ing, the branches green, and the fruit fair and 
abundant, we may venture to pronounce these to 
be indications of health and vigour, though we 
cannot ascertain the moment when the seed 
was sown, or the manner in which it sprung 

u P-\ 

Sir John, who had been an attentive listener, 

but had not yet spoken a word, now said, smiling, 
' Mr. Stanley, you steer most happily between 
the two extremes. This exclusive cry of grace 
in one party of religionists, which drives the op- 
posite side into as unreasonable a clamour against 
it, reminds me of the Queen of Louis ^uatorze. 
When the Jesuits who were of the court party, 
made so violent an outcry against the Jansenists, 
for no reason but because they had more piety 
than themselves. Her Majesty was so fearful 
of being thought to favour the oppressed side, 
that in the excess of her party zeal, she vehe- 
mently exclaimed, ' Oh ne upon grace ! fie upon 
grace !' " 

Mr. Stanley. ■ Party violence thinks it can 
never recede far enough from the side it op- 
poses.' 

Tyrrel. l But how then is our religion to be 
known, except by our making a profession of 
truths, which the irreligious are either ignorant 
of or oppose ?' 

Stanley. ' There is, as I have already observ- 
ed, a more infallible criterion. It is best known 
by the effects it produces on the heart, and on 
the temper. A religion, which consists in opi- 
nions only, will not advance us in our progress 
to heaven ; it is apt to inflate the mind with the 
pride of disputation ; and victory is so common- 
ly the object of debate, that eternity slides out 
of sight. The two cardinal points of our reli- 
gion, justification and sanctification, are, if I 
may be allowed the term, correlatives ; they im- 
ply a reciprocal relation, nor do I call that state 
Christianity, in which either is separately and 
exclusively maintained. The ur.ion of these 
manifests the dominion of religion in the hrart, 
by increasing its humility, by purifying itsaffec 
tions, by setting it above the contamination of 
the maxims and habits of the world, by detach. 
ing it from the vanities of time, and elevating it 
to a desire for the riches of eternity.' 

Tyrrel. ' All the exhortation to duties witfc 



404 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



which so many sermons abound, arc only an in- 
fringement on the liberty of a Christian. A true 
believer knows of no duty but faith, no rule but 
love.' 

Stanley. 'Love is indeed the fountain and 
principle of all practical virtue. But love itself 
requires some regulation to direct its exertion ; 
some law to guide its motions ; some rule to pre- 
vent its aberrations ; some guard to hinder that 
which is vigorous from becoming eccentric. 
With such a regulation, such a law, such a 
guard, the divine ethics of the gospel have fur- 
nished us. The word of God is as much our 
rule, as his Spirit is our guide, or his Son our 
4 way.' This unerring rule alone secures Chris- 
tian liberty from disorder, from danger, from ir- 
regularity, from excess. Conformity to the pre- 
cepts of the Redeemer is the most infallible 
proof of having an interest in his death.' 

We afterwards insensibly slid into other sub- 
jects, when Mr. Tyrrel, like a combatant who 
thought himself victorious, seemed inclined to 
return to the charge. The love of money having 
been mentioned by Sir John with extreme se- 
verity, Mr. Tyrrel seemed to consider it as a ve- 
nal failing, and said that both avarice and charity 
might be constitutional.' 

4 They may be so,' said Mr. Stanley, 4 but 
Christianity, Sir, has a constitution of its own ; 
a superinduced constitution. A real Christian 
4 confers not with flesh and blood,' with his con- 
stitution, whether he shall give or forbear to 
give, when it is a clear duty, and the will of 
God requires it. If we believe in the principles, 
we must adopt the conclusions. Religion is 
not an unproductive theory, nor charity an un- 
necessary, an incidental consequence, nor a con- 
tingent left to our choice.' You are a classic, 
Mr. Tyrrel, and cannot have forgotten that in 
your mythological poets, the three Pagan graces 
were always knit together hand in hand ; the 
three Christian graces are equally inseparable, 
and the greatest of these is charity ; that grand 
principle of love, of which alms-giving is only 
one branch.' 

Mr. Tyrrel endeavoured to evade the subject, 
and seemed to intimate that true Christianity 
might be known without any such evidences as 
Mr. Stanley thought necessary. This led the 
latter to insist warmly on the vast stress which 
every part of Scripture laid on the duty of cha- 
rity. Its doctrines,' said he, ' its precepts, its 
promises, and its examples all inculcate it. — 
4 the new commandment' of John — ' the pure and 
undefiled religion' of James — ' Ye shall be re- 
compensed at the resurrection of the just' of 
Luke — the daily and hourly practice of Him, 
who not only taught to do good, but who 4 went 
about doing it' — ' The store for a good founda- 
tion against the time to come' of Paul — nay, in 
the only full, solemn, and express representation 
of the last day, which the gospel exhibits, cha- 
rity is not only brought forward as a predomi- 
nant, a distinguishing feature of the righteous, 
but a specific recompense seems to be assigned 
to it, when practised on true Christian grounds. 
And it is not a little observable, that the only 
posthumous quotation from the sayings of our 
divine Saviour which the Scripture has recorded, 
is an encouragement to charity — ' Remember 



the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, it is 
more blessed to give than receive.' 



CHAP. XXXIX. 

The next afternoon, when we were all con- 
versing together, I asked Mr. Stanley what opi- 
nion he held on a subject which had lately been 
a good deal canvassed, the propriety of young 
ladies learning the dead languages ; particularly 
the Latin. He was silent. Mrs. Stanley smiled. 
Phoebe laughed outright. Lucilla, who had near- 
ly finished making tea, blushed excessively. 
Little Celia, who was silting on my knee whilo 
I was teaching her to draw a bird, put an end to 
the difficulty, by looking up in my face and cry- 
ing out — ' Why, Sir, Lucilla reads Latin with 
Papa every morning.' I cast a timid eye on 
Miss Stanley, who, after putting the sugar into 
the cream pot, and the tea into the sugar basin, 
slid out of the room,\>eckoning Phoebe to follow 
her. 

'Poor Lucilla,' said Mr. Stanley, ' I feel for 
her ! Well, Sir,' continued he, ' you have dis- 
covered by external, what I trust would not have 
been found by internal evidence. Parents who 
are in high circumstances, yet from principle 
abridge their daughters of the pleasures of the 
dissipated part of the world, may be allowed to 
substitute other pleasures ; and if the girl has a 
strong inquisitive mind, they may direct it to 
such pursuits as call for vigorous application, 
and the exercise of the mental powers.' 

' How does that sweet girl manage,' said Lady 
Belfield, ' to be so utterly void of pretension ? So 
much softness and so much usefulness, strip her 
of all the terrors of learning.' 

' At first,' replied Mr. Stanley, ' I only meant 
to give Lucilla as much Latin as would teach 
her to grammatize her English, but her quick- 
ness in acquiring led me on, and I think I did 
right ; for it is superficial knowledge that ex- 
cites vanity. A learned language, which a dis- 
creet woman will never produce in company, is 
less likely to make her vain, than those acquire- 
ments which are ahvays in exhibition. And 
after all, it is a hackneyed remark, that the best 
instructed girl will have less learning than a 
school-boy ; and why should vanity operate in 
her case more than in his ?' 

' For this single reason, Sir,' said I, ' that every 
boy knows that which very few girls are taught. 
Suspect me not, however, of censuring a measure 
which I admire. I hope the example of your 
daughters will help to raise the tone of female 
education.' 

' Softly, softly,' interrupted Mr. Stanley, ' re- 
trench your plural number. It is only one girl 
out of six who has deviated from the beaten 
track. I do not expect many converts, to what 
I must rather call my practice in one instance, 
than my general opinion. I am so convinced 
of the prevailing prejudice, that the thing has 
never been named out of the family. If my gay 
neighbour Miss Rattle knew that Lucilla had 
learned Latin, she would instantly find out a few 
odd moments to add that language to her innu 
merable acquirements, because her mother can 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



405 



afford to pay for it, and because Lady Di. Dash 
has never learnt it. I assure you, however,' 
(laughing as he spoke,) ' I never intend to smug- 
gle my poor girl on any man, by concealing 
from him this unpopular attainment, any more 
than I would conceal any personal defect.' 

4 1 will honestly confess, said Sir John, who 
had not yet spoken, 'that had I been to judge 
the case a priori, had I met Miss Stanley under 
the terrifying persuasion that she was a scholar, 
I own I should have met her with a prejudice ; 
I should have feared she might be forward in 
conversation, deficient in feminine manners, and 
destitute of domestic talents. But having had 
such a fair occasion of admiring her engaging 
modesty, her gentle and unassuming tone in so- 
ciety, and above all, having heard from Lady 
Belfield hovv eminently she excels in the true 
science of a lady, domestic knowledge, I cannot 
refuse her that additional regard, which this so- 
lid acquirement, so meekly borne, deserves. 
Nor, on reflection, do I see why we should be so 
forward to instruct a woman in the language 
spoken at Rome in its present degraded state, in 
which there are comparatively few authors to 
improve her, and yet be afraid that she should 
be acquainted with that which was its vernacu- 
lar tongue, in its age of glory two thousand years 
ago, and which abounds with writers of supreme 
excellence.' 

I was charmed at these concessions from Sir 
John, and exclaimed with a transport which I 
could not restrain : ' In our friends, even in our 
common acquaintance, do we not delight to as- 
sociate with those whose pursuits have been 
similar to our own, and who have read the same 
books ? How dull do we find it, when civility 
compels us to pass even a day with an illiterate 
man ? Shall we not then delight in the kindred 
acquirements of a dearer friend ? Shall we not 
rejoice in a companion who has drawn, though 
less copiously, perhaps, from the same rich 
sources with ourselves; who can relish the 
beauty we quote, and trace the allusion at which 
we hint ? I do not mean that learning is abso- 
lutely necessary, but a man of taste who has an 
ignorant wife, cannot, in her company, think 
his own thoughts, nor speak his own language. 
His thoughts he will suppress ; his language he 
will debase, the one from hopelessness, the other 
from compassion. — He must be continually low- 
ering and diluting his meaning, in order to 
make himself intelligible. Thi3 he will do for 
the woman he loves, but in doing it he will not 
be happy. She who cannot be entertained by 
his conversation, will not be convinced by his 
reasoning ; and at length he will find out that 
it is less trouble to lower his own standard to 
hers, than to exhaust himself in the vain attempt 
to raise hers to his own.' 

■ A fine high sounding tirade, Charles, spoken 
con amore,' said Sir John. ' I really believe 
though, that one reason why women are so fri- 
volous is that the things they are taught are not 
solid enough to fix the attention, exercise the in- 
tellect, and fortify the understanding. They 
learn little that inures to reasoning, or compels 
to patient meditation.' 

' I consider the difficulties of a solid educa- 
tion,' said Mr. Stanley, ' as a sort of preliminary 



course, intended perhaps by Providence as a 
gradual preparative for the subsequent difficul- 
ties of life ; as a prelude to the acquisition of 
that solidity and firmness of character which 
actual trials are hereafter to confirm. Though 
I would not make instruction unnecessarily 
harsh and rugged, yet I would not wish to in- 
crease its facilities to such a degree as to weaken 
that robustness of mind which it should be its 
object to promote, in order to render mental dis- 
cipline subservient to moral.' 

' How have you managed with your other 
girls, Stanley,' said Sir John, • for though you 
vindicate general knowledge, you profess not to 
wish for general learning in the sex.' 

' Far from it,' replied Mr. Stanley. ' I am a 
gardener you know, and accustomed to study 
the genius of the soil before I plant. Most of 
my daughters, like the daughters of other men, 
have some one talent, or at least propensity ; for 
parents are too apt to mistake inclination for 
genius. This propensity I endeavour to find 
out, and to cultivate. But if I find the natural 
bias very strong, and not very safe, I then la- 
bour to counteract, instead of encouraging the 
tendency, and try to give it a fresh direction. 
Lucilla having a strong bent to whatever relates 
to intellectual taste, I have read over with her 
the most unexceptionable parts of a few of the 
best Roman classics. She began at nine years 
old, for I have remarked that it is not learning 
much, but learning late which makes pedants. 

' Phoebe, who lias a superabundance of viva- 
city, I have in some measure tamed, by not only 
making her a complete mistress of arithmetic, 
but by giving her a tincture of mathematics. 
Nothing puts such a bridle on the fancy as de- 
monstration. A habit of computing steadies 
the mind, and subdues the soarings of imagina- 
tion. It sobers the vagaries of trope and figure, 
substitutes truth for metaphor, and exactness for 
amplification. This girl, who if she had been 
fed on poetry and works of imagination, might 
have become a Miss Sparkes, now rather gives 
herself the airs of a calculator and of a grave 
computist. Though, as in the case of the cat 
in the fable, who was metamorphosed into a lady, 
nature will break out as soon as the scratching 
of a mouse is heard ; and all Phoebe's philosophy 
can scarcely keep her in order, if any work of 
fancy comes in her way. 

' To soften the horrors of her fate, however, 
I allowed her to read a few of the best things in 
her favourite class. When I read to her the 
more delicate parts of Gulliver's Travels, with 
which she was enchanted, she affected to be an- 
gry at the voyage to Laputa, because it ridicules 
philosophical science. And in Brobdignag, she 
said the proportions were not correct. I must 
however explain to you, that the use which I 
made of these dry studies with Phcebe, was pre- 
cisely the same which the ingenious Mr. Che- 
shire makes of his steel machines for defective 
shapes, to straighten a crooked tendency 01 
strengthen a weak one. Having employed these 
means to set her mind upright, and to cure a 
wrong bias, as that skilful gentleman discards 
his apparatus as soon as the patient becomea 
straight, so have I discontinued these pursuits, 
for I never meant to make a mathematical ladv, 



406 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Jane has a fine ear and a pretty voice, and will 
sing and play well enough for any girl who is 
not to make music her profession. One or two 
of the others sing agreeably. 

The little one, who brought the last nosegay, 
has a strong turn for natural history, and we all 
of us generally botanize a little of an evening, 
which gives a fresh interest to our walks. She 
will soon draw plants and flowers pretty accu- 
rately. Louisa also has some taste in designing, 
and takes tolerable sketches from nature. These 
We encourage because they are solitary plea- 
sures, and want no witnesses. They all are too 
eager to impart somewhat of what they know 
to your little favourite Celia, who is in danger 
of picking up a little of every thing, the 6ure 
way to excel in nothing. 

' Thus each girl is furnished with some one 
source of independent amusement. But what 
would become of them, or rather what would 
become of their mother and me, if every one of 
them was a scholar, a mathematician, a singer, 
a performer, a botanist, a painter ? Did we at- 
tempt to force all these acquirements and a 
dozen more on every girl, all her time would be 
occupied about things which will be of no value 
to her in eternity. I need not tell you that we 
are carefully communicating to every one of 
them that general knowledge which should be 
common to all gentlewomen. 

' In unrolling the vast volume of ancient and 
modern history, I ground on it some of my most 
useful instructions, and point out how the truth 
of Scripture is illustrated by the crimes and 
Corruptions which history records, and that the 
same pride, covetousness, ambition, turbulence, 
and deceit, bring misery on empires, and de- 
stroy the peace of families. To history, geogra- 
phy, and chronology are such indispensable ap- 
pendages, that it would be superfluous to insist 
on their usefulness. As to astronomy, while 
' the heavens declare the glory of God,' it seems 
a kind of impiety not to give young people some 
insight into it. 

' I hope,' said Sir John, * that you do not ex- 
clude the modern languages from your plan. 1 
* As to French,' replied Mr. Stanley, ' with that 
thorough inconsistency which is common to 
man, the demand for it seems to have risen in 
exact proportion as it ought to have sunk.* I 
would not however rob my children of a lan- 
guage in which, though there are moro books 
to be avoided, there are more that deserve to be 
read, than in all the foreign languages put to- 
gether.' 

* If you prohibit Italian,' said Sir John laugh- 
ing, ' I will serve you as Cowper advised the 
boys and girls to serve Johnson for depreciating 
Henry and Emma ; I will join the musical and 
poetical ladies in tearing you to pieces, as the 
Thracian damsels did Orpheus, and send your 
head with his 

Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore. 

' Ylu remember me, my dear Belfield,' re- 
plied Mr. Stanley, ' a warm admirer of the ex- 
quisite beauties of Italian poetry. But a father 

* See an ingenious little treatise entitled Latium Re- 
divivum, or the modern use of the Latin language, and 
<he prevalence of the French, 



feels, or rather judges differently from the mere 
man of taste, and as a father, I cannot help re- 
gretting, that what is commonly put into the 
hands of our daughters, is so amatory, that it 
has a tendency to soften those minds which ra- 
ther want lo be invigorated. 

' There are few things I more deprecate for 
girls than a poetical education, the evils of which 
I saw sadly exemplified in a young friend of 
Mrs. Stanley. She had beauty and talents. Her 
parents, enchanted with both, left her entirely 
to her own guidance. She yielded herself up 
to the uncontrolled rovings of a vagrant fancy. 
When a child, she wrote verses, which were 
shown in her presence to every guest, their 
flattery completed her intoxication. She after- 
wards translated Italian sonnets, and composed 
elegies of which love was the only theme. — 
These she was encouraged by her mother to re- 
cite herself, in all companies, with a pathos and 
sensibility which delighted her parents, but 
alarmed her more prudent friends. 

1 She grew up with the confirmed opinion that 
the two great and sole concerns of human life 
were love and poetry. She considered them as 
inseparably connected, and she resolved in her 
own instance never to violate so indispensable a 
union. The object of her affection was unhap- 
pily chosen, and the effects of her attachment 
were such as might have been expected from a 
connection formed on so slight a foundation. In 
the perfections with which she invested her 
lover, she gave the reins to her imagination, 
when she thought she was only consulting her 
heart. — She picked out and put together all the 
fine qualities of all the heroes, of all the poets 
she had ever read, and into this finished crea- 
ture, her fancy transformed her admirer. 

'Love and poetry commonly influence the 
two sexes in a very disproportionate degree. 
With men, each of them is only one passion 
among many. Love has various and powerful 
competitors in hearts divided between ambition, 
business, and pleasure. Poetry is only one amuse- 
ment in minds, distracted by a thousand tu- 
multuous pursuits ; whereas in girls of ardent 
tempers, whose feelings are not curbed by re- 
straint, and regulated by religion, love is con- 
sidered as the great business of their earthly ex- 
istence. It is cherished, not as ' the cordial 
drop,' but as the whole contents of the cup ; tho 
remainder is considered only as froth or dregs. 
The unhappy victim not only submits to the 
destructive dominion of a despotic passion, but 
glories in it. So at least did this ill-starred girl 

4 The sober duties of a family had early been 
transferred to her sisters, as far beneath the at- 
tention of so fine a genius ; while she abandon- 
ed herself to studies, which kept her imagina- 
tion in a fever, and to a passion which those 
studies continually fed and inflamed. Both to- 
gether completed her delirium. She was ardent, 
generous, and sincere; but violent, imprudent, 
and vain to excess. She set the opinion of the 
world at complete defiance, and was not only to 
tally destitute of judgment and discretion her 
self, but despised them in others. Her lover and 
her muse were to Jier instead of the whole 
world. 
' After having for some years exchanged sod 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



407 



tiets under the names of Laura and Petrarch, 
and elegies under those of Sappho and Phaon ; 
the lover, to whom all this had been mere sport, 
the gratification of vanity, and the recreation 
of an idle hour, grew weary. 

Younger and fairer he another saw. 

He drew off. Her verses were left unanswered, 
her reproaches unpiticd. Laura wept, and Sap- 
pho raved in vain. 

4 The poor girl, to whom all this visionary ro- 
mance had been a serious occupation, which had 
swallowed up cares and duties, now realized 
the woes she had so often admired and described. 
Her upbraidings only served to alienate still 
more the heart of her deserter ; and her despair, 
which he had the cruelty to treat as fictitious, 
was to him a subject of mirth and ridicule. Her 
letters were exposed, her expostulatory verses 
read at clubs and taverns, and the unhappy Sap- 
pho was toasted in derision. 

' All her ideal refinements now degenerated 
into practical improprieties. The public avowal 
of her paassion drew on her from the world 
charges which she had not merited. — Her re- 
putation was wounded, her health declined, her 
peace was destroyed. She experienced the dis- 
honours of guilt without its turpitude, and in 
the bloom of life fell, the melancholy victim to a 
mistaken education, and an undisciplined mind.' 

Mrs. Stanley dropped a silent tear to the me- 
mory of her unhappy friend, the energies of 
whose mind she said would, had they been 
rightly directed, have formed a fine character. 

' But none of the tilings of which I have been 
speaking,' resumed Mr. Stanley, 'are the great 
and primary objects of instruction. The incul- 
cation of fortitude, prudence, humility, temper- 
ance, self-denial — this is education. These are 
things which we endeavour to promote far more 
than arts or languages. These are tempers, 
the habit of which should be laid in early, and 
followed up constantly, as there is no day in life 
which will not call them into exercise ; and how 
can that be practised which has never been ac- 
quired ! 

' Perseverance, meekness, and industry,' con- 
tinued he, 'are the qualities we most carefully 
cherish and commend. For poor Laura's sake 
I make it a point never to extol any indications 
of genius. Genius has pleasure enough in its 
own high aspirings. — Nor am I indeed over 
much delighted wilh a great blossom of talents. 
I agree with good Bishop Hall, that it is better 
to thin the blossoms, that the rest may thrive ; 
and that in encouraging too many propensities, 
one faculty may not starve another.' 

Lady Belfield expressed herself grateful for 
the hints Mr. Stanley had thrown out, which 
could not but be of importance to her who had 
so large a family. After some further questions 
from her he proceeded. 

' I have partly explained to you, my dear 
Madam, why, though I would not have every 
woman learn every thing, yet why I would give 
every girl, in a certain station of life, some one 
amusing accomplishment. There is here and 
there a strong mind, which requires a more sub- 
stantial nourishment than the common educa- 
turn of girls affords. To such and to such only, 



would I furnish the quiet resource of a dead 
language, as a solid aliment which may fill the 
mind without inflating it. 

1 But that no acquirements may inflate it let 
mc add, there is but one sure corrective. Against 
learning, against talents of any kind, nothing 
can steady the head, unless you fortify the heart 
with real Christianity. In raising the moral 
edifice, we must sink deep in proportion as we 
build high. We must widen the foundation if 
we extend the superstructure. Religion alone 
can counteract the aspirings of genius, can re- 
gulate the pride of talents. 

'And let such women as are disposed to be 
vain of their comparatively petty attainments, 
look up with admiration to those two contem- 
porary sliining examples, the venerated Eliza- 
beth Carter, and the blooming Elizabeth Smith. 
I Knew them both, and to know was to revere 
them. In them, let our young ladies contem- 
plate profound and various learning chastened 
by true Christian humility. In them, let them 
venerate acquirements which would have been 
distinguished in a university, meekly softened, 
and beautifully shaded by the gentle exertion of 
every domestic virtue, the unaffected exercise 
of every feminine employment. 



CHAP. XL. 

Ever since Mr. Tyrrel had been last with us, 
I had observed an unusual seriousness in the 
countenance of Sir John Belfield, though accom- 
panied with his natural complacency. His mind 
seemed intent on something he wished to com- 
municate. The first time we were both alone in 
the library with Mr. Stanley, Sir John said, 
' Stanley, the conversations we have lately had, 
and especially the last with Tyrrel, in which 
you bore so considerable a part, have furnished 
me with agreeable matter for reflection. I hope 
the pleasure will not be quite destitute of profit.' 

' My dear Sir John,' replied Mr. Stanley, 'in 
conversation w.ith Mr. Tyrrel, I labour under a 
disadvantage common to every man, who when 
he is called to defend some important principle 
which he thinks attacked, or undervalued, is 
brought into danger of being suspected to un- 
dervalue others, which, if they in their turn 
were assailed, he would defend with equal zeal. 
When points of the last importance are slighted 
as insignificant, in order exclusively to magnify 
one darling opinion, I am driven to appear as if 
I opposed that important tenet, which, if I may 
so speak, seems pitted against the others. Those 
who do not previously know my principles, 
might almost suspect me of being an opposer of 
that prime doctrine, which I really consider as 
the leading principle of Christianity.' 

'Allow me to say,' returned Sir John 'that 
my surprise has been equal to my satisfaction. 
Those very doctrines which you maintained, I 
had been assured, were the very tenets you 
rejected. Many of our acquaintance, who do 
not come near enough to judge, or who would 
not be competent to judge if they did, ascribe 
the stictness of your practice to some unfound- 
ed peculiarities of opinion, and suspect that the 
doctrines of Tyrrel, though somewhat modified 



408 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



a little more rationally conceived, and more ably 
expressed, are the doctrines held by you, and by 
every man who rises above the ordinary stand, 
ard of what the world calls religious men. And 
what is a little absurd and inconsequent, they 
ascribe to these supposed dangerous doctrines, 
his abstinence, from the diversions, and his dis- 
4 approbation of the manners and maxims of the 
world. Your opinions, however, I always sus- 
pected could not be very pernicious, the effects 
of which, from the whole tenor of your life, I 
knew to be so salutary.' 

* My dear Belfield,' said Mr. Stanley • men of 
the world are guilty of a striking inconsistency 
in the charge they bring against religious men. 
They accuse them at once of maintaining doc- 
trines which lead to licentiousness, and of over- 
strictness in their practice. One of them may 
be true : but both cannot be so.' 

* I now find upon full proof,' replied Sir John, 
thatthere is nothing in your sentiments but 

what a man of sense might approve ; nothing 
but what, if he be really a man of sense, he will 
without scruple adopt. May I be enabled more 
fully, more practically to adopt them ! You shall 
point out to me such a course of reading, as may 
not only clear up my remaining difficulties, but 
what is infinitely more momentous than the so- 
lution of any abstract question, may help to 
awaken me to a more deep and lively sense of my 
own individual interest in this great concern.' 
Mr. Stanley's benevolent countenance was 
.ighted up with more than its wonted animation. 
He did not attempt to conceal the deep satisfac- 
tion with which his heart was penetrated. He 
modestly referred his friend to Doctor Barlow, 
as a far more able casuist, though not a more 
cordial friend. For my own part, I felt my 
heart expand towards Sir John, with new sym- 
pathies and an enlarged affection. I felt nobler 
motives of attachment, an attachment which I 
hoped would be perpetuated beyond the narrow 
bounds of this perishable world. 

* My dear Sir John,' said Mr. Stanley, • it is 
among the daily but comparatively petty trials 
of every man, who is deeply in earnest to secure 
his immortal interests, to be classed with low 
and wild enthusiasts, whom his judgment con- 
demns, with hypocrites against whom his prin- 
ciples revolt, and with men, pious and conscien- 
tious I am most willing to allow, but differing 
widely from his own* views; with others who 
evince a want of charity in some points, and a 
want of judgment in most. To be identified, I 
say, with men so different from yourself, because 
you hold in common some great truths, which 
ail real Christians have held in all ages, and be- 
cause you agree with them in avoiding the 
blameable excesses of dissipation, is among the 
sacrifices of reputation which a man must be 
contented to make, who is earnest in the great 
object of a Christian's pursuit. I trust, however, 
that, through divine grace, I shall never re- 
nounce my integrity for the praise of men, who 
have so little consistency, that though they pre- 
tend their quarrel is with your faith, yet who 
would not care how extravagant your belief was, 
if your practice assimilated with their own. I 
trust, on the other hand, that I shall always 
maintain my candour towards those with whom 



we are unfairly involved; men, religious though 
somewhat eccentric; devout, though injudicious; 
and sincere, though mistaken; but who, with 
all their errors, against which I protest, and 
with all their indiscretion, which I lament, and 
with their ill-judged because irregular zeal, 
which I blame, I shall ever think — always ex- 
cepting hypocrites and false pretenders — are bet- 
ter men, and in a safer state than their rivelers.' 

' I have often suspected,' said I, ' that under 
the plausible pretence of objecting to your creed, 
men conceal their quarrel with the command- 
ments.' 

1 My dear Stanley,' said Sir John, ' but for 
this visit I might have continued in the com- 
mon error, that there was but one description of 
religious professors. That a fanatical spirit, 
and a fierce adoption of one or two particular 
doctrines, to the exclusion of all the rest, with a 
total indifference to morality, and a sovereign 
contempt of prudence, made up the character 
against which I confess, I entertained a serious 
disgust. Still, however, I loved you too well, 
and had too high an opinion of your understand- 
ing, to suspect that you would ever be drawn 
into those practical errors, to which I had been 
told, your theory inevitably led. Yet I own I 
had an aversion to this dreaded enthusiasm 
which drove me into the opposite extreme. 

' How many men have I known,' replied Mr. 
Stanley, smiling, ' who, from their dread of a 
burning zeal, have taken refuge in a freezing 
indifference' As to the two extremes of heat 
and cold, neither of them is the true climate of 
Christianity ; yet the fear of each drives men of 
opposite complexions into the other, instead of 
fixing them in the temperate zone which lies be- 
tween them, and which is the region of genuine 
piety. 

' The truth is, Sir John, your society considers 
earnestness in religion as the fever of a distem- 
pered understanding, while in inferior concerns 
they admire it as the indication of a powerful 
mind. Is zeal in politics accounted the mark 
of a vulgar intellect? Did they consider the un- 
quenchable ardour of Pitt, did they regard the 
lofty enthusiasm of Fox, as evidences of a feeble 
or a disordered mind ? Yet I will venture to as- 
sert, that ardour in religion is as much more 
noble than ardour in politics as the prize for 
which it contends is more exalted. It is be- 
yond all comparison superior to the highest hu- 
man interest, the truth and justice of which after 
all may possibly be mistaken, and the objects of 
which must infallibly have an end.' 

Dr. Barlow came in, and seeing us earnestly 
engaged, desired that he might not interrupt 
the conversation. Sir John in a few words in- 
formed him of what had passed, and with a most 
graceful humility spoke of his own share in it, 
and confessed how much he had been carried 
away by the stream of popular prejudice, re- 
specting men who had courage to make a con- , 
sistent profession of Christianity. 'I now,' add- 
ed he, ' begin to think with Addison, that sin- 
gularity in religion is heroic bravery, ' because 
it only leaves the species by soaring above it.' 

After some observations from Dr. Barlow, 
much in point, he went to remark that the dif- 
ficulties of a clergyman were much increased 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



409 



by the altered manners of the age. • The tone 
of religious writing,' said he, ' but especially the 
tone of religious conversation, is much lowered. 
The language of a Christian minister in dis- 
cussing Christian topics will naturally be con- 
sonant to that of Scripture. The Scripture 
speaks of a man being renewed in the spirit of 
his mind, of his being sanctified by the grace of 
God. Now how much circumlocution is neces- 
sary for us in conversing with a man of the 
world, to convey the sense without adopting 
the expression ; and what pains must we take 
to make our meaning intelligible without giving 
disgust, and to be useful without causing irri- 
tation !' 

Sir John. ' But, my good Doctor, is it not a 
little puritanical, to make use of such solemn 
expressions in company V 

Dr. Barlow. ' Sir, it is worse than puritani- 
cal, it is hypocritical, where the principle itself 
does not exist; and even<where it does, it is 
highly inexpedient to introduce such phrases 
into general company at all. But I am speak- 
ing of serious private conversation, when, if a 
minister is really in earnest, there is nothing 
absurd in his prudent use of Scripture expres- 
sions. One great difficulty, and which obstructs 
the usefulness of a clergyman, in conversation 
with many persons of the higher class, who 
would be sorry not to be thought religious, is, 
that they keep up so little acquaintance with the 
Bible, that from their ignorance of its venerable 
phraseology, they are offended at the introduc- 
tion of a text, not because it is Scripture ; for 
that they maintain a kind of general reverence ; 
but, because, from not reading it, they do not 
know that it is Scripture. 

' I once lent a person of rank and talents an 
admirable sermon, written by one of our first 
divines. Though deeply pious, it was composed 
with uncommon spirit and elegance, and I 
thought it did not contain one phrase which 
could offend the most fastidious critic. When 
he returned it, he assured me that he liked it 
much on the whole, and should have approved it 
altogether, but for one methodistical expression. 
To my utter astonishment he pointed to the ex- 
ceptionable passage, 'There is now no condemna- 
tion to them that are in Christ Jesus, who walk 
not after the flesh but after the Spirit.' The 
chapter and verse not being mentioned, he never 
suspected it was a quotation from the Bible.' 

'This is one among many reasons,' said Mr. 
Stanley, ' why I so strenuously insist that young 
persons should read the Scriptures, unaltered, 
unmodernized, unmutilated, unabridged. If pa- 
rents do not make a point of this, the peculiari- 
ties of sacred language will become really obso- 
lete to the next generation.' 

In answer to some further remarks of Sir 
John, Mr. Stanley said, smili-ng, ' I have some- 
times amused myself with making a collection 
of certain things, which are now considered and 
held up by a pretty large class of men as the in- 
fallible symptoms of methodism. Those which 
at present occur to my recollection are the fol- 
lowing . Going to church in the afternoon, main- 
taining family prayer, not travelling, or giving 
great dinners or other entertainments on Sun- 
days, rejoicing in the abolition of the slave trade, 

Vou IL — 



promoting the religious instruction of the poor 
at home, subscribing to the Bible Society, and 
contributing to establish Christianity abroad. 
These, though the man attend no eccentric cler- 
gyman, hold no one enthusiastic doctrine, asso- 
ciate with no fanatic, is sober in his conversa- 
tion, consistent in his practice, correct in his 
whole deportment, will infallibly fix on him the 
charge of methodism. Any one of these will ex- 
cite suspicion, but all united will not fail abso- 
lutely to stigmatize him. The most devoted attach- 
ment to the establishment will avail him nothing, 
if not accompanied with a fiery intolerance to- 
wards all who differ. Without intolerance, his 
charity is construed into unsoundness, and his 
candour into disaffection. He is accused of as- 
similating with the principles of every weak 
brother whom, though his judgment compels 
him to blame, his candour forbids him to calum- 
niate. Saint and hypocrite are now, in the 
scoffer's lexicon, become convertible terms : the 
last being always implied where the first is 
sneeringly used.' 

'It has often appeared to me,' said I, 'that 
the glory of a tried Christian somewhat resem- 
bles that of a Roman victor, in whose solemn 
procession, among the odes of gratulation, a 
mixture of abuse and railing made part of the 
triumph.' 

' Happily,' resumed Mr. Stanley, ' a religious 
man knows the worst he is likely to suffer. In 
the present established state of things he is not 
called, as in the first ages of Christianity, to be 
made a spectacle to the world, and to angels, 
and to men. But he must submit to be assailed 
by three different descriptions of persons. From 
the first, he must be contented to have principles 
imputed to him which he abhors, motives which 
he disdains, and ends which he deprecates. He 
must submit to have the energies of his well-re- 
gulated piety confounded with the follies of the 
fanatic, and his temperate zeal blended with the 
ravings of the insane. He must submit to be 
involved in the absurdities of the extravagant, 
in the duplicity of the designing, and in the mis- 
chiefs of the dangerous ; to be reckoned among 
the disturbers of that church which he would 
defend with his blood, and of that government 
which he is perhaps supporting in every possible 
direction. Every means is devised to shake his 
credit. From such determined assailants no 
prudence can protect his character, no private 
integrity can defend it, no public service res- 
cue it.' 

* I have often wondered,' said Sir John, ' at 
the success of attacks which seemed to have no- 
thing but the badness of the cause to recommend 
them. But the assailant, whose object is to 
make good men ridiculous, well knows that he 
has secured to himself a large patronage in the 
hearts of all the envious, the malignant, and ir- 
religious, who, like other levellers, find it more 
easy to establish the equality of mankind by 
abusing the lofty, than by elevating the low.' 

' In my short experience of life,' said I, when 
Sir John had done speaking, ' I have often ob- 
served it as a hardship, that a man must only 
submit to be condemned for doctrines he dis- 
owns, but also for consequences which others 
may draw from the doctrines he maintains, 



410 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



though he himself both practically and specu- 
latively disavow any such consequences.' 

' There is another class of enemies,' resumed 
Mr. Stanley. 'To do them justice, it is not so 
much the individual Christian, as Christianity 
itself, which they hope to discredit; that Chris- 
tianity which would not only restrain the con- 
duct, but would humble the heart; which strips 
them of the pride of philosophy, and the arro- 
gant plea of merit ; which would save, but will 
not flatter them. In this enlightened period, 
however, for men who would preserve any cha- 
racter, it would be too gross lo attack religion 
itself, and thev find they can wound her more 
deeply and more creditably through the sides of 
her professors.' 

'I have observed,' said I, 'that the uncandid 
censurer always picks out the worst man of a 
class, and then confidently produces him as be- 
ing a fair specimen of it.' 

' From our own thoughtless, but less uncha- 
ritable acquaintance, the gay and the busy,' re- 
sumed Mr. Stanley, ' we have to sustain a gentler 
warfare. A little reproach, a good deal of ridi- 
cule, a little suspicion of our designs, and not a 
little compassion for our gloomy habits of life, 
and implied contempt of our judgment, some 
friendly hints that we carry things too far, an 
intimation that being righteous over much in 
the practice has a tendency to produce derange- 
ment in the faculties. These are the petty but 
daily trials of every man who is seriously in ear- 
nest; and petty indeed they are to him whose 
prospects are well grounded, and whose hope is 
full of immortality.' 

4 This hostility, which a real Christian is sure 
to experience,' said I, 'is not without its uses. 
It quickens his vigilance over his own heart, and 
enlarges his charity towards others, whom re- 
proach perhaps may as unjustly stigmatize. It 
teaches him to be on his guard, lest he should 
really deserve the censure lie incurs ; and what 
I presume is of no small importance, it teaches 
him to sit loose to human opinion ; it weakens 
his excessive tenderness for reputation, makes 
him more anxious to deserve, and less solicitous 
to obtain it.' 

4 It were well,' said Dr Barlow, ' if the evil 
ended here. TheestablishedChristianwillevince 
himself to be such by not shrinking from the 
attack. But the misfortune is, that the dread 
of this attack keeps back well disposed but va- 
cillating characters. They are intimidated at 
the idea of partaking the censure, though they 
know it to be false. 

4 When they hear the reputation of men of 
piety assailed, they assume an indifference which 
they are far from feeling. They listen to re- 
proaches cast on characters which they inward- 
ly revere, without daring to vindicate them. 
They hear the mostatftched subjects accused of 
disaffection, and the most sober-minded church- 
men of innovation, without venturing lo repel 
the charge, lest they should be suspected of 
leaning to the party. They are afraid fully to 
avow that their own principles are the same, 
lest they should be involved in the same calum- 
ny. To efface this suspicion, they affect a cold- 
ness which they do not feel, and treat with levity 
what they inwardly venerate. Very young men, 



from this criminal timidity, are led to risk their 
eternal happiness through tho dread of a laugh. 
Though they know that they have not only reli- 
gion hut reason on their side, yet it requires a 
hardy virtue to repel a sneer, and an intrepid 
principle to confront a sarcasm. Thus their 
own mind loses its firmness, religion loses their 
support, the world loses the benefit which their 
example would afford, and they themselves be- 
come liable to the awful charge which is de- 
nounced against him who is ashamed of his 
Christian profession.' 

' Men of the world,' said Sir John, 4 are ex- 
tamely jealous of whatever may be thought par- 
ticular ; they are frightened at every thing that 
has not the sanction of public opinion, and the 
stamp of public applause. They are impatient 
of the slightest suspicion of censure in what may 
be supposed to affect the credit of their judgment, 
though often indifferent enough as to any blame 
that may attach to«their conduct. They have 
been accustomed to consider strict religion as a 
thing which militates against good taste, and to 
connect the idea of something unclassical and 
inelegant, something awkward and unpopular, 
something uncouth and ill-bred, with the pecu- 
liar doctrines of Christianity ; doctrines which, 
though there is no harm in believing, they think 
there can be no good in avowing. 

4 It is a little hard,' said Mr. Stanley, ' that 
men of piety, who are allowed to possess good 
sense on all other occasions, and whose judgment 
is respected in all the ordinary concerns of life, 
should not have a little credit given to them in 
matters of religion, but that they should be at 
once transformed into idiots or madmen, in that 
very point which affords the noblest exercise to 
the human faculties.' 

4 A Christian then,' said I, ' if human applause 
be his idol, is of all men most miseruble. He 
forfeits his reputation every way. He is accused 
by the men of the world of going too far ; by the 
enthusiastof not going far enough. While it is 
one of the best evidences of his being right, that 
he is rejected by one party for excess, and by 
the other for deficiency.' 

' What then is to be done ?' said Dr. Barlow. 
'Must a discreet and pious man give up a prin- 
ciple because it has been disfigured by the fana- 
tic, or abused by the hypocrite, or denied by the 
sceptic, or reprobated by the formalist, or ridi- 
culed by the men of the world ? He should ra- 
ther support it with an earnestness proportioned 
to its value ; he should rescue it from the inju- 
ries it has sustained from its enemies ; and the 
discredit brought on it by its imprudent friends. 
He should redeem it from the enthusiasm which 
misconceives, and from the ignoranceor maligni- 
ty which misrepresents it. If the learned and 
the judicious are silent in proportion as the illi- 
terate and the vulgar are obtrusive # and loqua- 
cious, the most important truths will be aban- 
doned by those who are best able to unfold, and 
to defend them, while they will be embraced 
exclusively by those who misunderstand, de- 
grade and debase them. Because the unlettered 
are absurd, must the able cease to be religious? If 
there is to be an abandonment of every Christian 
principle, because it has been unfairly, unskil- 
fully, or inadequately treated, there would, one 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



411 



by one, be an abandonment of every doctrin* of 
the New Testament.' 

' I felt myself bound,' said Mr. Stanley, ' to 
act on this principle in our late conversation 
with Mr. Tyrrel. I would not refuse to assert 
with him the doctrines of grace, but I endea- 
voured to let him see that 1 had adopted them 
in a scriptural sense. I would not try to con- 
vince him that he was wrong 1 , by disowning a 
truth because he abused it. I would cordially 
reject all the bad use he makes of any opinion, 
without rejecting the opinion itself, if the Bible 
will bear me out in the belief of it. But I would 
scrupulously reject all the other opinions which 
he connects with it, and with which I am per- 
suaded it has no connection. 

'The nominal Christian,' said Dr. Barlow, 
* who insists that religion resides in the under- 
standing only, may contend that love to God, 
gratitude to our Redeemer, and sorrow for our 
offenoes, are enthusiastic extravagances; and 
effectually repress by ridicule and sarcasm, 
those feelings which the devout heart recog- 
nizes, and which Scripture sanctions. On the 
other hand, those very feelings are inflamed, ex- 
aggerated, distorted, and misrepresented, as in- 
cluding the whole of religion, by the intem- 
perate enthusiast, who thinks reason has no- 
thing to do in the business ; but who, trusting 
to tests not warranted by Scripture, is governed 
toy fancies, feelings, and visions of his own. 

' Between these pernicious extremes, what 
course is the other Christian to pursue ? Must 
he discard from his heart all pious affections 
because the fanatic abuses them, and the fasti- 
dious deny their existence ? This would be like 
insisting, that because one man happens to be 
sick of a dead palsy, and another of a phrenzy 
fever, there is therefore in the human constitu- 
tion no such temperate medium as sound health.' 



CHAP. XLI. 

SrNCE the conversation which had accidentally 
led to the discovery of Miss Stanley's acquire- 
ments, I could not forbear surveying the perfect 
arrangements of the family, and the completely 
elegant but not luxurious table, with more than 
ordinary interest. I felt no small delight in re- 
flecting that all this order and propriety were 
produced without the smallest deduction from 
the mental cultivation. 

I could not refrain from mentioning this to 
Mrs. Stanley. Sire was not displeased with my 
observation, though she cautiously avoided say- 
ing any thing which might be construed into a 
wish to set off her daughter. As she seemed 
surprised at my knowledge of the large share 
her Lucilla had in the direction of the family 
concerns*, I could not, in the imprudence of my 
satisfaction, conceal the conversation I had with 
my old friend Mrs. Comfit. 

After this avowal she felt that any reserve on 
this point would look like affectation, a little- 
ness which would have been unworthy of her 
character. ' I am frequently blamed by my 
friends,' said she, ' for taking some of the load 
from my own shoulders, and laying it on hers. 



' Poor thing, she is too young !' is the constant 
cry of fashionable mothers. My general answer 
is, you do not think your daughters of the same 
age too young to be married, though you know 
marriage must bring with it these, and still 
heavier cares. Surely then Lucilla is not loo 
young to be initiated in that useful kno.\ ledge 
which will hereafter become, no inconsiderable 
part of her duty. The acquisition would be 
really burthensome then, if it were not lighten- 
ed by preparatory practice now. I have, I trust, 
convinced my daughters, that though there is 
no great merit in possessing this sort of know- 
ledge, yet to be destitute of it is highly discre- 
ditable.' 

' In several houses where I had visited, I had 
observed the forwardness of the parents, the 
mother especially, to make a display of the 
daughter's merits, — 'so dutiful' so notable! 
such an excellent nurse !' The girl was then 
called out to sing or to play, and was thus, by 
that inconsistency which my good mother de- 
precated, kept in the full exhibition of those 
very talents which are most likely to interfere 
with nursing and notableness. But since I had 
been on my present visit, I had never once heard 
my friends extol their Lucilla, or bring forward 
any of her excellences. I had however observed 
their eyes fill with delight, which they could not 
suppress, when her merits were the subject of 
the praise of others. 

I took notice of this difference of conduct to 
Mrs. Stanley. ' I have often,' said she, ' been 
so much hurt at the indelicacy to which you al- 
lude, that I very early resolved to avoid it. If 
the girl in question does not deserve the com 
mendation, it is not only disingenuous but dia 
honest. If she does, it is a coarse and not very 
honourable stratagem for getting her off. But 
if the daughter be indeed all that a mother's 
partial fondness believes,' added she, her eyes 
filling with tears of tenderness, ' how can she 
be in such haste to deprive herself of the solace 
of her life ? How can she by gross acts wound 
that delicacy in her daughter, which, to a man 
of refinement, would be one of her chief attrac- 
lions, and which will be lowered in his esteem, 
by the suspicion that she may concur in the in- 
discretion of the mother. 

' As to Lucilla,' added she, 'Mr. Stanley and 
I sometimes say to each other, ' Little children, 
keep yourselves from idols !' O my dear vouno 
friend ! it is in vain to dissemble her unaffected 
worth and sweetness. She is not only our de- 
lightful companion, but our confidential friend. 
We encourage her to give us her opinion on 
matteis of business, as well as of taste; and 
having reflected as well as read a good deal, she 
is not destitute of materials on which to exer- 
cise her reasoning powers. We have never re- 
pressed her natural vivacity, because we never 
saw it, like Phoebe's, in danger of carrying her 
off from the straight line.' 

I thanked Mrs. Stanley for her affectionate 
frankness, with a warmth which showed the 
cordial interest I took in her, who was tne ob- 
ject of it; company coming in interrupted our 
interesting tete-a-tete. 

After lea, I observed the party in the saloon 
to be thinner than usual Sir John and Ladv 



412 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Belfield having withdrawn to write letters; and 
that individual having quitted the room, whose 
presence would have reconciled me to the ab- 
sence of all the rest, I stole out to take a solitary 
walk. At the distance of a quarter of a mile 
from the park-gate, on a little common, I ob- 
served, for the first time, the smallest and neat- 
est cottage I ever beheld. There was a flourish- 
ing- young orchard behind it, and a little court 
full of flowers in front. But I was particularly 
attracted by a beautiful rose tree in full blossom 
which grew against the house, and almost co- 
vered the clean white walls. As I knew this 
sort of rose was a particular favourite of Lucil- 
la's I opened the low wicket which led into the 
little court, and looked about for some living 
creature, of whom I might have begged the 
flowers. But seeing no one, I ventured to ga- 
ther a bunch of the roses, and the door being 
open, walked into the house, in order to acknow- 
ledge my theft, and make my compensation. In 
vain I looked round the little neat kitchen ! no 
one appeared. 

I was just going out, when the sound of a soft 
female voice over head arrested my attention. 
Impelled by a curiosity which, considering the 
rank of the inhabitants, I did not feel it neces- 
sary to resist, I softly stole up the narrow stairs, 
cautiously stooping as I ascended, the lowness 
of the ceiling not allowing me to walk upright. 
I stood still at the door of a little chamber, which 
was left half open to admit the air. I gently 
put my head through. What were my emotions 
when I saw Lucilla Stanley kneeling by the 
side of a little clean bed, a large old Bible spread 
open on the bed before her, out of which she 
was reading one of the penitential Psalms to a 
pale emaciated female figure, who lifted up her 
failing eyes, and clasped her feeble hands in so- 
lemn attention ! 

Before two little bars, which served for a grate, 
knelt Phoebe, with one hand stirring some broth, 
which she had brought from home, and with the 
other fanning with her straw bonnet the dying 
embers, in order to make the broth boil ; yet 
seemingly attentive to her sister's reading. Her 
dishevelled hair, the deep flush which the fire 
and her labour of love gave her naturally ani- 
mated countenance, formed a fine contrast to 
the angelic tranquillity and calm devotion which 
sat on the face of Lucilla. Her voice was in- 
expressibly sweet and penetrating, while faith, 
hope and charity seemed to beam from her up- 
lifted eyes. On account of the closeness of the 
room, she had thrown off her hat, cloak, and 
gloves, and laid them on the bed ; and her fine 
hair, which escaped from its confinement, shaded 
that side of her face which was next the door, 
and prevented her seeing me. 

I scarcely dared to breathe lest I should in- 
terrupt such a scene. It was a subject not un- 
worthy of Raphael. She next began to read the 
forty-first Psalm, with the meek yet solemn em- 
phasis of devout feeling. ' Blessed is he that 
considereth the poor and needy, the Lord shall 
deliver him in the time of trouble.' Neither the 
poor woman nor myself could hold out any 
longer. She was overcome by her gratitude, 
and I by my admiration, and we both at the 
aame moment involuntarily exclaimed, Amen ! 



I sprang forward with a motion which I could 
no longer control. Lucilla saw me, started up in 
confusion, 

and blush'd 
Celestial rosy red. 

Then eagerly endeavouring to conceal the Bi- 
ble, by drawing her hat over it, 'Phoebe,' said 
she, with all the composure she could assume, 
1 is the broth ready V Phcebe, with her usual 
gaiety, called out to me to come and assist, 
which I did, but so unskilfully that she chid me 
for my awkwardness. 

It was an interesting sight to see one of these 
blooming sisters lift the dying woman in her 
bed, and support her with her arm, while the 
other fed her, her own weak hand being une- 
qual to the task. At that moment how little did 
the splendors and vanities of life appear in my 
eyes ! and how ready was I to exclaim, with 
Wolsey, 

Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate you. 

When they had finished their pious office, I 
inquired if the poor woman had no attendant. 
Phcebe who was generally the chief speaker, 
said, 'she has a good daughter, who is out at 
work by day, but takes care of her mother at 
night ; but she is never left alone, for she has a 
little grand-daughter who attends her in the 
mean time ; but as she is obliged to go once a 
day to the Grove to fetch provisions, we gene- 
rally contrive to send her while we are here, 
that Dame Alice may never be left alone.' 

While we were talking, I heard a little weary 
step, painfully climbing up the stairs, and look- 
ing round, expecting to see the grand-daughter ; 
but it was little Kate Stanley, with a lap full of 
dry sticks, which she had been collecting for 
the poor woman's fire. The sharp points of the 
sticks had forced their way in many places 
through the white muslin frock, part of which, 
together with her bonnet, she had left in the 
hedge, which she had been robbing. At this 
loss she expressed not much concern, but la- 
mented not a little that sticks were so scarce ; 
that she feared the broth had been spoiled, from 
her being so long in picking them, but indeed 
she could not help it. I was pleased with these 
under allotments, these low degrees in the scale 
of charity. 

I had gently laid my roses on the hat of Miss 
Stanley, as it lay on the Bible, and before we 
left the room, as I drew near the good old Dame 
to slip a couple of guineas into her hand, I had 
the pleasure of seeing Lucilla, who thought her- 
self unobserved, retire to the little window, and 
fasten the roses into the crown of her hat like a 
garland. When the grand-daughter returned 
loaded with the daily bounty from the Grove, 
we took our leave, followed by the prayers and 
blessings of the good woman. 

As we passed by the rose-tree, the orchard, 
and the court, Phcebe said to me, ' An't you 
glad that poor people can have such pleasures ?' 
I told her it doubled my gratification to witness 
the enjoyment, and to trace the hand which 
conferred it ; for she had owned it was their 
work. ' We have always,' replied Phcebe, ' » 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



413 



particular satisfaction in observing a neat little 
flower garden about a cottage, because it holds 
out a comfortable indication that the inhabitants 
are free from absolute want, before they think 
of these little embellishments.' 

' It looks also,' said Miss Stanley, • as if the 
woman, instead of spending her few leisure mo- 
ments in gadding abroad, employed them in 
adorning her little habitation, in order to make 
it more attractive to her husband. And we know 
more than one instance in this village in which 
the man has been led to give up the public house, 
by the innocent ambition of improving on her 
labours.' 

I asked her what first inspired her with such 
fondness for gardening, and how she had acquir- 
ed so much skill and taste in this elegant art ? 
She blushed and said, ' she was afraid I should 
think her romantic, if she were to confess that 
she had caught both the taste and the passion, 
as far as she possessed either, from an early and 
intimate acquaintance with the Paradise Lost, 
of which she considered the beautiful descrip- 
tions of the scenery and plantations as the best 
precepts for landscape gardening. Milton,' she 
said, ' both excited the taste and supplied the 
rules. He taught the art and inspired the love 
of it.' 

From the gardens of Paradise the transition 
to its heroine was easy and natural. On my 
asking her opinion of this portrait, as drawn by 
Milton, she replied, ' that she considered Eve, in 
her state of innocence, as the most beautiful 
model of the delicacy, propriety, grace and ele- 
gance of the female character which any poet 
ever exhibited. Even after her fall,' added she, 
* there is something wonderfully touching in her 
remorse, and affecting in her contrition.' 

' We are probably,' replied 'I, ' more deeply 
affected with the beautifully contrite expressions 
of repentance in our first parents, from being so 
deeply involved in the consequences of the of- 
fence which occasioned it.' 

'And yet,' replied she, 'I am a little affronted 
with the poet, that while, with a noble justness, 
he represents Adam's grief at his expulsion, as 
chiefly arising from his being banished from the 
presence of his Maker, the sorrows of Eve seem 
too much to arise from being banished from her 
flowers. The grief, though never grief was so 
beautifully eloquent, is rather too exquisite, her 
substantial ground for lamentation considered.' 

Seeing me going to speak, she stopped me 
with a smile, saying, ' I see by your looks that 
you are going, with Mr. Addison, to vindicate 
the poet, and to call this a just appropriation of 
the sentiment to the sex ; but surely the dispro- 
portion in the feeling here is rather too violent, 
though I own the loss of her flowers might have 
aggravated any common privation. There is, 
however, no female character in the whole com- 
pass of poetry, in which I have ever taken so 
lively an interest, and no poem that ever took 
such powerful possession of my mind.' 

If any thing had been wanting to my full as- 
surance of the sympathy of our tastes and feel- 
ings, this would have completed my conviction. 
It struck me as the Virgilian lots formerly struck 
the superstitious. Our mutual admiration of 
the Paradise Lost, and of its heroine, seemed to 



bring us nearer together than we had yet been. 
Her remarks, which I gradually drew from her 
in the course of our walk, on the construction 
of the fable, the richness of the imagery, the ele- 
vation of the language, the sublimity and just 
appropriation of the sentiments, the artful struc- 
ture of the verse and the variety of the charac- 
ters, convinced me that she had imbibed her 
taste from the purest sources. It was easy to 
trace her knowledge of the best authors, though 
she quoted none. 

' This,' said I exullingly to myself, ' is the 
true learning for a lady ; a knowledge thnt is 
rather detected than displayed, that is felt in its 
effects on her mind and conversation ; that is 
seen, not by her citing learned names, or ad- 
ducing long quotations, but in the general re- 
sult, by the delicacy of her taste, and the cor- 
rectness of her sentiments.' 

In our way home I made a merit with little 
Kate, not only by rescuing her hat from the 
hedge, but by making a little provision of wood 
under it, of larger sticks than she could gather, 
which she joyfully promised to assist the grand- 
daughter in carrying to the cottage. 

I ventured, with as much diffidence as if I had 
been soliciting a pension for myself, to entreat 
that I might be permitted to undertake the put- 
ting forward Dame Alice's little girl in the 
world, as soon as she shall be released from her 
attendance on her grandmother. My proposal 
was graciously accepted, on condition that it met 
with Mr. and Mrs. Stanley's approbation. 

When we joined the party at supper, it was 
delightful to observe that the habits of religious 
charity were so interwoven with the texture of 
these girls minds, that the evening which had 
been so interesting to me, was to them only a 
common evening, marked with nothing parti- 
cular. It never occurred to them to allude to it ; 
and once or twice when I was tempted to men- 
tion it, my imprudence was repressed by a look 
of the most significant gravity from Lucilla. 

I was comforted, however, by observing that 
my roses were transferred from the hat to the 
hair. This did not escape the penetrating eye 
of Phoebe, who archly said, ' I wonder, Lucilla, 
what particular charm there is in Dame Alice's 
faded roses. I offered yovi some fresh ones 
since we came home. I never knew you prefer 
withered flowers before.' Lucilla made no an- 
swer, but cast down her timid eyes, and out- 
blushed the roses on her head. 



CHAP. XLII. 

After breakfast next -morning the company 
all dropped off one after another, except Lady 
Belfield, Miss Stanley, and myself. We had 
been so busily engaged in looking over the plan 
of a conservatory, which Sir John proposed to 
build at Beechwood, his estate in Surry, that we 
hardly missed them. 

Little Celia, whom I call the Rosebud, had 
climbed up my knees, a favourite station with 
her, and was begging me to tell her another 
pretty story. I had before told her so many, 
that I had exhausted both my memory and my 



414 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



imagination. Lucilla was smiling at my im- 
poverished invention, when Lady Belfield was 
called out of the room. Her fair friend rose 
mechanically to follow her. Her ladyship begged 
her not to stir, but to employ the five minutes 
of her absence in carefully criticising the plan 
she held in her hand, saying, she would bring 
back another which Sir John had by him ; and 
that Lucilla, who is considered as the last appeal 
in all matters of this nature, should decide to 
which the preference should be given, before the 
architect went to work. 

In a moment I forgot my tale and my rose- 
bud, and the conservatory, and every thing but 
Lucilla, whom I was beginning to address, when 
little Celia, pulling my coat, said, ' Oh, Charles,' 
(for so I teach all the little ones to call me,) 
'Mrs. Comfit tells me very bad news. She 
says that your new curricle is come down, and 
that you are going to run away. Oh ! don't go ; 
I can't part with you,' said the little charmer, 
throwing her arms round my neck. 

' Will you go with me, Celia ?' said I, kissing 
her rosy cheek. ' There will be room enough 
in the curricle.' • Oh, I should like to go,' said 
she, 'if Lucilla nry go with us. Do, dear 
Charles, do let Lucilla go to the Priory. She 
will be very good ; won t you, Lucilla ?' I ven- 
tured to look at Miss Stanley, who tried to laugh 
without succeeding, and blushed without trying 
at it. 

On my making no reply, for fear of adding to 
her confusion, Celia looked up piteously in my 
face, and cried : ' and so you won't let Lucilla 
go home with you ? I am sure the curricle will 
hold us all nicely ; for I am very little, and Lu- 
cilla is not very big.' — ' Will you persuade her, 
Celia ?' said I, — ' O,' said she, ' she does not 
want persuading; she is willing enough, and I 
will run to papa and mamma and ask their leave, 
and then Lucilla will go and be glad : won't you 
Lucilla?' 

So saying, sho sprung out of my arms, and 
ran out of the room ; Lucilla would havo follow- 
ed and prevented her. I respectfully detained 
her. How could I neglect such an opportunity ? 
Such an opening as the sweet prattler had given 
me it was impossible to overlook. The impulse 
was too powerful to be resisted ; I gently re- 
placed her on her seat, and in language which, 
if it did any justice to my feelings, was the most 
ardent, tender, and respectful, poured out my 
whole heart. I believe my words were inco- 
herent ; I am sure they were sincere. 

She was evidently distressed. Her emotion 
prevented her replying. But it was the emotion 
of surprise, not of resentment. Her confusion 
bore no symptom of displeasure. Blushing and 
hesitating, she at last said — ' My father, Sir — 
my mother.' Here her voice failed her. I re- 
collected with joy, that on the application of 
Lord Staunton, she had allowed of no such re- 
ference, nay she had forbidden it. 

' I take your reference joyfully,' said I, ' only 
tell me that if I am so happy as to obtain their 
consent, you will not withhold yours.' She ven- 
tured to raise her timid eyes to mine, and her 
modest but expressive look encouraged me al- 
most as much as any words could have done. 
At that moment the door opened, and in came 



Sir John with the other drawing of the conser- 
vatory in his hand. After having examined us 
both with his keen, critical eye ; ' Well, Miss 
Stanley,' said he, with a look and tone which 
had more meaning than she could well stand, 
1 here is the other drawing. As you look as if 
you had been calmly examining the first, you 
will now give me your cool, deliberate opinion 
of the merits of both.' He had the cruelty to 
lay so much stress on the words calm and deli- 
berate, and to pronounce them in so arch a man- 
ner, and so ironical a tone, as clearly showed, he 
read in her countenance that no epithets could 
possibly have been so ill applied. 

Lady Belfield came in immediately after. 
' Well, Caroline,' said he, with a significant 
glance, ' Miss Stanley has deeply considered the 
subject since you went ; I never saw her look 
more interested about any thing. I don't think, 
she is dissatisfied on the whole. General appro- 
bation is all she now expresses. She will have 
time to spy out faults hereafter : she sees none 
at present. All is beauty, grace, and propor- 
tion.' 

As if this was not enough, in ran Celia quite 
out of breath — ' O, Lucilla,' cried she, ' Papa and 
Mamma won't let you go with Charles, though 
I told them you begged and prayed to go.' Lu- 
cilla, the pink of whose cheeks was become 
crimson, said angrily; 'how Celia! what do 
you mean ?' ' Oh, no,' replied the child, ' I 
mean to say that I begged and prayed, and I 
thought you looked as if you would like to go — 
though Charles did not ask you, and so I told 
Papa.' 

This was too much. The Belfields laughed 
outright ; but Lady Belfield had the charity to 
take Lucilla's hand, saying, ' come into my 
dressing-room, my dear, and let us settle this 
conservatory business. This prattling child will 
never let us get on.' Miss Stanley followed, her 
face glowing with impatience. Celia, whom I 
detained, called after her — ' Papa only said there 
was not room in the curricle for three, but if 
'tis only a little way I am sure we could sit — 
could not we, Lucilla?' Lucilla was now hap- 
pily out of hearing. 

Though I was hurt that her delicacy had suf- 
fered so much, yet I own I hugged the little in- 
nocent author of this confusion with additional 
fondness. Sir John's raillery, now that Lucilla 
could be no longer pained by it, was cordially 
received, or rather I was inattentive to every 
object but the one of which my heart was full. 
To be heard, to be accepted, though tacitly, to 
be referred to parents who I knew had no will 
but hers, 

Was such a sacred and homefblt delight, 
Such sober certainty of waking bliss 
As I ne'er felt till now. 

During the remainder of the day I found no 
means of speaking to Mr. Stanley. Always 
frank and cheerful, he neither avoided nor sought 
me, but the arrival of company prevented our 
being thrown together. Luciila appeared at 
dinner as usual : a little graver and more silent, 
but always unaffected, natural and delicate. 
Sir John whispered to me, that she had intreat- 
ed her mother to keep Celia out of the way, till 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



415 



this curricle business was a little got out of her 
head. 



CHAP. XLIII. 

The next morning, as soon as I thought Mr. 
Stanley had retreated to his library, I followed 
him thither. He was busy writing letters. I 
apologized for my intrusion. He laid his papers 
aside, and invited me to sit by him. 

'You are too good, Sir,' said I, 'to receive 
with so much kindness a culprit who appears 
before you ingenuously to a cknowledge thein- 
fraetion of a treaty into which he had the honour 
of entering with you. I fear that a few days 
are wanting of my prescribed month. I had re- 
solved to obey you with the most religious scru- 
pulousness ; but a circumstance trifling in itself, 
has led almost irresistibly to a declaration, which 
in obedience to your commands I had resolved 
to postpone. But though it is somewhat pre- 
mature, I hope, however, you will not condemn 
my precipitancy. I have ventured to tell your 
charming daughter how necessary she is to my 
happiness. She does not reject me. She refers 
me to her father.' 

' You have your peace to make with my 
daughter, I can tell you, Sir,' said Mr. Stanley, 
looking gravely, 'I fear you have mortally of- 
fended her.' I was dreadfully alarmed. ' You 
know not how you afflict me, Sir,' said I ; ' how 
have I offended Miss Stanley?' 'Not Miss Stan- 
ley,' said he, smiling, ' but Miss Celia Stanley,' 
who extremely resents having been banished 
from the drawing-room yesterday evening.' 

'IfCelia's displeasure is all I have to fear, 
Sir, I am most fortunate. Oh, Sir, my happiness, 
the peace of my future life J3 in your hands. 
But first tell me you forgive the violation of my 
promise.' 

' I am willing to believe, Charles,' replied he, 
'that you kept the spirit of your engagement, 
though you broke it in the letter ; and for an 
unpremeditated breach of an obligation of this 
nature, we must not, I believe, be too rigorous. 
Your conduct since your declaration to me, has 
confirmed the affection which your character 
had before excited. You were probably sur- 
prised and hurt at my cold reception of your 
proposal ; a proposal which gave me a deeper 
satisfaction than I can express. Yet I was no 
dissembler in suppressing the pleasure I felt at 
an address so every way desirable. My dear 
Charles, I know a little of human nature. I 
know how susceptible the youthful heart is of 
impressions. I know how apt these impressions 
are to be obliterated ; a new face, a more ad- 
vantageous connexion.' ' Hold, Sir,' said I, in- 
dignantly interrupting him, 'you cannot think 
so meanly of me. You cannot rate the son of 
your friend so low.' 

' I am very far indeed, replied he, ' from 
rating you low. I know you abhor mercenary 
considerations ; but I know also that you are a 
young man, lively, ardent, impressible. I know 
the rapid effect which leisure, retirement, rural 
scenes, daily opportunities of seeing a young 
woman not ugly, of conversing with a young 
woman not disagreeable, may produce on the 
heart, or rather on the imagination. I was 



aware that seeing no other, conversing with no 
other, none at least that, to speak honestly, 
I should consider as a fair competitor, hardly 
left you an unprejudiced judge of the stale of 
your own heart. I was not sure but that this 
sort of easy commerce might produce a feeling 
of complacency which might be mistaken for 
love. I could not consent that mere accident, 
mere leisure, the mere circumstance of being 
thrown together should irrevocably entangle 
either of you. I was desirous of affording you 
time to see, to know, and to judge. I would not 
take advantage of your first emotions. I would 
not take advantage of your friendship for me. 
I would not take advantage of your feeling 
ardently, till I had given you time to judge 
temperately, and examine fairly.' 

I assured him I was equally at a loss to ex- 
press my gratitude of his kindness, and my 
veneration of his wisdom ; and thanked him in 
terms of affectionate energy. 

' My regard for you,' said he, ' is not of yes- 
terday. I have taken a warm interest in your 
character and happiness almost ever since you 
have been in being; and in a way more in- 
timate and personal than you can suspect.' 

So saying he arose, unlocked the drawer of a 
cabinet which stood behind him, and took out a 
large pacquet of letters. He then resumed his 
seat, and holding out the direction on the covers, 
asked me if I was acquainted with the hand- 
writing. A tear involuntarily startled into my 
eye as I exclaimed — 'it is the well known hand 
of my beloved father.' 

' Listen to me attentively,' resumed he. ' You 
are not ignorant that never were two men 
more firmly attached by all the ties which ever 
cemented a Christian friendship, than your la- 
mented father and myself. Our early youth 
was spent in the same studies, the same plea- 
sures, the same society. ' We took sweet coun- 
sel together, and went to the house of God as 
friends.' He condescendingly overlooked my be- 
ing five or six years younger than himself. After 
his marriage with your excellent mother, the 
current of life carried us different ways, but 
without causing any abatement in the warmth 
of our attachment. 

' I continued to spend one month every year 
with him at the Piiory, till I myself married. 
You were then not more than three 01 four years 
old ; and your engaging manners, and sweet 
temper, laid the foundation of an affection which 
had not been diminished by time, and the re- 
ports of your progress. Sedentary habits on the 
part of your father, and a rapidly increasing 
family on mine, kept us stationary at the two 
extremities of the kingdom. I settled at the 
Grove, and both as husband and father have 
been happiest of the happy. 

'As soon as Lucilla was born, your father 
and I, simultaneously, formed a wish that it 
might be possible to perpetuate our friendship 
by the future union of our children.' 

When Mr. Stanley uttered these words, my 
heart beat so fast, and the agitation of my whole 
frame was so visible, that he paused for a mo- 
ment ; but perceiving that I was all ear, and that 
I made a silent motion for him to proceed, he 
went on. 



416 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



' This was a favourite project with us. We 
pursued it however with the moderation of men 
who had a settled sense of the uncertainty of 
all human things, of human life itself; and with 
a strong conviction of the probability that our 
project might never be realized. 

* Without too much indulging the illusions of 
hope, we agreed that there could be no harm in 
educating our children for each other ; in in- 
spiring them with corresponding tastes, similar 
inclinations, and especially with an exact con- 
formity in their religious views. We never in- 
dulged the presumptuous thought of counteract- 
ing providential dispensations, of conquering 
difficulties which time might prove to be insu- 
perable, and above all, we determined never to 
be so weak, or so unjust, as to think of compel- 
ling their affections. We had both studied the 
human heart long enough to know that it is a 
perverse and wayward thing. We were convinced 
that it would not be dictated in a matter which 
involved its dearest interests ; ,we knew that it 
liked to pick out its own happiness in its own 
way.' 

As Mr. Stanley proceeded, my heart melted 
with grateful love for a father who, in making 
such a provision for my happiness, had gene- 
rously left my choice so free. But while my 
conscience seemed to reproach me, as if I had 
not deserved such tenderness, I rejoiced that my 
memory had no specific charge to bring against it. 

' For all these reasons,' continued Mr. Stanley, 
' we mutually agreed to bury our wishes in our 
own bosoms ; to commit the event to Him by 
whom all events are governed ; never to name 
3'ou to each other but in a general way ; to ex- 
cite no factitious liking, to elicit no artificial 
passion, and to kindle neither impatience, curi- 
osity, nor interest. Nothing more than a friend- 
ly family regard was ever manifested, and the 
names of Charles and Lucilla were never men- 
tioned together. 

* In this you have found your advantage. 
Had my daughter been accustomed to hear you 
6poken of with any particularity ; had she been 
conscious that any important consequences 
might have attached to your visit, you would 
have lost the pleasure of seeing her in her na- 
tive simplicity of character. Undesigning and 
artless, I trust she would have been under any 
circumstance, but to have been unreserved and 
open would have been scarcely possible ; nor 
might you, my dear Charles, with your strong 
sense of filial piety, have been able exactly to 
discriminate how much of your attachment 
was choice, how much was duty. The awk- 
wardness of restraint would have diminished 
the pleasure of intercourse to both. 

* Knowing that the childish brother and sister 
sort of intimacy was not the most promising 
mode for the development of your mutual sen- 
timents, we agreed that you should not meet 
till within a year or two of the period when it 
would be proper that the union, if ever, might 
take place. 

' VVe were neither of as of an age or charac- 
ter to indulge very romantic ideas of the doc- 
trine of sympathies. Still we saw no reason 
for excluding such a possibility. If we succeed- 
ed, we knew that we were training two beings 



in a conformity of Christian principles, which, 
if' they did not at once attract affection, would 
not fail to ensure it, should inferior motives first 
influence your mutual liking. And if it failed, 
we should each have educated a Christian, who 
would be likely to carry piety and virtue into 
two other families. Much good would attend 
our success, and no possible evil could attend 
our failure. 

' I could show you, I believe, near a hundred 
letters on each side, of which you were the un- 
conscious subject. Your father, in his last ill- 
ness, returned all mine, to prevent a premature 
discovery, knowing how soon his papers would 
fall into your hands. If it will give you plea- 
sure, you may peruse a correspondence, of 
which, for almost twenty years, you were the 
little hero. In reading my letters you will 
make yourself master of the character of Lu- 
cilla. You will read the history of her mind ; 
you will mark the unfolding of her faculties, and 
the progress of her education. In those of your 
father you will not be sorry to trace back your 
own steps.' 

Here Mr. Stanley making a pause, I bowed 
my grateful acceptance of his obliging offer. 
I was afraid to speak, I was almost afraid to 
breathe, lest I should lose a word of a commu- 
nication so interesting. 

'You now sec,' resumed Mr. Stanley, 'why 
you were sent to Edinburgh. Cambridge and 
Oxford were too near London, and of course too 
near Hampshire, to have maintained the neces- 
sary separation. As soon as you left the Uni- 
versity, your father proposed accompanying you 
on a visit to the Grove. Like fond parents, we 
had prepared each other to expect to see a being 
just such a one as each would have wished for 
the companion of his child. 

' This was to be merely a visit of experiment. 
You were both too young to marry. But we 
were impatient to place you both in a post of 
observation; to see the result of a meeting; 
to mark what sympathy there would be be- 
tween two minds formed with a view to each 
other. 

' But vain were all the projects of man. Oh ! 
blindness to the future ! You doubtless remem- 
ber, that just as every thing was prepared for 
your journey southwards, your dear father was 
seized of the lingering illness of which he died. 
Till almost the last, he was able to write me in 
his intervals of ease, short letters on the favourite 
topic. I remember with what joy his heart di- 
lated, when he told me of your positive refusal 
to leave him, on his pressing you to pursue the 
plan already settled, and to make your visit to 
London and the Grove without him. I will read 
you the passage from his letter.' — He read as 
follows : 

' In vain have I endeavoured to drive this dear 
son for a short time from me. He asked, with 
the indignant feeling of affronted filial piety, if 
I could propose to him any compensation for his 
absence from my sick couch ? ' I make no sa- 
crifice of duty,' said he, ' in preferring you. If 
I make any sacrifice, it is to pleasure.' 

Seeing my eyes overflow with grateful ten- 
derness, Mr. Stanley said, ' if I can find his last 
letter I will shew it you.' Then looking ovor 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



417 



the pacquet,— 'here it is,' said he, putting it into 
my hands with visible emotion. Neither of us 
had strength of voice to be able to read it aloud. 
It was written at several times. 

"Priory, Wednesday, March, 18, 1807. 

1 Stanley — 1 feel that I am dying. Deatli is 
awful, my dear friend, but it is neither surprising 
nor terrible. I have been too long accustomed 
steadily to contemplate it at a distance, to start 
from it now it is near. 

'As a man I have feared death. As a Chris- 
tian, I trust, I have overcome this fear. Why 
should I dread that, which mere reason taught 
me is not an extinction of my being, and which 
revelation has convinced me will be an improve- 
ment of it? An improvement, O how incon- 
ceivable ! 

' For several years I have habituated myself 
every day to reflect for some moments on the 
vanity of life, the certainty of death, the awful- 
ness of judgment, and the duration of eter- 
nity. 

'The separation from my excellent wife is a 
trial from which I should utterly shrink, were I 
not sustained by the Christian hope. When we 
married, we knew that we were not immortal. 
I have endeavoured to familiarize to her and to 
myself the inevitable separation, by constantly 
keeping up in the minds of both the idea that 
one of us must be the survivor. I have endea- 
voured to make that idea supportable by the 
conviction that the survivorship will be short — 
there-union certain — speedy — eternal. O prce- 
clarura diem '.* &c. &c. flow gloriously does 
Christianity exalt the rapture by ennobling the 
objects, of this sublime apostrophe !' 

Friday, the 20th. 
' As to the union of my son with Lucilla, you 
and I, my friend, have long learned from an au- 
thority higher than that classical one, of which 
we have frequently admired the expression, and 
lamented the application, that long views, and 
remote hopes, and distant expectations, become 
not so short-sighted, so short-lived a creature as 
man,t I trust, however, that our plans have been 
tarried on with a complete conviction of this 
brevity ; with an entire acquiescence in the will 
of the great Arbiter of life and death. I have 
told Charles, it is my wish that he should visit 
you soon after my death. I durst not command 
it — for this incomparable youth, who has sacri- 
ficed so much to his father, will find that he has 
a mother worthy of still greater sacrifices. As 
soon as he can. prevail on himself to leave her, 
you will see him. May he and your Lucilla 
behold each other with the eyes, with which, 
each of us views his own child ! If they see 
each other with indifference, never let them 
know our wishes. It would perplex and ham- 
per those to whom we wish perfect freedom of 
thought and action. If they conceive a mutual 
attachment, reveal our project. In such minds, 
it will strengthen that attachment. — The apprp- 

* See this whole beautiful passage in Cicero de Se- 
nectute. 

t Horace, in speaking of the brevity and uncertainty 
of life, seldom fails to produce it as an incentive to sen- 
sual indulgence, See particularly the fourth and ele- 
venth Odes of the first book. 
Vol. Tl. 2 D 



bation of a living and the desire of a deceased 
parent will sanctify their union. 

' I must break off through weakness.' 

' Monday, 23. 
' I resume my pen, which I thought I had 
held for the last time. May God bless and di- 
rect our children ! Infinite wisdom permits me 
not to see their union. Indeed my interest in 
all earthly things weakens. Even my solici- 
tude for this event is somewhat diminished. 
The most important circumstance, if it have 
not God for its object, now seems comparatively 
little. The longest life, with all its concerns, 
shrinks to a point in the sight of a dying man 
whose eye is filled by eternity. Eternity ! Oh, 
my friend, Eternity is a depth which no geome- 
try can measure, no arithmetic calculate, no 
imagination conceive, no rhetoric describe. Tho 
eye of a dying Christian seems gifted to pene- 
trate depths hid from the wisdom of philosophy. 
It looks athwart the dark valley without dismay, 
cheered by the bright scene beyond it. It looks 
with a kind of chastised impatience to that land 
where happiness will be only holiness perfected. 
There all the promises of the gospel will be ac- 
complished. There afflicted virtue will rejoice 
at its past trials, and acknowledge their sub- 
servience to its present bliss. There the secret 
self-denials of the righteous shall be recognized 
and rewarded — and all the hopes of the Chris- 
tian shall have their complete consummation.' 

Saturday, 28<A. 
' My weakness increases — I have written this 
at many intervals. My body faints, but in tho 
Lord Jehovah is everlasting strength. Oh, Stan- 
ley ! if pain is trying, if death is awful to him, 
who knows in whom he has trusted; how is 
pain endured, how is death encountered by those 
who have no such support ?' 

Tuesday, the 31st. 
'I am better to-day — If I experience little of. 
that rapture which some require, as the sign of 
their acceptance, I yet have a good hope through 
grace. Nay there are moments when I rejoice 
with joy unspeakable. I would not produce this 
joy as any certain criterion of my safety, be- 
cause, from the nature of my disease, there are 
also moments when my spirits sink, and this 
might equally furnish arguments against my 
state, to those who decide by frames and feel- 
ings. I think my faith as sound, my pardon 
as sure, when these privileges are withdrawn, 
as when I enjoy them. No depression of spirits 
can make my evidences less solid, though it 
may render the review of them less delightful.' 

Friday, 3d April. 
'Stanley! my departure is at hand. My eter- 
nal redemption draweth nigh. My hope is full 
of immortality. This is my comfort — not that 
my sins are few or small, but that they are, I 
humbly trust, pardoned, through him who loved 
me, and gave himself for me. Faithful is he 
that has promised, and his promises are not-too 
great to be made good — for Omniscience is my 
promisor, and I have Omnipotence itself for my 
security. — Adieu ! 



418 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



On the cover was written, in Mr. Stanley's hand 
— he died three days after ! 



It is impossible to describe the mingled and 
conflicting emotions of my soul, while I perused 
this letter. Gratitude that I had possessed such 
a father — sorrow that I had lost him — transport 
in anticipating an event which had been his 
earnest wish for almost twenty years — regret 
that he was not permitted to witness it — devout 
joy that he was in a state so superior to even 
my sense of happiness — a strong feeling of the 
uncertainty and brevity of all happiness — a so- 
lemn resolution that I would never act unworthy 
of such a father — a fervent prayer that I might 
be enabled to keep that resolution: — all these 
emotions so agitated and divided my whole 
mind as to render me unfit for any society, even 
for that of Lucilla. I withdrew, gratefully press- 
ing Mr. Stanley's hand ; he kindly returned 
the pressure, but neither of us attempted to 
speak. 

He silently put my father's packet into my 
hands. I shut myself into my apartment, and 
read for three hours, letters for which I hope to 
be the better id time and in eternity. I found in 
them a treasure of religious wisdom, excellent 
maxims of human prudence, a thorough ac- 
quaintance with life and manners, a keen in- 
sight into human nature in the abstract, and a 
nice discrimination of individual characters; 
admirable documents for general education, the 
application of those documents to my particular 
turn of character, and diversified methods for 
improving it. — The pure delight to which I 
looked forward in reading these letters with Lu- 
cilla, soon became my predominant feeling. 

I returned to the company with a sense of 
felicity, which the above feelings and reflections 
had composed into a soothing tranquillity. My 
joy was sobered without being abated. I re- 
ceived the cordial congratulations of my friends. 
Mrs. Stanley behaved to me with increased af- 
fection, she presented me to her daughter, with 
whom I afterwards passed two hours. This in- 
terview left me nothing to desire, but that my 
gratitude to the Almighty Dispenser of happi- 
ness might bear in some little proportion to his 
blessings. 

As I was passing through the hall, after din- 
ner, I spied little Celia peeping out of the door 
of the children's apartment, in hope of seeing 
me pass. She flew to me, and begged I would 
take her into the company. As I knew the in- 
terdict was taken oft, I carried her into the sa- 
loon where they were sitting. She ran into Lu- 
cilla's arms and said, in a voice which she meant 
for a whisper, but loud enough to be heard by 
the whole company, ' Do, dear Lucilla, forgive 
me, I will never say another word about the 
curricle, and you shan't go to the Priory since 
you don't like it.' Lucilla found means to si- 
lence her, by showing her the pictures in the 
• Peacock at Home ;' and without looking up to 
observe the general smile, contrived to attract 
the sweet child's attention to this beautiful little 
poem, in spite of Sir John, who did his utmost to 
widen the mischief. 



CHAP. XLIV. 

The next day in the afternoon Dr. Barlovr 
called on us. By the uncommon seriousness of 
his countenance I saw something was the mat- 
ter. ' You will be shocked,' said he, ' to hear 
that Mr. Tyrrel is dying, if not actually dead. 
He was the night before last, seized with a pa- 
ralytic stroke. He lay a long time without sense 
or motion ; a delirium followed. In a short in- 
terval of reason he sent earnestly imploring to 
see me. Seldom have I witnessed so distress- 
ing a scene. 

' As I entered the room he fixed his glassy 
eyes full upon me, quite unconscious who I was, 
and groaned out in an inward hollow voice — 
' Go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl, for 
your miseries are come upon you.' I asked how 
he did : — he replied still from St. James — ' How ? 
why my gold and silver are cankered, the rust 
of them shall witness against me ; they eat up 
my flesh as it were fire.' 

' I was astonished,' continued Dr. Barlow, ' to 
see so exact a memmory coupled with so wild 
an imagination. 'Be composed, Sir,' said I, 
seeing he began to recollect me, ' this deep con- 
trition is a favourable symptom.' 'Dr. Barlow,' 
replied he, grasping my hand with a vehemence 
which corresponded with his look, ' have you 
never heard of riches kept by the owner thereof 
to his hurt ? Restitution ! Doctor, restitution ! — 
and it must be immediate, or it will be too late.' 
I was now deeply alarmed. 'Surely, Sir,' said 
I, 'you are not unhappily to adopt St. James's 
next words — ' forgive me ; — but you cannot 
surely have ' defrauded.' ' ' O no, no,' cried he, 
' I have been what the world calls honest, but 
not what the Judge of quick and dead will call 
so. The restitution I must make is not to the 
rich, for any thing I have taken from them, but 
to the poor, for what I have kept from them. 
Hardness of heart would have been but a com 
mon sin in a common man; but I have been a 
professor, Doctor, I will not say a hypocrite, for 
I deceived myself as much as others. But oh ! 
how hollow has my profession been !' 

' Here seeing him ready to faint,' continued 
Dr. Barlow, ' I imposed silence on him, till he 
had taken a cordial. This revived him, and he 
went on. 

' " I was miserable in my early course of pro- 
fligacy. I was disappointed in my subsequent 
schemes of ambition. I expected more from the 
world than it had to give. But I continued to 
love it with all its disappointments. Under what- 
ever new shape it presented its temptations, it 
was still my idol. I had always loved money ; 
but other passions more turbulent had been 
hitherto predominant. These I at length re. 
nounce. Govetousness now became my reign- 
ing sin. Still it was to the broken cistern that 
I cleaved. Still it was on the broken reed that 
I leaned. Still I was unhappy, I was at a loss 
whither to turn for comfort. Of religion I 
scarcely knew the first principles. 

' " In this state I met with a plausible, but 
ill-informed man. He had zeal, and a sort of 
popular eloquence ; but he wanted knowledge, 
and argument, and soundness. I was, however 
struck with his earnestness, and with the im 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



419 



portance of some truths which, though common 
to others, were new to me. But his scheme was 
hollow and imperfect, and his leading princi- 
ples subversive of all morality."' 

' Here Mr. Tyrrel paused. I entreated him 
to spare himself; but after a few deep groans 
he proceeded. 

'"Whether his opinions had made himself 
immoral I never inquired. It is certain they 
were calculated to make his hearers so. Instead 
of lowering my spiritual disease, by prescribing 
repentance and humility, he inflamed it by cor- 
dials. All was high — all was animating — all 
was safe ! On no better ground than my avow- 
ed discontent, he landed me at once in a secu- 
rity so much the more fatal, as it laid asleep all 
apprehension. He mistook my uneasiness for a 
complete change. My talking of sin was made 
a substitute for renouncing it. Proud of a rich 
man for a convert, he led me to mistake convic- 
tion for conversion. I was buoyed up with an 
unfounded confidence. I adopted a religion 
which promised pardon without repentance, hap- 
piness without obedience, and heaven without 
holiness. I had found a short road to peace. I 
never inquired if it were a safe one." ' 

' The poor man now fell back, unable to speak 
for some minutes. Then rallying again, he re- 
sumed, in a still more broken voice. 

' " Here I stop short. My religion had made 
no change in my heart, it therefore made none 
in my life. I read good books, but they were 
low and fanatical in their language, and antino- 
mian in their principle. But my religious ig- 
norance was so deplorable, that their novelty 
caught strong hold of me." ' 

' I now desired him,' continued Dr. Barlow, 
'not to exhaust himself farther. I prayed with 
him. He was struck with awe at the holy ener- 
gy in the office for the sick, which was quite 
new to him. He owned he had not suspected 
the church to be so evangelical. This is no un- 
common error. Hot-headed and superficial men, 
when they are once alarmed, are rather caught 
by phrases than sentiments, by terms than prin- 
ciples. It is this ignorance of the doctrines of 
the Bible and of the church in which men of the 
world unhappily live, that makes it so difficult 
for us to address them under sickness and afflic- 
tion. We have no common ground on which to 
stand ; no intelligible medium through which to 
communicate with them. It is having both a 
language and a science to learn at once.' 

In the morning Dr. Barlow again visited Mr. 
Tyrrel. He found him still in great perturba- 
tion of mind. Feeling himself quite sensible he 
had begun to make his will. He had made 
large bequests to several charities. Dr. Barlow 
highly approved of this ; but reminded him, that 
though he himself would never recommend cha- 
rity as a commutation or a bribe ; yet some im- 
mediate acts of bounty, while there was a possi- 
bility of his recovery, would be a better earnest 
of his repentance, than the bequeathing his 
whole estate when it could be of no further use 
to himself. He was all acquiescence. 

He desired to see Mr. Stanley. He recom- 
mended to him his nephew, over whose conduct 
Mr. Stanley promised to have an eye. He made 
him and Dr. Barlow joint executors. He offered 



to leave them half his fortune. With their usual 
disinterestedness they positively refused to ac- 
cept it, and suggested to him a better mode of 
bestowing it. 

He lifted up his hands and eyes, saying, 'This 
is indeed Christianity ; pure and undefiled reli- 
gion ! If it he not faith, it is its fruits. If it be 
not the procuring cause of salvation it is one 
evidence of a safe state. O, Mr. Stanley, our 
last conversation has sunk deep into my heart. 
You had begun to pull the veil from my eyes ; 
but nothing tears the whole mask off, like the 
hand of death, like impending judgment. How 
little have I considered eternity ! Judgment 
was not in all my thoughts — 1 had got rid of the 
terrors of responsibility ! O, Doctor Barlow, is 
there any hope for me ?' 

' Sir,' replied the Doctor, 'your sin is not great- 
er because you feel it ; so far from it, your dan- 
ger diminishes in proportion as it is discerned. 
Your condition is not worse, but better, because 
you are become sensible of your sins and wants. 
I judge far more favourably of your state now, 
than when you thought so well of it. Your 
sense of the evil of your own heart is the best 
proof of your sincerity ; your repentance towards 
God is the best evidence of your faith in our 
Lord Jesus Christ.' 

' Doctor, it is too late,' replied the sick man. 
' How can I shew that my repentance is sin- 
cere ? In this miserable condition how can I 
glorify God ?' 

' Sir,' replied Dr. Barlow, • you must lay anew 
the whole foundation of your faith. That Sa- 
viour whom you had unhappily adopted as a 
substitute for virtue, must be received as a pro- 
pitiation for sin. If you recover, you must de- 
vote yourself, spirit, soul, and body to his ser- 
vice. You must adorn his gospel by your con- 
duct ; you must plead his cause in your conver- 
sation ; you must recommend his doctrines by 
your humility ; you must dedicate every talent 
God has given you to his glory. If he continue 
to visit you with sickness, this will call new and 
more, difficult Christian graces into exercise. 
If by this severe affliction you lose all ability to 
do God actual service, you may perhaps glorify 
him more effectually by casting yourself entire- 
ly on him for support, by patient suffering for 
his sake who suffered every thing for yours. 
You will have an additional call for trusting in 
the divine promises ; an additional occasion for 
imitating the divine example ; a stronger mo- 
tive for saying practically, the cup which my 
Father has given me shall I not drink it.' 

' O, Doctor,' said the unhappy man, ' my re- 
morse arises not merely from my having ne- 
glected this or that moral duty, this or that act 
of charity, but from the melancholy evidence 
which that neglect affords that my religion was 
not sincere.' 

' I repeat, Sir,' said Dr. Barlow, ' that your 
false security and unfounded hope were more 
alarming than your present distress of mind. 
Examine your own heart, fear not to probe it to 
the bottom ; it will be a salutary smart. As 
you are able, I will put you into a course of 
reading the Scriptures, with a view to promote 
self-examination. Try yourself by the strait 
rule they hold out, pray fervently that the At 



420 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



mighty may assist you by his Spirit, and ear- 
nestly endeavour to suffer as well as to do his 
whole will.' 

Dr. Barlow says he thinks there is now as 
little prospect of his perfect recovery, as of his 
immediate dissolution ; but as far as one human 
creature can judge of the state of another, he 
believes the visitation will be salutary. 



CHAP. XLV. 

As we were setting at supper, after Dr. Bar- 
low had left us, Lady Belfield, turning to me, 
said, ' she had had a governess proposed to her 
from a quarter I should little expect to hear.' 
She then produced a letter, informing her that 
Mr. Fentham was lately found dead in his bed 
of an apoplexy. That he had died insolvent ; 
and that his large income ceasing with his life, 
his family were plunged into the utmost distress. 
That Mrs. Fentham experienced the most mor- 
tifying neglect from her numerous and noble 
<iends, who now, that she could no longer amuse 
hem with balls, concerts, and suppers, revenged 
bemselves by wondering what she could ever 
rnean by giving them at all, and declaring what 

bore it had always been to them to go to her 
Darties. They now insisted that people ought 
to confine themselves to their own station, and 
live within their income, though they themselves 
had lifted her above her station, and had led her 
to exceed her income. 

• The poor woman,' continued Lady Belfield, 
' is in extreme distress. Her magnificently fur- 
nished house will go but a very little way to- 
wards satisfying her creditors. That house, 
whose clamorous knocker used to keep the 
neighbourhood awake, is already reduced to utter 
stillness. The splendid apartments, brilliant 
with lustres and wax-lights, and crowded with 
company, are become a frightful solitude, terri- 
fying to those to whom solitude has not one con- 
solation or resource to offer. Poor Mrs. Fen- 
tham is more wounded by this total desertion 
of those whom she so sumptuously entertained, 
and so obsequiously flattered, than by her actual 
wants.' 

1 It is,' said Sir John, 'a fine exemplification 
f the friendships of the world, 

Confederacies in vice, or leagues in pleasure. 

'Lady Denham, when applied to,' resumed 
Lady Belfield, 'said, that she was extremely 
sorry for them ; but as she thought extravagance 
the greatest of all faults, it would look like an 
encouragement to imprudence if she did any 
thing for them. Their extravagance, however, 
had never been objected to by her, till the foun- 
tain which supplied it was stopped : and she had 
for years made no scruple of winning money 
almost nightly from the woman whose distresses 
she now refused to relieve. Lady Denham far- 
ther assigned the misery into which the elope- 
ment of her darling child with Signior Squallini 
had brought her, as an additional reason for 
withholding her kindness from Mrs. Fentham.' 

' It is a reason,' said I, interrupting Lady Bel- 
field, ' which, in a right-turned mind, would have 



a directly contrary operation. When domestic 
calamities overtake ourselves, is it not the pre- 
cise moment for holdingout a hand to the wretch- 
ed ? for diminishing the misery abroad which at 
home may be irretrievable ? 

' Lady Bab Lawless, to whom Mrs. Fentham 
applied for assistance, coolly advised her to send 
her daughters to service, saying, ' that she knew 
of no acquirement they had which would be 
of any use to them, except their skill in hair- 
dressing.' 

' It seemed a cruel reproach from a professed 
friend, said Sir John, and yet it is a literal truth. 
I know not what can be done for them, or for 
what they arc fit. Their accomplishments might 
be turned to some account, if they were accom- 
panied with real knowledge, useful acquire- 
ments, or sober habits. Mrs. Fentham wishes 
us to recommend them as governesses. But can 
I conscientiously recommend to others, girls 
with whom I could not trust my own family ? 
Had they been taught to look no higher than 
the clerks of their father, who had been a clerk 
himself, they might have been happy ; but those 
very men will now think them as much beneath 
themselves, as the young ladies lately thought 
they were above them.' 

'I have often,' said Mr. Stanley, 'been amused 
with observing what a magic transformation the 
same event produces on two opposite classes of 
characters. The misfortunes of their acquaint- 
ance convert worldly friends into instantaneous 
strictness of principle. The faults of the dis- 
tressed are produced as a plea for their own 
hard-hearted covetousness. While that very 
misfortune so relaxes the strictness of good men, 
that the faults are forgotten in the calamity ; 
and they, who had been perpetually warning the 
prodigal of his impending ruin, when that ruin 
comes are the first to relieve him. The worldly 
friend sees only the errors of the sufferer, the 
Christian sees only his distress.' 

It was agreed among us, that some small con- 
tribution must be added to a little sum, that had 
been already raised, for their immediate relief; 
but that nothing was so difficult, as effectually 
to serve persons whose views were so dispropor- 
tioned to their deserts, and whose habits would 
be too likely to carry corruption into families 
who might receive them from charitable mo- 
tives. 

The conversation then fell insensibly on the 
pleasure we had enjoyed since we had been to- 
gether ; and on the delights of rational society, 
and confidential intercourse such as ours had 
been, where minds mingled, and affection and" 
esteem were reciprocal. Mr. Stanley said many 
things which evinced how happily his piety was 
combined with the most affectionate tenderness 
of heart. Indeed I had always been delighted 
to observe in him, a quality which is not so com- 
mon as it is thought to be, a thorough capacity 
for friendship. 

' My dear Stanley,' said Sir John, ' it is of the 
very essence of human enjoyments, that they 
must have an end. I observe with regret, that 
the time assigned for our visit is more than 
elapsed. We have prolonged it beyond our in- 
tention, beyond our convenience : but we have, 
I trust, been imbibing principles, stealing habits, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



421 



and borrowing plans, which will ever make us 
consider this visit as an important era in our 
lives. 

' My excellent Caroline is deeply affected with 
all she has seen and heard at the Grove. We 
must now leave it, though not without reluc- 
tance. We must go and endeavour to imitate 
what, six weeks ago, we almost feared to con- 
template. Lady Belfield and I have compared 
notes. On the most mature deliberation, we 
agree that we have lived long enough to the 
world. We agree that it is time to begin to live 
to ourselves, and to Him who made us. We 
propose in future to make our winters in London 
much shorter. We intend to remove early every 
spring to Beechwood, whicli we will no longer 
consider as a temporary residence, but as our 
home; we will supply it with every thing that 
may make it interesting, and improving to us all. 
Wc are resolved to educate our children in the 
fear of God. Out fondness for them is rather in- 
creased than diminished ; but in the exercise of 
that fondness, we will remember that we are to 
train them up for immortality. We will watch 
over them as creatures for whose eternal well 
being a vast responsibility will attach to our- 
selves. 

' In our new plan of life, we shall have fewer 
sacrifices to make than most people in our situa- 
tion ; for we have long felt a growing indiffer- 
ence for things which we appeared to enjoy. 
Of the world, we are only going to give up that 
part which is not worth keeping, and of which 
we are really weary. In securing our real 
friends, we shall not regret, if we drop some ac- 
quaintance by the way. The wise and the 
worthy we shall more than ever cherish. In 
your family, we have enjoyed those true plea- 
sures which entail no repentance. That cheer- 
fulness which alone is worthy of accountable 
beincs, we shall industriously maintain in our 
own. I bless God if we have not so many steps 
to tread back, as some others have, who are 
entering, upon principle, on a new course of life. 

• We have always endeavoured, though with 
much imperfection, to fill some duties to each 
other, to our children, to our friends, and to the 
poor. But of the prime duty, the main spring 
of action and of all moral goodness, duty to God, 
we have not been sufficiently mindful. I hope 
we have at length learnt to consider Him as the 
fountain of all good, and the gospel of his Son, 
as the foantain of all hope. This new princi- 
ple, I am persuaded, will never impair our cheer- 
fulness^it will only fix it on a solid ground. By 
purifjH^r the motive it will raise the enjoyment. 

' But if we have not so many habits to cor- 
rect as poor Carlton had, I question if we have 
not as many difficulties to meet in another way. 
His loose course was discreditable. His vices 
made him stand ill with the world. He would 
therefore acquire nothing but credit in chang- 
ing his outward practice. Lady Belfield and I, 
on the contrary, stand rather too well with the 
world. We had just that external regularity, 
Lhat cool indifference about our own spiritual 
improvement, and the wrong courses of our 
friend*, which procure regard, because they do 
not interfere with others, nor excite jealousy for 
ourselves. But we have now to encounter that 



censure, which we have perhaps hitherto been 
too solicitous to avoid. It will still be our trial, 
but I humbly trust that it will be no longer our 
snare. Our morality pleased, because it seemed 
to proceed merely from a sense of propriety ; 
our strictness will offend, when it is found to 
spring from a principle of religion. 

' To what tendency in the heart of man, my 
dear Stanley, is it owing, that religion is com- 
monly seen to excite more suspicion than the 
want of it ? When a man of the world meets 
with a gay, thoughtless, amusing person, he 
seldom thinks of enquiring whether such a one 
be immoral, or an unbeliever, or a profligate, 
though the bent of his conversation rather leans 
that way. Satisfied with what he finds him, ho 
feels little solicitude to ascertain what he really 
is. But no sooner does actual piety show itself 
in any man, than your friends are putting you 
on your guard ; — there is instantly a suggestion, 
a hint, a suspicion. ' Does he not carry things 
too far ? ' Is he not righteous over much ?' ' Is 
he not intemperate in his zeal ?' ' Above all 
things is he sincere V and in short — for that is 
the centre in which all the lines of suspicion and 
reprobation meet, ' Is he not a methodist V 

'I trust, however, that, through divine grace 
our minds will be fortified against all attacks 
on this our weak side ; this pass through which 
the sort of assaults most formidable to us will 
be likely to enter. I was mentioning this dan- 
ger to Caroline this morning. She opened her 
Bible, over which she now spends much of her 
solitary time, and with an emphasis foreign 
from her usual manner read, 

' Cease ye from man, whose breath is in his 
nostrils, for wherein is he to be accounted of?' 

As Sir John repeated these words, I saw Lu- 
cilla, who was sitting next Lady Belfield, snatch 
one of her hands and kiss it, with a rapture 
which she had no power to controul. It was 
evident that nothing but our presence restrained 
her from rising to embrace her friend. Her fine 
eyes glistened, but seeing that I observed her, 
she gently let go the hand she held, and tried to 
look composed. I cannot describe the chastised 
but not less fervent joy of Mr. and Mrs. Stanley. 
Their looks expressed the affectionate interest 
they took in Sir John's honest declaration. 
Their hearts overflowed with gratitude to Him 
without whom, ' nothing is strong, nothing is 
holy.' For my own part, I felt myself raised 

Above this visible diurnal sphere. 

Sir John afterwards said, ' I begin more and 
more to see the scantiness of all morality which 
has not the love of God for its motive. That 
virtue will not carry us safely, and will not carry 
us far, which looks to human estimation-as its 
reward. As it was a false and inadequate prin- 
ciple which first set it agoing, it will always 
stop short of the true ends of goodness. Do 
not think, my dear Stanley,' continued he, 'that 
I fancy it is only our habits which want im- 
proving. Dr. Barlow has convinced me that 
there must be a mutation of the whole man: 
that the change in our practice must grow out 
of a new motive; not merely out of an amended 
principle, but a new principle ; not an improve- 



422 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ment in some particulars, but a general deter- 
mining change.' 

' My dear Belfield,' replied Mr. Stanley, ' all 
reformation short of this, though it may obtain 
credit, brings neither peace nor acceptance. 
This change shows itself, gradually perhaps, but 
unequivocally, by enlightening the understand- 
ing, awakening the conscience, purifying the 
affections, subduing the will, reforming the life.' 

Lady Belfield expressed, with a sweet humi- 
lity, her deep conviction of the truth of these re- 
marks. After some farther discussion, she said, 
'Sir John, I have been seriously thinking that 
I ought not to indulge in the expense of this in- 
tended conservatory. We will, if you please, 
convert the money to the building a charity 
school. I cannot consent to incur such a super- 
fluous expense merely for my amusement.' 

' My dear Caroline,' replied Sir John, ' through 
the undeserved goodness of God, my estate is so 
large, and through your excellent management 
it is so unimpaired, that we will not give up the 
conservatory, unless Mr. Stanley thinks we 
ought to give it up. But we will adopt Lucilla's 
idea of combining a charity with an indulgence 
— we will associate the charity school with the 
conservatory. This union will be a kind of 
monument to our friends at the Grove, from 
whom you have acquired the love of plants, and 
I of religious charity.' 

We all looked with anxious expectation at 
Mr. Stanley. He gave it as his opinion, that as 
Lady Belfield was now resolved to live the greater 
part of the year in the country, she ought to 
have some amusements in lieu of those she was 
going to give up. ' Costly decorations and ex- 
pensive gardens,' continued he, ' at a place 
where the proprietors do not so much as intend 
to reside, have always appeared to me among 
the infatuations of opulence. To the expenses 
which they do not want, it is adding an expense 
which they do not see. But surely, at a man- 
sion where an affluent family actually live, all 
reasonable indulgences should be allowed. And 
where a garden and green-house are to supply 
to the proprietor, the place of the abdicated 
theatre and ball room ; and especially when it is 
to be a means in her hands of attaching her 
children to the country, and of teaching them to 
love home, I declare myself in favour of the 
conservatory.' 

Lucilla's eyes sparkled, but she said nothing. 

' It would be unfair,' continued Mr. Stanley, 
'to blame too severely those, who, living con- 
stantly in the country, give a little into its ap- 
propriate pleasures. The real objects of censure 
seem to be those who, grafting bad taste on bad 
habits, bring into the country the amusements 
of the town, and superadd to such as are local, 
and natural, and innocent, such as are foreign, 
artificial, and corrupt.' 

' My dear Stanley,' said Sir John, ' we have 
resolved to indemnify our poor neighbours for 
two injuries which we have been doing them. 
The one is, by our having lived so little among 
them : for I have now learnt, that the mere act 
of residence is a kind of charity, even in the un- 
charitable, as it necessarily causes much money 
to be spent, even where little is given. The 
other is, that we will endeavour to make up for 



our past indifference to their spiritual concern! 
by now acting as if we were aware that the poo. 
have souls as well as bodies ; and that, in the 
great day of account, the care of both will at- 
tach to onr responsibility.' 

Such a sense of sober joy seemed to pervade 
our little parly, that we were not aware that the 
night was far advanced. Our minds were too 
highly wrought for much loquacity, when Phoebe 
suddenly exclaimed, ' Papa, why is it that hap- 
piness does not make one merry ? I never was 
half so happy in my life, and yet I can hardly 
forbear crying : and I believe it is catching, Sir, 
for look, Lucilla is not much wiser than myself.' 

The next day but one after this conversation, 
our valuable friends left us. Our separation was 
softened by the prospect of a speedy meeting. 
The day before they set out, Lady Belfield made 
an earnest request to Mr. and Mrs. Stanley, 
that they would have the goodness to receive 
Fanny Stokes into their family for a few months, 
previous to her entering theirs as governess. 
'I can think of no method so likely,' continued 
she, ' to raise the tone of education in my own 
family, as the transfusion into it of your spirit, 
and the adoption of your regulations.' — Mr. and 
Mrs. Stanley most cheerfully acceded to the 
proposal. 

Sir John said, ' I was meditating the same re- 
quest, but with an additional clause tacked to 
it, that of sending our eldest girl with Fanny, 
that the child also may get imbued with some- 
thing of your family spirit, and be broken into 
better habits than she has acquired from our 
hitherto relaxed discipline.' This proposal was 
also cordially approved. 



CHAP. XLVL 

Dr. Barlow came to the Grove to take leave 
of our friends. He found Sir John and I sitting 
in the library with Mr. Stanley. ' As I came 
from Mr. Tyrrel's,' said the Doctor, ' I met Mr. 
Flam going to see him. He seemed so anxious 
about his old friend, that a wish strongly pre- 
sented itself to my mind that the awful situation 
of the sick man might be salutary to him. 

' Jt is impossible to say,' continued he, l what 
injury religion has suffered from the'opposite 
characters of these two men. Flam, who gives 
himself no concern about the matter, is kind 
and generous ; while Tyrrel, who has made a 
high profession, is mean and sordid. .Jt has 
been said, of what use is religion, when rijbrality 
has made Mr. Flam a better man than religion 
makes Mr. Tyrrel ? Thus men of the world 
reason! But nothinsr can be more false than 
their conclusions. Flam is naturally an open, 
warm hearted man, but incorrect in many re- 
spects, and rather loose in his principles. His 
natural good propensities religion would have 
improved into solid virtues, and would have 
cured the more exceptionable parts of his cha- 
racter. But from religion he stands aloof. 

' Tyrrel is naturally narrow and selfish. Re- 
ligion has not made, but found him such. But 
what a religion has he adopted ! A mere assump- 
tion of terms ; a dead, inoperative, uninfluencing 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



423 



notion, which he has taken up : not, I hope, with 
a view to deceive others, but by which he has 
grossly deceived himself. He had heard that 
religion was a cure for an uneasy mind ; but he 
did not attend to the means by which the cure 
is effected, and it relieved not him. 

'The corrupt principle whence his vices pro- 
ceeded was not subdued. He did not desire to 
subdue it, because in the struggle he must have 
parted with what he resolved to keep. He adopt, 
ed what he believed was a cheap and easy reli- 
gion ; little aware that the great fundamental 
scripture doctrine of salvation by Jesus Christ 
was a doctrine powerfully opposing our cor- 
ruptions, and involving in its comprehensive re- 
quirements, a new heart and a new life.' 

At this moment Mr. Flam called at the Grove. 
1 1 am just come from Tyrrel,' said he. ' I fear 
it is nearly over with him. Poor Ned ! he is 
very low, almost in despair. I always told him 
that the time would come when he would be glad 
to exchange notions for actions. I am grieved 
for him. The remembrance of a kind deed or 
two done to a poor tenant, would be some com- 
fort to him now, at a time when every man stands 
in need of comfort.' 

'Sir,' said Dr. Barlow, ' the scene which I 
have lately witnessed at Mr. Tyrrel's makes me 
serious. If you and I were alone, I am afraid 
it would make me old. I will, however, sup- 
press the answer I was tempted to make you, 
because I should not think it prudent or respect- 
ful to utter before company what, I am persuaded 
your good sense would permit me to say were 
we alone.' 

• Doctor,' replied the good tempered, but 
thoughtless man, ' don't stand upon ceremony. 
You know I love a debate, and I insist on your 
saying what was in your mind to say. I don't 
fear getting out of any scrape you can bring me 
into. You are too well bred to offend, and, I 
hope, I am too well-natured to be easily offend- 
ed. Stanley, I know, always takes your side. 
Sir John, I trust, will take mine ; and so will the 
young man here, if he is like most other young 
men.' 

' Allow me then to observe,' returned Dr. Bar- 
low, 'that if Mr. Tyrrel has unhappily deceived 
himself, by resting too exclusively on a mere 
speculative faith; a faith which by his conduct 
did not evince itself to be of the right sort; yet, 
on the other hand, a dependence for salvation on 
our own benevolence, oujt own integrity, or any 
other good quality we may possess, is an error 
not less fatal, and far more usual. Sucli a de- 
pendence does as practically set at nought the 
Redeemer's sacrifice, as the avowed rejection of 
the infidel. Honesty and benevolence are among 
the noblest qualities ; but where the one is prac- 
tised for reputation, and the other from mere 
feeling, they are sadly delusive as to the ends 
of practical goodness. They have both indeed 
their reward ; integrity in the credit it brings, 
and benevolence in the pleasure it yields. Both 
are beneficial to society ; both, therefore, are po- 
litically valuable. Bjth sometimes lead me to 
admire the ordinations of that over-ruling power, 
which often uses as instruments of public good, 
men who acting well in many respects, are es- 
sentially useful to others ; but who, acting from 



motives merely human, forfeit for themselves 
that high reward which those virtues would ob- 
tain, if they were evidences of a lively faith, and 
the results of Christian principle. Think me not 
severe, Mr. Flam. To be personal is always 
extremely painful to me.' 

'No, no, Doctor,' replied he, 'I know you mean 
well. ' f is your trade to give good counsel ; 
and your lot I suppose to have it seldom follow- 
ed. I shall hear you without being angry. You 
in your turn must not be angry if I hear you 
without being better.' 

' I respect you, Sir, too much,' replied Dr. 
Barlow, ' to deceive you in a matter of such in- 
finite importance. For one man who errs on 
Mr. Tyrrel's principle, a hundred err on yours. 
His mistake is equally pornicious, but is not 
equally common. I must repeat it. For one 
whose soul is endangered through an unwar- 
rantable dependance on the Saviour, multitudes 
are destroyed not only by the open rejection, 
but through a fatal neglect of the salvation 
wrought by him. Many more perish through a 
presumptuous confidence in their own merits, 
than through an unscriptural trust in the merits 
of Christ.' 

' Well, Doctor,' replied Mr. Flam, ' I must 
say, that I think an ounce of morality will go 
farther toward making up my account, than a 
ton of religion, for which no one but myself 
would be the better.' 

' My dear Sir,' said Dr. Barlow, ' I will not 
presume to determine between the exact com- 
parative proportions of two ingredients both of 
which are so indispensable in the composition 
of a Christian. I dare not hazard the assertion 
which of the two is the more perilous state ; but 
I think I am justified in saying which of the 
two cases occurs most frequently.' 

Mr. Flam said, ' I should be sorry, Dr. Bar- 
low, to find out at this time of day that I have 
been all my life long in an error.' 

' Believe me, Sir,' said Dr. Barlow, ' it is better 
to find it out now, than at a still later period. 
One good quality can never be made to supply 
the absence of another. There are no substi- 
tutes in this warfare. Nor can all the good 
qualities put together, if we could suppose them 
to unite in one man, and to exist without reli- 
gion, stand proxy for the death of Christ. If 
they could so exist, it would be in the degree 
only, and not in the perfection required by that 
law which says, do this and live. So kind a 
neighbour as you are, so honest a gentleman, 
so generous a master as you are allowed to be, I 
cannot, Sir, think without pain of your losing 
the reward of such valuable qualities, by your 
placing your hope of eternal happiness in the 
exercise of them. Believe me, Mr. Flam, it is 
easier for a compassionate man, if he be not re- 
ligious, to ' give all his goods to the poor,' than 
to bring every thought, ' nay than to bring any 
thought' into captivity to the obedience of Christ ! 
But be assured, if we give ever so much with our 
hands, while we withhold our hearts from God, 
though we may do much good to others, we do 
none to ourselves.' 

1 Why, surely,' said Mr. Flam, 'you don't mean 
to insinuate that I should bo in a safer state if I 
never did a kind thing !' 



424 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



' Quite the contrary,' replied Dr. Barlow, ' but | rare vice among persons of your station of life. 
I could wish to see your good actions exalted, Among the vulgar, indeed, I fear it is not so 
by springing from a higher principle, I mean the j rare. In neighbourhoods where there is much 



love of God ; ennobled by being practised to a 
higher end, and purified by your renouncing all 
self-complacency in the performance.' 

' But is there not less danger, Sir, said Mr. 
Flam, ' in being somewhat proud of what one 
really does, than in doing nothing ? And is 'it 
not more excusable to be a little satisfied with 
what one really is, than in hypocritically pre- 
tending to be what one is not V 

' I must repeat,' returned Dr. Barlow, ' that I 
cannot exactly decide on the question of relative 
enormity between two opposite sins. I cannot 
pronounce which is the best of two states so 
very bad.' 

1 Why now, Doctor,' said Mr. Flam, ' what 
particular sin can you charge me with ?' 

' I erect not myself into an accuser,' replied 
Dr. Barlow ; ' but permit me to ask you, Sir, 
from what motive is it that you avoid any wrong 
practice ? Is there any one sin from which you 
abstain through fear of offending your Maker V 
4 As to that,' replied Mr. Flam, ' I can't say I 
ever considered about the motive pf the thing. 
I thought it was quite enough not to do it. Well 
but Doctor, since we are gone so far in the cate- 
chism, what duty to my neighbours can you con- 
vict me of omitting ?' 

' It will be said, Sir,' said the Doctor, ' if you 
can indeed stand so close a scrutiny, as that to 
which you challenge me, even on your own prin- 
ciples. But tell me, with that frank honesty 
which marks your character, does your kindness 
to your neighbour spring from the true fountain, 
the love of God? That you do many right 
things I am most willing to allow. But do you 
perform them from a sense of obedience to the 
law of your Maker ? Do you perform them be- 
cause they are commanded in his word, and 
conformable to his will ?' 

* I can't say I do,' said Mr. Flam, ' but if the 
thing be right in itself, that appears to me to be 
all in all. It seems hard to encumber a man of 
business like me with the action and motive too. 
Surely if I serve a man, it can make no differ- 
ence to him, why I serve him.' 

' To yourself, my dear Sir,' said the Doctor, 
'it makes all the difference in the world. Be- 
sides, good actions, performed on any other prin- 
ciple than obedience, are not only spurious as to 
their birth, but they are defective in themselves ; 
they commonly want something in weight and 
measure.' 

Why, Doctor,' said Mr. Flam, ' I have often 
heard you say in the pulpit that the best are not 
perfect. Now, as this is the case, I will tell you 
how I manage. I think it a safe way to average 
one's good qualities; to throw a bad one against 
a good one, and if the balance sinks on the right 
eide the man is safe.' 

Doctor Barlow shook his head, and was be- 
ginning to express his regret at such a delusive 
casuistry, when Mr. Flam interrupted him by 
saying, ' Well, Doctor, my great care in life has 
been to avoid all suspicion of hypocrisy.' 

' You cannot do better,' replied Dr. Barlow, 
' than to avoid its reality. But, for my own 
part, I believe religious hypocrisy to be rather a 



real piety, there is no small danger of some false 
profession. But among the higher classes of 
society, serious religion confers so little credit 
on him who professes it, that a gentleman is not 
likely to put on appearances from which he 
knows he is far more likely to lose reputation 
than to acquire it. When such a man, there- 
fore, assumes the character of piety, I own I al 
ways feel disposed to give him full credit for 
possessing it. His religion may indeed be mis. 
taken ; it may be defective ; it may be unsound ; 
but the chances are very much in favour of its 
not being insincere. Where the " fruits of the 
Spirit abound, they will appear." ' 

' Now, my dear Doctor,' replied Mr. Flam, ' is 
not that cant ? What do you mean by the fruits 
of the Spirit ? Would it not have been more 
worthy of your good sense to have said morality 
and virtue ? Would not these terms have been 
more simple and intelligible ?' 

4 They might be so,' replied the Doctor, ' but 
they would not rise quite so high. They would 
not take in my whole meaning. The fruit of 
the Spirit indeed always includes your meaning, 
but it includes much more. It is something 
more than worldly morality, something holier 
than mere human virtue. I rather conceive 
morality, in your sense, to be the effect of na- 
tural temper, natural conscience, or worldly pru- 
dence, or perhaps a combination of all three. 
The fruit of the Spirit is the morality of the re- 
newed heart. Worldly morality is easily satis- 
fied with itself. It sits down contented with its 
own meagre performances — with legal honesty, 
with bare weight justice. It seldom giveth a 
particle " that is not in the bond." It is always 
making out its claim to doubtful indulgence ; it 
litigates its right to every inch of contested en- 
joyment; and is so fearful of not getting enough, 
that it commonly takes more than its due. It is 
one of the cases where " the letter killeth, but 
the spirit giveth life." ' 

' It obtains, however, its worldly reward. It 
procures a good degree of respect and commen- 
dation ; but it is not attended by the silent train 
of the Christian graces, with that 'joy, peace, 
long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith,' which 
are the fruits of the Spirit, and the evidences of 
a Christian. — These graces are calculated to 
adorn all that is right with all that is amiable, 
' whatsoever things are honest and just,' with 
' whatsoever things are lovely and of good re- 
port.' And, to crown all, they add the deepest 
humility and most unfeigned self-abasement to 
the most correct course of conduct : a course of 
conduct which, though a Christian never thinks 
himself at liberty to neglect, he never feels him- 
self permitted or disposed to be proud of.' 

' Well, well, Doctor,' said Mr. Flam, ' I never 
denied the truth of Christianity, as Carlton for- 
merly did. 'Tis the religion of the country by 
law established. And I often go to church, be- 
cause that too is established by law, for which 
you know I have a great veneration. 'Tis the 
religion of my ancestors, I like it for that too.' 
' But, Sir,' said the Doctor, ' would you not 
show your veneration for the church more fully 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



425 



it you attended it twice, instead of once? And 
your veneration for the law, if instead of going 
sometimes, you went every Sunday, which you 
know both the law of God and man enjoins.' 

• Why, unluckily,' returned Mr. Flam, ' the 
hour of service interferes with that of dinner.' 

' Sir,' said Dr. Barlow, smiling, ' hours are so 
altered, that I believe if the church were to new 
model the calender, she would say that dinners 
ought to be placed among the moveable feasts. 
An hour earlier or later would accommodate 
the difference, liberate your servants, and ena- 
ble you to do a thing right in itself, and benefi- 
cial in its example.' 

Mr. Flam not being prepared with an answer 
went on with his confession of faith. — 'Doctor,' 
said he, ' I am a better Christian than you think. 
I take it for granted that the Bible is true, for 
I have heard many men say who examine for 
themselves, whicli I cannot say I ever had time 
or inclination to do, that no opposer has ever yet 
refuted the scripture account of miracles and 
prophecies. So if you don't call this being a 
good Christian, I don't know what is.' 

Dr. Barlow replied, ' nothing can be better as 
far as it goes. But allow me to say, that there 
is another kind of evidence of the truth of our 
religion, which is peculiar to the real Christian. 
I mean that evidence of the truth which arises 
from his individual conviction of the efficacy of 
Christianity in remedying the disorders of his 
own nature. He who has had his own temper 
improved, his evil propensities subdued, and his 
whole character formed anew, by being cast into 
the mould of Christianity, will have little doubt 
of the truth of a religion which has produced 
such obvious effects in himself. — The truths for 
which his reason pleads, and in which his un- 
derstanding, after much examination, is able to 
rest, having had a purifying influence on his 
heart, become established principles, producing 
in him at the same time holiness of life and 
peace of conscience. The stronger evidence a 
man has of his own internal improvement, the 
stronger will be his conviction of the truth of 
the religion he professes.' 

' There are worse men than I am, Doctor,' 
said Mr. Flam, rather seriously. 

' Sir,' replied he, ' I heartily wish every gen- 
tleman had your good qualities. But as we 
shall be judged positively and not comparatively, 
as our characters will be finally decided upon, 
not by our superiority to other men, nor merely 
by our inferiority to the divine rule, but by our 
departure from it, I wish you would begin to 
square your life by that rule now ; which, in 
order that you may do, you should begin to 
study it. While we live in a total neglect of 
the Bible, we must not talk of our deficiencies, 
our failings, our imperfections, as if these alone 
stood between us and the mercy of God. That 
indeed is the language and the state of the de- 
vout Christian. Stronger terms must be used 
to express the alienation of heart of those, who, 
living in the avowed neglect of Scripture, may 
be said, forgive me, Sir, ' to live without God in 
the world.' Ignorance is no plea in a gentleman. 
In a land of light and knowledge ignorance it- 
self is a sin.' 

Here Dr. Barlow beir' silent, and Mr. Flam 

Vol. II. 



not being prepared to answer, Mr. Stanley said, 
1 That the pure and virtuous dispositions, which 
arise out of a sincere belief of Christianity, are 
not more frequently seen in persons professing 
themselves to be Christians, is, unhappily, one 
of the strongest arguments against us that can 
be urged by unbelievers. Instances, however, oc- 
cur, which are too plain to be denied, of individu- 
als who, having been led by divine grace cordi- 
ally to receive Christianity, have exhibited in 
their conduct a very striking proof of its excel- 
lence ; and among these are some who, like our 
friend Carlton, had previously led very corrupt 
lives. The ordinary class of Christians, who in- 
deed scarcely deserve the name, as well as sceptics 
and unbelievers, would do well to mark the lives 
of the truly religious, and to consider them as 
furnishing a proof which will come powerfully 
in aid of that body of testimony with which 
Christianity is intrenched on all sides. And 
these observers should remember, that though 
they themselves may not yet possess the best 
evidence in favour of Christianity, which arises 
from an inward sense of its purifying nature, 
they may nevertheless aspire after it; and those 
who have any remaining doubts should en- 
courage themselves with the hope, that if they 
fully yield themselves to the doctrines and pre- 
cepts of the Gospel, a salutary change will in 
time be effected in their own hearts, which will 
furnish them with irresistible evidence of its 
truth.' 

I could easily perceive, that though Mr. Stan- 
ley and Dr. Barlow entertained small hopes of 
the beneficial effect of their discourse on the 
person to whom it was directed ; yet they pro- 
longed it with an eye to Sir John Belfield, who 
sat profoundly attentive, and encouraged them 
by his looks. 

As to Mr. Flam, it was amusing to observe the 
variety of his motions, gestures, and contortions, 
and the pains he took to appear easy and indiffer- 
ent,and even victorious; sometimes fixing the end 
of his whip on the floor, and whirling it round at 
full speed : then working it into his boot: then 
making up his mouth for a whistle, but stopping 
short to avoid being guilty of the incivility of 
interruption. 

At length with the same invincible good na- 
ture, and with the same pitiable insensibility to 
his own state, he arose to take leave. He shook 
us all by the hand, Dr. Barlow twice, saying, 
1 Doctor, I don't think the worse of you for your 
plain speaking. He is a knave or a fool that is 
angry with a good man for doing his duty. 'TLs 
my fault if I don't take his advice : but 'tis his 
fault if he does not give it. Parsons are paid 
for it, and ought not to be mealy mouthed when 
there is a proper opening, such as poor Tyrrel's 
case gave you. I challenged you. I should per- 
haps have been angry if you had challenged me. 
It makes all the difference in the event of a duel 
which is the challenger. As to myself, it is 
time enough for me to think of the things you 
recommend. Thank God, I am in excellent 
good health and spirits, and am not yet quite 
fifty. ' There is a time for all things.' Even 
the Bible allows that.' 

The Doctor shook his head at this sad misap- 
plication of the text. Mr. Flam went away, 



426 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



pressing 1 us all to dine with him next day ; he 
had killed a fine buck, and he assured Dr. Bar- 
low that he should have the best port in his cel- 
lar. The Doctor pleaded want of time, and the 
rest of the party could not afford a day, out of 
the few which remained to us ;' but we promised 
to call on him. He nodded kindly at Dr. Bar- 
low, saying, ' well, Doctor, as you won't come 
to the buck, one of his haunches shall come to 
you ; so tell Madam to expect it. 

As soon as he had left the room, we all joined 
in lamenting that the blessings of health should 
ever be produced as arguments for neglecting 
to secure those blessings which have eternity 
for their object. 

' Unhappy man !' said Dr. Barlow, l little does 
he think that he is, if possible, more the object 
of my compassion than poor Mr. Tyrrel. Tyr- 
rel, it is true, is lying on a sick, probably on a 
dying bed. His body is in torture. His mind 
is in anguish. He has to look back on a life, 
the retrospect of which can afford him no ray 
of comfort. But he knows his misery. The 
hand of God is upon him. His proud heart is 
brought low. His self-confidence is subdued. 
His high imaginations are cast down. His 
abasement of soul, as far as I can judge, is sin- 
cere. He abhors himself in dust and ashes. 
He sees death at hand. He feels that the sting 
of death is sin. All subterfuge is at an end. 
He is at last seeking the only refuge of penitent 
sinners, I trust, on right grounds. His state is 
indeed perilous in the extreme: yet awful as it 
is, he knows it. He will not open his eyes on 
the eternal world in a state of delusion. But 
what shall awaken poor Mr. Flam from his 
dream of security? His high health, his unbro- 
ken spirits, his prosperous circumstances and 
various blessings, are so many snares to him. 
He thinks that ' to-morrow shall be as this day, 
and still more abundant. Even the wretched 
situation of his dying friend, though it awakens 
compassion, awakens not compunction. Nay, 
it affords matter of triumph rather than of hu- 
miliation. He feeds his vanity with compassions 
from which he contrives to extract comfort. His 
own offences being of a different kind, instead 
of lamenting them, he glories in being free from 
those which belong to an opposite cast of cha- 
racter. Satisfied that he has not the vices of 
Tyrrel, he never once reflects on his own unre- 
pented sins. Even his good qualities increase 
his danger. He wraps himself up in that con- 
stitutional good nature, which being partly 
founded on vanity and self-approbation, strength- 
ens his delusion, and hardens him against re- 
proof.' 



CHAP. XLVII. 

In conversing with Mr. Stanley on my happy 
prospects, and my future plans ; after having 
referred all concerns of a pecuniary nature to be 
settled between him and Sir John Bclfield, I ven- 
tured to entreat that he would crown his good- 
ness, and my happiness, by allowing me to so- 
licit his daughter for an early day. 

Mr Stanley said, the term early was relative; 



but he was afraid that he should hardly consent 
to what I might consider even as a late one. 
' In parting with such a child as Lucilla,' added 
he, ' some weaning time must be allowed to the 
tenderest of mothers. The most promising mar- 
riage, and surely none can promise more hap- 
piness than that to which we are looking, is a 
heavy trial to fond parents. To have trained a 
creature with anxious fondness, in hope of her 
repaying their solicitude hereafter by the charms 
of her society, and then as soon as she becomes 
capable of being a friend and companion to lose 
her for ever, is such a trial that I sometimes 
wonder at the seeming impatience of parents to 
get rid of a treasure, of which they best know 
the value. The sadness which attends the con- 
summation even of our dearest hopes on these 
occasions, is one striking instance of that Va- 
nity of human wishes, on which Juvenal and 
Johnson have so beautifully expatiated. 

' A little delay indeed I shall require, from 
motives of prudence as well as fondness. Lu- 
cilla will not be nineteen these three months 
and more. You will not, I trust, think me un- 
reasonable if I say, that neither her mother nor 
myself can consent to part with her before that 
period.' 

' Three months !' exclaimed I, with more ve- 
hemence than politeness. ' Three months ! It 
is impossible.' 

1 It is very possible,' said he, smiling, ' that 
you can wait, and very certain that we shall not 
consent sooner.' 

1 Have you any doubts, Sir,' said I, • have you 
any objections which I can remove, and which, 
being removed, may abridge this long proba- 
tion ?' 

' None,' said he, kindly. ' But I consider even 
nineteen as a very early age : too early indeed, 
were not my mind so completely at rest about 
you, on the grand points of religion, morals, and 
temper, that delay could, I trust, afford me no 
additional security. You will, however, my dear 
Charles, find so much occupation in preparing 
your affairs, and your mind, for so important 
a change, that you will not find the time of ab- 
sence so irksome as you fancy. 

' Absence, Sir,' replied I. ' What then, do you 
intend to banish me?' 

'No,' replied he, smiling again. 'But I in- 
tended to send you home. A sentence, indeed, 
which in this dissipated age is thought the worst 
sort of exile. You have now been absent six 
or seven months. This absence has been hither- 
to justifiable. It is time to return to your affairs, 
to your duties. Both the one and the other al- 
ways slide into some disorder by a too long se- 
paration from the place of their legitimate ex- 
ercise. Your steward will want inspection, your 
tenants may want redress, your poor always 
want assistance.' 

Seeing me look irresolute, ' I must, I find,' 
added he, with the kindest look and voice, ' be 
compelled to the inhospitable necessity of turn- 
ing you out of doors.' 

• Live without Lucilla three months !' said I. 
' Allow me, Sir, at least to remain a few weeks 
longer at the Grove.' 

•Love is a bad calculator,' replied Mr. Stan- 
ley ' I believe he never learnt arithmetic 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



427 



Don't you know that as you are enjoined a three 
months banishment, that the sooner you go, the 
sooner you will return ? And that, however 
long- your stay now is, your three months' ab- 
sence will still remain to be accomplished. To 
speak seriously ; Lucilla's sense of propriety, as 
well as that of Mrs. Stanley, will not permit you 
to remain much longer under the same roof, 
now that the motive will become so notorious. 
Besides that an act of self-denial is a good prin- 
ciple to set out upon, business and duties will 
fill up your active hours, and an intercourse of 
letters with her you so reluctantly quit, will not 
only give an interest to your leisure, but put you 
both still more completely in possession of each 
other's character.' 

' I will set out to-morrow, Sir,' said I, ear- 
nestly, ' in order to begin to hasten the day of 
my return.' 

' Now you are as much too precipitate on the 
other side,' replied he. ' A few days, I think, 
may be permitted, without any offence to Lu- 
cilla's delicacy. This even her mother pleads 
for.' 

' With what excellence will this blessed union 
give me an alliance !' replied I ; ' I will go di- 
rectly and thank Mrs. Stanley for this goodness.' 
I found Mrs. Stanley and her daughter to- 
gether, with whom I had a long and interesting 
conversation. They took no small pains to con- 
vince my judgment, that my departure was per- 
fectly proper. My will however continued re- 
bellious. But as I had been long trained to 
the habit of submitting my will to my reason, 
I acquiesced, though not without murmuring, 
and as they told me with very bad grace. 

I informed Mrs. Stanley of an intimation I 
sad received from Sir George Aston of his at- 
tachment to Phcebe, and of his mother's warm 
approbation to his choice, adding that he alleged 
her extreme youth, as the ground of his defer- 
ring to express his hope, that his plea might 
one day be received with favour. 

' He forgot to allege his own youth,' replied 
she, ' which is a reason almost equally cogent.' 

Miss Stanley and I agreed that a connexion 
more desirable in all respects could not be ex- 
pected. 

' When I assure you,' replied Mrs. Stanley*, 
'that I am quite of your opinion, you will think 
me inconsistent if I add that I earnestly hope 
such a proposal will not be made by Sir George, 
lest his precipitancy should hinder the future 
accomplishment of a wish, which I may be al- 
lowed remotely to indulge.' 

• What objection,' said I, ' can Mr. Stanley 
possibly make to such a proposal, except that 
his daughter is too young V 

' I see,' replied she, ' that you do not yet com- 
pletely know Mr. Stanley ; or rather you do not 
know all that he has done for the Aston family. 
His services have been very important, not only 
in that grand point which you and I think the 
most momentous ; but he has also very success- 
fully exerted himself in settling Lady Aston's 
worldly affairs, which were in the utmost dis- 
order. The large estate, which had suffered by 
her own ignorance of business, and the disho- 
nesty of a steward, he has not only enabled her 
to clear, but put her in the way greatly to im- 



prove. This skill and kindness in worldly 
things so raised his credit in the eyes of the 
guardian, young Sir George's uncle, that he de- 
clared he should never again be so much afraid, 
of religious men ; whom he had always under- 
stood to be without judgment, or kindness, or 
disinterestedness. 

'Now,' added Mrs. Stanley, 'don't you per- 
ceive that not only the purity of Mr. Stanley's 
motives, but religion itself would suffer, should 
we be forward to promote this connexion ? Will 
not this Mr. Aston say, that sinister designs in- 
fluenced all this Zealand kindness, and that Sir 
George's estate was improved with an eye to 
his own daughter ? It will be said that these re- 
ligious people always know what they are about 
— that when they seem to be purely serving God, 
they are resolved not to serve him for nothing, 
but always keep their own interest in view. 
Should Sir George's inclination continue, and 
his principles stand the siege which the world 
will not fail to lay to a man of his fortune — some 
years hence, when he is complete master of his 
actions, his character formed, and his judg 
ment ripened to direct his choice, so as to make 
it evident to the world, that it was not the effect 
of influence, this connexion is an event to which 
we should look forward with much pleasure.' 

' Never,' exclaimed I, ' no not once, have I 
been disappointed in my expectation of consis- 
tency in Mr. Stanley's character. O, my be- 
loved parents, how wise was your injunction 
that I should make consistency the test of true 
piety ! It is thus that Christians should always 
keep the credit of religion in view, if they would 
promote its interests in the world.' 

When I communicated to Miss Stanley my 
conversation with her father, and read over with 
her the letters of mine, how tenderly did she 
weep ! How were my own feelings renewed ! 
To he thus assured that she was selected for 
their son, by my deceased parents, seemed, to 
her pious mind, to shed a sacredness on our 
union. How did she venerate their virtues ! 
How feelingly regret their loss ! 

Before I left the country, I did not omit a visit 
of civility to Mr. Flam. The young ladies, as 
Sir John predicted, had stept back into their 
natural character, and natural undress ; though 
he was too severe when he added, that their 
hopes in assuming the other were not at an end. 

They both asked me, if I was not moped to 
death at the Grove : the Stanley's, they said, 
were good sort of people, but quite mauvais ton, 
as every body must be who did not spend half 
the year in London. Miss Stanley was a fine 
girl enough, but knew nothing of- the world, 
wanted manner, which two or three winters in 
town would give her. ' Better as she is,' inter- 
rupted Mr. Flam, ' better as she is. She is a 
pattern daughter, and will make a pattern wife. 
Her mother has no care nor trouble ; I wish I 
could say as much of all mothers. I never saw 
a bad humour, or a bad dinner in the house. 
She is always at home, always in spirits, and 
always in temper. She is cheerful as if she had 
no religion, and as useful as if she could not 
spell her own receipt book.' 

I was affected with this generous tribute to 
my Lucilla's virtues : and when he wished me 



428 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



joy, as he cordially shook me by the hand, I 
could not forbear saying to myself, why will not 
this good-natured man go to heaven ? 

I next paid a farewell visit to Mr. and Mrs. 
Carlton, and to the amiable family at Aston 
Hall, and to Dr. Barlow. How rich has this ex- 
cursion made me in valuable friendships ; to say 
nothing of the inestimable connexion at the 
Grove ! I did not forget to assure Dr. Barlow, 
that if any thing could add a value to the bless- 
ing which awaited me, it was, that his hand 
would consecrate it. 

Through the good Doctor I received a mes- 
sage from Mr. Tyrrel, requesting me to make 
him a visit of charity before I quitted the neigh- 
bourhood. I instantly obeyed the summons. I 
found him totally changed in all respects, a body 
wasted by disease, a mind apparently full of 
contrition, and penetrated with that deep hu- 
mility, in which he had been so eminently de- 
ficient. 

He earnestly entreated my prayers, adding, 
* though it is presumption in so unworthy a 
being as I am, to suppose his intercession may 
be heard, I will pray for a blessing on your happy 
prospects. A connexion with such a family is 
itself a blessing. Oh! that my nephew had been 
worthy of it ! It is to recommend that poor 
youth to your friendship, that I invited you to 
this melancholy visit. I call him poor, because 
I have neglected to enrich his mind : but he will 
have too much of this world's goods. May he 
employ well what I have risked my soul to 
amass ! Counsel him, dear Sir ; admonish him. 
Recal to his mind his dying uncle. I would now 
give my whole estate, nay, I would live upon the 
alms I have refused, to purchase one more year, 
though spent in pain and misery, that I might 
prove the sincerity of my repentance. Be to 
Ned what my blessed Stanley would have been 
to me. But my pride repelled his kindness. I 
could not bear his superiority. I turned away 
my eyes from a model I could not imitate.' I 
now entreated him to spare himself, but after a 
few minutes pause he proceeded. 

1 As to Ned, I trust he is not ill-disposed, but 
I have neither furnished his mind for solitude 
nor fortified his heart for the world. I foolishly 
thought that to keep him ignorant was to keep 
him safe. I have provided for him the snare of 
a large fortune, without preparing him for the 
use of it. I fell into an error not uncommon, 
that of grudging the expenses of education to a 
relation for whom I designed my estate. I have 
thus fitted him for a companion to the vulgar, 
and a prey to the designing. I thought it suffi- 
cient to keep him from actual vice, without 
furnishing him with arguments to combat it, or 
with principles to abhor it.' 

Here the poor man paused for want of breath. 
I was too much affected to speak. 

At length he went on. ' I have made over 
to Dr. Barlow'6 son two thousand pounds for 
completing his education. I have also give two 
thousand pounds a-piece to the two elder daugh- 
ters of Mr. Stanley in aid of their charities. I 
have made a deed of gift of this, and of a large 
eum for charitable purposes at the discretion of 
my executors. This I hoped would prove my 
sincerity more than a legacy, as it will be paid 



immediately. A refusal to accept it will greatly 
distress me. Ned still will have too much left, 
unless he employs it to better purposes than I 
have done.' 

Though deeply moved, I hardly knew what 
to reply. I wished to give him comfort, but 
distrusted my own judgment as to the manner. 
I promised my best services to his nephew. 

' Oh, good young man !' cried he, 'if ever you 
are tempted to forget God, as I did for above 
thirty years ; or to mock him by an outward 
profession as I have lately done, think of me. 
Think of one who for the largest portion of his 
life, lived as if there were no God ; and who, 
since he has made a profession of Christianity, 
deceived his own soul, no less by the religion, 
he adopted, than by his former neglect of all 
religion. My delusion was this, I did not choose 
to be good, but I chose to be saved. It is no 
wonder then that I should be struck with a re- 
ligion, which I hoped would free me from the 
discipline of moral rectitude, and yet deliver mo 
from the punishment of having neglected it. 
Will God accept my present forced submission? 
Will he accept a penitence of which I may have 
no time to prove the sincerity ? Tell me — You 
are a Christian.' 

I was much distressed. I thought it neither 
modest nor prudent for me to give a decisive 
answer. He grasped my hand. • Then,' said 
he, 'you think my case hopeless. You think 
the Almighty cannot forgive me. Thus pressed, 
I ventured to say, ' to doubt his will to pardon, 
and his power to save, would, as it appears to me, 
Sir, be a greater fault than any you have com- 
mitted.' 

' One great comfort is left,' replied he, * the 
mercy I have abused is infinite. Tell Stanley 
I now believe with him, that if we pretend to 
trust in God, we must be governed by him ; if 
we truly believe in him, we shall obey him ; if 
we think he sent his Son to save sinners, we 
shall hate sin.' 

I ventured to congratulate him on his frame 
of mind - and seeing him quite overcome, took 
leave of him with a heart deeply touched with 
this salutary scene. The family at the Grove 
were greatly moved with my description, and 
with the method poor Tyrrel had found out of 
eluding the refusal of his liberal-minded exe 
cutors to accept of legacies. 

The day fixed for my departure too soon ar 
rived. I took a most affectionate leave of Mr. 
and Mrs. Stanley, and a very tender one of Lu- 
cilla, who gratified my affection by the emotion 
she evidently felt, and my delicacy by the effort 
she made to conceal it. Phoebe wept outright. 
The children all hung about me, each present- 
ing me some of her flowers, saying they had no- 
thing else to give me ; and assuring me that 
Rachel should be no loser by it. Little Celia 
was clamorous in her sorrow, when she saw me 
ascend the curricle, in which neither she nor 
Lucilla was to have a place. I took the sweet 
child up into the carriage, and placed her by 
me, and gently drove her through the park, at 
the gate of which I consigned her to the arms 
of her father, who had good-naturedly walked 
by the side of the carriage in order to carry 
her back. I drove off, enriched with his prayers 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



429 



and blessings, which seemed to insure me pro- 
tection. 

Though this separation from all I loved threw 
a transient sadness around me, I had abundant 
matter for delightful reflection and pious grati- 
tude. I experienced the truth of Phoebe's re- 
mark, that happiness is a serious thing. While 
pleasure manifests itself by extravagant gaiety, 
exuberant spirits, and overt acts, happiness re- 
treats to its own proper region, the heart. There 
concentrating its feelings, it contemplates its 
treasures, meditates on its enjoyments and still 
more fondly on its hopes : counts up its mer- 
cies, and feels the consummation of them in 
looking to the fountain from whence they flow ; 
feels every blessing immeasurably heightened 
by the heart-cheering reflection, that the most 
exquisite human pleasures are not the perfec- 
tion of his nature, but only a gracious earnest, 
a bounteous pre-libation of that blessedness 
which is without measure, and shall be without 
end. 



CHAP. XLVIII. 

Before the Belfields had quitted us, it was 
stipulated that we should, with submission to 
the will of a higher power, all meet for six 
weeks every other summer at Stanley Grove, 
and pass a month together every intermediate 
year, either at the Priory, or at Beechwood. 

I passed through London, and spent three 
days in Cavendish-square, my friends having 
kindly postponed their departure for the coun- 
try on my account. Lady Belfield voluntarily 
undertook whatever was necessary for the in- 
ternal decoration of the Priory ; while Sir John 
took on himself the friendly office of arranging 
for me all preliminaries with Mr. Stanley, whose 
largeness of heart, and extreme disinterested- 
ness, 1 knew I durst not trust, without some 
such check as I placed in the hand of our com- 
mon friend. 

As soon as all personal concerns were adjust- 
ed, Lady Belfield said, ' I have something to 
communicate, in which I am persuaded you will 
take a lively interest. On my return to town, 
I found, among my visiting tickets, several of 
Lady Melbury's. The porter told me she had 
called every day for the last week, and seemed 
very impatient for my return. Finding she was 
still in town, I went to her immediately. She 
wns not at home, but came to me within an 
hour. She expressed great joy at seeing me. 
She looked more beautiful than ever, at least 
the blush of conscious shame, which mingled 
with her usual sweetness, rendered her more in- 
teresting. 

' She was at a loss how to begin. With a per- 
plexed air she said, ' Why did you stay so long ? 
I have sadly wanted you. Where is Sir John ? 
I have wanted counsellors — comforters — friends. 
I have never had a friend.' 

' I was affected at an opening so unexpected. 
Sir John came in. This increased her confu- 
sion. At length, after the usual compliments, 
she thus addressed him : ' I am determined to 
conquer this false shame. There is not a worse 



symptom in human nature than that we blush 
to own what we have not been afraid to do. 
From you, Sir John, I heard the first remon- 
strance which ever reached my ears. You ought 
to be informed of its effect. You cannot have 
forgotten our conversation in my coach,* after 
we had quitted the scene which filled you with 
contempt for me, and me with anguish for the 
pari I had acted. You reasonably supposed that 
my remorse would last no longer than the scene 
which inspired it. You left me alone. My lord 
dined abroad. I was abandoned to all the hor- 
rors of solitude. I wanted somebody to keep 
me from myself. Mrs. Stokes dying ; her hus- 
band dead! the sweet flower-girl pining for 
want, and I the cause of all ! The whole view 
presented such a complication of misery to my 
mind, and of guilt to my heart, as made me in- 
supportable to myself. 

• " It was Saturday. I was of course engaged 
to the opera. I was utterly unfit to go, but 
wanted courage to frame an excuse. Fortunate- 
ly Lady Bell Finley, whom I had promised to 
chaperon, sent to excuse herself. This set my 
person at liberty, but left my mind upon the 
rack. Though I should have rejoiced in the 
company even of my own chambermaid, so 
much did I dread being left to my own thoughts, 
yet I resolved to let no one in that night. 1 had 
scarcely passed a single evening out of the giddy 
circle for several years. For the first time in 
my life I was driven to look into myself. I took 
a retrospect of my past conduct ; a confused and 
imperfect one indeed. This review aggravated 
my distress. Still I pursued my distracting 
self-inquisition. Not for millions would I pass 
such another night ! 

1 " I had done as wrong things before, but 
they had never been thus brought home to me. 
My extravagance must have made others suffer, 
but their sufferings had not been placed before 
my eyes. What was not seen, I had hoped 
might not be true. I had indeed heard distant 
reports of the consequences of my thoughtless 
expense, but they might be invented — they 
might be exaggerated. At the flower-maker's 
I witnessed the ruin I had made — I saw the 
fruits of my unfeeling vanity — I beheld the ca- 
lamities I had caused. O how much mischief 
would such actual observations prevent ! I was 
alone. I had no dependant to qualify the deed 
no sycophant to divert my attention to more 
soothing objects. Though Sir John's honest ex- 
postulation had touched me to the quick ; yet I 
confess, had I found any of my coterie at home, 
had I gone to the opera, had a joyous supper 
succeeded, all together would have quite oblite- 
rated the late mortifying scene. I should, as I 
have often done before, have lost all sense of the 
Stoke's misery, and of my own crime." 

' Here,' pursued Lady Belfield, ' the sweet 
creature looked so contrite, that Sir John and I 
were both deeply affected.' 

'"You are not accustomed, Sir John," re- 
sumed she, with a faint smile, " to the office of 
a confessor, nor I to that of a penitent. But 1 
make it a test to myself of my own sincerity to 
tell you the whole truth. 

1 " I wandered from room to room, fancying 
» See ch. 12. 



430 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



I should be more at ease in any other than that 
in which I was. I envied the starving tenant 
of the meanest garret. I envied Mrs. Stokes 
herself. Both might have pitied the pangs 
which rent my heart, as I roamed through the 
decorated apartments of our spacious house. In 
the gayest part of London I felt the dreariness 
of a desert. Surrounded with magnificence, I 
endured a sense of want and wo, of which a 
blameless beggar can form no idea. 

4 " I went into the library ; I took up a book 
which my lord had left on the table. It was a 
translation from a Roman classic. I opened it 
at the speech of the tragedian to Pompey : 
" The time will come that thou shalt mourn deep- 
ly, because thou didst not mourn sooner .'" I was 
struck to the heart. " Shall a pagan," said I, 
"thus forcibly reprove me; and shall I neglect 
to search for truth at the fountain ? 

"'I knew my lord would not come home from 
his club till the morning. The struggle in my 
soul between principle and pride was severe ; 
but after a bitter conflict, I resolved to employ 
the night in writing him a long letter. In it I 
ingenuously confessed the whole state of my 
mind, and what had occasioned it. I implored 
his permission for my setting out next morning 
for Melbury Castle. I entreated him to prevail 
on his excellent aunt, Lady Jane, whom I had 
bo shamefully slighted, to accompany me. I 
knew she was a character of that singular class, 
who would be glad to revenge herself for my 
ill-treatment by doing me a service. Her com- 
pany would be at once a pledge to my lord of 
the purity of my intentions, and to myself a se- 
curity against falling into worse society. I as- 
sured him that I had no safeguard but in flight. 
An additional reason which I alleged for my 
absence was, that as I had promised to give a 
grand masquerade in a fortnight, the evading 
this expense would nearly enable me to dis- 
charge the debt which sat so heavy on my con- 
science. 

' " I received a note from him as soon as he 
came home. With his usual complaisance, he 
complied with my request. With his usual non- 
chalance, he neither troubled me with his re- 
proaches, nor comforted me with approbation. 

' " As he knew that Lady Jane usually rose 
about the hour he came home from St. James's 
street, he obligingly went to her at once. I 
had not been in bed. He came to my dressing- 
room, and informed me that his aunt had con- 
sented at the first word. I expressed my grati- 
tude to them both, saying, that I was ready to 
set out that very day." 

'"You must wait till to-morrow," said he. 
" There is no accounting for the oddities of some 
people. Lady Jane told me she could not pos- 
sibly travel on a Sunday. I wondered where 
was the impossibility. Sunday, I assured her, 
was the only day for travelling in comfort, as 
the road was not obstructed by wagons and 
carts. She replied, with a gravity which made 
me laugh, ' that she should be ashamed to think 
that a person of her rank and education should 
be indebted, for her being able to trample with 
more convenience on a divine law, to the piety 
of the vulgar who durst not violate it.' ' Did 
you ever hear any thing so whimsical, Matilda?' 



I said nothing, but my heart smote me. Never 
will I repeat this offence. 

' " On the Monday we set out, I had kept 
close the preceding day, under pretence of ill- 
ness. This I also assigned as an excuse in the 
cards to my invited guests, pleading the neces- 
sity of going into the country for change of air. 
Shall I own I dreaded being shut up in a ba- 
rouche, and still more in the lonely castle, with 
Lady Jane ? I looked for nothing every moment 
but ' the thorns and briars of reproof.' But I 
soon found that the woman whom I had quizzed 
as a methodist, was a most entertaining compa- 
nion. Instead of austerity in her looks, and re- 
proach in her language, I found nothing but 
kindness and affection, but vivacity and ele- 
gance. While she soothed my sorrows, she 
strengthened my better purposes. Her conver- 
sation gradually revived in my mind tastes and 
principles which had been early sown in it, but 
which the world seemed completely to have 
eradicated. 

1 " In the neighbourhood of the Castle, Lady 
Jane carried me to visit the abodes of poverty 
and sickness. I envied her large but discrimi- 
nating liberality, and the means she possessed 
of gratifying it, while I shed tears at the re- 
membrance of my own squandered thousands. 
I had never been hard-hearted, but I had always 
given to importunity rather than to want, or 
merit. I blushed, that while I had been absurdly 
profuse to cases of which I knew nothing, my 
own village had been perishing with a conta- 
gious sickness. 

'" While I amused myself with drawing, my 
aunt often read to me some rationally entertain- 
ing book, occasionally introducing religious 
reading and discourse, with a wisdom and mo- 
deration which increased the effect of both. 
Knowing my natural levity, and wretched ha- 
bits, she generally waited till the proposal came 
from myself. At first when I suggested it, it 
was to please her, at length I began to find a 
degree of pleasure in it myself. 

' " You will say I have not quite lost my ro- 
mance. A thought struck me, that the first 
use I made of my pencil, should serve to per- 
petuate at least one of my offences. You know 
I do not execute portraits badly. With a little 
aid from fancy, which I thought made it allow- 
able to bring separate circumstances into one 
piece, I composed a picture. It consisted of a 
detached figure in the back ground of poor 
Stokes, seen through the grate of his prison on 
a bed of straw ; and a group, composed of his 
wife in the act of expiring, Fanny bending over 
a wreath of roses, withered with the tears she 
was shedding, and myself in the horrors in 
which you saw me, 

Spectatress of the mischief I had made. 

• " Wherever I go this picture shall always 
be my companion. It hangs in my closet, my 
dear friends,' added she, witli a look of infinite 
sweetness, ' whenever I am tempted to contract 
a debt, or to give in to any act of vanity or dis- 
sipation which may lead to debt, if after having 
looked on this picture I can pursue the project, 
renounce me, cast me off for ever ! 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



431 



' " You know Lady Jane's vein of humour. 
One day as we were conversing together, I con- 
fessed that, at the very time I was the object of 
general notice, and my gaiety the theme of ge- 
neral envy, I had never known happiness. ' I 
do not wonder at it,' said she. ' Those who 
greedily pursue admiration, would be ashamed 
to sit down with so quiet a thing as happiness.' 
' My dear Lady Jane,' said I, ' correct me, coun 
sel me, instruct me, you have been too lenient, 
too forbearing.' ' Well,' said she, with a cheer- 
ful tone, ' as you appoint me your physician, as 
you disclose your case, and ask relief, I will 
give you a prescription, which, though the sim- 
plest thing in the world, will, I am certain, go 
a great way towards curing you. As you are 
barely six and twenty, your disease 1 trust is 
not inveterate. If you will be an obedient pa- 
tient, I will answer for your recovery.' 

' " I assured her of my willing adoption of any 
remedy she might prescribe, as I was certain 
she would consider my weakness, and adapt her 
treatment, not so much to what my case abso- 
lutely required, as to what my strength was able 
to bear. 

' ' Well then,' said she — * But pray observe I 
am no quack. I do not undertake to restore you 
instantaneously. Though my medicine will work 
surely, it will work slowly. You know,' added 
she, smiling-, ' the success of all alteratives de- 
pends on the punctuality with which they are 
taken, and the constancy with which they are 
followed up. Mine must be taken two or three 
times a day, in small quantities at first, the dose 
to be enlarged as you are able to bear it. I can 
safely assert, with the advertising doctors, that 
it may be used full or fasting, in all weathers, 
and all seasons ; but I cannot add with them 
that it requires no confinement.' 

''I grew impatient and begged she would 
come to the point. ' Softly, Matilda,' said she, 
'softly, I must first look into my receipt-book, 
for fear I should mistake any of my ingredients. 
This book,' said she, opening it, ' though written 
by no Charlatan, contains a cure for all diseases. 
It exhibits not only general directions, but spe- 
cified cases.' Turning over the leaves as she 
was speaking, she at length stopped, saying, 
* here is your case, my dear, or rather your reme- 
dy.' She then read very deliberately — • Commune 
with your own heart — and in your chamber — 
and be still.' 

' ' I now found her grand receipt-book was the 
Bible. I arose and embraced her. ' My dear 
aunt,' said I, ' do with me whatever you please. 
I will be all obedience. I pledge myself to take 
your alterative regularly, constantly. Do not 
spare me. Speak your whole mind.' 

' ' My dear Matilda,' said she, ' ever since your 
marriage, your life has been one continued op- 
position to your feelings. You have lived as 
much below your understsnding as your princi- 
ples. Your conduct has been a system of con- 
tradictions. You have believed in Christianity, 
and acted in direct violation of its precepts. You 
knew that there was a day of future reckoning, 
and yet neglected to prepare for it. With a 
heart full of tenderness, you have been guilty of 
repeated acts of cruelty. You have been faithful 
to your husband, without making him respecta- 



ble or happy. You have been virtuous, without 
the reputation or the peace which belongs to 
virtue. You have been charitable without doing 
good, and affectionate without having ever made 
a friend. You have wasted those attentions on 
the worthless, which the worthy would have de- 
lighted to receive, and those talents on the fri- 
volous, which would have been cherished by the 
enlightened. You have defeated the use of a 
fine understanding by the want of common pru- 
dence, and robbed society of the example of your 
good qualities by your total inability to resist 
and oppose. Inconsideration and vanity have 
been the joint cause of your malady. At your 
age, I trust it is not incurable. As you have 
caught it by keeping infected company, there is 
no possible mode of cure, but by avoiding the 
contagious air they breathe. You have perform- 
ed your quarantine with admirable patience. 
Beware my dearest neice, of returning to the 
scene where the plague rages, till your antidote 
has taken its full effect.' 

' ' I will never return to it, my dear Lady 
Jane,' cried I, throwing myself into her arms. 
' I do not mean that I will never return to town. 
My duty to my lord requires me to be where 
he is, or where he wishes me to be. My re- 
sidence will be the same, but my society will be 
changed.' 

1 ' You please me entirely,' replied she. — ' In 
resorting to religion, take care that you do not 
dishonour it. Never plead your piety to God as 
an apology for your neglect of the relative du- 
ties. If the one is soundly adopted the other 
will be correctly performed. — There arc those 
who would delight to throw such a stigma on 
real Christianity, as to be able to report that it 
had extinguished your affections, and soured 
your temper. Disappoint them, my sweet niece ; 
while you serve your Maker more fervently, you 
must be still more patient with your husband. 
But while you bear with his faults, take care 
you do not connive at them. If you are in ear- 
nest, you must expect some trials. He who pre- 
pares these trials for you will support you under 
them, will carry you through them, will make 
them instruments of his glory, and of your own 
eternal happiness.' 

' ' Lord Melbury's complaisance to my wishes, 1 
replied I, ' has been unbounded. — As he never 
controlled my actions, when they required con- 
trol, I trust he will be equally indulgent now 
they will be less censurable. Alas ! we have 
too little interfered with each other's concerns — 
we have lived too much asunder — who knows 
but I may recall him ?' My tears would not 
let me go on — nor will they now,' added she, 
wiping her fine eyes. 

'Sir John and I were too much touched to at- 
tempt to answer her ; at length she proceeded. 

" By adhering to Lady Jane's directions, I 
have begun to get acquainted with my own 
heart. Little did I suspect the evil that was in 
it. Yet I am led to believe that the incessant 
whirl in which I have lived, my total want of 
leisure for reflection, my excessive vanity, and 
complete inconsiderateness, are of themselves 
causes adequate to any effects which the grossest 
vices would have produced. 
' ' Last week my lord made us a visit at the 



432 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Castle. I gave him a warm reception ; but he 
seemed rather surprised at the cold one which I 
gave to a large cargo of new French novels and 
German plays, which he had been so good as to 
bring me. I did not venture to tell him that I 
had changed my course of study. Lady Jane 
charged me to avoid giving him the least disgust 
by any unusual gravity in my looks or severity 
in my conversation. I exerted myself to such 
good purpose, that he declared he wanted neither 
cards nor company. I tried to let him see, by 
my change of habits, rather than by dry docu- 
ments, or cold remonstrances, the alteration 
which had taken place in my sentiments. He 
was pleased to see me blooming and cheerful. 
We walked together, we read together ; we be- 
came lovers and companions. He told Lady 
Jane he never saw me so pleasant. He did not 
know I was so agreeable a woman, and was 
glad he had had this opportunity of getting ac- 
quainted with me. As he has great expecta- 
tions from her, he was delighted at the friend- 
ship which subsisted between us. 

' " He brought us up to town. As it was now 
empty, the terrors of the masquerade no longer 
hung over me, and I cheerfully complied with 
his wishes. I drove immediately to Mrs. Stokes's 
with such a portion of my debt, as my retire- 
ment had enabled me to save. I feasted all the 
way on the joy I should have in surprising her 
with this two hundred pounds. How severe, 
but how just was my punishment, when on 
knocking at the door I found that she had been 
dead these two months ! No one could tell me 
whfit was become of her daughter. This shock 
operated almost as powerfully on my feelings as 
the first had done. But if it augmented my self- 
reproach, it confirmed my good resolutions. My 
present concern is, how to discover the sweet 
girl whom, alas, I have helped to deprive of both 
her parents." 

' Here I interrupted her,' continued Lady 
Belfield, saying, ' You have not far to seek, 
Fanny Stokes is in this house. She is appointed 
governess to our children.' 

'Poor Lady Melbury's joy was excessive at 
this intelligence, and she proceeded : " That a 
too sudden return to the world might not weaken 
my better purposes, I was preparing to request 
my lord's permission to go back to the castle, 
when he prevented me by telling me that he 
had an earnest desire to make a visit to the 
brave patriots in Spain, and to pass the winter 
among them, but feared he must give it up, as 
the state of the continent rendered it impossible 
for me to accompany him. 

' " This filled my heart with joy. I encou- 
raged him to make a voyage, assured him I 
would live under Lady Jane's observation, and 
that I would pass the whole winter in the coun- 
try." 

'"Then you shall pass it with us at Beech- 
wood, my dear Lady Melbury," cried Sir John 
and I, both at once, "we will strengthen each 
other in every virtuous purpose. We shall re- 
joice in Lady Jane's company." 

' She joyfully accepted the proposal, not doubt- 
ing her Lord's consent ; and kindly said, that 
she should be doubly happy in a society, at once 
so rational and so elegant. 



'It was settled that she should spend with us 
the three months that Fanny Stokes and little 
Caroline are to pass at Stanley Grove. She de- 
sired to see Fanny, to whom she behaved with 
great tenderness. She paid her the two hundred 
pounds, assuring her she had no doubt of being 
able to discharge the whole debt in the spring. 

' I received a note from her the next day, in- 
forming me of her lord's cheerful concurrence, 
as well as that of Lady Jane. She added, that 
when she went up to dress she had found on 
her toilette her diamond necklace, which her 
dear aunt had redeemed and restored to her, as 
a proof of her confidence and affection. As Lady 
Melbury has for ever abolished her coterie, I 
have the most sanguine hope of her presever- 
ance. All her promises would have gone for 
nothing, without this practical pledge of her 
sincerity.' 

When Lady Belfield had finished her little 
tale, I expressed, in the strongest terms, the de- 
light I felt at the happy change in this charming 
woman. I could not forbear observing to Sir 
John, that as Lady Melbury had been the ' glass 
of fashion,' while her conduct was wrong, I 
hoped she would not lose all her influence by its 
becoming right. I added, with a smile, ' in that 
case, I shall rejoice to see the fine ladies turn 
their talent for drawing to the same moral ac- 
count with this fair penitent. Such a record of 
their faults as she has had the courage to make 
of hers, hanging in their closets, and perpetually 
staring them in the face, would be no unlikely 
means to prevent a repetition, especially if the 
picture is to be visible as the fault had been.' 



CHAP. XLIX. 

The next morning I resumed my journey 
northwards, and on the fourth day I reached the 
seat of my ancestors. The distant view of tho 
Priory excited strong but mingled emotions in 
my bosom. The tender sorrow for the loss of 
the beloved society I had once enjoyed under 
its roof, was a salutary check to the abundant 
joy arising from the anticipation of the blessings 
which awaited me there. My mind was divided 
between the two conflicting sentiments, that I 
was soon to be in possession of every material 
for the highest happiness, and that the highest 
happiness is short ! May I ever live under the 
influence of that act of devout gratitude, in 
which, as soon as I entered the house, I dedi- 
cated the whole of my future life to its divine 
Author, solemnly consecrating to his service, my 
time, my talents, my fortnne ; all I am and alt 1 
have ! 

I next wrote to Lucilla, with whom I conti- 
nued to maintain a regular and animated cor- 
respondence. Her letters gratify my taste, and 
delight my heart, while they excite me to every 
thing that is good. This interchange of senti- 
ment sheds a ray of brightness on a separation 
which every day is diminishing. 

Mr. Stanley also has the goodness to write to 
me frequently. In one of my letters to him, I 
ventured to ask him how he had managed to 
produce in his daughter such complete satisfac 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



433 



tion in his sober and correct habits of life ; add- 
ing, that her conformity was so cheerful that it 
did not look so much like acquiescence as choice. 

I received from Mr. Stanley the answer which 
follows. 

Stanley Grove, Sept. 1808. 
1 My dear Cbarles, 

1 As I wish to put you in possession of what- 
ever relates to the mind of Lucilla, I will devote 
this letter to answer your inquiries respecting 
her cheerful conformity to what you call our 
" sober habits of life ;" and her indifference to 
those pleasures which are usually thought to 
constitute the sole happiness ofyoung women of 
a certain rank. 

Mrs. Stanley and I are not so unacquainted 
with human nature, as to have pretended to im- 
pose on her understanding, by attempting to 
breed her up in entire ignorance of the world, or 
in perfect seclusion from it. She often accom- 
panied us to town for a short time. The occa- 
sional sight of London, and the frequent enjoy- 
ment of the best society, dissipated the illusion 
of fancy. The bright colours with which young 
imagination, inflamed by ignorance, report, and 
curiosity, invests unknown and distant objects, 
faded under actual observation. Complete igno- 
rance and complete seclusion form no security 
from the dangers incident to the world, or for cor- 
rect conduct at a distance from it. Ignorance 
may be the safety of an idiot, and seclusion the 
security of a nun. Christian parents should act on 
a more large and liberal principle, or what is the 
use of observation and experience ? The French 
women of fashion, under the old regime, were 
bred in convents, and what women were ever 
more licentious than many of them, as soon as 
marriage had set them at liberty ? 

* I am persuaded that the best-intended for- 
mation of character, if formed on ignorance and 
deceit, will never answer. As to Lucilla, we 
have never attempted to blind her judgment. 
We have never thought it necessary to leave 
her understanding out of the question, while we 
were forming her heart. We have never told 
her that the world is a scene absolutely desti- 
tute of pleasure : we have never assured her 
that there is no amusement in the diversion 
which we disapprove. Even if this assurance 
had not been deceitful, it would have been vain 
and fruitless. We cannot totally separate her 
from the society of those who frequent them, 
and whom she would hear speak of them with 
rapture. 

' We went upon other grounds. We accus- 
tomed her to reflect that she was an intellectual 
creature ; that she was an immortal creature ; 
that she was a Christian. — That to an intellec- 
tual being, diversions must always be subordi- 
nate to the exercise of the mental faculties ; that 
to an immortal being, born to higher hopes than 
enjoyments, the exercise of the mental faculties 
must be subservient to religious duties. That 
in the practice of a Christian, self-denial is the 
turning point, the specific distinction. That 
as to many of the pleasures which the world 
pursues, Christianity requires her votaries to 
live above the temptations which they hold out. 
She requires it the more especially, because 
Christians in our time, not being called upon to 

Vol. II. 2 E 



make great and trying sacrifices, of life, of for- 
tunc, and liberty ; and having but comparatively 
small occasions to evidence their sincerity, 
should the more cheerfully make the petty but 
daily renunciation of those pleasures which are 
the very element in which worldly people exist. 

1 We have not misled her by unfair and flat- 
tering representations of the Christian life. We 
have not, with a view to allure her to embrace 
it on false pretences, taught her that when re- 
ligion is once rooted in the heart, the remainder 
of life is uninterrupted peace and unbroken 
delight ; that all shall be perpetually smooth 
hereafter, because it is smooth at present. This 
would be as unfair as to show a raw recruit the 
splendours of a parade-day, and tell him it was 
actual service. We have not made her believe 
that the established Christian has no troubles to 
expect, no vexations to fear, no storms to en- 
counter. We have not attempted to cheat her 
into religion, by concealing its difficulties, its 
trials, no, nor its unpopularity. 

' We have been always aware, that ta have 
enforced the most exalted Christian princi- 
ples, together with the necessity of a corres- 
ponding practice, ever so often and so strongly, 
would have been worse than foolish, had we 
been impresssing these truths »one part of the 
day, and had, on the other part, been living our- 
selves in the actual enjoyment of the very things 
against which we were guarding her. My dear 
Charles, if we would talk to young people with 
effect, we must, by the habits of which we set 
them the example, dispose them to listen, or our 
documents will be something worse than fruit- 
less. It is really hard upon poor girls to be 
tantalized with religious lectures, while they are 
at the same time tempted to every thing against 
which they are warned ; while the whole bent 
and bias of the family practice are diametrically 
opposite to the principles inculcated. 

' In our own case I think I may venture to 
affirm, that the plan has answered. We endea- 
voured to establish a principle of right, instead 
of unprofitable invective against what was wrong 
Perhaps there can scarcely be found a religious 
family in which so few anathemas have been 
denounced against this or that specific diversion, 
as in ours. We aimed to take another road. 
The turn of mind, the tendency of the employ- 
ment, the force of the practice, the bent of the 
conversation, the spirit of the amusement, have 
all leaned to the contrary direction, till the ha- 
bits are gradually worked into a kind of nature. 
It would be cruel to condemn a creature to a 
retired life without qualifying her for retire- 
ment: next to religion, nothing can possibly da 
this but mental cultivation who are above the 
exercise of vulgar employments. The girl who 
possesses only the worldly acquirements — the 
singer and the dancer — when condemned to re- 
tirement, may reasonably exclaim with Milton's 
Adam, when looking at the constellations, 

Why all night long shine these 1 
Wherefore, if none behold. 

'Now the woman who derives her principles 
from the Bible, and her amusements from in- 
tellectual sources, from the beauties of nature, 
and from active employment and exercise, will 



434 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 




not pant for beholders. She is no clamorous 
beggar for the extorted alms of admiration. 
She lives on her own stock. Her resources are 
within herself. She possesses the truest inde- 
pendence. She does not wait for the opinion 
of the world, to know if she is right ; nor for the 
applause of the world, to know if she is happy. 

' Too many religious people fancy that the 
infectious air of the world is confined to the ball- 
room, or the play-house, and that when you have 
escaped from these, you are got out of the reach 
of its contagion. But the contagion follows 
wherever there is a human heart left to its own 
natural impulse. And though I allow that 
places and circumstances greatly contribute to 
augment or diminish the evil ; and that a pru- 
dent Christian will always avoid an atmosphere 
which he thinks not quite wholesome ; yet, who- 
ever lives in the close examination of his own 
heart, will still find some of the morbid mis- 
chief clinging to it, which will require constant 
watching, whatever be his climate or his com- 
pany. 

' I have known pious persons, who would on 
no account allow their children to attend places 
of gay resort, who were yet little solicitous to 
extinguish the spirit which these places are cal- 
culated to generate and nourish. This is rather 
a geographical than a moral distinction. It is 
thinking more of the place than of the temper. 
They restrain their persons, but are not careful 
to expel from their hearts the dispositions which 
excite the appetite, and form the very essence of 
danger. A young creature cannot be happy who 
spends her time at home in amusements destined 
for exhibition, while she is forbidden to be ex- 
hibited. 

• But while we are teaching them that Chris- 
tianity involves an heroic self-denial ; that it 
requires some things to be done, and others 
to be sacrificed, at which mere people of the 
world revolt ; that it directs us ro renounce 
some pursuits because they are wrong, and 
others because they are trifling — we should, 
at the same time, let them see and feel, that to 
a Christian the region of enjoyment is not so 
narrow and circumscribed, is not so barren and j 
unproductive, nor the pleasures it produces so 
few and small, as the enemies of religion would 
insinuate. While early habits of self-denial 
are giving firmness to the character, strenthen- 
ing the texture of the mind, and hardening it 
against ordinary temptations — the pleasures and 
the. employments which we substitute in the 
stead of those we banish, must be such as tend 
to raise the taste, to invigorate the intellect, to 



exalt the nature, and enlarge the sphere of en- 
joyment, to give a tone to the mind, and an ele- 
vation to the sentiments, which 6hall really re- 
duce to insignificance the pleasures that are pro- 
hibited. 

' In our own instance I humbly trust, that 
through the divine blessing, perseverance has 
been its own reward. As to Lucilla, I firmly be- 
lieve that right habits are now so rooted, and the 
relish of superior pleasures so established in her 
mind, that had she the whole range of human en- 
joyment at her command; had she no higher con- 
sideration, no fear of God, no obedience to her 
mother and me, whicli forbade the ordinary dis- 
sipations, she would voluntarily renounce them, 
from a full persuasion of their empty, worthless, 
unsatisfying nature, and from a superinduced 
taste for higher gratifications. 

' I am as far from intending to represent my 
daughter as a faultless creature, as she herself 
is from wishing to be so represented. She is 
deeply conscious both of the corruption of her 
nature, and the deficiencies of her life. This 
consciousness I trust will continue to stimulate 
her vigilance, without which all religion will de- 
cline, and to maintain her humility, without 
which all religion is vain ! 

' My dear Charles ! a rational scene of felicity 
lies open before you both. It is lawful to re- 
joice in the fair perspective, but it is safe to re- 
joice with trembling. Do not abandon yourself 
to the chimerical hope that life will be to you 
what it has never yet been to any man — a scene 
of unmingled delight. This life so bright in 
prospect, will have its sorrows. This life which 
at four and twenty seems to stretch itself to an 
indefinite length, will have an end. May its 
sorrows correct its illusions ! May its close be 
the entrance on a life which shall have no sor- 
rows and no end. 

' I will not say how frequently we talk of you, 
nor how much we miss you. Need I tell you 
that the person who says least on the subject, is 
not the one who least feels your absence? She 
writes by this post. 

' Adieu, my dear Charles ! I am with great 
truth your attached friend, and hope before 
Christmas to subscribe myself your affectionate 
father, 

' Francis Stanley ' 

Delightful hope ! as Miss Stanley, when that 
blessed event takes place, will resign her name, 
I shall resume mine, and joyfully forever re- 
nounce that of 

CGELEBS. 



MORAL SKETCHES 
OF PREVAILING OPINIONS AND MANNERS, 

FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC: 

WITH REFLECTIONS ON PRAYER. 

Let us make a stand on the ancient ways, and then look about us, and discover what is the 
straight and right way, and walk in it — Lord Bacon on Innovation. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 435 

I know not which is the greater wonder, either that prayer, which is a duty so easy and facile, 
so ready and adapted to the powers and skill and opportunities of every man, should have so great 
effects and be productive of such mighty blessings ; or that we should be so unwilling to use so 
easy an instrument of producing so much good. — Bishop Jeremy Taylor. 



PREFACE. 

It is with the sincerest satisfaction, and the most lively gratitude to God, that the writer of 
<hese pages is enabled to bear her feeble but heartfelt testimony, to the progress which religion 
has made, and is making, amongst us, especially in the higher, and even the highest ranks of 
society. 

At a period, therefore, abounding and advancing in almost every kind of religious improve- 
meat, she may be thought by those who would be looking for congratulation rather than caution, 
to have imposed on herself an invidious task, in choosing to dwell less on the triumphs of Chris- 
tianity, than on the dangers or the errors of some of its professors. Yet she is persuaded that 
they who have made the greatest proficiency in piety, will be the most ready to forgive the inti- 
mations, of which they stand in the least need. 

It may, however, justly be said, that the writer might have found more appropriate objects of 
censure amongst the worldly and the irreligious, than in the more respectable classes whom she 
has taken the liberty to make the subject of animadversion. But the truth is, the thoughtless 
and the profligate have been so successively and so perseveringly attacked by far more powerful 
pens ; have been so long assailed by the monitory maxims of the moralist, pelted by the missile 
weapons of the satirist, and chastised by the grave rebuke of the divine, that, with due deference, 
she turns over the hitherto incorrigible to stronger and more efficient hands ; while she ventures 
to address her observations to other quarters, where there will be more hope of forgiveness, and 
less despair of success. 

She does not therefore appeal to those who " hear not Moses and the Prophets," but rather to 
those, who, in some awful instances, misrepresent them. She presumes, with respect and diffi- 
dence, to expostulate with some, who, though exempt from palpable defects in practice, yet 
require to be reminded that speculative errors cannot be indulged without danger ; and to inti- 
mate to others, that the practice may be faulty where there are no material errors in the creed. 
Doubtless indifference to religion will hereafter be more severely judged, than mistakes in it, 
especially if the latter be found to proceed from the head, as the other more apparently does from 
the heart. 

The remarks in the early part of these Sketches, on the excess of continental intercourse, will 
probably be accused of blameable scrupulosity, and the writer be charged with unnecessary 
rigour. Yet what enlightened conscience will deny that some of the habits to which allusion ia 
made, militate as much against the self-denying spirit of our religion as more ostensible faults. 
They would not, however, have been noticed, had they been confined to trifling and common 
characters ; but the least error that grows into a habit, and that habit sanctioned by the counte- 
nance of the worthy and respectable, becomes more important than even the vices of ordinary 
men or frivolous women. In lamenting the probable injurious consequences to a large propor- 
tion of the myriads, who are still with unabated eagerness, crowding to a foreign shore, the 
author is fully persuaded that many amongst them carry out principles too deeply rooted, to be 
shaken by unprofitable intercourse, and morals too correct to be infected by the fascinations of 
pleasure. But who will deny that the countenance of those who escape the injury gives an 
authority to those who receive it? In this view, the wisest and most correct of our emigrants, 
may, by lending themselves to the practice, furnish in the result, an apology for' things which 
they themselves disapprove, and thus their example may be pleaded, as favouring what they 
would be amongst the last to tolerate. 

That long and frequent absences from our home, and especially from our country, are not 
favourable to the mind, is but too visible in that spirit of restlessness induced, by so many who 
have repeatedly made the experiment. For it is observable that the desire once indulged, instead 
of being cooled, is inflamed; inclination becomes voracity. Appetite has grown with indulgence. 
And is it not to be feared that the sober scenes of domestic, and especially of rural life, will con- 
tinue to appear more and more insipid in proportion to the frequency with which they are 
deserted ? Will not successive and protracted carnivals convert the quiet scenes of home enjoy- 
ment into what the poet calls " a lenten entertainment ?" 

Home is at once the scene of repose and of activity. A country gentleman of rank and fortune 
is the sun of a little system, the movements of which his influence controls. It is at home that 
he feels his real importance, his usefulness and his dignity. Each diminishes in proportion to 
the distance he wanders from his proper orbit. The old English gentry kept up the reverence 
and secured the attachment of their dependents by living among them. Personal affection was 
maintained by the presence of the benefactor. Subordination had a visible head. Whereas obe- 
dience to a master they do not see, savours too much of allegiance to a foreign power. 

We know that the Roman he:-j who transgressed the boundaries of his own province by onee 
crossing the Rubicon, changed the whole condition, circumstances, constitution and character 



436 THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 

of his country. May not the reiterated passage of the Straits of Dover eventually produce moral 
changes not less important ? 

The mischiefs effected by these incessant migrations may, indeed, be slow, but they are pro- 
gressive. Principles which would revolt at the idea of any sudden change, are melted down by 
the gradual relaxation of continued contact. Complacency in the soothing enjoyment creeps on 
by almost imperceptible advances. The revolution is not the less certain, because it is not ac- 
knowledged. The conscience, too, is quieted by the geographical anodyne — " I would not do in 
England what I think it no harm to do in Paris." 

Might not a fair practical appeal be made to the different state of the feelings of many of our 
travellers, on witnessing the open violation of the sanctity of the first Sunday, and the twentieth 
repetition of the same abuse ? Who can affirm, that familiarity has not gradually diminished the 
alarm, and in a good measure suppressed the indignation ? Who will assert, that this succession 
of desecrated sabbaths has produced no alteration in the state of their feelings, except that of re- 
conciling them to the practice. They, indeed, who had made such a proficiency in religion as to 
maintain an unabated sense of the evil, would be the least likely unnecessarily to expose their 
principles to such a risk.* 

For the bold remarks on this dangerous and delicate subject, the culprit throws herself on the 
mercy, and the Anglicism of her readers ; on the courtesy of those, whose kindness she hopes 
will not be forfeited, by her having shown herself too exclusively an English woman. Anxious, 
perhaps to a fault, for the welfare, the honour, the prosperity, the character of this Queen of 
Islands, she yet believes that there are to be found worse prejudices than those national attach- 
ments, which in her are irreclaimable.! 

It is not, however, to be conceded, that the term prejudice, so frequently applied to these attach- 
ments, is, by this application, legitimately used. If prejudice, in its true definition, signifies 
prepossession, judgment formed beforehand, fondness adopted previously to knowledge, notions 
cherished without inquiry, opinions taken up, and acted upon without examination, — if these be 
its real significations, and what lexicographer will deny that they are ? then how can this term 
be applied to the more enlightened Britons ? How can it be applied to men who, independently 
of the natural fondness for the soil, and all the objects which endear it; who, in addition to this 
attachment, feel, acknowledge, and enjoy, in their native country, all the substantial blessings 
which make life worth living for ; a constitution, the best that mortal man has ever yet devised ; 
a religion, above the powers of man indeed to conceive, but reformed and carried to perfection by 
his agency, taught by the wisdom of God, led by the guidance of his word, and the direction of 
his Spirit. A system of religious liberty, which, while certain miscreants at home are labouring 
to destroy under the pretence of improving, some foreign countries are imitating, and all are en- 
vying. Institutions, which promise to convey the chief of these blessings to the remotest lands ; — 
if all these assertions are true, let it be again asked, whether, if an intimate knowledge, and a 
long enjoyment of these blessings, should have produced a filial fondness for such a country, that 
attachment can be denominated prejudice, a word which, let it be repeated, was only meant to 
express blind zeal, neglected examination, and contented ignorance ? 

May not this growing attachment for foreign manners, by wearing out domestic attachments, 
create a powerful preponderance in the opposite scale ? The English partialities being cured, 
may not those who shall have conquered them, become more satisfied with their acquired, than 
their former tastes ; may they not fancy, that they are grown more candid, when perhaps, they 
are only become less conscientious ? When the mind is softened down by pleasurable sensations, 
pleased with every thing about it, it becomes pleased with itself; begins to look back on its former 
scrupulous character with present triumph, rejoices in its enlargement from its previous narrow- 
ness congratulates itself on its acquired liberality, calls what was firmness, bigotry ; and thus to 
the altered character, the strictness it carried abroad, appears rigour on its return home ! 

That the attraction may be inviting, and the temptation considerable, is readily allowed ; but 
if once the Tightness of an action should come to be determined by its pleasantness, an entirely 
new system of morals must be introduced amongst Christians; the question then would be no 
longer, what ought we to do, but what should we like to do ? That the temptation is not irre- 
sistible, appears in the self-denial of those who continue to withstand it: many who have felt the 
desire have prudently deferred its gratification to a safer season ; while others continue to doubt 
its general expediency. 

That many among our innumerable travellers, have gone abroad on the reasonable ground of 
health, as well as for the necessary purposes of business, is not to be doubted. And who will 
deny that some men of great ability and high principle, have gone with the meritorious desire, 
of doing moral and religious good, in various directions; and that they have, in no inconsiderable 
degree effected it, or at least have opened a door for further improvement 1 On the other hand 
-ne disgraceful truth must not be concealed, that others have carried out more evil from home, 
than they found abroad. 

It would be uncharitable and unchristian, to desire to maintain a spirit of hostility between 

* Some friends of the writer, men of the first respectability, who during the late war commanded volunteer 
corps, have acknowledged to her, that when first called out to drill on Sundays, their religious feelings were most 
painfully wounded, but by long habit, it gradually became a matter of indifference to them. 

t These prefatory apologies for the offences of a subsequent chapter, will, it is to be feared, remind the reader 
of the prudent sinner mentioned by Luther, who in going to purchase indulgences for the faults he had already 
committed, purchased another for a fault he intended to commit. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



437 



near neighbours ; but when neighbours have been so frequently on the alert to find pretences for 
disagreement, and national safety has sometimes been endangered by the quarrels of individuals, 
will not good neighbourhood be more probably promoted by friendly dispositions and mutual good 
offices on the respective shores, than by obtrusive visits, which, if they were thoroughly liked, 
would doubtless be more frequently returned ? 

For is it not worthy of remark, that we not only refuse to imitate our continental neighbours, 
in the very point in which they are really respectable ? They stay at home. Even if they do so 
with the same proud self-preference, which made ancient Rome call all the other nations of the 
world barbarians, it is at least an honest and a patriotic partiality. Would not the natives of our 
happy land who have less to gain, and more to lose, do well to follow their example in this honour- 
able instance 1 They prudently augment the resources of their country in two ways, by spending 
their own money in their own land, with the additional profit of holding out to us those allure- 
ments, which cause ours to be spent there also. 

O England ! model to thy inward greatness, 

Like little body with a mighty heart ! 

What might'st thou do that honour bids thee do, 

Were all thy children kind and natural ! 

But see, thy fault France hath in thee found out. 

Shakspeare. 

While the pen is in the hand of the writer, fresh intelligence is brought of conspiracies lorm 
ing in different parts of the kingdom for its destruction. Can she, therefore, forbear repeating, 
that if her degenerate sons betray her, and her honourable sons desert her, her perils are indeed 
imminent ? 

At her advanced age the writer has little to hope from praise, or little to fear from censure, 
except as her views may have been in a right or wrong direction. She has felt that a renewed 
attention to growing errors is a duty on those who have the good of mankind at heart. The 
more nearly her time approaches for her leaving the world, there is a sense in which she feels 
herself more stiongly interested in it; she means an increasing anxiety for its improvement; for 
its advance in all that is right in principle, and virtuous in action. And as the events and expe- 
rience of every day convince her, that there is no true virtue that is not founded in religion, and 
no true religion which is not maintained by prayer, she hopes to be forgiven, if with declining 
years and faculties, yet with increasing earnestness, from increasing conviction of its value, she 
once more ventures to impress this last, important topic, on their attention. 

If then she has enlarged even to dlffuseness on the subject of prayer, it is because she is fer- 
vently desirous to suggest it, as the surest counteractive of those many abberrations of heart and 
practice but too visible amongst us. In some former publications, however, she had expatiated so 
largely on this inexhaustible topic, that, in order to avoid repetition, she has chiefly limited her 
present observations on prayer to the errors which may prevent its efficacy, together with the 
allusions to certain classes of character in whom these errors most abound. 

In taking her final leave of her readers, may she be allowed to express her gratitude for their 
long unwearied indulgence ; for a patience which the too frequent demands on it could not ex- 
haust ; for their candour in forgiving her bold remonstrances ; for their kindness in bearing with 
her faults in consideration of her desire to be useful ; and for extending to one who had nothing 
to offer but right intentions, that favour to which merit might have put in a fairer claim. 

Barley.Wood, July 24th, 1819- 



SKETCHES OF FOREIGN MANNERS. 



Foreign Associations. 

We had fervently hoped, during a war unpa- 
ralleled in duration and severity, that if ever the 
blessing of peace should be restored, all would 
be well again : we had hoped, that at least we 
should be brought back to our previous situation 
with that improvement in humility and grati- 
tude, which the remembrance of past sufferings, 
and recent deliverance from those sufferings, 
would seem naturally to produce. If our plea- 
sant feelings in such a prospective event were 
shaded at all, it was simply by the irrepairable 
and individual loss of a father, son, or brother, 
which almost every family, of every rank, had 
sustained. Peace was at length providentially 
granted to our arms and to our prayers ; but all 



the blessings we had anticipated did not return 
in her train : 

Ease still recants 
Vows made in pain, as violent and void. 

Were it not almost doubtful whether in some 
respects the change may have proved a benefit, 
if it should bo found to be the choice between 
the two evils, the waste of human lives, or the 
decay of moral principles ? Some scrupulous 
persons may even think it requires no very cor- 
rect arithmetic to determine on the comparative 
value of perishable lives and immortal souls. 

What then was the first use we made of a 
benefit so earnestly implored, — a blessing which 
we fondly flattered ourselves would be converted 
to so many salutary purposes ? This peace, for 



438 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



which so many prayers were offered, so many 
fasts appointed ; this peace, whose return was 
celebrated by thanksgivings in every church, 
and, as we hope, in every house, and in every 
heart, to what purpose was its restoration de- 
voted ? 

This peace was seized on, not as a means to 
repair in some measure the ravages which were 
made on the commerce, the property, the com- 
forts, as well as the population of our country ; 
but must it not, in many instances, be said tru- 
ly, though most painfully said, to vary their na- 
ture, and enhance their malignity ? Instead of 
sedulously employing it to raise us to our for- 
mer situation, by a prudent restriction in our 
indulgences, an increased residence in our re- 
spective districts, and an endeavour to lighten 
the difficulties of government, by the continued 
contribution of its rightful supplies ; instead of 
using it to mitigate the distresses, and to re- 
strain the crimes of the lower orders, by living 
in the midst of them, each at its natural and 
appropriate station, and thus neutralising the 
spirit of disaffection, which took advantage only 
of their absence to break out ; instead of im- 
proving its opportunities, or providing against 
the impending scarcity, which the desertion of 
the rich increased almost to famine, in giving 
employment to the industrious, relief to the 
sick, and bread to the famished ; instead of 
each centinel remaining at his providentially 
appointed watch, — at this critical moment, a 
very large proportion of our nobles and gentry, 
an indefinite number of our laity, and not a few 
of our clergy, that important part of the com- 
munity, of which the situation is peculiarly lo- 
cal, — all these, as if simultaneously seized by 
that mania which, in fabulous history, is said to 
have sent one unfortunate object of divine per- 
secution wandering through the world, — all 
these important portions of our country at once 
abandoned it. The only use they made of peace 
was to fly, with most unrighteous speed, to the 
authors of our calamities, and of such calami- 
ties as it might be thought could not at once 
have been forgotten, to visit a country which 
had filled our own with widows and orphans, 
which had made the rest of Europe a scene of 
desolation. 

Not only hundreds of thousands of our coun- 
try, men, and women, and children, but millions 
of our money, so severely wanted at home, were 
transported from every port to visit this lately 
execrated country. To visit, did I say ? that 
had been little ; a short excursion to feed the 
eye, and gratify the taste with pictures and sta- 
tues, might have been pleaded as a natural 
temptation. 

Here we conceive the grave-Christian moralist 
will censure the writer as much as she censures 
the emigrants. He will say, 'the desire is too 
natural to be right.' If we plead in mitigation 
of damages, that it was innocent curiosity, we 
shall be told, that it was a curiosity, which one 
of our first parents believed innocent., but which 
lost them both Paradise. If it was a desire of 
knowledge, it might be a knowledge better un- 
known ; if to cure those prejudices, * for which 
our country is a name so dear,' such prejudices 
may better be retained than cured. 



But be this as it may, the truth is, that to 
multitudes, France was not made a place of vi- 
sit but a home. For when these wonderful pro- 
ductions of art were restored to the places from 
whence they had been feloniously taken, did that 
allay the hunger of emigration ? France be- 
came the settled residence ofmultitudes. France 
was made a scene for the education of English, 
of Christian, of Protestant children ! Sons and 
daughters, even in the middle ranks of life, were 
transported thither with an eagerness, as if the 
land of blood had been a land of promise. And 
as all fashions descend, not a few of our once 
simple, plain-hearted English yeomen were 
drawn in to follow the example of their betters, 
as they are not very correctly called. The in- 
fection became general, nor has time as yet 
stayed the plague. 

A late French wit,* who always preferred a 
calumny to a fact, and was more fond of giving 
a neat turn to a sentence, than of speaking truth, 
after visiting this country about the middle of 
the last century, characterised its natives by 
saying, the English people resembled their own 
beer, the top was all froth, the bottom all dregs, 
but the middle was excellent. If this were at 
that time true, the middle class has now merged 
its distinctive character in the other two ; it is 
abandoning the honourable station in the cup 
which it then held, is adopting its worst ingre- 
dients from above and below, and by its mix- 
ture with the froth and the feculence, has con- 
siderably lessened its claim to its once distinct 
commendation.t 

But the evil, great as it is, does not end here ; 
numbers of a higher strain remain domiciliated 
in France, and too many who are returned, are 
more than ever assimilated with French man- 
ners. It is to be feared, that with French habits, 
French principles may be imported. French 
alliances are contracted, as almost every news- 
paper records. We are losing our national cha- 
racter. The deterioration is by many thought 
already visible. In a few years, if things pro- 
ceed in their present course, or rather with in- 
creasing velocity, which is always the case with 
downward tendencies, the strong and discrimi- 
nating features of the English heart and mind 
will be obliterated, and we shall be lost in the 
undistinguished mass. 

In the mean time, let us take warning from 
the consideration, that the first, stage of decline 
is the beginning of dissolution. Whatever has 
begun already to decay, is not far from perish- 
ing. This contagious intercourse has been too 
probably the cause of the recent multiplication 
of those great Sunday entertainments, in the di- 
minution of which we had begun to rejoice; a 
multiplication which is as likely to contribute to 
the decline of religion in the domestic arrange- 
ments of the great, as in any more obvious and 
ostensible evil. 

What would the veteran moralist, who, in 
his beautiful and vigorous satire, indignantlv 
exclaimed, 

* Voltaire: 

t It is almost too ludicrous to assert, that the wife of a 
reputable farmer, being asked lately what she had done 
with her daughter, replied, ' I have Frenched her and 
musicked her, and shall now carry her to France. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



439 



I cannot bear a French motropolis ; 

What would Johnson have said had he been 
spared till now ? 

How would he laugh at Britain's modern tribe. 
Dart the keen taunt, and edge the piercing gibe! 

How would he have poured out his ready wrath, 
his cutting sarcasm, his powerful reasoning, his 
robust morality, on a country which is in dan- 
ger of deserting its own character, impairing its 
own virtue, and discrediting its own religion ? 

We set a just value on the French language 
as the introduction to much elegant literature ; 
to much indeed that is valuable, but to more that 
is pernicious. But even this agreeable language, 
for the higher acquisition of which so many im- 
portant sacrifices are made, so much domestic 
duty is relinquished, so much religious principle 
is hazarded, may be bought too dear. Even if 
this supreme excellence, the perfection of the 
Parisian accent, should obtain for an English 
lady the coveted distinction of being taken for a 
French woman ; does she not run some risk, 
even in her own country and her own home, 
from the habit of domesticating in our families 
persons of whom all she may know is, that their 
accent is good ; of whose morals she knows lit- 
tle ; and of whose religion she knows nothing, 
except that, if they happen by great chance to 
have any, it is of a character hostile to her own. 
The only hope is, that the foreign teacher may 
care so little about the matter, as never to intro- 
duce religion at all ; but this ie not a very con- 
soling consideration in the instructors of our 
children. 

There is another grievance connected with 
this mania for whatever is foreign, — a grievance 
not the less serious because it is overlooked, and 
because it affects only a subordinate class in so- 
ciety ; we allude to the injury sustained by our 
domestic manufactures from the abundant im- 
portation of French articles of dress and deco- 
ration. We forbear to enter on the subject in 
all its painful extent ; we forbear to advert to 
the looms that are standing still, to the gloomi- 
ness of our trading streets, to the warehouses 
that are left solitary, to the shops which are 
nearly deserted ; and shall confine our humble 
remonstrance to pleading more particularly the 
distress of those unfortunate females who used 
to procure a decent support by their own indus- 
try, and of whom thousands are now plunging 
into misery. We would fervently but respect- 
fully advocate the cause of this meritorious and 
most pitiable class. 

If British patriotism be not a plea sufficiently 
powerful to restrain a temptation, which can 
only be indulged by the violation of laws, which 
perhaps the husbands and fathers of the fair 
offenders have established, we would appeal to 
the sensibilities of a well-regulated heart, to the 
tenderness of an enlightened conscience, and to 
the dictates of justice and charity, whether it be 
pardonable to yield to every slight temptation 
merely to gratify vanity, or, to speak more ten- 
derly, to indulge a capricious taste. 

When tempted to make the alluring purchase 
J>y the superior beauty, real or imaginary, of 
the article, might we not presume to recommend 



to every lady to put some such questions as 
the following to herself: — ' By this gratifioa 
tion, illicitly obtained, I not only offend against 
human laws, but against humanity itself; by 
this purchase I am perhaps starving some 
unfortunate young creature of my own sex, 
who gained her daily bread by weaving hor 
lace or braiding her straw. I am driving her 
to that extremity of want, which may make her 
yield to the next temptation to vice, which may 
drive her to the first sinful means that may offer 
of procuring a scanty, precarious, and miserable 
support. It is in vain that I may have perhaps 
subscribed for her being taught better principles 
at school, that I have perhaps assisted in paying 
for her acquisition of her little trade, if by crush- 
ing that trade I now drive her to despair, if I 
throw her on a temptation which may overcome 
those better principles she acquired through my 
means. Shall I not then make this paltry — this 
no sacrifice ? Shall I not obtain a victory over 
this petty allurement, whose consequences when 
I first gave way to it I did not perceive ?" 

The distress here described is not a picture 
drawn by the imagination, a touch of sentiment- 
alism, to exhibit feeling and to excite it. It is 
a plain and simple representation of the state of 
multitudes of young women, who having been 
bred to no other means of gaining their support, 
will probably, if these fail throw themselves into 
the very jaws of destruction. Think, then, with 
tenderness, on these thousands of young persons 
of your own sex, whom a little self-denial on 
your part might restore to comfort — might 
snatch from ruin. Many ladies, who make these 
unlawful purchases, do not want feeling, they 
only want consideration. Consider, then, we 
once more beseech you, consider, that it is not 
merely their bread, but their virtue, of which 
you may be unintentionally depriving them ; 
and you will find, that your error is by no means 
so inconsiderable as it may hitherto have appear- 
ed to you. 

If the superiority of the foreign purchase you 
are about to make be not great, you have gained 
little or nothing by your fault ; if it is, and you 
forego it, you have gained a victory over your 
own inclination, — the victory of an honest prin- 
ciple over a misleading fancy. 

Spare yourself, then, the pain of feeling that, 
if you hear of any of these unfortunate beings 
having previously to their entering on other sin. 
ful courses, been tempted by famine to commit 
a robbery — spare yourself the pain of reflecting, 
that you, perhaps by a thoughtless gratification 
of your taste, first robbed her of that subsistence, 
the failure of which has driven her to a crime 
she abhorred. The evil which appeared little, 
considered by itself, considered in its possible 
consequences is of no small magnitude. 

But to return. — It was from the land of po- 
lished arts that ancient Kome imported the poi- 
son of her sturdy morals, the annihilation of 
her masculine character. England has a palla. 
dium for her protection, which Ilium, which 
Rome never possessed. Yet on that guardian 
genius depended, as the people thought, the 
safety of the former ; of the latter it was consi, 
dered as the destiny. Our palladium is the 
Ch&istian, the Pbotestant Religion. It cannot 



440 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



be taken by storm ; but like that of Ilium, it 
may be taken by stratagem. The French are 
to us as much more formidable than the Greeks 
were to Rome, as we have much more to lose. 
While our guardian genius remains inclosed 
within our wall, we shall be safe, in spite of 
wars and revolutions ; if we neglect it, like the 
besieged city of antiquity, we fall : losing our 
religion, we lose all with it. Religion is our 
compass, the only instrument for directing and 
determining our course ; and though it will not 
eave the trouble of working the vessel, nor di- 
minish the vigilance of guarding against rocks 
and shoals ; yet it constantly points to that star 
which, by ascertaining our course, insures our 
safety. 

In making our country an island, Divine Pro- 
vidence seems to have made a provision for our 
happiness as well as for our security. As that 
circumstance has protected us from the sword, 
it should also protect us from the manners of 
our continental neighbours. The more she 
labours to resume them, the more she will lose 
of her independent character. Le gout du ter- 
roir is often mentioned as the distinctive mark 
of the country which produces certain wines. 
The British character, we hope, will always re- 
tain its indigenous flavour. 

But if Britain, blest by Heaven above all the 
nations, ancient or modern, recorded in the an- 
nals of history, sacred or profane, has not made 
the most of all the advantages bestowed on her; 
if she has not yet made the best use of that ele- 
vation, on which Divine Providence has placed 
her ; if she has not yet applied to the best pos- 
sible ends, the rich gifts with which he has en- 
dowed her ; nor turned the provision made for 
her happiness to the best account : if, standing 
on the loftiest summit of naval, military, and 
literary glory ; if favoured with the best civil 
and religious constitution the wit of man has 
yet devised ; — if, with all these advantages, she 
has yet some steps to ascend before she reach to 
the height to which the Almighty seems to have 
destined her, let her remember, she has resources 
within himself, by which, with the blessing of 
Him who conferred them, she may still set an 
example to all the kingdoms of the earth. We 
will not say she may acquire a superiority over 
other nations — of that she has long been in pos- 
session — No ; we must not try her by her com- 
parative, but her positive merit : not by placing 
her in juxta-position with other countries, but 
with the possibilities of her own excellence. 

Britain, we repeat, has abundant resources. 
If it be true that she has lately, in any respect, 
gone back, rather than advanced ; if, when her 
public character has reached its zenith, her pri- 
vate character is in any thing deteriorated, 6he 
has still within herself all the materials of moral 
renovation ; ample means, not only of recover- 
ing what has been lost, but of rising to heights 
yet unattained. It is only to be wished that she 
may use these resources, and consider them as 
raw materials, that will not produce their effect 
without being industriously worked up. 

Ifthe familiar and protracted intercourse with 
a neighbouring nation ; if, during this inter- 
course, the long witnessed contempt of religion, 
morbid insensibility to morals, desecrated Sab- 



baths, an abandonment to amusements the most 
frivolous, to pleasures, knit in one eternal dance ; 
if all this should happily have left unimpaired, 
or have only tinctured, too slightly to make a 
lasting impression, the noble simplicity, the an- 
cient rectitude, the sound sense, and the native 
modesty which have long been the character- 
istics of the British people ; if the growth at 
home, and within our own doors, of an into- 
lerant and superstitious church, be not too fondly 
fostered — be not promoted instead of tolerated ; 
ifthe paramount fondness, in the more delicate 
sex, for unbounded dissipation, for profane and 
immoral writers, should decline ; if the middle 
classes among us should return to their ancient 
sobriety and domestic habits, should cease to vie 
with the great in expensive dress, and the deco- 
rations of high life, and to give their daughters 
the same useless accomplishments, which are 
carried too far even in the highest station, and 
in theirs are preposterous; ifthe instruction we 
are at length giving to the poor be as conscien- 
tiously conducted as it is generally adopted, and 
the art of reading be made the vehicle of true 
religion ; if a judicious correction of our criminal 
code, and a prudent rectification of the demand 
of pauperism, be successfully followed up ; if 
the African slave-trade should be effectually 
abolished — not in promise, and on paper, but in 
very deed and act ; if our prisons be made places 
of reform, instead of increased corruption ; ifthe 
young offenders be so instructed, that they come 
not out as bad as the old, and the old come not 
out worse than they went in ; if our venerable 
universities should fulfil the promise they give 
of becoming as distinguished for moral disci- 
pline and strict religion, as they have over been, 
and still are, unrivalled for learning and ability 
of every kind ; if churches be as readily attend- 
ed, as they will be cheerfully provided ; if there 
be the same honourable attention paid to filling 
the pulpits, as to raising the buildings; if the 
Bible be as generally read by the giver, as it is 
liberally bestowed on the receiver ; if the good 
old practice of family prayer should be revived, 
and public worship more carefully attended by 
those who give the law to fashion ; if those who 
are ' the makers of manners' will adopt none 
but such as deserve to be imitated: — if all these 
improvements should take place, and which of 
them, let me ask, is impossible — then, though 
we laugh to scorn the preposterous notion of hu- 
man perfectibility, we shall yet have a right to 
expect that England, so far from being satisfied 
to excel other nations, will not only excel her 
present self, but be continually advancing in the 
scale of Christian perfection. 



French Opinion of English Society. 

The French nation have lately had many op 
portunities for forming their opinion of the En- 
glish. It may be worth our while to consider 
what opinion they have formed : since by ascer- 
taining their present judgment of the English 
character, we may form some instructive con- 
clusions as to the change their tuition is likely 
to effect in it 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



441 



foreigners are of opinion that we want polish. 
If this were all, we should rather blame their 
discernment, or their deficiency in fair deduc- 
tion. For grant us that we are solid, and we 
have high authority for saying that solid bodies 
take the brightest polish. — And if in point of fact 
the English character, like the English oak, be 
susceptible of no inconsiderable polish, it is 
owing in both to the inherent soundness and 
firmness of its substance. Soft bodies admit of 
little polish : in them, therefore, recourse is had 
to varnish, which hides all flaws ; and the thicker 
it is applied, the more surely it conceals the 
meanness of the materials beneath its surface. 

A late brilliant female writer,* whose genius 
it would be a reflection on our own taste not to 
admire, and on our own candour not to extol ; 
has, towards the end of her admirable posthu- 
mous work, done, in general, noble justice to 
the English character. She had talents to ap- 
preciate, and opportunities to examine it, in its 
highest condition and most advantageous forms. 
It must be observed, that we here presume 
to touch on no part of her able delineation of 
English habits and manners, but only so far as 
private society and conversation are concerned. 
— On these points we are to look for her excep- 
tions: though on the society of the gentlemen 
she animadverts with the most flattering consi- 
deration ; and even to that of the ladies she 
makes a frequent and generous, but not very 
successful, effort to be civil. 

However, with all the politeness and good na- 
ture of this fine writer, two qualities which she 
seems to have possessed in no ordinary degree, 
it frequently escapes her, that she found the 
English ladies deplorably deficient in those 
shining talents and airy graces which embellish 
society. Had her visit to London been three or 
four years later, she might possibly have found, 
in some quarters, stronger marks of improve- 
ment in this talent so near her heart; at least 
if any expectation might be formed from their 
subsequent intercourse with the society of Paris, 
the charms of which she never fails to exhibit 
in those glowing colours which she so well 
knows how to lay on, even on the worst ground. 

But this eloquent panegyrist of animated con. 
versation seems to be a little mistaken in some 
of the causes to which she ascribes the heavi- 
ness of London parties. She laments with 
deeper concern than the occasion, even had it 
been real, seems to require, that the great En- 
glish gentlemen regularly retire, and spend 
nine months in the year on their estates in the 
country. We wish she had happened to men- 
tion in what quarter of the kingdom this annual 
jetreat is made, where this voluntary exile to 
the native home is to be found. 

We say voluntary, for Bristish gentlemen are 
not rclegues from our capital, as ex-ministers 
and discarded favourites used to be from Paris. 
Neither the fate, nor the credit, nor the liberty, 
nor the choice of habitation of a man of rank in 
this country, depends on the favour of an arbi- 
trary king; nor does his happiness, his general 
acceptance, nor his respectability, hang on the 
miles of a despotic and capricious master. And 



Vol. II. 



* Madam de Stael. 



if her concern be excessive for the annual volun- 
tary banishment of our men of taste from the 
centre of social delights, which she would wish 
to see converted into a circle ' never ending, still 
beginning ;' had this lady never further heard of 
such places as Bath, or Tunbridge, or Brighton, 
or any other of those numberless felicitous re- 
sources, those supplemental relaxations, those 
by-reliefs of the ennui of retreat, which always 
stand ready to intercept the speed of the fashion- 
able exile, and to break the fall between the 
London and the country home? 

But if even the fact were as desperate as she 
intimates, the self-imposed regulation would not 
be likely to produce the effect she deprecates. 
This lady, born herself to excel in polished 
society, regrets this injurious retreat, chiefly 
because it interrupts the brilliant intercourse of 
the metropolis, and causes conversation to suffer 
so tedious and melancholy a suspension. Now 
we should almost as soon have expected that a 
philosopher would have imagined a supernume- 
rary eclipse of the sun for the same period, and 
then have brought it to account for the late 
dreariness of the natural world and the incle- 
mency of the seasons. 

She laments that the manner in which these 
absentees from the source and centre of intel- 
lectual enjoyment spend their time in the coun- 
try, not a little disqualifies them for the chirms 
of society. With all due deference to this able 
reasoner, from whom it is hazardous to differ, 
we should have really thought, that the long 
leisure for reading, to which this supposed soli- 
tude must be at least as favourable to some, as 
that indolence, sleeping, and drinking which 
she too indiscriminately ascribes to most, would 
have been generally seized on for the former 
purpose by men, who are all scholars by educa- 
tion, and frequently studious from taste. — Thus, 
instead of starving the intellect, would not this 
leisure rather serve to nourish it ; and, instead of 
lowering the mind, furnish it with fresh images, 
enrich it with new ideas, and aided by the 
'short retirement urging sweet return,' dispose 
it to repair with a full mind, additional spirit, 
replenished resources, and increased energy, to 
that more splendid society which she deems the 
life of life ; that feast of intellect, of which the 
writer of these pages is fully disposed to ac- 
knowledge the pleasure and the profit ? — Those 
to whom she alludes, who only hunt, and loll, 
and drink, and sleep at their country seats, are 
not, we presume, of that race of active intellect 
who would swell the flow of soul by their con- 
tributions, were they even tied as closely and 
constantly to the metropolis as the tavern waiter 
who draws their corks, or the more respectable 
purveyor who supplies the market with their 
luxuries. 

As we presume that there is at this time at 
least as much genius, and taste, and literature, 
at home, as in any capital abroad, consequently 
there can be no deficiency of the finest materials 
for enriching and embellishing society, were 
their possessors a little more disposed to imitate 
a neighbouring nation in one talent, in which 
they must be allowed to excel all others — the 
talent se faire valoir. 

There is more sterling weight than show in 



442 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the genuine English character ; and Mr. Addi- 
eon was not the only one of his countrymen 
who, with respect to intellectual wealth, could 
draw for a thousand pounds, though he. may not 
always have a guinea in his pocket. But if they 
are incessantly producing all they are worth to 
every comer ; when called out in public situa- 
tions, in the senate, the pulpit, or at the bar, we 
see all the energies of genius in all its opulence 
and variety. We spe the most powerful reason- 
ing, adorned by the most persuasive eloquence. 
With these ample materials for conversation, 
they are not perhaps driven, like some of their 
more volatile neighbours, to talk for the sake of 
talking. Talking is not with Englishmen so 
completely a besoin, so entirely a natural neces- 
sity. They are more disposed to consider con- 
versation as the refreshment than the pabulum 
of life. Added to this, their professional and 
laborious duties abroad, may make some of them 
frequently consider society as a scene in which 
rather to repose their minds, than to keep them 
in full exercise. 

Learning in this country, is not confined to 
academicians, authors, and professional men. 
There is scarcely a man of fortune in the king- 
dom who, if he be not actually learned, has not, 
however, been bred to learning. The effect of 
that high institution, brought from the halls and 
bowers of our distinguished seats of learning, is 
generally diffused ; it serves to fill and adorn 
the stations of dignity, honour, and utility of 
public, as well as to grace the shade and raise 
the tone of private life. So that an illiterate 
gentlemen is more rarely to be met with in this 
country, than in any other in the world. When 
a learned dignitary of our church enquired of 
one of the French emigrant clergy, who took 
refuge in England, if he understood Greek, he 
coolly replied, ' Monsieur, nous avons un pro- 
fesstur ." 

But to return to the other sex. — Our only fear 
on this subject is, lest they should not always 
remain what the writer in question represents 
them as being at present. If, indeed, we were 
only sent into this world to be entertaining ; if 
we had nothing to do but to talk, nothing to aim 
at but to shine, nothing to covet but admiration ; 
we should more readily coincide in opinion with 
this sprightly lady. 

A great ancient has pronounced silence to be 
no unimportant art in society, and points, in a 
particular instance, at one man, as the wisest 
in an enlightened assembly, because he knew 
how to hold his tongue. If there had not been 
many discreet imitators of this taciturn orator 
in the London parties, what a diminution would 
it have been in the number of this lady's de- 
lighted auditors, and what a lessening of their 
own gratification in enjoying the exhibition of 
her superlative talents ! 

There are, indeed, very frequently sounder 
causes for being silent than deficiency of talent, 
or lack of information ; and how happily would 
the multitude of idle talkers be diminished, if 
they never opened their mouths, but when they 
had something to say. The writer in question 
ascribes to causes which appear quite new, the 
reserve and insipidity of the English ladies, 
when she says, that the true motive is the fear of 



ridicule ; and that as they are not called upon to 
enliven conversation, they are more struck with 
the danger of talking, than with the inconve- 
nience of silence. She then somewhat unac- 
countably, goes on to attribute the frigidity of 
their society to the dread of newspapers ; and 
conjectures, that because they do not delight in 
political warfare, they keep themselves back as 
much as possible in the presence of others. We 
did not know that English ladies were either so 
political or so discreet, or that vivacity and the 
graces were such heavy losers from these un- 
suspected causes. Perhaps this -lady did not 
know that the English educate, or rather did 
once educate, women of fashion for home. A 
man of sense will desire to find in his domestic 
associate, good taste, general information, and a 
correct judgment. In the course of their litera- 
ry pursuits and conversation together, he will 
take pleasure in refining and improving her 
mind ; but he would not delight in a wife who 
will be always introducing subjects for debate, 
who will be always disputing the palm of vic- 
tory. Competition and emulation do not contain 
the elements of domestic happiness. He mar- 
ried for a companion, not for a competitor. Ri- 
valry is no great promoter of affection ; nor does 
superiority in wit always confer superiority in 
happiness. A professed female wit, like a pro- 
fessed devotee to music, will be soon weary of 
wasting her talent on her husband ; and even 
he, though he might like such an occasional 
display in a visit to the house of his friend, will 
find other talents wanting in a constant home 
companion : talents which will not only embel- 
lish, but improve society ; qualities which will 
eclipse wit, and outlive beauty. 

We do not find that those brilliant French 
women, who had spoiled this sprightly writer 
for English society, reserved their wit for the 
entertainment of their husbands, or their learn- 
ing for the instruction of their families. Their 
most graceful ethic and courtly poet, who had 
the best opportunities of ascertaining the real 
value of professed wits in society, has given his 
estimate in a single line : 

Diseurs de bon mots, fades caracteres 1 

Among other deductions from brilliant society 
in England, this lively writer laments an evil, 
which, if things proceed as they have now be- 
gun, we fear may not always remain a subject 
of lamentation, as coquetry is, in her recipe 
book, the flavour which gives to society its 
poignancy : and this zest she complains is not 
to be found in England, except in the unmarried ! 
If, however, the growing imitation of French 
manners should hereafter add this new savour 
to the real accomplishments of English ladies, 
their fathers and husbands may not think it the 
most desirable finishing. She accounts for the 
fondness of our ladies for foreign travel in a man- 
ner not the most flattering to their purity, by 
supposing it to arise as much from the desire 
of escaping from the restraint on their manners, 
as from the influence of the fogs on their consti. 
tutions. 

She is at no loss to know the true cause of a 
fact, which we are entirely indebted to her saga, 
city for discovering at all, namely, why the di» 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



443 



gust of life seizes on those women who are con- 
fined to these inanimate societies. Certainly 
this explanation admits the following prelimina- 
ry question, — Are the movers in these lifeless 
circles disgusted with their existence ? By the 
the way, we do not quite understand whether by 
le degout de la vie she means a dislike to com- 
pany, or a taste for suicide. 

But let us do justice to her who has in most 
respects done ample justice to our country. If 
she is a little sickened with the moody taciturni- 
ty, and unassuming manners of our ladies, she 
graciously redeems their characters by making 
them a full allowance of the more solid virtues ; 
acknowledges that sincerity and truth form the 
basis of their conversation, even where all the 
graces are wanting. It is somewhat doubtful, 
however, whether she would not willingly have 
relinquished the actual, in exchange for the ab- 
sent qualities. 

While we continue to preserve, or rather to 
improve in, this only true foundation of Christian 
intercourse, we will less regret the want of its 
embellishments ; and while reserve is protection, 
and delicacy security, we will console ourselves 
under these minor evils, which are considered as 
so cruelly detracting from the fascinations of 
polished society. 

Lord Chesterfield, who adorned conversation 
by his wit as much as he impaired it by his 
principles, has defined politeness ' to be the art 
of pleasing. Saint Paul, one of the few writers 
with whom this accomplished peer was not ac- 
quainted, recommends, with as much warmth as 
his lordship, the duty of pleasing our neighbour. 
But here the two moralists part. The noble 
writer would have us please others to benefit 
ourselves. All his precepts originate, proceed, 
and terminate in that one object — self. The 
Christian writer directs us to ' please others for 
their good,' their highest good, their moral ' edi- 
fication.' The essence of the worldly code of 
ethics is selfishness; that of the Christian is 
disinterestedness. 

There is a generosity in Christian intercourse, 
the very reverse of that little and narrowing spi- 
rit ascribed to it by those who do not know, or 
do not love it. It cannot be otherwise ; for are 
not those who cultivate it ever the followers of 
Him, whose sublime characteristic it was — • that 
he pleased not himself?' 

In the society of Christians, every man does 
not so much look on his own things as on the 
things of others. Christians do not make con- 
versation a theatre for dispute or display. They 
consider it as a reciprocation of benignity ; a 
desire to draw out the talents of these who, with 
more merit, havo less pretension. An inter- 
change of sentiment between intellectual and 
highly principled persons confers both pleasure 
and benefit. To make it at once pleasant and 
profitable, there must be an accordance of prin- 
ciple, if not of opinion. The conversation will 
frequently have a tincture of religion, even when 
the topic under discussion is not religious. To- 
pics barely secular are susceptible of this spirit ; 
.and in pious and discreet hands, they will be 
treated in a way to promote religion without pro- 
fessing it. 

True religion keeps the whole man in order 



whether he be engaged in business or in com- 
pany. It sheds its benign influence far beyond 
its own sphere, and by a reflex light casts a ray 
on actions or speculations to which it has no im- 
mediate reference. The Christian does not go 
out of his way in search of wit, or embellish- 
ment, though he does not refuse them when they 
naturally present themselves, when they grow 
out of the subject, and the story is not invented 
for their forced introduction, nor any sacrifice 
made of something better than themselves. The 
Christian uses his talents temperately, seeks not 
to eclipse the less brilliant; and had much 
rather not shine at all, than shine at the expense 
of another. The religious man in society finds 
means for the exercise of many christian virtues 
without descanting on them, — candour, charita- 
ble construction, patience with the less enlight- 
ened, and temper with the less forbearing, a 
scrupulous veracity, an inviolable sincerity, a 
watchful guard against every vain thought and 
every light expression. He is careful to pre- 
serve wit unsullied, gayety pure, and vivacity 
correct. He is constantly on the watch to in- 
troduce subjects of a higher strain; when the 
occasion offers, he gladly embraces it, but with 
a due regard to time, place, and circumstance. 
Let it be observed, we are not here speaking of 
select society, associating for religious improve, 
ment, but of the duty of keeping ordinary con- 
versation within the bounds and under the dis» 
cipline of correct principle. 



English Opinion of French Society. 

It may at first sight be censured as a de- 
parture from the general design of these slight 
pages, to introduce any allusion to the manners 
of foreign countries, as exhibited in their own 
journals, memoirs, and letters. But when it is 
considered how deeply our own manners are 
now becoming assimilated with theirs, it may 
not be thought quite irrelevant to the subjects 
under consideration, to take a cursory view of 
the habits of society in a neighbouring metro- 
polis, so far as they may be likely to affect and 
influence those of our own country, avoiding 
every thing public or political, or general, and 
confining the few cursory remarks to be made, 
to the fashionable circles of private society. 

Paris has been long looked up to by many 
with admiration, as the centre of all that is bril- 
liant in wit, or fascinating in conversation. In 
a capital, which before the Revolution was said 
to contain twenty thousand men of letters, high 
society was not likely to want eulogists. The 
extravagant encomiums bestowed on these so- 
cieties by their own people, and echoed back by 
our3, may prevent its being thought inexpedient 
to give a superficial sketch of a few of the lead- 
ing characters which seem to have set the supe- 
riority of the circles over which they presided 
above all competition. It is, we repeat, the ap- 
prehension that this boasted superiority may 
kindle undue admiration, and even excite envy, 
in the ardent and ingenuous mind of young 
persons of taste, who feel themselves precluded 
from the enjoyment, which must apologize for 



444 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the freedom, whilst it explains the motive, of 
these observations. 

It is indeed wounding to delicacy to speak 
explicitly on things which should not be so much 
as named. Yet though it is painful to touch on 
such topics, how shall we be so likely to prevent 
evils, as by exposing them ? Perhaps it may 
check the desire of imitation, lightly to touch on 
a few of the bad characters who preside over 
these good societies. 

That many have escaped their pollution, is a 
thing more to inspire wonder than to excite imi- 
tation. All do not die of the plague where the 
plague rages ; but the preservation of the few is 
no proof of the salubrity of the air, where so 
many have been infected. 

In certain societies the difficulties of being 
witty is materially diminished by the readiness 
of the speaker to make any sacrifice, both to pie- 
ty and modesty, to the good thing he is about to 
utter. While the feeling of that very sacrifice 
may perhaps give a keener relish to the pleasure 
of the profane hearer, the Christian, not inferior 
in talent, rejects in horror the reputation for wit 
to be obtained by any such sacrifice himself, and 
disdains to sanction or applaud it as the hearer 
of others. 

Though the late sanguinary revolution in 
France overturned law, order, government, and 
religion; and had given a more emphatical cha- 
racter to crime of every description ; yet if we 
take a cursory view of the period immediately 
preceding it, we shall see that this tremendous 
convulsion rather aggravated than introduced 
many of its moral corruptions. To be convinced 
of this, we need not travel so far back as the pe- 
riod which the natives consider as the acme of 
human glory — the age of Louis Quatorze, of 
Richelieu, and the Academy, the immortal For- 
ty, as this academy had the modesty to call it- 
self. 

More sober thinkers are, however, of opinion, 
that what characterised that splendid reign, was 
unbounded extravagance, elegant profligacy, 
and tolerated debauchery. Surely these, which 
were .its notorious distinctions, are practices 
which contribute little to the real grandeur of a 
country ; unless, indeed, it can be proved that, 
according to the fearfully unguarded expression 
of the otherwise moral Burke, that the exhibition 
,of vice in a better taste, by taking from it all its 
apparent grossness, takes away half of its real 
turpitude. 

What arts of refinement could neutralise the 
evil, when all the bounds of moral restraint were 
so far broken through, as that the royal wife and 
the royal mistress were every where received 
with the same appearance of respect, when they 
were even met together in the same societies ? 

Louis has lately obtained, in certain quarters, 
a kind of resuscitation of his buried fame, by the 
only method perhaps by which it could have 
been raised, — a comparison with the prisoner 
of St. Helena. But surely to have committed 
fewer crimes than the man who has committed 
more than any other man, is not to have attained 
a very high degree in the scale of moral excel- 
lence. Are splendour in decoration and mag- 
nificence in expense a mantle broad enough to 
cover that injustice and those enactions on a 



plundered people by which they were purchased? 
The piety of the king's latter days is frequently 
thrown into the scale against the disorders of 
his earlier life. But surely the transition from 
profligacy to persecution is no great improve- 
ment in the human character. Were not his 
false virtues even more destructive than his 
avowed vices ? Did matters take a better turn, 
when the monarch by exchanging gross immo- 
ralities for the exercise of a superstitious and 
intolerant religion, indulged himself and his di- 
rectress in a long and bitter persecution of his 
own subjects? a persecution accompanied with 
every act of the most unrelenting cruelty. Ex 
ile, proscription, torture, death, were the re- 
wards of four millions of his faithful protestant 
subjects! To these rigorous exercises of arbi- 
trary power, he was encouraged and impelled 
by a woman who had herself been educated in 
the faith she now endeavours to exterminate. 
We pass over this intermediate government of 
' the godless Regent trembling at a star,' in 
whose character, in addition to the most dis- 
graceful vices, we see a shocking, but not un- 
common union of the wildest superstition with 
the most avowed infidelity. 

During tho reign of the next equally corrupt 
successor, we have endless records o r the state 
of society among persons in the higher walks 
life. These notices are to be found in a multi- 
tude of the letters and memoirs of the individu- 
als who were themselves actors and interlocu- 
tors in these scenes of familiar life. These 
fashionable societies are all that come within 
our present designs. Many of those works have 
preserved the history of characters, principles, 
and sentiments, which had they been consigned 
to eternal oblivion, religion would have had less 
to mourn, and virtue less to regret. 

Many of these writings, for life would be too 
short, and time ill spent to peruse them all, are 
adorned with elegancies of composition, and 
graces of style, which, had they been devoted 
to the purposes for which they were given, 
might have benefitted the world as much as they 
have injured it. Out of all these mischievous 
but lighter writings, we shall only mention one 
or two; nor would they have been noticed in a 
little work of this nature, but for the popularity 
they have obtained among us, and our dread of 
that natural progress, the tendency of admira- 
tion to produce imitation. 

In the life of Marmontel, written by himself, 
we have an extraordinary specimen of decorous 
vice and accredited infamy — of abandoned man- 
ners, to which reference is frequently made, at 
least to the characters which exhibit them, 
without the slightest feeling of their turpitude. 
Vices abound and are revealed without the least 
apparent suspicion of their guilt. The intima- 
tions, indeed, are not repeated in the way of 
boasting, but look as if the writer did not think 
that concealment of the vice would raise tho 
character he was eulogizing. If there are do 
offensive descriptions of vicious manners, it 
seems to be because they were not understood 
to be vicious; and if gayely of spirit seems to 
conceal from the writer the complexion of his 
own morals, gayety of style seems almost to 
make the reader lose sight of the character of 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



445 



the company in which he is passing his time. 
In fact the delineation of those characters con- 
sists rather in a morbid insensibility to sin, than 
in an ambitious display of it. The slight veil 
thrown over corrupt manners by decency of ex- 
pression, seems the effect of some remains, not 
of principle, but of good taste. It is the cold- 
bloodedness of a heart stagnated by long habits 
of impunity ; for while the passions are inflamed 
by criminal indulgences, the sensibilities of the 
6oul are chilled. The mind insensibly loses that 
delicacy of perception which nicely distinguishes 
not only the shades of evil, but the very exist- 
ence of the distinction between vice and virtue. 
This deadness of principle, and livelinesss of 
language, it is which makes this writer, and 
others we could name, so peculiarly dangerous. 

Women of fashion, of the very worst descrip- 
tion, to whose parties the writer referred to was 
familiarly admitted, are named with unbounded 
admiration, not merely of their talents, but their 
virtues. The charms of their conversation, and 
the amiableness of their characters, are the 
theme of his unmixed panegyric. Incidentally, 
however, as a thing by the by, as a trifle not re- 
quiring to be named expressly, as a thing not 
invalidating any of their perfections, it comes 
out, that these women, so faultless and so pane- 
gyrised, are living in an illicit commerce with 
different men — men, whose wives are, with the 
same uncensurable guilt, carrying on similar 
connexions with the husbands of other women ! 
Sobriety, chastity, the conjugal and maternal 
virtues, are not thought necessary to be called 
in to complete their round of perfection. Im- 
purity of heart and life, dereliction of all the 
domestic duties, are never brought forward as 
any deduction from the all-atoning merit of 
graces of manner and vivacity of conversation. 

Divine Providence seems to have intended ad- 
vanced age as a season of repose, reflection, and 
preparation for death ; and- to have sent its in- 
firmities, sufferings, and debility, as gracious 
intimations of our approaching change, and with 
a merciful view of our attaining by those re- 
membrances, to the end of our faith, even the 
salvation of our souls. 

But one of the unhallowed projects on which 
these accomplished societies seem to have con- 
gratulated themselves, was in defeating this pro- 
vidential procedure. It was their boasted aim 
to cheat old age of itself — of its present incon- 
veniences, its decays, and its prospective views, 
by a more amusing method. They contrived to 
divert ine stage of infirmity into a scene of su- 
perinduced gayety and increased levity. Instead 
of desiring to invest it with the peaceful attri- 
butes of calmness and resignation, they invent- 
ed the means of making old age lose itself, as it 
were, in youthful images, not only by indulging 
in light reading, but loose composition. One 
of them was so successfully boiled in Medea's 
kettle, that his eulogist triumphantly tells us he 
translated Ariosto, and published tales exhibit- 
ing pictures of voluptuousness without inde- 
cency ; and these boasted exploits are adduced 
as adding fresh laurels to a being on the very 
verge of eternity ! 

Hear a celebrated academician immortalize 
one of the deceased confraternity in his public 



oration! In illustrating the character of hia 
friend, who died in extreme old age, he describes 
this period as 'a season when ingenious trifling 
is peculiarly graceful ; a period in which men 
might give themselves up to levity with the 
least scruple and the most success. It is in old 
age, says the orator, that the mind is disabused 
on all subjects, and that a man has a right to 
jest upon every thing ! It is then that long ex- 
perience has taught him the wit of concealing 
reason under a veil which may embellish it! * 

Whoever has cast an eye on the lately pub- 
lished letters of Madame du Deffane, — a most 
unnecessary and uprofitable addition to the late 
load of similar literary mischiefs, — will have 
beheld such a picture of the manners even of 
private and select society, among persons of 
high rank, science, taste, and literature, as must 
make him look on these distinctions without 
envy, when beheld disconnected with those prin 
ciples which alone render talents estimable. 

In the history of this distinguished lady, we 
find these striking circumstances : they present 
a melancholy instance how completely in Paris, 
at that time, a disregard of all the obligations 
of duty, all sense of religion, all the charities 
of domestic virtue, all the purposes of social 
usefulness, was, on her part, perfectly compati- 
ble with her being received into the first society. 
On the part of her associates, all the objections, 
insurmountable, we trust, in any other place, 
were there sacrificed to the reigning idol — the 
fondness for display in conversation, the vanity 
of eclipsing those who eclipsed others. 

We see also how little splendid talents con- 
tribute to the felicities of the life, or to the vir- 
tues of the possessor. We even see that, when 
not under the controul of sound principle, they 
awfully increase the present capacity for evil, 
and the responsibility of a future reckoning. 
Instead of promoting improvement, they carry 
contamination. In morals as well as in politics, 

'Great power is an achievement of great ill.' 

Some of these brilliant societies fostered in 
their bosoms the surpents that were so soon to 
sting, not only their country, but all Europe. 
Here were cherished those academical philoso- 
phers, wits, and political economists, who first 
sounded the alarm for the simultaneous extinc- 
tion of thrones and altars ; who first exhibited 
the portentous remedies for curing despotism 
by anarchy, and superstition by atheism ; who 
sowed the first prolific seeds of those revolution- 
ary horrors which so rapidly sprung up into 
the poisonous tree of liberty, and who hurled 
their arrows at the God of Heaven, and erected 
on the meditated ruins of his kingdom, the tem- 
ple of the goddess of reason. 

Previously to some of Madame du Deffane'g 
numerous intrigues, she had been separated 
from her husband, on the ground which, it is 
presumed, the laws of England would not re- 
cognise as a lawful impediment — that 'he wa» 
a weak and tiresome companion V She was ex- 
traordinarily acute, but her acuteness, though 
it was frequently just, was always malicious 

* Speech of Condorcet to the Academy on the deatV 
of Monsieur de Tressea. 



446 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



It is difficult to eay whether she was more com- 
pletely deficient in sensibility or principle. She 
possessed all the qualities which attract, but 
wanted all those which attach ; or rather, she 
wanted no talent but that of turning those she 
possessed to a better account. Not possessing 
the female virtues, she either did not believe in 
their existence, or despised them. If she want- 
ed any vice, it was that of hypocrisy ; for she 
takes little pains to hide qualities which were 
not fit to be seen. If she possessed any virtue, 
it was frankness, which yet was often disfigured 
by coarseness, and not seldom counteracted by 
falsehood. She wanted all the good feelings of 
kindness, affection, and tenderness ; and pos- 
sessed in perfection all the bad ones of ill-nature, 
jealousy, and envy ; but her ruling passion was 
a selfishness the most deeply rooted, and an 
egotism the most completely unconquerable. 

The dark and hollow character which she 
takes little pains to conceal, is rendered more 
broadly conspicuous by the warmth of her co- 
louring, the strength of her language, and the 
power of her wit, all frequently exercised in 
proclaiming her own impieties. 

It is a striking proof of the unrelenting ran- 
cour of her heart, that a friend, of the same class 
of character,* whom she had formerly loved as 
much as she could love any woman ; one who 
had been her select companion in her own house 
fifteen years, but who had quitted her in disgust, 
and set up a talking house for herself, which 
drew away some of ■ the best feathers in her 
wing ;' — on hearing the death of this rival lady, 
she only exclaimed, * I wish she had died many 
years ago, and then I should not have lost 
D'Alembert !' 

We learn from her letters, that her splendid 
society was composed not merely of wits, philo- 
sophers, and academicians, but of women of 
rank, of nobles, and of statesmen, with one 
of whom she was connected. — From those, it 
must be confessed, admirably written epistles, 
we profitably learn much of the hollowness of 
worldly friendships, much of the insincerity of 
mere wits and mere men of letters — of persons 
who associate together, partly for the credit of 
having it known that they ate so associated — 
who mix acrimony and adulation, venturing to 
indemnify themselves for their reciprocal flat- 
tery when together, by their cutting sarcasms 
when separated. Happily, the more we see of 
these communications the more we are con- 
vinced that nothing but sound principle, 'godly 
sincerity,' a conquest over vanity, a triumph 
over egotism, an habitual struggle against sel- 
fishness can establish an honourable, virtuous 
and durable friendship, or shed a benign lustre 
on the most polished society. 

We repeat, that these reports are not indus- 
triously gleaned from rival parties, ill-informed 
journalists, nor even from virtuous writers, eager 
to expose the vices they detested ; but from the 
principal performers in the scene — from a wo- 
man whose uncontrollable openness prevents 
her concealing her own vices. 

We see, not without pain, her exposure of the 
faults of some of the associates whom she so 

* Mademoiselle de I'Bspioaaw. 



sedulously courts, and so constantly abuses ; W8 
see the malignity which forces itself through 
all her endeavours to appear amiable in the eyes 
of the distinguished person to whom she writes ; 
we see the corroding envy, the gnawing jealousy, 
and sometimes the obvious aversion to the in- 
dividuals of a society, without which she can- 
not exist ; which society probably entertained a 
reciprocal hatred of their flattering hostess, and 
yet could not exist without her. All this ex- 
hibits a scene, from which an unsophisticated En- 
glish heart turns away, sickening with disgust. 

This unhappy woman, old, deaf, blind, re- 
pining, and impious, yet drew this accomplish- 
ed society about her by their mutual fondness 
for conversation. They met without affection, 
they parted without regret ; yet meet they must 
— they were necessary to each other, not for 
comfort, for they knew neither the name nor 
the thing ; but society being an article of the 
first necessity for the support of existence, it 
must be had with companions hating, and hated 
by, each other. Under such circumstances, the 
fondness for society seems not so much a taste, 
as a raging appetite. 

It is, however, a cheerless, heartless society, 
where persons of talents and breeding meet, not 
so much to enjoy each other, as to get rid of 
themselves. Intimacy without confidence, and 
intercourse without esteem, add little to the 
genuine delights of social life. Competition, 
while it inflames vanity, is no improver of kind- 
ness. 

In a city like Paris, where men were wits 
and authors by profession, and ladies judges and 
critics by courtesy, nothing was considered as 
an exclusion from these societies but want of 
talents to amuse, or taste to decide. The poet 
produced his work, not, however, so much to be 
corrected as applauded; not so much to be 
counselled as flattered ; he, in return, paying 
usuriously, in the samo conterfeit coin, the 
honour conferred on him, and the benefit done 
him, by their proclamation of the beauty of his 
work ; his fame, perhaps, suspended on the avow- 
ed patronage of a woman whom we, in our plain 
language, should call infamous. He is grateful 
to receive his imprimatur and his crown of 
laurel from fair and fashionable, but impure 
hands ; and Paris resounds, next morning, with 
the immortality assigned him by the decision 
of this coterie. 

All this might be very well, or at least would 
not be so very bad, if there were no future reck 
oning; but to see old age without consolation, 
dreading solitude as only less terrible than death 
to contemplate loss of sight as only augmenting 
spiritnal blindness, yet to see the afflicted suf- 
ferer clinging to this miserable existence, and 
closing a life of sin with a death without peni- 
tence and without hope ; to consider talents ca- 
pable of great things, abused and misapplied ; a 
God not merely forsaken, but denied ; all these 
are images from which the sober mind turns 
away with horror softened by compassion. May 
every daughter of Britain say, with the patriarch 
of old, ' Come not into their secret, O my soul; 
to their assembly let not thine honour be united !* 

Some ladies of unimpeached morality were 
found in these coteries. True : yet we hope t« 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



447 



be forgiven for saying, that they could have re- 
tained but little of that delicacy which should 
preserve the purity of society, when they make 
no scruple of mixing intimately with women 
whose practices they would not by any means 
adopt. In such society virtue withers, delicacy 
is impaired, and principle finally extinguished. 
In this view it is impossible not to make 
a short digression, to observe with gratitude on 
the obligations of English society to our late 
venerated queen. Not to insist on the admirable 
examples she set in her exact performance of 
all the domestic duties ; her public conduct, in 
ene important instance, will ever reflect honour 
on her memory — we mean her solicitude to pre- 
vent the impure mixtures to which we are now 
alluding. She raised as it were, a rampart be- 
tween vice and virtue ; and her strictness in ex- 
cluding from the royal presence all who had 
forfeited their claim to be introduced to it, had 
a general moral effect, by excluding them also 
from the virtuous society of others of their own 
lank. Discriminations of this nature are of 
incalculable value in preserving the distinctions 
between correctness and impurity, when no 
offender, though of the highest rank, can pre- 
serve the public dignity of the station she has 
dishonoured. 

* 'Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif, 

Desirous to return, and not received ; 

But was a wholesome rigour in the main, 

And taught the unblemished to preserve with care 

That purity, whose loss was loss of all.' 

COWPER. 

London also has had its select assemblies for 
conversation. They were neither trifling, dull, 
nor pedantic. If there were less display of wit, 
less pains to be easy, less study to be natural, 
less affectation of being unaffected, less effort to 
be unconstrained, there was more sincerity, in- 
tegrity, and kindness. If there was a less per- 
petual aim at being ingenious, ingenuity was 
never wanting. If there were less persiflage 
and sarcasm, there was more affection, truth, 
and nature. Religion, though not discussed, 
was always venerated, and no degree of rank or 
talent would have procured an introduction 
when there was any taint on the reputation. 

The tone of social intercourse is at present, 
perhaps, likely to be raised by the recent adop- 
tion of moro direct religious improvement in 
the private parties of some persons of rank and 
talents. But to return to Paris. 

One instance more of the substitution of ta- 
lent for virtue, and of the little regard paid to 
the absence of the one where the other abound- 
ed; one instance more, and we will relieve our 
readers, and carry them to breathe a purer at- 
mosphere in better company. The celebrated 
Madame d'Epinay is described by one of her 
admirers,* who came in the order of succession 
next after Rousseau, not only as the most attrac- 
tive, but most discreet of women ! This discre- 
tion, which is his rather than hers, appears in 
his making her indulgence in forbidden gratifi- 
cations, consistent with her constant regard for 
public opinion, and the desire of reputation. He 
records, intentionally to her honour, that being 

* Le Baron de Grimm. 



, above all prejudices herself, (that is, above the 
weakness of Christianity,) yet no one knew 
belter what was due to the prejudices of others. 
She conformed, he observes, as scrupulously to 
old usages, as to new opinions, and kept up the 
outward observances of the church as much as 
a woman of # an ordinary mind could have done ; 
that is, she was at once an infidel and a hypo- 
crite. He proclaims to her glory, that, • without 
believing in any catechism but that of good 
sense, she never failed to receive the sacraments, 
painful as the stupid ceremony was, with the 
best grace imaginable, as often as decency, or 
the scruples of her friends, made it becoming.' 
' Perhaps,' adds her profane panegyrist, ' there 
was as much greatness in receiving them with 
her notion of them, as there would have been in 
refusing them.' Is it any wonder that, with 
such a conformity of principles, she obtained the 
prize of the academy, as well as the homage of 
the academician ? 

We are amused to think with what a con- 
temptuous smile of pity these ladies, with all 
their allowed taste and learning, must, if they 
were consistent, have beheld the pictures of 
these obsolete wives, Andromache and Penelope, 
as delineated by the Grecian bard — pictures of 
female excellence and domestic virtue, which 
have drawn the tear of admiring sympathy from 
many a British eye. The poet has omitted to 
mention whether their valiant lords loved them 
the less for having spent the hours of their ab- 
sence in scenes of bloody warfare or perilous ad- 
venture, in mournful solitude, cheating the time 
in simple occupations, yet such as served to keep 
up the memory of their beloved heroes ; in one, 
by contriving decorations for a living lord, or, 
in the other, honouring the memory of the dead 
one, by preparing funeral honours for his father, 
ingeniously deferring the detested second nup- 
tials by nightly unravelling the daily labour, 
and thus keeping her promise of consent when 
the work should be finished, and preserving her 
fidelity to her lord by never finishing it. 

What manly English heart would not prefer 
the fond anxiety of the Trojan wife, which led 
her in secret to the watch-tower to mark the 
battle, and tenderly seek to explore her husband 
so soon to bleed, — to all the Aspasias of Greece, 
to all the Du Deffands, the De 1'Espinasses, the 
D'Epinays, to all the beau ideal of the fancy, 
and all the practical pollutions of the life, of the 
'bonnes societies 1 of the metropolis of France. 

But, happily, we need not go back to ransack 
antiquity for examples in the finely imagined 
females of Troy or Ithica, nor for warnings to 
the polished, but profligate courtezans of Athens, 
nor to the criminal countesse of Paris ; — we may 
find instances of the one, and a complete con- 
trast to the other, nearer home. We need go 
no further for the highest examples of female 
dignity, talent, and worth, than are to be found 
in the private biography of our own country. 

We could produce no inconsiderable number 
in the highest rank of women, who if their 
names are not blazoned in the book of fame, will 
be recorded in more lasting characters in the 
book of life — who, if their memoirs are not 
spangled with their bons mots, have yet had 
their good actions and holy principles embalmed 



443 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



in the writings of their faithful Christian friends. 
But we shall confine ourselves to a very few. 

The Lady Mary Armyne, descended from the 
ancient Earls of Shrewsbury, was eminently 
skilled in human, but especially in divine learn- 
ing. But the remembrance of her talents, 
which appear to have been of the first order, is 
lost in that of her Christian virtues. Among 
numerous other instances of her pious exertions, 
she contributed largely to the support of a so- 
ciety for converting the Indians in New-Eng- 
land, long before missions were thought of by 
her tardy countrymen. On hearing of the fatal 
massacre of St. Bartholomew, she instantly de- 
voted a large sum to those exiled and destitute 
clergymen who had fled hither for protection. 
Her piety was as exemplary as that extensive 
benevolence of which it was the source. 

In Birch's- Life of the Hon. Robert Boyle, 
there is a most interesting account of Mary, 
Countess of Warwick, of whom it is saying 
every thing to say that she was entirely worthy 
of being sister to that illustrious Christian phi- 
losopher. Of the eminently pious Lady Frances 
Hobart, the ornament of the court of James the 
First, Dr. Collins has preserved an interesting 
memorial. A long and unwearied attention, for 
many years to the bodily sufferings of her lord, 
could only be surpassed by her anxiety for his 
spiritual interests. Through the blessing of God 
she became the honoured instrument of a total 
change in his character, who never named her 
by any other appellation than that of his ' dear 
saint.' This term had not then fallen into re- 
proach. 

Of Susanna, Countess of Suffolk, it is impos- 
sible to say too much. For brevity's sake, how- 
ever, we must restrict ourselves to one or two 
particulars in speaking of a life which was a 
constant series of secret piety and active bene- 
volence. When near her end, which happened 
in her twenty. second year, she implored her 
lord, that whatever provision might be made 
for the fortunes or acquirements of her children, 
that they might be educated in the strictest 
principles of Christianity, in comparison of 
which she esteemed all worldly accomplish- 
ments as nothing. To her dying father, who 
had been inattentive to Christian duties, she ad- 
ministered such spiritual supports, that in rap- 
ture he praised God that he should live to re- 
ceive his best religious consolations from his 
own child ! 

To the memory of the Lady Cutts, the incom- 
parable wife of the gallant Lord Cutis, so dis- 
tinguished at the siege of Namur, noble justice 
has been done in an admirable funeral sermon 
of Bishop Atterbury, which we would recom- 
mend to every reader who has a taste for exalt- 
ed piety or fine writing. 

The Lady Elizabeth Hastings was not less 
distinguished for superior talents than for emi- 
nence in every Christian attainment. — She has 
been celebrated for both in the Tatler, under 
the very inappropriate appellation of Aspasia. 
No two characters could form a more perfect 
contrast. 

But the time would fail to enumerate all the 
English ladies who have conferred honour on 
their country. Of those already mentioned all 



possessed considerable talents. Some were emi- 
nent for their skill in the dead languages ; others 
for their knowledge of philosophy and the sci- 
ences ; all for their high religious attainments. 
All were practical Christians — all adorned their 
profession by the strictest attention to the do- 
mestic, the relative, and the social duties.* 

But what shall we say to Rachel, Lady Rus- 
sell? Many daughters have done virtuously, 
but thou excellest them all ! She has uninten- 
tionally bequeathed us her character in her let- 
ters. Though there is little elegance in her 
style, there is all the dignity of wisdom and 
truth in her sentiments. Many specimens of 
epistolary writing might be produced, which 
excel these in the graces of composition, but 
few which surpass them in that strong sense, 
solid judgment, and those discriminating powers 
which were the characteristics of her intellec- 
tual attainments, as heroic fortitude, Christian 
humility, unshaken trust in God, and submis- 
sion to his dispensations, were of her religious 
character. Such a combination of tenderness 
the most exquisite, magnanimity the most un- 
affected, and Christian piety the most practical, 
have not often met in the same mind. 

An acute, but sceptical French writer, calls 
' Magnanimity the good sense of pride, and the 
noblest way of obtaining praise.' — How well has 
the prince of Pagan philosophers, by anticipa- 
tion, corrected this tinsel phrase !' ' If thou art 
not good, thy magnanimity is ridiculous, and 
worthy of no honour.' How did our sublime 
Christian sufferer practically improve upon both! 
'Seek not the honour which cometh from men, 
but that which cometh from God.' 

Whether we view this illustrious daughter of 
the virtuous Southampton taking notes on the 
public trial of her noble consort, concealing the 
tender anguish of the wife under the assumed 
composure of the secretary ; whether we behold 
her, after his condemnation, prostrate at the feet 
of the unfeeling monarch, imploring a short re- 
prieve for her adored husband, while the iron- 
hearted king heard the petition without emotion, 
and refused it without regret ; whether we be- 
hold her sublime composure at their final sepa- 
ration, which drew from her dying lord the con- 
fession,' the bitterness of death is past;' whether 
we behold her heroic resolution rather to see him 
die, than to persuade him to any dishonourable 
means to preserve his life ; whether we see her 
superiority to resentment afterwards towards 
the promoters of his execution, — no expression 
of an unforgiving spirit ; no hard sentence 
escaping her, even against the savage Jeffries, 
who pronounced his condemnation, adding in- 
sult to cruelty ; no triumph when that infamous 
judge was afterwards disgraced and imprison- 
ed ; if we view her in that more than temperate 
letter to the King a few days after her dear 
lord's execution, declaring that, if she were ca- 
pable of consolation, it would only be that her 
lord's fame might be preserved in the King's 
more favourable opinion : — had long habits of; 
voluptuousness left any sense of pity in this cor- 
rupt king; or, rather, if a heart had not been 
forgotten in his anatomy, it must have been 

* For a full account of these, and many other equally 
eminent ladies, see ' Memoirs of Pious Women ' 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



443 



touched at her humble entreaty that 'he would 
grant his pardon to a woman amazed with grief, 
to the daughter of a man who had served his 
father in his greatest extremities, and his Ma- 
jesty in his greatest perils :' — if we view this 
extraordinary sufferer under all these trials, 
while we admire the woman, we must adore the 
divine grace which alone could sustain her un- 
der them. 

After this imperfect sketch, may we not say, 
that, for an example of conjugal tenderness, we 
need not go out of our own country for a per- 
fect model ? Portia swallowing fire because she 
would not survive her Brutus, the Pate, non do- 
let of the faithful Arraia, as she stabbed herself, 
and then presented the sword to her husband, to 
set him an example of dying bravely : these he- 
roic instances of conjugal affection, which have 
been the admiration of ages, are surpassed by 
the conduct of Lady Russell : they died a volun- 
tary death rather than outlive their husbands : 
Christianity imposed on her the severer duty 
of surviving hers — of living to suffer calamities 
scarcely less trying, and to perform duties 
scarcely less heroic. After weeping herself 
blind, after the loss of her only son, the Duke 
of Bedford, let us view her called to witness the 
death of her daughter, the Duchess of Rutland. 
After seeing her dead corpse, let us behold her 
going to the chamber of her other daughter, the 
Duchess of Devonshire, then confined in child- 
bed, of which the other had just died. When 
her only surviving daughter inquired after her 
sister, the mother cheerfully replied, ' I have 
just seen her out of bed !' — It was in her coffin. 

In whatever attitude, then, we consider the 
portrait of this illustrious lady it is with fresh 
admiration. Each lineament derives additional 
beauty from its harmony with the rest, the sym- 
metry of the features corresponding with the 
just proportions of the whole figure. 



England's Best Hope. 

We have dwelt on the present and the past, 
as well with reference to our neighbours as our- 
selves. If we have shown that we have little 
regret in any still remaining difference between 
the inhabitants of the opposite shores, and much 
to fear from a growing resemblance between 
them ; if we have successfully hinted at the 
grounds of our own real superiority, and the 
possibility of maintaining, and even increasing 
our greatness, to any extent consistent with hu- 
man imperfection ; if we have, in the two pre- 
ceding chapters, anticipated what might be our 
ultimate degradation, whilst in the first we had 
pointed at the heights to which we may reason- 
ably aspire ; let us not think it unworthy our 
attention to inquire how we can alone answer 
our high destination, revive what we have lost, 
attain what more is within our reach, or having 
attained it how we may perpetuate the inesti- 
mable blessing. 

We have at length, though with a slow and 
reluctant movement, begun to provide a national 
education for the children of the poor. Preju- 
dice held out against it with its accustomed per- 

Vol. II. 2 F 



tinacity, — knowledge would only make them 
idle, ignorance would preserve subordination, 
the knowledge of their duty would impede the 
performance of it. This last we did not per- 
haps say in so many words, but was it not the 
principle of our conduct? We put off the in- 
struction of the poor till the growth of crime 
made the rich tremble. We refused to make 
them better till they grew so much worse as to 
augment the difficulty, as to lessen the proba- 
bility of their reform. The alarm came home 
to the opulent. They were afraid for their pro- 
perty, for their lives ; they were driven to do 
what had long been their duty not to have left 
undone. But they did it not, ' till the overflow- 
ings of ungodliness made them afraid.' They 
discovered at length, that ignorance had not 
made better subjects, better servants, better 
men. This lesson they might have condescend- 
ed to learn sooner from the Irish rebels, from 
the French revolutionists. We have at length 
done well, though we have done it reluctantly. 
We have begun to instruct the poor in the know- 
ledge of religion. 

But there is another class, a class surely of 
no minor importance, from whom too many still 
withhold the same blessing. If, as is the public 
opinion, it is the force of temptation which has 
produced so much crime among the poor, are 
not the rich, and especially the children of the 
rich, exposed to at least as strong temptations, 
not indeed to steal, but to violate other com- 
mandments of equal authority ? Laws, witliout 
manners, will not do all we expect from them : 
manners without religion will be but imper- 
fectly reformed. And who will say that reli- 
gious reformation will be complete, whilst it is 
confined to a single class, or deemed at least a 
work of supererogation by some among the 
higher ranks ? There are, however, many ho- 
nourable exceptions, the number of which is, 
we trust, increasing. 

Why should the poor monopolize our benevo- 
lence ? Why should the rich in this one in- 
stance, be so disinterested ? Why should not 
the same charity be extended to the children of 
the opulent and the great? Why should the 
son of the nobleman, not share the advantage 
now bestowed on the children of his servant, of 
his workman, of the poorest of his neighbours'? 
Why should not Christian instruction be made 
a prominent article in the education of those 
who are to govern and to legislate, as well as 
of those who are to work and to serve ? Why 
are these most important beings, the very be- 
ings in this enlightened country whose immor- 
tal interests are the most neglected ? 

The Apostle tells us, that ' he who provides 
not for his own house has denied the faith, and 
is worse than an infidel.' If this be true of tem- 
poral, what shall be said of him who neglects to 
make ' for his own' a spiritual provision ? Does 
not he far more emphatically deny ' that faith' 
which is violated even in the other inferior case? 

If we have begun to instruct the poor with a 
view to check the spirit of insubordination, that 
spirit requires little less suppression in our own 
families. In all ranks it is the prevailing evil 
of the present day. The diminished obedience 
of children to parents, of servants to masters, 



450 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



of subjects to sovereigns, all spring from one 
common root — an abatement of the reverence 
to the authority of God. Fathers should there- 
fore keep up in their offspring, as long as possi- 
ble, a dependance on themselves, without which 
they will gradually shake off their dependence 
on their Maker. Independence of every kind, 
as it is the prevailing wish, so it is the most 
alarming danger. With filial obedience, obe- 
dience to Divine authority will become connect- 
ed ; but the muzzle of domestic restraint shaken 
off, there will be no controul of any kind left. 
Might not a more exact Christian institution 
help to arrest the same spirit which has, within 
a few years, so frequently broken out in our, in 
many respects, excellent public schools ? We 
mean not altogether, to censure the honourable 
seminaries. Do not the youth carry thither, 
rather than acquire there, this want of subordi- 
nation ? Is it not too often previously fostered 
at home by the habits of luxury, the taste for 
expense, the unrestrained indulgences, the un- 
subdued tempers, which so ill prepare them to 
submit to moral discipline ? Laxity of manners 
and of principles act reciprocally : they are al- 
ternately cause and effect. 

Tender parents are, indeed, grieved at the in- 
dications of evil dispositions in their children ; 
but even worthy people do not always study the 
human character : they are too much disposed 
to believe this budding vice but accidental de- 
fect — a failing which time will cure. Time 
cures nothing ; time only inveterates, only ex- 
asperates, where religion is not called in as a 
corrective. It is in vain to hope to tame the 
iieadstrong violence of the passions by a few 
moral sentences ; the curb is too weak for the 
natural ferocity of the animal. If the most re- 
ligious education does not always answer the 
end, what end is an education, in which religion 
does not predominate, likely to produce ? How 
is the Christian character likely to be formed 
without the strict inculcation of religious prin- 
ciples, without the powerful discipline of reli- 
gious and moral habits ? 

Parents are naturally and honourably anxious 
about advancing the interest of their sons ; but 
they do not always extend this anxiety to their 
best interests. They prepare them for the world, 
but neglect to prepare them for eternity. We 
recal our words ; they do not even make the best 
preparation for the world. Their affection is 
warm, but is shortsighted ; for surely that prin- 
ciple which is the root of all virtuous action, of 
all the great qualities of the heart, of integrity, 
of sober-mindedness, of patience, of self-denial, 
of veracity, of fortitude, of perseverance in a 
right pursuit, is likely to produce a character 
not unqualified for the best services to society ; 
for advancement in life, for fitness for the most 
useful employments, for adorning the most ho- 
nourable situations ; for we do not recommend 
such a religion as would make Ascetics, as 
would abstract men from the business or the 
duties of life, or from the true enjoyments of so- 
ciety. There seems, indeed, little necessity for 
guarding against evils of which we see no great 
danger. 

Gentlemen should be scholars ; liberal learn- 
ing need not interfere with religious acquire- 



ments, unless it be so conducted as to leave no 
time for its cultivation, unless it cause them to 
consider religion as an object of inferior regard. 
But no human learning ought to keep religious 
instruction in the back ground, so as to render 
it an incidental, a subordinate part in the edu- 
cation of a Christian gentleman. 

Some apology might be made for the natives 
of a neighbouring kingdom for their contempt 
of religion, from the load of absurd and super- 
stitious observances which degrade it. Though 
even they might have discovered, under these 
disadvantages, much that is good ; for they have 
had writers who yield to none in elevation of 
sentiment, in loftiness of genius, and sublimity 
of devotion.* Yet the labours of these excellent 
men have left the character of their religion un- 
altered. 

But we have no such excuse to plead for the 
contempt or neglect of religion. Here, Chris- 
tianity presents herself to us neither dishonour- 
ed, degraded, nor disfigured. Here she is set 
before us in all her original purity ; we see her 
in her whole consistent character, in all her fair 
and just proportions, as she came from the hands 
of her Divine Author. We see her as she has 
been completely rescued from that encumbering 
load under which she had so long groaned ; de- 
livered from her long bondage, by the labours 
of our blessed reformers, and handed down to us 
unmutilated and undefaced. 

If every English gentleman did but seriously 
reflect, how much the future moral prosperity 
of his country depends on the education he may 
at this moment be giving to his son, even if his 
paternal feelings did not stimulate his zealous 
endeavours, his patriotic would. 

May the unworthy writer, who loves her coun- 
try with an ardour which the superior worth of 
that country justifies; who, during a long life, 
has anxiously watched its alternations of pros- 
perous and adverse fortune ; and who, on the 
very verge of eternity, is proportionally anxious 
for its moral prosperity, as she approaches nearer 
to that state, in view of which all temporal con- 
siderations diminish in their value ; may she 
hope that her egotism will be forgiven, and her 
pardon be obtained for the liberty she is taking ? 
May she venture to suppose that she is now con- 
versing with some individual father of a family 
in the higher ranks of life, and, presuming that 
he would permit the freedom, address him, and 
through him, every man of rank and fortune in 
the kingdom, in plain and bold language, with, 
something like the following suggestions ? 

Let it be your principal concern to train up 
your son in the fear of God. Make this fear, 
which is not only ' the beginning of wisdom' in 
point of excellence, the same also in priority of 
time. Let the beginning of wisdom be made 

* What has been said here and elsewhere of Prance, 
and of the religion of Fiance, has been said ' more in 
sorrow than in anger,' and with the single view ofr.au. 
tion to our own country. However we deprecate (he 
past, we shall still cherish the hope, that having witness- 
ed the horrors of a political, we may one day hail the 
dawn of a moral revolution. A virtuous King, and an 
improving government, leave us not without hope that 
this fair part of the globe mayyetrisein those essentials 
without which a country can never be truly great. May 
they eventually improve, in ' that righteousness which 
I alone exaltetha nation!' 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



451 



the beginning of education. Imbue the youth- 
ful mind betimes with correct tastes, sound prin- 
ciples, good affections and right habits. Consi- 
der that the tastes, principles, affections, and 
habits he now forms, are to be the elements of 
his future character ; the fountain of honourable 
actions, the germ of whatever may hereafter be 
pure, virtuous, lovely, and of good report. 

In his education never lose sight of this great 
truth, that irreligion is the death of all that is 
graceful, and amiable, in the human mind ; the 
destruction of all moral beauty. Its foundations 
are in the dust, and it is a vain attempt to hope 
to raise a noble superstructure on so mean and 
despicable a basis. Tell him, that the irreli- 
gious man never look3 out of self. He is his 
own centre ; all his views are low ; he has no 
conception of any thing that is lofty in virtue, 
or sublime in feeling. How should he ? He does 
not look to God as the model of perfection. — He 
will act nothing that is holy, for he does not ho- 
nour his commands; he will conceive nothing 
that is great, for he does not look to the Archi- 
type of greatness ; there is no image of true 
grandeur in his soul. His mind will be reduced 
to the narrowness of the things to which it is 
familiarized, and stoop to the littleness of the 
objects about which it is conversant. His views 
will not be noble, because they are not excur- 
sive; they are confined, imprisoned, limed, en- 
tangled in earth and its concerns ; they never 
expatiate in the boundless regions of immortality. 
He has no connecting link between himself and 
things 

' Beyond this visible diurnal sphere.' 

His soul is cramped in the exercise of all its 
noblest faculties ; his heart paralyzed in its best 
attempts after a fugitive, low-minded virtue. 

There is no true elevation of soul but what 
the youth must acquire by the knowledge of 
God as revealed in his word ; no perfect exam- 
ple but that exhibited to him in the character 
of his Divine Son ; nothing but the Gospel, 
through the grace of God, will check his cor- 
ruptions, give him a sense of his accountable- 
ness, and raise his nature above the degraded 
state to which sin has reduced it. 

It is material to reflect that nothing really 
preparative to his well-being in this life, and 
conducive to his qualification as an ornament to 
his country, will otherwise than forward him in 
his progress for another country, ' even a hea- 
venly ' Adopt the measures which even nature 
and reason suggest for making him a distin- 
guished member of human society, and it will 
not lessen your satisfaction, nor lower your gra- 
titude, when you see that you have not only 
trained him to be a useful and virtuous citizen, 
but also a candidate for heaven. 

Let your child be made familiarly acquainted 
with God's word, his providence, his controlling 
power, his superintending eye. Let him be 
taught not barely to read, but to understand, to 
love to venerate his Bible. Implant at a proper 
season, in his mind, the evidences of Christiani- 
ty, in the clearest, simplest, and most explicit 
manner. Furnish him with arguments to de- 
fend it, for he will not fail to hear it attacked. 
Teach him to despise ridicule, that last resort 



of the bad defender of a bad cause ; for he will 
find that those who cannot argue can sneer, and 
ho may feel it harder to withstand the one than 
the other. 

Inform him that in France it was the igno- 
rance of religion which produced the contempt 
of it ; and that both together overturned the 
state, by inculcating principles hostile to all vir 
tue, fostering passions destructive of all order, 
and an impatience of control subversive of all 
government: all springing from one common 
source, all meeting in one common centre, a 
combination to throw off the government of God 
himself. Impress upon his young mind that 
important truth, that there can be no security 
for a state in which religion is not warmly, yet 
wisely taught by its ministers, cherished by its 
government, and believed and reverenced by the 
people. 

There are certain traditional sayings which 
claim a sort of prescriptive right to be received, 
which pass unexamined, and are credited as 
oracular. Guard him against these false and 
sordid, but popular maxims, which, though the 
press may be used chiefly by the lower orders, 
the things themselves are practically adopted, 
pretty equally, by 'the great vulgar and the 
small.' Some vindicate speculatively loose prin- 
ciples, by the assertion that ' thoughts are free.' 
Tell your son this h not true. A Christian must 
endeavour to bring his thoughts to the same cor- 
rect standard with his actions, and from the same 
awful motive, ' Thou God seest !' 

There is another popular but unfounded axiom 
respecting the use of wealth, namely, that ' A 
man may do what he will with his own.' Chris- 
tianity denies this assertion also. Every man 
has indeed a legal right to the disposal of his 
own property, but religion interdicts his right 
to spend it in vanity or vice ; or if he be exempt 
from these grosser temptations, she still abridges 
his right to monopolise it. Christianity expects 
that the deserving and the distressed shall come 
in for such a proportion of his wealth as an en- 
lightened conscience shall dictate. The divine 
person who refused, in a legal sense, to be ' a 
divider, or a judge,' over a contested property, 
did not fail to graft on the question he avoided 
answering, the imperative caution, 'Take heed 
and beware of covetousness. 1 

There is another fatal lesson which he will 
learn in the world, and which the natural pride 
of his own heart will second ; namely, that to 
resent an injury is a mark of spirit, while to 
forgive it shows a base mind. The prince of 
darkness, in his long catalogue of expedients, 
never invented a maxim which has brought 
more generous but ill-disciplined souls to de- 
struction. 

The uncurbed desires, the unrestrained pas- 
sions, to which we have before adverted, the 
contempt of submission, the supposed meanness 
of forbearance, the hot resentments not con- 
trolled betimes in the boy, may have been pre- 
paring the man for an act which may hereafter 
fill his whole life with cureless remorse. 

Boys well born and accustomed to well bred 
society have a sort of instinctive notion of ho. 
nour, which is strengthened by the conversation 
to which they are sometimes exposed. Seize 



452 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



upon this spirit, whether instinctive or contract- 
ed, but seize it with a view to convert it to 
higher purposes. This popular notion of honour 
may seem to give dignity to the tone of his con- 
versation, while it is inflating his heart with ar- 
rogance. It may indeed set him above doing 
an act which some fashionable men may agree 
to call base, but it will not preserve him from a 
duel, which these men agree to call honourable. 
But whatever acquittal a jury of the world's 
men of honour may pronounce on such a trans- 
action, it will, by that awful decision from which 
there lies no appeal, by the difinitive sentence 
of the great Judge of quick and dead," be pro- 
nounced murder; murder of one of them in the 
act, of both in the intention ; murder as criminal 
as that which brings its vulgar perpetrator on 
the highway to his ignominious catastrophe. 

Lay hold then on this high-minded feeling, 
and endeavour to direct it into a purer channel. 
Lead his aspiring mind to higher objects. Let 
the hope of the favour, and the dread of the dis- 
pleasure of God, expel from his heart a too 
eager desire to court the applause or escape the 
censure of irreligious men, by acts which, while 
they would offend his Maker, would destroy his 
own soul. Let him learn to distinguish between 
the swellings of human arrogance, and the con- 
sciousness of Christian dignity. Worldly max- 
ims of honour are tumid, but they are not great. 

There is no sure preservation from these mis- 
chiefs, but in an education formed on the reli- 
gion of Jesus Christ. The principles drawn 
from the spirit of the Gospel, conscientiously 
adopted, and acted upon, would subvert all the 
hollow and destructive maxims of the worldly 
code. How many boiling passions might have 
been cooled, how many disappointed hearts and 
mourning spirits healed, how many duels, how 
many suicides, (both now so dreadfully prevalent) 
might have been prevented, by the early and un- 
remitted application of this one grand specific. 

Cultivate in your son whatever is valuable in 
science, or elegant in literature. — Independent- 
ly.ofitsown intrinsic worth, it will, by filling 
up his time and engaging his thoughts, assist in 
setting his mind above low and sordid tastes, 
and leave him little leisure or relish for the 
base and grovelling pursuits of sensuality. A 
love of learning judiciously instilled, is amonsgt 
the most probable human preservatives from 
vulgar vice ; though since it is human, it can go 
but certain lengths as to moral benefit ; and we 
have witnessed many deplorable instances of its 
failure, in minds of the highest literary attain- 
ments, for want of being under the direction of 
a superior principle. It is, however, a most 
valuable auxiliary, not only in improving the in- 
tellect and refining the taste, but, as we have 
already observed, in rescuing so much leisure 
from inferior pursuits. 

But learning, be it repeated, though it invi- 
gorates the mind, will not reform it. It is a 
shining ornament, but not of the nature of a cor- 
rective. Moral evil is not cured, is not regula- 
ted, — nay it may even be inflamed by it, where 
intellectual science is made its own end, and not 
considered subservient to a higher. Learning 
will strongly teach him to despise what is 
worthless in composition, but will feebly lift him 



above what is unworthy in practice. It will 
correct his taste, but will not enable him t« 
resist temptation : it will improve his judgment 
of the world, but will not secure him from its 
pollutions. Human learning will only teach 
him the knowledge of others, the Bible that of 
himself. 

Let him therefore enter into the battle of the 
world armed with weapons from the divine 
armoury ; stoutly furnished with motives and 
arguments drawn from religion, of potency to 
fortify his resolutions, convince his understand- 
ing, and affect his heart. Let him see in your 
example, that religion is neither unmanly or 
ungentlemanly. Accustom him not to hear the 
three dominant spiritual, and intellectual sins, 
pride, selfishness, and egotism, treated with an 
indulgence not shown to such as are more dis- 
reputable, gross, and scandalous. Against both 
classes the whole artillery of the Gospel is im- 
partially -levelled. Of the first, peculiar con- 
demnation is intimated in Scripture. Of pride 
it is observed, that ' God resisteth the proud,' 
and that it is hard to be found ' fighting against 
God.' Against selfishness it is specifically pro- 
claimed, that ' no man' with any pretensions to 
a Christian character ' liveth to himself;' that 
we are not to ' seek our own things,' and that 
we mu3t ' bear one another's burdens.' — Against 
egotism a host of precepts present themselves in 
battle array, — ' to esteem others better than our- 
selves, to avoid vain glory, to look on the things 
of others ; to be slow to speak, ready to hear.' 

Though these interior and mental sins are as 
much cherished by impiety as those which are 
coarser and more notorious, yet as the latter can 
produce no plausible pretence for their indul- 
gence ; as they cannot be qualified by any so- 
phistry, nor covered by any artifice, they are 
less likely to hold out to the end. Morality is 
disgusted by vulgar vice, by the practical sins 
of the sensual man ; but mere morality can never 
extirpate the vices of the heart and mind: it is 
not always her aim, nor if it were, could she 
accomplish it. 

In your conversation with the young person, 
do not be satisfied to generalize religion. Re- 
ligion is an indefinite term, a vague word which 
may be made to involve a variety of meanings, 
and to amalgamate a number of discrepancies. 
It may release a man from all the prescribed 
institutions of Christianity ; it may set him 
loose from all its peculiar doctrines and re- 
straints; turn him adrift, and dismiss him to his 
choice between the * Jehovah, Jove, or Lord,' 
of the sceptical poet. Since life and immortality 
have been brought to light by the Gospel, a 
general religion is no religion at all. His must 
be the religion of the New Testament. Be not 
ashamed to teach your son the Gospel of Jesus 
Christ. If you believe that there is no other 
name under heaven by which yourself can be 
oaved, you must be assured that there is no other 
salvation for your son. Defer not then too long 
to communicate to him the distinctive pecu- 
liarities of our faith. Other notions will occupy 
the space which you leave vacant. O ! stamp 
the right impressions on his heart while it is 
soft, tender, and ductile ; and he will hereafter 
mix these early imbibed feelings, and sentiments, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



453 



and principles, with his other sweet associations, 
his other pleasing recollections of the vernal 
season of life ; cherished images ! which the 
matured mind is fond of retracing, and which 
commonly remain vivid when most others have 
faded, or are obliterated. 

Fancy not that these acquisitions and pursuits 
will blight the opening buds of youthful gayety ; 
that they will check his vivacity, or obstruct his 
amiable cheerfulness. The ingenuous unvitia- 
ted mind is nevor so happy as when in a state 
of virtuous exertion, as when engaged about 
some object to which it must look up ; something 
which, kindling its energies raises its views ; 
something which excites the ambition of lift- 
ing it above itself. 

Much less fear that the pursuits here recom- 
mended will depress his genius ; it will exalt it ; 
his mind will find wider room in which to ex- 
pand ; his horizon will be more extensive ; his in- 
tellectual eye will take in a wider range ; the 
whole man will have an ample region in which to 
expatiate. To know that he is formed for im- 
mortality, is not likely to contract his ideas, or to 
shorten his views. It is irreligion which shrinks 
and shrivels up the faculties, by debasing the 
spirit, and degrading the soul. 

And if to know that he is an immortal being 
will exalt his ideas, to know that he is an ac- 
countable being will correct his habits. If to 
know that ' God is' will raise his thoughts and 
desires to all that is perfect, fair, and good, — to 
know that 'God is the rewarder of all them that 
seek Him,' will stimulate him in the race of 
Christian duty ; — to know that there is a day 
in which God will judge the world, will quicken 
his preparation for that day. 

As he advances in age and knowledge, im- 
press upon his mind, that in that day of awful 
inquisition he must stand unconnected, single, 
naked ! It is not the best attachments he may 
have formed, the most valuable societies to 
which he may have belonged, that will then 
stand him any stead. Ho must therefore join 
them now with a pure and simple intention; — 
he must not seek them as something on which 
to lean, as something with which to share his 
responsibility — this is his own single undivided 
concern. It is vain to hope that by belonging 
to any society, however good, to any party 
however honourable, he can shrink from hi, 
own personal, individual, accountableness. The 
union of the labourers gpives no claim to the 
division of the responsibility. In this world 
we may be most useful among bodies of men ; 
in the great judgment we must stand alone. 
We assist them here, but they cannot answer 
for us hereafter. 

From his Bible, and from his Bible only, let 
him draw his sense of those principles, of that 
standard by which he will hereafter be judged ; 
and be careful ever to distinguish in his mind 
between the worldly morality which he may 
learn from the multitude, and that Christian 
holiness which is the dictate of the Scriptures, 
and of the Scriptures alone. Teach him to dis- 
cover there, he cannot discover it too soon, that 
it is not a set of proverbial moral maxims, a 
few random good actions, decorous and inoffen- 
tire manners, the effect of natural feeling, of 



fashion, of custom, of regard to health, of desire 
of reputation, that will make a truly valuable 
character. This is not to be acquired by cer- 
tain popular virtues, or rather fractions of vir- 
tues ; for there is no integral virtue where there 
is no religion. Pleasing manners will attract 
popular regard, and worldly motives will pro- 
duce popular actions ; but genuine virtue pro- 
ceeds only from Christian principles. The one 
is efflorescence, the other is fruit. 

After all, though you cannot by your best ex- 
ertions, seconded by the most fervent prayer, 
without which exertion will neither be rightly 
directed nor successfully prosecuted, command 
success ; yet what a support will it be under 
the possible defeat of your fairest hopes, that 
you strove to avert it ! Even if, through the pre- 
valence of temptation, the perverseness of his 
own nature, and the malignity ofhis corruptions, 
the barbarous son should disappoint the best 
founded hopes of the careful parent ; what a 
heartfelt consolation would it afford you, under 
this heaviest of all trials, that the misconduct 
of the child is not imputable to the neglect of 
the lather ! The severest evil — and this" perhaps 
is the most severe — is supportable, when not 
aggravated by the consciousness that we have 
contributed to bring it upon ourselves. Though 
it will not pluck the sting from his guilt, it will 
render the poignancy of your own anguish more 
tolerable. 

But let us indulge higher hopes and brighter 
prospects for our country. We refer to those 
hopes with which the first chapter of this little 
work concluded, namely, the rich provision 
which God has put into our hands for accom- 
plishing his great designs in our favour. The 
hope therein expressed, and the means humbly 
suggested for accomplishing it, was the re-for- 
mation of the British character. We have here, 
feebly indeed, but honestly, shown what ob- 
viously appears to be the best security, the most 
effectual barrier, against the vices and contami- 
nation of our prolonged continental intercourse. 
Religious education, with God's blessing upon 
it, which every truly Christian father will not 
fail to invoke, is all in all towards the restoration, 
the elevation of our national character. And 
let it never be forgotten, that it is the education 
of the rich which must finally determine the 
fate, at once of rich and poor ; and by conse- 
quence, which must determine the destiny of 
our country. 

Here then is Britain's last, best hope ; and 
when we consider the unparalleled advantages 
we possess in a learned and orthodox clergy, 
who instruct us in the sanctuary, and who pre- 
side over our public and private seminaries, 
why need we despair ? Why need we doubt, 
that the Christian religion, grafted on the sub- 
stantial stock of the genuine British character, 
and watered by the dews of heaven, may bring 
forth the noblest productions of which this lower 
world is capable ; though neither the security 
nor the triumph will be complete till these 
' Trees of Righteousness' are transplanted into 
the paradise of God. 

Reader if you are indeed a Christian father, 
anticipate in idea that triumphant moment, 
when, having cast your crown at the foot of the 



454 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



eternal throne, you shall be called upon to give 
an account of your own conduct, and, as far as 
had depended on you, of that of your offspring. 
Think of the multiplied felicities of meeting, in 
the presence of God, those whom your example 
and instruction have, through his grace, contri- 



buted to bring hither ! Think what it will be, 
to be able, amidst all the hosts of heaven, amidst 
the innumerable company of angels, and the 
spirits of just men made perfect — think of being 
able to say to the Universal Father, ' Behold, I 
and the children thou hast given me V 



ON DOMESTIC ERRORS 

IN OPINION, AND IN CERTAIN PRACTICAL HABITS. 



On Soundness in Judgment, and Consistency in 
Conduct. 

As a preliminary to the following pages, the 
writer begs leave ^to observe, that it consists 
rather of miscellaneous observations on a variety 
of topics, than in an attempt at a systematic 
view of religion or morals. It does not pretend 
to present an exhibition of Christian doctrine, or 
to prescribe the duties of a Christian life. It is 
presumed that the generality of readers who 
ehall honour these pages with their attention, 
are already, in a greater or less degree, religious 
characters ; consequently, standing in little need 
of such information as her humble talents could 
have imparted. But as religion is become a 
subject of increasing and more general interest, 
it may not be unseasonable, as we proceed, to 
point out some of the dangers to which the less 
advanced Christian may be liable, as well as 
eome of the evils which may subsist with high 
outward profession. To those who are beginning 
to see the importance of religion ; and of such 
persons, adored be Almighty goodness ! the 
number is rapidly augmenting; to those inte- 
resting characters, may the writer venture to 
address a few words of affectionate and respect- 
ful counsel ? Carefully encourage the first dawn- 
ing dispositions of piety in your heart, cherish 
every indication of a change in your views and 
an improvement in your sentiments. Let not 
the world, nor the things of the world, stifle the 
new-born principle, nor make you ashamed mo- 
destly to avow it. 

But while you cultivate this principle by every 
possible means, avoid the danger of fancying 
that your religion is confirmed when it is scarce- 
ly begun. Do not conclude that a complete 
change has been effected in your heart because 
there is a revolution in your opinions, and a fa- 
vourable alteration in your feelings. The forma- 
tion of a Christian character is not the work of 
a day ; not only are the views to be changed, 
but the habits to be new moulded ; not only is 
the heart to be convinced of sin, but its propen- 
sities are to be bent in a contrary direction. Bo 
not impatient, therefore, to make a public dis- 
closure of your sentiments. Religion is an in- 
terior concern. Try yourselves, prove your- 
selves, examine yourselves, distrust yourselves. 
Seek counsel of wise, established, sober Chris- 
tians. Pray earnestly for more light and know- 
ledge, and especially for perseverance. Pray 
that you may be able to go on with the same 
seal with which you set out. Of how many 



may it be said, • Ye did run well — what hinder- 
ed you ?' You ran too fast ; your speed ex- 
hausted your strength ; you had not counted the 
cost. 

Carefully distinguish between the feverish 
heat of animal fervour, and the vital warmth of 
Christian feeling. Mere youthful energy, ope- 
rating upon a newly awakened remorse for a 
thoughtless life, will carry the mind certain 
lengths ; but if unaccompanied with humility, 
repentance, and a continual application for a 
better strength than your own, this slight re- 
source will soon fail. It is not that principle 
which will encourage progress ; it is not that 
Divine support which will carry you on to the 
end. The Christian race is not to be run at a 
heat: religion is a steady, progressive course; 
it gains speed also : progress quickens the pace ; 
for the nearer the approach to the goal, the more 
ardent is the desire to reach it. And though, in 
your further advance, you may imagine your- 
self not so near as you did when you first set 
out, this is not really the case ; you have a lower 
opinion of your state, because you have obtained 
higher views of the spirituality of the law of 
God, and a more humbling sense of your own 
unworthiness. Even the almost Christian pro- 
phet seems not to have been previously so deeply 
convinced of sin, as, when overwhelmed by the 
glory of the Divine vision, he exclaimed, ' Mine 
eyes have seen the King, the Lord of Hosts !' 

The person who addresses you has seen some 
promising characters sadly disappoint the hopes 
their early stages in religion had excited. By 
taking too high a tone at first, they not only 
lost all the ground they had gained, but sunk 
into indifference themselves, accompanied with 
a prejudice against serious piety in others. 
They not only became deserters, but went over 
to the enemy's camp. Avoid this error. The 
world is too much disposed to impute rashness, 
presumption, and enthusiasm to the purest and 
most correct religious characters. In your in- 
stance let them not be furnished with any ground 
for this censure by your deserving it. If you 
advance, you glorify God, and promote your own 
salvation; if you recede, you injure the cause 
you now intend to serve, and bring upon your- 
selves a fearful condemnation. Self-abasement, 
self-examination, and prayer, are the best pre- 
servatives for all who have entered on a reli- 
gious life, and are especially becoming incipient 
Christians. 

There is one thing we would more particularly 
press on the important class we are now taking 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



455 



the liberty to address ; — it is the cultivation of a 
sound judgment. Of all persons religious per- 
sons are most bound to cultivate this precious 
faculty. We see how highly the great Apostle 
of the Gentiles valued it. In directing the spi- 
ritual labours of his beloved young friend, in 
stirring him up to every good word and work, 
he does not forget this exhortation : — ' The Lord 
give thee a right understanding in all things ." 
Again, he prays for his beloved Philippians, 
' that their love may abound more and more in 
knowledge and in all judgment.'' And in his 
Epistle to the youthful Bishop of Crete, he re- 
peats the admonition to young persons of both 
sexes to be sober minded. These admonitions 
acquire great additional force when it is consi- 
dered, that he who gave them was a man of ex- 
ceeding ardency of temper, and of zeal without 
a parallel. This experienced saint must have 
frequently seen the danger of imprudent piety, 
of self-confidence, of a zeal not regulated by 
knowledge ; and therefore presses the great im- 
portance of a sound judgment. 

Judgment is to the faculties of the mind, what 
charity is to the virtues of the heart ; as without 
charity the latter are of little worth, so without 
judgment talents are of little comparative use. 

Judgment, with the aid of God's Spirit, and 
the instructions of his word, is the balance in 
which qualities are weighed, by which the pro- 
portions of our duties, and the harmony of our 
virtues, are preserved ; for it keeps not only the 
talents in just subordination, but the principles 
in due equipoise. When exercised in subservi- 
ence to the Divine rule, the faculty becomes a 
virtue, and a virtue of a higher order. It re- 
Btrains irregularity, it subdues vanity, it cor- 
rects impetuosity, it checks enthusiasm, and it 
checks it without diminishing zeal. 

One of the most powerful defenders, not only 
of our church polity, but of our church doctrines, 
has had the renown of all his great qualities so 
absorbed in the quality we are recommending ; 
or, rather, this was so much the faculty which 
maintained his great talents and qualities in 
their due order, that we never read the name of 
Hooker without the previous application of tills 
weighty epithet — the judicious. 

Judgment is so far from being a cooler of 
zeal, as some suppose, that it increases its effect 
by directing its movements ; and a warm heart 
will always produce more extensive, because 
more lasting good, when conducted by a cool 
head. 

We speak of this attribute the more positive- 
ly, because it is one, which, more than many 
others, depends on ourselves. A sound judg- 
ment, indeed, is equally bestowed with other 
blessings by Him from whom cometh every good 
gift ; yet it is not, like the other faculties of the 
mind, so much born with us, as improved by us. 
By teaching us to discern the faults of others, it 
warns us to avoid them ; by detecting our own, 
it leads to their cure. The deepest humility is 
generally connected with the soundest judgment. 
The judicious Christian is watchful against spe- 
culative errors, as well as against errors in con- 
duct. He never adopts any opinion because it 
is new, nor any practice because it is fashion- 
Abie ; neither does he, if it be innocent, reject 



the latter merely for that reason. Judgment is, 
in short, that quality of the mind which requires 
to be kept in ever wakeful activity , and the ad- 
vantages it procures us, will be more apparent, 
the more it is kept in exercise. 

Religious charity more especially demands 
the full exercise of the judgment. A judicious 
Christian will double the good done, by his se- 
lection of the object, and his manner of relieving 
it. All things that are good are not equally 
good. A sound judgment discriminates between 
the value of the claimants which present them- 
selves, and bestows on them more or less atten- 
tion, according to their respective claims. 

Above all, an enlightened judgment will en- 
able you to attain and to preserve consistency, 
that infallible criterion of a highly finished 
Christian character, the want of which makes 
some really religious persons not a little vulnera- 
ble. It was this want in some of his people, 
which led an eminent divine, at once a man of 
deep piety and lively wit to say, that ' there were 
some good persons, with whom it would be time 
enough to be acquainted in heaven.' So much 
to be regretted is it, that goodness of intention 
is not always attended by propriety in the exe- 
cution. 

In another class, the want of consistency 
makes not a few appear over scrupulous as to 
some minor points, and lax in others of more 
importance. These incongruities not only bring 
the individual into discredit, but religion into 
disgrace. When the world sees persons, whose 
views are far from high, act more consistently 
with their avowed views, and frequently more 
above them, than some whose religion professes 
to be of a loftier standard, they will prefer the 
lower, as exhibiting fewer discrepancies, and 
less obvious contradictions. 

Consistency presents Christianity in her fair- 
est attitude, in all her lovely proportion of figure, 
and correct symmetry of feature. — Consistency 
is the beautiful result of all the qualities and 
graces of a truly religious mind united and 
brought into action, each individually right, all 
relatively associated. — Where the character is 
consistent, prejudice cannot ridicule, nor infi- 
delity sneer. It may, indeed, be censured, as 
holding up a standard above the attainment of 
the careless. The world may dislike, but it can- 
not despise it. 

In the more advanced Christian, religion may 
seem to be less prominent in parts of the cha- 
racter, because it is infused into the whole. 
Like the life blood, its vital power pervades the 
entire system : not an action of 1-he life that is 
not governed by it; not a quality of the mind 
which does not partake of its spirit. It is dif- 
fused through the whole conduct, and sheds its 
benign influence, not only on the things done, 
but on the temper of the doer in performing 
them. The affections now have qjher objects, 
the time other duties, the thoughts other em- 
ployments. — There will be more exertion, but 
with less display ; less show, because the prin- 
ciple is become more interior : it will be less ob- 
trusive, because it is more rooted and grounded. 
There will be more humility, because the heart 
will have found out its own corruptions. 

By the continual exercise of the judgment, 



456 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



and an habitual aim at consistency, the Chris- 
tian, though animated, will be orderly. He will 
be less subject to the ebullitions of zeal, as well 
as to th3 languors of its decay. Thus, through 
the joint operation of judgment in the intellect, 
and principle in the heart, the religion is become 
equable, regular, consistent. 

There never was but one visible exhibition of 
infallible judgment and complete consistency. 
In that Divine person who vouchsafed to pitch 
his tent among us, and to dwell with men on 
earth, that He might give us a perfect example 
in his life, before He obtained salvation for us 
by his death — in Him alone was judgment with- 
out any shadow of error, consistency without 
any speck of imperfection. His divine per- 
fections none can approach ; but all may humbly 
imitate those which come within the compass 
of his humanity. 



On Novel Opinions in Religion. 

Among the numerous innovations of this in- 
novating age, it is deeply to be lamented, that 
religion should come in for so large a portion. 
Of this we have a melancholy instance in the 
system of the new secession. — Many are dis- 
torting the sacred doctrines, and slighting the 
practical ethics of the New Testament. The 
religion of the Gospel is employed to furnish 
arms against itself. The truth as it is in Jesus, 
is fearlessly controverted : its sanctity is no se- 
curity; its Divine authority is no protection. 

In the new system — strange to say ! the har- 
dihood of the sceptic is adopted for the professed 
purpose of purifying Christianity. The dogma- 
tism of the unbeliever is employed for improv- 
ing our faith in the religion which the unbe- 
liever denies ! 

This heterogeneous system composed of dif- 
ferent elements, made up of conflicting princi- 
ples, unhappily is not brought forward by the 
avowed opposers, but by the professed and zeal- 
ous friends of Christianity ; — by religionists 
placing themselves much above the standard of 
their former pious associates, with whom they 
once went to the house of God as friends ; by 
Christians so critically scrupulous, that they can 
no longer go to that house at all. 

Novelties in the sciences and in the arts may 
be, and generally are, beneficial. Every inven- 
tion may be an improvement ; but in religion 
they are delusions. Genuine Christianity is not, 
as one class of men seem to suppose, a modern 
invention ; serious piety is no fresh innovation. 
' That which was from the beginning declared 
we unto you,' are the words of inspiration ; the 
new and living way, therefore, now so much de- 
preciated, is only a continuation in the good old 
way so longego recommended by the prophet. 

Nor is Christianity, as the recent party seem 
to suppose, a superannuated thing, which wants 
repairing ; nor is it an incomplete thing, which 
wants filling up ; nor is it a redundant thing, 
whose excrescences want lopping ; nor a defec- 
tive thing, whose deficiencies must be supplied ; 
nor an erroneous thing, whose errors must be 
expunged. 



But to do these malecontents justice, they do 
not resemble those reformers who are contented 
to expose the defects of an existing system, 
without providing a remedy. This restoration, 
this purifying, this repairing, this expunging, 
this lopping, this grafting, this perfecting, they 
have actually and gratuitously taken into their 
own hands, with a view either to improve the 
old religion, or, as their progress rather threat- 
ens, to produce a new one ; while the champions 
of the antiquated system all agree that ' the old 
is better.' 

Some Christians of the primitive ages were 
not then, perhaps many of the present age are 
not now, aware, that he who overleaps the truth, 
errs as widely as he who falls short of it; nay, 
the danger is even greater, as it is more difficult 
to recede than to advance. It was the vain de- 
sire of overturning established truths, of being 
wiser than the wisdom of God, of being more 
perfect than the perfection of the Gospel, of 
giving new glosses to old opinions, and rejecting 
all opinions which did not hit their own dis- 
tempered fancies ; together with the temptation 
of being considered as the founders of a new 
school, — which gave rise to the Ebionites, the 
Corinthians, the Marcionites, and various other 
sects ; and which has continued to this day, to 
introduce successive heresies into the church of 
Christ. 

Of the two classes above mentioned — those 
who think true religion a novelty, and those 
who are endeavouring to introduce a novel re- 
ligion, though they are the very antipodes of 
each other, yet it is difficult to determine which 
has wandered most widely from the truth. 
Scylla has it wrecks as well as Charybdis. 
Though each thinks that the only way to safety 
is to recede as far as possible from the other, 
yet, by this increasing desire of mutual reces- 
sion, they are in more danger of gradually ap- 
proaching to each other, if not of finally meet- 
ing, than either intended or believed at first set- 
ting out. 

In one quarter we hear the most consoling of 
all doctrines — the doctrine on which the great 
hinge of Christianity turns, — rejected as false, 
and its defenders derided, as if they were adopt- 
ing it to be a substitute for virtuous practice. 
We hear one community spoken of by its pro- 
fessors as triumphantly bearing away from all 
others the proud distinction of rationality. It is 
a monopoly not to be allowed. If by rational 
religion is meant a religion singularly adapted 
to rational beings, no church on earth has a 
fairer claim to the appellation than the Church 
of England. It is rational to exercise our rea- 
son in examining and weighing the evidences 
of Christianity ; and, having clearly proved the 
authority on which they are grounded, it is then 
rational to submit our reason to its doctrines. 
It is rational to believe that we are apostates 
from our original brightness ; not only because 
we perceive it to be a scriptural doctrine, but 
because we see it in all around us, and feel it in 
all within us. 

It is rational for a being conscious of its weak- 
ness, to desire to lean upon something that is 
strong ; we therefore lean upon a rock, and that 
rock is Christ. Our church is a rationaj church; 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



457 



for it is sober without coldness, and animated 
without enthusiasm. Its service unites the af- 
fections of the heart with the faculties of the 
mind ; it teaches to pray with the spirit and with 
the unde;standing also. Though it lays hold 
with a firmly grasping hand on the blessed doc- 
trine of the atonement, yet it is so far from 
using this doctrine as a pretence for neglecting 
virtuous practice, that it draws from thence new 
motives, new sanctions, new encouragements. 
It teaches that without shedding of blood there 
is no remission for sin, while it declares that 
without repentance, and without holiness, there 
is no salvation for sinners. 

The sound members of this church acknow- 
ledge that there are mysteries in our religion ; 
but the same ^reason which employed its best 
energies in proving the Divine authority of 
Scripture, has convinced them that the secret 
things which belong to God must be adored now, 
and will be fully understood hereafter. The le- 
gitimate members of the church, for she has, it 
is to be feared, some spurious ones, are not sur- 
prised that in a revelation from heaven there 
should be mysteries, but they believe that these 
sacred mysteries are meant as exercises of faith 
to the probationers for Heaven ; are meant to 
promote humility ; which they consider, what- 
ever others do, as a grand fundamental in reli- 
gion. They do not pretend to know in what 
manner the Holy Spirit operates on the human 
heart ; but they know that it does operate, be- 
cause it produces that change of heart which 
they are not ashamed to call the renewing of 
the Holy Ghost, and which distinguishes the 
vital from the nominal Christian. They leave 
to those who have sufficient natural resources 
in their own minds, if such there be, to reject 
assistance which they fervently implore ; assist- 
ance without which they, who think they stand, 
may finally fall. 

These humble dependants on Divine grace 
come at length to attain, in addition to the ex- 
ternal evidences of Christianity, an internal evi- 
dence in their own bosom, which, so far from 
giving them any elation of heart, any eccentri- 
city of doctrine, any irregularity of conduct, 
preserves them from each while it affords them 
* all joy and peace in believing.' 

But while we put in the fair claim of our 
church to rational religion, we do not make an 
exclusive pretension to this, or any other excel, 
/ence. Every human institution bears on it 
some marks, greater or less, that it is human, 
of course imperfect; and it is sufficient to guard 
us against the folly of such a pompous assump- 
tion to know, that an erroneous church not only 
assumes the appellation of infallible itself, but 
gives it also to its infirm, mutable, human head, 
to a being certain of death, and liable to sin. 

But if wc do not claim soundness as well as 
rationality, for our exclusive possession, we are 
more likely to perpetuate both, than the best 
societies of separatists. All that is good in our 
church is likely to be secured to it by the fence 
of an establishment. An enclosure is not so 
likely to be broken in upon from without, as a 
society planted in the waste. We are likely, I 
say, to be secured from the introduction of new 
dogmas, as well as to be preserved in our long 

Vol. II. 



adopted principles. The pale which encircles 
our church, and the formularies which belong to 
it, do not leave it open to the experiments of 
new projectors, to the incursions of fresh inno- 
vators. Above all it is enriched by a great mass 
of the Divine treasures of Scripture ; the spirit 
of which is also expanded in our collects and 
prayers, so that, as we have observed in another 
place, if the pulpit should in any instance un- 
happily degenerate in doctrine, the desk will 
still furnish a perpetual antidote. It may in- 
deed deserve the name of the establishment not 
only as being the rational religion, but as being 
built on the foundation of the everlasting Gospel, 
on the doctrines taught by prophets and evangel- 
ists, Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner 
stone. 

In another of the quarters alluded to, the more 
novel system, we hear much of opinions but lit- 
tle of practice ; much of doctrines, but little of 
holiness ; much of faith — a disproportioned and 
unproductive faith — but little of repentance. 
These grand ingredients, which, when severally 
coupled together, make up the sum and sub- 
stance of Christianity, — these joint essentials, 
which Saint Paul preached invariably, and 
which by never separating, he preached effec- 
tually, are now considered as separate interests, 
and severed from each other as having no ne- 
cessary connection. 

We are very far from the injustice of accus- 
ing those who propagate doctrines which are 
evidently unscriptural, of being themselves un- 
holy. In some of the leading characters we 
fully believe the contrary to be the case ; but 
the obvious effect of such doctrines on those who 
hear them, is not only to lessen their value for 
practical preaching, but to lead them to consider 
personal holiness as making no part of the things 
which accompany salvation. 

Those who are at all acquainted with eccle- 
siastical history, must know that in the most 
flourishing ages of the church, even when Chris- 
tianity was best understood and most success- 
fully practised, errors of opinion most readily 
started up, the ephemeral fungus of a luxuriant 
soil ; they were frequently the suggestion of 
fanciful and mistaken, rather than of immoral 
men. Our great spiritual adversary, who suc- 
cessfully employs the vicious as the corruptors 
of morals, knows it to be a stale and fruitless 
device to make them his agents for misleading 
the judgment and bewildering the imagination ; 
and therefore, by a refinement of ingenuity, 
prompts the more virtuous to the accomplish- 
ment of spiritual mischiefs. Moral men are his 
selected instruments for broaching novel, entic- 
ing, and dangerous opinions. These moral but 
wayward persons seem to have overlooked the 
fine supplication of the Apostle, that God would 
" establish, strengthen, settle them." These 
terms, which indeed are not synonymes, but 
shades : — these terms, a noble climax, implying 
not equality, but gradation, are now inverted. 
Every move in the new machine seems to shake, 
weaken, unsettle. One pin in the old system is 
pulled out after another, till the whole magnifi- 
cent fabric, if its security depended on them, 
would fall to the ground. The patriarch Jacob 
has shown us in the character of his vacillating 



463 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



son Reuben, how destructive instability is of ex- 
cellence. 

We are assured that the change in these ever 
varying theories are so frequent, that to confute 
them would be as difficult as unnecessary ; for 
that which by some of the party is insisted on 
in one week, gives way in the next to some 
wider deviation ; so that he who might wish to 
animadvert on some existing evil must be as 
rapid as its inventor, he must 

' Catch ere it fall the Cynthia of the minute.' 

If in religious contemplation or discussion, 
we once give the reins to fancy, if we cherish 
every seducing thought, merely because it is 
new, if we set up for complete independence of 
opinion, if we assume individual release from all 
the ties that hold Christian society together, if 
we permit ourselves to plunge into the unfathom- 
able ocean of discovery, without compass or rud- 
der, there is no saying where we may land ; it 
may be on the shore we now dread. Many of 
these leaders differ in opinion, but each seems 
to lay as exclusive a claim to truth as the Pope 
himself; but as the latter was equally infallible 
when there was one Pope at Avignon and an- 
other at Rome, so the infallibility here seems to 
be lodged by each in himself, only with this 
variation, that these last begin by differing from 
each other, till in their more advanced progress 
they come to differ from themselves. 

Is not the recent secession founded on a kind 
of spiritual democracy, an overturning system ; 
an aversion to whatever is established ; a con- 
tempt of authority ; an impatience of subordi- 
nation, a thirst for dictatorship ; with this differ- 
ence, that these religious dissidents loose the 
rein of their self-government, instead of those of 
their country. 

We know to what a degree the love of novelty, 
the longing to see any thing they have not seen 
before, though the object be ever so disgusting, 
is carried by our countrymen. The poet who 
best knew human nature, who best painted the 
characters of Englishmen, said, 'In England 
any monster will make (be the making of) a 
man.' This is so true, that a dwarf, a giant, an 
unnatural birth in an animal, will afford delight ; 
the greater the distortion the higher the plea- 
sure. We have seen to what excess this passion 
for what is novel and monstrous ma}- be carried, 
in the instance of a late preposterous prophetess, 
a creature born and bred among the dregs of 
the people, with nothing to recommend her but 
ignorance, presumption, extravagance and blas- 
phemy ; yet did this woman not only make 
numberless proselytes among her vulgar equals, 
but obtained advocates among those from whom 
better things might have been expected. But 
it is the very absurdity which is the attraction. 
Such preposterous pretences being obviously out 
of the power of human means to accomplish, the 
extravagance is believed to be supernatural. 
It is the impossibility which makes the assumed 
certainty. The epilepsy of Mahomet confirmed 
his claims to inspiration. 

Extravagance in religion is a kind of spiritual 
empiricism, which is sure for a time to lay hold 
on the vulgar. The ignorant patient in both 
cases, who frequently pays little attention to the 



established physician, is sure to be attracted by 
any new nostrum from the laboratory of the 
irregular prescriber : he is resorted to with more 
confidence in proportion to the reputed violence 
of his catholicon ; and he who despised the sober 
practitioner, swallows without scruple the most 
pernicious drug of the advertising professor. 

Without the slightest desire to detract from 
the personal character of our new empirics in 
divinity, we may be allowed to suspect that 
their education, and early habits of life, had not 
altogether qualified them for the arduous under- 
taking of new modelling a church. It is true, 
that ' the erudition of a (common) Christian 
man' is not required to be very profound, but 
surely that of a Christian reformer should be 
something more than moderate. 

The lapse of three centuries has added little 
clearness to the lucid exposition of Christian 
truth as exhibited in the writings of those re- 
formers by whom the doctrines of the Church 
of England were modelled. Whatever defects 
might have escaped the notice of those eagle- 
eyed sifters and examiners of Christian truth, 
when they rescued it from the rubbish under 
which it lay almost buried, would not these de- 
fects have been detected, pointed out, rectified, 
by the penetrating mind of Bishop Jewel in his 
renowned challenge at Paul's Cross, or in his 
celebrated Apology for the Church of England ? 
Would they not have been expunged or purified 
by the judicious Hooker, that bulwark of the 
establishment, in his immortal writings on eccle- 
siastical polity, and on justification ? Would 
they have eluded the observation and correction 
of Archbishop Usher, that prodigy of erudition ? 

We need not be again told the well-known 
fact, that there may be abundant learning where 
there is little enlightened piety ; but in these 
glorious champions of the faith of Christ, and 
of the Protestant church, learning was only a 
secondary excellence. Various and profound as 
were their acquirements, they were conscien- 
tiously devoted to the purpose of advancing and 
confirming the scarcely established church 
Can we believe that Ridley, Hooper, Cranmer 
and a long list of such distinguished men, would 
have made the sacrifices they actually made, 
without scrupulously examining into the mo- 
mentous truths they professed to believe ; that 
they would have suffered the most cruel tor- 
tures, rather than renounce the doctrines of a 
church to which they were first ornaments and 
then martyrs ? — ' There were giants in those 
days :' but to say no more of them, nor of the 
succession of profound divines and eminent 
scholars who succeed them, ' men of stature 
also' — would it not be casting a severe reflection 
on these bright luminaries of our country and 
church, to believe that the great truths of the 
gospel which were hid from these skilful and 
acute indagators, were reserved to be brought 
to light by half a dozen persons in the nineteenth 
century ; that to men, most of them bred to se- 
cular pursuits, and living antecedently in secu- 
lar habits, should be reserved the honour of 
detecting, not trifling faults, not imperfections 
from which perhaps no human institution is 
exempt, but radical errors, but fundamental 
mischiefs, affecting the very vitals of our reli- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



459 



gion? If these evils really exist, if they indeed 
escaped the penetration, eluded the vigilance, 
and mocked the wisdom of those mighty cham- 
pions, then to say those holy men were blame- 
able, is saying little : they were indeed ideots, 
voluntarily to suffer a violent death, rather than 
renounce a church too erroneous for the new 
reformers, not only in which to preach, but in 
which to remain. 

The penetrating sense of Luther seems not 
only to have exposed all existing, but to have 
anticipated all future heresies, especially when 
he inveighs against that which declared that 
' The Ten Commandments ought to be taken out 
of the Church V 

The Coryphaeus of the doctrine of faith, in 
contradiction to the new system, says : ' Faith 
is by no means an ineffective quality, but pos- 
sesses so great excellency, that it utterly con- 
founds and destroys all the foolish dreams and 
imaginations of sophisters ; but if works only 
are taught, faith is lost.' ' But if nothing but 
faith is inculcated, carnal men begin to dream 
that there is no need of good works.' Again : 
1 If, indeed, faith saves us without works, let us 
have no anxiety about good actions ; let us only 
take care and believe, and we may do what we 
please. It is true,' adds he, ' that Paul tells you, 
that faith without works justifies; however he 
also tells you, that a true faith after it has justi- 
fied, does not permit a man to slumber in igno- 
rance, but that it worketh by love.' Again : 
• You now see, that though it is faith alone which 
justifies, yet that faith alone is not sufficient.' 

There is not a single doctrine of the New 
Testament which does not involve practical con- 
sequences. The necessity of holiness, now un- 
happily not insisted on, is more exalted by the 
death of Christ than by all other means that 
ever were devised. God's hatred of sin is more 
forcibly expressed by the sacrifice of his Son, 
than it could have been by any other method, 
although we do not presume to set limits to in- 
finite power. 

Yet this most glorious doctrine, this cleanser 
from all sin, may be converted by the manner 
in which it is administered into an open door 
to that licentiousness which it is its special de- 
sign, its obvious tendency, and when truly re- 
ceived on scripture grounds, its natural conse- 
quences, to cure. 

But if men came to the perusal of the Bible 
with certain prepossessions of their own, instead 
of a simple and sincere desire after Divine truth ; 
if, instead of getting their obliquities rectified 
by trying them by this strait line, they venture 
to bend the strait line till it fits their own crook- 
ed opinions; if they are determined to make be- 
tween them a conformity which they do not find, 
they are not far from concluding that they have 
found it. By such means, a very little know- 
ledge, and a great deal of presumption, has been 
the ground-work of many a novel and pernicious 
system. 

Systems, indeed, there will be as many as they 
are novel and pernicious ; for though men are 
as tenacious of error, for a time, as if their con- 
victions were as strong as they could be if it 
were truth, yet the persuasion of error is not 
likel to be so lasting. As no error can be so 



irresistible as a known truth, it cannot long 
carry the same weight with it. He who adopt- 
ed it, at length finding it not to go, as we say, 
on all /ours, is more likely to plunge into a sue 
cession of errors, each deeper than the other, 
than to return to the truth which he has aban- 
doned. Whether the pride of not going back, 
or the hope that, in his wider wanderings, he 
may extricate himself, it is hard to say ; for 
error is as endless as truth is powerful. — Some 
minds are so constituted, that it is easier to 
them to produce objections to truth, than to em- 
brace it ; they therefore resist truth, when they 
might resist the obstacles which prevent their 
receiving it Our adoption of error as naturally 
proceeds from our abuse of reason, as our adop- 
tion of truth from the right use of it. The ques- 
tion, to a plain Christian, seems to be settled by 
this declaration of our Lord : ' He that doeth 
His will shall know of the doctrine, whether it 
be of God.' W 

As, in many of those to whom we have been 
alluding, their aberrations seems to have been 
occasioned rather by the vagrancy of the imagi- 
nation, than the corruption of the heart, we are 
not without hope that they may yet retrace 
their steps ; that the way they have Inst may be 
recovered ; that their involution in this labyrinth 
may not be past extrication ; that Divine grace 
may furnish a clue to lead them back to the plain, 
obvious, intelligible meaning of the unsophisti- 
cated word of God. That this may be the case, 
is the cordial wish and prayer of many who 
loved and respected them before they were un- 
happily led astray, by erratic fancies, into these 
seducing theories. 

There is no method which the subtle adver- 
sary of mankind has not devised to injure reli- 
gion. When the church is at a low ebb, when 
she is sunk in forms and outward observances; 
when zeal is asleep, and all seems safe because 
all is still, he sometimes rouses her, but it is to 
wrong purposes : it is not to advance the inter- 
ests of Christianity, but to bend his force against 
some symptoms of its reluming spirit, which 
begin to oreakout: these symptoms of incipient 
zeal he calls enthusiasm, though an evil which 
perhaps, in that stage of the church, does not 
exist ; he, however, strives to prevent the exis. 
tence not of enthusiasm but of zeal, that the 
frigid may enjoy their doze, and not be re- 
proached by the threatened exertions in the 
quarter which is beginning to open its eyes. 

At another period when the church is begin- 
ning to be triumphant, he sends out his favour- 
ite engine, persecution, with his fagot and his 
axe, burning where he could not refute, and 
subduing by force what he could not silence by 
argument. 

He is now pursuing a different course. — The 
same malignant spirit which once laboured to 
drive men from Christianity by martyrdom, now 
draws them from it by sophistry. He now dete- 
riorates truth instead of persecuting it ; and as 
the process is less revolting, it succeeds better. 
Men are no longer terrified into error, but coaxed 
into it. They are not frightened, but wheedled 
out of their belief. Their understandings become 
so bewildered, that they are persuaded that 
every new advance in heresy is a fresh step to- 



460 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



wards truth. Advantage is made even of their 
prejudices, which become more deeply rooted 
by the very change which they are made to be- 
lieve is to extirpate them. New converts, who 
once valued themselves on their incredulity, 
have become credulous to excess ; and those who 
were previously indifferent to sober religion, are 
led to swallow the wildest perversions of Chris- 
tianity, to adopt opinions which she as heartily 
rejects as she did their former unbelief. 

Some subjects are placed out of the reach of 
the human mind. Presumptuous spirits lose 
themselves by attempting to pierce through for- 
bidden bounds; by endeavouring to explain things 
beyond the limits of created comprehension, they 
subvert the truth they pretend to serve, they in- 
volve themselves in the very difficulties they un- 
dertake to clear. The humble Christian, like 
the seraphim, ' covers his face 1 before the infi- 
nite Majesty of Heaven, and exclaims, ' O the 
depths of the riches both of the wisdom, and 
knowledge of God !' ' Verily Thou art a God 
that hidest Thyself.' 

We are not called upon to unravel intricacies, 
but to hold fast the form of sound words. While 
to the ill-informed these new teachers appear 
profound because they are unintelligible, they 
remind those of better judgment of certain ani- 
mals, who, burrowing in shallow ground, just 
beneath the surface of the earth, fancy they are 
deep only because they are dark. 

Many a metaphysical reformer, by the man- 
ner of conducting his system, so exposes and de- 
feats his own cause, as to resemble in fate, though 
we say not with any similarity of invention, the 
Neapolitan atheist Vanini, who, with eleven 
others of the same class (we presume the num- 
ber to be a match for the twelve apostles) en- 
deavoured to establish a regular college of infi- 
delity. The object was nearly the same with 
that of the late atheistical school in France ; and 
by having the priority of two centuries, they 
robbed that recent rabble of the meritorious 
claim to original wickedness. 

Vanini's object was to exterminate the very 
idea of a God, and for this he adopted a most 
Bingular method. He undertook to prove there 
was no God, by stating the general idea of God. 
He strangely fancied that to define the idea was 
to destroy it; and that to pretend to say what 
God is, was the surest way to disprove his ex- 
istence ! His definition is so artfully made out, 
and part of it so ingeniously written, that while 
he thought he was drawing only the creature 
of his imagination, it appears as if he were en- 
throning rather than deposing his Creator. A 
marvellous delusion to argue against the being 
of God from the very magnitude of his perfec- 
tions ! Let the delirious metaphysics of modern 
times alone, and we had almost said they will 
also argue themselves into the abyss of forget- 
fulness.* 

We want more simplicity in the exercise of 
our religion ; we want to be reformed by it, and 
not to reform it ; we have need to be sent back 
to our first rudiments. We should imitate the 
plainness and uncomplicated method of the New 
Testament, where the doctrines are few, but of 

* For a further account of this metaphysical atheist, 
■ee Mr. Saurin's sermon on ' The deep things of God,' 



importance inestimable, infinite, eternal ! We 
should examine the ground* of our faith by this 
unerring guide, and not by the pullulations of 
our own visionary fancies. We want to be sent 
back to elementary principles. We need not 
even think it beneath our wisdom to be directed 
by that familiar summary, the Apostles' Creed. 
It were well if we fixed our own faith by the 
articles comprised in, and enclosed by, that safe 
compendium instead of turning it over to our 
children as if we were got above its beggarly 
elements. Even the way-faring man cannot 
stray while he is contented to keep close within 
this hedge. 

Many do not virtually adopt its first simple 
declaration, ' I believe in God ;' for to believe in 
God on the Christian scheme, is not merely to 
believe in a first cause, is not merely to believe 
in His existence, we must also believe in His 
attributes, His promises, His threatening?, His 
Son, His word, His Spirit ; to believe in those 
attributes especially which harmoniously meet 
in the glorious union of truth and mercy, the 
blessed combination of righteousness and peace 
in the person of his Divine Son ; those promises 
which are eternal life to as many as keep his 
commandments ; those threatenings which say 
to the ungodly, ' Depart from me I never knew 
you ;' that holiness without which no man shall 
ever see his face. 

A bad principle is of much more extensive 
mischief than a bad example ; the latter it is 
true, like a conflagration, has a tendency to de- 
stroy whatever comes within its reach ; but a 
pernicious principle, like the variolous matter, 
may be conveyed to any distance, and infect the 
patient, though he had never come in contact 
with him from whose eruption it was taken. 
' It is time for thee, Lord, to lay to thine hand, 
for they have destroyed thy law !' 

But it is not the entertaining a dangerous opi- 
nion, it is the rage of proselyting to new opi- 
nions, which constitutes the most malignant 
part of the mischief; an erroneous doctrine not 
propagated, hurts none but him who holds it 
but by propagating it to unsettle the minds of 
multitudes to deteriorate the Gospel, and to dis- 
turb the peace and unity of the church, is surely 
no light evil, especially in a country like ours, 
proverbial for its credulity and love of novelty ; 
and in a church like ours, which has been re- 
formed, sifted, and purified, beyond the example 
of any other in the Christian world. 

The everlasting edifice of the Gospel is found 
ed on a rock, whose stability neither storms can 
shake, nor waves undermine. — Nor can any 
contrivances of man improve the beauty of its 
superstructure. Its depths cannot be fathomed 
by our short line, nor its height fully appre- 
hended by our short sight ! Christianity then 
is no appropriate field for the perplexities of 
metaphysics, nor the industry of new dis. 
coverers. This brief title of the Bible — The 
Word of God — excludes the censures of all ca- 
villers, annihilates the emendations of all critics ! 

It is with unfeigned sorrow the writer has 
witnessed the rise and progress of the new com- 
munity. If she knows any thing of her own 
heart, the preceding remarks have not been die 
tated by a censorious spirit. But it may be saidj 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



461 



she was not called upon for any such imperti- 
nent animadversions. The probability of such a 
reproof makes her feel herself obliged to account 
for the liberty she has taken. 

Those who have condescended to look into 
her former writings, need not be reminded, that, 
she lias through life, in a considerable degree, 
though not exclusively, devoted her humble ta- 
lents to the service of her own sex ; and has 
conscientiously, though feebly, laboured to be 
useful to their best interests in every way she 
could devise. She has endeavoured to strengthen 
them in the pursuit of what was right, and they 
have had the goodness to bear with her when 
she has reminded them of any aberrations from 
that pursuit. 

Though the deep interest she has taken in 
their credit and their welfare has by no means 
invested her with a right of interference on the 
■present painful occasion, yet it would not have 
been consistent with her antecedent practice, to 
overlook a circumstance in which they are so 
deeply involved. 

It has excited the most lively feelings of re- 
gret in many minds, to hear, in a recent instance, 
of the departure of some ladies of consideration, 
from that reserve and delicacy so peculiarly the 
characteristics of their sex, and so naturally 
appendant to their own respectable characters 
and situation in life. — They appear not only to 
have entered very warmly into all the tenets of 
the seceding school, but to labour very assidu- 
ously for their propagation. They are, it seems, 
not only followers, but joint leaders in the seve- 
ral departments of the government of the se- 
ceding party. 

Tenderness of heart, warmth of feeling, and 
liveliness of imagination, form a most interest- 
ing part in the composition of an amiable wo- 
man ; but the qualities which adorn, are also 
the qualities which mislead. The very attrac- 
tions which cause th"em to please, may become 
snares. If not carefully directed, they give a 
wrong bias to the character, and a dangerous 
tendency to the conduct. They lead their pos- 
sessor more widely astray than is commonly the 
case with those who are destitute of these pleas- 
ing powers. 

That providential economy which has clearly 
determined that women were born to share with 
men the duties of private life, has as clearly de- 
monstrated, that they were not born to divide 
with them in its public administration. If, then, 
they were not intended to command armies in 
war, nor to direct cabinets in peace, to legislate 
in the senate, or debate at the bar — doubtless 
they were not intended to be public teachers of 
religion, to be makers of canons for a newchurch, 
nor to invent dogmas to controvert an old one ; 
nor to be professors of prosely tism, nor wrangling 
polemics, nor conductors of controversy, nor 
settlersof disputes — disputes which will continue 
to be agitated as long as men have hot heads 
and proud hearts ; as long as they possess vanity 
or curiosity, impatience of restraint, or a love 
of opposition ; a weariness of sober truths, and 
a thirst after the fame to be acquired by their 
subversion. 

Why will women of sense, then, defeat their 
providential destination ? why desert their pro- 



per sphere, in which they were intended to be- 
nefit, to please, even to shine at least as stars of 
the second magnitude ? Why fly from their 
prescribed orbit ? Why roam in useless and 
eccentric wandering, 

' And, comet like, rush lawless through the void, 

and then, having for a season astonished with 
their false and momentary blaze, fall disregarded 
and forgotten ? 

These well-meaning ladies would be among 
the last to use their allotted measure of grace 
and accomplishment to any purpose which they 
believed to be improper ; yet they require to be 
told, that neither should their talents be exerted 
to the purposes of spiritual seduction ; that they 
should not be employed to disturb the faith, to 
shake by dispute, or weaken by persuasion, the 
steadiness of persons who, without their endow- 
ments, are perhaps in a safer state. 

But though the writer cannot hope that these 
observations will produce any effect on those 
who have already embarked on this sea, without 
a shore, and without a bottom — happy would 
she be, if they might become the means of pre- 
serving one inexperienced female from the pe- 
rils to which novelty, curiosity, and pressing in- 
vitation too easily allure. The sure preserva- 
tives from this danger are to cultivate deep hu 
mility and self-distrust, to keep clear of the very 
threshold of innovation, to avoid the first step ; 
for all the subsequent ones are easy. Let her 
bear in mind, that, once seduced, she may find, 
that ' when she would inherit the blessing, she 
may be rejected, and find no place of repentance, 
though she may seek it carefully with tears.' 



Ill effects of the late Secession. 

Among the evils to which the late secession 
has contributed, those we are about to mention 
are of no light nature. It has been the means 
of exciting a sort of spiritual vanity, of awaken- 
ing a desire of departing from received opinions, 
in certain young persons, who may be designat- 
ed by the name of premature instructors. It has 
increased the alienation of the lower orders 
from the church ; it has afforded to some who 
are not favourable to serious piety, a pretence 
for indiscriminately classing together men of 
different views, characters, and principles. — 
Among the more respectable, it has stirred up 
a spirit of debate and controversy by no means 
friendly to the cause of genuine Christianity. 
We shall mention these effects in their order. 

There is scarcely a greater mistake in morals, 
than is committed by those who habitually 
speak of vanity as a trifling fault, as a small 
pass not worth guarding. There is perhaps 
scarcely an error which is so generally adopted, 
and so carelessly overlooked. It finds its way 
into characters of every species, and almost into 
every individual of the species. There, is not 
only the vanity of beauty, of rank, of riches, 
of learning, of talents, but, as we have already 
observed, the vanity of religion. 

A bold familiarity with Scripture an unhal- 



482 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



.owed touching of the sacred ark, not as former- 
ly by sceptics and scoffers only, but by persons 
professing, and we believe intending to be reli- 
gious, are, it is to be feared, becoming too com- 
mon. This, like many other of our offences, 
has its foundation in vanity. It is obvious that 
an unwillingness to be taught, and an impa- 
tience to teach, marks the character of the pre- 
sent day. 

There is a scion from this presumptuous 
stock, which perhaps has not had sufficient time 
to grow, in order to become generally known, 
but which is beginning to sprout up in certain 
provincial towns and villages. There is a grow- 
ing disposition in a few arrogant young men to 
read the Bible with their own glosses and inter- 
pretations, and to aim at proselyting, and ' tak- 
ing captive' not only ' silly women' but silly 
girls. Several of these persons, as soon as they 
began to open their eyes on the importance of 
religion, or rather before they were broad awake 
to its truths, have undertaken this gratuitous 
tuition. Instead of taking time to promote their 
own advancement, instead of learning wisdom 
by an increasing discovery of their own igno- 
rance; instead of improving in Christian know- 
ledge by the only legitimate methods, diligent 
study of the Bible with the aid of the soundest 
commentators, both accompanied with fervent 
prayer for that light they profess to seek, — 
without consulting able ministers — without tak- 
ing this straight and obvious road, — on their 
own very slender stock they set up for teachers 
themselves. Instead of looking to the experi- 
enced and the wise, they collect a little group to 
look up to them, thus inverting the Apostle's 
observation — for they ' when for the time they 
seek to be teachers, have need to be taught 
themselves, which be the first principles of the 
oracles of God.' If this spiritual vanity should 
flourish, we shall soon have none to learn ; all 
will be teachers. 

Thus the raw and rash Christian, confidently 
jumps over all the intermediate steps between 
the enquirer and the instructor, and despising 
the old gradual approach to the sacred temple, 
despising the study of books, of men, and of 
himself, starts up at once a full-grown divine ; 
— the novice seizes the professor's chair, erects 
himself into a scholar without literature, and a 
theologian without theology. On the strength 
of a few texts, ill understood, and worse applied, 
he undertakes to give his young neighbours 
new views of the Bible, and without eyes him- 
self, sets up for a guide of the blind. 

These young persons in reading the Scrip- 
tures seem to be setting out on a voyage of dis- 
covery of something new, rather than on a 
course of observation on what their precursors 
have done for them. They search, not with de- 
vout enquiry, but fearless curiosity ; they look 
out for passages written in a different connec- 
tion, and applied to different purposes, and then 
try to prove that they produce not consecutive 
reasoning, that they do not establish the gene- 
rally received doctrines. How should they ? 
They were never intended to produce the one, 
or to establish the other. They bring together 
propositions which have no relation, and which 
require different proofs, and then triumph in the 



supposed opposition of what was never intended 
to agree. 

' Thus fools rush in where angels fear to tread.' 

Suffer a few friendly hints. Though Holy 
Scripture was given to be searched, it was not 
given to be criticised. It was ' written for our 
learning,' not for our cavilling ; it was given not 
to be pertly scrutinized, but to be ' inwardly di- 
gested ;' not to make us wise in our own con- 
ceits, but ' to make us wise unto salvation.' It 
is not to be endured to hear questions on which 
hang all our hopes and our fears, speculated up- 
on as if they were a question of physics or his- 
tory, and explained till they become contradic- 
tions. 

Men taught of God, and possessing those 
depths of erudition which qualified them to teach 
others, depend upon it, have left nothing for 
your discovery except the discovery of your own 
insufficiency. If there are obscurities they will 
not be cleared by sucli shallow expositors. The 
sun of righteousness will not be made to shine 
brighter by the light of your farthing candle. 

Boldness in religion, we repeat, is one of the 
great evils of the present day. The more we 
cavil the less we shall obey. We may explain 
truths till we come to deny them. We may be 
so involved in intricacies of our own weaving, 
that we may end by opposing the doctrine we 
undertook to clear. Oh ! there is no security 
like a humble mind ; a mind always distrusting 
its own wisdom, and always confiding in the 
wisdom of God. 

Why, then, will not the premature instructor 
wait till he is himself instructed ? Why not 
look up for information on difficult and disputed 
points to wiser and older heads ? Why not in 
their little parties turn their attention to practi- 
cal points, rather than to speculative niceties ? 
Why not cultivate that self-inspection and heart- 
humbling prayer which would cure those con- 
ceits that lead to a critical, and often end in a 
sceptical spirit ; such habits would best pre- 
serve them from that inflation of heart which 
arises from the vanity of some supposed new 
discovery, in a religion which was given us by 
the Spirit of God. 

The Scripture no where teaches us to indulge 
this audacious curiosity ; it stirs up no eager- 
ness for pushing speculation beyond its legiti- 
mate bounds. It furnishes no invitation for 
ranging beyond the limited sphere allotted to 
our imperfect human condition. Its incitements 
are not irritations but encouragements. The 
Bible wisely represses all that spiritual vanity 
which would dive into unprofitable, because im- 
penetrable mysteries. It teaches us all that is 
necessary for us to learn, and there it stops. It 
teaches what is of prime importance for us to 
know, — that we are fallen creatures. It shows 
what we ought to believe in order to our being 
rescued from this state of apostacy. It instructs 
us in all that is necessary for us to do to be re- 
stored to the favour of God, which by sin we 
had forfeited. It is enough that it lays open 
the disease, presents the remedy, and offers 
God's Holy Spirit to render it effectual. In 
short, it reveals all that as probationary beings 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



463 



we should desire to know, and of all we know 
it expects us to make a practical use. 

The present is, especially among the lower 
ranks, an age of rebuke and blasphemy ; and 
what is so likely to augment the popular hostili- 
ty to Christianity, and neglect of the established 
church, which is founded upon it, as when they 
see some of its min'sters reprobating at one 
time, the church which they warmly defended 
at another ? — when they see them actually re- 
nouncing it as unchristian, and setting up a new 
system in opposition to it? Where, then, is 
truth to be found, may not even the more sober 
amongst the people say, if it is not found in 
that church, in defence of which so many of her 
divines, so many of her bishops, were led to the 
scaffold and the stake? Will not the loose and 
careless be likely to be confirmed in impiety, 
when they see these men, who were fostered in 
her bosom, who had subscribed to their belief 
in her articles, who had been warm beyond 
their fellows in the admiration of her liturgy, 
her doctrines, and her discipline, — when they 
see these men not only desert her altars, but 
take up arms against her ; when they behold a 
perpetual conflict between Christian ministers ? 
— for a church that is attacked must be defend- 
ed — will they not think that an establishment 
which is so frequently assailed, which requires 
such continual vindication from which there 
are so many recent deserters, must needs be an 
erroneous and unsound church, and even the 
Scriptures on which it is founded, uncertain, if 
not false ? 

What is so likely as this defection to give 
confidence, without the least intention of doing 
so, to that spirit of infidelity which used to skulk 
in corners, and stab from behind a mask, but 
now avows itself boldly, bares its unblushing 
front to public gaze, spurns at law as well as 
decency, openly defies government, whom it 
used to fear, as well as God, whom it never 
feared ? 

Was it not enough that these low, designing 
demagogues — men who think one religion as 
good as another, and no religion best of all, — 
was it not enough that these open violators of 
order, truth, and justice, should, as the most 
probable means to accomplish their political 
mischiefs, endeavour to overturn the church, by 
bringing her creeds, and her other holy ser- 
vices, into contempt ; insulting, by their profane 
parodies, all that is grave, and rendering ridi- 
culous all that is good ? Yet, from such men, 
such attempts excite our regret and astonish- 
ment less than those we have been contemplat- 
ing. How grievous is it, when persons of a to- 
tally different description are, perhaps undesign- 
edly, contributing to help on the work which, 
we are persuaded they abhor ! — when decorous 
and religious men, though by other devices, and 
with other weapons, may be contributing to ac- 
complish the work of these vulgar politicians, 
and assisting, in no inconsiderable degree, to 
discredit the church which the others are la- 
bouring to subvert ! 

Nay ; in one respect the better men are do- 
ing the worse deed ; for the factitious assailants 
of the church injure those alone who were in- 
jured before ;' for, by the grossness of their at- 



tacks, they shock all who are not totally given 
up to impiety; while, in the present instance, 
those more decent characters are more likely to 
be led astray, who have shown some disposition 
to be serious ; and are, therefore, in more dan- 
ger of being misled by the specious subtleties, 
and the assumed tone of confident security, of 
these religious dogmatists. 

The inexperienced and the wavering — those 
who are unconfirmed in their principles, to- 
gether with others who have their religion to 
seek, and who like to have one pointed out to 
them which will not disturb their repose by the 
severity of its practical injunctions, nor the 
self-denying spirit of its tendencies, are likely 
to be led astray by these false lights ; while the 
sober and self-distrusting Christian will only be 
driven, by these alarming novelties, to adhere 
more closely to the humbling and consistent 
doctrines of the New Testament, — will, with 
deeper prostration of heart, implore the aid of 
the Holy Spirit, not only to lead him into all 
truth, but to keep him in it. Such a one will find 
that it does not require profound knowledge, or 
deep learning, to perceive the awful dangers of 
the presumptuous innovations which lead to 
those perilous subtleties — which terminate in 
these bold conclusions. He will see that com- 
mon sense, an humble mind, and a competent 
acquaintance with Scripture, are all that is 
wanting to discover that the Bible* and the no- 
velties of the seceding community cannot both 
be right. 

But the evil does not end here ; for some of 
the adversaries of serious piety, are, it is to be 
feared, disposed to take a most unfair advantage 
of this secession ; and the very circumstance 
of that separation which ought to have rescued 
men who firmly adhere to the church, and to 
the principles on which it is founded, from sus- 
picion, increases it, and causes them to be in- 
volved in one common charge of extravagance 
and error, with men whose opinions they abhor; 
whereas, when the vessel is assailed by an un- 
expected storm, instead of throwing themselves 
out to sea in quest of imaginary safety, the 
tempest only makes the experienced Christian 
mariner cling the closer to his hold. Men of 
more than ordinary zeal and activity, then, 
should not be suspected of disaffection, unless 
they afford other, and more substantial reasons, 
for doubting their want of orthodoxy. Does it 
not look as if there were no soundness but in 
apathy, no security but in inertness ? 

One of the great evils of the times is rash 
judgment, indiscriminate attack, and a zeal for 
censure without examination ; a not separating 
men who are materially dissimilar, but lumping 
them into one common reprobated mass, or, at 
best, speaking as if the difference were so little, 
that it was not worth the pains to separate 
them. 

Perhaps there are no church communities in 
the world, that do not hold some doctrines in 
common. We are identified in some important 
points with the Church of Rome ; but that does 
not blind us to its errors, nor does it prevent our 
keeping clear of them. — There are both rational 
and orthodox communities in our own country: 
but our holding some opinions in common with 



464 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



them, neither makes us adopt those opinions 
which we disapprove, nor condemn those who 
profess them, as if they held none that were 
right. Why, then, should not the case be the 
same in our own church ? 

This lumping system is not a little hard on 
the steady and orderly divine. It weakens the 
hands of the faithful pastor, when his auditors, 
who have just been hearing him speak the words 
of truth and soberness, find him, perhaps, in the 
next controversial pamphlet they take up, coup- 
led with the half insane, and the wholly absurd. 
It is hard that the zealous Christian, who is at 
the same time a pattern of propriety and correct 
demeanor, should be dragged in to make com- 
mon cause with those at whose principles he 
shudders. Yet these men of opposite characters, 
principles and pursuits, are forced into contact, 
are together plunged into the crucible of un- 
distinguishing prejudice, and melted down to- 
gether ; all distinctions so lost in the fusion — 
the sober Christian so mixed with the fanatic, 
the temperate with the fiery, the regular with 
the eccentric, that they come out of the furnace 
blended into one common mass, and are repro- 
duced as if formed of one common material. 

Ours is also pre-eminently an age of contro- 
versy. Is not charity sometimes recommended 
with uncharitableness, and religion vindicated 
irreligiously ? But are there not a thousand other 
subjects bettftr calculated for its legitimate exer- 
cise ? ' Let the potsherds strive with the pot- 
sherds of the earth,' on all other topics ; but 
here, though one dash the other in pieces, he 
does not always escape unhurt himself. But 
shall the word of 'the High and Holy One, the 
word of Him who sitteth on the circle of the 
earth,' be made an arena for the combats of its 
puny inhabitants, whom the prophet represents 
by the most contemptible insect? 

But although, as we have already observed, 
if truth be attacked, it must be defended, the 
Christian controvertist never engages in offen- 
sive war. He does not fight for victory, but 
truth. And the surest way for him to ascertain 
this, is, to examine the temper with which he 
defends it. Rivalry is not his motive, nor is 
railing his weapon. 

If, as it is said, warfare is the natural state 
of man, let his hostility among Christians be 
directed to a foreign enemy ; let them not en- 
gage in civil war. You have already ' provoked 
each other to good works,' which is part of the 
law ; go on, and provoke each other to ' love, 
which is the fulfilling of the law.' Let both 
sides rejoice in the good done, without caring 
which does it. 'There are diversities of opera- 
tions, but it is the same God which worketh in 
all.' If there is so much done separately, what a 
mighty mass of good would be produced by cor- 
dial co-o*peration ? Let me not be accused of 
levity in applying the words of the poet, 

The Douglas and the. Percy both together, 
Were confident against a world in arms. 

VVe know that, in the sight of God he is not 
the most successful champion who may have 
given most falls to his adversary ; but he who 
has obtained the most victories over his own 
spirit. And he will be found, in the great and 



tremendous day of reckoning, to have been the 
most valiant sodier of Jesus Christ, not who haa 
been the fiercest combatant in the field of con. 
troversy, but who shall have brought mosfglory 
to God, and most sou), to heaven. 

If we made, as surely we ought to make, the 
Holy Scripture our standard of judging, as well 
as of believing, of charity as well as of faith, 
of brotherly kindness as well as of orthodoxy ; 
— if we brought the Bible to be the constant 
arbiter of our debates, as well as the professed 
rule of our lives, we should attack nothing with 
warmth but what that Bible condemns. All 
differences of opinion in which God has not set to 
His seal that it is false, should be treated with 
candour ; men should not then make their own 
' purged eyes' the universal medium of clear 
vision, they should not vilify others for seeing 
the same topics with other optics. Want of 
charity is probably no less a fault than the one 
we may be reviling ; and does not a want of 
discrimination, or rather does not that blindness 
which is inspired by prejudice, lead to that de- 
ficiency in candour which widens the difference ? 
To profess opinions of which Scripture neither 
commands nor prohibits our belief; ought not to 
set at irreconcilable variance beings who are 
equally candidates for heaven. In that abode 
of perfect peace and perfect love, no small por- 
tion of the promised felicity may arise from our 
being of no party. 

A difference in opinion on points on which the 
Holy Spirit has been silent, on which no decla- 
ratory sentence in Scripture has been pro- 
nounced, is surely no ground for the triumph 
of superiority in those who maintain them, nor 
for supercilious contempt in those who reject 
them. Is it not putting matters of minor im- 
portance in the place of essentials ? while per- 
haps by the disputants on both sides, essentials 
are not always held with so firm a grasp, or at 
least are not debated with such unkind perti- 
nacity. 

We have hitherto alluded to difference of 
opinion between pious men, men who are in earn- 
est in their religion. But are there not men of 
little piety to be found, who side with one or the 
other party, and become the hottest controver- 
lists, while they take little real interest in vital 
religion ; who oppose without belief, and defend 
without conviction, merely because they wish 
to be appended to that side which they happen 
to think the most creditable, most popular, or 
most profitable ? 

Let us then love in each other now what God 
loves in us, and bear with the rest. — The culti- 
vation of this spirit of kindness would so sanc- 
tify the temper, that we should forgive and 
overlook those inferior matters in others, which 
might not exactly coincide with our own views 
and opinions. 

These discrepancies in sentiment are perhaps 
permitted for mutual advantago ; and the culti- 
vation of a candid disposition may bo carried to 
a wider extent, and a spirit of forbearance in ac- 
tion, than if there were no such thing as diver- 
sity of sentiment. By the consent and recipro- 
cal operation of this spirit of Christian kindness, 
we shall be made more meet for that state where 
all will be of one mind as well as one heart 



THE WORKS OF HAJS T NAH MORE. 



463 



where charity will have its full consummation, 
and forbearance its full reward. 

Let us then prepare ourselves, and each other, 
by the exercise of the one for the fruition of the 
other. Let God be all in all now, as He will be 
hereafter, and there will be no room left in the 
heart of a Christian for animosity, or unkind- 
ness towards his fellow Christians. A cordial 
agreement in those essentials to which the Gos- 
pel has annexed salvation, should swallow up 
all the present petty, but dividing distinctions. 
— Could this most desirable object be accom- 
plished, then should we hope to see a renovation 
of that spirit which, in the early ages of the 
church, provoked even its enemies to exclaim 
with admiring wonder, See how these Christians 
love one another ! 



On the Exertions of Pious Ladies. 

We are now about to tread, which we do with 
a fearful and timid step, on tender ground. It 
is with mingled respect and reluctance we ven- 
ture to touch on certain delicate points which 
affect the sincerely pious ; persons who equally 
avoid all eccentricity in doctrine, and negligence 
in practice ; yet among whom little errors may 
hereafter creep in, the very consequence, per- 
haps, of that increasing and inestimable bless- 
ing, religious society. It is to be feared they 
may incur the hazard of raising in others objec- 
tions against religion, by their honest zeal to 
promote it. 

The persons to whom we presume to allude 
are of that sex, in which, perhaps, most piety 
is to be found, and who are in so many respects 
essentially advancing its cause. — Their ser- 
vices are so materially useful, that it would be 
a subject of deep regret, if, by any slight inad- 
vertence, their value should ever be diminished. 
We are too often led to complain of deficiencies 
in religion ; we are now to speak — not of its ex- 
cess, for we believe there is no such thing — but 
rather to guard the truly pious against the pos- 
sibility of inconveniences, which, should they 
arise, would be a diminution of their usefulness. 

The thoughtless and dissipated indeed, who 
haunt unsocial crowds, and lay out their talents 
for that world which they have chosen for their 
portion, find their reward where they seek it, 
in the admiration of that world where they 
flutter and shine. — The others patiently wait 
for theirs in that single sentence, ' Well done, 
good and faithful servant.' Yet though it is 
painful to say a syllable which might look 
like disapprobation when only caution is intend- 
ed, may we hazard a few words, not of censure 
but of friendly intimation ? 

May not those large portions of time, and 
strength, and spirit, so generously spent abroad 
by zealous Christians, in the most noble exer- 
tions of religious charity, be sometimes suffered 
to entrench, in some measure, upon the im- 
perious course of domestic life, upon those pleas- 
ing and sacred duties for which home is a name 
so dear ? May they not be so exhausted by ex- 
ternal concerns, that they may be in danger of 
entering with diminished interest on the retired 
exercises of the closet. All business, even re- 
ligious business, is apt to produce a hurry and 

Vol. II. 2 G 



bustle in the mind, and an agitation in the 
spirits, which the most serious persons lament, 
as being attended with some disqualification for 
personal improvement. ' My mother's children 
gave me their vineyards to keep, but mine own 
vineyard have I not kept,' was the pathetic la- 
mentation of the ancient church. They had 
engaged her in labours and difficulties which 
she feared had in some measure impeded the 
progress of her own spiritual concerns. It was 
in her own house, at Bethany, that Mary sat at 
the feet of Jesus. We fully admit, however, 
not only the complete compatibility, but the ex- 
pediency, of. uniting what we owe to those 
abroad, and to ourselves and families at home ; 
the highest characters are those who combine 
both. We are not combatting, but applauding 
a zeal, which we fervently hope may never be 
suppressed, if it should ever require to be some- 
what regulated. 

There is no part of Christian duty which 
more requires us to look well to the motive by 
which our actions are set a-going. It is of" 
importance to examine whether our most useful, 
if busy pursuits, are not influenced by a natural 
fondness for bustle, an animal activity, a love of 
notice. Whether even the charitable labours 
grow not more from a restless spirit than from 
real piety. Let us observe, however, that though 
these defective motives may at first excite the 
zeal of some, yet by a perseverance in well-doing, 
assisted by humble prayer, the motive may at 
length become as pure as the act is undoubtedly 
right. 

It is asserted, but we trust with more severity 
than justice, that there is a growing tendency 
in some truly excellent persons to introduce 
show and display in their religion ; a tendency, 
not quite consistent with the interior, spiritual 
nature of Christianity. It is not so much an 
evil we are guarding against, as the appearance 
of evil. Their sex, like their religion, is df a 
sober character ; and the tendency to which we 
are alluding, may create a suspicion that reli- 
gion, even among good people, is not so much 
considered as a thing between God and their 
own soul, as we know it really is ; for we are 
far from suspecting the secret communion with 
their God and Saviour is not considered as their 
primary duty. And we are willing to believe 
that the effect of this duty will always be visible 
in producing that sobriety and simplicity, which 
so conspicuously, and so beautifully distinguish 
the religion of the New Testament. 

The religion of Jesus is utterly without pa- 
rade, it effects no publicity. It is enough for 
his servants to believe that their heavenly Fa- 
ther, who sees them in secret, sees them with 
an approving eye. 

As they have got above acting from the fear 
of man, the next step is to get above acting for 
his praise ; — the excessive applause and com- 
mendation of their Christian friends begin, in 
reality, still more to be watched against than 
the reproach of the irreligious. The one teaches 
them to be circumspect, the other may in time 
induce them to believe that circumspection is no 
longer necessary. This negligence, if it do not 
make them do wrong, may lead them to be too 
much elated with doing what is right. 



466 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



But there are higher motives for the use of 
discreet reserve in the Christian's mind than 
what regards merely their personal character. 
However pure in motive, however innocent in 
action, they must be careful not to have their 
good evil spoken of. They must be scrupulous- 
ly cautious of not bringing the least reproach on 
the cause dearest to their affections. Pious per- 
sons cannot but know, that with the utmost care 
to avoid adding to the offence, which Christian 
truth, however discreetly exhibited, necessarily 
gives, that many are looking out for pretences 
to discredit not only the professor but the pro- 
fession itself. But if they should hereafter see 
any of those improprieties for which they are 
looking out ; if any indiscretion should be found 
where it is sedulously sought, Christianity would 
suffer and impiety triumph. 

We sincerely hope that certain sharp sighted 
observers, who are keenly on the watch for any 
thing that may discredit serious piety, who are 
peeping in at every crevice, through which they 
think they may detect any real or supposed 
ground of censure, may never be gratified with 
the discovery of what they so industriously seek. 
But it is obvious, that where they can detect no 
substantial fault, they take comfort in finding a 
foible ; where there is no deformity they tri- 
umphantly carry away a blemish, and are ready 
to make the most of the slightest imperfection. 
And a speck which would not be perceived in 
an ordinary form, is conspicuo.us on that which 
is white and pure. 

This, by a little perversion, and not a little 
exaggeration, not only of fact but of conjecture, 
is propagated till it becomes a mischief. In the 
detection of the slightest flaw in characters of 
eminent piety, they go away rejoicing, as if they 
had found some hidden treasure. And it is 
well perhaps, even for the best Christians, that 
there are such critical inspectors ; and the know- 
ledge that they are watched will answer an ex- 
cellent purpose, if it set them on watching them- 
selves. 

Am I then an enemy to Christian exertion ? 
God forbid ! It is the glory of our age, that 
among the most useful and zealous servants of 
our Divine Master, are to be found, of ' devout 
and honourable women not a few.' Ladies, 
whose own education not having been limited to 
the harp and the sketch-book, though not un- 
skilled in either, are competent to teach others 
what themselves have been taught; who disdain 
not to be employed in the humblest offices of 
Christian charity, to be found in the poorest cot- 
tage, at the bed-side of the sick and dying; 
whose daughters, if not the best waltzers, are 
the best catechists ; whose houses arc houses of 
prayer, whose closets are the scene of devout 
meditation ; who, not contented with the stinted 
modish measure of a single attendance on public 
worship, so contrive to render the hours of re- 
past subservient to those of duty, as to make a 
second visit to the temple of their God; and 
who endeavour to retain the odour of sanctity, 
shed on the sacred day, through the duties of 
the week. 

But to pursue the subject in a different, though 
not distant direction, we cannot too much com- 
mend those valuable persons, whom neither for- 



tune, rank, nor any temporal advantages have 
been able to seduce to follow those vain pursuiti, 
whose light, and, in some cases, dangerous 
amusements, so eagerly sought by the votaries 
of pleasure. We cannot but admire, that all 
these energies which others are wasting in idle 
diversions, or employments little better than 
idleness, are, by those excellent persons, devoted 
to purposes of religion, and religious or useful 
charities. 

If, indeed, like the females attached to the 
new school of theology, they deserted the esta- 
blished proprieties, and prescribed decorums, 
which have ever been considered as the safe- 
guard, as well as the ornament, of their sex ; if 
they assisted to propagate novel opinions; if 
they undertook to share the office of directors 
in spiritual concerns ; if they diverted to public 
purposes, the talents given them for the more 
appropriate and subordinate, but not less useful 
offices of private life ; if they attempted to clear 
difficulties in divinity, which the wisest and 
most learned men had approached with awe and 
reverence, and had receded, for fear of' darken- 
ing counsel by words without knowledge ; if 
they undertook to decide between contending 
creeds while they considered the commandments 
as antiquated — new-modelling the one and re- 
scinding the other without ceremony ; if they 
allowed themselves to determine the right and 
the wrong on points too abstruse, not only for 
female, but even for human intelligence, to de- 
cide upon, and to get rid of those they did not 
like or did not comprehend; if they had quitted 
plain, practical, intelligible religion, for mis- 
leading theories, and, like the apostate Gala- 
tians, ' removed from Him that called them into 
the grace of Christ unto another gospel ;' if all 
these things had taken place, then they would 
indeed deserve even more censure than they 
have incurred ; then, though we should pity 
their error and lament their apostacy, we should 
be among the last to apologise for the one, or 
excuse the other. It has been brought, as a 
charge, against the valuable ladies whose cause 
we are advocating, as if it were a departure 
from the delicacy of the sex, to attend at the an- 
nual meetings of certain religious and charitable 
societies ; but we know not what reasonable ob- 
jection can be made to their being modest and 
silent auditors on these occasions. They do not 
attend the resort of the unemployed or the ill- 
employed — they do not attend to hear the idle 
news of the neighbourhood, but to hear ' good 
news from a far country,' — news, which the 
angels in heaven stoop down to hear, — not the 
conversion of one sinner, but the conversion of 
many, — to hear that best news, the extension of 
Christianity to the extremities of the globe, — to 
hear that 

' All kingdoms and all princes of the earth 
Flock to that light ;'— 

To hear 

' That eastern Java to the farthest west, 
And Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand. 
And worships!' 

Compare now these inoffensive and quiet au- 
ditors, with the gay multitudes of their own sex 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



467 



which crowd the resort of pleasure. — Here, they 
are the peaceful listeners ; there, they are the 
busy performers. The others are not, as here, 
passive recipients of entertainment, but the en- 
tertainers, but the exhibitors. Yet, who among 
the worldly censures one of these classes ? who, 
among the prejudiced does not censure the 
other ? 

So much for the difference in the act ; let us 
examine the difference in point of time; for, as 
in our pleasurable pursuits, the consumption of 
time, that precious material of which life is 
made, forms a very considerable object, it can- 
not be thought unfair to compare the two classes 
on this ground. 

Did the pursuits of both, in point of health, 
sobriety in dress, security of morals, preserva- 
tion of delicacy, more nearly approach each 
other than the most strenuous advocate for dis- 
sipation can pretend ; yet the prodigious in- 
equality of the two as to the waste of time, must 
settle the matter at once with those who know 
the value of this fugitive, this irretrievable ta- 
lent. 

Compare then the few hours in the day, and 
the very few days in the years, given up by the 
one to these serious pleasures, with the uncount- 
ed hours of the countless nights, spent by the 
other in the antisocial crowds of turbulent 
pleasure — spent, we will not say in the midnight 
parties, for that would give a false impression 
of the season of those amusements. The mid- 
night hour was heretofore used proverbially to 
express late revelling. — But from the present 
inversion of hours, that would give an idea not 
only of dulness and vulgarity, but it would also 
rather designate the hour when company met, 
than when they parted. Midnight was once the 
time which closed the scene of dissipation ; it is 
now that of commencing it. And it is scarcely 
extravagant to say, that the morning frequenters 
of the charitable meetings join them not many 
hours after the others return from the scene of 
their unquiet pleasures. In the one case, no 
neighbourhood is kept awake by unseasonable 
noise and knockings, no servants are exposed to 
corruptions abroad, nor robbed of quiet rest at 
home. 

To turn from the metropolis to the provinces. 
Compare the little absences from home of la- 
dies who inspect the concerns, and give instruc- 
tion to the poor, with the long and frequent de- 
sertion of another class, not of home only, but 
of country ! 

Upon the whole though we would carefully 
guard against both, yet we must confess, in the 
present state of things, it is not so much a little 
excess in zeal in one quarter, as the visible 
growth of dissipation in another, which ' has in- 
creased, is increasing, and ought to be dimi- 
nished ;' and truly happy should we be, if the 
Den of the ready writers, so frequently employed 
against the minor, would occasionally be exerted 
against the greater excess. 

The opening of the nineteenth century has 
been a period for the display of extraordinary 
energies, exerted in every sort of direction. 
They had been powerfully exerted in bringing 
on the late revolution. All the energies of 



France, whether in science, talent, wit, or wealth, 
were combined in one huge engine for the esta- 
blishment of atheism on the proposed ruins of 
Christ and his kingdom. We hope this grand 
device was partly foiled, even there. In the 
general assault some skirmishes were fought in 
this country ; but here a counter-attack was- 
made. ' Michael and his angels fought against 
the dragon and his angels, and prevailed.' — 'The 
accuser of the brethren was cast down.' 

Afterwards the human scourge of mankind 
in the same foreign country, by a singular ener 
gy of character, aided by an unprecedented 
combination of circumstances, to which the pre 
vious contempt of religion had led the way, pro- 
jected the most exorbitant enterprises, and ac- 
complished them by the most successful perse- 
verance in every species of political and moral 
mischief. In imitation of one whom the enor- 
mity of his crimes would almost warrant us in 
calling his grand inspirer, his labours were per- 
haps more energetic, because • his time was 
short.' Here again Michael made a counter- 
attack on the dragon. For it is to the same 
powerful energies, exerted in the contrary di- 
rection, that we may ascribe those numberless 
noble, and beneficial societies at home, which 
promise to effect a moral change in the condU 
tion, not of one country, not of one Continent, 
but of the whole Globe, and by which we hope 
finally, through the Divine blessing, ' to beat 
down Satan under our feet.' 

But this has not only been a period for exert- 
ing the energies of countries and communities. 
They have been exerted under different situa- 
tions by different characters, and to opposite 
purposes, by individuals; they have been re- 
markably exhibited in private persons, in a sex 
where energy is less expected to break out into 
fearless action ; in Charlotte Corday, in Madame 
Roland, and other political enthusiasts abroad, 
all acting with the spirit of the heroines of pa- 
gan Rome, and actuated by a religion much re- 
sembling theirs. 

At home, the best energies of the human mind 
have been exerted to the best purposes, by pri- 
vate individuals also, and exerted without any 
departure from modesty, prudence, and simpli- 
city, the sacrifice of which would ill repay the 
accomplishment of the most popular action. 

It would be unpardonable in our remarks on 
well-directed energies, to pass over one instance, 
on which, we trust there cannot be two opi- 
nions. If some of the novelties of the present 
period are its errors, others are its glory. It is 
cheering to the wearied pilgrim, in traversing 
the desert of this sinful world, to have the eye 
here and there refreshed with a verdant spot, 
yielding not only beauty, but fertility. 

In alluding to certain recent undertakings 
which reflect honour on our country, it would 
be unjust to omit one which reflects honour on 
our sex. Justice, as well as gratitude, would 
be wounded, were no tribute to be paid to the 
most heroic of women. 

The reader will have anticipated that we al- 
lude to the female Howard. Hers is almost (her 
sex considered) a higher strain of Christian he- 
roism. Unprotected and alone, she dared to 
venture into scenes that would appal the 6toute6t 



468 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



heart, and which the single principle alone iy 
which she was actuated could have sustained 
hers. With true Christian courage, she ven- 
tured to explore the dreary abodes of calamity 
and crime, of execration and despair. She took 
' the guage of misery,' not as a matter of curi- 
osity, or philosophical speculation, but with the 
holy hope of relieving it. The favour of Him 
who stopped the mouths of the lions in the pro- 
phet's den, stopped those of these scarcely less 
savage beings. Her mild demeanour awed their 
rebellious spirits into peace. 

Her visit was not the sudden ebullition of a 
charitable fit. It was the result of deliberate 
reflection, and doubtless of fervent prayer. She 
had long been projecting the means how to as- 
sist these most desperate and forlorn of human 
kind. She had conceived a hope, that what was 
flagitious might not be incorrigible ; and adopt- 
ed a well-digested plan for their religious in- 
struction. 

But she knew human nature too well, not to 
know that religious instruction would be very 
inefficacious, without correcting inveterately 
bad habits. Together with a few pious and 
able associates of her own sex,* she insti- 
tuted a school of reform and industry, found 
manual employment for those who had never 
worked, and Christian instruction for those who 
had never been taught. The lips that had been 
seldom opened but to blaspheme their Maker, 
were taught to praise Him ; the hands hitherto 
employed in theft were employed in honest la- 
bour. Infants, in a doubly lamentable sense, 
born in sin, and bred in vice, were snatched 
from a destruction which had appeared inevita- 
ble, and put into a train of improvement. The 
gloomy mansion which had lately been a scene 
of horror, only to be exceeded by those more 
dreadful future mansions to which it was con- 
ducting them changed its face. The loathsome 
prison which had witnessed nothing but intoxi- 
cation and idleness ; had heard no sounds but 
those of reviling and of imprecation, gradually 
became a scene of comparative decency, sobri- 
ety, and order. 

If ever a charity of so extensive and public 
a nature could have been pleaded as some ex- 
cuse for the remission of domestic duties, this 
might have been considered as the one exempt 
case, but it was not so. If she stole some hours 
from her family to visit the prison, she stole 
some hours from sleep to attend to her family. 

Happily, goodness is contagious as well as 
sin. We may now say in a good sense, ' Behold 
how great a matter a little fire kindleth ! Dis- 
tant places have caught the flame. The bright 
example is already imitated by other ladies in 
some of our great towns, and will probably take 
a more ample range. 

May we conclude this part of our subject by 
observing, that ladies of other religious profes- 
sions would do well to copy, in certain respects, 
the example of the females of the society to 
which this distinguished lady belongs ; — giving 
into no habits of dissipation, they have time ; 
addicted to little expense in personal decoration, 
they have money ; and the. time and money thus 

* Among these Mrs. Steinkopfl stands in the first 
lank. 



snatched from vain and frivolous purposes, are 
more wisely directed together into the same 
right channel of Christian benevolence. 

High Profession and Negligent Practice. 

There has seldom been a period in which 
there was more talk of religion, than that in 
which we live ; and we are disposed to believe, 
that the abundance of the heart in this instance 
produces its usual effect upon the lips. But it 
must also be observed, that, in an age of much 
vital religion, as it must be acknowledged this 
is, there will naturally be not a little false pro- 
fession, or, at best, in many professors, more 
external show than inward piety — a religion 
that is sometimes more distinguished by pecu- 
liar phrases, and hot contention about opinions, 
than by much devotedness of heart and life. 

One of the causes to which the growth of 
crime among our poor has been assigned, is the 
growth of our population; and some have under- 
taken to prove, that it is not because they are 
worse, but because they are more. This same 
way of judging may, perhaps be applied to the 
apparent growth of error in religion — that it is 
to be ascribed to its vast increase. As there is 
numerically a larger population in the religious 
ranks, may there not be naturally expected a 
larger proportion of error ? 

We now, therefore, venture a few remarks on 
another class of Christians, whose intentions, 
we hope, are not bad, though their charity is 
narrow, and their information small. We will 
distinguish them by the name of Phraseologists. 
These are persons who, professing to believe 
the whole of the Gospel, seem to regard only 
one half of it. They stand quite in opposition 
to the useful and laborious class whom we last 
considered. None will accuse these of that vir- 
tuous excess, of that unwearied endeavour to 
promote the good of others, on which we there 
animadverted. These are assiduous hearers, 
but indifferent doers; very valiant talkers for 
the truth, but remiss workers. They are more 
addicted to hear sermons than to profit by them. 
Their religion consists more in a sort of spi- 
ritual gossiping, than in holiness of life. They 
diligently look out after the faults of others, but 
are rather lenient to their own. — They accuse 
of being legal, those who act more in the ser- 
vice of Christianity, and dispute less about cer- 
tain opinions. Tb. e y overlook essentials, and 
debate rather fiercely on, at best, doubtful points 
of doctrine ; and form their judgment of the 
piety of others, rather from their warmth in 
controversy, than in their walking humbly with 
God. 

They always exhibit in their conversation 
the idiom of a party, and are apt to suspect the 
sincerity of those whose higher breeding, and 
more correct habits, discover a better taste. 
Delicacy with them, is want of zeal ; prudent 
reserve, want of earnestness; sentiments of pi- 
ety, conveyed in others words than are found in 
their vocabulary, are suspected of error. They 
make no allowance for the difference of educa* 
tion, habits, and society : all must have one 
standard of language, and that standard is their 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Even if, on some points, you hold nearly the 
same sentiments, it will not save your credit ; 
if you do not express them in the same lan- 
guage, you are in danger of having your prin- 
ciples suspected. By your proficiency or de- 
clension in this dialect, and not by the greater 
or less devotedness of your heart, the increasing 
or diminishing consistency in your practice, 
they take the guage of your religion, and deter- 
mine the rise and fall of your spiritual thermome- 
ter. The language of these technical Chris- 
tians indisposes persons of refinement, who have 
not had the advantage of seeing religion under 
a more engaging form, to serious piety, by lead- 
ing them to make a most unjust association be- 
tween religion and bad taste. 

When they encounter a new acquaintance of 
their own school, these reciprocal signs of re- 
ligious intelligence produce an instantaneous 
sisterhood ; and they will run the chance of 
what the character of the stranger may prove to 
be, if she speaks in the vernacular tongue. 
With them, words are not only the signs of 
things, but things themselves. 

If the phraseologists meet with a well-dispos- 
ed young person, whose opportunities are slen- 
der, and to whom religion is new, they alarm 
her by the impetuosity of their questions. They 
do not examine if her principles are sound, but 
* does she pray extempore ?' This alarms her, 
if her too recent knowledge of her Bible and 
herself has not yet enabled her to make this de- 
sirable proficiency. ' Will she tell her experi- 
ence V — These interrogations are made without 
regard to that humility which may make her 
afraid to appear better than she is, and to that mo- 
desty which restrains a loud expression of her 
feelings. She does not, perhaps, even know 
the meaning of the term, in their acceptance 
of it. 

Do we then ridicule experimental religion ? 
Do we think lightly of that interior power of 
Divine grace upon the heart, which is one of 
the strongest evidences of the truth of Chris- 
tianity ? God forbid ! But surely we may dis- 
approve the treating it with flippancy and un- 
hallowed faisiliarity ; we may disapprove of 
their discussing it with as little reserve and se- 
riousness, as if they were speaking of the state 
of the weather, or of the hour of the day ; we 
may object to certain equivocal feelings being 
made the sole criterion of religion ; feelings to 
which those who have them not may pretend ; 
which those who have them may fear to com- 
municate, before they have acquired a strength 
and permanency which may make them more 
decisive; we may blame such injudicious ques- 
tions to incipient Christians, who barely know 
the first elements of Christianity. 

By the apparent depth of their views, and this 
cant in the expression, the stranger is led to 
think there is something unintelligible in reli- 
gion — some mysterious charm, which is too 
high for her apprehension. They will not hold 
out to her the consoling hope of progressive 
piety ; for, with them growth in grace is no 
grace at all, — the starting-post and the goal are 
one and the same point. One of these conse- 
quences probably follows : she either falls into 
their peculiar views, or she is driven to seek 



wiser counsellors, or is led by the hopelessness 
of attaining to their supposed elevation, to give 
up the pursuit of religion altogether. 

These technical religionists are so far from 
encouraging favourable tendencies, and ' the day 
of small things,' that they have no patience with 
persons professing hope, and despise every ad- 
vance short of assurance. 

To judge of them by their conversation, they 
seem to have as firm a certainty of their own 
security, as of the danger of all the rest of the 
world ; that is, of all those who do not see with 
their eyes, hear with their ears, and discuss in 
their language. You would suppose salvation 
a very easy attainment, to see them got so much 
above hopes or fears. 

Surely eternal happiness is not so cheap a 
thing, as that any should plead their claim to it 
on slight grounds. Some who talk confidently " 
of this certainty, do not give strong indications 
in their life, of their having entered in at ' the 
strait gate' which leads to it. If it cost as few 
sacrifices, and required as little diligence, as 
some exhibit, there would not be so many who 
need doubt of their admission. Seek, strive, 
run, fight, labour, know thyself, humble thyself, 
— are imperatives not quite so easily or so gene- 
rally obeyed, as to render ' the narrow way' a 
very crowded avenue. Self-knowledge, self- 
denial, self-abasement, are safer symptoms than 
undoubting confidence and exulting security. 

The desire of hearing and speaking much on 
religious subjects, though Christian duties, are 
less unequivocal marks of improvement, than 
whether we love money less, and our neighbour 
more ; whether there is any abatement in our 
pride, any victory over our passions ; whether 
we- are more disposed to conquer our own will, 
and to submit to that of God. A growth in can- 
dour, in charity, in kindness and forbearance, 
in meekness and self-distrust, will be the proba- 
ble consequence of a close examination into our 
present deficiency in these amiable graces. 

To these persons, the exclusive credit of their 
individual preacher is at least as valuable a con- 
sideration, as the glory of that God whom it 
may be his constant aim to glorify ; and they 
do not think they exalt him sufficiently, if it be 
not done at the expense of others among his 
brethren, to whom he perhaps looks up with 
reverence. There is a wide difference between 
the kindness of praise and the grossness of adu- 
lation ; between affection and worship ; between 
gratitude and idolatry. 

Since the human mind' is so constituted as 
sometimes to require remission from its stricter 
engagements; since it feels the need of relaxing 
into some intervals of pleasure ; it is no unim- 
portant object to enquire what pleasures are 
dangerous, what are safe, and what may even 
be made instructive, even where improvement 
is not the professed object. 

The persons in question have little turn for 
books; might it not usefully fill many a vacant 
gap were they to devote a little of their leisure 
to rational reading ? There is much valuable 
literature which occupies an intermediate space 
between strictly religious and frothy books. 
History, well-choscn travels, select biographical 
works, furnish not only harmless but profitable 



470 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



reading. The study of these would improve , 
their views; and by expanding their minds, fur- 
nish them with topics of general conversation 
and useful reflection. It would enlarge their 
charity, by letting them see that many authors 
are not wicked, though they do not confine their 
works to religious discussion. 

Whatever invigorates our capacity of receiv- 
ing knowledge, whatever adds new and sound 
ideas to our stock, is not to be despised as use- 
less, or rejected as sinful. Be it observed, how- 
ever, that general literature must not be allowed 
to absorb our time, nor interfere with what is 
of indispensable obligation; yet, if it be clear 
from every thing light, sceptical, or unsound, 
it safely fills up the otherwise idle intervals of a 
religious life, which without it is liable to sink 
into meaner recreations, and inferior pursuits. 

Objects of the first importance cannot be ex- 
clusively pursued even by higher capacities than 
those we are now considering. It is particu- 
larly necessary, therefore, for these last to sup- 
ply their leisure with occupations which will 
furnish useful information, and matter of pleas- 
ing communication. For if the most elevated 
minds require the relief of change, much more 
does the ordinary and uncultivated intellect. It 
has but few images, which are 60on exhausted, 
and must sink into weariness if it be not replen- 
ished by new ones. — Reading, such as we pre- 
sume to recommend, might prevent the vacant 
mind from brooding over mysteries, which it 
has pleased the God of all wisdom, as well as all 
goodness, to hide from more enlightened minds 
than those we are contemplating. The want 
of something better to do, the want of resources 
of a higher order between the duties of the 
highest, reduces rrany persons to the most tri- 
fling ways of getting rid of time. They who 
allow of no intermediate reading between a ser- 
mon and a play, are often engaged in conver- 
sations, to which the most frivolous dialogues 
ever written would afford no adequate parallel : 
and they who would think it a sin to be study- 
ing the history of their country, are frequently, 
and perhaps eagerly, inquiring into the gossip 
of their own village, and contributing new anec- 
dotes to its idle annals. 

Many books are useful, that are not profes- 
sedly religious, for we have minds as well as 
«ouls. We may be well instructed for the pur- 
pose of this world, without invading on the more 
important business of another. 

If then they would adopt sober literature, in 
exchange for indolent trifling, their minds would 
improve in vigour, and their tempers in cheer- 
fulness and candour. Every unoccupied mind 
lays itself open to the incursion of more danger- 
ous enemies than those it intends to avoid ; such 
a mind takes refuge in what is more injurious 
than the supposed evil, into which it congratu- 
lates itself that it has not fallen. A lively 
* Spectator' of Mr. Addison, or a grave ' Guar- 
dian' of Bishop Berkeley, would be a pleasing 
resource. An ' Idler,'' or a ' Rambler' of Dr. 
Johnson, might preserve them from realizing 
those characters in their own persons. Such 
writers would teach them the knowledge of 
mankind, and let them into many a snug secret 
which lies unmolested in their own heart. Such 



books might correct their taste, without deduct 
ing any thing from their stock of piety, except 
perhaps the phrases which disfigure it ; would 
give them a relish for better society, and thus 
turn their waste moments to some profit. Be it 
observed, we speak of persons who have much 
leisure; those who have little, should give that 
little to the one Supreme object. 

These religionists delight to speak of them- 
selves as a persecuted people ; so that a stran- 
ger not accustomed to their dialect, and having 
been in the habit of hearing the term applied 
to imprisonment, anathema, and proscription, 
is rejoiced when he afterwards finds it means 
no more than a little censure, and not a little 
ridicule ; the latter perhaps more frequently 
drawn on them by their quaint phrases, inju- 
dicious language, and oddity of manner, than 
meant to express any contempt of religion itself. 

We do not pretend to say, that there is not 
still to be encountered that lighter species of 
persecution which consists in reproach, supicion, 
and contempt ; that there is not still an inferior 
kind of spiritual martyrdom, which those who 
would live godly in Christ Jesus must be con- 
tent to sulfur ; a persecution which touches not 
the life but the fame : but this affects only Chris- 
tians of a higher strain than those whom we are 
considering ; persons who do not draw on them 
solves censure by their indiscretion, but by their 
sternness in principle, and their superiority in 
practice. This reproach, however, they esteem 
a light evil, and are contented that as it was 
with the master, so it must be with the servant. 
It is well, however, if attack makes even them 
more discreet, and reproach more humble. 

In short, the religion of the phraseologists is 
easy, their acquisitions cheap, their sacrifices 
few, their stock small, but always ready for pro- 
duction. This stock is rather drawn from the 
memory than the mind ; it consists in terms 
rather then ideas ; in opinions rather than in 
principles ; and is brought out on all occasions, 
without regard to time, place, person, or cir- 
cumstance. 

It has been triumphantly asserted, but probably 
with more confidence than truth, that the chil- 
dren of pious persons are not, in general, piously 
educated. \Ve have known too many instances 
to the contrary to admit the charge. 

Though a good man's religion cannot be 
always transmitted with his estate, yet much 
has been done, and is actually doing, towards 
this transmission : and if it is sometimes found 
that the fact is as has been asserted, it is, we 
suspect, chiefly, though perhaps not exclusively, 
to be found in the class we have been consider- 
ing. It is perhaps in consistency with some 
tenets they maintain, that they neglect to pre- 
pare the ground, to sow the seed, and labour to 
eradicate the weeds ; believing that education is 
of little use ; trusting that whatever is good must 
come from above, and come in God's own time. 

We, too, know that whatever is good must 
come from above ; and that of whatever is good, 
God is the giver : but we know, also, that the 
ripening suns, and the gracious showers, and 
the refreshing dews, which descend from heaven, 
are not intended to spare the labour of cultiva. 
tiort, but to invigorate the plant, to fill the ear 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



471 



^o ripen the grain, and thus, without supersed- 
ing, to reward and bless the labours of the culti- 
rator 



Auricular Confession. 

There are certain topics which are almost too 
serious to be overlooked in an undertaking of 
this nature, and are yet almost too delicate to 
be touched upon. 

Though we are far from thinking auricular 
confession the worst part of another church, yet 
we do not wish to see it introduced into our own, 
especially under the circumstances to which we 
are about to allude. There are certain young 
ladies of good talents, and considerable cultiva- 
tion, who have introduced, what we might be 
almost tempted to call the coquetry of religion. 
— To the friendship of men of superior reputa- 
tion for abilities and piety, frequently to young 
men ; they insinuate themselves, by making a 
kind of false confidence. Under the humble 
guise of soliciting instruction, and obtaining 
comfort, they propose to thern doubts which they 
do not entertain, disclose difficulties which do 
not really distress them, ask advice which they 
probably do not intend to follow, and avow sensi- 
bilities with which they are not at all troubled. 

This, it is to be apprehended, is a kind of pi- 
ous fraud, a little stratagem to be thought better 
than they are, by the lowly affectation of appear- 
ing to be worse. They ask for consolation which 
they do not need, for they are really not unhap- 
py ; but it is gratifying 1 to engage attention, and 
to excite interest. These fanciful afflictions, 
these speculative discontents, after having, to 
the sympathising friend, appeared to be removed, 
are poured, with an air equally contrite, and a 
mind equally at ease, into the ear of the next 
pious, and polite listener ; though the penitent 
had gone away from the first confessor more than 
absolved, the mourner more than comforted. 

This confidential opening of the mind, this 
warm pouring forth of the soul, might be per- 
fectly right and proper, were the communica- 
tion confined to one spiritual director. For, 
here the axiom is reversed ; here, in the multi- 
tude of counsellors, there is not safety but dan- 
ger. If the perplexity be real, if the distress 
sincere, why not confide it to the bosom of some 
experienced female friend, or some able, and 
aged divine ? There all would be right and 
safe ; there confession would bring relief, if re- 
lief and not admiration be wanted ; and where 
the feeling of contrition is genuine, admiration 
will not be sought. 

If the young persons in view were not really 
estimable, we should not have taken the liberty 
to guard them against this temptation to vanity 
and egotism. To vanity, because they go away 
not only with comfort, but exultation. To ego- 
ism, because they go away with an increased 
tendency to make self their subject. 

A celebrated court* maxim-monger, who was 
deeply read in human nature, though he did not 
derive his knowledge from the best sources, nor 

* Le Due de la Rochefoucault. 



always turn it to the best account, has however 
given a sound caution, from which communi- 
cative young persons might glean a lessen . 
Never talk of yourself, neither of your good, 
nor your bad qualities.' 

It is true the Christian will know the above 
admonition to be carried too far. He who con- 
siders that the soul is liable to diseases as well 
as the body, will allow the necessity for a spi- 
ritual as well as bodily physician. Now if a 
patient must, in order to obtain relief, tell his 
case to a practitioner for the body, is it to be 
forbidden that the languishing and dejected soul 
should lean for advice on a moral counsellor, 
' An interpreter, one of a thousand ?' But if the 
graces of the person or manner, or the hope of 
attracting undue attention, added nothing to the 
skill or worth of the adviser in one case, let us 
take care they do not influence our choice of the 
confident in the other. 

The writer has been induced to hint at the 
abuse of this practice, from actual instances, in 
which unsound confidence, and a piety too arti- 
ficial, by exciting kindness and awakening sym- 
pathy, have led to ill-assorted connexions, formed 
on a misconception of the real state of mind of 
the confessing party. 

These remarks are by no means intended to 
apply to that Christian communion at once so 
profitable and so delightful. When the intention 
is simple, the heart sincere, the motive pure, 
and the parties suitable, such intercourse can- 
not but be warmly recommended. The advan- 
tage is reciprocal. The doubting and distressed 
spirit receives the counsel and the consolation 
it seeks ; while the pious counsellor gains a 
deeper knowledge of the human mind in its va- 
rieties, by the communication of the wants, the 
difficulties, and the sense of sin in the contrite 
heart. In other religious intercourse, where 
there is a nearer approach of character, the heart 
is warmed by the expansion, and improved by 
the interchange of pious sentiments. The pro- 
phet even annexes to it a reward : ' They that 
feared the Lord spake often one to another ; and 
the Lord hearkened and heard it, and a book of 
remembrance was written before Him for them 
that feared the Lord, and that thought upon His 
name.' 



Unprofitable Reading. 

We have already ventured to allude to the 
"disproportionate quantity of human life which is 
squandered in the ever multiplying haunts of 
public dissipation : but as this is an evil too no- 
torious to require any fresh animadversion, we 
shall not stop to insist on the excess to which it 
is carried, but shall advert to another, which, if 
less ostensible, is scarcely less mischievous — we 
allude to the increased and increasing prevalence 
of idle reading. 

For whether a large proportion of our proba. 
tionary being — time that precious talent assign 
ed us for providing for the treasures of eternity, 
be consumed in unprofitable reading at home, 
or in frivolous diversions abroad, the effect on 
the state of the mind is not very dissimilar. 



472 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



The difference between private excess and pub- 
lic intoxication, is not very material as to its 
effects on the individual ; the chief difference 
lies in the example and the expenses; for the 
mind is nearly as much unfitted for sober duties 
by the one, as by the other. 

It is the same principle which influences the 
inveterate novel reader, and the never wearied 
pursuer of public dissipation : only its operation 
is different in different tempers. The active 
and lively trifler seeks to lose reflection in the 
bustling crowd ; while the more indolent alien- 
ates her mind from what is right, without any 
exertion of the body. In one it is the imagina- 
tion which is acted upon ; in the other, the 
senses. In one sense, indeed, the domestic idle- 
ness is the worst ; because it wraps itself up in 
its own comparative merit, and complacently 
reposes on its superior sobriety ; for, if the spi- 
rits are more agitated in the one case, in the 
other they sink into a more perilous indolence. 
The scenes acted over by the imagination in 
private, have also a superiority in mischief over 
those of actual, busy gayety in others, as being 
more likely to be retained and repeated. In- 
etances, however, are not rare, in which a 
thorough manager contrives to make both meet. 
In this union the injury is doubled. 

But it will be urged by the too ready advo- 
cates, that all these books are not wicked. It 
is readily granted. Many works of fiction may 
be read with safety, some even with profit ; but 
the constant familiarity even with such as are 
not exceptionable in themselves, relaxes the 
mind that wants hardening, dissolves the heart 
which wants fortifying, stirs the imagination 
which wants quieting, irritates the passions 
which want calming, and, above all, disinclines 
and disqualifies for active virtues, and for spi- 
ritual exercises. The habitual indulgence in such 
reading is a silent, mining mischief. Though 
there is no act, and no moment, in which any 
open assault on the mind, is made, as in the in- 
stances previously noticed, yet the constant ha- 
bit performs the work of a mental atrophy ; it 
produces all the symptoms of decay, and the 
danger is not less for being more gradual, and, 
therefore, less suspected. 

The general manners are becoming more and 
more relaxed. Even the old restraints, which 
had a regard to appearances, were not without 
their use. The writer remembers to have heard 
Dr. Johnson reprove a young lady in severe 
terms, for quoting a sentiment from Tom Jones 
— a book, he said, which, if a modest lady had 
done so improper a thing as to read, 3he should 
not do so immodest a thing as to avow. 

Many instances might be adducsd to prove, 
that the age is gradually grown less scrupulous. 
We will give only one. Another young lady, 
independent and rich, about the same time was 
tempted to send for Rousseau's Heloise. A very 
little progress in the work convinced her, that 
it was neither safe for her to read, nor, having 
read it, could she either modestly confess it, or 
conscientiously deny the perusal, if questioned. 
Her virtue conquered her curiosity ; she sent 
away, unread, a book which may now be seen 
lying open on the tables of many who would be 
shocked at the slightest imputation on the deli- 



cacy of their minds, or the scrupulousness of 
their morals. 

But to limit the evil of idle reading to the 
single article of time : It is, perhaps, not too 
much to assert, that if the hours spent by the 
higher and middle classes in this profitless pe 
rusal could be counted, they would, probably, 
far exceed in number those spent by the gay in 
more ostensible and public dissipation. Nay 
we are almost tempted to say, that if, to the ac- 
count of time dissipated by the latter, were added 
the hours spent by both classes in acts of devo- 
tion and serious reading, perhaps the total ag- 
gregate would be exceeded in number by the 
hours thrown away in the retirement of idle 
readers. 

We are the more earnest on this subject, from 
being in possession of some facts which evince 
beyond any persuasions, which confirm beyond 
any arguments, the perils which we may be 
thought too warm in deprecating. Among the 
overflowing number of fictitious writings, not a 
few are there in the English, and still more and 
worse in the French and German schools, in 
which the intrigue between the already married 
hero and heroine is opened by means so appa- 
rently innocent, and conducted so gradually, 
and with so much plausibility, as, for a time, to 
escape detection. Vicious scenes are artfully 
kept out of sight, while virtuous principles are 
silently, but systematically undermined, till the 
imagination, that notorious corrupter of the 
heart, has had time to prepare the work of de- 
struction. Such fascinating qualities are lavish- 
ed on the seducer, and such attractive graces on 
the seduced, that the images indulged with de- 
light by the fancy, carry on the reader imper- 
ceptibly to a point which is not so far from their 
indulgence in the act as some imagine. Such 
soothing apologies for an amiable weakness, that 
is, in plain English, for the breach of the seventh 
Commandment, are made by the writer, that the 
reader beginsto think her judgment is convinced, 
as well as her inclination gratified ; and the pol- 
luted mind, brought into the state, of all others, 
the least willing, and the least able, to resist 
practical crime, is ready to exclaim, with the 
satyrist of political vices, 

That not to be corrupt is the shame. 

Thus the violation of as awful a prohibition 
as any in the decalogue, is softened down into a 
pardonable weakness. The stabbing the peace 
and honour of the husband, and the barbarous 
desertion of the innocent babes, or the still deep- 
er wound given to the grown up daughters, is 
reduced to a venial fault, for which the irresisti- 
bleness of the temptation is shamelessly, but too 
successfully pleaded. 

In tracing the effect, almost exclusively, of 
the unrestrained indulgence in these soothing 
pictures of varnished corruption, we could, were 
it prudent, produce actual instances of this 
breach of solemn vows, this total abandonment 
of all the proprieties, and all the duties of life ; 
and it is too probable, that, besides the known 
instances to which allusion is here made, others 
might be adduced as having imbibed from the 
same sources the rudiments of moral misery, 
which has alarmingly swelled the recent list o»' 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



473 



divorces, and thus render it more than probable, 
that the circulating library is no unfrequent road 
to Doctor's Commons. 

There are distinctions and gradations main- 
tained by the squanderers of time in their seve- 
ral ways, of which the well employed do not 
perceive the difference. Many who would turn 
with contempt from the card-table, think little 
of giving days and nights to these pernicious, 
or, at best, unimproving fictions — an exchange 
without being an improvement ; for the volumes 
do not, like the cards, confine the mischief to 
the time they are in the hands, but, as we have 
observed, often leave impressions behind them 
when the others are forgotten. 

How gladly should we limit these observa- 
tions to persons whose time is turned to little 
account, and spent with little scruple, in any 
amusement which is not obviously corrupt ! But 
it is with real reluctance we take the liberty to 
animadvert on the same error, though not car- 
ried to the same excess, in persons of a higher 
strain of character, persons of correct manners 
and considerable attainments. Do not many 
such tolerate in their families abundance of 
reading which, to say the least, is not improving, 
and of which, frequently, this would be too gen- 
tle a censure ? Even where the books contain 
little that is coarse or corrupt, still it must be 
repeated, the prodigious quantity of life they 
consume must exceedingly deduct from that 
which would otherwise be allotted to more whole- 
some studies. 

And this is not all. — We hear passages, not 
the most pure in point of delicacy, and quite un- 
equivocal in point of impiety, repeated with en- 
thusiasm by young ladies, from the works of a 
noble, but profligate and infidel poet : a poet 
rich in abused genius, and abounding in talents, 
ungratefully employed to dishonour Him who 
gave them. — But from the same fair lips, we 
hear little of Milton and of Spencer, of Cowper 
and of Young, of Thomson and of Goldsmith, 
of Gray and of Beattie, names once dear to every 
lover of enchanting song. Nor need we look 
back exclusively to departed genius, for the in- 
nocent and refreshing delights of poetry. — The 
muses have living votaries, who pour forth 
strains at once original, mellifluous, and chaste. 

What shall we presume to say to sober-mind- 
ed parents, even to grave clergymen, who not 
only do not prohibit the authors of the school 
in question ; who not only do not restrain their 
daughters from being students in it, but who 
not unfrequently introduce, as part of the family 
reading, poetry, which if it contain not the 
gross expressions, and vulgar wickedness of the 
wits of Charles's days, is little less profane in 
principle, or corrupt in sentiment ? There is 
some knowledge which it is a praise not to 
know ; and the vice in this case being some- 
what ' refined through certain strainers,' fur- 
nishes at once a temptation and an apology. 

It may be urged, in vindication of this remiss- 
ness, that as soon as young persons get out of 
their parents' hands, they will naturally choose 
their books for themselves. This is granted. — 
But is not every year which prolongs their pre- 
vious innocence, a year gained ? May not, with- 
in that period, the nascent libertinism be check- 
Vjol. 11. 



ed, the ardent imagination fixed to other pur 
suits, the sentiment of virtue kindled, the taste 
for purity confirmed, and the habit and love of 
prayer established ? And, above all, is it not a 
pity that they should be able hereafter to plead 
as an apology for their intimacy with such 
books, that they were introduced to them by a 
fond and careful parent? 

May we not take the liberty to ask of worthy, 
but, in this instance, injudicious parents, is this 
practice quite consistent with the command 
given to fathers, even under a darker dispensa- 
tion that they should not limit the improvement 
of their children to any set hours, but that they 
should 'teach them diligently, sitting in the 
house, and walking by the way, rising up, and 
lying down ?' 



The Borderers. 

Religion, and the world, used formerly to be 
considered as two different regions, situated 
separate and apart from each other. — They sel- 
dom maintained much unnecessary intercourse. 
One party shuddered at the strictness and se- 
verity of the other ; which, in its turn, kept 
aloof from a communication which it feared 
might contaminate its own purity. 

Between them lay a kind of neutral ground, 
which, though it divided them, was however, 
occasionally passed during any short interval 
of peace, for offices of necessity, of business, or 
of kindness ; offices which, nevertheless, produc- 
ed at no time entire reconciliation. 

This neutral territory has been lately seized 
upon and occupied by a third party, a civil, 
obliging, and accommodating people, who are 
so perfectly well-bred, as to be desirous of keep- 
ing well with their neighbours on both sides the 
boundary. They are invited to intimacy by 
the gratifications held out by the one, and the 
reputation conferred by the other ; present in- 
dulgence tempts on the left, future hope on the 
right. The present good, however, is generally 
too powerful a competitor for the future. They 
not only struggle to maintain their own interest 
in both countries, but are kindly desirous of ac- 
commodating all differences between the belli- 
gerent powers. Their situation, as borderers, 
gives them great local advantages on both sides. 
Though they keep on the same good terms with 
both, they have the useful and engaging talent, 
of seeming to belong exclusively to that party 
in which they happen to find themselves. 

Their chief difficulty arises when they hap- 
pen to meet the inhabitants of both territories 
together ; yet so ingenious are they in the art 
of trimming, that they contrive not to lose much 
ground with either. 

When alone with one party, they take care 
never to speak warmly of the absent. With 
the worldly they smile, and perhaps good-natur- 
edly shake their head at some little scruples, 
and some excess of strictness in the absent 
party, though they do not go the length of actual 
censure. 

When with the religious colony, they tenderly 
lament the necessity imposed on them of being 



474 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



obliged to associate so much with neighbours 
from whom, they confess, there is not much to 
be learned, while they own there is something 
to be feared ; but, as they are quite sure their 
inclination is not of the party, they trust there 
is no great danger. — They regret, that as they 
must live on terms with the world, they cannot, 
without a -singularity to which ridicule would 
attach, avoid adopting some of their manners 
and customs. Thus they think it prudent to 
indulge in the same habits of luxury and ex- 
pense ; to conform to many of the same prac- 
tices, doubtful at the best; and to attend on 
some places of diversion, for which, indeed, they 
profess to feel no great relish, and which, for 
the sake of propriety, are rather submitted to 
than enjoyed ! ' One would not be particular, 
one does no good by singularity.' 

By an invariable discretion, they thus gain 
the confidence and regard of both parties. The 
old settlers on the fashionable side are afraid of 
losing them, by opposition to their occasionally 
joining their enemies; while the religious colo- 
nies are desirous of retaining them, and render- 
ing them service by courtesy and kindness, still 
charitably hoping their intentions are right, and 
their compliances reluctant. Thus their borders 
are every day extending, and their population 
increasing. As they can speak, as occasion re- 
quires, the language of both countries, they have 
the advantage of appearing to be always at home 
with each, who never suspect that the same fa- 
cility in the dialect of the other, equally secures 
their popularity there. 

In one respect, they carefully comply with 
the Apostle's injunction, applying to it, however, 
a meaning of their own, ' They let their mode- 
ration be known unto all men.' — They scrupu- 
lously avoid extremes. They keep a kind of 
debtor and creditor account with religion and 
the world, punctually paying themselves for 
some practice they renounce, by adopting some 
other which is a shade or two lighter : between 
these shades they discriminate nicely ; and the 
pride they feel in what they have given up, is 
more sincere than the gratification at what they 
retain. 

Thus, though hovering on the borders of both 
countries, they do not penetrate into the depths 
of either. The latitude they happen to be cast 
in varies according to circumstances. An awak- 
ening sermon will drive them, for a time, be- 
yond the usual geographical degree; an amus- 
ing novel, or a new Canto of Childe Harold, 
will seduce them to retreat. Their intentions 
however, they flatter themselves, are generally 
on the right side, while their movements are too 
frequently on the other. 

But though their language can accommodate 
itself to both parties, their personal appearance 
is entirely under the direction of one of then*. 
In their external decorations, they are not be- 
hind the foremost of their fashionable friends ; 
and truth obliges us reluctantly to confess, that 
their dress is as little confined within the bounds 
of strict delicacy, as that of women the rest of 
whose conduct is more exceptionable. The con- 
sequence is not unnatural ; for to those who 
must do like other people, it is also necessary to 
look like other people. It does, however, seem 



a little incongruous to hear the language of one 
of the countries spoken, even with a strong ac- 
cent, by ladies in the full costume of the other. 

These borderers are frequently disposed to be 
benevolent, partly from a warm temperament, 
partly from a conviction that charity is a duty. 
They profess to give whatever they can spare, 
but of that proportion they allow vanity, and not 
piety, to be the arbiter. If personal ornament, 
if habits of luxury, did not swallow up their 
money, charity would have it. Charity is the 
next best thing to self-gratification. 

Should they continue their present course, 
and their numbers increase, or, as is commonly 
the case, should continual motion accelerate pro- 
gress, the land-marks of separation between 
the several countries will insensibly be lost, and 
it will be difficult to divine the exact limitations 
of the invading neighbours. 

It has frequently been regretted that an ami- 
cable accommodation between the adverse par 
ties could not be accomplished by the inter- 
ference of this intermediate region. But when- 
ever it has been attempted, it has not always 
been successful. The coalition, it has been 
found, could not readily be brought about. Pre- 
judices on the one part, and rigorous demands 
on the other, have hitherto perpetuated the sepa- 
ration. 

Terms of peace, indeed, cannot easily be made 
where one side expects so many sacrifices, and 
where the other has so much that must be part- 
ed with. The worldly territory having, beyond 
all comparison, the larger population, is of 
course the stronger, and therefore most likely to 
hold out. 

But though no actual flag of truce has yet 
been sent out for a general peace, yet alliances 
are frequently contracted between individuals 
of the hostile countries, but on very unequal 
terms ; for it unfortunately happens that the 
party from the more correct side, ' who come 
out to visit the daughters of the land,' have been 
seduced by the cheerful music, splendid ban- 
ners, and gay attractions of the other ; and have 
been prevailed upon to settle in the enemy's 
camp. To them it more frequently happens that 
they gradually forget all they learnt in their 
father's house, and insensibly adopt the manners 
of the strange country, than that they bring over 
the other party to their side. It may, therefore, 
perhaps be safer not to contract these unholy 
alliances till there is a conquest obtained by the 
small territory over the great one ; an event 
which, if we may judge by the present state of 
the parties, seems at a very considerable dis- 
tance. 

But enough, and perhaps the scrupulous 
Christian will say too much, of this light man- 
ner of treating a serious subject. We acknow- 
ledge the charge ; we bow to the correction : 
confessing that we scarcely knew how to ap- 
proach this important and interesting class of 
persons, without the thin veil of something be- 
tween fiction and fact, between allegory and 
true history. We felt an almost sinful reluc- 
tance to say any thing which might seem re- 
volting to those pleasing characters who have 
shown some disposition to religion, who love its 
disciples, without having courage to imitate 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



475 



them. — But real concern for their best interests 
will not allow those who assume to advocate the 
cause of Christianity, to conceal the distance at 
which they at present appear to stand from its 
constraining power, and from its practical con- 
sequences. 

Perhaps your creed is not very erroneous. 
Probably the rectitude of your religious friends, 
whose doctrines are sound, and the indifference 
of your fashionable friends, who 'care for none 
of these things, 1 have preserved you pretty clear 
from errors of opinion. Whilst the occasional 
society of the pious has kept your sentiments in 
order, the amusements of the worldly have in- 
demnified you for the severities of the other 
quarter. But opinions do little till they are 
ripened into principles. It is reputable to say 
with one party, 'strait is the gait and narrow 
is the way ;' but the company of the other lets 
you see that it is not so easy to enter in at that 
gate, and to walk in that way, as you had flat- 
tered yourself you should have found it. 

To you the world is by far the most formi- 
dable foe of the triple alliance, of the three con- 
federated enemies, which the Scripture tells us 
war against the soul. We have presumed that 
opinions may not be very erroneous, but there 
are moral as well as speculative heresies, of 
which worldliness is the originating principle, 
and in which it is the practical operator. The 
world is the grand heresiarch. There are 
many more who ' love the world, and the things 
of the world,' than who care whether doctrines 
are true or false. While they themselves are 
let alone to follow their own devices ; while they 
are left undisturbed to their own pursuits ; you 
may propound, or controvert, or adopt any opin- 
ion, sound or heretical, with equally little dan- 
ger, or equally little benefit to them. 

To the devotee of pleasure there is something 
harsh and repulsive in doctrines and dogmas ; 
to take part with them would be going out of 
the way : while to those who can contrive to 
make right opinions live on friendly terms with 
wrong practices, it would be a gratuitous folly 
to add to the faults of conduct the errors of 
speculation. 

In this affectionate remonstrance, we allude 
not to what might be called palpable and tangi- 
ble offences; these the decorums of their condi- 
tion set them above any temptation to commit. 
We speak not of any disbelief or contempt of 
religion ; these are not the immediate perils of 
their position : it is not infidelity but indifference 
— a disinclination to Christianity, not as opposed 
to unbelief, but as it contradicts the maxims, 
the manners, the habits of their associates. — 
Their danger consists in a supreme attachment 
to present objects, and a neglect of such as are 
future ; it consists in preferring the pleasures 
and the interests of the world to the service of 
Him who made it. They are governed by other 
principles than those of that gospel which has 
proclaimed that ' the friendship of the world is 
enmity against God.' They are influenced by 
its opinions, misled by its example, enslaved by 
its amusements ; they fear lest any deviation 
from its prescribed code should bring their good 
sense and good taste in question ; lest withdraw- 
iag from its practices should bring on them the 



imputation of narrowness or enthusiasm. * In 
short, they go with ' the multitude that keep 
holiday,' not, indeed, in the Scriptural sense, 
but in direct conformity to the vulgar accepta- 
tion of that term. 

Worldly allurements find in the unrenewed 
heart a willingness to meet them, a disposi- 
tion accommodated to them by temperament, 
a readiness to pursue them, increased by habit. 
The natural heart is already on the world's side, 
Before the world has time to begin its attack, 
the citadel is disposed to yield- Before the as- 
sault is made, there is a mutual good under- 
standing, a silent connivance between the be- 
siegers and the besieged. As soon as the 
trenches are opened, the disposition to parley 
and to submit is nearly the same act. 

You appeared, however, to take the first step 
in what is right, by occasionally joining reli- 
gious society, and by the pleasure you expressed 
in it. By that introduction you seemed not un- 
desirous of ranging yourself partly on that side. 
Having broken through that first obstruction, it 
was hoped that every subsequent step would 
have become less irksome. 

That religion has its difficulties, we do not 
pretend to deny ; but with a hearty concurrence 
of the will, nurtured by cordial prayer, strength- 
ened by a full reliance on the Saviour, and sus- 
tained by the aid of His Spirit, which is offered 
you, the difficulties will daily diminish. Rest 
not, then, in that low state of religion which i9 
satisfied with the hope of escaping punishment ; 
calculate not how small a measure may suffice to 
effect that escape. Search not out for an imagi- 
nary intermediate state between the children 
of wrath and the children of God. Rest not till 
you have attained that entire consecration of 
lieart, whose object, aim, and end, is eternal life. 
Forget not that they who run in a race, though 
they may come closer to the goal, yet, if they 
come short of it, fail of the prize as completely 
as those competitors whose distance is greater : 
and, if we come short of heaven, whether we 
lose it by more or fewer steps, the failure is 
equally decisive, the loss equally irreparable. 

Those worldly persons with whom you asso- 
ciate are intrenched on every side by numbers ; 
they therefore act as if they thought that the 
evil, supposing it to be evil, which is shared 
among so many, cannot be injurious to the in- 
dividual ; forgetting that every man must bear 
his own burden, and suffer for his own sin ; for, 
though multitudes may give countenance to 
your errors here, they will not answer for you 
hereafter. 

Do not follow those who have no settled course 
of their own — who are hurried to and fro by 
every breath of custom — whom fashion leadetli 
withersoever it listeth. The persons against 
whom we would guard you, though confident, 
are not without their fears ; but it is worth ob- 
serving, that their fears seldom lie on the same 
side with their dangers. They fear not great 
practical errors; these they soften down and 
treat with complacency ; these are tenderly 
mentioned as the infirmities of nature — weak- 
nesses to which we are all liable. Almost every 
excess in personal gratification is thus kindly 
palliated : ' Why did God give us both the dis 



476 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



position and the means to indulge it, if indul- 
gence were a sin ?' There is but one excess 
they guard against — an excess, indeed, of which 
they are in little danger, — we mean a high de- 
gree of religion ; for surely excess is little to be 
feared, where the thing has not yet even been 
entered upon ! 

Be assured, that whatever serves to keep the 
heart from God, is one and the same spirit of 
irreligion, whether it appear in the shape of 
coarse vice, or whether it is softened by the 
smoothness of decorum, and the blandishments 
of polished life. We are far from comparing 
them together, as if they were equally injurious 
to society, or equally offensive to decency ; but 
we must compare them together as equally 
drawing away the heart from the worship and 
the love of God. Courteousness, which is un- 
accompanied by principle, will stand the most 
courteous in no stead, with Him who is a dis- 
cerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart. 

Some of these well-bred persons, who exercise 
this large and liberal candour towards practical 
offences, and treat with tenderness certain vices, 
not thought disreputable by the world, and who 
even put a favourable construction on things 
very unjustifiable in the sight of God, lose all 
their kindness, put no favourable interpretation, 
when sound religion is in question. They are, 
indeed, too discreet to reprobate it under its 
own proper name, but the ready appellation of 
enthusiasm presents itself — is always at hand to 
vindicate the hastiest judgment, and the most 
contemptuous construction. 

But though we think far better things of you, 
whom we are addressing, yet may you not, in 
this society, be tempted to disavow, or, at least, 
to conceal, even the measure of piety you ac- 
tuallj' have, for fear of exciting that dreaded 
suspicion, of 'being righteous over much?' 
May not this fear, strengthened by this society, 
keep you back till your pious tendencies, by 
being suppressed, may gradually come to be ex- 
tinguished ? 

We are ready to acknowledge, and to love, 
all that is amiable in you : but we must not for- 
get, that the fairest and most brilliant creature, 
the most engaging manners, and the most ac- 
complished mind, stands in the same need of 
repentance, forsaking of sin, redemption by the 
Son of God, and renovation by His Spirit, as the 
least attractive. The more engaging the man- 
ners, and the more interesting the acquirements, 
the more is it to be lamented, that those very 
attractions, by your complacency in them, may 
have stood between you and heaven, — may, by 
your resting in them, have been the cause of 
your not pressing towards the mark for the 
prize of your high calling of God in Christ Jesus. 

Bear then in mind, that you may be pleasing 
to others, while you have an unsanctified heart; 
that politeness, though it may put on the ap- 
pearance of humility, is but a poor imitation of 
that prime grace ; that good breeding, though 
the beautiful decoration of a pious mind, is but 
a wretched substitute for the want of it. 

Be assured, however, at the same time, that 
true religion will in no wise diminish your na- 
tural or acquired graces ; so far from it, those 
graces will be more estimable; they will be 



,even more admired, when they are known no 
to be the best things you have. When you set 
less value on them yourself, they will be more 
pleasing to others ; who, though they will not 
estimate them above their worth, will not depre- 
ciate them below it. 

We are persuaded that you are too reasonable 
to expect that Christianity will change its 
character, or lower its requirements, or make 
the strait gate wider, or the narrow way broader, 
or hold out false colours, in order to induce you 
to embrace it. It is not that easy and super- 
ficial thing which some suppose, as requiring 
little more than a ceremonious attendance on 
its forms, and a freedom from the gross viola- 
tion of its commands. This may be nominal, 
but it is not saving Christianity. It is not that 
spiritual, yet practical religion, for which the 
Son of God endured the cross, that He might 
establish it in the hearts of His followers, — 
which He is pleading with His Heavenly Fa- 
ther, to establish in your heart. He did not 
suffer that His children might be excused from 
self-denial ; nor that, because He was holy, they 
might be negligent. He suffered, that ' the wo- 
men that are at ease might rise up; that the 
careless daughters might hear His voice, and 
give ear unto His word.' 

If you are disposed to think that what you 
must give up is great, compare it with what you 
will gain, and you will be ashamed of your 
miscalculation; you will think the sacrifice aa 
small as the objects sacrificed were worthless ; 
for Christianity, though a self-denying princi- 
ple, yet denies you nothing which, even now, 
adds to your real happiness. It only disen- 
chants you from an illusion, and gives you sub- 
stantial peace in exchange. It will rob you of 
nothing which good sense and sound reason do 
not condemn, as well as the New Testament. 

Perhaps you have just religion enough to 
render you occasionally uneasy. The struggle 
between the claims of the world and your casual 
convictions, is far from being a happy state. 
The flattery which delights, misleads ; the di- 
versions which amuse, will not console : the 
prospect which promises, disappoints. Continue 
not, then, ' working in the fire for very vanity.' 
Labour not to reconcile two interests, which, 
spite of your endeavours, will ever remain irre- 
concileable. 

A life governed by Christianity differs in 
every thing from the worldly system. It is free 
from the turbulence and the agitation of its pur- 
suits : it has none of the anxieties and jealousies 
of its competitions; consequently none of the 
lassitude and the vexation of its disappointing 
results. The further you proceed in its paths 
of pleasantness, the pleasanter they become. 
Its difficulties diminish, its delights increase. 
It has pleasures of its own, higher and better; 
satisfactions which depend not on human admi- 
ration, but on His favour, whom to know is 
eternal life. 

Continue not, then, to live as if the great end 
for which you were sent into the world, was 
already accomplished. Continue not to act as 
if you thought you had done all for which God 
gave you an intelligent mind, reasoning facul- 
ties, aspiring thoughts, capacities for endless 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



477 j 



happiness. Let not those powers which were 
meant to fit you not only for the society of an- 
gels, but for the vision of God, bo any longer 
wasted on objects the most frivolous ; on things 
which, at best, must end when this world ends. 
Oh ! renounce pursuits, some of them below a 



rational, unsuited to an accountable, and alto- 
gether unworthy of a never-ending being ! Re- 
nounce them for objects more becoming a can- 
didate for an inheritance among the saints in 
light, better adapted to an immaterial, immor- 
tal spirit, and commensurate with eternity. 



REFLECTIONS ON PRAYER, 

AND ON THE ERRORS WHICH MAY PREVENT ITS EFFICACY. 



On the Corruption of Human Nature. 

The most original French writer of our own 
time, but who employed his powerful talents to 
the most pernicious purposes, abruptly begins 
his once popular work on education with this 
undeniable truth, — ' All is good as it comes out 
of the hands of God, all is corrupted in the hands 
of man.' 

In his first position, this sceptic bears a just 
testimony to the goodness of his Creator ; but 
the second clause, his subsequent application of 
it, though also a truth, is not the whole truth. 
He ascribes all the evils of man to the errors of 
his education. 

Now, though it cannot be denied that many 
of his faults are owing to a defect in education, 
yet his prime evil lies deeper, is radical, and 
must be traced to a more remote and definite 
cause. 

Had the writer been as enlightened as he was 
ingenious, he would have seen that the principle 
of evil was antecedent to his education ; that it 
is to be found in the inborn corruption of the 
human heart. If then, from an infidel, we are 
willing to borrow an avowal of the goodness of 
God in the creation of man, we must look to 
higher authorities to account for his degeneracy, 
even to the 6acred oracles of God himself. 

The subject of man's apostacy is so nearly 
connected with the subject of Prayer, being in- 
deed that which constitutes the necessity of this 
duty, that some mention of the one ought to pre- 
cede any discussion of the other. Let, then, the 
conviction, that we are fallen from our original 
state, and that this lapse furnishes the most 
powerful incentive to prayer, furnish an apolo- 
gy for making a few preliminary remarks on 
this doctrine. 

The doctrine is not the less a fundamental 
doctrine, because it has been abused to the worst 
purposes : some having considered it as leaving 
us without hope, and others, as lending an ex- 
cuse to unresisted sin. It is a doctrine which 
meets us in one unbroken series throughout the 
whole sacred volume ; we find it from the third 
of Genesis, which records the event of man's 
apostacy, carried on through the history of its 
fatal consequences in all the subsequent in- 
stances of sin, individual and national, and run- 
ning in one continued stream from the first sad 
tale of woe, to the close of the sacred canon in 
the Apocalyptic Vision. 

And, to remove the groundless hope, that this 
quality of inherent corruption belonged only to 



the profligate and abandoned, the Divine In- 
spirer of the sacred writers took especial care, 
that they should not confine themselves to re- 
late the sins of these alone. 

VVhy are the errors, the weaknesses, and even 
the crimes of the best men recorded with equal 
fidelity ? Why are we told of the twice repeat- 
ed deceit of the father of the faithful ? Why of 
the single instance of vanity in Hezekiah ? VVhy 
of the too impetuous zeal of Elijah ? Why of 
the error of the almost perfect Moses ? Why of 
the insincerity of Jacob ? Why of the far darker 
crimes of the otherwise holy David ? Why of 
the departure of the wisest of men from that pie- 
ty, displayed with sublimity unparalleled in the 
dedication of the Temple ? Why seems it to 
have been invariably studied to record with more 
minute detail the vices and errors of these emi- 
nent men, than even those of the successive im- 
pious kings of Israel and of Judah ; while these 
last are generally dismissed with the brief, but 
melancholy sentence, that they did that which 
was evil in the sight of the Lord ; followed only 
by too frequent an intimation, that they made 
way for a successor worse than themselves ? 
The answer is, that the truth of our universal 
lapse could only be proved by transmitting the 
record of those vices, from which even the holies* 
men were not exempt. 

And as these affecting details unanswerab.y 
establish the truth of the doctrine, so they are 
not recorded for barren doctrinal information 
They are recorded to furnish Christians of 
every age with a salutary caution, with awful 
warning. 

Surely the best man among us will hardly 
venture to say, that he is more holy than Abra- 
ham, Moses, David, or Peter. If, then, these 
saints exhibited such evidences of not having 
escaped the universal infection, will not every 
reflecting child of mortality yield to the convic- 
tion, that this doctrine is as true as the history 
which has recorded it ? Will he not proceed 
further to say, ' How then shall I be high-mind- 
ed ! How shall I not fear ? How shall I deny 
the cause of the evil tendencies of my own heart, 
the sins of my own life, the thoughts of foolish- 
ness, and the actings of iniquity within myself?' 
And will not such serious enquiry, by God's 
grace, acting on the study of the characters of 
these highly eminent, but not perfect worthies 
of old times, patriarchs, prophets, and saints, lead 
the enquirer, through the redemption, wrought 
for all, and faith in the operation of the blessed 
Spirit, to that effectual repentance and fervent 



478 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



prayer, to which, in this same Divine history, 
such gracious promises are made ? 

Had the Holy Scriptures kept back from man 
the faithful delineations of the illustrious cha- 
racters to which we have referred, the truth of 
the doctrine in question, though occasionally 
felt, and in spite of his resistance forced upon 
him, would not have been believed ; or, if be- 
lieved, would not have been acknowledged. 

It is, then, one great end of the oracles of 
Divine truth, to humble man, under a sense of 
his inherent and actual corruptions. The na- 
tural man feels it repugnant to his pride to sup- 
pose this doctrine is addressed to him. 

It is very true that this all-important doctrine 
of human corruption, is, like many other truths, 
both in the natural, moral, and spiritual world, 
liable to certain speculative objections, and me- 
taphysical difficulties. — Laying hold on these, 
which, often, a child might discover, and no 
philosopher be able to answer, even upon merely 
philosophical subjects, we excuse ourselves al- 
together from studying the Divine book, and 
fearful, in secret, of the discoveries we should 
make, pretend that its Author has left truth so 
obscure, as to be impervious to human eyes ; or 
so lofty, as to be above human reach. 

But is it not making God unjust, and even 
the author of that sin which he charges on our- 
selves, to suppose that he had put truth and 
knowledge out of our reach, and then threatened 
to punish us for failing in that which he him- 
self had made impossible ? Is it probable that 
He, whose eyes you say are so pure, that he 
cannot look upon iniquity, should tolerate it, by 
tying our hands, and blinding our eyes, and 
thus abandon us to the unrestrained dominion 
of that which he hates ? 

The only real question which concerns us in 
our present imperfect and probationary state, is 
this : — Are the statements of revelation suffi- 
cient to establish this or that doctrine ? And is 
the doctrine so established, a sufficient ground 
for the duties required ? If this be answered in 
the affirmative, then to ask for fewer difficulties, 
clearer light, or stronger motives to action, is 
only to enter a vain contest with Almighty 
wisdom, and Divine supremacy. Our present 
disobedience proves that more light would only 
increase our guilt, stronger motives would only 
render us more inexcusable. We should reject 
then what we neglect now. — To refuse what we 
now have, is not for want of light, but of eyes ; 
not for want of motives, but of faith ; not for 
want of rules, but of obedience ; not for want of 
knowledge, but of will. Let us then pity those 
blind eyes which do not see, and especially those 
wilful eyes which will not see. 

The Christian revelation, as far as respects 
its professed practical purpose, is brought within 
the reach of the plainest understanding. We 
speak of the Gospel itself, and not of those me- 
taphysical perplexities with which the schools 
have endeavoured to meet metaphysical objec- 
tions ; we speak of the fundamental truths on 
which God has made salvation to depend. The 
unlettered Christian lays hold on those truths 
which the philosopher misses. The former looks 
to the Holy Spirit for his teacher, the latter to 
his own understanding. The one lives holily, 



and thus ' by doing the will of God, he comes to 
know of the doctrine whether it be of God.' 

Christianity hangs on a few plain truths ; 
' that God is, and that he is the rewarder of all 
that seek him ;' that man has apostatised from 
his original character, and by it has forfeited 
his original destination ; that Christ came into 
this world and died upon the cross to expiate 
sin, and to save sinners ; that after his ascensior. 
into Heaven, he did not leave his work imper- 
fect. He sent his Holy Spirit, who performed 
his first office by giving to the Apostles mira- 
culous powers. His offices did not cease there ; 
he has indeed withdrawn his miraculous gifts, 
but he still continues his silent but powerful 
operations, and that in their d ue order, — first, that 
of convincing of sin, and of changing the heart 
of the sinner, before he assumes the gracious 
character of the Comforter. What need, then, of 
heresies to perplex doctrines, or of philosophy to 
entangle,orof will-worshippers to multiply them? 

We do not deny that there are, in Christianity, 
high and holy mysteries; but these 'secret 
things,' though they ' belong to God,' have their 
practical uses for us; they teach us humility, 
the prime Christian grace ; and they exercise 
faith, the parent attribute of all other graces. 

This religion of facts, then, the poorest listen- 
ers in the aisles of our churches understand 
sufficiently, to be made by it wise unto salvation. 
They are saved by a practical belief of a few 
simple, but inestimable truths. 

By these same simple truths, martyrs and 
confessors, our persecuted saints, and our blessed 
reformers, were saved. By these few simple 
truths, Locke, and Boyle, and Newton, were 
saved; not because they saw their religion 
through the glass of their philosophy, but be- 
cause theirs was not ' a philosophy, falsely so 
called ;' nor their science, ' a science of opposi- 
tion ;' but a science and a philosophy which 
were made subservient to Christianity, and be- 
cause their deep humility sanctified their asto- 
nishing powers of mind. These wonderful men, 
at whose feet the learned world is still satisfied 
to sit, sat themselves at the feet of Jesus. Had 
there been any other way but the cross by which 
sinners could be saved, they perhaps, of all men 
were best qualified to have found it. 

The wise and the weak, the illiterate and the 
learned, cannot, indeed, equally discuss or ex 
pound these doctrines, but they are equally saved 
by them. In view of the simple means of sal- 
vation, talents lose their superiority, learning its 
dignity, and power its pre-eminence. While 
the sober Christian keeps on his safe, because 
prescribed course ; the wise, and the disputer 
of this world, by deserting it fall into absurdities 
which plain men escape ; they make the diffi- 
culties they do not find, and wander in the end- 
less mazes of presumptuous deviation. 

To return, then, to the particular doctrines 
under consideration : — Let us believe man i3 
corrupt, because the Bible tells us he is so. Let 
us believe that such were so by nature, even the 
best, since wo learn it from the Divine source. 
Let us from the same authority, trace the dis- 
order to its source from a fallen parent, its seat 
in a corrupted heart, its extent through the whol& 
man, its universality over the whole race. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



479 



All are willing to allow that we are subject to 
frailties, to imperfections, to infirmities ; facts 
compel us to confess a propensity to crimes, but 
worldly men confine the commission of them to 
the vulgar. But to rest here would lead us to a 
very false estimate of the doctrine in question, 
contrary to the decisive language of Scripture; 
it would establish corruption to be an accident, 
and not a root. It would, by a division of offend- 
ers into two classes, deny that all offences are 
derived from one common principle. 

Among the higher ranks there is little temp- 
tation to the commission of certain sins ; mur- 
der is rare, fraud uncommon, robbery not found, 
yet the inborn principle is the same in all. 
Circumstances, rank, education, example, repu- 
tation, give advantages to one class, which, had 
they changed places, might have led to the vices 
so common in the other ; while, had the notori- 
ous offenders against the laws and the Divine 
law-giver, changed situations with their supe- 
riors, we should then have heard only of their 
imperfections, their infirmities, their frailties. 

Temptation does not make the sin, it lies 
ready in the heart. Accident does not create 
the propensity, it only brings it into action. It 
destroys the plea of exemption from natural cor- 
ruption, but it does not put that corruption into 
the heart. It was there before, ready, without 
the grace of God, ready, without the restraint 
of religion, ready, without the bridle of an en- 
lightened conscience, to break out into any ex- 
cess. Yet there are many flagrant offences 
against God and against human laws, which the 
high-born, and the high-bred frequently commit 
with as little scruple as the lowest. The fre- 
quency of duelling, the breach of the seventh 
commandment, two offences frequently found in 
the same company, gaming, the violation of the 
Sabbath, with other enormities, would alone 
sufficiently prove the principle to exist, inde- 
pendently of rank, education, or fortune. Are 
not what, by way of distinction, we may call 
the metaphysical or spiritual sins, which are 
cherished without loss of character — is not am- 
bition, which knows no bounds— envy, which 
knows no rest — avarice which destroys all feel- 
ing — jealousy, which is its own tormentor — ill- 
temper, which is the tormentor" of others — un- 
governed anger, which is murder in its first 
seedj ; are not all these equally to be found in 
the high-born and the low-bred 1 Again, is not 
sensuality in the great, which, in the case of 
the poor, might have produced unfair means to 
indulge it — is not the love of splendour and os- 
tentation, which are thought to add dignity to 
the rich, the very principle which leads the 
necessitous to forgery, the crime for which 
so many are now suffering capital punish- 
ment? 

If then men would examine their own bosoms 
as closely, as they censure the faults of others 
loudly, we should all find there the incipient 
stirrings of many a sin, which, when brought 
into action, by the temptations of poverty, of ig- 
norance, of unresisted passion, produce conse- 
quences the most appalling. Let us then bless 
God, not that we are better than other men, but 
that we are placed by Providence out of the 
reach of being goaded by that temptation, stimu- 



lated by that poverty, which, had they been our 
lot, might have led to the same termination. 

Let then the fear of God, the knowledge of 
his word, and tho knowledge of ourselves, teach 
us that there is not, by nature, so wide a differ- 
ence between ourselves and the men we abhor 
as we fondly fancy ; that there is not, by nature, 
a great gulf fixed, that they who are on this 
side might not have passed over to the other. 
Let us not look to any superior virtue, to any 
native strength of our own, but let us look with 
a lively gratitude to that mercy of God which 
has preserved us from such temptations; to his 
unmerited goodness, which has placed us in 
circumstances that have put us above necessity 
— ' the devil's plea.' But, above all, let us look 
to that preventing and restraining grace which 
is withheld from none who ask it, and we shall 
not be so very forward to say, contemptuously, 
to the worst of our fellow-creatures, ' stand by, 
I am holier than thou.' A thorough belief in 
this doctrine would lead us to pray more fer- 
vently to be delivered in ' all time of our wealth, 
as in all time of our tribulation.' 

It is not enough that God has revealed the 
way of salvation, he must also incline us to ac- 
cept it. It is this gift, and this acceptance, 
which makes the distinction between the best 
men and the worst. Without this all-powerful 
grace, Latimer might have led Bonner to the 
stake ; with it, Bonner might have ascended the 
scaffold a martyr to true religion. Without this 
grace, Luther might have fattened on the sale 
of indulgences ; and with it, Leo the Tenth 
might have accomplished the blessed work of 
the reformation. 



False Notions of the Dignity of Man, shown from 
his Helplessness and Dependance. 

Man is not only a sinful, he is also a helpless, 
and therefore a dependant being. This offers 
new and powerful motives for the necessity of 
prayer, the necessity of looking continually to a 
higher power, to a better strength than our own. 
If that Power sustain us not, we fall ; if He di- 
rect us not, we wander. His guidance is not 
only perfect freedom, but perfect safety. Our 
greatest danger begins from the moment we 
imagine we are able lo go alone. 

The self-sufficiency of a man, arising from 
his imaginary dignity, is a favourite doctrine 
with the nominal Christian. He feeds his pride 
with this pernicious aliment. The contrary 
opinion is so closely connected, indeed is so in- 
timately blended, with the subject of the pre- 
ceding chapter, that wc shall have the less occa- 
sion to extend our present observations to any 
length. 

We hear much, and we hear falsely, of the 
dignity of human nature. Prayer, founded on 
the true principles of Scripture, alone teaches 
us wherein our true dignity consists. The dig- 
nity of a fallen creature is a perfect anomaly. 
True dignity, contrary to the common opinion, 
that it is an inherent excellence, is actually a 
sense of the want of it ; it consists not in out 
valuing ourselves, but in a continual feeling of 



430 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



our dependence upon God, and an unceasing 
aim at conformity to his image. 

Nothing but a humbling sense of the sinful- 
ness of our nature, of our practised offences, of 
our utter helplessness, and constant dependence, 
can bring us to fervent and persevering prayer. 
How did the faith of the saints of old nourish 
under a darker dispensation, through all the 
clouds and ignorance which obscured their 
views of God. 'They looked unto Him and 
were enlightened ! How do their slender means 
and high attainments reproach us ! 

David found that the strength and spirit of 
nature which had enabled him to resist the lion 
and the bear, did not enable him to resist his 
outward temptations, nor to conquer his inward 
corruptions. He therefore prayed, not only for 
deliverance 'from blood guiltiness,' for a griev- 
ously remembered sin, he prayed for the princi- 
ple of piety, for the fountain of holiness, for ' the 
creation of a clean heart,' for 'the renewing of 
a right spirit,' for ' truth in the inward parts,' 
that the ' comfort of God's help might be grant- 
ed him.' This uniform avowal of the secret 
workings of sin, this uniform dependence on 
the mercy of God to pardon, and the grace of 
God to assist, render his precatory addresses, 
though they are those of a sovereign and a war- 
rior, so universally applied to the case of every 
private Christian. 

One of our best poets — himself an unsuccess- 
ful courtier — from a personal experience of the 
mortifying feelings of abject solicitation, has 
said, that if there were the man in the world 
whom he was at liberty to hate, he would wish 
him no greater punishment than attendance and 
dependence. But he applies the heavy penalty 
of this wish to the dependants on mortal great- 
ness. 

Now, attendance and dependence are the very 
essence both of the safety and happiness of a 
Christian. Dependence on God is his only true 
liberty, as attendance on Him is his only true 
consolation. The suitor for human favour is 
liable to continual disappointment ; if he knock 
at the door of his patron, there is probably a ge- 
neral order not to admit him. In the higher 
case, there is a special promise, that ' to him 
that knocks it shall be opened.' The human 
patron hates importunity ; the Heavenly Patron 
invites it. The one receives his suitor accord- 
ing to his humour, or refuses his admission 
from the caprice of the moment; with the other, 

* there is no variableness nor shadow of turning:' 

• Come unto me,' is his uniform language. 

The man in power has many claims on his 
favour, and comparatively tew boons to bestow. 
The God of Power has all things in His gift, 
and only blames the solicitor for coming so sel- 
dom, or coming so late, or staying so little a 
while. He only wishes that his best gifts were 
more earnestly sought. 

When we solicit an earthly benefactor, it is 
often upon the strength of some pretence to his 
favour — the hope of some reward for past ser- 
vices : even if we can produce little claim, we 
insinuate something like merit. But when we 
approach our heavenly Benefactor, so far from 
having any thing like claim, any thing like 
merit to produce, our only true, and our only 



acceptable plea, is our utter want of both claiiti 
and merit — is the utter destitution of all tha 
can recommend us; yet we presume to ask <5. 
vour, when we deserve nothing but rejectioc 
we are encouraged to ask for eternal happiness 
when we deserve only eternal punishment 
Though we have nothing to produce but disloy 
alty, we ask for the privilege of subjects; though 
nothing but disobedience to offer, we plead tha 
privileges of children — we implore the tender 
ness of a father. 

In dependence on God there is nothing ab 
ject ; in attendance on Him, nothing servile. 
He never, like the great ones of the world, re 
ceives the suitor with a petrifying frown, or 
what is worse, never dismisses him with a cruet 
smile and a false promise. 

Even if the petitioner to human power escape 
the vexation of being absolutely rejected ; even 
if his suit be granted, the grant it may be, is 
accompanied with a mortifying coldness, with 
an intelligible hint that the donor expects to be 
no further troubled. The grant may be attend- 
ed with such a tedious delay as may make it no 
benefit. The boon granted does not, perhaps, 
prove so valuable as the applicant expected ; or 
he finds he might have spent the long season 
of his attendance, his watching, and his waiting 
to better purpose ; or he might have employed 
his interest in another quarter, in obtaining 
something more important ; or, after all, he may 
have received it too late in life to turn it to the 
profitable account he had expected. 

But the Almighty Donor never puts off His 
humble petitioner to a more convenient season. 
His Court of Requests is always open. He re- 
ceives the petition as soon as it is offered ; He 
grants it as soon as it is made; and, though he 
will not dispense with a continuance of the ap- 
plication, yet to every fresh application He pro- 
mises fresh support. He will still be solicited, 
but it is in order that He may still bestow. Re- 
peated gifts do not exhaust His bounty, nor les- 
sen His power of fulfilment. Repeated solicita- 
tion, so far from wearying His patience, is an 
additional call for His favour. 

Nor is the lateness of the petition any bar to 
its acceptance : He likes it should be early, but 
He rejects it not though it be late. 

With a human benefactor the consciousness 
of having received former favours, is a motive 
with a modest petitioner for preventing his mak- 
ing an application for more ; while, on the con- 
trary, God even invites us to call on Him for 
future mercies, by the powerful plea of His past 
acts of goodness — ' even mercies which have 
been ever of old.' And as past mercies on God's 
part, so, to the praise of His grace be it said, that 
past offences on our own part are no hindrance 
to the application of hearty repentance or the 
answer of fervent prayer. 

The petitioner to human power, who may 
formerly have offe ded his benefactor, contrives 
to soften his displeasure, by representing that 
the offence was a small one. The devout pe- 
titioner to God uses no subterfuge. In the bold- 
ness of faith, and the humility of repentance, he 
cries ' Pardon my iniquity, for it is great. 1 

It is no pardon, then, to assert that depend- 
ence on God is the only true safety depend- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



481 



cnce upon Him, the only true freedom — freedom 
from doubt and fear, and sin ; freedom from 
human dependence ; above all, freedom from de- 
pendence on ourselves. As pardoned sinners, 
through the redemption wrought for them, find, 
in the renewed nature, a restoration to that dig- 
nity the}- had forfeited, so those who are most 
destitute of the dignity which arises from this 
dependence, missing the reality, deceive them- 
selves with the shadow. 

He who does not believe this fundamental 
truth, on which the other doctrines of the Bible 
are built, — even ho who does nominally pro- 
fess to assent to it as a doctrine of Scripture ; 
yet, if he does not experimentally acknowledge 
it; if he does not feel it in the convictions of 
his own awakened conscience, in his discovery 
of the evil workings of his own heart, and the 
wrong propensities of his own nature, all bearing 
their testimony to its truth — such a one will not 
pray earnestly for its cure — will not pray with 
that feeling of his own helplessness, with that 
sense of dependence on Divine assistance, which 
alone makes prayer efficacious. 

Of this corruption he can. never attain an ade- 
quate conception, till his progress in religion 
has opened his eyes on what is the natural state 
of man. Till this was the case, he himself was 
as far from desiring the change, as he was from 
believing it necessary. He does not even sus- 
supect its existence, till he is in some measure 
delivered from its dominion. 

Nothing will make us truly humble, nothing 
will make us constantly vigilant, nothing will 
entirely lead us to have recourse to prayer so 
fervently or so frequently, as this ever abiding 
sense of our corrupt nature, — as our not being 
able to ascribe any disposition in ourselves, to 
any thing that is good, or any power to avoid, 
by our own strength, any thing that is evil. 

The obligation of Prayer universal — Regular 
seasons to be observed. — The sceptic and the 
sensualist reject prayer. 

Among the many articles of erroneous calcu- 
lation, to which so much of the sin and misery 
of life may be attributed, the neglect or misuse 
of prayer will not form the lightest. The pro- 
phet Jeremiah, in his impassioned address to 
the Almighty makes no distinction between 
those who acknowledge no God, and those who 
live without prayer. ' Pour our thy fury, O 
Lord, upon the heathen, and upon the families 
that call not upon thy name.' 

Some duties are more incumbent on some 
persons, and some on others ; depending on the 
difference of talents, wealth, leisure, learning, 
station, and opportunities; but the duty of prayer 
is of imperative obligation ; it is universal, be- 
cause it demands none of any of the above re- 
quisites ; it demands only a willing heart, a con- 
sciousness of sin, a sense of dependence, a feel- 
ing of helplessness. Those who voluntarily ne- 
glect it, shut themselves out from the presence 
of their Maker- ' I know you not,' must as- 
suredly be the sentence of exclusion on those 
who thus ' know not God.' Nothing, it is true, 
can exclude them from His inspection, but they 
exclude themselves from his favour. 

Vol. II. 2 H 



Many nearly renounce prayer, by affecting 
to make it so indefinite a thing, as not to re- 
quire regular exercise. Just as many, also, 
unhallow the Sabbath, who pretend they do 
nothing on week-days , which they should fear 
to do on Sundays. The truth is, instead of 
sanctifying the week-days by raising them to 
the duties of Sunday — which is, indeed, imprac- 
ticable, let men talk as they please, — they dese- 
crate the Sunday to secular purposes, and so 
contrive to keep no Sunday at all. 

Stated seasons for indispensable employments, 
are absolutely necessary for so desultory, so 
versatile a creature as man. That which is 
turned over to any chance time is seldom done 
at all; and those who despise the recurrence of 
appointed times and seasons, are only less cen- 
surable than those who rest in them. 

Other duties and engagements have their 
allotted seasons ; why, then, should the most im- 
portant duty in which an immortal being can be 
employed, by being left to accident, become liable 
to occasional omision, liable to increasing ne- 
glect, liable to total oblivion ? 

All the other various works of God know 
their appointed times ; — the seasons, the hea- 
venly bodies, day and night, seed-time and 
harvest, — all set an example of undeviating 
regularity. Why should man, the only thinking, 
be the only disorderly, work of Almighty power ! 

But whilst we are asserting the necessity of 
seasons of prayer, let us not be suspected of at- 
taching undue importance to them ; for all these 
are but the frame work, the scaffolding, the 
mere mechanical and subsidiary adjuncts ; they 
are but the preparation for Christian worship ; 
they remind us, they intimate to us, that an im- 
portant work is to be done, but are no part of 
the work itself. 

They, therefore, who most insist on the value 
of stated devotions, must never lose sight of that 
grand, and universal prime truth, that wherever 
we are, still we are in God's presence ; whatever 
we have is His gift; whatever we hope is his 
promise; feelings which are commensurate 
with all time, all places, and limited to no par- 
ticular scenes or seasons. 

There is in some, in many it is to be feared, 
a readiness to acknowledge this general doc- 
trine, which miscalled natural religion teaches 
but who are far from including in their system 
the peculiarities, the duties, the devotions of 
Christianity. These are decorous men of the 
world who, assuming the character of philoso- 
phical liberality, value themselves on having 
shaken off the shackles of prejudice, superstition, 
and system. — They acknowledge a Creator of 
the universe, but is in a vague and general way. 
They worship a Being, ' whose temple is all 
space ;' that is, every where but in the human 
heart. They put Him as far as possible from 
themselves. Believing that He has no provi- 
dential care of them, they feel no personal in- 
terest in Him. God and nature are with them 
synonymous terms. That the creation of the 
world was His work, they do not go the length 
of denying; but that its government is in His 
hands, is with them very problematical. 

In any case, however, they are assured that a 
Being of such immensity requires not the little- 



482 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ness of superstitious forms, nor the petty limi- 
tation, of stated seasons, and regular devotions; 
that he is infinitely above attending to our paltry 
concerns, though he himself anticipated this 
objection, when he condescended to declare, 
1 He that otfereth me thanks and praise, he 
honoureth me.' 

One says he can adore the Author of nature 
in the contemplation of his works ; that the 
mountains and the fields are His altar for wor- 
ship. Another says, that his notion of religion 
is to deal honestly in his commerce with the 
world ; both insist that they can serve God any 
where and every where. — We know they can, 
and we hope they do ; but our Saviour, who 
knew the whole make of man, his levity, in- 
stability, and unfixedness, and who was yet no 
friend to the formalist or the superstitious, not 
only commands, at the hour of prayer, our enter- 
ing into the closet ; but our shutting the door, 
a tacit reproof perhaps of the indevotion of the 
Sadducean, as well as the publicity of the Phari- 
saic religion, but certainly, an admonition of 
general obligation. 

This, indeed, is not the place to enter on that 
mass of concurring evidence which so irresisti- 
bly confirms the especial truth of Christianity. 
But is it not extraordinary that these men who 
overlook, or rather inquire not into, that accumu- 
lation of evidence in the exhibition of miracles, 
and the fulfilment of prophecy — that is, who do 
not read the Bible — should not at least attend to 
one species of evidence more immediately within 
their reach, and more intelligible to common ob- 
servation ; we mean the confirmation derived to 
the proofs of Scripture, from the history of the 
world, from their avowal of moral evil, their 
careful cultivation, where it suits them, of habits 
of an opposite nature, their practical and pru- 
dential maxims, where they have an end to 
pursue, an interest to gain. Do not similar 
rules, applied to Christian principles, and de- 
livered in the Divine record, prove clearly that 
our Divine teacher ' knew what was in man ?' 

In treating of prayer, it would be a super- 
fluous labour to address unbelievers with the 
same arguments or persuasions which we would 
humbly propose to such as aver, with whatever 
degree of conviction, their belief in Christianity. 
It would be folly to address them with motives 
drawn from a book which they do not believe, 
or do not read. With those who are ignorant of 
the first principles of religion, or those who reject 
them, we have no common ground on which to 
stand. St. Paul, with his usual discrimination, 
has left us an example in this as well as in all 
other cases. With the philosophical Athenians 
he confined his reasonings to natural religion. 
To the Jewish king, Agrippa, who ' believed the 
prophets,' in telling the story of his own con- 
version, he most judiciously introduced the 
great doctrines of remission of sins and justi- 
fication by faith. 

If the Pyrrhonisx in question were to see a 
genuine Christian character delineated in all its 
dimensions, marked with its fair lineaments, 
and enlivened by its quickening spirit, such, for 
instance, as is exemplified in the character of 
St. Paul, he would consider it as a mere picture 
of the imagination ; and would no more believe 



its reality than he does that of Xenophon's 
Prince, the Stoic's Wise Man, Quintilian's Per- 
fect Orator, or any other Platonic or Utopian 
representation. Or could he be brought to be- 
lieve its actual existence, he would set such a 
man far above the necessity of prayer ; he would 
emancipate him from any such humbling prac- 
tice ; he would enthrone him on his own inde- 
pendent worth ; for how should lie ever suspect 
that such a man would ever pray at all, much 
less would be in prayer more abundant, in hu 
miliation more profound, in self-renunciation 
more abased ? 

Is it not probable that some of those enquir- 
ing minds, who adorned the porch and the aca- 
demy, as well as those more favoured men who 
saw the future, through the dim and distant 
perspective of prophecy, would have rejoiced to 
see the things which you see, and have not be- 
lieved ? 

How gratefully would many of these illus- 
trious spirits have accepted advantages which 
you overlook ! How joyfully would they have 
received from Him who cannot lie, the assur- 
ance that if they would seek of Him that truth 
after which they ' were feeling,' they should 
find it I How gladly would that sublime and 
elegant spirit, whose favourite theme was pure 
spiritual love, have listened to the great apostle 
of love ; to him who caught the flame as he 
leaned on the bosom of his affectionate master ! 
How would this same exalted genius, who 
taught the immortality of the soul to the bright, 
yet blind Athenians — he, whose penetrating 
mind rather guessed, than knew what he taught 
— whose keen eye caught some glimpses of a 
brighter state through the darkness which sur- 
rounded him — how would he have gloried in 
in that light and immortality which the gospel 
revelation has brought to light ! — but with what 
unspeakable rapture would he have learned that 
He who revealed the life could give it: that 
He who promised immortality could bestow it! 
With what obedient transport would he have 
heard this touching apostrophe, at once a strong 
reproof and a tender invitation — ' Ye will not 
come unto me that ye might have life! — l Ye 
philosophising cavillers, who live in the meri- 
dian splendour of this broad day, ' how will you 
escape, if you neglect so great a salvation ?' 

But if pride, the dominant intellectual sin, 
keeps the sceptic aloof from the humiliating 
duties of devotion ; the habitual indulgence of 
the senses, in another class, proves an equal 
cause of alienating the heart from prayer. 

The man absorbed by ease and enjoyment, 
and sunk in the relaxing softness of a volup- 
tuous life, has a natural distaste to every thing 
that stands in opposition to the delights of that 
life. It is the smoothness of his course which 
makes it so slippery. He is lost before he feels 
that he is sinking. For whether we plunge at 
once from a precipitous height, or slide down 
from it on an inclined plane, still, while there 
is a yawning gulf at the bottom, our destruction 
is equally inevitable. 

The systematic but decorous sensualist is one 
whose life is a course of sober luxury, of mea- 
sured indulgence. He contrives to reconcile an 
abandonment of sound principle with a kind of 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



483 



orderly practice. He enquires rather what is 
decent than what is right, what will secure the 
favourable opinion of the world, especially his 
own class, rather than what will please God. 
His. object is to make the most of this world. 
Selfishness has established its throne in his 
heart. His study is to make every thing- and 
every person subservient to his own conveni- 
ence, or pleasure, or profit, yet without glaring- 
ly trespassing on the laws of propriety or custom. 
Self is the source and centre of all his actions ; 
but though this governing principle is always 
on the watch for its gratification, yet, as part of 
that gratification depends on a certain degree of 
reputation, it frequently leads him to do right 
things though without right motives ; for the 
main-spring sometimes sets the right a-going as 
well as the wrong. 

He goes to church on all public occasions, but 
without devotion ; gives alms without charity ; 
subscribes to public institutions without being 
interested in their prosperity, except as they are 
frequently succeeded by a pleasant dinner and 
good company, and as the subscription list of 
names he knows will be published. He lives on 
good terms with different, and even opposite 
classes, of men, without being attached to any ; 
he does them favours without affection, knowing 
that he shall have occasion to solicit favours in 
return, for he never doe's a small kindness with- 
out a view to asking a greater. 

He deprecates excess in every thing, but al- 
ways lives upon its confines. 

Prayer enters not into his plan — he has no- 
thing to ask, for he has all in himself — thanks- 
giving is still less his practice, for what he has 
he deserves. 

He has read that * to enjoy is to obey,' and he 
is always ready to give this cheerful proof of 
the most unlimited obedience. He respects the 
laws of the country, especially such as guard 
property and game, and eagerly punishes the 
violators of both. But as to the laws of God, he 
thinks they were made to guard the possessions 
of the rich, to punish the vicious poor, and to 
frighten those who have nothing to lose. Yet 
he respects some of the commandments, and 
would placard on every post and pillar that which 
says ' thou shalt not steal ;' whilst he thinks that 
which says ' thou shalt not covet' might be ex- 
punged from the decalogue. 

If you happen to speak of the helplessness of 
man, he thinks you are alluding to some para- 
lytic ; if of his dependence, to some nanger-on 
of a great man ; if of his sinfulness, he adopts 
your opinion, for he reads the Newgate calendar. 
But of sin, as an inherent principle, of the tur- 
pitude of sin, except as it disturbs society, he 
knows nothing ; but religion as a principle of 
action, but prayer as a source of peace or a 
ground of hope, he neither knows nor desires to 
know. The stream of life glides smoothly on 
without it ; why should he ruffle its placid flow ? 
why should he break in on the course of enjoy- 
ment with self-imposed austerities ? He believes 
himself to be respected by his fellow-men, and 
the favour of God is not in all his thoughts. His 
real character the great day of decision will dis- 
cover. Till then he will have two characters. 
' Soul take thine ease, thou hast much goods 



laid up for thee,' is perhaps the state of all others, 
which most disqualifies and unfits for prayer. 
Not only the apostrophe excites the bodily appe- 
tite, but the soul is called upon to contemplate, 
to repose on, the soothing prospect, the delights 
of that voluptuousness for which the ' much 
goods are laid up.' Thou fool ! that soul which 
thou wouldest quicken to such base enjoyment, 
that soul shall this night be required of thee. 

Thus we see what restrains prayer in these 
two classes of characters. The sceptic does not 
pray, because he does not believe that God is a 
hearer of prayer. The voluptuary, because he 
believes that God is such a one as himself, and 
because he has already gotten all that he wants 
of Him. His gold, and the means of gratifying 
his sensuality, would not be augmented by the 
dry duties of devotion ; and with an exercise 
which would increase neither, he can easily 
dispense. 

Errors in Prayer, which may hinder its being 
answered. — The proud man's Prayer. — The 
patient Christian — False Excuses under the 
pretence of Inability. 

All desire the gifts of God, but they do not 
desire God. If we profess to love him, it is for 
our sake : when shall we begin to love him for 
himself? Many who do not go the length of 
omitting prayer, but pray merely from custom, 
or education, frequently complain that they find 
no benefit from prayer ; others, that they expe- 
rience not the support and comfort promised to 
it. May not those who thus complain, and who 
perhaps are far from being enemies to religion, 
find, on a serious examination of their own 
hearts and lives, some irregularity in desire, 
similar to that just mentioned, to be the cause of 
their discontent, and alleged disappointment ? 

We are more disposed to lay down rules for 
the regulation of God's government, than to sub- 
mit our will to it as he has settled it. If we do 
not now see the efficacy of the prayer which he 
has enjoined us to present to him, it may yet be 
producing its effect in another way. Infinite 
wisdom is not obliged to inform us of the man- 
ner, or the time of his operations ; what he ex- 
pects of us is to persevere in the duty. The very 
obedience to the command is no small thing, 
whatever be its perceptible effects. 

Under the apparent failure of our prayers, the 
source of our repinings must be looked for in the 
fact of our own blindness and imperfection ; for 
the declarations of the Gospel are sure ; their 
answer must be found in the grace of God in 
Christ Jesus, for his mercies are infallible. 
Wherever there is disappointment, we may be 
assured that it is not because he is wanting to 
us, but because we are wanting to ourselves. 

The prophet's expression, ' the iniquity of our 
holy things,' will not be thoroughly understood 
except by those who thus seriously dive into the 
recesses of their own heart, feel their defi- 
ciencies, mark their wanderings, detect and la- 
ment their vain imaginations and impertinent 
thoughts. It is to be regretted that these world- 
ly trifles are far more apt to intrude on us in. 
prayer, than the devout affections excited by 
prayer are to follow us into the world. Bust- 



484 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ness and pleasure break in on our devotions ; 
when will the spirit of devotion mix with the 
concerns of the world ? 

You who lament the disappointment of your 
requests, surfer a few friendly hints. — Have you 
not been impatient because you receive not the 
things that you asked, at your own time ? How 
do you know that if you had persevered God 
might have bestowed them in His time ? He 
certainly would, had He not in his wisdom fore- 
seen they would not have been good for you ; 
and therefore, in His mercy withheld them. Is 
there not some secret, unsuspected infidelity 
lurking behind such impatience ? Is it not vir- 
tually saying, there is no God to hear, or that 
He is unfaithful to His promises ? For is it not 
absolute impiety to insinuate an accusation that 
the Supreme Judge of men and angels is capable 
of injustice, or liable to error ? God has plea- 
sure in the prosperity of His children. He 
neither grants nor denies any thing which is not 
accurately weighed and measured ; which is not 
exactly suited to their good, if not to their request. 

If we pray aright, it may please God not only 
to grant that for which we pray, but that for 
which we do not pray. Supplicating for the 
best things, we may receive inferior and unre- 
quested things, as was the case with Solomon 
in his prayt_r for wisdom. God will not forget 
our labour of love. If he does not seem to no- 
tice it at present, he may lay it by for a time 
when it may be more wanted. 

In prayer we must take care not to measure 
our necessities by our desires ; the former are 
few, the latter may be insatiable. A murmur- 
ing spirit is a probable cause why our petitions 
are not granted. The certain way to prevent 
our obtaining what we desire, or enjoying what 
we have, is to feel impatient at what we do not 
receive, or to make an improper use of what has 
been granted to our prayers. 

Or you may perhaps address God with sinis- 
ter and corrupt views ; as if you had left his 
omniscience out of his attributes ; as if you 
thought him such an one as yourself; as if he 
might be entrapped with the ' secret ambush of 
a specious prayer.' Your design in the appli- 
cation of the boon you solicit may not be for his 
glory. It may be the prayer of ambition, cloak- 
ed under the guise of more extensive usefulness ; 
it may be the prayer of covetousness, under the 
pretext of providing for your family. It may 
be the prayer of injustice, a petition for success 
in some undertaking for yourself, to the circum- 
vention of another's fairer claim. God, in mer- 
cy to our souls, refuses the gift which would 
endanger them. 

Thus, then, if we ask and receive not, because 
we ask deceitfully or blindly, we must not won- 
der if our prayers are not answered. Or, if we 
obtain what we solicit, and turn it to a bad ac- 
count, or to no* account at all, we must not be sur- 
prised if Divine grace is withheld, or withdrawn. 

The same ill results may be expected if wo 
ask formally, or carelessly. Who has not felt, 
that there is a kind of mechanical memory in 
the tongue, which runs over the form, with- 
out any aid of the understanding, without 
any concurrence of the will, without any con- 
sent of the affections ? For do we not some- 



times implore God to hear a prayer, to which we 
ourselves are not attending ? And is not this 
presumptuously to demand from him that atten- 
tion, which we ourselves are not giving to our 
own requests, even while we were in the act of 
making them ? 

A mere superficial form, by lulling the con- 
science, hardens the heart. The task is per- 
formed, but in what manner, or to what result 
is not inquired. Genuine prayer is the homage 
of the soul to God, and not an expedient to pa- 
cify Him. 

If you observe the form, but forget the dispo- 
sitions it is intended to produce, it is evident the 
end of such prayer is not answered, Yet be 
not so far discouraged by feeling no sensible 
effect from prayer as to discontinue it ; it is still 
a right thing to be found in the way of duty. 

But, perhaps, you neglect to implore the Spi- 
rit of,Christ towards the direction of your pray- 
ers, and His intercession for their acceptance. 
As there is no other name through which we 
can be saved, so there is no other through which 
we can be heard : we must not sever his media- 
tion from his atonement. All His divine offices 
are not only in perfect harmony, but in insepa- 
rable union.* Or, perhaps, you have used the 
name of the Redeemer for form's sake, or as an 
accustomed close to your petitions, without im- 
ploring his efficacious grace in changing your 
heart, as well as in pardoning your sins. 

Perhaps you think it is a sufficientqualification 
for acceptable prayer, that you are always form- 
ing good intentions ; now, though these make 
up the value of good actions, yet good intentions, 
not acted upon when occasion invites and duty 
calls, will not lessen, but inflame the reckoning. 
For does it not look as if you had resisted the 
offer of that Holy Spirit, which had originally 
prompted the intention? And may it not in- 
duce Him to withdraw his blessed influences, 
when they have been both invited and rejected 1 

Do you never, by unwholesome reading, fill 
the mind with images unfavourable to serious 
exercises ? The children of the pure and holy 
God should feed on the bread of their father's 
house, and not on the husks of the prodigal ! 

Do you never use profanely or lightly, that 
name, which is above every name ? He who 
made the ear, shall he not hear ? and if he has 
heard, during the day, his awful name used by 
the thoughtless as an expletive, or an impreca- 
tion, will he in the morning be called on as a 
Saviour, and in the evening as an intercessor ? 

But no profession of faith, however orthodox, 
no avowal of trust in Christ, however confident, 
no intreuty for the aid of the Spirit, however 
customary, will avail, if it be not such an influ- 
ential faith, such a practical trust, such a living 
devotedness, as shall be productive of holiness 
of heart and life, as shall tend to produce obe- 
dience to the commands, and submission to the 
will of God. — This is an infallible test, by which 
you may try every doctrine, every principle of 
the gospel. We do not mean the truth of them, 



* We observe with regret, that, in many forms of 
prayer, the aid of his mediation is much more frequently 
implored, than the benefits of his death and merits. He 
is, indeed, our divine Intercessor, but his mere interces- 
sion is not the whole source of our dependence on him. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



485 



for that is immutable ; but your own actual be- 
lief, your own actual interest in them. If no 
such effects are visible, we deceive ourselves, 
and the principles we defend, are not those by 
which we are governed. 

Prayer is so obviously designed to humble the 
proud heart of the natural man, by giving him 
a feeling- sense of his misery, his indigence, and 
his helplessness, that we should be unwilling to 
believe, that even the proudest man can carry 
his pride to the Throne of Grace, except to sup- 
plicate deliverance from it ; yet such a charac- 
ter is actually drawn by him who knew the 
thoughts and intents of the heart of man, and a 
little consideration will teach us, that the ' two 
men who went up into the temple to pray,' were 
not intended as individual portraits, but as spe- 
cimens of a class. 

The proud man does not perhaps always thank 
God that be is not guilty of adultery, or extor- 
tion, to which vices he may have little tempta- 
tion ; nor does he glory in paying tithes and 
taxes, to which the law would compel him. Yet 
is he never disposed, like the Pharisee, to pro- 
claim the catalogue of his own virtues ? to bring 
in his comparative claims, as if it were a good 
thing to be better than the bad ? Is he never 
disposed to carry in his eye, (as if he would re- 
mind his Maker of his superiority,) certain per- 
sons who are possibly less the objects of Divine 
displeasure, than he, by his pride and selfish- 
ness may have rendered himself; although his 
regularity in the forms of devotion may have 
made him more respectable in the world, than 
the poor reprobated being whom he praises God 
he does not resemble. It is the abasement, the 
touching self-condemnation, the avowed poverty, 
the pleaded misery of the destitute beggar that 
finds acceptance. It is the hungry whom God's 
mercy fills with good things, it is the rich in 
his own conceit, whom his displeasure sends 
empty away. 

Whenever you are tempted to thank God that 
you are. not like other men, compare your own 
condition with that of the afflicted and the be- 
reaved among your own friends; compare your- 
self with the paralytic on his couch, with the 
blind beggar by the way-side, with the labourer 
in the mine ; think on the wretch in the galleys ; 
on the condemned in the dungeons of despotic 
governments; on the miserable beings in our 
own prisons, those loathsome abodes of sin and 
wretchedness. Above all, think, and this is the 
intolerable acme of sin in the inflictor, and of 
misery in the sufferer ; think on the wretched 
negro chained in the hold of a slave ship ! Think 
seriously on these, and put pride into your pray- 
er if you can. Think on these, not to triumph 
in your own superiority, but to adore the unde- 
served mercy of God, in giving you advantages 
to which you have no higher claim, and let your 
praise of yourself be converted into prayer for 
them. 

For there are no dispositions of the heart 
which are more eminently promoted by prayer, 
than contentment and patience. They are two 
qualities of the same colour, but of different 
shades, and are generally, when found at all, 
found in the same breast. Both are the offspring 
of genuine religion, both nurtured by cordial 



! prayer. The cultivation of the one, under easy 
circumstances, prepares for the exercises of the 
other under more trying situations. Both ema- 
nate from the same divine principle, but are 
drawn out by different occasions, and varying 
circumstances. 

Content is the tranquillity of the heart, prayer 
is its aliment ; it is satisfied under every dispen- 
sation of Providence, and takes thankfully its 
allotted portion, never enquiring whether a little 
more would not be a little better ; knowing, that 
if God had so judged, it would have been as 
easy for him to have given the more as the less. 
That is not true content, which does not enjoy 
as the gift of infinite wisdom what it has, nor is 
that true patience, which does not suffer meekly 
the loss of what it had, because it is not his will 
that it should have it longer. 

The contentment of the irreligious man is 
apathy, his patience either pride or insensibility. 
The language of the patient man under trials is, 
it is the Lord. — Shall a living man complain ? 
is his interrogation. ' A good man,' says Solo- 
mon, ' is satisfied from himself.' Here the pre- 
sumptuous might put in his claim to the title. 
But his pretension arises from his mistake, for 
his satisfaction is with himself , that of the Chris- 
tian with Providence ; it arises from the grace 
of God shed abroad in his heart, which is be- 
come a perennial spring of consolation and en- 
joyment; and which, by persevering prayer, is 
indented into his very soul. Content knows how 
to want and how to abound ; this is the lan- 
guage of equanimity : 'shall I not receive evil 
from the hand of the Lord, as well as good,' this 
is the language of patience in speaking of Pro- 
vidence. Content is always praising God for 
what she possesses; patience is always justify- 
ing Him for what she suffers. The cultivation 
of the one effectually prepares us for the exer- 
cise of the other. But these dispositions are not 
inherent in the human heart. How are they 
generated ? by the influences of the Holy Spirit. 
How are they kept alive? by heart-felt devotion. 

The prosperous man of the world, exulting 
in any recent success, may acknowledge, * the 
Lord gave,' but it is only Christian patience can 
say, ' the Lord taketh away,' and even bless 
Him for the resumption of His gift. The con- 
tented, patient Christian, has the same keen 
feelings, the same fond attachments with other 
men, for, though his passions are regulated by 
religion, they are not totally extinguished. 

Under the pressure of an}' affliction, thy will 
be done, as it is the patient Christian's unceas 
ing prayer, so it is the ground of his unvarying 
practice. In this brief petition he finds his 
whole duty comprised and expressed. It is the 
unprompted request of his lips, it is the motto 
inscribed on his heart, it is the principle which 
regulates his life, it is the voice which says to 
the stormy passions, l Peace ! be still !' Let 
others expostulate, he submits. Nay, even sub- 
mission does not adequately express his feel- 
ings. We frequently submit, not so much from 
duty as from necessity ; we submit, because we 
cannot help ourselves. Resignation sometimes 
may be mere acquiescence in the sovereignty, 
rather than conviction of the wisdom and good- 
ness of God ; while the patient Christian not 



486 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



only yields to the dispensation, but adores the 
dispenser. He not only submits to the blow, but 
vindicates the hand which inflicts it ; ' the Lord 
is righteous in all his ways.' He refers to the 
chastisement as a proof of the affection of the 
chastiser. ' I know that in very faithfulness 
thou hast caused me to be afflicted.' He recurs 
to the thoughtlessness of his former prosperity. 
* Before I was afflicted I went astray,' and al- 
ludes to the trial less as a punishment than a 
paternal correction. If he prays for a removal 
of the present suffering, he prays also that it 
may not be removed from him, till it has been 
sanctified to him. He will not even part from 
the trial till he has laid hold on the benefit 

Perhaps the impediment which hinders the 
benefit of prayer in characters apparently cor- 
rect, may be the fatal habit of indulging in some 
secret ein, the private cherishing of some wrong 
propensity, the entertaining of some evil imagi- 
nation. Not being accustomed to control at 
other times, it intrudes when you would wil- 
lingly expel it; for a guest which is unreserv- 
edly let in at other seasons, and cordially enter- 
tained, will too frequently break in when you 
desire to be alone. 

The Scriptures are explicit on this subject. 
It is not merely the committing actual sin that 
ruins the comfort growing out of prayer ; the 
divine prohibition runs higher ; its interdiction 
is more intimately interior ; it extends to the 
thoughts and intents of the heart. The door of 
heaven is shut against prayer under such cir- 
cumstances. ' If I regard iniquity in my heart, 
the Lord will not hear me.' A cherished cor- 
ruption in the mind is the more likely to inter- 
pose between God and the soul, because it does 
not assume the shape and bulk of crime. A 
practical offence, the effect of sudden tempta- 
tion, is more likely to be followed by keen re- 
pentance, deep self-abasement, and fervent ap- 
plication for pardon ; whereas to the close bo- 
som sin, knowing that no human charge can be 
brought against it, the soul secretly returns 
with a fondness facilitated by long indulgence, 
and only whetted by a short separation. Vain, 
covetous, malignant, impure thoughts, habitu- 
ally fostered by the imagination, are more like- 
ly to start out into action, are a more probable 
preparation for a bolder sin, than many who in- 
dulge them believe or intend. 

It was, perhaps, this acute, experimental feel- 
ing which led David to pray to be delivered 
from ' secret sins ;' these, he was probably con- 
scious, had led to those * presumptuous sins,' 
which had entangled his soul and embittered 
his life ; and whose dominion be so frequently 
and fervently deprecates. This, it is to be fear- 
ed, may be the case with some, whose language 
and exterior cause them to be ranked with the 
religious ; these are, at least, the dangers to 
which they are most exposed. It is, therefore, 
that our Lord connects, in indissoluble union, 
watching with prayer. 

Perhaps, when the conscience zs more than 
usually awakened, you pray with some degree 
of fervour to be delivered from the guilt and pu- 
nishment of sin. But, if you stop here, your de- 
votion is most imperfect. If you do not also 
pray to be.delivered from its power and dominion 



over your heart and life, you do not go much 
further than the heathens of old. They seem 
to have had a strong feeling of guilt, by their 
fond desire of expiating it by their sacrifices 
and lustrations. 

Of their terror of its punishment we have 
many intimations in their fables; for what is 
fable to us, was probably to them obscure histo- 
ry, or wild tradition worked up into an absurd 
but amusing mythology. The eternity of their 
punishments is strongly implied in the insatia- 
ble thirst and ungratified appetites of Tantalus ; 
his misery augmented by that flowing water 
and those tempting fruits which hung in his 
sight and mocked his appetites, not unlike the 
anguish of Dives, which was rendered more in- 
tolerable by beholding the blessedness of those 
on the other side of the great gulf. The profit- 
less toils of Sisyphus, and of the daughters of 
Danaus, whose ever failing efforts prove their 
labours to be infinite, and their punishment eter- 
nal. The wheel of Ixion, which, as it was to be 
in perpetual motion, so the punishment was to 
have no end ; a doctrine not so strongly held by 
many Christians, as it seems to be implied in 
this blind mythology. 

Will you not then be most unweariedly fer- 
vent in prayer to the God of mercy for deliver- 
ance from the dominion of that sin which, if not 
forsaken as well as lamented, will be inevitably 
followed by that punishment which you depre- 
cate, and which will never end ? But such is 
the love of present ease, and the desire of res- 
pite, that you think, perhaps, it is better not ' to 
be tormented before the time.' How many now 
in a state of irreversible misery wish they had 
been tormented saoner, that they might not be 
tormented forever ! But with you it is not yet 
too late. With you the day of grace, which to 
them is over, is not yet past. Use it then with- 
out delay, instead of persisting in laying up 
fresh regrets for eternity. 

But too many deceive themselves, by imagin- 
ing that when they have pronounced their pray- 
er, the duty is accomplished with the task, the 
occult medicine being taken, the charm is to 
work of itself. They consider it as a duty quite 
distinct and unconnected with any other. They 
forget that it is to produce in them a principle 
which is to mix with all the occurrences of the 
day. Prayer, though not intended as a talisman, 
is yet praposed as a remedy. The effect of its 
operation is to be seen in assisting to govern the 
temper, in bridling the tongue, in checking, not 
only calumny but levity, not only impure, but 
vain conversation. 

But we have a wonderful talent at deceiving 
ourselves. We have not a fault for which we 
do not find an apology. Our ingenuity on this 
head is inexhaustible. In matters of religion 
men complain that they are weak, a complaint 
they are not forward to urge in worldly matters. 
They lament that their reluctance to pray arises 
from being unable to do what God, in his word, 
expects them to do. But is not this virtual re- 
bellion, only with a smooth face and a soft 
name ? God is too wise not to know exactly 
what we can do, and too just to expect from us 
what we cannot. 
This pretence of weakness, though it looka 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



48- 



like humility, is only a mask for indolence and 
a screen for selfishness. 

We certainly can refuse to indulge ourselves 
in what pleases us, when we know it displeases 
God. We con obey his commandments with 
the aid of the infused strength which he has 
promised, and which we can ask. It is not He 
who is unwilling to give, but we who are averse 
to pray. The temptations to vice are strength- 
ened by our passions, as our motives to virtue 
are weakened by them. 

Our spiritual enemy would not be so potent, 
if we ourselves did not put arms into his hands. 
The world would not be so powerful an enchan- 
tress, if we did not assist the enchantment, by 
voluntarily yielding to it ; by insensibly forsak- 
ing Him who is our strength. We make apo- 
logies for yielding to both by pleading their 
power and our own weakness. But the in- 
ability to resist is of our own making. Both 
enemies are indeed powerful but they are not 
irresistible. If we assert the contrary, is it not 
virtually saying ' greater are they who are 
against us than He that is for us ?' 

But we are traitors to our own cause ; we are 
conquered by our own consent; we surrender, 
not so much because the conqueror is powerful, 
as because the conquered i3 willing. 

Without diminishing any thing of His grace 
and glory, to whom every good thought we think, 
every victory over sin we obtain, is owing — 
may it not add to our happiness, even in heaven, 
to look back on every conflict we maintained 
with our grand spiritual enemy, every triumph 
over the world, every victory over ourselves ? 
Will not the remembrance of one act of resist- 
ance then, far surpass every gratification now, 
which the three confederated enemies of our 
souls may present to us ? 

It is not merely by our prayers that we must 
give glory to God. Our Divine Master has ex- 
pressly told us wherein His Father is glorified ; 
it is ' when we bring forth much fruit' It is 
by our works we shall be judged, and not by 
our prayers. And what a final consummation 
is it that obedience to the will of God, which is 
our duty here, shall be our nature hereafter ! 
What is now our prayer shall then be our pos- 
session ; there the obligation to obey shall be- 
come a necessity, and that necessity shall be 
happiness ineffable. 

The various evils here enumerated with many 
Others not touched upon, are so many dead 
weights on the wings of prayer ; they cause it 
to gravitate to earth, obstruct its ascent, and 
hinder it from piercing to the throne of God. 



God our Father. — Our Unwillingness to please 
Him. — Forms of Prayer. — Great and Little 
Sins.^ — All Sin an Offence against God. — 
Benefit of Habitual Prayer. 

The distinction between the personal nature 
of Faith, and the universal character of Charity, 
as it is exercised in prayer, are specifically ex- 
hibited in the two pronouns which stand at the 
head of the Creed and of the Lord's Prayer. 
We cannot exercise faith for another, and there- 



fore can only say, /believe. But when we offer 
up our petitions, we address them to our Father, 
implying that He is the author, governor, and 
supporter, not of ourselves only, but of his 
whole rational creation. It conveys also a 
beautiful idea of that boundless charity which 
links all mankind in one comprehensive brother- 
hood. The plural us, continued through the 
whole prayer, keeps up the sentiment with 
which it sets out, tends to exclude selfishness, 
and to excite philanthropy, by recommending to 
God the temporal as well as spiritul wants of 
the whole family of mankind. 

The nomenclature of the Divinity is express- 
ed in Scripture by every term which can con- 
vey ideas of grandeur or of grace, of power or of 
affection, of sublimity or tenderness, of majesty 
or benignity ; by every name which can excite 
terror or trust, which can inspire awe or con- 
solation. 

But of all compellations by which the Su- 
preme Being is designated in his holy word, 
there is not one more soothing, more attractive, 
more endearing than that of Father ; it in 
eludes the idea of reconciliation, pardon, accep- 
tance, love. It swallows up His grandeur in 
His beneficence. It involves also the inheri- 
tance belonging to our filial relation. It fills 
the mind with every image that is touching, 
and the heart with every feeling that is affec- 
tionate. It inspires fear softened by love, and 
authority mitigated by gratitude. The tender- 
est image the Psalmist could select from the 
abundant store-house of his rich conceptions to 
convey the kindest sentiment of God's pity to- 
wards them that fear Him, was that it resem- 
bles the pity of a ' father for his own children.'' 
In directing us to pray to our Father, our Di- 
vine Master does not give the command with- 
out the example. He every where uses the 
term He recommends. ' I thank Thee, Oh 
Father, Lord of heaven and earth !' and in the 
17th of St. John he uses this endearing name 
no less than seven times. 

' Lord show us the Father and it sufficeth,' 
was the ill-understood prayer of the inquiring 
disciples. To us this petition is granted before 
it is made. Does He not show himself to all as 
a Father, in the wonders of his creation, in the 
wonders of our being, preservation, and support ? 
Has he not, in a more especial manner, revealed 
Himself to us as a Father in the sublime won- 
ders of his word, in the unsearchable riches of 
Christ, and the perpetuated gift of the Holy 
Spirit ? Does He not show Himself our Father, 
if, when we have done evil, He withholds His 
chastening hand ; if, when we have sinned, He 
still bears with us ; if, when we are deaf to his 
call He repeats it ; if, when we delay, He waits 
for us ; if, when we repent, He pardons us ; if, 
when we return, He receives us ; if, when in 
danger, He preserves us from falling; and if, 
when we fall, He raises us? 

We have a beautiful illustration of the good- 
ness of God as a merciful and tender Father in 
the deeply affecting parable of tho Prodigal Son. 
Though the undone spendthrift knew that he 
had no possible claim on the goodness he had 
so notoriously offended, yet he felt that the 
endearing name of Father had an eloquence 



480 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



that might plead forgiveness of his offence, 
though he feared not for a restoration to affection 
and favour. But while he only meekly aspired 
to a place among the servants, while he only 
humbly pleaded for a little of their redundant 
bread, he was received as a pardoned, recon- 
ciled, beloved child. 

Yet the human heart is not easily warmed 
into gratitude, or softened into love, or allured 
to imitation, because it takes only slight and 
transient views of the divine benignity. — What 
God has done for us, and what we have really 
done against ourselves, will, in the great day of 
decision, crown Him with glory, and ourselves 
with shame. What we think we do for our own 
benefit in temporal concerns is so animated, so 
earnest, so unremitted — what axe we called to 
do for God — which ultimately, indeed, would 
be done for ourselves— is so little, so reluctant, 
bo heartless, as to bear no sort of comparison. 
In the former case, every thing is a gratifica- 
tion ; in the latter every thing is a sacrifice. 

We think much of the smallest instance of 
self-denial if it be for God; if it be an act of 
acknowledgment to the most gracious of all Fa- 
thers; if it be a tribute of homage to the King 
of Kings, however large or lasting the promised 
recompence. But we think little of any pre- 
sent privation of our own, if it insure to us a 
a longer subsequent enjoyment, though but for 
a season. 

In speaking of the manner in which we should 
address our Heavenly Father, it is to be observ- 
ed there may be evident differences in the state, 
both of the mind and circumstances, for which 
the best written forms of prayer can make no 
provision. We ourselves can alone know those 
varieties, and the petitions which expressly be- 
long to them. We are sometimes under the 
influence of particular tempers, which we wish 
to cultivate and improve ; in this case, we shall 
naturally use addresses very different from those 
which the prevalence of unfavourable tempers 
or wrong dispositions require. 

As to the outward events in which we are 
concerned — -for accident is a term which has no 
place in the Christian's vocabulary — God in 
every dispensation is at work for our good. In 
more prosperous circumstances He tries our 
gratitude ; in mediocrity our contentment ; in 
misfortunes our submision ; and as every new 
situation calls into exercise some new virtue, 
by consequence it calls for some alteration in 
the mode of our dovotions. The prayers of yes- 
terday and to day will consequently be as dif- 
ferent as the circumstances — these are some of 
the advantages of private over public prayer. 

The great and general topics, are, however, 
of a fixed, unalterable nature, on which, though 
we may be more or less diffuse, according to 
the state of the mind, yet the term and spirit 
will require little variation. This is more espe- 
cially the case with respectto praise and thanks- 
giving ; and to express these, the use of stated 
forms may occasionally come in with much ad- 
vantage, as the cardinal points to be expressed 
here must be ever the same. Invariably must 
the glory and honour of whatever is good be 
ascribed to the great source of light and life, the 
giver of every good and perfect gift ; and the ad- 



dition in secret, of particular clauses of praise 
for personal mercies, will not bo difficult to find 
where gratitude is really felt. 

A deep sense of his corruption will power- 
fully draw the real penitent to an humbling 
avowal of sin in prayer ; but it is to be feared that 
some, who, because they cannot charge them- 
selves with flagrant offences, do not consider a 
contrite confession of the sins of the heart, and of 
the daily life, an indispensable part of their devo- 
tions. But God will charge many with sin who 
neglect to charge themselves. Did they attend 
to the remonstrance of a conscience not laid 
asleep by neglect, or quieted by palliatives, they 
would find that were the daily omissions alone, of 
even their best days, registered and presented to 
them ; they would form no inconsiderable cata- 
logue for repentance. 

There are too many who do not consider that 
all sins are equally a breach of the Divine law. 
Without pretending to bring all sins, small and 
great, to one common level, we should remem- 
ber that all sin is an offence against a gracious 
Father. 

In that profoundly self-abasing prayer of 
David, after the commission of the two black 
offences which disgraced his otherwise exem- 
plary life; though he deeply felt his barbarous 
treatment of his brave general, in first dishon- 
ouring his wife, and then exposing him to meet 
inevitable death in fore-front of the hottest bat- 
tle — yet, in praying to be delivered from this 
blood-guiltiness, he bequeathed an important 
lession to posterity, when in the lowly prostra- 
tion at the throne of God, his first cry was, 
' against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned, and 
done this evil in Thy sight,' plainly declaring, 
that all sin is, in the first instance, a sin against 
God. 

Whije the most worldly are ready enough to 
exclaim against notorious sins, or against any 
sins carried to the greatest excess, to smaller 
offences they contrive to be tolerably reconciled. 
They think the commission of these not incon- 
sistent with the profitable use of prayer in their 
formal way of using this customary exercise. 

They are also sufficiently lenient to certain 
degrees of great sins ; and various are the modi- 
fications and distinctions in their logic, and not 
over-correct the gradations in their moral scale 
of degrees. They do not consider that it is 
the extirpation, and not merely the reduction, of 
any sin, which is to procure them that peace 
and comfort for which they sometimes pray, 
and which they wonder they do not receive as 
an answer to their prayers. 

They forget that the evil of sin is not to be 
measured by its magnitude only, but by the 
spirit of disobedience which it indicates towards 
a generous Father, — a Father whose commands 
are all founded in mercy and love, and who con- 
siders every voluntary fault as no light offence 
when committed against supreme authority, ex- 
ercised with perfect tenderness. 

But it is their reluctance to part with the re. 
maining degrees, their wish to retain these mo- 
dified sins ; it is their favourite reserves to which 
they still cling, that prevent that peace which is 
promised to the victory, I had almost said to the 
omnipotence, of prayer. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



489 



For it is not 90 much the nicely measured 
quantity, as the nature of sin, which constitutes 
its malignity, and obstructs the benefit of prayer. 
The inferior degree which is cherished, will, 
without earnest supplication to God, be ready to 
become the excess which is deprecated, when- 
ever the appropriate temptation shall present it- 
self. For, however our compassionate Father 
may pardon the unpremeditated fault, yet how 
can we expect Him to forgive any degree of sin 
that is allowed, that is even, in a certain mea- 
sure, intended to be committed ? Diminution, 
however, is a favourable step, if, by perseverance 
in prayer, it leads gradually to extirpation. 

Habitual prayer may prove a most effectual 
check to any doubtful or wrong action, to which 
circumstances may invite us during the day on 
which we are entering — the very petition to our 
Heavenly Father — ' deliver us us from evil,' 
forcibly felt and sincerely expressed, may pre- 
serve us from being seduced into it. And is 
not the praying Christian less likely to ' fall 
into temptation,' than they who neglect to pray 
that they may not be led into it ? 

The right dispositions of the heart, and the 
fervour of devotion reciprocally excite each other. 
A holy temper sends us to prayer, and prayer 
promotes that temper. Every actof thanksgiving 
tends to make us more grateful, and augmented 
gratitude excites more devout thanksgiving. 

The act of confession renders the heart more 
contrite, and deeper contrition induces a more 
humbling avowal of sin. Each, and all, send us 
more cordially to the Redeemer : the more fer- 
vent the prayer, the more entire is the prostra- 
tion of the whole man at the foot of the cross. 



The Doctrine of Imputed Sanctijication, newly 
adopted. — The old one of Progressive Sancti- 
jication newly rejected. — Both Doctrines in- 
jurious to Prayer. — St. Paul's Character. 

We have hitherto spoken of errors in prayer. 
We come now to errors of opinion, which super- 
sede the necessity of prayer itself. There are 
moral as well as speculative corruptions gain- 
ing ground amongst us, and there is an involu- 
tion of one in the folds of the other. When men 
once indulge themselves in any deviation from 
the course so plainly marked out, in that only 
unerring road-book, the gospel of Jesus Christ, 
they can never be sure where the first turning 
off may lead them. 

When a man, with more ingenuity than sober 
judgment, wishes to introduce a novel error ; in 
order to work successfully, and prevent the sus- 
picion of his design, he commonly seizes on 
some acknowledged truth for his basis. On 
this truth he raises his own fanciful superstruc- 
ture, but with little departure at first from his 
avowed design ; so that his gradual deviation 
from it makes the error continue still to look so 
much like truth, that ordinary observers will 
not easily detect where the old truth ends, or 
where the new fabrication totally changes the 
character of the original edifice. 

The great and glorious doctrine of the New 
Testament was to exalt the Saviour and to hum- 

Vol. IL 



ble the sinner ; the new doctrire is to exalt the 
sinner also, and in that proportion to establish 
and secure him in sin. For if the Saviour's 
righteousness by transfer becomes so far the be- 
liever's righteousness, as to become, in the new 
language, his own personal holiness, he has in 
his own person ' whereof to glory,' and any fur- 
ther attainment is anomalous ; or at best this 
transfer is even less rational, and evidently more 
removed from common sense as well as from 
charity, than the doctrine of supererogation it- 
self; for that only teaches that some men were 
rich in good works enough and to spare ; but 
this, instead of the friendly disposal of such su- 
perfluous wealth, teaches that we have none 
worth keeping, and that if we had there is a pro- 
vision made for rendering it utterly useless. 

A distorted truth, then, is worse than an ori- 
ginal falsehood, because it deceives the injudi- 
cious and ill-ii formed by retaining some little 
vestige of the t/uth they had been taught to ve- 
nerate. Thus, they who pretend to add new 
glory to the character and offices of Christ, are 
in effect dishonouring by misrepresenting him. 
It is a fearful fact, that the holiest doctrine may 
be perverted, till, instead of its being the source 
of salvation, it becomes a fountain of impiety. 
Instead of humbling the sinner, it confirms him 
in sin ; instead of purifying, it corrupts ; instead 
of sobering, it inebriates ; and lands him on a 
daring and presumptuous confidence. Instead 
of promoting the cause of God, as it professes, it 
advances that of Satan. It is a false light which 
leads to utter darkness, for ' if the light which 
is in thee be darkness, how great is that dark- 
ness !' 

This error is so much worse than any other 
sin, as by fair and legitimate deduction it ren- 
ders all virtue anomalous, and consequently all 
prayer ridiculous. Virtue cannot be needed, 
where to be like-minded with Christ is replaced, 
or made synonymous with having his holiness 
substituted for our own ; and prayer cannot be 
upheld in any one of its essential qualities, where 
no room is left in the heart for self-distrust, 
meekness, lowliness of spirit, the fear of offend- 
ing God, and the sense of dependance on him 
for ' more grace.' 

Much has also been advanced in favour of an- 
other kindred doctrine, a doctrine with which 
St. Peter must have been utterly unacquainted, 
when he exhorted his converts to ' grow in grace 
and in the knowledge of Jesus Christ.' The 
preceding opinion having encouraged the new 
proselytes, for they can create as well as destroy, 
has called another into existence, that there is 
no such thing as progressive sanctijication. This 
novel doctrine, if practically adopted, would not 
fail to contribute its full share to the extermina- 
tion of any remains of moral goodness, which 
its precursor might have left behind. It may 
indeed deserve some little toleration, when its 
founder shall have been able to produce one in- 
dividuat child of Adam, who is already as good 
as he ought to be, or even as he might have 
been. 

If this doctrine be true, a large portion of 
Scripture must be abandoned to the clippers and 
mutilators of the sacred volume ; for what be- 
comes of the gracious promise of being • renew- 



490 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ed from day to day ?' what of the precept ' to 
increase and abound more and more V what of 
the incessant inculcation of this command, re- 
peated in all the various forms which language 
could supply ; a command of which neither the 
variety of the illustration, nor of the language 
which conveys it, ever alters the idea, an idea 
which, like a golden thread, runs through the 
whole fabric of the New Testament. 

We have been accustomed to hear that fer- 
vent prayer, through the influence of the Divine 
Spirit, is the grand instrument of this renewal ; 
and it is on this ground that we have ventured 
to introduce the subject here as connected with 
the general design of these pages. But the pre- 
sent doctrine completes what the former had 
commenced, and renders prayer wholly inap- 
plicable to all spiritual ends : it leaves us no- 
thing to implore, but merely temporal advan- 
tages ; to ask for things only which will end 
when this life ends. It would abolish the ne- 
cessity of every petition in the Lord's prayer, 
except that for our daily bread. 

Why will not those who profess to make the 
Bible the only rule of their faith and practice, 
learn from that Bible, that diffidence and reve- 
rential awe, a frank avowal of their own igno- 
rance, a humble withholding from intruding into 
unrevealed things, and devout gratitude for the 
glorious things which are revealed, best become 
blind, ignorant and dependent creatures ? 

If this newly invented doctrine were true, 
what would become of the useless interval of 
life, useless as to all possibility of improvement, 
which is the great end of life, the interval be- 
tween the decisive moment of complete sanctifi- 
cation and our closing scene ? 

The unanswerable argument in favour of pro- 
gressive holiness, is the progress itself. The 
man to whom it wss asserted, that there was no 
such thing as motion, made the most definitive 
answer, — he got up and walked. 

Every advance of the Christian inclines him 
to push on to still further advances. But under 
the influence of this stationary principle the 
busy current of life would become a stagnant 
pool. It is motion which gives the sense of spi- 
ritual, as well as natural life. It is progress 
which gives the sustaining feeling ; not of in- 
dependent, but of infused strength. Hope, which 
is the pulse of spiritual life, would not only in- 
termit, but stand still. ' Is this all,' would the 
disappointed Christian say ? 'Shall I never be 
more holy than I now am ? I do not find the 
right sort of rest in being a fixture.' Torpor is 
not ease, numbness is not relief. It is exercise, 
not indolence, which induces safe and whole- 
some repose. 

New difficulties, fresh trials, unknown tempta- 
tions may yet assail us in our mortal journey, 
which will require new applications to the 
Throne of Grace for support. With that sup- 
port promised to prayer, though ' Alps on Alps 
arise,' we need not be discouraged. For if our 
progress be an upward, it is an onward path, 
and the acclivity diminishes the higher we 
ascend. Difficulties may be great, but with the 
grace of God they will not be insuperable. God 
is not only strong, but Strength. Yet let us not 
aim at an assent above our promised support 



In aspiring to reach a visionary elevation, we 
lose the height we had actually gained. 

It is curious to observe, how naturally one 
invention involves another. We find an in- 
structive illustration of this truth in a Pagan 
fable. Daedalus was not only made a prisoner 
himself in the labyrinth of his own projecting, 
but like the projectors of the new theological 
metaphysics, he was no sooner involved in its 
mazes, than he went on to study a new and still 
wilder contrivance. But his next invention, his 
wings of wax, in which he trusted to secure his 
flight, in their ultimate result betrayed Vheir 
insufficiency. His incautious companion, by 
mounting above the prescribed region of safety, 
exposed his artificial wings to be melted by the 
sun, as a punishment for approaching it too 
nearly. His fate was the inevitable consequence 
of his temerity. 

If we were completely and instantaneously 
sanctified, such a state would boldly contradict 
the character of our human condition, every 
where described in Scripture, namely, that life 
is to the end a journey, a conflict, a race, a war- 
fare, whereas in the new scheme all would be 
peace ; the Christian would have no more to 
tempt, no more to fear, no more to resist, in 
short, earth would be heaven. 

Every thing that is great is progressive. — The 
noblesf things are the longest in attaining their 
perfection. This analogy subsists in nature, 
and in grace. Surely, then, there is no assign- 
able period, when our virtues will be incapable 
of addition ; when our duties will be finished ; 
when our piety will have soared to such a pitch 
as to render a higher elevation impossible, as to 
render prayer, not only unnecessary, but absurd. 

Saint Paul's conversion was indeed instanta- 
neous, but it was miraculous. Yet though it 
was attended with circumstances peculiar to it- 
self; though the shining light from heaven sur- 
rounded him ; though, to evidence the miracle, 
he heard the voice of the Lord Jesus himself; 
though his natural sight was taken from him, 
preparatory to the opening of his spiritual eyes ; 
though his change was of this distinguished 
character, yet did he stop short there ? So far 
from it, he only began to cry out, 'Lord, what 
wilt thou have me to do ? Thus we see, that 
the instantaneous conversion was prayer ; prac- 
tical prayer; prayer with involved doing; prayer 
which denoted progress. 

If ever progressive sanctification was exhibit- 
ed in the life, as well as writings, of any one 
man more than another, it was in this heroic 
champion of divine truth. If ever one man 
more than another had a right to depend on his 
own safe state, it was the divinely illuminated 
Saint Paul. 

Yet did he spend his after-life in self-satisfac- 
tion and indolent security ? Did he ever cease 
to watch, or pray, or labour ? Did he ever cease 
to press the duty of prayer on his most esta- 
blished converts ? Did he, in the confidence of 
supremely eminent gifts, ever cease himself to 
pray ? Were his exertions ever abridged ? his 
self-denial ever diminished ? Did he rest satis- 
fied with present, though supernatural attain- 
ments? Did he remember the things which 
were behind ? Did he live upon the good he 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



491 



had already done, or the grace he had already 
received ? Did he count himself to have attain- 
ed ? Did he stop in the race set before him ? 
Did not he press forward? Did not his endea- 
vours grow with his attainments ? Did not his 
humility, and sense of dependence outstrip both ? 
If he feared being a castaway, after the unut- 
terable things he had seen and heard, and after 
the wonders he had achieved, shall the best man 
on earth be contented to remain as he is 7 If it 
were attempted, the most sanguine man on earth 
would find it to be impossible ; nothing either 
in nature or in grace ' continueth in one stay.' 
He who does not advance, is already gone back. 
— This glorious, because humble Apostle, went 
on in progressive sanctification, he continued to 
grow and to pray, till he at length attained to 
the measure of the stature of the fulness of 
Christ. 

But what enabled this unparalleled man to 
maintain to the end, this painful conflict ? It 
was the same support which is still offered to 
the meanest Christian. It was humble, fervent, 
persevering prayer. It was the spirit of suppli- 
cation, infused and sustained by ' the renewing 
of the Holy Ghost,' and presented through the 
divine Mediator. 

And what the Apostle did in his own person, 
we repeat, he unweariedly pressed upon all his 
converts. He exhorted them to pray for them- 
selves, and for each other, in the same spirit in 
which ' he bowed his own knees unto the Fa- 
ther of our Lord Jesus Christ, that they may be 
strengthened with might by his Spirit in the 
inner man ; that Christ might dwell in their 
hearts by faith ; that they might be rooted and 
grounded in love ; that they might know the love 
of Christ, which passeth knowledge ; that they 
might be filled with all the fulness of God.' 

It is obvious why God does not give us the 
full measure of his grace ; it is in order that we 
may be induced to pray for it ; and that prayer 
which we are commanded continually to repeat 
for greater degrees of grace, is a standing proof 
of that imperfection in us which requires it, is a 
perpetual intimation, that we stand in need of 
fresh supplies, and larger measures of this super- 
induced strength than we have yet attained. 

A sincere Christian must know, because he 
must feel, that he is an imperfect Christian ; and 
to rest satisfied in a state of imperfection is not 
• fighting the good fight,' is not ' finishing our 
course' in the way our beginning promised. As 
we advance, Providence assigns us new employ- 
ments, new trials. Sanctification will never have 
reached its ultimate point, without that perse- 
vering progress which the Scriptures every 
where inculcate. Do we not rob ourselves of 
the reward promised to those who strive to go 
on unto perfection, if we are stopped short by the 
fatal delusion, that we have already reached it? 

There is a fearful denunciation in the Apoca- 
lypse, and it is made the closing passage of the 
sacred canon ; it is made a fence, as it were to 
shield divine truth from the additions and muti- 
lations of bold intruders ; no less than a tremen- 
dous menace, that 'to him who adds unto these 
things, God shall add to him the plagues written 
in this book. To him that takes away, God 
.shall take away his part out of the book of life.' 



Character of those who expect salvation for their 
Good Works. — Of those who depend on a 
Careless Nominal Faith. — Both these charac- 
ters unfavourable to Prayer. — Christianity a 
Religion of Love which disposes to Prayer, 
exhibited in a third character. 

We proceed now to make some observation 
on two different classes of Christians, who, with- 
out neglecting prayer, obstruct its efficacy by 
certain opinions in immediate connection with 
their practice ; opinions, which, though in direct 
opposition to each other, yet, if Christianity be 
true, are neither of them safe. 

The one, with a pretence of faith, profess to 
know God ; but in works, in a great measure 
deny him ; the other are working out their own 
salvation, but it is without fear or trembling ; 
they work in their own strength, without look- 
ing unto God to enable them ' to will and to do 
of Hie good pleasure.' 

While multitudes are ruining themselves by 
a fatal reliance on the merit of their own works, 
it is, perhaps, not saying too much to assert 
that more are undone by a loose, traditional, un- 
examined dependence on the Saviour. If many 
are wrong who think to purchase heaven by 
their own industry, more err by this cheaper 
mode of an indefinite and careless reliance on 
the ill-understood promises of the Gospel. If we 
cannot, of these two evils, determine which is 
greatest, it would not be difficult to prove that 
both are equally unfavourable to fervent prayer. 

The careless liver who trusts in an unfounded 
hope, deceives, himself, because he thinks his 
trust, though he never inquires into it, looks 
more like grace. 

Good works are rather less likely to deceive 
always, because those who maintain their su- 
periority as a doctrine, cannot but see how 
far they fall themselves in practice, short of their 
profession ; so far as to render it evident, that 
good works are with much greater sedulity per- 
formed by that sound class of Christians, who 
utterly reject any confidence in the perform- 
ance of them. The former make salvation the 
easiest possible acquisition ; the other believe it 
to be difficult, but fancy that the difficulty is to 
be overcome by a few more good deeds ; which 
shall we say is the more misleading opinion ? 

Yet it must be confessed, that in this age of 
speculative religion, many do not sufficiently 
insist on these indispensable indications of a 
true and lively faith. For, after all, are not the 
right actions of a consistently holy life, the most 
unequivocal outward signs of an inward and 
spiritual grace ? Not to insist on them, is to 
despise the value of those substantial evidences 
which our Lord himself made the criterion by 
which to judge of men, — ' by their fruits ye 
shall know them.' The tree of life is no barren 
tree ; it bears all manner of fruits. 

There is indeed less necessity than ever to 
decry good works. Men are not so violently ad- 
dicted to them, as, by the warnings given against 
them, one might be led to suppose. To exalt 
good works as the procuring cause of salvation, 
is to put them in the place of Christ. To de- 
preciate good works, is to depreciate such a life 
as Christ has given us both the command, and 



492 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



the example to lead ; that command, of which 
the language was always one, ' if ye love me, 
keep my commandments;' and that example 
which presents such a tissue of holy actions, as 
nothing but Divinity could exhibit, yet enlight- 
ened and assisted humanity may and must 
aspire to imitate. 

With this command and this example, devo- 
tion was always indissolubly connected. — Pre- 
viously to giving his Divine pattern for the due 
performance of prayer, he alluded to the actual 
duty as already well understood and regularly 
practised ; for doubtless he had habituated them 
to the duty, before he said, ' when we pray,' — 
'After this manner therefore pray you.' 

Faith is the principle which first led the sin- 
ner to apply for grace and mercy to the Re- 
deemer of sinners. It is the same principle, 
which, by its gradual operation, leads to the re- 
newing of his nature, the purifying his heart, 
and the sanctifying his conduct. This faith, 
with its practical consequences, must be sought 
for, by the only means through which it can be 
obtained, the influence of the Holy Spirit on 
humble, fervent, spiritual prayer. 

But there is another, and, it is to be feared, 
a large class, who do good without being good. 
Though this may be too frequently the case ; 
though it is the motive which determines on the 
quality of the action, yet, if the best action will 
not save the best man, there is little hope of its 
efficacy towards the salvation of a bad one. 

Perhaps the man in question is charitable ; 
but his charity may be stimulated by his vanity 
— a too common, but most misleading motive. 
Perhaps he does a deed of bounty from the too 
usual hope that this good action may be thrown 
into the opposite scale against a bad one ; per- 
haps he hopes that his acts of benevolence may 
atone for the irregularities of a disorderly life — 
but, be this as it may, do not discourage his 
giving, let him continue to give, the act may 
improve the principle, he may in time detect 
the difference of his internal feelings in the per- 
formance of a good and bad action. — Perhaps 
the repetition of his good deeds may lead to a 
diminution of hia bad ones. The passion of 
shame sometimes operates usefully, and every 
passion being under the control of God, may 
eventually be made the instrument of good. 

And who does not remember instances in 
which the frequently repeated bounty was the 
unprompted feeling of a compassionate and libe- 
ral heart, of a heart tender and kind, though yet 
unsanctified by religion ? 

Yet who would restrain the right action ? 
Who would forbid the gentle deed of charity ? 
Who would wish to aggravate his perhaps aw- 
ful account by withholding his hand ? Who 
would willingly add this omission of what is 
right to his aggregate sum of what is wrong? 
Who would not even hope that it may prove a 
leading step to what is better ? Who would not 
hope that, as good principles naturally tend to 
good actions, yet though it is reversing the 
usual order, for the stream to lead back to the 
fountain, yet who knows but the repetition of 
good actions may not only deter him from such 
as are bad, but may put his mind into such a 
frame as may lead him to examine the true 



principle of action, and thus to find, that though 
he has unhappily begun at the wrong end, that 
the right end is not even yet unattainable ? Who 
can say that he may not be brought to examine 
his own heart, and be thus brought to the exer- 
cise of cordial prayer ; by that he will be taught 
to know that ' if any man will do the will of 
God, he shall know of the doctrine whether it 
be of God.' 

Our compassionate Redeemer cherished every 
hopeful appearance. When he saw some symp- 
toms of goodness in the young Ruler ' He loved 
him.' But his amiableness was not religion 
Though his obedience to the commandmenta 
was less defective than that of many a high 
professor ; like others, who confidently trust in 
their own merit, he inquired not, it is to be 
feared, so much for improvement, as from a 
sense of conscious integrity and the hope of 
commendation — he inquired what was yet want- 
ing to the perfection of his character. 

He who knew all things, already knew that 
his love of money was greater than his love of 
God. Here he saw that this promising charac- 
ter was vulnerable. The one thing he wanted 
was more than the many things he possessed. 
He failed in the trial. He had some concern 
about his soul, but more about his money ; ' he 
went away sorrowing,' because he could not se- 
cure the one without the sacrifice of the other. 

This is, with us, as much a test of character 
now, as it was then. It is not until we see a 
man acting in direct opposition to his predomi- 
nant sin that wo can Venture to hope that he ia 
renewed in the spirit of his mind, that he ia 
even got on right ground. Zaccheus, who proba- 
bly set out worse than the ruler, obtained this 
grand victory which the other missed. 
( This promising young man, in proclaiming 
his obedience to the commands, did not, how- 
ever, boast of his devotion ; yet, in so moral a 
character, we cannot suppose that prayer was 
altogether neglected — but it must have been that 
prayer of which our Lord says 'this people 
draweth nigh unto me with their mouth, and 
honoureth me with their lips, their heart is far 
from me.' Had it been sincere prayer, it would 
have been influential prayer. No slave to ava- 
rice can worship God in spirit and in truth, and 
it is such that the Father seeketh to worship 
him. While the heart remains unchanged, the 
temper unsanctified, and the life unfruitful, the 
prayer has not been ' the effectual fervent prayer 
which availeth much.' 

But there is a third character, who, thinking 
both the others lately noticed to be wrong, ia 
determined himself to be right. He divides the 
difference, and adopts half of the scheme of 
each. He approves of works, but doubts their 
unassisted efficacy to obtain salvation. He ho- 
nours the Redeemer, and places confidence in 
His sacrifice; but it is not a full, entire, unmea- 
sured confidence. He thinks the Saviour so far 
competent towards effecting part of his salvation 
that he cannot be saved without Him, but dares 
not trust Him with the whole. So, without in- 
tending to be profane, he enters into a kind of 
partnership with Him whose blood was made a 
full, perfect, and sufficient oblation, and satis- 
faction for the sins of the whole world. He pro- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



poses to contribute his own share to a contract 
of his own making, trusting that, as the Saviour 
knows he is not perfect, He will graciously 
supply whatever is deficient in his services, and 
make up what is lacking to their perfection, he 
himself continuing to be the working partner. 

But if he be a thinking and a feeling charac- 
ter, if he bo sincere in his desire after divine 
truth, though ignorant of its true nature, he at 
length begins to find that the plan, which he 
once thought so admirably contrived, does not 
answer. He finds that his spiritual interests do 
not advance. He begins to discover that his 
faith is cold, even his work is sluggish, and its 
progress unsatisfactory. His exertions want 
the inspiring principle, they want a genuine 
faith. He begins to discover, that even his 
good actions, on which he had been accustomed 
to rest half his salvation, are exceeded by those 
persons who do more, and put no trust in them. 
He at length through the influence of divine 
grace, begins to discover, or rather to feel, that 
while one party is exclusively exalting faith and 
the other works, both seem to have forgotten, or 
rather not to have known, that there is a third, 
a heavenly principle, a sacred cement without 
which their separation might be eternal, and 
even their junction would be imperfect. This 
sacred principle is love. He now knows, ex- 
perimentally, that Christianity is a religion of 
the affections, a sentiment of the heart — that it 
demands and confers that charity without which 
faith is dead, and works are vain. It is that 
heavenly sentiment, the love of God in Christ 
shed abroad in the heart, without which he 
that liveth is counted dead — that principle, 
without which the gift of prophecy, of mysteries, 
and all knowledge are unavailing — without 
which, giving all the goods to the poor, and 
even the body to be burned, will not profit — it 
is that indestructible attribute, which, when 
prophecies shall fail, and tongues shall cease, 
and knowledge vanish away, will never fail — it 
is that perfect thing which shall subsist when 
• that which is in part shall be done away.' Love 
will survive when faith shall become sight, and 
hope shall be fruition. It shall constitute our 
happiness when we shall know God 'even as we 
are known. We shall possess it in its pleni- 
tude, when we shall wake up after His like- 
ness. For love, like every other holy disposi- 
tion, is but an emanation of the perfections of 
God, a spark from the original flame, an assimi- 
lation to his nature ; since God is love. 

In faith there may be /ear ; in works there 
may be constraint ; but the inspiring, invigo- 
rating, endearing principle of love, changes the 
fearful slave into the affectionate child; trans- 
forms Him whom he had degraded as a hard 
master into a tender father. — This love makes 
labour light, service freedom, dependence safety, 
duty delight, sufferings easy, obedience plea- 
sure, submission choice. By the warmth with 
which he now cultivates this ' Unction from the 
Holy One,' he will be rendered more meet for 
that fulness of joy which is at His right-hand 
for evermore. 

He has now completely found his own utter 
insufficiency for this great work. He is in the 
situation of the newly converted apostle, who 



had doubtless previously exercised a regular 
but formal devotion, but it never would havo 
been said of him before — ' behold he prayeth !' 
He begins with lowly prostration to besiege the 
throne of grace ; he now prays with a fervour 
he never felt before. He goes on to feel, not 
only its necessity, but its efficacy ; gradually 
acknowledges its transforming power, and in 
time becomes sensible that its consolations are 
neither few nor small. 

He now sees objects with other eyes, the 
visual ray is purged ; to his rectified optics — 
'trees are become men.' He now exclaims, 
' not of works, lest any man should boast.' But 
though he has left off boasting, he is so far from 
having left off working, that he is far more ac- 
tive in good deeds than when he trusted they 
would carry him to heaven ; superinduced hu- 
mility has completely led him to tlfe secrets of 
his own heart. He feels wants and desires of 
which he was never before sensible ; and wants 
felt readily find a tongue, readily suggest un- 
bidden prayer, unprompted praise. Prayer is 
become the very breath of his being ; praise is 
so much his delight, that he almost forgets it 
is his duty. It is no longer his task, but his 
refreshment. What lately seemed a necessary 
drudgery, the severe injunction of a hard master, 
is now the pleasant service of an affectionate 
child. 

He is deeply grieved at the time he has lost, 
but he is no less disposed to retrieve than to la- 
ment the past. He has found that the soul will 
not be saved where the heart is not renewed. 
Of that renewal, by the influence of the Divine 
Spirit, he is become more and more sensible in 
his devotional exercises. With a deeper sense of 
imperfection as he becomes less imperfect, he is 
yet sensible of new dispositions, of new energies, 
of a heart to trust, and a will to obey. He feels 
an increasing desire of conformity to his Di- 
vine Saviour, and such a growth in grace, that 
with him to will and to do is almost become tho 
same thing. 

All the faculties which God has given him 
are filled with the idea of God. He retains Him 
in his memory by the recollection of His mercies 
— he retains Him in his understanding, by 
meditating on His perfections. By this intelli- 
gent faculty he reflects on what God is in him- 
self, in His word, and to his own soul. In his- 
will, he loves God, and laments that he ever 
loved any thing in comparison of Him. Thus 
all his intellectual powers, voluntarily as it were, 
press into the worship of God, or, in the fewer 
and better words of the Psalmist, he summons 
them all to assist in his devotions, saying, 'Let 
all that is within me praise the Lord.' 



Prayer. — The Condition of its Attendant Bles 
sings. — Useless Contention about Terms. 

Men contend more about words than about 
things. A misunderstanding respecting them 
causes more disputes than the subjects of which 
they are the signs. In speaking, for instance, 
of the connexion between prescribed duties and 
promised blessings, are there not certain in- 
offensive and well-meaning words which seem 



494 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



to have brought more reproach on those who use 
them than their harmless, if not legitimate 
character, may be thought to deserve. One of 
them, indeed, might expect more gentle treat- 
ment on the single ground that it is very fre- 
quently to be found in the Holy Scriptures. 

The obnoxious terms to which we here allude 
are rewards and conditions. We have in gene- 
ral avoided the use of them, not for any harm 
discoverable in them when used and understood 
in the scriptural sense, but for fear of creating 
an idea contrary to what was intended to be con- 
veyed. In the legal sense they are very excep- 
tionable, for in the one case we deserve nothing 
from God, and in the other we can do nothing 
of ourselves. 

We do not presume to make conditions with 
God, but He condescends to propose them to us. 
In tins latter case, it is free grace imposes the 
reasonable condition : his free grace bestows 
the unmerited reward. — Are not all the promises 
of the Gospel conditional ? The beatitudes in- 
clude both the condition and the reward. Our 
blessed Saviour, in his sermon, multiplies, and 
individualizes his promises. He gives us a string 
of articles of blessedness and recompence ; 
the specific recompence to the specific duty ; 
amongst others, mercy to the merciful ; the king- 
dom of heaven to those who are persecuted for 
righteousness' sake ; the vision of God to the 
pure in heart. 

The Holy Spirit consecrates the doctrine of 
rewards, by teaching the Apostle to connect 
it even with the very being of Omnipotence. 
God is,' and it immediately follows, that 'he 
is a rewarder of them that seek him.' Surely 
this is a condition, as much as the threat that 
he will punish those ' who know not God.' 
Every where, and particularly in the Psalms, 
prayer is made the condition of obtaining. In 
asking, seeking, and knocking, the condition 
and the reward most appropriately meet. 

To those who come to the Redeemer, he has 
declared that ' they shall in no wise be cast out.' 
Their coming is the condition of their being ac- 
cepted. ' Rest,' again, is the consoling promise 
which he makes to ' the heavy laden' who come 
to him. ' He that honoureth me I will honour,' 
is both a condition and a reward. What is the 
promise of pardon to repentance, but a condi- 
tion ? The negative denunciation is a condition. 
' Ye will not come to me, that ye might have 
life.' ' Without holiness no man shall see the 
Lord ; without faith it is impossible to please 
God.' Do not these imply the blessings at- 
tending the contrary temper ? State the ques- 
tion thus : Shall we be heard, if we do not 
pray ? Shall we be pardoned, if we do not re- 
pent ? 

' Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, the things 
which God hath prepared for them that love 
him.' It is the love of God then, which is the 
condition of obtaining those things which the 
heart of man cannot conceive. 

All the promises made to faith are conditions, 
as are those made to holiness. The good and 
faithful servants who well employed their ten 
and five talents, were rewarded by having their 
talents doubled ; the punishment of their unpro- 
fitable companion was a conditional punishment. 



He had made no use of what was committed to 
him. 

Why is that bright variety of promises, ' to 
him that overcometh,' repeated with such un- 
wearied iteration, in the sublime visions of the 
Saint at Patmos? What is it but a beautiful 
concatenation of conditions and rewards, closed 
with that joyful climax, 'he that overcometh 
shall be a pillar in the temple of the Lord, and 
shall go no more out.' If language more clear 
can be found, if assurance more explicit can be 
given, if promises more distinct can be produced, 
we confess we know not where to look for them. 
Did noi Moses himself, the most disinterested 
of men, look to the recompence of the reward ? 
And did not a greater than Moses, 'for the joy 
that was set before him endured the cross, de- 
spising the shame ?' 

Promises like these were the support, and 
triumph of his immediate apostles, and of their 
remotest successors ; of Ridley, and Latimer, and 
Cranmer. They will still be the consolation of 
the Christian sufferer for righteousness sake to 
the end of time. — Let us not then forfeit our 
inheritance by slighting the promise. 

'This is a reward wholly of grace in respect 
of our deserving, but of justice, on account of 
the purchase' of it by the sacred treasures of 
Christ's blood, and the unchangeable tenor of 
the Gospel wherein God promises heaven to all 
obedient and true believers.' 

The things may be called by other names, 
but they amount to the same meaning; — There 
is a proud disinterestedness which would seem 
to intimate, that, because we deserve nothing we 
expect nothing. Our expectation, it is true, 
arises entirely from God's goodness, and not at 
all from our merit. It arises especially from 
his fidelity, which leads him to make good his 
own engagement. He has Himself said, ' faith- 
ful is He that has promised.' 

This View of the subject deducts nothing 
from that free salvation purchased for us by the 
death of the Redeemer. We repeat, it deducts 
nothing from the sovereignty of God. All the 
promises are the gracious offers of an amnesty 
by an insulted King, who condescends to offer 
a treaty to his rebellious subjects. We de- 
serve nothing at his hands, fie owes us no- 
thing. Punishment we do indeed deserve ' if 
He were extreme to mark what -is done 
amiss f yet he declares that punishment is 
his strange work. He has reversed the at- 
tainder, by the sacrifice of his Son. The at- 
tainted rebel, instead of disputing about the 
terms of reconciliation, instead of proposing 
terms of his own, thankfully accepts what the 
king offers. Though our pardon hangs on a firm 
belief in the great truths he has revealed, let us 
not so explain these as to hazard or neglect 
the duties he has enjoined us to perform. If 
our faith, though sincere, is often weak, let U8 
remember, that our obedience is even more im- 
perfect than our faith ; and let us, by fervent 
and unremitting prayer, labour at once to build 
up our faith which is weak, and to perfect our 
obedience which is defective. 

God not only pardons as a merciful king, 
He enacts laws as a wise legislator; still the 
old revolutionary principles are continually 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



4?5 



breaking out ; to check which the sovereign pro- 
poses terms as proofs of our allegiance. — He 
does by no means annex salvation to them, but 
he requires them as marks of our repentance, 
as confirmation of our loyalty. He requires 
them as evidences, both of our faith and of our 
submission. By the infusion of a new spirit 
of life consequent on His pardon, the acquitted 
rebel adopts anew set of principles which show 
themselves by overt acts, suggested and nourish- 
ed by fervent prayer. 

We are aware that the term ' evidences' used 
above, is to many no less revolting, than those 
which we have previously noticed, but by this 
excessive affectation of disinterestedness and re- 
fining on the promises, we shall come to do 
away all moral obligation, we shall attenuate 
the substantial realities of Christianity into a 
meagre theory, reduce the fruitful principle of 
practical religion, to a dry and unproductive 
speculation, a barren thing to which nothing 
that is perceptible, palpable, tangible, and prac- 
tical, is necessarily appended. 

On the other hand, it is but too notorious, that 
the terms here humbly attempted to be vindi- 
cated and restored to their true signification, are 
too frequently made the sum and substance, the 
whole of religion, till the spirituality of the 
Gospel, and the great peculiarities of the reli- 
gion of Jesus, are smothered in the heap of fri 
gid human ethics. 

It is by the promises annexed to these condi- 
tions, that the Christian is gradually brought to 
consider prayer not merely as a duty, but to va- 
lue it as a privilege ; and the more earnestly he 
cultivates the spirit of supplication, the more 
deeply will it enable him to penetrate into the 
recesses of his own heart. The more he disco- 
vers the evils which he there finds, he will be 
so far from being deterred by the discovery, 
from approaching to the fountain of mercy, that 
it will lead him to be more diligent as well as 
more fervent, in his application there. Nothing 
so favourably discovers to us our spiritual ex- 
igencies, nothing can quicken our petitions for 
their relief so powerfully, as the conviction of 
their actual existence. — In this full conviction, 
in this earnest application, the Christian at 
length feels the efficacy of prayer in its consola- 
tions, its blessedness, in its transforming power. 



Vain Excuses for the Neglect of Prayer. — The 
Man of Business. — Case of Nehemiah. — Pray- 
er against the Fear of Death. — Characters to 
whom this Prayer is recommended. 

There are not a few, who offer apologies for 
the neglect of spiritual duties, by saying they 
believe them to be right, but that they are tempt- 
ed from the exercise of them by idleness, or 
business, by company, or pleasure. This may 
be true, but temptations are not compulsions. 
The great adversary of souls may fill the fancy 
with alluring images of enjoyment, so as to draw 
us away from any duty, but it is in our own 
choice to indulge, and through grace to repel 
them. He may act upon the passions through 
outward objects, which introduce them to the 
mind through the senses, but the grace of God 



enables all who faithfully ask it, to withstand 
them. 

If we were not at liberty to reject temptation, 
sin would be no sin. It is the offer of the grace 
of resistance not used, which makes the offender 
to be without excuse. All the motives and al- 
lurements to sin would be ineffectual, would we 
keep up in our minds what are its ' wages' — 
death ; death spiritual, death eternal ! 

Of all the excuses for the neglect of prayer, 
the man of business justifies his omission to 
himself by the most plausible apologies. — Many 
of this class, active for themselves, and useful 
to the world, are far from disputing either the 
propriety, or the duty of prayer ; they are willing 
however for the present, to turn over this duty 
to the clergy, to the idle, to women and children. 
They allow it to be an important thing, but not 
the most important. They acknowledge, if 
men have time to spare, they cannot spend it 
better ; but they have no time. It is indeed a 
duty, but a duty not to be compared with that 
of the court, the bar, the public office, the count- 
ing-house, or the shop. 

Now, in pleading for the importance of the 
one, we should be the last to detract from that 
of the other. We only plead for their entire 
compatability. 

We pass over the instance of Daniel, a man 
of business and a statesman, and of many other 
public characters, recorded in Scripture, and 
confine ourselves to the example of Nehemiah. 
He was not only an officer in the court of the 
greatest king of the East, but it was his duty to 
be much in the royal presence. He was on a 
particular occasion, under deep affliction ; for 
Jerusalem was in ruins ! On a certain day his 
sadness was so great, as to be visible to the 
king, at whose table he was attending. 

The monarch enquired the cause of his sor- 
row, and what request he had to make. — He in- 
stantly 'prayed to the God of heaven,' doubtless 
to strengthen him, and then made his petition to 
the king for no less a boon, than to allow him to 
rebuild the walls of the sacred city. His prayer 
preceded his request. It was that prayer, which 
gave him courage to present that petition, and 
which perhaps induced the sovereign to grant 
it. What a double encouragement is here given 
to the courtier, both to pray to God, and to speak 
truth to a king ! 

Though the plea of the man of business, for 
his own particular exemption, can by no means 
be granted, yet it is the sense he entertains of 
the value of his professional duties, which de- 
ceives him. It leads him to believe, that there 
can be no evil in substituting business for devo- 
tion. He is conscious that he is industrious, 
and he knows that industry is a great moral 
quality. He is rightly persuaded, that the man 
of pleasure has no such plea to produce. He 
therefore imposes on himself, with the belief 
that there can be no harm in substituting a mo- 
ral for a religious exercise ; for he has learned 
to think highly of morality, while he assigns to 
religion only an inferior degree in his scale of 
duties. 

He usually goes to church once on the Sun- 
day ; but it does not at all infringe on his reli- 
gious system to examine bis accounts, to give 



496 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



a great dinner, or to begin a journey on that 
day. • 

Now it is a serious truth, that there is no man 
to whom prayer is more imperatively a duty, or 
more obviously a necessity, than to the man of 
business ; whether in the higher or the middle 
classes of society. There is no man who more 
stands in need of quieting his anxities, regu- 
lating his tempers, cooling his spirits by a de- 
vout application for the blessing of God ; none 
to whom it is more necessary to implore the di- 
vine protection for the duties, or preservation 
from the dangers of the scene in which he is 
about to engage ; none to whom it is more im- 
portant to solicit direction in the difficulties 
which the day may produce; none on whom it 
is more incumbent to solicit support against the 
temptations which may be about to assail him ; 
none to whom the petition for an enlightened 
conscience, an upright intention, a sound pro- 
bity, and an undeviating sincerity, is of more 
importance. 

What is so likely as prayer to enable him to 
stand prepared to meet the accidental fluctua- 
tions in his affairs, to receive without inebria- 
tion, a sudden flow of prosperous fortune, or to 
sustain any adverse circumstance with resigna- 
tion ? 

Even persons in more retired situations, even 
those who have made considerable advances in 
religion cannot but acknowledge how much the 
ordinary and necessary cares of daily life, espe- 
cially, how much any unexpected accession to 
them, are likely to cause absence and distraction 
in their devotions : — how much then ought they, 
whose whole life is business, to be on their guard 
against these dangers, to double their vigilance 
against them, and to implore direction under 
them. 

Were the Christian soldier accustomed never 
to engage in the moral battle of daily life, with- 
out putting on this panoply, the shafts of tempta- 
tion would strike with a feeble and erring blow ; 
they would not so deeply pierce the guarded 
heart. And were fervent humble daily prayer 
once conscientiously adopted, its effects would 
reach beyond the week-day engagements. It 
would gradually extend its benign influence to 
the postponing of settling accounts, the festive 
dinner, and the not absolutely necessary jour- 
ney, to one of those six days in which we are 
enjoined to labour. It would lead him to the 
habit of doing ' no manner of work' on that day, 
in which the doing of it was prohibited by the 
great Lawgiver in his own person. 

We have more than once alluded to the di- 
versities of character, occasional events, differ- 
ence in the state of mind as well as of circum- 
stances, which may not only render the prayer 
which is suitable to one man unsuitable to an- 
other, but unsuitable to the same man under 
every alteration of circumstances. 

But among the proper topics for prayer, there 
is one which, being of universal interest ought 
not to be omitted. For by whatever dissimi- 
larity of character, capacity, profession, station, 
or temper, the condition of man, and, of course, 
the nature of prayer, is diversified — there is one 
grand point of union, one circumstance, one con- 
dition, in whi' 1 '.. ^bsy must all meet ; one state, 



of which every man is equally certain ; one 
event which happeneth to all, — 'it is appointed 
unto every man once to die.' The rugged road 
of sorrow, the flowery path of pleasure, as well as 

' The paths of glory, lead but to the grave.' 

In praying, therefore, against the fear of death, 
we do not pray against a contingent but a cer- 
tain evil ; we pray to be delivered from the over- 
whelming dread of that house which is appoint- 
ed for all living — we are put in mind that all 
who are born must die! 

' The end of all things is at hand.' To what 
purpose does the apostle convert this awful pro- 
clamation ? Does he use it to encourage gloomy 
tempers, to invite to unprofitable melancholy ? 
No : he uses the solemn admonition to stir us up 
to moral goodness — therefore, ' be sober' — he 
does more, he uses it to excite us to religious 
vigilance, — ' and watch unto prayer.' 

Some men, and they are not the best men, 
talk boldly of death, especially while they sup- 
pose it to be at a distance ; but this boastful he- 
roism is a very equivocal symptom of their being 
in a proper state to meet it. Others of a less con- 
fident, but not more serious cast of mind, take 
pains to keep it as far as possible from their 
thoughts, lest the indulging such gloomy reflec- 
tions should make them uneasy, and embitter 
their present enjoyments. They banish it, in- 
deed, from their thoughts, as they do other un- 
pleasant subjects ; but it is no proof that we do 
not fear a thing, because we manage to keep it 
out of sight ; on the contrary, the effort betrays 
the very fear which it denies. 

There is an inconsistency in the character of 
man, so preposterous, that we should not believe 
it, if we did not feel as well as see it. We con- 
tinue eagerly to catch at the things which are 
always sliding from us, and which no grasp of 
ours can retain, whilst we forget the things that 
are not only hastening to meet us, but which 
will remain with us, not through time only, but 
eternity. 

Others are afraid to think of death for the , 
same reason, that they are afraid to make their 
will, lest it should bring it nearer : but we know 
that we will keep up the remembrance without 
accelerating the approach ; familiarity with the 
thought is the best means of conquering the 
fear. It is not pusillanimity, but pgudence, so 
to fear death as to fear to meet it in an unpre- 
pared state of mind ; and that fear will always 
be safe and salutary, which leads to the prepa- 
ration. 

Prayer against the fear of death, by keeping 
up in us a constant remembrance of our mor- 
tality, will help to wean us from a too intimate 
attachment to the things we are so soon to quit. 
By this habitual preparation to meet our Judge, 
we shall be brought to pray more earnestly for 
an interest in the great Intercessor ; and to strive 
more effectually against every offence which 
may aggravate the awfulness of that meeting. — 
Above all, such a prayer will more emphatically 
remind us that it was sin which brought death 
into the world, which introduces that original 
principle and first act of sin, from which all our 
natural evil, and practical offences are derived. 

But let us not be accustomed to think of death 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



497 



as a detached and separate object, as the mere 
insulated circumstance of its closing our eyes 
for ever on all we have been accustomed to che- 
rish ; let us not think-of it only as a consign- 
ment to the narrow chambers of the tomb, but 
let us ever connect with the idea of death, the 
consoling assurance that to the real Christian, 
its sting is drawn out ; this will fill the heart 
with boundless love and endless gratitude to Him 
who has extracted it. This thought of death, 
though it will keep up in the mind the anticipa- 
tion of that night, which as to this world shall 
know no morning, will also keep up the glorious 
prospect of that eternal day which shall know 
no night. 

Fervent prayer, that divine grace may pre- 
pare us for deaih, will, if cordially adopted, an- 
swer many great moral purposes. It will re- 
mind every individual of every class that ' the 
time is short' — that ' there is no repentance in 
the grave.' 

To the man of opulence, who heapeth up riches 
and cannot tell who shall gather them, prayer 
will be a constant memento : it will remind him 
that he walketh in a vain shadow, and disquiet- 
eth himself in vain ; it will remind him of laying 
up treasures where thieves cannot enter, nor 
rust corrode. 

The habit of praying against the fear of death, 
Would check the pride of youthful beauty, by re- 
minding her how soon it must say to the worm, 
Thou art my father, and to corruption, Thou art 
my mother and sister. 

The man of genius, he who thought that of 
making many books there would be no end ; 
who, in his zeal to write, had neglected to pray; 
who had thought little of any immortality but 
that which was to be conferred by the applause 
of dying creatures like himself; who, in the 
vanity of possessing talents, had forgotten that 
he must one day account for the application of 
them ; if happily he should be brought to see 
the evil of his own heart, to feel the wants of his 
own soul, how intense will be his repentance, 
that he had loved the praise of men more than 
the praise of God! how fervently will he pray 
that his mercies may not aggravate the account 
of his sins ; that his talents may not become the 
instrument of his punishment ! How earnestly 
will he supplicate pardon, how devoutly will he 
• give glory to God, before his feet stumble on 
the dark mountains !' 

The man of business, to whom we have al- 
ready adverted, who thought his schemes so 
deeply laid, his speculations so prudently plan- 
ned, that nothing could frustrate them ; who cal- 
culated that the future was as much in his power 
as the present, forgot that death, that grand sub- 
verter of projects, might interpose his veto. This 
man, who could not find time to pray, must find 
time to die — he may at length find — happy if he 
ever find it, that he cannot meet his end with a 
peaceful heart, and a resigned spirit, without 
the preparation of prayer for support in that aw. 
ful period, ' when his purposes shall be broken 
off and all his thoughts perish. 1 

The man of pleasure, alas I what shall we say 
for him? He is sunk to the lowest step of de- 
gradation in the moral scale ; he has not even 
human supports; he has robbed himself even 

Vol. II. 2 I 



of the ordinary consolations resorted to by ordi- 
nary men. He has no stay on which to lay hold, 
no twig at which to catch, no pretence by which 
to flatter himself into a false peace ; no recollec- 
tion of past usefulness ; he has neither served 
his country ; nor benefitted society — what shall 
we say for him ? If he pray not for himself, we 
must pray for him — with God all things are pos- 
sible. 

The patriot, indefatigable in the public ser- 
vice, distinguished for integrity ; but neglect- 
ing the offices of Christianity ; whose lofty cha- 
racter power had not warped, nor cupidity de- 
based, but whose religious principles, though 
they had never been renounced, had not been 
kept in exorcise ; a spirit of rare disinterested- 
ness ; a moralist of unblanched honour, but who 
pleaded that duty had left him little time for de- 
votion ! Should divine grace incline him at last 
to seek God, should he begin to pray to be pre- 
pared for death and judgment, he will deeply 
regret with the contrite cardinal, not that he 
served his king faithfully, but Jhat his higher 
services had not been devoted to their highest 
object. In this frame of mind, that ambition 
which was satisfied with what earth could give, 
or kings reward, will appear no longer glorious 
in his eyes. True and just to his king, devoted 
to his country, faithful to all but his God and 
himself, he now laments that he had neglected 
to seek a better country, neglected to serve the 
King Eternal, the blessed and only Potentate ; 
neglected to obtain an interest in a kingdom 
which shall not be moved, He feels that mere 
patriotism, grand as is its object, and important 
as is its end, will not afford support to a soul 
sinking at the approach of the inevitable hour, 
at the view of final judgment. 

The hero, who, in the hot engagement, sur- 
rounded with the ' pride, pomp, and circum- 
stance of war,' bravely defied death ; forgot all 
that was personal, and only remembered — nobly 
remembered, his country, and his immediate 
duty ; — animated with the glory that was to be 
acquired with his arm, and almost ready to ex- 
claim with the Roman patriot ; 

-What pity 



That we can die but once to serve our country !' 

yet this hero, if he had ever made a conscience 
of prayer, may he not hereafter find, that the 
most successful instrumentality is a distinct 
thing in itself, and will be different in its re- 
sults, from personal piety ? May he not find 
that, though he saved others, himself he cannot 
save ? 

If, however, in after-life, in the cool shade of 
honourable retirement, he be brought through 
the grace of God, to habituate himself to earnest 
prayer, he will deeply rsgret that he never en- 
tered the field of battle without imploring the 
favour of the God of battles ; that he had ever 
returned alive from slaughtered squadrons, with- 
out adoring the Author of his providential pre- 
servation. If his penitence be sincere, his prayer 
will be effectual. It will fortify him under the 
mere depressing prospect of that death which is 
soon to be encountered in tlie solitude of his 
darkened chamber, without witnesses, without 
glory, without the cheering band, without the 



493 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Bpirit-stirring drum ; without the tumultuous 
acclamation; with no objects to distract his at- 
tention ; no conflicting concerns to divide his 
thoughts ; no human arm, either of others or 
his own, on which to depend. This timely re- 
flection, this late, though never too late prayer, 
may still prepare him for a peaceful dying-bed ; 
may lead him to lean on a stronger arm than 
his own, or that of an army ; may conduct him 
to a victory over his last enemy, and thus dis- 
pose him to meet death in a safer state than 
when he despised it in the field, may bring him 
to acknowledge, that while he continued to live 
without subjection to the Captain of his salva- 
tion, though he had fought bravely, he had not 
yet fought the good fight. 



The Consolations of Prayer- 
ligation. 



■Its Perpetual Ob- 



In addition to what has already been observ- 
ed, as to convenient seasons for prayer, we 
cannot but remark, that many Christians have 
been enabled to convert their trials into bless- 
ings, by gradually bringing themselves to de- 
vote the hours of wakeful and even painful 
nights to devout meditation and prayer. By 
doing at first some violence to their inclinations, 
they have afterwards found in it both profit and 
pleasure. The night has been made to them a 
season of heart-searching thought and spiritual 
consolation. Solitude and stillness completely 
shut out the world ; its business, its cares, its 
impertinences. The mind is sobered, the pas- 
sions are stilled, it seems to the watchful Chris- 
tian as if there were in the universe only God 
and his own soul. It is an inexpressible conso- 
lation to him to feel that the one Being in the 
universe, who never slumbereth nor sleepeth, 
is the very Being to whom he has free access, 
even in the most unseasonable hours. The fa- 
culties of the mind may not, perhaps, be in their 
highest exercise, but the affections of the heart, 
from the exclusion of distracting objects, more 
readily ascend to their noblest object. Night 
and darkness are no parasites : conscience is 
more easily alarmed. It puts on fewer dis- 
guises. We appear to ourselves more what we 
really are. This detection is salutary. The 
glare which the cheerful day-light, business, 
pleasure and company, had shed over all objects, 
is withdrawn. Schemes which, in the day had 
appeared plausible, now present objections. 
What had then appeared safe, now, at least, 
seems to require deliberation. This silent sea- 
son of self-examination, is a keen detector of 
any latent evil, which, like the fly in the box of 
perfume, may corrupt much that is pure. 

When this communion with God can be main- 
tained, it supplies deficiencies of devotion to 
those who have little leisure during the day ; 
and, by thus rescuing these otherwise lost hours, 
it snatches time from oblivion, at once adds to 
the length of life, and weans from the love of it. 

If the wearied and restless body be tempted 
to exclaim ' would God it were morning,' the 
very term suggests the most consoling of all 
images. The quick mind shoots forward beyond 



this vale of tears, beyond the dark valley of the 
shadow of death ; it stretches onward to the joy- 
ful morning of the Resurrection ; it anticipates 
that blessed state where there is no more weep- 
ing and no more night — no weeping, for God's 
own hand shall wipe away the tears; no night, 
for the Lamb himself shall be the light. 

If disqualifying pain, or distressing languor, 
prevent the utterance of supplication, patience 
is itself a prayer, and a prayer which will not 
fail to be heard. We have a striking instance 
of an answer to silent prayer, in the ease of Mo- 
ses. In a situation of extreme distress, when he 
had not uttered a word, ' the Lord said unto him, 
I have heard thy crying.' 

The tender mercy of our compassionate Fa- 
ther will make sense, and find meaning in a 
prayer which is almost unintelligible to the lan- 
guid sufferer who offers it. God wants not to 
be informed, he wants only to be remembered, 
to be loved, to be sought. 

If, however, in the conduct of this nightly 
watching, and this nightly prayer, your own 
stock of thought or expression is absolutely de- 
ficient, prophets and apostles will not only afford 
you the most encouraging examples, but most 
perfect assistance. More especially the royal 
treasury of king David lies open to you ; and 
whatever are your wants, there your resources 
are inexhaustible. 

What joyful appeals does the psalmist make 
to Him to whom the darkness and the light are 
both alike ! ' Have I not remembered Thee ia 
my bed, and thought upon thee when I was 
waking?' 'In the night,' he again exclaims, 
' I commune with my own heart, and search 
out my spirit.' And of this boly practice was 
he so little weary, that he resolved to persevere 
in it. ' As long as I live will I magnify Thee in 
this manner.' Similar to this is the apostrophe 
of the evangelical prophet — ' With my soul have 
I desired Thee in the night.' 

The Psalms of David exhibit the finest speci- 
men of experimental religion in the world. 
They are attended with this singular advantage 
and this unspeakable comfort, that in them God 
speaks to us and we speak to Him. This de 
lightful interlocution between the King of saints 
and the penitent sinner; this interchange of 
character, this mixture of prayer and promise, 
of help implored and grace bestowed, of weak- 
ness pleaded and strength imparted, of favour 
shown and gratitude returned, of prostration on 
one part and encouragement on the other, of 
abounding sorrow, and overflowing mercy, this 
beautiful variety of affecting intercourse be- 
tween sinful dust and infinite goodness, lifts the 
abased penitent into the closest and most ele- 
vating communion with his Saviour and his 
God. 

Yet, inestimable as are the Psalms of David, 
in every point of view, and especially for the 
purpose here recommended, as a refuge for the 
suffering body, the wakeful mind, the praying 
spirit, and the oppressed heart — that very sancti- 
ty, and depth of devotional feeling, which is their 
life-blood, may lead to a dangerous misapplica- 
tion in the mouth of the irreligious. Holy ex- 
pressions in prayer, and ebullitions of grateful 
praise, are more easily committed to the memo- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



493 



ry, than impressed upon the heart. And is there 
not some danger, that not only the mere for- 
malist, but even the immoral man may apply 
to himself sentiments, declarations, assurances, 
and comforts, which can only belong to the real 
Christian ? For instance ; the arrogant man, as 
if, like the dervise in the Persian fable, he had 
shot his soul into the character he assumes, re- 
peats with complete self-application, 'Lord, I 
am not high-minded ;' the trifler says, ' I hate 
vain thoughts ;' the irreligious, ' Lord how I 
love thy law. 1 He who seldom prays at all, 
confidently repeats, ' All the day long I am oc- 
cupied in thy statutes.' The covetous, in the 
words of Paul or David, with as much self-com- 
placency deprecates avarice, as if the anathema 
against it had ever opened either his heart or 
his purse. 

On the other hand, as the hardest substances, 
by continual attrition, are at length penetrated, 
it is the pleasing task of charity to hope, that 
the habitual repetition of such feelings, senti- 
ments, and principles may sink into the hard 
heart, may lead its possessor to look into him- 
self, to compare what he feels with what he 
reads, and by discovering the discrepancy be- 
tween his life and his prayers, may open his 
eyes on his own danger, till by the grace of 
God the holy vehicle of his hypocrisy may be 
made that of his conversion. 

Perhaps you are a doubting, weak, and trem- 
bling penitent; not indeed doubting of the mer- 
cies of God, but of your own interest in them. 
This feeling may arise from a deep and hum- 
bling sense of your own sins and infirmities, ra- 
ther than from any criminal unbelief. Here 
tomes in to your relief a whole host of gracious 
promises, peculiarly adapted to your case. The 
tender images of 'the smoking flax,' and '.the 
bruised reed,' the promised acceptance of 'the 
contrite spirit, and the broken heart.' But be- 
yond all praise is the consoling assurance of our 
great High Priest, that ' he is touched with the 
feeling of our infirmities.' Touched with them, 
not only when he was ' a man of sorrows and 
acquainted with grief,' but now when he is even 
' ascended to the glory which he had with his 
Father before the world began.' 

How soothing is this expression of the Divine 
compassion ! It is not barely the hearing or 
the seeing, it is the feeling of our infirmities. 
He was in all points tempted like as we are 
This is the most exquisite touch of sympathy ; 
he not only suffered but was tempted ; here in- 
deed the resemblance has its limitation : for he 
was without sin. He knew the condition of 
' being tempted,' but not that of yielding to it. 
It is this feeling of being tempted, which gives 
him such an intimate concern in the feeble fear- 
ful Christian. He sends the angel of his pre- 
sence, and saves them. What a striking con- 
firmation of the blessed truth, that in all our 
afflictions he is afflicted, is the awful interroga- 
tion, ' Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou,' — not 
my church, but ' me V 

It is a further encouragement to the dejected 
spirit, that the Almighty was not contented to 
ehow his willingness to pardon by single decla- 
rations, however strong and full. He has heaped 
ap words, he has crowded images, he has accu- 



mulated expressions, he has exhausted language, 
by all the variety of synonymes which express 
love, mercy, pardon, and acceptance. They are 
graciously crowded together, that the trembling 
mourner who was not sufficiently assured by 
one, might be encouraged by another. And it 
is the consummation of the Divine goodness 
that this message is not sent by his ambassador, 
but that the King of kings, the blessed and only 
Potentate, condescends himself to pronounce 
this royal proclamation, ' The Lord, the Lord 
God, merciful and gracious, long-suffering and 
abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy 
for thousands, forgiving iniquity, transgression, 
and sin !' Forgiving indeed, but in consonance 
with his just demand of repentance and reforma- 
tion, ' who will by no means clear the guilty.' 

The ardent and affectionate Apostle of the 
Gentiles, within a very few verses, has also re- 
presented the Almighty under every character 
that is endearing and consoling. He denomi- 
nates him 'the God of patience and of comfort,' 
' the God of hope and of peace ;' .titles which are 
peculiarly addressed to all the exigencies of 
man, and graciously expressive of God's will 
and power to supply them. There is an appro- 
priation of the terms to the state of the fallen 
children of mortality, calculated to take away 
all fear, and to fill the vacant room with love, 
and peace, and gratitude unspeakable. 

Refuse not then to take comfort from the pro- 
mises of God, when perhaps you are easily sa- 
tisfied with the assurance of pardon from a frail 
and sinful creature like yourself whom you had 
offended. Why is God the only being who is 
not believed ? who is not trusted ? O thou that 
hearest prayer, why unto Thee will not all flesh 
come ? 

But though God's pardoning grace knows no 
bounds, his sanctifying grace is given by mea- 
sure, is given as we use what we have already 
received. God seems to reserve in his own 
hands a provision for our humility, and thus 
keeps prayer in full exercise. The one is pro- 
gressive in its operation, the other is full and 
free, bestowed, not for any righteousness in the 
receiver, but for that full and perfect oblation 
once made for sin. Is it not a most fallacious 
trust to expect that our sins will be blotted out 
without that habitual repentance annexed to the 
promise ? It is vain to offer the bribe of burnt 
offerings, the thousands of rams, or the rivers 
of oil. God desire's not to be paid for our par- 
don, nor profited by our offerings. He never 
sells his favours. The riches of the universe, 
which are indeed already his, could not procure 
the pardon of a single sinner, but he prescribes 
the duty, when he promises the pardon. ' Re- 
pent, that your sins may be blotted out.' 

It would therefore supply ample matter for 
habitual prayer, had we only the sins of our na- 
ture to lament; but when to these we add our 
practical offences, oh, how great is the sum of 
them ! Yet though they are more than we can 
express, they are not greater than God can for- 
give : not more than the blood which was shed 
for them can wash out. 

But he to whom the duty of prayer is un- 
known, and by whom the privilege of prayer is 
unfelt, or he by whom it is neglected, or he who 



500 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



uses it for form and not from feeling, may pro- 
bably say, Will this work, wearisome even if 
necessary, never know an end ? Will there be 
no period when God will dispense with its regu- 
lar exercise ? Will there never be such an at- 
tainment of the end proposed, as that we may 
be allowed to discontinue the means? 

To these interrogatories there is but one an- 
swer, an answer which shall be also made, by 
an appeal to the enquirer himself. 

If there is any day in which we are quite cer- 
tain that we shall meet with no trial from Pro- 
vidence, no temptation from the world, any day 
in which we shall be sure to have no wrong 
tempers excited in ourselves, no call to bear with 
those of others, no misfortune to encounter, and 
no need of Divine assistance to endure it, on that 
morning we may safely omit our prayer. 

If there is any evening in which we have re- 
ceived no protection from God, and experienced 
no mercy at his hands ; if we have not lost a 
single opportunity of doing or receiving good, if 
we are quite certain that we have not once 
spoken unadvisedly with our lips, nor entertain- 
ed one vain or idle thought in our heart, on that 
night we may safely omit praise to God, and the 
confession of our own sinfulness, on that night 
we may safely omit humiliation and thanksgiv- 
ing. To repeat the converse would be super- 
fluous. 

When we can conscientiously say, that reli- 
gion has given a tone to our conduct, a law to 
our actions, a rule to our thoughts, a bridle to 
our tongue, a restraint to every wrong passion, a 
check to every evil temper, then, some will say, 
we may safely be dismissed from the drudgery 
of prayer, it will then have answered all the end 
which you so tiresomely recommend. So far 
from it, we really figure to ourselves, that if we 
could hope to hear of a being brought to such 
perfection of discipline, it would unquestionably 
be found that this would be the very being who 
would continue most perseveringly in the prac- 
tice of that devotion, which had so materially 
contributed to bring his heart and mind into so 
desirable a state, who would most tremble to 
discontinue prayer, who would be most appalled 
at the thought of the condition into which such 
discontinuance would be likely to reduce him. 
Whatever others do, he will continue forever to 
• sing praises unto Thee, O Thou most Highest ; 
he will continue to tell of Thy loving kindness 
early in the morning, and of Thy truth in the 
night season.' 

It is true that while he considered religion as 
something nominal and ceremonial, rather than 
as a principle of spirit and of life, he felt nothing 
encouraging, nothing refreshing, nothing de- 
lightful in prayer. But since he began to feel 
it as the means of procuring the most substan- 
tial blessings to his heart ; since he began to 
experience something of the realization of the 
promises to his soul, in the performance of this 
exercise, he finds there is no employment so sa- 
tisfactory, none that his mind can so little do 
without; none that so effectually raises him 
above the world, none that so opens his eyes to 
its empty shadows, none which can make him 
look with so much indifference on its lying va- 
nities ; none that can so powerfully defend him 



against the assaults of temptation, and the al 
lurements of pleasure, none that can so sustain 
him under labour, so carry him through diffi- 
culties ; none that can so quicken him in the 
practice of every virtue, and animate him in the 
discharge of every <luty. 

But if prayer be so exhilirating to the soul, 
what shall be said of praise ? Praise is the only 
employment, we had almost said, it is the only 
duty, in which self finds no part. In praise we 
go out of ourselves, and think only of Him to 
whom we offer it. It is the most purely disin- 
terested of all services. It is gratitude without 
solicitation, acknowledgment without petition. 
Prayer is the overflowing expression of our 
wants, praise of our affections. Prayer is the 
language of the destitute, praise of the redeem- 
ed, sinner. If the angelic spirits offer their 
praises exempt from our mixture of infirmity or 
alloy, yet we have a motive for gratitude, un- 
known even to the angels. They are unfallen 
beings ; they cannot say as we can, * Worthy 
the Lamb, for he was slain for us.' — Prayer is 
prospective. Praise takes in, in its wide range, 
enjoyment of present, remembrance of past, 
and anticipation of future blessings. Prayer 
points the only way to heaven, ' praise is already 
there.' 



On Intercessory Prayer. 

The social affections were given us not only 
for the kindliest, but the noblest purposes. The 
charities of father, son, and brother, were be- 
stowed, not only to make life pleasant, but to 
make it useful ; not only that we might contri- 
bute to the present comfort, but to the eternal 
benefit of each other. 

These heaven-implanted affections are never 
brought into exercise more properly, nor with 
more lively feelings, than in intercessory prayer. 
Our friends may have wants which we cannot 
remove, desires which we cannot gratify, afflic- 
tions which we cannot relieve, but is always in 
our power to bring them before God ; to pray 
for them whenever we pray for ourselves. This, 
as it is a most pleasant and easy, so it is an in- 
dispensable obligation. It is a duty which 
brings the social affections into their highest 
exercise, and which may be reciprocally paid 
and received. 

The same Scriptures which expressly enjoin 
that supplication, prayers, intercession, and giv- 
ing of thanks be made for all men, furnish also 
numerous examples of the efficacy of interces- 
sory prayer. We need not dwell on the instance 
of the rain obtained by the prayers of Elijah, or 
the earlier availing intercessions of Moses, with 
other public deliverances effected in the same 
manner. 

Though the perseverance of Abraham's prayer 
did not prevent the extermination of the polluted 
city, yet doubtless the blessing he solicited for 
it returned unto his own bosom, and the suc- 
cessive promises made by the Almighty Judge to 
the successively reduced number of the righte- 
ous, for whose sake tlte petition for preservation 
was offered, afford a proof of the Divine appro- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



501 



bation and a striking encouragement to persist 
in the duty of intercessory prayer. The pro- 
mise of God was not withdrawn. The prayer 
was conditional, and could the petitioner have 
made up his very lowest compliment, the city 
had been saved. The interceding heart in any 
event is sure to gain something for itself. 

Prayer is such an enlarger of the affections, 
Buch an opener of the heart, that we cannot but 
wonder how any who live in the practice of it, 
should be penurious in their alms ; or, if they 
do give, should do it ' grudgingly or of neces- 
sity.' Surely if our prayer be cordial, we shall 
be more ready to assist as well as to love those 
for whom we are in the habit of making sup- 
plication to God. It is impossible to pray sin- 
cerely for the well-being of others, without being 
desirous of contributing to it. We can hardly 
conceive a more complete species of self-decep- 
tion than that practised by an avaricious pro- 
fessor of religion, one who goes on mechanically 
to pray for the poor, whilst his prayer has neither 
opened his heart nor his purse. Ho may value 
himself on this, as on other instances of his in- 
genuity, in having found out so cheap a way of 
doing good, and go on contentedly, till he hear 
those tremendous words of exclusion, ' Inas- 
much as ye did it not to one of the least of these, 
ye did it not to me.' 

There is a generosity in religion. The same 
principle which disposes a Christian to contri- 
bute to the temporal interests of those he loves, 
inclines him to breathe his earnest supplica- 
tion for their spiritual benefit. Not only does 
prayers for others promote natural affection, not 
only does it soften the heart of him who inter- 
cedes, but it is hoped that they for whom the 
intercession is made, may reap the benefit. 

But our intercessions must neither dwell in 
generalities for the public nor in limitations to 
the wants of our particular friends. 

The Christian is the friend of every descrip- 
tion of the children of mortality. In the fulness 
of our compassion for the miseries of mankind, 
we pour out our hearts in prayer for the poor 
and destitute, and we do well. But there is 
another and a large class who are still more ob- 
jects of our pity, and consequently should be of 
our prayer. We pray for those who have no 
portion in this world, but do we not sometimes 
forget to pray for those who have their whole 
portion in it ? We pray for the praying servants 
of God, but perhaps we neglect to pray for those 
who never pray for themselves. These are the 
persons who stand most in need of the mercy 
of the Almighty, and of our Christian impor- 
tunity in their favour. 

Is it not affecting, that even into our devotions 
we are disposed to carry the regard we too 
highly indulge of the good things of this life, 
by earnestly imploring mercy upon those who 
want them ; and by forgetting to offer our sup- 
plications in favour of those who are blinded by 
the too full enjoyment of them. If the one duty 
be done, should the other be left undone ? 

Happily we live in an age presenting many 
instances, where neither high station, nor great 
-iches impede piety, or obstruct devotion. Yet, 
it is to be feared, that the general tendency of 
rank, and especially of riches, is to withdraw 



the heart from spiritual exercises, more than 
the hand from pecuniary bounty. 

Let us then fervently include among the ob- 
jects of our supplication that very pitiable and 
very necessitous class among the rich and great, 
if such a class there bo, who live without any 
sensible feeling of the presence of God as ac- 
knowledged in prayer : — for those persons who 
never entertain a doubt of their own deserts, 
even if they do not deny Him who is the giver 
of the boundless blessings which lead them to 
forget Him. — Strange ! that the very overflow- 
ing cup which ought to ensure gratitude should 
induce forgetfulness ! strange ! that prayer to 
God should be neglected in proportion to the 
magnitude of His bounties. 

May the writer be permitted to enrich the 
penury of her own meagre composition with a 
beautiful extract from one whose unequalled 
rhetoric was always warmed by a deep sensi- 
bility, and occasionally tinctured with religious 
feeling — the eloquent and almost prophetic au- 
thor of Reflections on the Revolution in France : — 

' The English people are satisfied, that to the 
great, the consolations of religion are as neces- 
sary as its instructions. They too are among 
the unhappy. They feel personal pain arid do- 
mestic sorrow. In these they have no privi- 
lege, but are subject to pay their full contingent 
to the contributions levied on mortality. They 
want this sovereign balm under their gnawing 
cares and anxieties, which being less conversant 
about the limited wants of animal life, range 
without limit, and are diversified by infinite 
combinations in the wild and unbounded re- 
gions of imagination. Some charitable dole is 
wanting to these our often very unhappy bre- 
thren, to fill the gloomy void that reigns in 
minds which have nothing on earth to hope or 
fear ; something to relieve in the killing langour 
and overlaboured lassitude of those who have 
nothing to do ; something to excite an appetite 
to existence in the palled satiety which attends 
on all pleasures which may be bought, where 
nature is not left to her own process, where 
even desire is anticipated, and therefore, frui- 
tion defeated by meditated schemes and con- 
trivances of delight ; and no interval, no obstacle, 
is interposed between the wish and the accom- 
plishment.' 

O you great ones of the earth, whom riches 
ensnare and prosperity betrays — be largely 
liberal, even from self-insterest. Not, indeed, 
expecting to make the liberality you bestow a 
remuneration for the devotions you withhold. 
Scatter your superfluities, and more than your 
superfluities, to the destitute, if not to vindicate 
Providence, yet to benefit yourselves. Not, in- 
deed, to revive the old pious fraud of depending 
for salvation on the prayers of others ; yet still 
you may hope to be repaid, with usurious interest, 
from the pious poor, by the very tender charity 
of their prayers for you. Their supplications may 
possibly be so heard, that you may at length, be 
brought to the indispensable necessity, and the 
bounden duty of praying for yourselves. 

As to the commanding duty of praying for 
our enemies, the most powerful example be- 
queathed to us in Scripture, next to that of his 
Divine master on the cross, is that of St. Stephen. 



502 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Even after the expiring martyr had ejaculated 
• Lord Jesus receive my spirit,' he kneeled down 
and cried with a loud voice ' Lord lay not this 
ein to their charge.' Let every instance of Ro- 
man greatness of mind, let every story of Gre- 
cian magnanimity be ransacked, and produce, 
who can, such another example. Theirs is tu- 
mour, this is grandeur; their is heroism, this is 
Christianity ; they died for their country, Jesus 
for his enemies; they implored the gods for 
themselves, Stephen for his murderers. • 



The praying Christian in the World. — The Pro- 
mise of Rest to the Christian. 

As the keeping up a due sense of religion, 
both in faith and practice, so materially depends 
on the habit of fervent and heart-felt devotion, 
may we be permitted, in this place, to insist on 
the probable effects which would follow the de- 
vout and conscientious exercise of prayer, rather 
than on prayer itself? 

As soon as religion is really become the 
earnest desire of our hearts, it will inevitably 
become the great business of our lives ; the one 
is the only satisfactory evidence of the other : 
consequently the religion of the heart and life 
will promote that prayer by which both have 
been, promoted. 

They, therefore, little advance the true inter- 
est of mankind, who, under the powerful plea 
of what great things God has done for us in our 
redemption by His Son, neglect to encourage 
our active services in His cause. Hear the 
words of inspiration, ' Be not slothful ;' ' run the 
race ;' ' fight the good fight ;' ' strive to enter 
in ;' give diligence ;' ' work out your own sal- 
vation ;' ' God is not unmindful to forget your 
labour of love ;' ' but when ye have done all, 
say, Ye are unprofitable servants, ye have done 
that which was your duty to do.' 

But if, after we have done all, we are unpro- 
fitable servants, what shall we be if we have 
done nothing ? Is it not obvious that the Holy 
Spirit, who dictated these exhortations, clearly 
meant that a sound faith in the word of God was 
meant to produce holy exertion in his cause ? 
The activity in doing good of the Son of God 
was not exceeded by his devotion, and both 
gloriously illustrated his doctrines, and con- 
firmed his divinity. Until we make then our 
religion a part of our common life, until we 
bring Christianity, as an illustrious genius is 
said to have brought philosophy, from its retreat 
to live in the world, and dwell among men ; 
until we have brought it from the closet to the 
active scene, from the church to the wGrld, 
whether that world be the court, the senate, the 
exchange, the public office, the private count- 
ing-house, the courts of justice, the professional 
departments, or the domestic drawing-room, it 
will not have fully accomplished what it was 
sent on earth to do. 

We do not mean the introduction of its lan- 
guage, but of its spirit: the former is frequently 
as incompatible with public, as it is unsuitable 
to private business ; but the latter is of univer- 
«al application. We mean that the temper and 



dispositions which it is the object of prayer to 
communicate, should be kept alive in society, 
and brought into action in its affairs. That the 
integrity, the veracity, the justice, the purity, 
the liberality, the watchfulness over ourselves, 
the candour towards others, all exercised in the 
fear of the Lord, and strengthened by the word 
of God and prayer, should be brought from the 
retirement of devotion to the regulation of the 
conduct. 

Though we have observed above, that it jb 
rather the spirit than the language of religion 
that should be carried into business, yet we can- 
not forbear regretting, that we seem to decline 
much from the sober usages of our ancestors. 
Formerly testamentary instruments were never 
made the mere conveyance of worldly posses- 
sions. They were also made the vehicles of 
pious sentiments, and always at least opened 
with a devout offering of the soul to Him who 
gave it. Indeed it is difficult to imagine how a 
man can write the words my last will without 
a solemn reflection on that last act which must 
inevitably follow it, and in view of which act 
he is making it. May not this alteration in the 
practice be partly ascribed to the decline of 
habitual prayer.* 

But what fair opportunities have certain of 
the great officers of the law, especially in 
their charges, of giving to them a solemnity the 
most impressive, by adverting more frequently 
to the awful truths of Christianity ! Even if 
such awakening appeals to the conscience should 
fail of their effects on the unhappy convicts to 
whom they are addressed, they may be of in- 
calculable benefit to some of the numerous per- 
sons present. A counsel, a caution, a reproof, 
and exhortation, all on pure Christian princi- 
ples, and thus coming from a profession to 
which it appears not immediately to belong, 
may especially from not being expected, produce 
consequences the most salutary. The terribly 
affecting circumstances of the moment, the ap- 
palling scene so soon to follow, must give an un- 
speakable weight to the most touching admoni- 
tion. He who is judging the condemned vio- 
lator of divine and human laws, stands as a kind 
of representative of the future Judge of quick 
and dead and will himself soon be judged by 



* I beg leave to strengthen my own sentiments on 
this head, by quoting a passage from an eminent and 
truly pious barrister, with an extract from the last will 
of one of the greatest men of our age. 

' Of late years, it has been the fashion (for there is a 
fashion even in the last act of a man's life) to omit these 
solemn preambles. I confess myself an approver of 
them, as believing it to be useful to the surviving rela- 
tives of the testator to draw their attention to the tie- 
mendous consequences of the separation of soul and body 
at seasons of impressibility and reflection.' By the fol- 
lowing extract, from the will of the late Mr. Burke, it 
will be seen, that his sentiments, on this point, coincided 
with those above expressed. ' First according to the 
ancient good and laudable custom, of which my heart 
and understanding recognise the propriety, I bequeath 
my soul to God, hoping for His mercy through the only 
merits of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. My body 
I desire, if I should die at any place very convenient for 
its transport thither, (but not otherwise,) to be buried at 
the church of Baconsfield, near to the bodies of my dear 
est brother and my dearest son, in all humility praying 
that, as we have lived in perfect unity together, we may 
together have part in the resurrection of the just.'— Ro- 
berts on Wills, vol. ii. p. 376. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



5(b 



Him, a consideration which makes his respon- 
sibility peculiarly tremendous. * 

But to return, — Though we must not, in ac- 
commodation to the prevailing prejudices and 
unnecessary zeal against abstinence and devo- 
tion, neglect the imperative duties of retirement, 
prayer, and meditation ; yet, perhaps, as prayer 
makes so indispensable an article in the Chris- 
tian life, some retired contemplative persons 
may apprehend that it makes the whole ; where- 
as prayer is only the operation which sets the 
machine going. It is the sharpest spur to vir- 
tuous action, but not the act itself. The only 
infallible incentive to a useful life, but not a 
substitute for that usefulness. Religion keeps 
her children in full employment. It finds them 
work for every day in the week, as well as on 
Sundays. 

The praying Christian, on going into the 
world, feels that his social and religious duties 
are happily comprised in one brief sentence — 
* I will think upon the commandments to do 
them. 1 What the Holy Spirit has so indissolu- 
bly joined, he does not separate. 

He whose heart has been set in motion in the 
morning by prayer, who has had his spiritual 
pulse quickened by a serious perusal of the 
Holy Scriptures, will find his work growing up- 
on him in regular proportion to his willingness 
to do it. He is diligently exact in the imme- 
diate duties of the passing day. Though pro- 
crastination is treated by many as a light evil, 
he studiously avoids it, because he has felt its 
mischiefs ; he is active even from the love of 
ease, for he knows that the duties which would 
have cost him little, if done on the day they 
were due, may, by the accumulation of many 
neglected days, cost him much. The fear of 
this rouses him to immediate exertion. If the 
case in question be doubtful, he deliberates, he 
inquires, he prays ; if it be clear and pressing, 
what his hand finds to do, he does with all his 
might, and in the calls of distress he always 
acts on his favourite aphorism, that giving soon 
is giving twice. 

Abroad how many duties meet him ! He has 
on his hands the poor that want bread, the 
afflicted who want comfort, the distressed who 
want counsel, the ignorant who want teaching, 
the depressed who want soothing. At home he 
has his family to watch over. He has to give 
instruction to his children, and an example to 
his servants. But his more immediate, as well 
as more difficult work is with himself, and he 
knows that this exercise, well performed, can 
alone enable him wisely to perform the rest. 
Here he finds work for every faculty of his un- 
derstanding, every conquest over his will, for 
every affection of his heart. Here his spirit 
truly labours. He has to watch, as well as to 
pray, that his conscience be not darkened by 
prejudice ; that his bad qualities do not assume 
the shape of virtues, nor his good ones engender 
self-applause ; that his best intentions do not 
mislead his judgment ; that his candour do not 
degenerate into indifference ; nor his strictness 

* The late Lord Kenyon was neither afraid nor asha- 
med to introduce both the doctrine and language of 
Christianity on these occasions; and we have lately seen 
ether valuable instances of the adoption of this practice. 



into bigotry ; that his moderation do not freeze, 
nor his zeal burn. He has to controul his im- 
patience at the defeat of his most wisely con- 
ceived plans. He will find that in his best ser- 
vices there is something that is wrong, much 
that is wanting ; and he feels, that whatever in 
them is right, is not his own, but the gift of 
God. 

He finds that his obedience is incomplete, that 
his warmest affections are languid, perhaps his 
best intentions not realized, his best resolves 
not followed up. In this view, though he is 
abased in dust and ashes in looking up to God 
as the fountain of perfection, he is cheered in 
looking up to him also as the fountain of mercy 
in Christ Jesus. He prays, as well as strives, 
that the knowledge of his own faults may make 
him more humble, and his sense of the divine 
mercies more grateful. 

He will find that his faith, even though it does 
not want sincerity, will too frequently want 
energy. He has, therefore, to watch against 
cold and heartless prayer ; though, perhaps, the 
humility arising from this consciousness is a 
benefit in another way. He feels it difficult to 
bring every ' thought into captivity to the obe- 
dience of Christ,' yet he goes on cheerily, wil- 
ling to believe that what may be difficult is not 
impossible. He has to struggle against over 
anxiety for temporal things. He has to pre- 
serve simplicity of intention, consistency, and 
perseverance. He has, in short, to watch against 
a long list of sins, errors, and temptations, which 
he will find heavier in weight, and more in 
number, the more closely he looks into his cata- 
logue. 

The praying Christian in the world has, above 
all, to watch against the fear of men, as he may 
find it more easy to endure the cross than to 
despise the shame. Even if he have in a good 
degree conquered his temptation, he may still 
find a more dangerous enemy in the applause 
of the world than he found in its enmity. He 
has observed, that many amiable and even pious 
persons who are got above the more vulgar al- 
lurements of the world, who have surmounted 
all the temptations of a more sensual kind, who 
are no longer subdued by its softening luxuries, 
its seducing pleasures, its dazzling splendours, 
nor its captivating amusements, have not yet 
quite escaped this danger. The keen desire of 
its good opinion, the anxiety for its applause, 
ensnares many who are got above any thing 
else which the world has to offer. This is, per- 
haps, the last lingering sin which cleaves even 
to those who have made a considerable progress 
in religion, the still unextinguished passion of a 
mind great enough to have subdued many other 
passions. 

The danger of the Christian in the world is 
from the world. He is afraid of the sleek, smooth, 
insinuating, and not discreditable vices ; he 
guards against self-complacency. If his affairs 
prosper, and his reputation stands high, he be- 
takes himself to his only sure refuge, humble 
prayer. He knows it is more easy to perform 
a hundred right deeds, and to keep many vir. 
tues in exercise, than * to keep himself unspot- 
ted from the world,' than to hold the things of 
the world with a loose hand. Even his best ao? 



504 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



tions, which may bring him most credit, have 
their dangers ; they make him fear that ' while 
he has a name to live, he is dead.' 

Though much above feeling any joy in vulgar 
acclamation, he is not insensible 10 the praise 
of those who are praised by others ; but though 
not indifferent to the good opinion of good men, 
the praise even of the best is not his object : 
ho knows that to obtain it, is not the end for 
which he was sent into the world. His ambition 
is of a higher order, it has a loftier aim. The 
praise of man cannot satisfy a spirit which feels 
itself made for immortality. 

He feels that if he had no sin but vanity, the 
consciousness of that alone, would be sufficient 
^to set him on his guard, to quicken him in pray- 
■er, to caution him in conduct. — He does not 
fear vanity as he fears any other individual vice; 
as a single enemy against which he is to be on 
the watch, but as that vice which, if indulged, 
would poison all his virtues. Among the sins of 
the inner man, he knows that 'this kind goeth 
not out but by prayer.' When he hears it 6aid 
of any popular, and especially of any religious 
character, ' he is a good man, but he is vain.' 
He says within himself, he is vain, and there- 
fore, I fear he is not a good man. How many 
right qualities does vanity rob of their value, 
how many right actions of their reward ! 

Every suspicion of the first stirring of vanity 
in himself, sends him with deeper prostration 
before his Maker. Lord what is man ! shall 
the praise of a fellow-creature, whose breath is 
in his nostrils, whose ashes, must soon be min- 
gled with my own, which may even before my 
own be consigned to kindred dust, shall his 
praise be of sufficient potency to endanger the 
humility of a being, who is not only looking for- 
ward to the applause of those glorious spirits 
which surround the throne of God, but to the 
approbation of' God himself? 

When those with whom he occasionally mixes, 
*ee the praying Christian calm and cheerful in 
the world, they little suspect the frequent strug- 
gles, the secret conflicts he has within. Others 
see his devout and conscientious life, but he 
alone knows the plague of his own heart. For 
this plague he seeks the only remedy; to prayer, 
that balm of hurt minds, he constantly repairs. 
The praying Christian endeavours to make 
oven what to some might seem casual expres- 
sion in Scripture, matter of improvement. He 
is not contented to devote to the distressed his 
mere superfluities, he makes requisitions on his 
frugality to add to his contributions, and he 
learns this lesson from the highest model. 

He observes that He who could feed thousands 
by a word of His mouth, yet took care not to 
let the miracle pass without grafting on it a mo- 
ral maxim, for general use, a religious duty for 
general practice. — He who could have multipli- 
ed to any extent the twelve baskets, as He had 
done the five loaves, condescended to say, ' ga- 
ther up the fragments that remain, that nothing 
be lost ; and that he might set an example of 
prayer in every possible form, He had previous- 
ly blessed the simple but abundant meal, pre- 
senting, in this single instance, an union of 
.three great qualities — generosity, economy, and 
devotion. 



The practical Christian observes with grate- 
ful admiration, how Scripture has, as it were, 
let down to the plainest apprehension the habit- 
ual duty of constantly looking to God, by a fa- 
miliar allusion taken from domestic life. — The 
fidelity, the diligent attention, the watchful ob- 
servance of' the eyes of a servant looking to the 
hand of his Master, and the eyes of a maiden to 
the hand of her mistress,' is a simple illustra- 
tion of the Christian's duty, equally intelligible 
to him who serves, and obligatory on him who 
is served. 

To a worldly man, his own sin appears less 
than it is ; to a good man, greater ; not that he 
sees through a false medium ; or aggravates the 
truth, or forgets the apostle's direction to think 
soberly ; but while the nominal Christian 
weighs his offences in the scales of the world, 
the praying Christian brings him to the balance 
of the sanctuary. The former judges of sin 
only as he sees it in others ; and the worst men 
in the rank above the vulgar, do not always ap- 
pear so bad as they are. In his own heart he 
sees little, because with that heart he is not ac- 
quainted. Whereas his own bosom is the very 
place where the good man looks for sin, and his 
perceptions of what is wrong are so delicate, 
that he sees it in its first seed ; in short, the one 
thinks himself worse than others, because he 
knows himself well ; the other thinks himself 
better, because he knows himself not at all. 

When we consider the conflicts and the trials 
of the conscientious, watchful, praying Chris- 
tian, we shall estimate aright the value of the 
consoling promise of that eternal rest from his 
labours, which supports him under them. And 
though rest is one of the lowest descriptions of 
the promised bliss of heaven, yet it holds out a 
cheering prospect of relief and satisfaction to a 
feeling being, who is conscious of the fallen con- 
dition of his mortal nature in all its weakness 
and imperfection. Rest, therefore, is of itself, 
a promise sufficiently inviting to make him de- 
sire to depart and to be with Christ, even inde- 
pendently of his higher hope. The joy unspeak- 
able, the crown of glory, and all those other 
splendid images of the blessedness of heaven 
exalt and delight his mind. But it is, though 
with a higher, yet with a more indefinite de- 
light. He adores without fully comprehending 
the mighty blessing. But the promise of rest 
is more intelligible to the heavy-laden Christian; 
he better understands it, because it is so exactly 
applicable to his present want and feelings : — 
this is notour rest. It offers the relief longed 
for by a weary, frail, and feverish being. He 
who best knows what man wanted, promised to 
His disciples peace and rest, and His Divine 
Spirit has represented the state of heaven under 
this image more frequently than any other, as 
being in more direct contrast to its present state 
— a state of care, anxiety, and trouble, and a 
state of sin, the cause of all his other troubles. 
Perhaps this less elevated view of heaven may 
occur more rarely to persons of high-wrought 
feelings in religion, yet to the Christian of a 
contrary character, it is a never-failing consola- 
tion, a home-felt solace, the object of his fervent 
prayer. What a support to be persuaded that 
' the work of righteousness is peace, and the 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



505 



effect of righteousness is quietness and assur- 
ance for ever I' 



The Lord's Prayer, a model both for our devo- 
tion and our practice. — It teaches the duty of 
promoting schemes to advance the Glory of 
God. 

It is not customary for kings to draw up pe- 
titions for their subjects to present to them- 
selves ; much less do earthly monarchs consider 
the act of petitioning worthy of reward, nor do 
they number the petitions so much among the 
services done them, as among the burthens im- 
posed on them. Whereas it is a singular benefit 
to our fallen race that the King of kings both 
dictates our petitions, and has promised to re- 
compense us for making them. 

In the Lord's prayer may be found the semi- 
nal principle of all the petitions of a Christian, 
both for spiritual and temporal things ; and how- 
ever in the fulness of his heart he will necessa- 
rily depart from his model in his choice of ex- 
pressions : into whatever laminae he may expand 
the pure gold of which it is composed, yet he 
will still find the general principle of his own 
more enlarged application to God, substantial- 
ly contained in this brief but finished compen- 
dium. 

Is it not a striking proof of the divine con- 
descension, that knowing our propensity to err, 
our blessed Lord should himself have dictated 
our petitions, partly perhaps as a corrective of 
existing superstitions, but certainly to leave be- 
hind Him a regulator by which all future ages 
should set their devotions ; and we might per- 
haps establish it as a safe rule for prayer in 
general, that any petition which cannot in some 
shape, be accommodated to the spirit of some 
part of the Lord's prayer may not be right to be 
adopted. Here temporal things are kept in 
their due subordination ; they are asked for in 
great moderation, as an acknowledgment of our 
dependence on the Giver. The request for the 
divine intercession we must of course offer for 
ourselves as the intercessor had not yet assumed 
his mediatorial office. 

There is in this prayer a concatenation of the 
several clauses, what in human composition the 
critics call concealed method. The petitions 
rise out of each other. Every part also is, as it 
were, fenced round, the whole meeting in a cir- 
cle ; for the desire that God's name may be hal- 
lowed, His will be done, and His kingdom come, 
is referred to, and confirmed by the ascription 
at the close. If the kingdom, the power, and 
the glory, are His, then his ability to do and to 
give, are declared to be infinite. 

But, as we have already observed, if we do 
not make our prayer the ground of our practice, 
if we do not pray as we believe, and act as we 
pray, we must not wonder if our petitions are not 
heard, and consequently not answered. 

In the tremendous scene in the Apocalyptic 
(vision, where the dead, small and great, stand 
■before God, and the books were opened, and an- 
.other book was opened; the dead were judged 
,out of those things, which were written in the 

¥qu II. 



books ; were judged according — not to their 
prayers, but ' their works.' Surely then Chris- 
tianity is a practical religion, and in order to 
use aright the prayer our Lord has given us, 
we must model our life by it as well as our pe- 
titions. 

If we pray that the name of God may be'hal- 
lowed, yet neglect to hallow it ourselves, by fa- 
mily as well as personal devotion, and a con- 
scientious attendance on all the ordinances of 
public worship, we defeat the end of our pray- 
ing, by falling short of its obligation. 

The practical discrepancies between our pray- 
ers and our practice do not end here. How fre- 
quently are we solemnly imploring of God, that 
' His kingdom may come,' while we are doing 
nothing to promote his kingdom of grace here, 
and consequently His kingdom of glory here- 
after. 

If we pray that God would ' give His Son the 
heathen for His inheritance,' and yet make it a 
matter of indifference, whether a vast proportion 
of the globe should live heathens or die Chris- 
tians ; if we pray that ' the knowledge of the 
Lord may cover the earth, as the waters cover 
the sea,' yet act as if we were indifferent whe- 
ther Christianity ended as well as began at 
home. If we pray that ' the sound may go out 
into all lands, and their words unto the ends of 
the world,' and yet are satisfied to keep the 
sound within our own hearing, and the words 
within our own island, is not this a prayer which 
goeth out of feigned lips ? 

When we pray that ' His will may be done,' 
we know that His will is, that ' all should be 
saved, that not one should perish.' When, there- 
fore, we assist in sending the Gospel to the dark 
and distant corners of the earth, then, and not 
till then, may we constantly desire of God in our 
prayers, that ' His saving health may be known 
to all nations.' 

For we must vindicate the veracity of our 
prayer by our exertions, and extend its efficiency 
by our influence : if we contribute not to the ac- 
complishment of the object for which we pray, 
what is this but mocking Omniscience, not by 
unmeaning, but unmeant petitions ? If we do 
nothing we are inconsistent ; but if we do worse 
than nothing, if we oppose, and by our opposi- 
tion hinder the good which we do not think pro- 
per to support, may we not possibly bring on 
ourselves the appalling charge of being ' found 
fighting against God !' 

It is indeed an easier and a cheaper way, to 
quiet the conscience by that common anodyne, 
1 that the heathen are very well as they are, that 
the morals of the Hindoos are not inferior to 
those of Christians.' With what sort of Chris- 
tians these assertors of the rival innocence of 
Idolators associate, we will not pretend to de- 
termine. 

But, allowing that we do not always send 
abroad the very best samples of Christianity, 
the very best representatives of its practical ef- 
fects, allowing also that too many who remain 
at home, and who profess and call themselves 
Christians, are guilty of crimes which disgrace 
human nature, yet Christianity renounces them. 
Christian governments inflict on them capital 
punishments, Whil among these poor idola.- 



50€ 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



tors all these social duties are trampled on, all 
the suggestions of natural conscience are stifled, 
rites the most obscene, sacrifices the most bloody 
are offered ; and these crimes are not only com- 
mitted, but sanctioned, but enjoined ; they do 
not violate religion, they make a part of it 
Surely then, politically connected with them as 
we are, and yet contentedly to leave them in 
their degraded state of morals, without any at- 
tempt for their improvement, do we not by this 
neglect virtually pronounce, and awfully antici- 
pate their dreadful sentence, ' let him that is 
unjust, be unjust still, and he that is filthy, let 
him be filthy still.' 

Again, it is an easier and a cheaper way to 
throw the weight off our own shoulders by the 
cool remark, ' that these things belong not to us, 
human efforts are superfluous ; God must bring 
them about by a mircle.' — God, it is true, intro- 
duced Christianity by miracles, but He esta- 
blished it by means. Miracles, indeed, are His 
prerogative, but man is his instrument. Had 
He not sent His gospel and His ministers, it is 
probable that the strangers scattered throughout 
Pontus, Galatia, Cappadocia, Bythinia, and all 
proconsular Asia, had never heard of Christiani- 
ty to this day, which is, indeed, still the case of 
too many parts of that region. 

But is it not equally the effect of divine grace, 
I had almost said, is it not equally a miracle, 
when, in the hottest season of the most unre- 
lenting warfare, in the most calamitous period 
of unusual scarcity, when Britain had the whole 
civilized world in arms against her, so that she 
could emphatically say, ' there is none that 
fighteth for us but only Thou O God — .' When 
it might seem business enough for any but 
Christians to take care of themselves, even then 
Britain raised the banner of the cross, not in the 
most unprofitable crusade for the most fruitless 
object, but that she might carry the knowledge 
of Him who suffered on it, to the ends of the 
habitable globe. Not to redeem His sepulchre 
from infidels, but to communicate to them the 
tidings of His resurrection, and of redemption 
through His blood. Is it not the effect of grace, 
and still more nearly approaching to a miracle 
when in a period immediately subsequent, while 
their fields were yet red with slaughter, and 
their rivers ran blood, their cities plundered, and 
their kingdoms desolated, God disposed the 
hearts of hostile sovereigns, ruling over opposing 
nations and the tenacious professors ofdiffere.it 
religions, yet as if actuated by one universal 
feeling, simultaneously to rise up in one com- 
mon cause for the accomplishment of this mighty 
object — when the first use they made of the ter- 
mination of war was to disseminate the gospel 
of peace ; the first tribute they paid to the glory 
of God was to publish abroad that grand instru- 
ment of good will to men ! Let us not then in- 
dulge groundless imaginations, as if miracles 
were wrought to justify indolence ! as if a man 
were to be excused the trouble of being the ac- 
tivo agent of Divino Providence. 

The miracles wrought at Ephesus seem ra- 
. her to have been intended as a confirmation of 
the truth of St. Paul's doctrine, than as the actual 
instrument of conversion. Many rejected the 
gospel who saw the miracles. The miracles 



wrought did not supersede the necessity of the 
apostle's 'speaking boldly for the space of threo 
months, disputing and persuading the things 
concerning the kingdom of God.' They did not 
supersede the necessity at another time, of his 
continuing to preach among them, for the space 
of two years, the two great doctrines of his mis- 
sion, ' Repentance towards God, and faith in our 
Lord Jesus Christ.' Nor did they prevent his 
thinking it his bounden duty to send to the 
Ephesians his exquisite epistle, for the further- 
ance of their faith in the gospel. Here we be- 
hold the union of the Bible and the missionary — 
of the gospel sent and the gospel preached. 

1 Many,' says the sagacious bishop Butler, 
'think there is but one evil, and that evil is su- 
perstition ; and we know that the epithets of 
superstitious and enthusiastic have been un- 
sparingly lavished on the most sober and well 
digested plans for the dispersion of the scriptures 
abroad. We know that very trifling errors, er- 
rors inseparable from all great undertakings, 
every petty indiscretion, the inevitable conse- 
quence of employing a number of inferior agents, 
have been carefully collected, minutely set down 
in the note book of observation, and triumphant- 
ly produced as unanswerable objections to the 
whole plan. ' But,' says the profound prelate 
above-named, in his very able defence of mis- 
sions, preached before the venerable society for 
propagating the gospel in foreign parts,* ' many 
well-disposed persons want much to be admo- 
nished what a dangerous thing it is to discoun- 
tenance what is f;ood, because it is not better, by 
raising objections to some under parts of it.' 

The truth is, they are neither enthusiasts nor 
superstitious, who believe that well-concerted 
and prudently conducted societies for the pro- 
motion of this great object, acting with a deep 
sense of human imperfection, and in dependence 
upon the favour of God, will, in due time, with 
His blessing, without which nothing is strong, 
nothing is holy, accomplish the great end of 
bringing all the kingdoms of the world to be- 
come the kingdoms of the Redeemer. But he 
is the superstitious, he is the enthusiast, who 
indulges unfounded expectations, who looks for 
the fulfilment of declarations which have never 
been made, who depends upon miracles which 
have never been announced, who looks for con- 
sequences without their predisposing causes, 
who believes that the unassisted heathen, sunk 
in intellectual and spiritual darkness, shall call 
on Him of whom they have not heard, or that 
they shall hear without a preacher, or that the 
preacher will be found without being sent. 

We might just as reasonably expect to see the 
beautiful imagery of Oriental metaphor, as dis- 
played in the highly figurative language of the 
prophets, actually realized. We might as rea- 
sonably expect that the rose of Sharon shall li- 
terally blossom in the wilderness of Arabia, or 
the cedars of Lebanon spring up in the sandy 
vallies of Africa ; that the thirsty desert should 
produce spontaneous springs of water ; that the 
tarr.e and savage animals should live together in 
friendly compact; that the material hills shall 
really sink and the vallies rise of themselves ; 

* Preached at their anniversary meeting, February 
16th, 1738—9. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



507 



we might, I say, as rationally hope to see these 
lively illustrations of the fulfilment of the Di- 
vine promises literally verified, as to expect 
Christianity to make its own unassisted way 
into the distant and desolate corners of the earth. 
God has committed Christianity into the hands 
of Christians for universal diffusion. 

Let it be observed, that it appears to be no 
real departure from the subject with which this 
chapter opened, that reference is not more fre- 
quently made in its progress' to prayer. This 
seems to be the less necessary, as we are not 
reasoning with the irreligious man, but with 
the Christian, with him who professes to use 
the Lord's prayer as the pattern of his own devo- 
tions ; and from the premises of that prayer, 
these observations are not forced interpretations, 
but natural deductions. 

The Almighty is consistent in all his opera- 
tions. They always exhibit simplicity and 
economy. He never works a superfluous mira- 
cle. There is also analogy in his works. 
Christ wrought miracles to relieve the bodily 
wants of the poor ; he works miracles for them 
no longer, he turns them over to the rich. He 
wrought miracles on the first conversion of the 
heathen; He works miracles for them no longer, 
he now turns them over to Christians. He re- 
signs to human agency, under his blessing, to 
provide for the spiritual wants of the ignorant, 
as well as for the temporal wants of the indi- 
gent. Christianity and riches are deposited 
in the hands of Christians, for the more gene, 
ral dispersion of both to the respectively desti- 
tute. 

And when, if ever, through the unmerited 
mercy of God, that glorious and devoutly desired 
day shall arrive, which warms the heart even in 
the distant perspective of prophecy, when na- 
tion shall no more rise against nation, and they 
shall learn war no more ; what is so likely to 
hasten that triumphant period, what is so likely 
to turn the sword into a pruning-hook, and to 
establish lasting peace throughout the world, as 
that spirit of love and concord which the univer- 
sal diffusion of gospel light is calculated to im- 
part ? What is so likely to produce charity 
among all the children of the same common 
Father, as when subjects as well as sovereigns, 
shall be brought to know God, from the greatest 
to the least. 

Those admirable institutions, whose object it 
is to lead to this blessed consummation, have 
already enlarged the borders of Christian charity 
to an almost indefinite extent, by bringing into 
contact from every point of the compass, and 
from almost every city in the civilized world, 
Christians, who had not so much as heard of 
each others existence ; it has already shown 
them that whatever difference of education and 
of government, whatever modifications of opin- 
ion had hitherto divided them, the great funda- 
mental principles of love to God, of faith in his 
Son, and charity to the souls of men, are at 
length beginning to draw them into a nearer 
connexion. These general principles of agree- 
ment, are already bringing into one point of 
union, persons whom difference of sentiment 
had kept asunder as widely as seas had sepa- 
rated, and are the only means, as far as human 



penetration can foresee, of drawing the cords of 
amity into still closer bonds. 

Already, even in the early stage of this vast 
enterprize, may we not perceive that it has had 
a considerable share in promoting mutual good 
will, reciprocal kindness, and growing confi- 
dence, and this with foreigners, who, though 
they had subdued their enmity, might not so 
soon have conquered their jealousy ? Has it not 
a powerful tendency to cure any remaining dis- 
trust, to confirm good faith, to promote con- 
fidence and attachment between nations, whose 
respect was not perhaps, altogether untinctured 
with suspicion ? May it not break down the 
wall of partition, which has so long kept us 
asunder ? May it not bring those who were 
aforetime separated in heart as well as country, 
to unite in Christian brotherhood, till we be- 
come at length of one mind in doctrine, as we 
already are in regard to this institution. May 
not the probable results of this Christian confe- 
deracy become a ratification between monarchs, 
firmer than any political compact, stronger than 
any diplomatic convention ? For is it not an 
instrument of confederation of which the great 
seal is the woru of god ? Does it not embrace 
the two sublime objects of the angelic hosts, by 
uniting ' glory to God in the highest, and on 
earth peace and good-will towards men V For 
what means, we repeat, are so likely to bring 
churches, who have been hitherto kept in spiri- 
tual darkness, to a gradual and devoutly desired 
reformation, as to disperse that darkness, as our 
being the honoured instruments of causing the 
full beams of divine truth to shine more directly 
upon them ? 

To descend to the very minutest wheels of 
this mighty engine ; with whatever derision 
that which has been denominated popular charity 
may have been treated ; its inferior divisions have 
this advantage, that they set in motion the young 
and the poor. To the young female of fortune, 
this subordinate part of the great whole, fur- 
nishes a kind of novitiate to her future and more 
extended sphere of charily, for the details of 
which this sex has the most leisure. To the 
poor, like the admirable institutions of the Sav- 
ings Bank, though for different purposes, it gives 
them a little and a safe lift in the scale of society. 
For will they not be less likely to follow in the 
turbulent train of the seditious demagogue, less 
disposed by his pernicious but persuasive out- 
cry, to give their stated penny for the promo- 
tion of riot and the maintenance of rioters, when 
that penny has been pre-engaged for the circu- 
lation of that Volume, which forbids them to 
speak evil of dignities, which commands to avoid 
those who are given to change ; to work, to be 
quiet, to mind their own business ; which im- 
peratively says, ' I exhort that prayers and in- 
tercessions be made for kings and all in autho- 
rity;' and above all, will not the Bible be the 
surest antidote against the infection of the poi- 
son contained in that profusion of books, pam- 
phlets, and placards, which, without such a 
specific threatens both our moral and political 
destruction. 

It is the nature of man to delight in party, he 
delights to belong to something, to hold to his 
fellow-creaturos, though by the least and lowest 



508 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



link in the chain of society ; let us then take 
advantage of this his natural weakness. For is it 
not better to attach him to something that is 
useful to himself and to others, that he may be 
less likely to be drawn into such schemes as are 
destructive of his temporal, as well as of his 
own highest interests, and dangerous to the 
security of the state, and of the country. To be 
connected, though by the lowest and slighest tie, 
with his superiors, is to the poor man at once 
an encouragement and a security. To belong 
to societies of which princes are the patrons, is 
at once a gratification and a guard ; for will not 
this connexion, remote as it may seem, confirm 
his abhorrence of those revolutionary societies 
whose aim is the overthrow of princes ? 

Let us not then grudge to the poor who have 
so few pleasures, that pure, and to them that 
hitherto untasted pleasure, that almost sacred 
feeling, how much more blessed is it to give 
than to receive. Let us not deny them the 
gratification of being humble contributors to- 
wards conveying that word of life to others, by 
whicli their own souls have been benefited ; and 
to which they are indebted for the knowledge, 
that it is the duty of Christians to teach others 
what themselves have been gratuitously taught. 

It is, however, most important to recommend 
that the petty contributions of the poor should 
never be extorted, nor even wrung from them 
by undue influence. It must be a willing of- 
fering, not pinched from their necessities, but 
cheerfully accepted, as the thankful tribute of 
successful industry. With respect to such as 
are in distress, and especially in debt, it would 
neither be honest in themselves to give, nor in 
the collector to receive. A very few indiscre- 
tions of this kind have given too inviting a 
handle, which has been unfairly laid hold of to 
bring the plan itself into discredit. 

To venture one more passage from the prelate 
already quoted — and who will accuse Bishop 
Butler of enthusiasm ? — ' If the gospel had its 
proper influence in the Christian world in gene- 
ral, as this country is the centre of trade, and 
the seat of learning, a very few years, in all 
probability, would settle Christianity in every 
country in the world without miraculous assist- 
ance.'' 

If we, then, in this highly favoured land, are 
blessed with the volume of Divine Revelation, 
let us impart it to others with the greater alac- 
rity, from the humiliating recollection that it 
was no merit of our own which brought the 
news of eternal life to an island of barbarians 
and idolaters. Freely we have received, freely 
let us give. 

The sun of righteousness which first arose in 
the east, rejoicing as a giant to run his course, 
has travelled in the greatness of his strength, 
till having made the circuit of the globe, having 
illuminated the western world, he is once again 
rising to shed the glories of his orient beams, 
where they first dawned. 

* So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed, 
And yet. again repairs his drooping head. 
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky,' 

Let Commerce, then, wherever she speads her 
sails, be assured that whether she carries the 



wealth of Ormus, or of Ind, barbaric pearl and 
gold from the East ; or from the West, the mines 
of Potosi or Peru, the most precious merchan- 
dize with which her vessels can be freighted, is 
that pearl of great price which the merchant- 
man in the Gospel sold all that he had to pur 
chase. 

Let Discovery, wherever she pushes her 
bold and perilous adventure, wherever she lights 
on an inhabited nook of land, even should she 
succeed in exploring the secrets of the polar 
world, let her be assured that all the wonders 
for which gaping curiosity impatiently waits, 
are not to be compared with the wonders con- 
tained in that Gospel, which, it is to be hoped, 
she will make .part of her provision for the voy- 
age. Let her be assured, that if she carries the 
Bible, she will, at return, bring back no news 
of equal value with that she carries out; will 
bring back to her native home no tidings of 
equal joy to the glad tidings of the Gospel she 
has carried abroad. 

Let Conquest, though her garments have 
been rolled in blood, make the vanquished the 
only reparation in her power, not merely like 
the conquering Cffisar and Alexander, by car- 
rying civilization in her train, but Christianity ; 
by carrying them this charter of our own im- 
mortal hopes. If this mighty boon v/ill not 
fully expiate the offences of the injurer, it will 
more than mitigate, it will even more than re- 
pay the wrongs of the injured. 



Conclusion. 

' I will be sanctified in them that draw nigh 
unto me,' says the Almighty by his Prophet. 
We must, therefore, when we approach him in 
our devotions, frequently endeavour to warm our 
hearts, raise our views, and quicken our aspira- 
tions with a recollection of His glorious attri- 
butes, — of that Omnipotence which can give to 
all without the least deduction from any, or 
from Himself; of that ubiquity which renders 
Him the constant witness of our actions ; of that 
Omniscience which makes him a discerner of 
our intentions, and which penetrates the most 
secret disguises of our inmost souls ; of that 
perfect holiness, which should at once be the 
object of our adoration, and the model of our 
practice ; of that truth, which will never forfeit 
any of His promises; of that faithfulness, which 
will never forsake any that trust in Him ; of 
that love, which our innumerable offences can- 
not exhaust ; of that eternity which had place 
' before the mountains were brought forth, from 
everlasting to everlasting He is God ;' of that 
grandeur which has set his glory above the 
heavens ; of that long suffering of God, who is 
strong and patient, and who is provoked every 
day ; of that justice which will by no means 
clear the guilty, yet of that mercy which for- 
giveth iniquity, transgression, and sin ; of that 
compassion which waits to be gracious ; of that 
goodness which leadeth to repentance ; of that 
purity, which, while it hates sin, invites the sin- 
ner to return. 

All these attributes are his in the abstract. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



509 



He is not only strong, but our strength, not only 
the giver of life, but life itself, he not only be- 
stows, but is salvation, he not only teaches truth, 
but is truth, he not only shows the way to hea- 
ven, but is the way, not only communicates 
light, but is light. 

When we reflect that even His incommuni- 
cable attributes are employed, in never-ceasing 
exercise for the common benefit and happiness 
of mankind, adoration is melted into gratitude. 
When we consider, that even His justice, that 
flaming sword which threatened our eternal ex- 
clusion from Paradise, the attribute at which the 
best may tremble, for who is he that lives and 
sins not, is turned in our favour by the great pro- 
pitiation made for sin ; that heart must be hard, 
indeed, which is not softened into love. It is 
because we are so little accustomed to indulge 
these reflections, that our natural hardness ac- 
quires additional obduracy. 

Whatever good there is even in the renewed 
man, is but a faint adumbration of the perfec- 
tions of God. The best created things, light it- 
self, lose all their brightness when compared 
with the uncreated glory from which all they 
have is borrowed. The heavens are not pure in 
His sight, behold the moon and it shineth not. 
He chargeth His angels with folly. The sub- 
limest intellectual intelligences, and the bright- 
est visible operations of His power, are swal- 
lowed up in the contemplation of His underived 
original perfection. The foolishness of God is 
wiser than the wisdom of man, and the weak- 
ness of God is stronger than the strength of 
man. 

Yet though the highest conceivable created 
excellence is thrown into utter darkness, in the 
comparison with this surpassing splendour, yet 
these remote resemblances serve to convey 
some idea, but Oh how weak ! some reminding, 
but Oh how inadequate ! some conception, but 
Oh how faint ! of the Divine perfections. 

Hence in the highest qualities of the best 
Christian we have a hint, a rudiment which 
serves to recal to our mind the Divine excel- 
lence, of which they are an emanation. — We 
use it, not as a means of overvaluing the crea- 
ture, but of raising our adoration of the infinite, 
inexhaustible, overflowing fountain of natural, 
intellectual, and spiritual good. Thus, though 
we cannot ' search out the Almighty to perfec- 
tion ;' yet these faint traces, are constant inti- 
mations to us to imitate, in our low measure 
and degree, all the imitable attributes of Al- 
mighty goodness. — He would never have said, 
' be ye holy as I am holy,' if holiness had been 
absolutely unattainable. There must be an aim, 
however low, at this conformity to our divine 
pattern. 

The life which the Lord of glory condescend- 
ed to lead on earth, has introduced us to the 
nearest possible view of the Divine perfections, 
and exhibited^ a clearer prospect of the possibi- 
lity of a closer imitation of them, than could 
have been conveyed to us by any other means. 
His actions are not merely objects of human 
admiration. They all, with the exception of 
his miracles, imperatively demand to be imitat- 
ed, as well as admired. His meekness under 
reproaches the most contumelious ; His patience 



under sufferings the most exquisite ; His com- 
bination of active beneficence with unremitting 
devotion, — for, after days spent in successive 
acts of charity, He continued all night in prayer 
to God ; His union of constant self-denial, with 
unwearied bounty ; His enduring hunger, who 
could have relieved it by one of those miracles, 
so often performed for the relief of others ; his 
compassion for sinners joined with His hatred 
of sin ; His supplication for His enemies, ex- 
tenuating their guilt by pleading their ignor- 
ance. 'Father, forgive them, for they know not 
what they do !' 

If this religion be not practical, if this prac- 
tice be not a pattern for our's, we know not 
what is. While we obey him then in praying 
for our fellow-creatures, let us remember that 
we must imitate his Divine philanthropy in as- 
sisting them ; while we rank ourselves among 
his admirers by praising his excellences, let us 
remember we shall only be known to be his dis- 
ciples when we love one another. 

If good works then be indispensable, and 
Faith be their great influencing principle, both 
must be kept alive, and kept in exercise by tha 
aliment of prayer. Prayer is the chain of com- 
munication with God himself. — The readiest 
way to be assimilated to his likeness, the best 
means of promoting our conformity to His will, 
of advancing our love to Him and to each other. 
If we neglect prayer, we rob our souls of the 
prescribed means of our serving him here, and 
of the fairest foretaste of that communion with 
Him, which will be our highest happiness here- 
after. 

The obedience of the heart which grows out 
of a sound faith, rooted good desires, well- 
weighed resolutions of fidelity, formed in a high- 
er strength than our own ; a belief in the sacred 
Scriptures so confirmed as not to be shaken by 
any objections brought against them, by any 
difficulties to be found in them ; the comparing 
faithfully all we have heard urged against Reli- 
gion, with all we have seen of its effects, and 
experienced of its benefits, all this is the solid 
ground on which future attainments must here- 
after be built, a ground to be tried by prayer in 
the enquiring mind and the seeking heart. 

And when our reason is become as strong on 
the side of Christianity as our belief — when our 
faith is as enlightened as it is implicit — when 
the growth of the one only confirms the domi- 
nion of the other, this is such an obedience of 
the heart as will infallibly produce obedience in 
the life ; an obedience which will be both the 
cause and the consequence of effectual prayer. 

The renewing of the soul after the image of 
God is not otherwise to be obtained than by true 
spiritual heart-searching prayer. There may 
be a form of unfelt petitions, a ceremonious 
avowal of faith, a customary profession of re- 
pentance, a general acknowledgment of sin, ut- 
tered from the lips to God ; but where is Hia 
image and superscription written upon the heartf 
Where is the transforming power of Religion in 
the life ? Where is the living transcript of the 
Divine original ? Where is that holiness to 
which the vision of the Lord is specifically pro- 
mised 1 Where is the light, and life, and grace 
of the Redeemer exhibited in the temper and 



510 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



conduct? Yet we are assured, that if we are 
Christians, there must be an aim at this con- 
formity. 

As for the genuine Christian, however weak 
in faith and defective in obedience, yet he is still 
seeking, though with slow and faultering steps, 
the things which are above ; he is still striving, 
though with unequal progress, for the prize of 
his high calling ; he is still looking, though with 
a dim and feeble eye, for glory, honour, and im- 
mortality ; He is still waiting, though not with 
a trust so lively as to annihilate the distance, — 
to see his eternal redemption drawing nigh. — 
Though his aims will always be far greater than 
his attainments, yet he is not discouraged ; his 
hope is above, his heart is above, his treasure is 
above ; no wonder then that his prayers are di- 
rected, and a large portion of his wealth sent 
forward thither, where he himself hopes soon to 
be. It is but transmitting his riches of both 
kinds, not only to his future, but his eternal 
home. 

Even if prayer were as worthless, with respect 
to present advantages, and religion as burthen- 
Bome as some suppose, it would be a sufficient 
vindication of both that they lead to eternal 
bliss. When by a distant journey, we have been 
long separated from our own beloved habitation, 
we do not call that the mostdesirable road back 
to it which abounds with the gayest objects, 
but that which will bring us the most safely 
home. If, indeed, we can amuse ourselves with 
the scenery, without slackening our pace, or 
diverging from our path, it is well. It is no of- 
fence against the law of love, if we catch in 
passing, such innocent and safe delights as his 
bounty has scattered in our path. And if our 
journey have so many refreshments showered 
down by the hand of Divine beneficence, what 
shall be the delights of our home? 

If the heavens grow black with clouds, and 
storms arise, these only serve to quicken our 
pace, and make us avoid digression. If sick- 
ness or accident befal us, our heart is still cheer- 
ed with the thought that we are nearer home — 
the future supports us under the present ; a 
little further say we — a little more fatigue, and 
we shall see the desire of our heart. If we are 
bent on security rather than amusement, the 
straightest and the safest way will determine 
our choice. Heaven is worth more sacrifices 
of pleasure and of profit than those to which a 
religious life may subject us ; though, after all, 
it often calls for fewer and lighter than a world- 
ly one imposes. But if it were as rough and 
thorny as those who have never tried it believe, 
it would be a sufficient apology for voluntarily 
encountering its hardships, that it is the only 
road to heaven. 

When the prosperous fool says, ' soul take 
thine ease, thou hast much goods laid up for 
thee,' — the prosperous Christian says, • soul 
tremble at thine ease — be on thy guard. — Thou 
hast, indeed, much goods laid up for thee, but it 
is in a future world. Lose not a large inherit- 
ance for a paltry possession ; forfeit not an un- 
alienable reversion for a life interest, — a life 
which this very night may be required of thee.' 

Perhaps even the worldly and thoughtless 
man, under an occasional fit of dejection, or an 



accidental disappointment, may be brought tn 
say, ' When I am in heaviness, I will think up- 
on God.' — Oh, think upon Him now, now, when 
you are in prosperity, now, when your fortunes 
are flourishing, now when your hill is so strong 
that you think it shall never be moved — think 
upon Him when the scene is the brightest, when 
the world courts, flatteries mislead, and plea 
sures betray you ; think on Him while you are 
able to think at all, while you possess the capa- 
city of thinking. The lime may come, when, 
1 He may turn his face from you, and you will 
be troubled.' Think of God when the alluring 
images of pleasure and of profit would seduce 
you from him. Prosperity is the season of pe- 
culiar peril. ' It is the bright day that bringeth 
forth the adder.' Think of God when the tempt, 
ing world says, ' All this will I give thee. Trust 
not the insolvent world, it has cheated every 
creditor that ever trusted. It will cheat you. 

To those who are yet halting "between two 
opinions, or rather between an opinion and an 
inclination, to those who approve the right, but 
pursue the wrong, those who are not without 
convictions, but which convictions pleasure sti- 
fles, or business overrules, those who are ba- 
lancing between the world and Him who made 
it, who resolve to reform, but make the resolu- 
tion a substitute for the performance ; and oh 
how large, and in many points how respectable 
a class this is ! — to these, to the doubting, and 
the dilatory, we would take the liberty to speak 
plainly. 

It is much to be feared, that secret, unconsci- 
ous infidelity lies at the bottom of the little pro- 
gress you make in your spiritual attainments. 
If the truth, certainty, and inconceivable im- 
portance of eternal things were once rooted and 
grounded in the heart, it would infallibly quick- 
en both devotion and practice. We know, but 
we do not act upon the knowledge, that our 
great business in this world is to determine our 
choice for eternity. This is not a bye work, 
which may be deferred to any time at the ha- 
zard of its not being done at all ; it is the impe- 
rious business of the present hour, the next may 
not be granted us. It is not an affair to be kept 
in reserve, an affair to be postponed till other 
affairs are settled, for how many souls has this 
dilatory delusion ruined ! 

The resolution you may make at this moment, 
and the practical effect of this resolution may 
determine your fate for ever. The decision, if 
delayed, may never be made; the call, now 
given, may never be repeated. Think what you 
put to hazard by delay. — There is not an hour 
in our lives on which eternal life, or eternal 
death may not depend. Shall we then, for a 
single moment, make it a matter of debate what 
our everlasting condition shall be ? If it were a 
decision between two temporal concerns which 
you wese called upon to make, deliberation 
might be wisdom, because there might be de- 
grees of comparison between their value, and 
consequently a doubt as to the predominance of 
the object, and the prudence of your choice. 
But the inequalities of created things are leveX- 
led when brought into comparison with tne 
things of eternity — the difference of mort. 
or less, richer or poorer, prosperity or privation* 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



511 



no longer exists ; the distinction is swallowed 
up when contemplated in the view of endless 
happiness or endless misery. Here then, if 
you hesitate, you have already taken your part; 
irresolution is decision ; deliberation is destruc- 
tion ; you have already resolved. 

The hand which now holds the pen dares not 
denounce anathemas, but trembles as it tran- 
scribes the divinely inspired denunciation of the 
prophet Zephaniah. ' The great day of the 
Lord is near, it is near, it hasteth greatly ; it is 
the voice of the day of the Lord, when the 
mighty man shall cry bitterly. That day is a 
day of wrath ; a day of trouble and distress ; a 
day of wasteness and desolation ; a day of dark- 
ness and gloominess ; a day of clouds and thick 
darkness ; a day of the trumpet and alarm! 1 

The awful ruins of imperial Rome, the still 
more defaced vestiges of learned Athens, present 
a deeply touching spectacle of departed glory. 
Still more affecting is it to contemplate in the 
study of history on the destruction of Carthage, 
of Babylon, of Memphis, whose very ruins are 
no longer to be found ! How affecting to medi- 
tate on ancient Troy, whose very scite can no 
longer be determined ! Yet here no wonder 
mixes with our solemn feeling. All these noble 
monuments of human grandeur were made of 
destructible materials, they could not, from their 
very nature, last for ever. — But, to a deeply re- 
flecting mind, what is the ruin of temples, 
towers, palaces, and cities, what is the ruin of 
' the great globe itself compared with the de- 
struction of one soul meant for immortality — a 
soul furnished by its bountiful Creator with all 
the means for its instruction, sanctification, re- 
demption, and eternal bliss ? And what presents 
the most mournful picture to us, and is in itself 
the most dreadful aggravation, is that its con- 
sciousness cannot be extinguished ; the thought 
of what he might have been will magnify the 
misery of what he is — a reflection which will 
accompany and torment the inextinguishable 
memory through a miserable eternity. Whether 
in the instance of the rich man, who ' in hell 
lifted up his eyes, being in torment,' we might 
dare believe that some remains of human ten- 
-cerness for his relatives might survive in a ruin- 
ed soul ; or, whether his anguish was made more 
bitter, from the reflection, that he had been their 
corrupter, and therefore dreaded that their pu- 
nishment might hereafter aggravate his own, 
we pretend not to say. In any event, it offers a 
lesson pregnant with instruction. It admonishes 
every impenitent offender, of the dreadful addi- 
tion that may be made to his own misery, by 
that corrupt example which has ruined others. 
And it will be the consummation of his calamity 
that he can see nothing but justice in his con- 
demnation. — For it is worth observing, that the 
man in the parable brings no accusation against 
the equity of his sentence. Thus shall every 
condemned sinner 'justify God in his saying, 
and clear him when he is judged.' 

But though the anguish of an undone futurity, 
and the specific nature of the punishment, are 
exhibited with awful clearness and explicit ex- 
actness, in the- gospel ; how wisely has the Holy 
Spirit who dictated it, avoided all particulars of 
that heavenly happiness which we are yet as 



sured will be without measure and without end ; 
whilst the Elysian groves of the Pagan, and the 
paradise of the Mahometan have been graphical- 
ly represented, the former by their poets, the 
latter in their religious code. The one describes 
the inhabitants reposing in gloomy bowers in 
cheerless indolence, with the alternative of a 
restless activity exercised in contemptible pur- 
suits, and renewing on inferior objects the busy 
feats in which they had delighted here below ! 
The heroes who during life had slaughtered 
men, make war on beasts ! The mighty war- 
riors, who had made the earth to tremble, con 
descend in heaven to tame horses ! The depart- 
ed Mussulman receives his celestial rewards in 
scenes of revelry and banquets of voluptuous- 
ness ! What gratifications for an immaterial, 
immortal spirit ! 

The whole scheme of future happiness exhi- 
bited in these two systems, is a preposterous 
provision for the perishable part of man, to the 
entire exclusion of the immortal principle ; both 
schemes stand in direct opposition to the laws 
of infinite wisdom, and the express word of 
Scripture. Both intimate as if the body were 
the part of our nature which is to exist after 
death, while the soul is the portion which is to 
be extinguished. Of a spiritual heaven, neither 
the obsolete mythology, nor the existing Koran, 
affords the slightest information. 

The Scripture views of heaven are given ra- 
ther to quicken faith than to gratify curiosity. 
There the appropriate promises to spiritual be- 
ings are purely spiritual. It is enough for be- 
lievers to know that they shall be for ever with 
the Lord ; and though it doth not yet appear 
what we shall be, yet we know that when he 
shall appear, we shall be like Him. In the vi- 
sion of the Supreme Good, there must be su- 
preme felicity. Our capacities of knowledge 
and happiness shall be commensurate with our 
duration. On earth, part of our enjoyment — a 
most fallacious part — consists in framing new 
objects for our wishes ; in heaven there shall 
remain in us no such disquieting desires, for all 
which can be found we shall find in God. We 
shall not know our Redeemer by the hearing of 
the ear, but we shall see Him as he is ; our 
knowledge, therefore, will be clear, because it 
will be intuitive. 

It is a glorious part of the promised bliss, that 
the book of prophecy shall be realized ; the book 
of providence displayed, every mysterious dis- 
pensation unfolded, not by conjecture, but by 
vision. In the grand general view of Revela- 
tion, minute description would be below our 
ideas ; circumstantial details would be dispa- 
raging ; they would debase what they pretend 
to exalt. We cannot conceive the blessings 
prepared for us, until he who has prepared re- 
veal them. 

If, indeed, the blessedness of the eternal world 
could be described, new faculties must be given 
us to comprehend it. If it could be conceived, 
its glories would be lowered, and our admiring 
wonder diminished. The wealth that can be 
counted has bounds ; the blessings that can be 
calculated have limits. We now rejoice in the 
expectation of happiness inconceivable. To have 
conveyed it to our full apprehension, our con- 



512 THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ceplions of it must then be taken from some- 
thing with which we are already acquainted, 
and we should be sure to depreciate the value 
of things unseen, by a comparison with even 
the best of the things which are seen. In short, 
if the state of heaven were attempted to be let 
down to human intelligence, it would be far in- 



ferior to the glorious but indistinct glimpses 
which we now catch from the oracles of God, 
of joy unspeakable, and full of glory. What 
Christian does not exult in that grand outline 
of unknown, unimagined, yet consummate bliss 
— In Thy presence is the fulness of joy, and at 
Thy right hand are pleasures for evermore ? 



THE SPIRIT OF PRAYER. 

SELECTED AND COMPILED BY THE AUTHOR, FROM VARIOUS PORTIONS OF 
HER WORKS EXCLUSIVELY ON THAT SUBJECT. 

" Knowing that shortly I must put off this my tabernacle." 

" I will endeavour that you may be able after my decease to have these things always in re 
membrance." 2 Peter, c. i. 



PREFACE. 

From a sick, and, in all human probability, a dying bed, the writer of these pages feels an 
earnest desire to be enabled, with the blessing of God, to execute a little plan which has at different 
times crossed her mind, but which she never found leisure to accomplish, till the present season 
of incapacity. 

" The importunity of friends," — that hackneyed apology for works of inferior merit, is not, in 
the present instance, the less true for being worn threadbare. By many partial friends she has 
frequently been desired to write a volume exclusively on Prayer. With this request she has 
always declined complying ; because, among other reasons, she was aware that she had previ- 
ously exhausted — not the subject itself, which is indeed inexhaustible, — but the slender resources 
of her own mind. 

In her, perhaps too numerous, printed works, written on different subjects, and at distant pe- 
riods, there are very many volumes, in which not only some reference has been made, but some 
distinct portions assigned, to the all-important subject of Prayer. 

It is now her latest and warmest wish to be permitted to collect and examine some of those 
portions which treat more directly of this great duty ; to unite the scattered members into one 
compact body, and to bring each under its proper head, into one point of view. All she is herself 
able to do, is to hear these extracts read by kind friends, and to adopt such passages as she may 
think proper for selection. 

Perhaps the silence and solitude of her present nightly watchings may, through Divine grace, 
impress her own heart with a still deeper sense of the unspeakable importance and value of 
Prayer, and of the support and consolation which may be granted in answer to this exercise, 
when every other support and consolation must inevitably fail. 

However small may be the use of this compilation to the reader, the writer at least is already 
reaping one benefit herself from what she has presumed to suggest to others, — the benefit of 
feeling, as she reviews these pages, how sadly she herself has fallen short in the duties she has 
so repeatedly recommended. In this re-examination she has sensibly felt how easy it is to be 
good upon paper, and how difficult in practice. 

At the same time she humbly trusts that her very failures may have enabled her to touch 
these subjects more experimentally than she might have done had her own deficiencies been less 
powerfully recollected, and less acutely felt. 

The Author ventures to hope that her valued friends, to whom this selection is more especially 
dedicated, will consider it as the last bequest of one, who, about to quit this transitory scene, and 
feeling the deepest interest in their spiritual prosperity, as also for that of all her fellow Chris 
tians, is desirous, by this her final act, to testify at least her affectionate anxiety for their eternal 
happiness. 

The present weak state of the Author must apologize for inaccuracies and repetitions. 
Barley- Wood. 



THE SPIRIT OF PRAYER. 



CHAP. I. 

The necessity of Prayer founded on the corrup- 
tion of human nature. 

The subject of man's apostacy is so nearly 



connected with the subject of Prayer, being in- 
deed that which constitutes the necessity of this 
duty, that some mention of the one ought to pre- 
cede any discussion of the other. Let, then, the 
conviction that we have fallen from our original 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



513 



state, and that this lapse presents the most pow- 
erful incentive to prayer, furnish an apology for 
making a few preliminary remarks on this great 
article of our faith. 

The doctrine is not the less a fundamental 
doctrine, because it has been abused to the 
worst purposes ; some having erroneously con- 
sidered it as leaving us without hope, and others 
as lending an excuse to unresisted sin. — It is a 
doctrine which meets us in one unbroken series 
throughout the whole sacred volume ; We find it 
from the third of Genesis, which records the 
event of man's apostacy, carried on through the 
history of its fatal consequences in all the sub- 
sequent instances of sin, individual and national, 
and running in one continued stream from the 
first sad tale of woe, to the close of the sacred 
canon in the Apocalyptic Vision. 

And, to remove toe groundless hope, that this 
quality of inherent corruption belonged only to 
the profligate and abandoned, the Divine In- 
spirer of the sacred writers took especial care, 
that they should not confine themselves to re- 
late the sins of these alone. 

Why are the errors, the weaknesses, and 
even the crimes of the best of men recorded with 
equal fidelity ? Why are we told of the twice re- 
peated deceit of the father of the faithful ? Why 
of the single instance of vanity in Hezekiah ? 
Why of the too impetuous zeal of Elijah ? Why 
of the error of the almost perfect Moses ? Why 
of the insincerity of Jacob? Why of the far 
darker crimes of the otherwise holy David? 
Why of the departure of the wisest of men from 
that piety displayed with sublimity unparalleled 
in the dedication of the Temple ? Why seems it 
to have been invariably studied, to record with 
more minute detail the vices and errors of these 
eminent men, than even those of the successive 
impious kings of Israel, and of Judah ; while 
these last are generally dismissed with the brief, 
but melancholy sentence, that they did that 
which was evil in the sight of the Lord; follow- 
ed only by too frequent an intimation that they 
made way for a successor worse than them- 
selves ? The answer is, that the truth of our 
universal lapse could only be proved by trans- 
mitting the record of those vices, from which 
even the holiest men were not exempt. 

Had the Holy Scriptures kept back from man 
the faithful delineations of the illustrious cha- 
racters to which we have refened, the truth of 
the doctrine in question, though occasionally 
felt, and in spite of his resistance, forced upon 
him, would not have been believed ; or, if be- 
lieved, would not have been acknowledged. 

Christianity hangs on a few plain truths ; 
* that God is, and that he is the rewarder of 
all that seek him ;' that man has apostatised 
from his original character, and by it has for- 
feited his original destination : that Christ came 
into this world and died upon the cross to ex- 
piate sin, and to save sinners ; that after his 
ascension into Heaven, he did not leave his work 
imperfect. He sent his Holy Spirit, who per- 
formed his first office by giving to the Apostles 
miraculous powers. His offices did not cease 
there ; he has indeed withdrawn his miraculous 
gifts, but he still continues his silent but pow- 
erful operations, and that in their due order ; — J 

Vol. II. 2 K 



first, that of convincing of sin, and of changing 
the heart of the sinner, before he assumes the 
gracious character of the Comforter. What 
need, then, of heresies to perplex doctrines, or 
of philosophy to entangle, or of will-worshippers 
to multiply them ? 

We do not deny that there are, in Christianity, 
high and holy mysteries ; but these ' secret 
things,' though they ' belong to God,' have their 
practical uses for us ; they teach us humility, 
the prime Christian grace ; thy send us to 
prayer, and they exercise faith, the parent at- 
tribute of all other graces. 

This religion of facts, then, the poorest list- 
eners in the aisles of our churches understand 
sufficiently, to be made by it wise unto salva- 
tion. They are saved by a practical belief of a 
few simple but inestimable truths. 

By these same simple truths, martyrs and 
confessors, our persecuted saints, and our bless- 
ed reformers were saved. By these few simple 
truths, Locke, and Boyle, and Newton, were 
saved ; not because they saw their religion 
through the glass of their philosophy, but be- 
cause theirs was not a ' philosophy, falsely so 
called ;' nor their science, 'a science of opposi- 
tion ;' but a science and a philosophy which were 
made subservient to Christianity, and because 
their deep humility sanctified their astonishing 
powers of mind. Tnese wonderful men, at 
whose feet the learned world is still satisfied to 
sit, sat themselves at the feet of Jesus. Had 
there been any other way but the cross by which 
sinners could be saved, they, perhaps of all men 
were best qualified to have found it. 

To return, then, to the particular doctrine 
under consideration : — Let us believe man is 
corrupt, because the Bible tells us he is so. 
Let us believe that all were so by nature, even 
the best, since we learn it from Divine authority. 
Let us, from the same authority, trace the dis- 
order to its source from a fallen parent, its seat 
in a corrupt heart, its extent through the whole 
man, its universality over the entire race. 

All are willing to allow that we are subject 
to frailties, to imperfections, to imfirmilies ; facts 
compel us to confess a propensity to crimes, but 
worldly men confine the commission of them to 
the vulgar. But to rest here would lead us to a 
very false estimate of the doctrine in question, 
contrary to the decisive language of Scripture ; 
it would establish corruption to be an accident, 
and not a root. It would by a division of offen- 
ders into two classes, deny that all offences are 
derived from one common principle. 

If, then, men would examine their own bo- 
soms as closely as they censure the faults of 
others loudly, we should all find there the in- 
cipient stirrings of many a sin, which, when 
brought into action by circumstances, produce 
consequences the most appalling. Let us then 
bless God, not that we are better than other men, 
but that we are placed by Providence out of 
the reach of being goaded by that temptation, 
stimulated by that poverty, which, had they been 
our lot, might have led to the same termination. 

Let, then, the fear of God, the knowledge of 
His Word, and the knowledge of ourselves, 
teach us, that there is not, by nature, so wide a 
difference between ourselves and others as we 



514 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



fondly imagine ; that there is not by nature, a 
great gulf fixed, that they who are on this side 
might not pass over to the other. Let us not 
look to any superior virtue, to any native 
strength of our own, but let us look with a live- 
ly gratitude to that mercy of God which has 
preserved us from the temptations to which they 
have yielded. But, above all, let us look to that 
preventing and restraining grace which is with- 
held from none who ask it : without this all- 
powerful grace, Latimer might have led Bonner 
to the stake ; with it Bonner might have ascend- 
ed the scaffold a martyr to true religion. With- 
out this grace, Luther might have fattened on 
the sale of indulgences ; and with it Leo the 
Tenth might have accomplished the blessed 
work of Reformation. 



CHAP. II. 

The duty of Prayer inferred from the helpless- 
ness of man. 

Man is not only a sinful, he isftlso a helpless, 
and therefore & dependent being. This offers 
new and powerful motives for the necessity of 
prayer, the necessity of liking continually to a 
higher power, to a better strength than our own. 
If that Power sustain us not, we fall , if he di- 
rect us not, we wander. His guidance is not 
only perfect freedom, but perfect safety. Our 
greatest danger begins from the moment we 
imagine we are able to go alone. 

The self-sufficiency of man arising from his 
imaginary dignity, is a favourite doctrine with 
the nominal Christian. He feeds his pride with 
this pernicious aliment. And, as we hear much, 
so we hear falsely, of the dignity of human na- 
ture. Prayer, founded on the true principles of 
Scripture, alone teaches us wherein our true 
dignify consists. The dignity of a fallen crea- 
ture is a perfect anomaly. True dignity, con- 
trary to the common opinion, that it is an inhe- 
rent excellence, is actually a sense of the want 
of it; it consists not in our valuing ourselves, 
but in a continual feeling of our dependence up- 
on God, and an unceasing aim at conformity to 
his .mage. 

Nothing but a humbling sense of the sinful- 
ness of our nature, of our practised offences, of 
our utter helplessness, and constant dependence, 
can bring us to fervent and persevering prayer. 
How did the faith of the saints of old flourish 
under a darker dispensation, through all the 
clouds and ignorance which obscured their 
views of God 1 ' They looked unto Him, and 
were enlightened !' How do their slender means 
and high attainments reproach us ! 

David found that the strength and spirit of 
nature which had enabled him to resist the lion 
and the bear, did not enable him to resist his 
outward temptations, nor to conquer his inward 
corruptions. He therefore prayed, not only for 
deliverance ' from blood-guiltiness,' for a griev- 
ously remembered sin, ho prayed for the princi- 
ple of piety, for the fountain of holiness, for 
' the creation of a clean heart,' for ' the renew- 
ing of a right spirit,' for ' truth in the inward 



parts,' that the ' comfort of God's help might 
be granted him.' This uniform avowal of the 
secret workings of sin, this uniform dependence 
on the mercy of God to pardon, and the grace 
of God to assist, render his precatory addresses, 
though they are those of a sovereign and a war- 
rior, so universally applicable to the case of 
every private Christian. 

One of our best poets, — himself an unsuccess- 
ful courtier, — from a personal experience of th» 
mortifying feelings of abject solicitation, has 
said, that if there were the man in the world 
whom he was at liberty to hate, he would wish 
him no greater punishment than attendance and 
dependence. But he applies the heavy penalty 
of this wish to the dependants on mortal great- ' 
ness. 

Now, attendance and dependence are the very 
essence both of the safety and happiness of a 
Christian. Dependence on God is his only true 
liberty, as attendance on Him is his only true 
consolation. The suitor for human favour is 
liable to continual disappointment; if lie knock 
at the door of his patron, there is probably a 
general order not to admit him. In the higher 
case, there is a special promise, that 'to him 
that knocks it shall be opened.' The human 
patron hates importunity ; the Heavenly Patron 
invites it. The one receives his suitor accord- 
ing to his humour, or refuses his admission from 
the caprice of the moment ; with the other, 
' there is no variableness, nor shadow of turn- 
ing.' 'Come unto me,' is His uniform invita- 
tion. The Almighty Donor never puts off His 
humble petitioner to a more convenient season. 
His Court of Requests is always open. He re- 
ceives the petition as soon as it is offered ; He 
grants it as soon as it is made ; and though he 
will not dispense with a continuance of the ap- 
plication, yet to every fresh application He pro- 
mises fresh support. He will still be solicited, 
but it is in order that he may still bestow. Re- 
peated gifts do not exhaust His bounty, nor 
lessen His power of fulfilment. Repeated solici- 
tation, so far from wearing His patience, is an 
additional call for His favour. 

Nor is the lateness of the petition any bar to 
its acceptance ; He likes it should be early, but 
He rejects it not though it be late. 

And as past mercies on God's part, so, to the 
praise of his grace be it said, that past offences 
on our own part are no hindrance to the appli- 
cation of hearty repentance, or the answer of 
fervent prayer. 

The man in power has many claimants on 
his favour, and comparatively few boons to be- 
stow. The God of Power has all things in His 
gift, and only blames the solicitor for coming so 
seldom, or coming so late, or staying so little a 
while. He only wishes that his best gifts were 
more earnestly sought. 

When we solicit an earthly benefactor, it is 
often upon the strength of some pretence to his 
favour, — the hope of some reward for past ser- 
vices: even if we can produce little claim, we 
insinuate something like merit. But when we 
approach our Heavenly Benefactor, so far from 
having any thing like claim, any thing like me- 
rit, to produce, our only true, and our only, ac- 
ceptable plea, is our utter want both of claim 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



5J5 



and merit, — is the utter destitution of all that 
can recommend us; yet we presume to ask fa- 
vour, when we deserve nothing but rejection , 
we are encouraged to ask for eternal happiness, 
when we deserve only eternal punishment. 
Though we have nothing to produce but dis- 
loyalty, we ask for the privileges of subjects,' 
though nothing but disobedience to ofter, we 
plead the privileges of children,— we implore the 
tenderness of a father. 

The petitioner to human power who may 
formerly have offended his benefactor, contrives 
to soften his displeasure by representing that the 
offence was a small one. The devout petitioner 
to God uses no such subterfuge. In the bold- 
ness of faith, and the humility of repentance, he 
cries, ' Pardon my iniquity, for it is great.'' 

He who does not believe this fundamental 
truth, ' the helplessness of man,' on which the 
other doctrines of the Bible are built, — even he 
who does nominally profess to assent to it as a 
doctrine of Scripture ; yet, if he does not expe- 
rimentally acknowledge it ; if he does not feel 
it in the convictions of his own awakened con- 
science, in his discovery of the evil workings of 
his own heart, and the wrong propensities of 
his own nature, all bearing their testimony to 
its truth, — such a one will not pray earnestly for 
its cure, — will not pray with that feeling of his 
helplessness, with that sense of dependence on 
Divine assistance, which alone makes prayer 
efficacious. 

Of this corruption he can never attain an ade- 
quate conception, till his progress in religion 
has opened his eyes on what is the natural state 
of man. Till this was the case, he himself was 
as fur from desiring the change as he was from 
believing it necessary. He does not even sus- 
pect its existence, till he is in some measure de- 
livered from its dominion. 

Nothing will make us truly humble, nothing 
will make us constantly vigilant, nothing will 
entirely lead us to have recourse to prayer, so 
fervently or so frequently, as this ever-abiding 
sense of our corrupt and helpless nature, as our 
not being able to ascribe any disposition in our- 
selves to any thing that is good, or any power 
to avoid, by our own strength, any thing that is 
evil. 



CHAP. III. 

Prayer. Its Definition. 

Prayer is the application of want to Him who 
alone can relieve it, the voice of sin to Him who 
alone can pardon it. It is the urgency of po- 
verty, the prostration of humility, the fervency 
of penitence, the confidence of trust. It is not 
eloquence, but earnestness; not figures of speech, 
but compunctions of soul. It is the ' Lord save 
us, we perish,' of drowning Peter ; the cry of 
faith to the ear of mercy. 

Adoration is the noblestemploymentof created 
beings ; confession, the natural language of 
guilty creatures ; praise, the spontaneous ex- 
pression of pardoned sinners. — Prayer is desire ; 
the abasement of contrition ; the energy of gra- 



titude. It is not a mere conception of the mind 
nor an effort of the intellect, nor an act of the 
memory ; but an elevation of the soul towards 
its Maker. It is the devout breathing of a crea- 
ture struck with a sense of its own misery, and 
of the infinite holiness of Him whom it is ad- 
dressing, experimentally convinced of its own 
emptiness, and of the abundant fulness of God 
of his readiness to hear, of his power to help, oi 
his willingness to save. It is not an emotion 
produced in the senses, nor an effect wrought 
by the imagination ; but a determination of the 
will, an effusion of the heart. 

Prayer is the guide to self-knowledge, by 
prompting us to look after our sins, in order to 
pray against them ; it is a motive to vigilance, 
by teaching us to guard against those sins which, 
through self-examination, we have been enabled 
to detect. 

Prayer is an act both of the understanding 
and of the heart. The understanding must ap- 
ply itself to the knowledge of the Divine perfec- 
tions, or the heart will not be led to the adoration 
of them. It would not be a reasonable service 
if the mind was excluded. It must be rational 
worship, or the human worshipper would not 
bring to the service the distinguishing faculty 
of his nature, which is reason. It must be spi- 
ritual worship, or it would want the distinctive, 
quality to make it acceptable to Him who is a. 
spirit, and who has declared that he will be 
worshipped ' in spirit and in truth.' 

Prayer is right in itself as the most powerful 
means of resisting sin and advancing in holi- 
ness. It is above all right, as every thing is 
which has the authority of Scripture, the com- 
mand of God, and the example of Christ. 

There is a perfect consistency in all the ordi- 
nations of God ; a perfect congruity in the whole 
scheme of his dispensations. If man were not 
a corrupt creature, such prayer as the Gospel 
enjoins would not have been necessary. Had 
not prayer been an important means for curing 
those corruptions, a God of perfect wisdom would 
not have ordered it. He would not have prohi- 
bited every thing which tends to inflame and 
promote them, had the}' not existed ; nor would 
he have commanded every thing that has a 
tendency to diminish and remove them, had not 
their existence been fatal. — Prayer, therefore, is 
an indispensable part of his economy and of our 
obedience. 

It is a hackneyed objection to the use of 
Prayer, that it is offending the omniscience of 
God to suppose he requires information of our 
wants. But no objection can be more futile. 
We do not pray to inform God of our wants, but 
to express our sense of the wants which he al- 
ready knows, As he has not so much made his 
promises to our necessities as to our requests, it 
is reasonable that our requests should be made 
before we can hope that our necessities will be 
relieved. — God does not promise to those who 
want that they shall ' have,' but to those who 
1 ask ;' nor to those who need that they shall 
' find,' but to those who ' seek.' So far, there- 
fore, from his previous knowledge of our wants 
being a ground of objection to Prayer, it is, in 
fact, the true ground for our application. Were 
he not Knowledge itself, our information would 



516 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



be of as little use, as our application would be, 
were he not Goodness itself. 

We cannot attain to a just notion of Prayer 
while we remain ignorant of our own nature, 
of the nature of God as revealed in Scripture, of 
our relation to Him, and dependence on Him. 
If, therefore, we do not live in the daily study 
of the Holy Scriptures, we shall want the high- 
est motives to this duty, and the best helps for 
performing it ; if we do, the cogency of these 
motives, and the inestimable value of these helps, 
will render argument unnecessary, and exhorta- 
tion superfluous. 

One cause, therefore, of the dulness of many 
Christians in Prayer, is their slight acquaint- 
ance with the sacred volume. They hear it pe- 
riodically, they read it occasionally, they are 
contented to know it historically, to consider it 
superficially ; but they do not endeavour to get 
their minds imbued with its spirit. If they 
store their memory with its facts, they do not 
impress their hearts with its truths. They do 
not regard it as the nutriment on which their 
spiritual life and growth depend. They do not 
pray over it : they do not consider all its doc- 
trines as of practical application ; they do not 
cultivate that spiritual discernment, whieh alone 
can enable them judiciously to appropriate its 
promises, and apply its denunciations to their 
own actual case. They do not use it as an un- 
erring line to ascertain their own rectitude, or 
detect their own obliquities. 

In our retirements we too often fritter away 
our precious moments — moments rescued from 
the world — in trivial, sometimes, it is to be fear- 
ed in corrupt thoughts. But if we must give 
the reins to our imagination, let us send this 
excursive faculty to range among great and no- 
ble objects. Let it stretch forward, under the 
sanction of faith and the anticipation of pro- 
phecy, to the accomplishment of those glorious 
promises and tremendous threatenings which 
will soon be realized in the eternal world. These 
are topics which, under the safe and sober 
guidance of Scripture, will fix its largest specu- 
lations, and sustain its loftiest flights. The 
same Scripture, while it expands and elevates 
the mind, will keep it subject to the dominion 
of truth ; while at the same time it will teach 
it, that its boldest excursions must fall infinitely 
short of the astonishing realities of a future 
state. 

Though we cannot pray with a too deep sense 
of sin, we may make our sins too exclusively 
the object of our prayers. While we keep, with 
a self-abasing eye, our own corruptions in view, 
let us look with equal intentness on that mercy 
which cleanseth from all sin. Let our prayers 
be all humiliation, but let them not be all com- 
plaint. When men indulge no other thought 
but that they are attainted rebels, the hopeless- 
ness of pardon hardens them into disloyalty. 
Let them look to the mercy of the King, as well 
as to the rebellion of the subject. If we con- 
template his grace as displayed in the Gospel, 
then, though our humility will increase, our 
despair will vanish. Gratitude in this, a 1 ^ in hu- 
man instances, will create affection, ' We love 
him because he first loved us.' 

Let us, therefore, always keep our unworthi- 



ness in view, as a reason why we stand in need 
of the mercy of God in Christ; but never plead 
it as a reason why we should not draw nigh to 
him to implore that mercy. The best men are 
unworthy for their own sakes ; the worst, on 
repentance, will be accepted for his sako, and 
through his merits. 

In prayer, then, the perfections of God, and 
especially, his mercies in our redemption, should 
occupy our thoughts, as much as our sins ; our 
obligations to him as much as our departures 
from him. We should keep up in our hearts a 
constant sense of our own weakness, not with a 
design to discourage the mind and depress the 
spirits, but with a view to drive us out of our- 
selves, in search of the Divine assistance. We 
should contemplate our infirmity, in order to 
draw us to look for his strength, and to seek that 
power from God which we vainly look for in 
ourselves : we do not tell a sick friend of his 
danger in order to grieve or terrify him, but to 
induce him to apply to his physician, and to 
have recourse to his remedy. 

Among the charges which have been brought 
against serious piety, one is, that it teaches men 
to despair. The charge is just, in one sense, as 
to the fact ; but false in the sense intended. It 
teaches us to despair, indeed, of ourselves, while 
it inculcates that faith in a Redeemer, which is 
the true antidote to despair. Faith quickens the 
doubting, while it humbles the presumptuous 
spirit. The lowly Christian takes comfort in 
the blessed promise, that God will never forsake 
them that are his. The presumptuous man is 
equally right in the doctrine ; but wrong in ap- 
plying it. He takes that comfort to himself 
which was meant for another class of charac 
ters. The mal-appropriation of Scripture pro- 
mises and threatenings is the cause of much er- 
ror and delusion. 

Some devout enthusiasts have fallen into er- 
ror by an unnatural and impracticable disinter- 
estedness, asserting that God is to be loved ex- 
clusively for himself, with an absolute renunci- 
ation of any view of advantage to ourselves ; yet 
that prayer cannot be mercenary, which in- 
volves God's glory with our own happiness, and 
makes his will the law of our requests. Though 
we are to desire the glory of God supremely ; 
though this ought to be our grand actuating 
principle ; yet he has graciously permitted, 
commanded, invited us, to attach our own hap- 
piness to this primary object. The Bible exhi- 
bits not only a beautiful, but an inseparable 
combination of both, which delivers us from the 
danger of preposterously imagining, than an ab- 
solute renunciation of all benefit to ourselves is 
necessary for the promotion of God's glory on 
the one hand ; and on the other, from seeking 
any happiness independent of him, and unde- 
rived from him. In enjoining us to love him 
supremely, he has connected an unspeakable 
blessing with a paramount duty, the highest 
privilege with the most positive command. 

What a triumph for the humble Christian to 
be assured, that ' the everlasting God, the Lord, 
the Creator of the ends of the earth,' is the God 
of his life, to know that he is even invited to 
take the Lord for his God. To close with God's 
offers, to accept his invitations, to receive God 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



517 



as our portion must surely be more pleasing to 
our heavenly Father, than separating our hap- 
piness from his glory. To disconnect our inter- 
ests from his goodness, is at once to detract 
from his perfections, and to obscure the bright- 
ness of our own hopes. The declarations of the 
inspired writers are confirmed by the authority 
of the heavenly hosts. They proclaim that the 
glory of God and the happiness of his creatures, 
so far from interfering, are connected with each 
other. We know but of one anthem composed 
and sung by angels, and this most harmonious- 
ly combines 4 the glory of God in the highest, 
with peace on earth, and pood will to men.' 

' The beauty of Scripture,' says the great 
Saxon reformer, ' consists in pronouns.' This 
God is our God ; God, even our own God shall 
bless us. How delightful the appropriation ! to 
glorify him as being in himself consummate ex- 
cellence, and to love him from the feeling that 
his excellence is directed to our felicity ! Here 
modesty would be ingratitude, disinterestedness 
rebellion. It would be severing ourselves from 
him, in whom we live, and move, and are ; it 
would be dissolving the astonishing connection 
which he had condescended to establish between 
himself and his rational creatures. 

The Scripture Saints make this union the 
chief ground of their grateful exultation : ' My 
strength,' ' my rock,' ' my fortress,' ' my deli- 
verer !' Again, ' let the God of my salvation 
be exalted !' Now take away the pronoun, and 
substitute the article the, how comparatively 
cold is the impression ! The consummation of 
the joy arises from the peculiarity, the intimacy, 
the endearment of the relation. 

Nor to the liberal Christian is the grateful 
joy diminished, when he blesses his God as ' the 
God of them that trust in him.' All general 
blessings, will he say, all providential mercies, 
are mine individually, are mine as completely 
as if no other shared in the enjoyment — life, 
light, the earth and heavens, the sun and stars, 
whatsoever sustains the body, and recreates the 
spirits ? My obligation is as great as if the 
mercy had been made purely for me ; as great? 
nay, it is greater ; it is augmented by a sense 
of the millions who participate in the blessing. 
The same enlargement of personal obligation 
holds good, nay, rises higher, in the mercies of 
Redemption. The Lord is my Saviour, as com- 
pletely as if he had redeemed only me. That 
he has redeemed 'a great multitude, which no 
man can number, of all nations, and kindreds, 
and people, and tongues,' is diffusion without 
abatement; it is general participation without 
individual diminution. Each has all. 

In adoring the providence of God, we are apt 
to be struck with what is new and out of course, 
while we too much overlook long habitual, and 
uninterrupted mercies. But common mercies, 
if less striking, are more valuable, both because 
we have them always, and for the reason above 
assigned, because others share them. The or- 
dinary blessings of life are overlooked for the 
very reason that they ought to be most prized, 
because they are most uniformly bestowed. 
They are most essential to our support, and 
when once they are withdrawn, we begin to 
find that tney are also most essential to our 



comfort. Nothing raises the pride of a blessing 
like its removal, whereas it was its continuance 
which should have taught us its worth. We 
require novelties to awaken our gratitude, not 
considering that it is the duration of mercies 
which enhances their value. Wo want fresh ex- 
citements. We consider mercies long enjoyed 
as things of course, as things to which we have 
a sort of claim by prescription ; as if God had 
no right to withdraw what he has once bestow 
ed, as if he were obliged to continue what he 
has once been pleased to confer. 

But that the sun has shown unremittingly 
from the day that God created him, is not a less 
stupendous exertion of power, than that the 
hand which fixed him in the heavens, and mark- 
ed out his progress through them, once said by 
his servant, ' Sun, stand thou still upon Gideon.' 
That he has gone on in his strength, driving his 
uninterrupted career, and 'rejoicing as a giant 
to run his course,' for six thousand years, is a 
mote astonishing exhibition of Omnipotence 
than that he should have been once suspended 
by the hand which set him in motion. That 
the ordinances of Heaven, that the established 
laws of nature, should have been for one day 
interrupted to serve a particular occasion, is a 
less real wonder, and certainly a less substan- 
tial blessing, than that in such a multitude of 
ages they should have pursued their appointed 
course, for the comfort of the whole system. 

As the affections of the Christian ought to be 
set on things above, so it is for them that his 
prayers will be chiefly addressed. God, in pro- 
mising to ' give those who delight in him the 
desire of their heart,' could never mean tempo- 
ral things ; for these they might desire impro- 
perly as to the object, and inordinately as to the 
degree. The promise relates principally to spi- 
ritual blessings. He not only gives us these 
mercies, but the very desire to obtain them is 
also his gift. Here our prayer requires no 
qualifying, no conditioning, no limitation. We 
cannot err in our choice, for God himself is the 
object of it; we cannot exceed in the degree, 
unless it were possible to love him too well, or 
to please him too much. 

God shows his munificence in encouraging ua 
to ask most earnestly for the greatest things, by 
promising that the smaller ' shall be added unto 
us.' We therefore acknowledge his liberality 
most, when we request the highest favours. He 
manifests His infinite superiority to earthly fa- 
thers, by chiefly delighting to confer those spi- 
ritual gifts which they less solicitously desire 
for their children, thau those worldly advan- 
tages on which God sets so little value. 

We should 'endeavour to render our private 
devotions effectual remedies for our own parti- 
cular sins. Prayer against sin, in general, is 
too indefinite to reach the individual case. We 
must bring it home to our own hearts, else we 
may be confessing another man's sins, and over- 
looking our own. If we have any predominant 
fault, we should pray more especially against 
the fault. If we pray for any virtue of which 
we particularly stand in need, we should dwell 
on our own deficiencies in that virtue, till our 
souls become deeply affected with our want of 
it. Our prayers should be circumstantial, not 



518 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



as was before observed, for the information of 
Infinite Wisdom, but for the stirring up of our 
own dull affections. And as the recapitulation 
of our wants tends to keep up a sense of our de- 
pendence, the enlarging on our especial mer- 
cies will tend to keep alive a sense of gratitude; 
while indiscriminate petitions, confessions, and 
thanksgiving, leave the mind to wander in in- 
definite devotion, and unaffecting generalities, 
without personality, and without appropriation. 
It must be obvious, that we except th se grand 
universal points in which all have an equal in- 
terest, and which must always form the essence 
of family, and, especially, of public prayer. 

As we ought to live in a spirit of obedience to 
his commands, so we should live in a frame of 
waiting for his blessings on our prayers, and in 
a spirit of gratitude when we have obtained it. 
This is that ' preparation of the heart' which 
would always keep us in a posture for duty. If 
we desert the duty because an immediate bless- 
ing does not visibly attend it, it shows that we 
do not serve God out of conscience, but selfish- 
ness ; that we grudge expending on Him that 
service which brings us in no immediate inter- 
est. Though he grants not our petition, let us 
never be tempted to withdraw our application. 

Our reluctant devotions may remind us of the 
remark of a certain great political wit,* who 
apologized for his late attendance in parliament, 
by his being detained while a party of soldiers 
were dragging a volunteer to his duty. How 
many excuses do we find for not being in time! 
How many apologies for brevity ! How many 
evasions for neglect ! How unwilling, too often, 
are we to come into the Divine presence, how 
reluctant to remain in it ! Those hours which 
are least valuable for business, which are least 
seasonable for pleasure, we commonly give to 
religion. Our energies, which were so readily 
exerted in the society we have just quitted, are 
sunk as we approach the Divine presence. Our 
hearts, which were all alacrity in some frivolous 
conversation, become cold and inanimate, as if 
it were the natural property of devotion to freeze 
the affections. Our animal spirits, which so 
readily performed their functions before, now 
slacken their vigour, and lose their vivacity. 
The sluggish body sympathizes with the un- 
willing mind, and each promotes the deadness 
of the other ; both are slow in listening to the 
call of duty ; both are soon weary in performing 
it. How do our fancies rove back to the plea- 
sures we have been enjoying! How apt are the 
diversified images of those pleasures to mix 
themselves with our better thoughts, to pull 
down our higher aspirations! As prayer re- 
quires all the energies of the ccftnpound being 
of man, so we too often feel as if there were a 
confederacy of body, soul, and spirit, to disin- 
cline and disqualify us for it. 

When the heart is once sincerely turned to 
religion, we need not, every time we pray, ex- 
amine into every truth, and seek for conviction 
over and over again ; but assume that those doc- 
trines are true, the truth of which we have al- 
ready proved. From a general and fixed im- 
pression of these principles, will result a taste, 
a disposedness, a love so intimate, that the con- 
* Mr Slieridan. 



victions of the understanding will become the 
affections of the heart. 

To be deeply impressed with a few funda- 
mental truths, to digest them thoroughly, to 
meditate on them seriously, to pray over them 
fervently, to get them deeply rooted in the heart, 
will be more productive of faith and holiness, 
than to labour after variety, ingenuity, or ele- 
gance. The indulgence of imagination will ra- 
ther distract than edify. Searching after inge- 
nious thoughts will rather divert the attention 
from God to ourselves, than promote fixedness 
of thought, singleness of intention, and devoted- 
ness of spirit. Whatever is subtle and refined, 
is in danger of being unscriptural. If we do not 
guard the mind, it will learn to set more value 
on original thoughts than devout affections. It 
is the business of prayer to cast down imagina- 
tions which gratify the natural activity of the 
mind, while they leave the heart unhumbled. 

We should confine ourselves to the present 
business of the present moment ; we should 
keep the mind in a state of perpetual depend- 
ence; we should entertain no long views. ' Now 
is the accepted time.' 'To-day we must hear 
his voice.' ' Give us this day our daily bread.' 
The manna will not keep till to-morrow : to- 
morrow will have its own wants, and must have 
its own petitions. To-morrow we must seek 
anew the bread of heaven. 

We should, however, avoid coming to our de- 
votions with unfurnished minds. We should be 
always laying in materials fur prayer, by a dili- 
gent course of serious reading, by treasuring up 
in our minds the most important truths. If we 
rush into the Divine presence with a vacant, or 
ignorant, or unprepared mind, with a heart full 
of the world ; as we shall feel no disposition or 
qualification for the work we are about to en- 
gage in, so we cannot expect that our petitions 
will be heard or granted.' There must be some 
congruity between the heart and the object, 
some affinity between the state of our minds and 
the business in which they are employed, if we 
would expect success in the work. 

We are often deceived both as to the princi- 
ple and the effect of our prayers. When, from 
some external cause, the heart is glad, the spi- 
rits light, the thoughts ready, the tongue volu- 
ble, a kind of spontaneous eloquence is the re- 
sult; with this we are pleased, and this ready 
flow we are willing to impose on ourselves for 
piety. 

On the other hand, when the mind is dejected, 
the animal spirits low, the thoughts confused ; 
when apposite words do not readily present 
themselves, we are apt to accuse our hearts of 
want of fervour, to lament our weakness, and to 
mourn that, because we have had no pleasure 
in praying our prayers have, therefore, not as- 
cended to the throne of mercy. In both cases 
we, perhaps, judge ourselves unfairly. These 
unready accents, these faltering praises, these 
ill-expressed petitions, may find more accept- 
ance than the florid talk with which we were 
so well satisfied : the latter consisted, it may be, 
of shining thoughts, floating on the fancy, elo- 
quent words dwelling on the lips ; the former 
might be the sighing of a contrite spirit abased 
by the feeling of its own unworthiness, and 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



519 



awed by the perfections of a holy and heart- 
eoarehing God. The heart is dissatisfied with 
its own dull and tasteless repetitions which, with 
all their imperfections, Infinite Goodness may, 
perhaps, hear with favour.* — We may not only 
be elated with the fluency but even with the 
fervency of our prayers. Vanity may grow out 
of the very act of renouncing it, and we may 
begin to feel proud at having humbled our- 
selves so eloquently. 

There is, however, a strain and spirit of prayer 
equally distinct from that facility and copious- 
ness for which we certainly are never the bet- 
ter in the sight of God, and from that constraint 
and dryness for which we may be never the 
worse. There is a simple, solid, pious strain 
of prayer, in which the supplicant is so filled 
and occupied with a sense of his own depen- 
dence, and of the importance of the things for 
which he asks, and so persuaded of the power 
and grace of God through Christ to give him 
those things, that while he is engaged in it, he 
does not merely imagine, but feels assured that 
God is nigh to him as a reconciled Father, so 
that every burden and doubt are taken off" from 
his mind. ' He knows,' as St. John expresses 
it, ' that he has the petitions he desired of God,' 
and feels the truth of that promise, ' while they 
are yet speaking I will hear. This is the per- 
fection of Prayer. 



CHAP. IV. 

On the Effects of Prayer. 

It is objected by a certain class, and on the 
ppecious ground of humility too, though we do 
not always find the objector himself quite as 
humble as his plea would be thought, that it is 
arrogant in such insignificant beings as we are 
to presume to lay our petty necessities before 
the Great and Glorious God, who cannot be ex- 
pected to condescend to the multitude of trifling 
and even interfering requests which are brought 
before him by his creatures. These and such 
like objections arise from mean and unworthy 
thoughts of the Great Governor of the Universe. 
It seems as if those who make them considered 
the Most High as ' such a one as themselves ;' 
a Being, who can perform a certain given 
quantity of business, but who would be over- 
powered with an additional quantity. Or, at 
best, is it not considering the Almighty in the 
light, not of an Infinite God, but of a great man, 
of a minister, or a king, who, while he superin- 
tends public and national concerns, is obliged 
to neglect small and individual petitions ; be- 
cause his hands being full, he cannot spare that 
leisure and attention which suffice for every 

* Of these sort of rr|>etitions, our admirable Church 
Litnr.'y has been accused as a fault : but this defect, if 
it be one, happily accommodates itself to our infirmities. 
Where is the favoured being whose attention never 
wanders, whose heart accompanies his lips in every sen- 
tence ? Is there no absence of mind in the petitioner, no 
wandering of the thoughts, no inconstancy of the heart, 
which these repetitions are wisely calculated to correct, 
to rouse the dead attention, to bring back the strayed 
affections ? 



thing? They do not consider him as that in- 
finitely gracious Being, who, while he beholds 
at once all that is doing in heaven and in earth, 
is at the same time as attentive to the prayer of 
the poor destitute, as present to the sorrowful 
sighing of the prisoner, as if each of these for- 
lorn creatures were individually the object of 
his undivided attention. 

These critics, who are for sparing the Su- 
preme Being the trouble of our prayers, and 
who, if I may so speak without profaneness, 
would relieve Omnipotence of part of his bur- 
den, by assigning to his care only such a por- 
tion as may be more easily managed, seem to 
have no adequate conception of his attributes. 

They forget that infinite wisdom puts him as 
easily within reach of all knowledge, as infinite 
power does of all performance ; that he is a 
Being in whose plans complexity makes no 
difficulty, variety n& obstruction, and multi- 
plicity no confusion ; that to ubiquity distance 
does not exist ; that to infinity space is annihi- 
lated ; that past, present, and future, are dis- 
cerned more accurately at one glance of His 
eye, to whom a thousand years are as one day, 
than a single moment of time or a single point 
of space can be by ours. 

Another class continue to bring forward, as 
pertinaciously as if it had never been answered, 
the exhausted argument, that seeing God is 
immutable, no petitions of ours can ever change 
Him : that events themselves being settled in a 
fixed and unalterable course, and bound in a 
fatal necessity, it is folly to think that we can 
disturb the established laws of the universe, or 
interrupt the course of Providence by our pray- 
ers ; and that it is absurd to suppose these firm 
decrees can be reversed by any requests of ours. 

Without entering into the wide and trackless 
field of fate and free will, we would only ob. 
serve, that these objections apply equally to 
all human actions as well as to prayer. It may 
therefore with the same propriety be urged, that 
seeing God is immutable and his decrees unal- 
terable, therefore our actions can produce no 
change in Him or in our own state. Weak as 
well as impious reasoning ! It may be questioned 
whether even the modern French and German 
philosophers might not be provailvd upon to 
acknowledge the existence of God, if they might 
make such a use of his attributes. 

How much more wisdom as well as happiness 
results from a humble Christian spirit! Such a 
plain practical text as ' Draw near unto God, 
and he will draw near unto you,' carries more 
consolation, more true knowledge of his wants 
and their remedy to the heart of a penitent sin- 
ner, than all the tomes of casuistry, which have 
puzzled the world ever since the question was 
first set afloat by its original propounders. 

And as the plain man only got up and walked, 
to prove there was such a thing as motion, in 
answer to the philosopher who, in an elaborate 
theory, denied it; so the plain Christian, when 
he is borne down with the assurance that there 
is no efficacy in prayer, requires no better 
argument to repel the assertion than the good 
he finds in prayer itself. A Christian knows, 
because, he feels, that prayer is, though in a 
way to him inscrutable, the medium of cod.. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



nexion between God and his rational creatures, 
the method appointed by Him to draw down his 
blessings upon us. The Christian knows thut 
prayer is the appointed means of uniting two 
ideas, one of the highest magnificence, the 
other of the most profound lowliness, within 
the compass of the imagination ; namely, that 
it is the link of communication between ' the 
High and Lofty One who inhabiteth eternity,' 
and that heart of the ' contrite in which he de- 
lights to dwell.' He knows that this inexplica- 
ble union between beings so unspeakably, so 
essontially different, can only be maintained by 
prayer ; that this is the strong but secret chain 
which unites time with eternity, earth with 
heaven, man with God. 

The plain Christian, as was before observ- 
ed, cannot explain why it is so ; but while he 
feels the efficacy, he is contented to let the 
learned define it ; and he will no more postpone 
prayer till he can produce a chain of reasoning 
on the manner in which he derives benefit from 
it, than he will postpone eating till he can give 
a scientific lecture on the nature of digestion : 
he is contented with knowing that his meat 
has nourished him : and he leaves to the philo- 
sopher, who may choose to defer his meal till he 
has elaborated his treatise, to starve in the in- 
terim. — The Christian feels better than he is 
able to explain, that the functions of his spiri- 
tual life can no more be carried on without ha- 
bitual prayer, than those of his natural life with- 
out frequent bodily nourishment. He feels re- 
novation and strength grow out of the use of the 
appointed means, as necessarily in the one case 
as in the other. He feels that the health of his 
soul can no more be sustained, and its powers 
kept in continual vigour by the prayers of a 
distant day, than his body by the aliment of a 
distant day. 

But there is one motive to the duty in ques- 
tion, far more constraining to the true believer 
than all others that can be named ; more im- 
perative than any argument on its utility, than 
any conviction of its efficacy, even than any ex- 
perience of its consolations. Prayer is the com- 
mand of God ; the plain, positive, repeated in- 
junction of the Most High, who declares, ' He 
will be inquired of.' This is enough to secure 
the obedience of the Christian, even though a 
promise were not, as it always is, attached to 
the command. But in this case, to our un- 
speakable comfort, the promise is as clear as 
the precept : ' Ask, and ye shall receive.' This 
is encouragement enough for the plain Chris. 
tian. As to the manner in which prayer is 
made to coincide with the general scheme of 
God's plan in the government of human affairs ; 
how God has left himself at liberty to reconcile 
p»r prayer with his own predetermined will, 
the Christian does not very critically examine, 
his precise and immediate duty being to pray, 
and not to examine. 

In the mean time it is enough for the humble 
believer to be assured, that the Judge of all the 
earth is doing right ; it is enough for him to be 
assured in that word of God ' which cannot lie,' of 
numberless actual instances of the efficacy of 
prayer in obtaining blessings and averting cal- 
amities, both national and individual ; it is 



enough for him to be convinced experimentally 
by that internal evidence which is perhaps para- 
mount to all other evidence, the comfort he him 
self has received from prayer, when all other 
comforts have failed and, above all, to end with 
the same motive with which we began, the only 
motive indeed which he requires for the per- 
formance of any duty; it is motive enough 
for him, — that Thus saith the Lord. 

Others there are, who, perhaps not contro- 
verting any of these premises, yet neglect to 
build practical consequences on the admission 
of them ; who neither denying the duty nor the 
efficacy of prayer, yet go on to live either in the 
irregular observance or the total neglect of it, as 
appetite, or pleasure, or business, or humour, 
may happen to predominate; and who by living 
almost without prayer, may be said, ' to live 
almost without God in the world.' To such we 
can only say, that they little know what they 
lose. The time is hastening on when they will 
look upon those blessings as invaluable, which 
now they think not worth asking for; when 
they will bitterly regret the absence of those 
means and opportunities which now they either 
neglect or despise. 'O that they were wise! 
that they understood this ! that they would con- 
sider their latter end !' 

There are again, others, who it is to be feared, 
having once lived in the habit of prayer, yet not 
having been well grounded in those principles 
of faith and repentance on which genuine prayer 
is built, have by degrees totally discontinued it. 
'They do not find,' say they, 'that their affairs 
prosper the better or are the worse ; or perhaps 
they were unsuccessful in their affairs even be- 
fore they dropt the practice, and so had no en- 
couragement to go on.' They do not know that 
they had no encouragement ; they do not know 
how much worse their affairs might have gone 
on, had they discontinued it sooner, or how their 
prayers helped to retard their ruin. Or they do 
not know that perhaps 'they asked amiss,' or 
that, if they had obtained what they asked, 
they might have been far more unhappy. For 
a true believer never ' restrains prayer,' be- 
cause he is not certain that he obtains every in- 
dividual request; for he is persuaded that God, 
in compassion to our ignorance, sometimes in 
great mercy withholds what we desire, and 
often disappoints his most favoured children by 
giving them not what they ask, but what he 
knows is really good for them. The froward 
child, as a pious prelate* observes, cries for the 
shining blade, which the tender parent with- 
holds, knowing it would cut his fingers. 

Thus to persevere when we have not the 
encouragement of visible successes an evidence 
of tried faith. Of this holy perseverance Job 
was a noble instance. Defeat and disappoint 
ment rather stimulated than stopped his prayers 
Though in a vehement strain of passionate elo 
quence he exclaims, ' I cry out of wrong, but 1 
am not heard: I cry aloud, but there is na 
judgment:' yet so persuaded was he notwilh 
standing of the duty of continuing this holy im 
portunity, that he persisted against all human 
hope, till he attained to that exalted pitch of 

* Bishop Hall 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



521 



unshaken faith, by which he was enabled to break 
out into that sublime apostrophe, ' Though he 
slay me, yet I will trust in him.' 

But may we not say that there is a considera- 
ble class, who not only bring none of the objec- 
tions which we have stated against the use of 
prayer ; who are so far from rejecting, that they 
are exact and regular in the performance of it ; 
who yet take it up on as low ground as is con- 
sistent with their ideas of their own safety ; 
who, while they consider prayer as an indis- 
pensable form, believe nothing of that change of 
heart and of those holy tempers which it is in- 
tended to produce? Many, who yet adhere 
scrupulously to the letter, are so far from enter- 
ing into the spirit of this duty, that they are 
strongly inclined to suspect those of hypocrisy 
or fanaticism who adopt the true scriptural 
views of prayer. Nay, as even the Bible may 
be so wrested as to be made to speak almost any 
language in support of almost any opinion, these 
persons lay hold on Scripture itself, to bear them 
out in their own slight views of this duty; and 
they profess to borrow from thence the ground 
of fhat censure which they cast on the more se- 
rious Christians. Among the many passages 
which have been made to convey a meaning fo- 
reign to their original designs, none have been 
seized upon with more avidity by such persons 
than the pointed censures of our Saviour on 
those ' who fur a pretence make long prayers ;' 
as well as on those ' who use vain repetitions, 
and think they shall be heard for much speak- 
ing.' Now the things here intended to be re- 
proved were the hypocrisy of the Pharisees and 
the ignorance of the heathen, together with the 
error of all those who depended on the success 
of their prayers, while they imitated the deceit 
of the one, or the folly of the other. But our 
Saviour never meant that thoso severe repre- 
hensions should cool or abridge the devotion of 
pious Christians, to which they do not at all 
apply. 

More or fewer words, however, so little con- 
stitute the true value of prayer, that there is no 
doubt but one of the most affecting specimens 
on record is the short petition of the Publican, 
full fraught as it is with that spirit of contrition 
and self-abasement which is the very principle 
and soul of prayer. And this specimen, per- 
haps, is the best model for that sudden lifting up 
of the heart which we call ejaculation. But we 
doubt, in general, whether the few hasty words, 
to which these frugal petitioners would stint the 
scanty devotions of others and themselves, will 
be always found ample enough to satisfy the 
humble penitent, who, being a sinner, has much 
to confess ; who, hoping he is a pardoned sin- 
ner, has much to acknowledge. Such a one, 
perhaps, cannot always pour out the fulness of 
his soul within the prescribed abridgments. 

Even the sincerest Christian, when he wishes 
to find his heart warm, has often to lament its 
coldness though he feels that he has received 
much, and has, therefore, much to be thankful 
for, yet he is not able at once to bring his way- 
ward spirit into such a posture as shall fit it for 
the solemn duty. Such a one has not merely 



Bishop Iiall. 



his form to repeat, but he has his tempers to re- 
duce to order, his affections to excite, and his 
peace to make. His thoughts may be realizing 
the sarcasm of the Prophet on the idol Baal, 
' they may be gone a journey,' and must be re- 
called ; his heart, perhaps, ' sleepeth, and must 
be awaked.' A devout supplicant, too, will 
labour to affect and warm his mind with a sense 
of the great and gracious attributes of God, in 
imitation of the holy men of old. Like Jeho- 
saphat, he will sometimes enumerate ' the power 
and the might, and the mercies of the Most 
High,' in order to stir up the sentiments of awe, 
and gratitude, and love, and humility in his own 
soul.* He will labour to imitate the examplo 
of his Saviour, whose heart dilated with the ex- 
pression of the same holy affections. ' I thank 
thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth.' A 
heart thus animated, thus warmed with Divine 
love, cannot always scrupulously limit itself to 
the mere business of prayer, if I may so speak. 
It cannot content itself with merely spreading 
out its own necessities, but expands in contem- 
plating the perfections of Him to whom he is 
addressing them. 

The humble supplicant, though he be no long- 
er governed by a love of the world, yet, grieves 
to find that he cannot totally exclude it from his 
thoughts. Though he has on the whole a deep 
sense of his own wants and of the abundant pro- 
vision which is made for them in the Gospel ; 
yet, when he most wishes to be rejoicing in 
those strong motives for love and gratitude, alas ! 
even then he has to mourn his worldliness, his 
insensibility, his deadness. He has to deplore 
the littleness and vanity of the objects which are 
even then drawing away his heart from his Re- 
deemer. The best Christian is but too liable 
during the temptations of the day, to be ensnared 
by ' the lust of the eye, and the pride of life,' 
and is not always brought without effort to re- 
flect that he is but dust and ashes. How can 
even good persons, who are just come, perhaps, 
from listening to the flattery of their fellow 
worms, acknowledge before God, without any 
preparation of the heart, that they are miserable 
sinners? They require a little time to impress 
on their own souls the truth of that solemn con- 
fession of sin which they are making to him, 
without which, brevity, and not length might 
constitute hypocrisy. 

Even the sincerely pious have in prayer 
grievous wanderings to lament, from which 
others mistakingly suppose the advanced Chris- 
tian to be exempt Such wanderings that, as an 
old divine has observed, it would exceedingly 
humble a good man, could he, after he had pray- 
ed, be made to see his prayers written down, 
with exact interlineations of all the vain and 
impertinent thoughts which had thrust them- 
selves in amongst them. So that such a one 
will, indeed, from a strong sense of these dis- 
tractions, feel deep occasion, with the Prophet, 
to ask forgiveness for 'the iniquity of his holy 
things ;' and would find cause enough for humi- 
liation every night, had he to lament the sins of 
his prayers only. 

We know that such a brief petition, as ' Lord 

* 2 Chron. xx. 5, «. 



Vol. II. 



522 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



help my unbelief,' if the supplicant be in so 
happy a frame, and the prayer be darted up with 
such strong faith, that his very soul mounts 
with the petition, may suffice to draw down a 
blessing which may be withheld from the more 
prolix petitioner : yet if by prayer we do not 
mean a mere form of words, whether it be long 
or short; but that secret communion between 
God and the soul which is the very breath and 
being of religion ; then is the Scripture so far 
from suggesting that short measure of which it 
is accused, that it expressly says, ' Pray with- 
out ceasing ;' — ' Pray evermore ;' — ' I will that 
men pray every where ;' — ' Continue instant in 
prayer.' 

If such ' repetitions' as these objectors repro- 
bate, stir up desires as yet unawakened, or pro- 
tract affections already excited (for ' vain repe- 
titions' are such as awaken or express no new 
desire, and serve no religious purpose ;) then 
are ' repetitions' not to be condemned. And that 
our Saviour did not give the warning against 
1 long prayers and repetitions,' in the sense these 
objectors allege, is evident from his own prac- 
tice ; for once we are told ' he continued all 
night in prayer to God.' And again, in a most 
awful crisis of his life, it is expressly said, ' He 
prayed the third time, using the same words. 1 

All habits gain by exercise ; of course the 
Christian graces gain force and vigour by being 
called out, and, as it were, mustered in prayer. 
Love, faith, and trust in the Divine promises, if 
they were not kept alive by this stated inter- 
course with God, would wither and die. 



CHAP. V. 

Vain Excuses for the Neglect of Prayer. 

There are not a few, who offer apologies for 
the neglect of spiritual duties,' by saying they 
believe them to be right, but that they are tempt- 
ed to neglect the exercise of them by idleness, or 
business, by company, or pleasure. This may 
be true, but temptations are not compulsions. 
The great adversary of souls may fill the fancy 
with alluring images of enjoyment, so as to draw 
us away from any duty, but it is in our own 
choice either to indulge, or through grace to re- 
pel them. He may act upon the passions through 
outward objects, which introduce them to the 
mind through the senses, but the grace of God 
enables all who faithfully ask it, to withstand 
them. 

If we were not at liberty to reject temptation, 
sin would be no sin. It is the offer of the grace 
of resistance not used, which makes the offender 
to be without excuse. All the motives and the al- 
lurements to sin would be ineffectual, would we 
keep up in our minds what are its ' wages' — 
death ; death spiritual, death eternal ! 

Of all the excuses for the neglect of prayer, 
the man of business justifies his omission to 
himself by the most plausible apologies. — Many 
of this class, active for themselves, and useful 
to the world, are far from disputing either the 
propriety, or the duty of prayer ; they are willing 
however for the present, to turn over this duty 



to the clergy, to the idle, to women and children- 
They allow it to be an important thing, but not 
the most important. They acknowledge, if 
men have time to spare, they cannot spend it 
belter ; but they have no time. It is indeed a 
duty, but a duty not to be compared with that 
of the court, the bar, the public office, the count- 
ing-house, or (he shop. 

Now, in pleading for the importance of the 
one, we should be the last to detract from that 
of the other. We only plead for their entire 
compatability. 

We pass over the instance of Daniel, a man 
of business and a statesman, and of many other 
public characters, recorded in Scripture, and 
confine ourselves to the example of Nehemiah. 
He was not only an officer in the court of the 
greatest king of the East, but it was his duty to 
be much in the royal presence. He was on a 
particular occasion, under deep affliction ; for 
Jerusalem was in ruins ! On a certain day his 
sadness was so great, as to be visible to the 
king, at whose table he was attending. 

The monarch enquired the cause of his sor- 
row, and what request he had to make. — He in- 
stantly 'prayed to the God of heaven,' doubtless 
to strengthen him, and then made his petition to 
the king for no less a boon, than to allow him to 
rebuild the walls of the sacred city. His prayer 
preceded his petition. It was that prayer, which 
gave him courage to present that petition, and 
which probably induced the sovereign to grant 
it. What a double encouragement is here given 
to the courtier, both to pray to God, and to speak 
truth to a king ! 

Though the plea of the man of business, for 
his own particular exemption, can by no means 
be granted, yet it is the sense he entertains of 
the value of his professional duties, which de- 
ceives him. It leads him to believe, that there 
can be no evil in substituting business for devo- 
tion. He is conscious that he is industrious, 
and he- knows that industry is a great moral 
quality. He is rightly persuaded, that the man 
of pleasure has no such plea to produce. He 
therefore imposes on himself, with the belief 
that there can be no harm in substituting a mo- 
ral for a religious exercise ; for he has learned 
to think highly of morality, while he assigns to 
religion only an inferior degree in his scale of 
duties. 

He usually goes to church once on the Sun- 
day ; but it does not at all infringe on his reli- 
gious system to examine his accounts, to give 
a great dinner, or to begin a journey on that 
day. 

Now it is a serious truth, that there is no man 
to whom prayer is more imperatively a duty, or 
more obviously a necessity, than to the man of 
business ; whether in the higher or the middle 
classes of society. There is no man who more 
stands in need of quieting his anxieties, regu- 
lating his tempers, cooling his spirits by a de- 
vout application for the blessing of God ; none 
to whom it is more necessary to implore the di- 
vine protection for the duties, or preservation 
from the dangers of the scene in which he is 
about to engage ; none to whom it is more im- 
portant to solicit direction in the difficulties 
which the day may produce ; none on whom it 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



523 



is more incumbent to solicit support against the 
temptations which may be about to assail him ; 
none to whom the petition for an enlightened 
conscience, an upright intention, a sound pro- 
bity, and an undeviating sincerity, is of more 
importance. 

What is so likely as prayer to enable him to 
stand prepared to meet the accidental fluctua- 
tions in his affairs, to receive without inebria- 
tion, a sudden flow of prosperous fortune, or to 
sustain any adverse circumstances with resigna- 
tion ? 

Even persons in more retired situations, even 
those who have made considerable advances in 
religion cannot but acknowledge how much the 
ordinary and necessary cares of daily life, espe- 
cially, how much any unexpected accession to 
them, are likely to cause absence and distraction 
in their devotions : — how much then ought they, 
whose whole life is business, to be on their guard 
against these dangers, to double their vigilance 
against them, and to implore direction under 
them. 

Were the Christian militant accustomed never 
to engage in the moral battle of daily life, with- 
out putting on this panoply, the shafts of tempta- 
tion would strike with a feeble and erring blow; 
they would not so deeply pierce the guarded 
heart. And were fervent humble daily prayer 
once conscientiously adopted, its effects would 
reach beyond the week-day engagements. It 
would gradually extend its benign influence to 
the postponing of settling accounts, the festive 
dinner, and the not absolutely necessary jour- 
ney, to one of those six days in which we are 
enjoined to labour. It would lead him to the 
habit of doing ■ no manner of work' on that day, 
in which the doing of it was prohibited by the 
great Lawgiver in his own person. 

We have more than once alluded to the di- 
versities of character, occasional events, differ- 
ence in the state of mind as well as of circum- 
stances, which may not only render the prayer 
which is suitable to one man unsuitable to an- 
other, but unsuitable to the same man under 
every alteration of circumstances. 

But among the proper topics for prayer, there 
is one which, being of universal interest ought 
not to be omitted. For by whatever dissimi- 
larity of character, capacity, profession, station, 
or temper, the condition of man, and, of course, 
the nature of prayer, is diversified — there is one 
grand point of union, one circumstance, one con- 
dition, in which they must all meet ; one state, 
of which every man is equally certain ; one 
event which happeneth to all, — 'it is appointed 
unto every man once to die.' The rugged road 
of sorrow, the flowery path of pleasure, as well as 

' The paths of glory, lead but to the grave.' 

In praying, therefore, against the fear of death, 
we do not pray against a contingent but a cer- 
tain evil ; we pray to be delivered from the over- 
whelming dread of tha-t house which is appoint- 
ed for all living — we are put in mind that all 
who are born must die ! 

' The end of all things is at hand.' To what 
purpose does the apostle convert this awful pro- 
clamation ? Does he use it to encourage gloomy 
tempers, to invite to unprofitable melancholy ? 



No : he uses the solemn admonition to stir us up 
to moral goodness — therefore, ' be sober' — he 
does more, he uses it to excite us to religious 
vigilance, — ' and watch unto prayer.' 

Prayer against the fear of death, by keeping 
up in us a constant remembrance of our mor- 
tality, will help to wean us from a too intimate 
attachment to the things we are so soon to quit. 
By this habitual preparation to meet our Judge, 
we shall be brought to pray more earnestly for 
an interest in the great Intercessor ; and to strive 
more effectually against every offence which 
may aggravate the awfulness of that meeting. 

Fervent prayer, that divine grace may pre- 
pare us for death, will, if cordially adopted, an- 
swer many great moral purposes. It will re- 
mind every individual of every class that ' the 
time is short' — that ' there is no repentance in 
the grave.' 

Perhaps even the worldly and thoughtless 
man, under an occasional fit of dejection, or an 
accidental disappointment, may be brought to 
say, ' When I am in heaviness, I will think up- 
on God.' — Oh, think upon Him, call upon Him, 
now, — now, when you are in prosperity ; now, 
when your fortunes are flourishing; now, when 
your hill is so strong that you think it shall 
never be removed : think upon Him, call upon 
Him, when the scene is the brightest, when the 
world courts, flatteries invite, and pleasures be- 
tray you ; think on Him, while you are able to 
think at all, while you possess the capacity of 
thinking. The time may come, when ' He may 
turn his face from you, and you will be trou- 
bled.' Think of God, when the alluring images 
of pleasure and of profit would seduce you from 
Him. Prosperity is the season of peculiar pe- 
ril. ' It is the bright day that brings forth the 
adder.' Think of God when the tempting world 
says, ' All this I will give thee.' Trust not the 
insolvent world, it has cheated every creditor 
that ever trusted it. It will cheat you. 

To the man of opulence, who heapeth up riches 
and cannot tell who shall gather them, prayer 
will be a constant memento : it will remind him 
that he walketh in a vain shadow, and disquiet- 
eth himself in vain ; it will remind him of laying 
up treasures where thieves cannot enter, nor 
rust corrode. 

The habit of praying against the fear of death, 
would check the pride of youthful beauty, by re- 
minding her how soon it must say to the worm, 
Thou art my father, and to corruption, Thou art 
my mother and sister. 

The man of genius, he who thought that of 
making many books there would be no end ; 
who, in his zeal to write, had neglected to pray; 
who thought little of any immortality but 
that which was to be conferred by the applause 
of dying creatures like himself; who, in the 
vanity of possessing talents, had forgotten that 
he must one day account for the application of 
them ; if happily he should be brought to see 
the evil of his own heart, to feel the wants of his 
own soul, how intense will be his repentance, 
how deep his remorse, that he had loved the 
praise of men more than the praise of God ! how 
fervently will he pray that his mercies may not 
aggravate the account of his sins ; that his ta- 
lents may not become the instrument of his 



524 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



punishment ! How earnestly will he supplicate 
for pardon, how devoutly will he * give glory to 
God, before his feet stumble on the dark moun- 
tains !' 

The man of business, to whom we have al- 
ready adverted, who thought his schemes so 
deeply laid, his speculations so prudently plan- 
ned, that nothing could frustrate them ; who cal- 
culated that the future was as much in his power 
as the present, forgot that death, that grand sub- 
verter of projects, might interpose his veto. This 
man, who could not find time to pray, must find 
time to die — he may at length find — happy if he 
ever find it, that he cannot meet his end with a 
peaceful heart, and a resigned spirit, without 
the preparation of prayer for support in that aw- 
ful period, ' when his purposes shall be broken 
off and all his thoughts perish.' 

The man of pleasure, alas ! what shall we say 
for him? He is sunk to the lowest step of de- 
gradation in the moral scale ; he has not even 
human supports; he has robbed himself even 
of the ordinary consolations resorted to by ordi- 
nary men. He has no stay on which to lay hold, 
no twig at which to catch, no pretence by which 
to flatter himself into a false peace ; no recollec- 
tion of past usefulness ; he has neither served 
his country ; nor benefited society — what shall 
we say for him ? If he pray not for himself, we 
must pray for him — with God all things are pos- 
sible. 

The statesman, indefatigable in the public ser- 
vice, distinguished for integrity ; but neglect- 
ing the offices of Christianity ; whose lofty cha- 
racter power had not warped, nor cupidity de- 
based, but whose religious principles, though 
they had never been renounced, had not been 
kept in exercise ; a spirit of rare disinterested- 
ness ; a moralist of unblanchod honour, but who 
pleaded that duty had left him little time for de- 
votion ! Should divine grace incline him at last 
to. seek God, should he begin to pray to be pre- 
pared for death and judgment, he will deeply 
regret with the contrite cardinal, not that he 
served his king faithfully, but that his higher 
services had not been devoted to their highest 
object. In this frame of mind, that ambition 
which was satisfied with what earth could give, 
or kings reward, will appear no longer glorious in 
nis eyes. True and just to his sovereign, devoted 
to his country, faithful to all but his Saviour and 
himself, he now laments that he had neglected 
to seek a better country, neglected to serve the 
King Eternal, the blessed and only Potentate ; 
neglected to obtain an interest in a kingdom 
which shall not be moved, He feels that mere 
patriotism, grand as is its object, and important 
as is its end, will not afford support to a soul 
sinking at the approach of the inevitable hour, 
awed at the view of final judgment. 

But these great and honourable presons are 
the very men to whom superior cares, and loftier 
duties, and higher responsibilities render prayer 
even more necessary, were it possible than to 
others. Nor does this duty trench upon other 
duties, for the compatibilities of prayer are uni- 
versal. It is an exercise which has the pro- 
perty of incorporating itself with every other ; 
not only not impeding, but advancing it. If se- 
cular thoughts and vain imaginations, often 



break in on our devout employments, let us al- 
low Religion to vindicate her rights, by uniting 
herself with our worldly occupations. There is 
no crevice so small at which devotion may not 
slip in ; in no other instance of so rich a blessing 
being annexed to so easy a condition ; no other 
case in which there is any certainty, that to ask 
is to have. This the suitors to the great do not 
always find so easy from them as the great them- 
selves may find from God. 

Not only the elevation on which they stand 
makes this fence necessary for their personal 
security, by enabling them to bear the height 
without giddiness, but the guidance of God's 
hand is so essential to the operations they con- 
duct, that the public prosperity, no less than 
their own safety, is involved in the practice of 
habitual prayer. God will be more likely to 
bless the hand which steers, and the head which 
directs, when both are ruled by the heart which 
prays. Happily we need not look out of our 
own age or nation for instances of public men, 
who, while they govern the country, are them- 
selves governed by a religious principle ; who 
petition the Almighty for direction, and praise 
Him for success. 

The hero, who, in the hot engagement, sur- 
rounded with the ' pride, pomp, and circum- 
stance of war,' bravely defied death ; forgot all 
that was personal, and only remembered — nobly 
remembered, his country, and his immediate 
duty ; — animated with the glory that was to be 
acquired with his arm, and almost ready to ex- 
claim with the Roman patriot; 



-What pity 



That we can die but once to serve our country!' 

yet this hero, if he had ever made a conscience 
of prayer, may he not hereafter find, that the 
most successful instrumentality is a distinct 
thing in itself, and will be different in its re- 
sults, from personal piety ? May he not find 
that, though he saved others, himself he cannot 
save ? 

If, however, in after-life, in the cool shade of 
honourable retirement, he be brought, through 
the grace of God, to habituate himself to earnest 
prayer, he will deeply regret that he ever en- 
tered the fiold of battle without imploring the 
favour of the God of battles; that he had ever 
returned alive from slaughtered squadrons, with- 
out adoring the Author of his providential pre- 
servation. If his penitence be sincere, his prayer 
will be effectual. It will fortify him under the 
more depressing prospect of that death which is 
soon to be encountered in the solitude of his 
darkened chamber, without witnesses, without 
glory, without the cheering band, without the 
spirit-stirring drum ; without the tumultuous 
acclamation; with no objects to distract his at- 
tention ; no conflicting concerns to divide his 
thoughts ; no human arm, eithpr of others or 
his own, on which to depend. This timely re- 
flection, this late, though never too late prayer, 
may still prepare him for a peaceful dying-bed ; 
may lead him to lean on a stronger arm than 
his own, or that of an army ; may conduct him 
to a victory over his last enemy, and thus dis- 
pose him to meet death in a safer state than 
whon he despised it in the field, may bring him 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



525 



to acknowledge, that while he continued to live 
without subjection to the Captain of his salva- 
tion, though he had fought bravely, he had not 
yet fought the good fight. 



CHAP. VI. 

Characters who reject Prayer. 

Among the many articles of erroneous calcu- 
lation, to which so much of the sin and misery 
of life may be attributed, the neglect or misuse 
of prayer will not form the lightest. The pro- 
phet Jeremiah, in his impassioned address to 
the Almighty, makes no distinction between 
those who acknowledge no God, and those who 
live without prayer. ' Pour out thy fury, O 
Lord, upon the heathen, and upon the families 
that call not upon thy name.'* 

Some duties are more incumbent on some 
persons, and some on others ; depending on the 
difference of talents, wealth, leisure, learning, 
station, and opportunities ; but the duty of pray- 
er is of imperative obligation ; it is universal, 
because it demands none of any of the above re- 
quisites ; it demands only a willing heart, a con- 
sciousness of sin, a sense of dependence, a feel- 
ing of helplessness. Those who voluntarily ne- 
glect it, shut themselves out from the presence 
of their Maker. ' I know you not,' must assured- 
ly be the sentence of exclusion on those who 
thus ' know not God.' Nothing, it is true, can 
exclude them from His inspection, but they ex- 
clude themselves from his favour. 

Many nearly renounce prayer, by affecting to 
make it so indefinite a thing, as not to require 
regular exercise. Just as many, also unhallow 
the Sabbath, who pretend they do nothing on 
week-days, which they should fear to do on 
Sundays. The truth is, instead of sanctifying 
ihe week-days by raising them to the duties of 
Sunday — which is indeed impracticable, let 
men talk as they please, — they desecrate the 
Sabbath to secular purposes, and so contrive to 
keep no Sunday at all. 

Stated seasons for indispensable employments 
are absolutely necessary for so desultory, so ver- 
satile a creature, as man. That which is turned 
over to any chance-time is seldom done at all; 
and those who despise the recurrence of appoint- 
ed times and seasons are only less censurable 
than those who rest in them. 

Other duties and engagements have their al- 
lotted seasons ; why, then, should the most im- 
portant duty in which an immortal being can 
be employed, by being left to accident, become 
liable to occasional omission, liable to increasing 
neglect, liable to total oblivion ? 

All the other various works of God know their 
appointed times ; — the seasons, the heavenly bo- 

* We have not thoiijrht it necessary to touch upon 
family or public worship, assuming that those who ha- 
bitually observe private prayer will conscientiously at- 
tend to the more public exercises of devotion ; and when 
it is recollected that the Divine Beinj, who performed a 
miracle to feed the multitude, that Pie might set an ex- 
ample of prayer in every possible form, previously bless- 
ed the simple but abundant meal, how shall a dependent 
creature dare omit a duty so sanctified. 



dies, day and night, seed-time and harvest ; — 
all set an example of undeviating regularity. 
Why should man, the only thinking, be the only 
disorderly, work of Almighty power? 

But whilst we are asserting the necessity of 
seasons of prayer, let us not be suspected of at- 
taching undue importance to them ; for all these 
are but the frame work, the scaffolding, the 
mere mechanical and subsidiary adjuncts ; they 
are but the preparations for Christian worship; 
they remind us, they intimate to us, that an im- 
portant work is to be done, but are no part of 
the work itself. 

They, therefore, who most insist on the value 
of stated devotions, must never lose sight of that 
grand, and universal prime truth, that wherever 
we are, still we are in God's presence; what- 
ever we have is His gift; whatever we hope is 
His promise; feelings which are commensurate 
with all time, all places, and limited to no par- 
ticular scenes or seasons. 

There is in some, in many it is to be feared, 
a readiness to acknowledge this general doctrine, 
which what is miscalled natural religion teaches; 
but who are far from including in their system 
the peculiarities, the duties, the devotions of 
Christianity. These are decorous men of the 
world, who, assuming the character of philo- 
sophical liberality, value themselves on having 
shaken off the shackles of prejudice, superstition, 
and system. They acknowledge a Creator of 
the universe, but it is in a vague and general 
way. They worship a Being ' whose temple is 
all space ;' that is, every where but in the human 
heart. They put him as far as possible from 
themselves. Believing He has no providential 
care of them, they feel no personal interest in 
Him. God and nature are with them synony- 
mous terms. That the creation of the world was 
His work, they do not go the length of denying ; 
but that its government is in His hands, is with 
them very problematical. 

In any case, however, they are assured that 
a Being of such immensity requires not the lit- 
tleness of superstious forms, nor the petty limit- 
ations of stated seasons, and regular devotions; 
that he is infinitely above attending to our pal- 
try concerns, though God himself anticipated 
this objection, when he condescended to declare, 
1 He that offereth me thanks and praise, he ho- 
noureth me.' 

One says, he can adore the Author of nature 
in the contemplation of his works ; that the 
mountains and the fields are his altar for wor- 
ship. Another says, that his notion of religion 
is to deal honestly in his commerce with the 
world ; both insist that they can serve God any 
where, and every where. — We know they can 
and we hope they do; but our Saviour, who 
knew the whole make of man, his levity, insta- 
bility, and unfixedness, and who was yet no 
friend to the formalist or the superstitious, not 
only commands, at the hour of prayer, our en 
tering into the closet, but our shutting the door, 
— a tacit reproof, perhaps, of the devotion of the 
Sadducean, as well as the publicity of the Pha- 
risaic religion, but certainly an admonition of 
general obligation. 

In treating of prayer, it would be a superflu- 
ous labour to address unbelievers with the same 



526 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



arguments or persuasions which we would hum- 
bly propose to such as aver, with whatever de- 
gree of conviction, their belief in Christianity. 
It would he folly to address them with motives 
drawn from a book which they do not believe 
or do not read. With those who are ignorant 
of the first principles of religion, or those who 
reject them, we have no common ground on 
which to stand. St. Paul, with his usual dis- 
crimination, has left us an example in this as 
well as in all other cases. With the philosophi- 
cal Athenians, he confined his reasonings to na- 
tural religion. To the Jewish king Agrippa, 
who ' believed the prophets,' in telling the story 
of his own conversion, he most judiciously in- 
troduced the great doctrines of remission of sins 
and justification by faith. 

If the Pyrrhonist in question were to see a 
genuine Christian character delineated in all 
its dimensions, marked with its fair lineame ts, 
and enlivened by its quickening spirit, such, for 
instance, as is exemplified in the character of 
St. Paul, he would consider it as a mere picture 
of the imagination ; and would no more believe 
its reality than he believes that of Xenophon's 
Prince, the Stoic's Wise Man, Quintilian's Per- 
fect Orator, or any other Platonic or Utopian 
representation. Or could he be brought to be- 
lieve its actual existence, he would set such a 
man far above the necessity of prayer ; he would 
emancipate him in his own independent worth: 
for how should he ever suspect that such a man 
would ever pray at all, much less would be in 
prayer more abundant, in humiliation more pro- 
found, in self-renunciation more abased ? 

Is it not probable that some of those inquiring 
minds, who adorned the Porch and the Acade- 
my, as well as the more favoured men under the 
old dispensation, who saw the future through 
the dim and distant perspective of prophecy, 
would have rejoiced to see the things which you 
see, and have not believed ? 

How gratefully would many of these illustri- 
ous spirits have accepted advantages which you 
overlook ! How joyfully would they have re- 
ceived from Him who cannot lie the assurance, 
that if they would seek of Him that truth after 
which they ' were feeling,' they should find it ! 
How gladly would that sublime and elegant spi- 
rit, whose favourite theme was pure spiritual 
Jove, have listened to the great apostle of love ; 
to him who caught the flame as he leaned on 
the bosom of his affectionate Master ! 

How would this same exalted genius, who 
taught the immortality of the soul to the bright, 
yet blind Athenians, — he, whose penetrating 
mind rather guessed than knew what he taught, 
— whose keen eye caught some glimpses of a 
brighter state through the darkness which sur- 
rounded him, — how would he have gloried in 
that light and immortality which the Gospel re- 
velation has brought to light? — but with what 
unspeakable rapture would he have learned that 
He who revealed the life could give it, that he 
who promised immortality could bestow it ! 
With what obedient transport would he have 
heard this touching apostrophe, at once a strong 
reproof and a tender invitation, — ' Ye will not 
come unto me that ye might have life !' — Ye 
philosophising cavillers, who live in the meri- 



dian splendour of this broad day, ' how will yo$ 
escape, if you neglect so great salvation ?' 

But if pride, the dominant intellectual sin 
keeps the sceptic aloof from the humiliating du- 
ties of devotion, the habitual indulgence of the 
senses, in another class, proves an equal cause 
of alienating the heart from prayer. 

The man absorbed by ease and enjoyment, 
and sunk in the relaxing softness of a voluptu- 
ous life, has a natural distate to every thing that 
stands in opposition to the delights of that life. 
It is the smoothness of his course which makes 
it so slippery. He is lost before he feels thai 
he is sinking. For whether we plunge at once 
from a precipitous height, or slide down from it 
on an inclined plane, still, while there is a 
yawning gulf at the bottom, our destruction is 
equally inevitable. 

The systematic but decorous sensualist is one 
whose life is a course of sober luxury, of mea- 
sured indulgence. He contrives to reconcile an 
abandonment of sound principle with a kind of 
orderly practice. He inquires rather what is 
decent than what is right ; what will secure the 
favourable opinion of the world, especially his 
own class, rather than what will please God. 
His object is to make the most of this world. 
Selfishness has established his throne in his 
heart. His study is to make every thing and 
every person subservient to his own conveni- 
ence, or pleasure, or profit, yet without glaringly 
trespassing on the laws of propriety or custom. 
Self is the source and centre of all his actions ; 
but though this governing principle is always 
on the watch for its gratification, yet, as part of 
that gratification depends on a certain degree 
of reputation it frequently leads him to do right 
things, though without right motives; for the 
main spring sometimes sets the right in motion 
as well as the wrong. 

He goes to churcli on all public occasions, but 
without devotion; gives alms without charity; 
subscribes to public institutions without being 
interested in thek prosperity, except as they are 
frequently succeeded by a pleasant dinner and 
good company, and as the subscription-list of 
names he knows will be published. He lives on 
good terms with different, and even opposite 
classes of men, without being attached to any ; 
he does them favours with affection, knowing 
that he shall have occasion to solicit favours in 
return, for he never does a small kindness with- 
out a view to asking a greater. 

He deprecates excess in every thing, but al- 
ways lives upon its confines. 

Prayer enters not into his plan, — he has no- 
thing to ask, for he has all in himself, — thanks 
giving is still less his practice, for what he has 
he deserves. 

He has read that ' to enjoy is to obey,' and he 
is always ready to give you this cheerful proof 
of the most unlimited obedience. He respects 
the laws of the country, especially such as guard 
property and game, and eagerly punishes the 
violators of both. But as to the laws of God, he 
thinks they were made to guard the possessions 
of the rich, to punish the vicious poor, and to 
frighten those who have nothing to lose. Yet 
he respects some of the commandments, and 
would placard on every post and pillar that 



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537 



which says, ■ Thou shalt not steal ;' whilst he 
thinks that which says, ■ Thou shalt not covet,' 
might be expunged from the Decalogue. 

If you happen to speak of the helplessness of 
man. he thinks you are alluding to some para- 
lytic; if of his dependence, to some hanger-on 
of a great man ; if of his sinfulness, he adopls 
your opinion, for he reads the Newgate Calen- 
der ; but of sin, as an inherent principle, of the 
turpitude of sin, except as it disturbs society, he 
knows nothing ; but religion as a principle of 
action, but prayer as a source of peace or a 
ground of hope, he neither knows nor desires to 
know. The stream of life glides smoothly on 
without it; why should he ruffle its placid flow! 
why should he break in on the course of enjoy- 
ment with self-imposed austerities ? He believes 
himself to be respected by his fellow-men, and 
the favour of God is not in all his thoughts. His 
real character the great day of decision will dis- 
cover. Till then he will have two characters. 

1 Soul, take thine ease, thou hast much goods 
laid up for thee, 1 is perhaps the state of all others 
which most disqualifies and unfits for prayer. 
Not only the apostrophe excites the bodily appe- 
tite, but the soul is called upon to contemplate, 
to repose on, the soothing prospect, the delights 
)f that voluptuousness for which the ' much 
goods are laid up.' 

But when the prosperous fool says, ' soul take 
th-ine ease, thou hast much goods laid up for 
thee,' — the prosperous Christian says, ' soul 
tremble at thine ease — be on thy guard. — Thou 
hast, indeed, much goods laid up for thee, but it 
is in a future world. Lose not a large inherit- 
ance for a paltry possession ; forfeit not an un. 
alienable reversion for a life interest, — a life 
which this very night may be required of thee.' 

Thus we see what restrains prayer in these 
two classes of character. The sceptic does not 
pray, because he does not believe that God is a 
hearer of prayer. The voluptuary, because he 
bolieves that God is such a one as himself, and 
because he has already gotten all that he wants 
of Him. His gold, and the means of gratifying 
his sensuality, would not be augmented by the 
dry duties of devotion ; and with an exercise 
which would increase neither, he can easily 
dispense. * 



CHAP. VII. 

Errors in Prayer 

It has lately been observed by a distinguished 
Christian orator, that ' many profess to believe 
the Bible to be true, who do not believe the 
truths in the BibL? ;' so may we not say, that 
all desire the gifts of God, but they do not desire 
God. If we profess to love Him, it is for our 
o.vn sake ; when shall we begin to love Him for 
himself? Many who do not go the length of 
omitting prayer, but pray merely from custom, 
or education, frequently complain that they find 
tio benefit from prayer ; others that they expe- 
rience not the support and comfort promised to 
it. May not those who thus complain, and who, 
Serhaps, are far from bsing enemies to religion, 



find, on a serious examination of their own 
hearts and lives, 3ome irregularity in desire to 
be the cause of their discontent, and alleged 
punishment ? 

We are more disposed to lay down rules for 
the regulation of God's government, than to sub- 
mit our will to it as he has settled it. If we da 
not now see the efficacy of the prayer which he 
has enjoined us to present to him, it may yet be 
producing its effect in another way. Infinite 
wisdom is not obliged to inform us of the man- 
ner, or the time, of his operations ; what he ex 
pects of us is to persevere in the duty. The very 
obedience to the command is no small thing 
whatever be its imperceptible effects. 

Under the apparent failure of our prayers, the 
source of our repinings must be looked for in 
the fact of our own blindness and imperfection ; 
for the declarations of the Gospel are sure ; their 
answer must be found in the grace of God in 
Christ Jesus, for his mercies are infallible. 
Wherever there is disappointment, we may be 
assured that it is not because he is wanting to 
us, but because we are wanting to ourselves. 

The prophet's expression, ' the iniquity of our 
holy things,' will not be thoroughly understood 
except by those who thus seriously dive into the 
recesses of their own heart, feel their deficiencies, 
mark their wanderings, detect and lament their 
vain imaginations and impertinent thoughts. It 
is to be regretted that these worldly trifles are 
far more apt to intrude on us in prayer, than 
the devout affections excited by prayer are to 
follow us into the world. Business and pleasure 
break in on our devotions : when will the spi- 
rit of devotion mix with the concerns of the 
world ? 

You who lament the disappointment of your 
requests, suffer a few friendly hints. — Have you 
not been impatient because you receive not the 
things that you asked for immediately ? How 
do you know, but that if you had persevered, 
God might have bestowed them ? He certainly 
would, had He not in His wisdom foreseen they 
would not have been good for you ; and, there- 
fore, in His mercy withheld them. Is there not 
some secret, unsuspected infidelity lurking be. 
hind such impatience ? Is it not virtually say- 
ing, there is no God to hear, or that he is un- 
faithful to his promises ? For is it not absolute 
impiety to insinuate an accusation that the Su- 
preme Judge of men and angels is capable of 
injustice, or liable to error ? God has pleasure 
in the prosperity of His children. He neither 
grants nor denies any thing which is not accu- 
rately weighed and measured ; which is not 
exactly suited to their wants, if not to their re- 
quests. 

If we pray aright, it may please God, not only 
to grant that for which we pray, but that for 
which we do not pray. Supplicating for the 
best things as we before observed, we may re- 
ceive inferior and unrequested things, as was 
the case with Solomon in his prayer for wisdom. 
God will not forget our labour of love. If he 
does not seem to notice it at present, he may lay 
it by for a time when it may be more wanted. 

In praver we must take care not to measure 
our necessities by our desires : the former are 
few, the latter may be insatiable. A murmur- 



528 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ing spirit is a probable cause why our petitions 
are not granted. He who murmurs, distrusts 
the truth of God ; and from distrust to infidelity 
the distance is not great. The certain way to 
prevent our obtaining what we desire, or enjoy- 
ing what we have, is to feel impatient at what 
we do not receive, or to make an improper use 
of what has been granted to our prayers. 

Or you may perhaps address God with sinis- 
ter and corrupt views ; as if you had left his 
omniscience out of his attributes ; as if he might 
be entrapped with the ' secret ambush of a spe- 
cious prayer. Your design in the application 
of the boon you solicit may not be for his glory. 
It may be the prayer of ambition, cloaked under 
the guise of more extensive usefulness ; it may 
be the prayer of covetousness, under the pretext 
of providing for your family. It may be the 
prayer of injustice, a petition for success in some 
undertaking for yourself, to the circumvention 
of another's fairer claim. God, in mercy to our 
souls, refuses the gift which would endanger 
them. 

Thus, then, if we ask and receive not, because 
we ask deceitfully or blindly, we must not won- 
der if our prayers are not answered. Or if we 
obtain what we solicit, and turn it to a bad ac- 
count, or to no account at all, we must not be 
surprised if Divine grace is withheld, or with- 
drawn. 

The same ill results may be expected if we 
ask formally or carelessly. Who has not felt, 
that there is a kind of mechanical memory in 
the tongue which runs over the form, without 
any aid of the understanding, without any con- 
currence of the will, without any consent of the 
affections? For do we not sometimes implore 
God to hear a prayer, to which we ourselves are 
not attending ? And is not this presumptuously 
to demand from him that attention, which we 
ourselves are not giving to our own requests, 
even while we are in the act of making them ? 

A mere superficial form, by lulling the con- 
science, hardens the heart. The task is per- 
formed ; but in what manner, or to what result, 
is not enquired. Genuine prayer is the homage 
of the soul to God, and not an expedient to pa- 
cify Him. 

If you observe the form, but forget the dispo- 
sitions it is intended to produce, it is evident the 
end of such prayer is not answered. Yet be 
not so far discouraged by feeling no sensible 
effect from prayer as to discontinue it ; it is still 
a right thing to be found in the way of duty. 

But, perhaps, you neglect to implore the Spi- 
rit of Christ towards the direction of your pray- 
ers, and His intercession for their acceptance. 
As there is no other name through which we 
can be saved, so there is no other through which 
ve can be heard : we must not sever his media- 
tion from His atonement. All His divine offices 
are not only in perfect harmony, but in insepa- 
rable union.* Or, perhaps, you have used the 
name of the Redeemer for form's sake, or as an 
accustomed close to your petitions, without im- 

* We observe with regret, that, in many pub-lie forms 
of prayer, the aid of his mediation is much more frequent- 
ly implored, than the benefits of his death and merits. 
He is, indeed, our divine Intercessor, but his mere inter- 
cession is not the whole source of our dependence on 
Him. 



ploring his efficacious grace in changing your 
heart, as well as in pardoning your sins. 

Perhaps you think it is a sufficient qualifica- 
tion for acceptable prayer, that you are always 
forming good intentions ; now, though these 
make up the value of good actions, yet good in- 
tentions, not acted upon, when occasion invites 
and duty calls, will not lessen, but inflame the 
reckoning. For does it not look as if you had 
resisted the offer of that Holy Spirit, which had 
originally prompted the intention; and may it 
not induce Him to withdraw His blessed influ- 
ences, when they have been both invited and 
rejected ? 

Do you never, by unwholesome reading, fill 
the mind with images unfavourable to serious 
exercises? The children of the pure and holy 
God should feed on the bread of their Father's 
house, and not on the husks of the prodigal. 

Do you never use profanely or lightly that 
name which is above every name ? He who 
made the ear, shall He not hear ? and, if He 
has heard during the day His awful name used 
by the thoughtless as an expletive, or by the im- 
pious as an interjection, or by the presumptuous 
as an imprecation, will He in the morning be 
called on as a Saviour, and in the evening as an 
Intercessor ? 

But it cannot be too frequently repeated, that 
no profession of faith, however orthodox ; no 
avowal of trust in Christ, however confident ; no 
entreaty for the aid of the Spirit, however cus- 
tomary, will avail, if it be not such an influential 
faith, such a practical trust, such a living de- 
votedness, as shall be productive of holiness of 
heart and life, as shall tend to produce obedience 
to the commands, and submission to the will of 
God, This is an infallible test, by which you 
may try every doctrine, every principle of the 
Gospel. We do not mean the truth of them, for 
that is immutable; but your own actual belief, 
your own actual interest in them. If no such 
effects are visible, we deceive ourselves, and the 
principles we profess are not those by which we 
are governed. 

Prayer is so obviously designed to humble the 
proud heart of the natural man, by giving him a 
feeling sense of his misery, his indigence, and 
his helplessness, that we should be unwilling to 
believe, that even the proudest man can carry 
his pride to the Throne of Grace, except to sup- 
plicate deliverance from it : yet such a charac- 
ter is actually drawn by Him who knew the 
thoughts and intents of the heart of man; and a 
long consideration will teach us, that the ' two 
men who went up into the temple to pray' were 
not intended as individual portraits, but as spe- 
cimens of a class. 

The proud man does not, perhaps, always 
thank God that he is not guilty of adultery or 
extortion, to which vices he may have little 
temptation ; nor does he glory in paying tithe 
and taxes, to which the law would compel hirc 
Yet is he never disposed, like the Pharisee, to 
proclaim the catalogue of his own virtues ? to 
bring in his comparative claims, as if it were a 
good thing to be better than the bad ? Is he 
never disposed to carry in his eye, (as if he would 
remind his Maker of his superiority,) certain 
persons who are possibly less the objects of Di 



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£.29 



fine displeasure than he, by his pride and sel- 
fishness, may have rendered himself; although 
his regularity in the forms of devotion may have 
made him more respectable in the world, than 
the poor reprobated being whom he praises God 
he does not resemble? It is the lowly abase- 
ment, the touching self-condemnation, the avow- 
ed poverty, the pleaded misery, of the destitute 
beggar that finds acceptance. It is the hungry 
whom God's mercy fills with good things, it is 
the rich in his own conceit whom His dis- 
pleasure sends away empty. 

Whenever you are tempted to thank God that 
you are not like other men, let it be in com- 
paring your own condition with that of the 
afflicted and bereaved among your own friends ; 
compare yourself with the paralytic on his 
couch ; with the blind beggar by the way-side ; 
with the labourer in the mine ; think on the 
wretch in the galleys; on the condemned in the 
dungeons of despotic governments. Above all, 
think, and this is the intolerable acme of sin in the 
inflictor, and of misery in the sufferer, — think on 
the wretched negro chained in the hold of a slave- 
ship ! Think seriously on these, and put pride 
into your prayer if you can. — Think on these, 
not to triumph in your own superiority, but to 
adore the undeserved mercy of God, in giving 
you blessings to which you have no higher 
claim, and let your praise of yourself be con- 
verted into prayer for them. 

For there are no dispositions of the heart 
which are more eminently promoted by prayer 
than contentment and patience. They are two 
qualities of the same colour, but of different 
shades, and are generally, when found at all, 
found in the same breast. Both are the off- 
spring of genuine religion, both nurtured by 
cordial prayer. The cultivation of the one, 
under easy circumstances, prepares for the ex- 
ercise of the other in more trying situations. 
Both emanate from the same Divine principle, 
but are drawn out by different occasions and 
exercised under varying circumstances. 

Content is the tranquillity of the heart, prayer 
is its aliment : it is satisfied under every dis- 
pensation of Providence, and takes thankfully 
its allotted portion, never inquiring whether a 
little more would not be a little better; knowing 
that if God had so judged, it would have been 
as easy for him to have given the more as the 
less. That is not true content, which does not 
enjoy as the gift of Infinite Wisdom what it has, 
nor is that true patience, which does not suffer 
meekly the loss of what it had, because it is 
not His will that it should have it longer. The 
language of the patient man under trials is, It 
is the Lord. Shall a living man complain ? is 
his interrogation. ' A good man,' says Solo- 
mon, ' is satisfied from himself.' Here the pre- 
sumptuous might put in his claim to the title. 
But his pretension arises from his mistake, for 
his satisfaction is with himself, that of the Chris- 
tian with Providence ; it arises from the grace 
of God shed abroad in his heart, which is be- 
come a perennial spring of consolation and en- 
joyment; and which by persevering prayer, is 
indented into his very soul. Content knows 
bow to want and how to abound ; this is the 
language of equanimity : • Shall I not receive 
Vol. II. 2 L 



evil from the hand of the Lord, as well as good ? 
— This is the language of pationce. Content ia 
always praising God for what she possesses , 
patience is always justifying him for what she 
suffers. The cultivation of the one effectually 
prepares us for the exercise of the other. But 
these dispositions are not inherent in the human 
heart. How are they generated 1 By the in 
fluences of the Holy Spirit. How are they 
kept alive ? By heart felt devotion. 

Perhaps the impediment which hinders the 
benefit of prayer in characters apparently cor- 
rect, may be the fatal habit of indulging in some 
secrect sin, the private cherishing of some 
wrong propensity, the fondly entertaining of 
some evil imagination. Not being accustomed 
to controul at other times, it intrudes when you 
would willingly expel it; for a guest which is 
unreservedly let in at other seasons, and cor- 
dially entertained, will too frequently break in 
when you desire to be alone. 

The Scriptures are explicit on this subject. 
It is not merely the committing actual sin that 
ruins the comfort growing out of prayer ; the 
Divine prohibition runs higher ; its interdiction 
is more intimately interior ; it extends to the 
thoughts and intents of the heart. The door of 
heaven is shut against prayer under such cir- 
cumstances. ' If I regard iniquity in my heart, 
the Lord will not hear me.' A cherished cor- 
ruption in the mind is more likely to interpose 
between God and the soul, because it does not 
assume the shape and bulk of crime. A prac- 
tical offence, the effect of sudden temptation, is 
more likely to be followed by keen repentance, 
deep self-abasement, and fervent application for 
pardon ; whereas to the close bosom-sin, know- 
ing that no human charge can be brought 
against it, the soul secretly returns with a 
fondness facilitated by long indulgence, and 
only whetted by a short separation. 

It was, perhaps, this acute experimental 
feeling which led David to pray to be deli- 
vered from ' secret sins ;' these, he was proba- 
bly conscious had led to those ' presumptuous 
sins,' which had entangled his soul and em- 
bittered his life ; and whose dominion he so 
frequently and fervently deprecates. This, it 
is to be feared, may be the case with some, 
whose language and exterior cause them to be 
ranked with the religious ; these are, at least, 
the dangers to which they are most exposed. 
It is, therefore, that our Lord connects, in in- 
dissoluble union, watching with prayer. 

Perhaps when the conscience is more than 
usually awakened, you pray with some degree 
of fervour to be delivered from the guilt and 
punishment of sin. But if you stop here your 
devotion is most imperfect. If you do not also 
pray to be delivered from its power and do- 
minion over your heart and life, you do not go 
much farther than the heathens of old. They 
seem to have had a strong feeling of guilt, by 
their fond desire of expiating it by their sacri- 
fices and lustrations. 

But such is the love of present ease, and the 
desire of respite, that you think, perhaps, it is 
better not ' to be tormented before the time.' 
How many now in a state of irreversible misery 
wish they had been tormented sooner, that thev 



530 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



might not be tormented forever ! Bat with you 
it is not yet too late. With you the day of srrace, 
which to them is over, is not yet past. Use it, 
then, without delay, instead of persisting in 
laying- up fresh regrets for eternity. 

But too many deceive themselves, by imagin- 
ing, that when they have pronounced their 
prayer the duty is accomplished with the task ; 
the occult medicine being taken, the charm is to 
work of itself. They consider it as a duty quite 
distinct and unconnected with any other. They 
forget that it is to produce in them a principle 
which is to mix with all the occurences of the 
day. Prayer, though not intended as a talis- 
man, is yet proposed as a remedy. The effect 
of its operation is to be seen in subduing the 
passions, assisting to govern the temper, in brid- 
ling the tongue, in checking not only calumny, 
but levity ; not only impure, but vain conversa- 
tion. 

But we have a wonderful talent at deceiving 
ourselves. We have not a fault for which we 
do not find an apology. Our ingenuity on this 
head is inexhaustible. In matters of religion 
men complain that they are weak; a complaint 
they aie not forward to urge in worldly matters. 
They lament that their reluctance to pray arises 
from being unable to do what God, in his word, 
expects them to do. But is not this virtual re- 
bellion, only with a smooth face and a soft 
name 1 God is too wise not to know exactly 
what we can do, and too just to expect from us 
what we cannot. 

This pretence of weakness, though it looks 
like humility, is only a mask for indolence, and 
a screen for selfishness. 

We certainly can refuse to indulge ourselves 
in what pleases us, when we know it displeases 
God. We can obey his commandments with 
the aid of the infused strength which He has 
promised, and which we can ask. It is not He 
who is unwilling to give, but we who are averse 
to pray. The temptations to vice are strength- 
ened by our passions, as our motives to virtue 
are weakened by them. 

Our great spiritual enemy would not be so 
potent, if we ourselves did not put arms into his 
hands. The world would not be so powerful an 
enchantress, if we did not assist the enchant- 
ment, by voluntarily yielding to it; by insensibly 
forsaking him who is our strength. We make 
apologies for yielding to both by pleading their 
power and our own weakness. But the inability 
to resist is of our own making. Both enemies 
are indeed powerful, but they are not irresisti- 
ble. If we assert the contrary, is it not virtually 
saying 'Greater are they that are against us 
than He that is for us V 

But we are traitors to our own cause : we 
are conquered by our own consent ; we surrender 
not so much because the conqueror is powerful, 
as because the conquered is willing. 

Without diminishing any thing of His grace 
and glory to whom every good thought we think, 
every victory over sin we obtain, is owing, may it 
not add to our happiness, even in heaven, to look 
back on every conquest we here obtained by 
prayer over our grand spiritual enemy, every 
triumph over the world, every victory over our- 
selves ? Will not the remembrance of one act 



of resistance then, far surpass every gratifica- 
tion now, which the three confederate enemies 
of our souls may present to us? 

It is not merely by our prayers that we must 
give glory to God. Our Divine Master has ex- 
pressly told us wherein His Father is glorified ; 
it is ' when we bring forth much fruit.' It is by 
our works we shall be judged, and not by our 
prayers. And what a final consummation is it 
that obedience to the will of God, which is our 
duty heie, shall be our nature hereafter ! What 
is now our prayer shall then be our possession ; 
there the obligation to obey shall become a ne- 
cessity, and that necessity shall be happiness 
ineffable. 

The various evils here enumerated, with 
many others not touched upon, are so many 
dead weights on the wings of prayer ; they cause 
it to gravitate to earth, obstruct its ascent, and 
hinder it from piercing to the throne of God. 



The Lord's Prayer. 
CHAP. VIII. 

It is not customary for kings to draw up pe 
titions for their subjects to present to them- 
selves ; much less do earthly monarchs consider 
the act of petitioning worthy of reward, nor do 
they number the petitions so much among the 
services done them, as among the burthens im- 
posed on them. Whereas it is a singular benefit 
to our fallen race that the King of kings both 
dictates our petitions, and has promised to re- 
compense us for making them. 

In the Lord's prayer may be found the semi- 
nal principle of all the petitions of a Christian, 
both for spiritual and temporal things ; and how- 
ever in the fulness of his heart he will necessa- 
rily depart from his model in his choice of ex- 
pressions : into whatever laminae he may expand 
the pure gold of which it is composed, yet he 
will still find the general principle of his own 
more enlarged application to God, substantial- 
ly contained in this brief but finished compen- 
dium. 

Is it not a striking proof of the divine con- 
descension, that knowing our propensity to err, 
our blessed Lord should himself have dictated 
our petitions, partly perhaps as a corrective of 
existing superstitions, but certainly to leave be- 
hind Him a regulator by which all future ages 
should set their devotions ; and we might per- 
haps establish it as a safe rule for prayer in 
general, that any petition which cannot in some 
sha,pe, be accommodated to the spirit of sonic 
part of the Lord's prayer may not be right to bo 
adopted. 

The distinction between the personal nature 
of Faith, and the universal character of Charity, 
as it is exercised in prayer, is specifically ex 
hibited in the two pronouns which stand at the 
head of the Creed and of the Lord's Prayer. 
We cannot exercise faith for another, and there 
fore can only say / believe. But when we offer 
up our petitions, we address them to our Father, 
implying that he is the Author, Governor, and 
Supporter, not of ourselves only, but of his whole 



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531 



rational creation. It conveys also a beautiful 
idea of that boundless charity which links all 
mankind in one comprehensive brotherhood. 
The plural us, continued through the whole 
prayer, keeps up the sentiment with which it 
sets out, tends to exclude selfishness, and to ex- 
cite philanthropy, by recommending to God the 
•emporal as well as spiritual wants of the whole 
family of mankind. 

The nomenclature of the Divinity is express- 
ed in Scripture by every term which can con- 
vey ideas of grandeur or of grace, of power or 
of affection, of sublimity or tenderness, of ma- 
jesty or benignity ; by every name which can 
excite terror or trust, which can inspire awe or 
consolation. 

But of all compellations by which the Su- 
preme Being is designated in his holy word, 
there is not one so soothing so attractive, so in- 
teresting, as that of Father ; it includes the 
idea of reconcilement, pardon, acceptance, love. 
It swallows up his grandeur in His beneficence. 
It involves, also, the inheritance belonging to 
our filial relation. It fills the mind with every 
image that is touching, and the heart with every 
feeling that is affectionate. It inspires fear 
softened by love, and exhibits authority miti- 
gated by tenderness. The most endearing 
image the Psalmist could select from the abun- 
dant store-house of his rich conceptions, to con- 
vey the kindest sentiment of God's pity towards 
them that fear Him, was that it resembles the 
pity of a ' father for his own children.'' In di- 
recting us to pray to our Father, our Divine 
Master does not give the command without the 
example. He every where uses the term he re- 
commends. ' I thank Thee, O Father, Lord of 
heaven and earth !' And in the 17th of St. John 
he uses this tender name no less than seven 
times. 

' Lord, show us the Father and it sufnceth 
us,' was the ill-understood prayer of the inquir- 
ing disciples. To us this petition is granted 
before it is made. Does he not show himself to 
all as a Father, in the wonders of his creation, 
in the wonders of our being, preservation, and 
support ? Has He not, in a more especial man- 
ner revealed Himself to us as a Father in the 
sublime wonder of His word, in the unsearcha- 
ble riches of Christ, and the perpetual gift of 
the Holy Spirit ? Does He not show Himself 
our Father, if, when we have done evil, He with- 
holds His chastening hand ; if, when we have 
sinned, He still bears with us ; if, when we are 
deaf to His call, He repeats it; if, when we de- 
lay, He waits for us ; if, when we repent, He 
pardons us; if, when we return, He receives us; 
if, when in danger, He preserves us from fall- 
ing ; and if, when we fall, He raises us ? 

We have a beautiful illustration of the good- 
ness of God as a merciful and tender Father in 
the deeply affecting parable of the Prodigal Son. 
Though the undone spendthrift knew that he 
had no possible claim on the goodness he had so 
notoriously offended, yet he felt that the endear- 
ing name of Father had an eloquence that might 
plead for forgiveness of his offence, though he 
feared, not for restoration to affection and fa- 
vour. But while he only meekly aspired to a 
place among the servants, while he only hum- 



bly pleaded for a little of their redundant bread, 
he was received as a pardoned, reconciled, be- 
loved child. 

Our Lord's Introduction, ' Pray ye therefore 
after this manner,'' neither forbids digression 
nor amplification. The recollection that His 
dwelling-place is in Heaven, is calculated to re- 
mind us of the immeasurable distance between 
the petitioner and his God, and to encourage us 
to communicate with the Father of Spirits: 
with Him who is ' glorious in holiness, fearful 
in praises, doing wonders ;' and which of His 
wonders is more astonishing than this incon- 
ceivably marvellous condescension ? 

Christianity, we must repeat, is a practical 
religion, and in order to use aright the prayer 
our Lord has given us, we must model our lifo 
by it as well as our petitions. 

If we pray that the name of God may be hal- 
lowed, yet neglect to hallow it ourselves, by fa- 
mily as well as personal devotion, and a con- 
scientious attendance on all the ordinances of 
public worship, we defeat the end of our pray- 
ing, by falling short of its obligation. 

The discrepancies between our prayers and 
our practice do not end here. How frequently 
are we solemnly imploring of God, that ' His 
kingdom may come,' while we are doing no- 
thing to promote his kingdom of grace here, 
and consequently His kingdom of glory here- 
after. 

If we pray that God would ' give His Son the 
heathen for His inheritance,' and yet make it a 
matter of indifference, whether a vast proportion 
of the globe should live heathens or die Chris- 
tians ; if we pray that ' the knowledge of the 
Lord may cover the earth, as the waters cover 
the sea,' yet act as if we were indifferent whe- 
ther Christianity ended as well as began at 
home. If we pray that ' the sound may go out 
into all lands, and their words unto the ends of 
the world,' and yet are satisfied to keep the 
sound within our own hearing, and the words 
within our own island, is not this a prayer which 
goeth out of feigned lips ? When we pray that 
' His will may be done,' we know that His will 
is, that ' all should be saved, that no one should 
perish.' When, therefore, we assist in sending 
the Gospel to the dark and distant corners of the 
earth, then, and not till then, may we consist- 
ently desire of God in our prayers, that ' His 
saving health may be known to all nations.' 

In praying, therefore, that 'His kingdom 
may come, do we not pray that all false reli- 
gions, all idolatrous worship may be universally 
abolished, and the kingdom of Messiah be esta- 
blished throughout the world ? 

If praying for our 'daily bread' is a petition 
expressing our dependence, it is also a petition 
of temperance. It teaches us to subordinate our 
desires after worldly things, and to ask for them 
in great moderation. It is worth observing, 
that requests for temporal blessings and spi- 
ritual mercies are so interwoven in this perfect 
form, that in repeating it, we cannot pray for 
our ' daily bread' without imploring ' forgive- 
ness of our trespasses.' 

' Deliverance from evil' is a petition of indefi- 
nite extent, and is closely connected with that 
which precedes it. God caxuiot * lead us into 



532 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



temptation,' but His Providence may lead us 
into situations which, acting on the corruption 
of our hearts, may eventually produce the evil 
we deprecate. 

When we pray, therefore, not to be ' led into 
temptation,' we are asking of God to cure those 
sinful propensities which are likely to expose us 
to it, and to preserve us from those circum- 
stances which, by subjecting us to difficulty and 
danger, may terminate in sin. 

Temptation, in the language of Scripture, fre- 
quently implies probation; a trial sent in order 
to lay open our real character. Thus God, in 
tempting Abraham, gave occasion to that illus- 
trious exemplification of faith and obedience in 
this devoted Patriarch. God is also said to try 
Hezekiah. This trial led him into the vain dis- 
play of magnificence and wealth before the fo- 
reign ambassadors. The Searcher of hearts 
already knew this infirmity, yet it is said by 
the sacred historian, that 'God left him to try 
him, that He might know all that was in his 
heart.' Doubtless the public exposure of his 
pride was calculated to lead Hezekiah to subse- 
quent repentance and humility ; for, in spite of 
this error he was eminently conspicuous among 
the awfully few pious kings of Judah. 

There is in the Lord's prayer a concatenation 
of the several clauses, what in human composi- 
tion the critics call concealed method. The peti- 
tions rise out of each other. Every part also is, as 
it were, fenced round, the whole meeting in a cir- 
cle ; for the desire that God's name may be hal- 
lowed, His will be done, and His kingdom come, 
with which the prayer opens, is referred to, and 
confirmed by the ascription at the close. If 
the kingdom, the power, and the glory, are His, 
then his ability to do and to give, is declared 
to be infinite. 



CHAP. IX. 

The Lord's Prayer continued. — f Thy Will be 
Done.' 

The Holy Scriptures frequently comprise the 
essence of the Christian temper in some short 
aphorism, apostrophe or definition. The essen- 
tial spirit of the Christian life maybe said to be 
included in this one brief petition of the Lord's 
Prayer, ' Thy will be done.' 

There is a haughty spirit which, though it 
will not complain, does not care to submit. It 
arrogates to itself the dignity of enduring, with- 
out any claim to the meekness of yielding. Its 
silence is stubbornness, its fortitude is pride ; 
its calmness is apathy without, and discontent 
within. In such characters it is not so much 
the will of God, which is the rule of conduct, as 
the scorn of pusillanimity. Not seldom, indeed, 
the mind puts in a claim for a merit to which 
the nerves could make out a better title. Yet 
the suffering which arises from acute feeling is 
so far from deducting from the virtue of resig- 
nation, that when it does not impede the sacri- 
fice it enhances the value. True resignation is 
the hardest lesson in the whole school of Christ. 
It is the oftenest taught and the latest learnt. 



It is not a task which, when once got over in 
some particular instance, leaves us master of 
the subject. The necessity of following up the 
lesson we have begun, presents itself almost 
every day in some new shape, occurs under 
some fresh modification. The submission of 
yesterday does not exonerate us from the resig- 
nation of to-day. The principle, indeed, once 
thoroughly wrought into the soul, gradually re- 
conciles us to the frequent demand for its exer 
cise, and renders every successive call more 
easy. 

We read dissertations on this subject, not 
only with the most entire concurrence of the 
judgment, but with the most apparent convic- 
tion of the mind. We write essays upon it in 
the hour of peace and composure, and fancy that 
what we have discussed with so much ease and 
self-complacence, in favour of which we offer so 
many arguments to convince and so many mo- 
tives to persuade, cannot be very difficult to 
practise. But to convince the understanding 
and to correct the will is a very different under- 
take t ; acd not less difficult when it comes to 
our own case than it was in the case of those 
for whom we have been so coolly and dogmati- 
cally prescribing. It is not till we practically 
find how slowly our own arguments produce 
any effect en ourselves that we cease to marvel 
at their inefficacy on others. The sick physi- 
cian tastes with disgust the bitterness of the 
draught, to the swallowing of which he won- 
dered the patient had felt so much repugnance 
and the reader is sometimes convinced by the 
arguments which fail of their effect on the wri- 
ter, when he is called, not to discuss but to act, 
not to reason but to suffer. The theory is so 
just, and the duty so obvious, that even bad men 
assent to it; the exercise so trying that the best 
men find it more easy to commend the rule than 
to adopt it. But he who has once gotten en- 
graved, not in his memory but in his heart, this 
divine precept, Thy will be done, has made a 
proficiency which will render all subsequent in- 
struction comparatively easy. 

Though sacrifices and oblations were offered 
to God under the law by His own express ap- 
pointment, yet he peremptorily rejected them 
by his prophets, when presented as substitutes 
instead of signs. Will He, under a more per- 
fect dispensation, accept of any observances 
which are meant to supersede internal dedica- 
tion, — of any offerings unaccompanied by com- 
plete desire of acquiescence in his will ? ' My 
son give me thine heart,'' is his brief but impe- 
rative command. But, before we can be brought 
to comply with the spirit of this requisition, God 
must enlighten our understanding, that our de. 
votion may be rational; He must rectify our 
will, that it may be voluntary ; He must purify 
our heart, that it may be spiritual. 

Submission is a duty of such high and holy 
import that it can only be learnt of the Great 
Teacher. If it could have been acquired by 
mere moral institution, the wise sayings of the 
ancient philosophers would have taught it. But 
their most elevated standard was low : their 
strongest motives were the brevity of life, the 
instability of fortune, the dignity of suffering 
virtue, things within their narrow sphere of 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



533 



judging ; things true, indeed, as far as they go, 
but a substratum by no means equal to the su- 
perstructure to be built on it. It wanted depth, 
and strength, and solidity, for the purposes of 
6upport. • It wanted the only true basis, the as- 
surance that God orders all things according to 
the purposes of his will for our final good ; it 
Wanted that inly sure ground of faith by which 
the genuine Christian cheerfully submits in en- 
tire dependence on the promises of the Gospel. 

Nor let us fancy that we are to be languid and 
inactive recipients of the Divine dispensations. 
Our own souls must be enlarged, our own views 
must be ennobled, our own spirit must be di- 
lated. An inoperative acquiescence is not all 
that is required of us ; — and, if we must not 
slacken our zeal in doing good, so we must not 
be remiss in opposing evil, on the flimsy ground 
that God has permitted evil to infest the world. 
If it be his will to permit sin, it is an opposition 
to his will when we do not labour to counteract 
it. This surrender, therefore, of our will to that 
of God, takes in a large sweep of actual duties, 
as well as the whole compass of passive obe- 
dience. It involves doing as well as suffering, 
activity as well as acquiescence, zeal as well as 
forbearance. Yet the concise petition daily 
Blips off* the tongue without our reflecting on 
the weight of the obligation we are imposing on 
ourselves. We do not consider the extent and 
consequences of the prayer we are offering, the 
sacrifices, the trials, the privations it may in- 
volve, and the large indefinite obedience to all 
the known and unknown purpose of Infinite 
Wisdom to which we are pledging ourselves. 

There is no case in which we more shelter 
ourselves in generalities. Verbal sacrifices cost 
little, cost nothing. The familiar habit of re- 
peating the petition almost tempts us to fancy 
that the duty is as easy as the request is short. 
We are ready to think that a prayer rounded 
off in four monosyllables can scarcely involve 
duties co-extensive with our whole course of be- 
ing ; that, in uttering them we renounce all 
right in ourselves; that we acknowledge the 
universal indefeasible title of the blessed and 
only Potentate ; that we make over to Him the 
right to do in us, and with us, and by us, what- 
ever he sees good for ourselves, whatever will 
promote His glory, though by means sometimes 
as incomprehensible to our understanding, as 
unacceptable to our will, because we neither 
know the motive, nor perceive the end. These 
simple words, thy will be done, express an act 
of faith the most sublime, an act of allegiance 
the most unqualified ; and, while they make a 
declaration of entire submission to a sovereign 
the most absolute, they are at the same time, 
a recognition of love to a Father the most be- 
neficent. 

We must remember, that in offering this 
prayer, we may, by our own request, be offering 
to resign what we most dread to lose, to give up 
what is dear to us as our own soul ; we may be 
calling on our heavenly Father to withhold what 
we are most anxiously labouring to attain, and 
to withdraw what we are most sedulously endea- 
vouring to keep. We are solemnly renouncing 
our property in ourselves, we are distinctly 
making ourselves over again to Him whose we 



already are. We specifically entreat Him to do 
with us what He pleases, to mould us to a con- 
formity to His image, without which we shall 
never be resigned to his will; in short, to dis. 
pose of us as His infinite wisdom sees best, how- 
ever contrary to the scheme which our blindness 
has laid down as the path to unquestionable 
happiness. 

To render this trying petition easy to us, is 
one great reason why God, by such a variety of 
providences, afflicts and brings us low. He 
knows that we want incentives to humility, even 
more than incitements to virtuous actions. He 
shows us in many ways, that self-sufficiency and 
happiness are incompatible ; that pride and peace 
are irreconcilable ; that following our own way, 
and doing our own will, which we conceive to 
be the very essence of felicity, is in direct oppo- 
sition to it. 

Under the pressure of any affliction, Thy will 
■be done, as it is the patient Christian's unceas- 
ing prayer, so it is the ground of his unvarying 
practice. In this brief petition he finds his 
whole duty comprised and expressed. It is the 
unprompted request of his lips, it is the motto 
inscribed on his heart, it is the principle which 
regulates his life, it is the voice which says to 
the stormy passions, ' Peace ! be still !' Lei 
others expostulate, he submits. Nay, even sub 
mission dees not adequately express his feelings, 
We frequently submit, not so much from duty 
as from necessity ; we submit, because we can- 
not help ourselves. Resignation sometimes may 
be mere acquiescence in the sovereignty, rather 
than conviction of the wisdom and goodness of 
God ; while the patient Christian not only yields 
to the dispensation, but adores the dispenser. 
He not only submits to the blow, but vindicates 
the hand which inflicts it : ' The Lord is righte- 
ous in all his ways.' He refers to the chastise- 
ment as a proof of the affection of the chastiser. 
' I know that in very faithfulness thou hast 
caused me to be afflicted. He recurs to the 
thoughtlessness of his former prosperity. 4 Be- 
fore I was afflicted I went astray,' and alludes 
to the trial less as a punishment than a paternal 
correction. If he prays for a removal of the 
present suffering, he prays also that it may not 
be removed from him, till it has been sanctified 
to him. He will not even part from the trial 
till he has laid hold on the benefit. 

'Christianity,' says Bishop Horsley, 'involves 
many paradoxes, but no contradictions.' To be 
able to say with entire surrender of the heart, 
' Thy will be done,' is the true liberty of the 
children of God, that liberty with which Christ 
has made us free. It is a liberty, not which de- 
livers us from restraint, but which, freeing us 
from our subjection to the senses, makes us find 
no pleasure but in order, no safety but in the 
obedience of an intelligent being to his rightful 
Lord. In delivering us from the heavy bondage 
of sin, it transfers us to the ' easy yoke of Christ,' 
from the galling slavery of the world to the 
' light burden of him who overcame it.' 

This liberty, in giving a true direction to the 
affections, gives them amplitude as well as ele- 
vation. The more unconstrained the will be- 
comes, the more it fixes on one object ; once 
fixed on the highest, it does not use its liberty 



534 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



for versatility, but for constancy; not for change, 
but fidelity; not for wavering, but adherence. 

It is, therefore, no less our interest than our 
duty, te keep the mind in an habitual posture 
of submission. ■ Adam,' says Dr. Hammond, 

* after his expulsion, was a greater slave in the 
wilderness than he had been in the inclosure.' 
If the barbarian ambassador came expressly to 
the Romans to negotiate from his country for 
permission to be their servants, declaring that a 
voluntary submission even to a foreign power, 
was preferable to a wild and disorderly freedom, 
well may the Christian triumph in the peace 
and security to be attained by a complete sub- 
jugation to Him who is emphatically called the 
God of order. 

A vital faith manifests itself in vital acts. — 

* Thy will be done,' is eminently a practical pe- 
tition. The first indication of the gaoler's change 
of heart was a practical indication. He did not 
ask, ' Are there few that be saved ?' but ' What 
shall /do to be saved ?' — The first symptom St. 
Paul gave of his conversion was a practical 
symptom: 'Lord, what wilt thou have me to 
do ?' He entered on his new course, with a 
total renunciation of his own will. It seemed 
to this great Apostle to be the turning point be- 
tween infidelity and piety, whether he should 
follow his own will or the will of God. He did 
not amuse his curiosity wjth speculative ques- 
tions. His own immediate and grand concern 
engrossed his whole soul. Nor was his question 
a mere hasty effusion, an interrogative spring- 
ing out of that mixed feeling of awe and wonder 
which accompanied his first overwhelming con- 
victions. It became the abiding principle which 
governed his future life, which made him in la- 
bours more abundant. Every successive act of 
duty, every future sacrifice of ease, sprung from 
it, was influenced by it. His own will, his ar- 
dent, impetuous, fiery will, was not merely sub- 
dued, it was extinguished. His powerful mind 
indeed lost none of its energy, but his proud 
heart relinquished all its independence. 

We allow and adopt the term devotion as an 
indispensable part of religion, because it is sup- 
posed to be limited to the act ; but devotedness, 
from which it is derived, does not meet with 
such ready acceptation, because this is a habit, 
and a habit involves more than an act ; it pledges 
us to consistency, it implies fixedness of charac- 
ter, a general confirmed state of mind, a giving 
up what we are, and have, and do, to God. De- 
votedness does not consist in the length of our 
prayers, nor in the number of our good works, 
for, though these are the surest evidences of 
piety, they are not its essence. — Devotedness 
consists in doing and suffering, bearing and 
forbearing, in the way which God prescribes. 
The most inconsiderable duty performed with 
alacrity, if it opposes our own inclination ; the 
most ordinary trial, met with a right spirit is 
more acceptable to Him than a greater effort of 
our own devising. We do not commend a ser- 
vant for his activity, if ever so fervently exer- 
cised, in doing whatever gratifies his own fancy ; 
we do not consider his performance as obedience, 
unless his activity has been exercised in doing 
what we required of him. Now, how can we 
insist on his doing what contradicts his own 



humour, while we allow ourselves to feel re- 
pugnance in serving our heavenly Master, wheu 
His commands do not exactly fall in with our 
own inclination ? 

Nothing short, then, of this sincere devoted- 
ness to God can enable us to maintain an equali- 
ty of mind under unequal circumstances. We 
murmur that, we have not the things we ask 
amiss, not knowing that they are withheld by 
the same mercy by which the things that are 
good for us are granted. — Things good in them- 
selves may not be good for us. A resigned 
spirit is the proper disposition to prepare us for 
receiving mercies, or for having them denied 
Resignation of soul, like the allegiance of a good 
subject, is always in readiness, though not al- 
ways in action ; whereas an impatient mind ia 
a spirit of disaffection, always prepared to re- 
volt when the will of the sovereign is in opposi- 
tion to that of the subject. This seditious prin- 
ciple is the infallible characteristic of an unre- 
newed mind. 

We must also give God leave, not only to take 
His own way, but His own time. The appoint- 
ment of seasons, as well as of events, is His. 
' He waits to be gracious.' If he delays, it is 
because we are not yet brought to that state 
which fits us for the grant of our request. It is 
not He who must be brought about, but we our- 
selves. Or, perhaps, He refuses the thing we 
ask, in order to give us a better. We implore 
success in an undertaking, instead of which, He 
gives us content under the disappointment. We 
ask for the removal of pain ; He gives us pa- 
tience under it. We desire deliverance from 
our enemies : he sees that we have not yet turn- 
ed their enmity to our improvement, and he will 
bring us to a better temper, by further exercise. 
We desire him to avert some impending trial ; 
instead of averting it, he takes away its bitter- 
ness ; he mitigates what we believed would be 
intolerable, by giving us a right temper under 
it. How, then, can we say he has failed of his 
promise, if he gives something more truly va- 
luable than we had requested at his hands? 

A sincere love of God will make us thankful 
when our prayers are granted, and patient and 
cheerful when they are denied. Every fresh 
disappointment will teach us to distrust our. 
selves, and confide in God. Experience will in- 
struct us that there may be a better way of 
hearing our requests than that of granting them. 
Happy for us that He to whom they are address- 
ed knows what is best and acts upon that know- 



CHAP. X. 

A slight scheme of Prayer proposed for young 
persons on the model of the Lord's Prayer. 



Will the pious mother pardon the liberty 
here taken of suggesting the few following 
hints? Those who are aware of the inestimable 
value of prayer themselves, will naturally be 
anxious, not only that this duty should be ear 
nestly inculcated on their children, but that they 
should be taught it in the best manner ; and 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



535 



auch parents need little persuasion or counsel 
on the subject. Yet children of decent and 
orderly (I will not say of strictly religious) 
families are often so superficially instructed in 
this important business, that when they are 
asked what prayers they use, it is not unusual 
for them to answer, ' The Lord's Prayer and the 
Creed.' And even some who are better taught, 
are not always made to understand with suffi- 
cient clearness the specific distinction between 
the two, that the one is the confession of their 
faith, and the other the model for their suppli- 
cations. By this confused and indistinct be- 
ginning-, they set out with a perplexity in their 
ideas, which is not always completely disen- 
tangled in more advanced life. 

An intelligent mother will seize the first oc- 
casion which the child's opening understand- 
ing shall allow, for making a little course of 
lectures on the Lord's Prayer, taking every di- 
vision or short sentence separately ; for each 
furnishes valuable materials for a distinct lec- 
ture. Children should be led gradually through 
every part of this Divine composition ; they 
should be taught to break it into regular divi- 
sions into which, indeed, it so naturally resolves 
itself. They should be made to comprehend, 
one by one, each of its short but weighty sen- 
tences : to amplify and spread them out for the 
purpose of better understanding them, not in 
their most extensive and critical sense, but in 
their most simple and obvious meanings ; for in 
these condensed and substantial expressions, as 
we have before observed, every word is an ingot, 
and will bear beating out; so that the teacher's 
difficulty will not so much be what she shall 
say, as what she shall suppress ; so abundant is 
the expository matter which this succinct pat- 
tern suggests. 

When children have acquired a pretty good 
conception of the meaning of each division, 
they should then be made to observe the con- 
nection, relation, and dependence of the several 
parts of this Prayer, one upon another; for 
there is great method and connection in it. A 
judicious interpreter will observe how logically 
and consequently one clause grows out of an- 
other, though she will use neither the word 
logically nor consequence ; for all explanations 
should be made in the most plain and familiar 
terms, it being words, and not things which 
commonly perplex children, if, as it sometimes 
happens, the teacher, though not wanting sense, 
wants perspicuity and simplicity. 

Young persons, from being completely in- 
structed in this short composition, (which, as it 
is to be their guide and model through life, too 
much pains cannot be bestowed on it,) will have 
a clear conception, not only of its individual 
contents, but of Prayer in general, than many 
ever attain, though their memory has been, per- 
haps, loaded with long and unexplained forms, 
which they have been accustomed to swallow in 
the lump, without scrutiny and without dis- 
crimination. 

I would have it understood, that by these 
little comments I do not mean that children 
snould be put to learn dry, and, to them, un- 
intelligible expositions ; but that the exposition 
Is to be colloquial. And here I must remark in 



general, that the tea-cher is sometimes unreason- 
ably apt to relieve herself at the child's expense 
by loading the memory of a little creature oil 
occasions in which far other faculties should be 
put in exercise. Children themselves should be 
made to furnish a good part of this extempo- 
raneous commentary by their answers; in 
which answers they will be much assisted by 
the judgment the teacher uses in her manner of 
questioning. And the youthful understanding, 
when its powers are properly set at work, will 
soon strengthen by exercise, so as to furnish 
reasonable, if not very correct, answers. 

Written forms of prayer are not only useful 
and proper, but indispensably necessary to 
begin with. But I will hazard the remark, that 
if children are thrown exclusively on the best 
forms, if they are made to commit them to me- 
mory like a copy of verses, and to repeat them 
in a dry customary way, they will produce little 
effect on their minds. They will not under- 
stand what they repeat, if we do not early open 
to them the important scheme of prayer. With- 
out such an elementary introduction to this 
duty, they will afterwards be either ignorant, 
or enthusiastic in both. We should give them 
knowledge before we can expect them to make 
much progress in piety, and as a due prepa- 
rative to it : Christian instruction in this re- 
sembling the sun, who, in the course of his 
communication, gives light before he gives heat. 
And to labour to excite a spirit of devotion 
without first infusing that knowledge out of 
which it is to grow, is practically reviving the 
popish maxim, that ignorance is the mother 
of Devotion, and virtually adopting the popish 
rule, of praying in an unknown tongue. 

Children, let me again observe, will not at- 
tend to their prayers if they do not understand 
them ; and they will not understand them, if 
they are not taught to analyse, to dissect them, 
to know their component parts, and to metho- 
dise them. 

It is not enough to teach them to consider 
prayer under the general idea that it is an ap- 
plication to God for what they want, and an ac- 
knowledgment to Him for what they have. 
This, though true in the gross, is not sufficiently 
precise and correct. They should learn to de- 
fine and to arrange all the different parts of 
prayer. And as a preparative to prayer itself, 
they should be impressed with as clear an idea 
as their capacity and the nature of the subject 
will admit, of' Him with whom they have to do.' 
His omnipresence is, perhaps, of all his attri- 
butes, that of which we may make the first 
practical use. Every head of prayer is founded 
on some great Scriptural truths, which truths 
the little analysis here suggested will materially 
assist to fix in their minds. 

On the knowledge that 'God is,' that he is 
an infinitely holy Being, and that ' he is the 
rewarder of all them that diligently seek him,' 
will be grounded the first part of prayer, which 
is adoration. The creature devoting itself to 
the Creator, or self-dedication next presents 
itself. And if they are first taught that impor- 
tant truth, that as needy creatures they want 
help, which may be done by some easy analogy, 
they will easily be led to understand how n&* 



336 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



turally petition forms a most considerable 
branch of prayer; and Divine grace being 
among the things for which they are to petition, 
this naturally suggests to the mind the doctrine 
of the influences of the Holy Spirit. And when 
to this is added the conviction which will be 
readily worked into an ingenuous mind that as 
offending creatures they want pardon, the neces- 
sity of confession will easily be made intelligi- 
ble to them. But they should be brought to un- 
destand that it must not be such a general and 
vague confession as awakens no sense of per- 
sonal humilation, as excites no recollection of 
their own more peculiar and individual faults. 
But it must be a confession founded on self- 
knowledge, which is itself to arise out of the 
practice of self-examination. On the gladness 
of heart natural to youth, it will be less difficult 
to impress the delightful duty of thanksgiving, 
which forms so considerable a branch of prayer. 
In this they should be habituated to recapitulate 
not only their general, but to enumerate their pe- 
culiar, daily, and incidental mercies, in the same 
specific manner as they should have been taught 
to detail their individual and personal wants in 
the petitionary, and their faults in the confes- 
sional part. The same warmth of feeling which 
will more readily dispose them to express their 
gratitude to God in thanksgiving, will also lead 
them more gladly to express their love to their 
parents and friends, by adopting another indis- 
pensable, and to an affectionate heart, pleasing 
part of prayer, which is intercession. It will 
be needful to inform them that the omission of 
this important clause in the Lord's Prayer, 
arises from the Divine Intercessor not having 
then assumed his mediatorial office. 

When they have been made, by a plain and 
perspicuous mode of instruction, fully to under- 
stand the different nature of all these; and when 
they clearly comprehend that adoration, self- 
dedication, confession, petition, thanksgiving, 
and intercession, are distinct heads, which must 
riot be involved in each other ; you may exem- 
plify the rules by pointing out to them these 
successive branches in any well written form. It 
is hardly needful to remind the teacher that our 
truly Scriptural Liturgy invariably furnishes 
the example of presenting every request in the 
name of the great Mediator. For there is no ac- 
cess to the Throne of Grace, but by that new 
and living way. In the Liturgy, too, they will 
meet with the best exemplifications of prayers, 
exhibiting separate specimens of each of the 
distinct heads we have been suggesting. 

But in order that the minds of young per- 
sons may, without labour or difficulty, be gra- 
dually brought into such a state of preparation 
as to be benefited by such a little course of 
lectures as we have recommended, they should, 
from the time when they were first able to read, 
have been employing themselves, at their leisure 
hours, in laying in a store of provision for their 
present demands. And here tire memory may be 
employed to good purpose; for being the first fa- 
culty which is ripened, and which is indeed per- 
fected when the others are only beginning to un- 
fold themselves, this is an intimation of Provi- 
dence that it should be the first seized on for the 
best uses. It should, therefore, be devoted to lay 



in a stock of the more easy and devotional parts 
of Scripture, especially the Psalms.* Children, 
whose minds have been early well furnished from 
these, will be competent at nine or ten years 
old to produce from them, and to select with no 
contemptible judgment, suitable examples of 
all the jiarts of prayer ; and will be able to ex- 
tract and appropriate texts under each respec- 
tive head, so as to exhibit, without help, com- 
plete specimens of every part of prayer By 
confining them entirely to the sense, and nearly 
to the words of Scripture, they will be preserved 
from enthusiasm, from irregularity, and conceit. 
By being obliged continually, to apply for them- 
selves, they will get a habit in all their diffi- 
culties, of ' searching the Scriptures,' which 
may be hereafter useful to them on other and 
more trying occasions. But I would at first 
confine them to the Bible; for were they allow- 
ed with equal freedom to ransack other books 
with a view to get helps to embellish their 
little compositions, or rather compilations, they 
might be tempted to pass off for their own what 
they pick up from others, which might tend at 
once to make them both vain and deceitful. 
This is a temptation to which they are too much 
laid open, when they find themselves extrava- 
gantly commended for any pilfered passage with 
which they decorate their little themes and let- 
ters. But in the present instance there is no 
danger of any similar deception, for there is 
such a sacred signature stamped on every 
Scripture phrase, that the owner's name can 
never be defaced or torn off from the goods, 
either by fraud or violence. 

It would be well, if in those Psalms which 
children were first directed to get by heart, 
an eye were had to this their future application ; 
and that they were employed, but without any 
intimation of your subsequent design, in learning 
such as may be best turned to this account. In 
the hundred and thirty-ninth, the first great 
truth to be imprinted on the young heart, the 
Divine omnipresence, as was before observed, 
is unfolded with such a mixture of majestic 
grandeur, and such an interesting variety of 
intimate and local circumstances, as is likely to 
seize on the quick and lively feeling of youth. 
The awful idea that that Being whom they are 
taught to reverence is not only in general 
' acquainted with all their ways,' but that Ho 
is ' about their path, and about their bed,' be- 
stows such a sense of real and present existence 
on Him, of whom they are apt to conceive as 
having his distant habitation only in heaven, as 
will greatly help to realize the sense of his ac- 
tual presence. 

The hundred and third Psalm will open to the 
mind rich and abundant sources of expression 
for gratitude and thanksgiving, and it includes 
the acknowledgment of spiritual as well as tem- 
poral favours. It illustrates the compassionate 
mercies of God by familiar tenderness and ex- 
quisite endearment, as are calculated to strike 

* This will be so far from spoiling the cheerfulness, 
or impeding the pleasures, of childhood, that the Author 
knows a lady, who, when a little girl, before she was 
seven years old, had learnl the whole Psalter through a 
second time; and that without any diminution of un- 
common gaiety of spirits, or any interference with the 
elegant acquirements suited to her station. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



537 



npon every chord of filial fondness in the heart 
of an affectionate child. The fifty -first supplies 
an infinite variety of matter in whatever relates 
to confession of sin, or to supplication for the 
aids of the Spirit. The twenty-third abounds 
with captivating expressions of the protecting 
goodness and tender love of their heavenly Fa- 
ther, conveyed by pastoral imagery of uncom- 
mon beauty and sweetness : in short, the greater 
part of these charming compositions overflows 
with materials for every head of prayer. 

Children who, while they were engaged in 
learning these Scriptures, were not aware that 
there was any specific object in view, or any 
farther end to be answered by it, will afterwards 
feel an unexpected pleasure arising from the 
application of their petty labours, when they are 
called to draw out from their little treasury of 
knowledge the stores they have been insensibly 
collecting ; and will be pleased to find that, 
without any fresh application to study, they are 
now obliged to exercise a higher faculty than 
memory, they have lying ready in their minds 
the materials with which they are at length 
called upon to work. Their judgment must be 
set about selecting one, or two, or more texts, 
which shall contain the substance of every spe- 
cific head of prayer before noticed ; and it will 
be a farther exercise to their understandings to 
concatenate the detached parts into one regular 
whole, occasionally varying the arrangement as 
they like ; that is, changing the order, some- 
times beginning with invocation, sometimes 
witli confession ; sometimes dwelling longer on 
one part, sometimes on another. As the hard- 
ships of a religious Sunday are often so patheti- 
cally pleaded, as making one of the heavy bur- 
dens of religion ; and as the friends of religion 
are so often called upon to mitigate its intolera- 
ble rigours, by recommending pleasant employ- 
ment, might not such an exercise as has been 
here suggested assist, by varying its occupa- 
tions, to lighten its load ! 

The habits of the pupils being thus early 
formed, their memory, attention, and intellect 
being bent in a right direction, and the exer- 
cise invariably maintained, may we not reason- 
ably hope that their affections also, through Di- 
vine gra.£e, may become interested in the work, 
till they will be enabled ' to pray with the spirit, 
and with the understanding also ?' They will 
now be qualified to use a well-composed form, 
with seriousness and advantage ; for they will 
now use it not mechanically, but rationally. 
That which before appeared to them a mere 
mass of good words, will now appear a signifi. 
cant composition, exhibiting variety, regularity, 
and beauty ; and while they will have the fur- 
ther advantage of being enabled, by their im- 
proved judgment, to distinguish and select for 
their own purpose such prayers as are more 
judicious and more scriptural, it will also habit- 
uate them to look for plan, and design, and lucid 
order, in other works. 



CHAP. XI. 

Of Perseverance in Prayer and Praise. 

A deep sense of his corruptions will power- 
Vol II. 



fully draw the real penitent to a humble avowal 
of sin ; but it is to be feared that there are some, 
who,because they cannot charge themselves with 
flag rant offences, do not consider a contrite con- 
fession of the sins of the heart and of the daily 
life an indispensable part of their devotions. But 
God will charge many with sin who neglect to 
charge themselves. Did they attend to the re- 
monstrances of a conscience not laid asleep by 
neglect, or quieted by palliatives, they would 
find, that, were the daily omissions alone, whe- 
ther in prayer or conduct, of even their best 
days registered and presented to them, they 
would form no inconsiderable catalogue for re- 
pentance. 

There are too many who do not consider that 
all sins are equally a breach of the Divine law. 
Without pretending to bring all sins, small and 
great, to one common level, we should remem- 
ber that all sin is an offence against a gracious 
Father. 

In that profoundly self-abasing prayer of Da 
vid, after the commission of the two black of- 
fences which disgraced his otherwise exemplary 
life, though he deeply felt his barbarous treat- 
ment of his brave general, in first dishonouring 
his wife, and then exposing him to meet inevi- 
table death in the fore front of the hottest battle, 
— yet, in praying to be delivered from this 
' blood-guiltiness,' he bequeathed an important 
lesson to posterity, when, in his lowly prostra- 
tion at the throne of God, his first cry was, 
' Against Thee, Tltee only, have I sinned, and 
done this evil in Thy sight, plainly declaring, 
that all sin is, in the first instance, a sin against 
God. 

While the most worldly are ready enough to 
exclaim against notorious sins, or against any 
sins carried to the greatest excess, to smaller 
offences they contrive to be tolerably reconciled. 
They think the commission of these not incon- 
sistent with the profitable use of prayer in their 
formal way of using this customary exercise. 

They are also sufficiently lenient to certain 
degrees of great sins ; and various are the mo- 
difications and distinctions in their logic, and 
not over-correct the gradations in their moral 
scale of degrees. They do not consider that it 
is the extirpation, and not merely the reduction, 
of any sin, which is to procure them that peace 
and comfort for which they sometimes pray, 
and which they wonder they do not receive as 
an answer to their prayers. 

They forget that the evil of sin is not to be 
measured by its mangnitude only, but by the 
spirit of disobedience which it indicates towards 
a generous Father, — a Father whose commands 
are all founded in mercy and love, and who con- 
siders every voluntary fault as no light offence 
when committed against supreme power exer 
cised with perfect tenderness. 

But it is their reluctance to part with the re- 
maining degrees, their wish to retain these modi, 
fied sins ; it is their favourite reserves to which 
they still cling, that prevent that peace which 
is promised to the victory, I had almost said tc 
the omnipotence of prayer. 

For it is not so much the nicely measured 
quantity, as to the nature of sin which consti- 
tutes its malignity, anl ^'xstructs the benefit of 



538 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



prayer. The inferior degree which is cherished, 
will, without earnest supplication to God, be 
read}' to become the excess which is deprecated, 
whenever the appropriate temptation shall pre- 
sent itself. For, however our compassionate 
Father may pardon the unpremeditated fault, 
yet how can we expect Him to forgive any de- 
gree of sin that is allowed, that is even, in a 
certain measure, intended to be committed ? 
Diminution, however, is a favourable step, if, 
by perseverance in prayer, it lead gradually to 
extirpation. And this naturally leads to the im- 
portant subject of Perseverance in Prayer. 

Prayer is an act which seems to be so pre- 
pared in the frame of our nature, to be so con- 
genial to our dependent condition, so suited to 
our exigencies, so adapted to every man's known 
wants, and to his possibilities of wants unknown, 
so full of relief to the soul, and of peace to the 
mind, and of gladness to the heart ; so produc- 
tive of confidence in God, and so reciprocally 
proceeding from that confidence, that we should 
think, if we did not know the contrary, that it 
is a duty which scarcely required to be enjoined; 
that he who had once found out his necessities, 
and that there was no other redress for them, 
would spontaneously have recourse, as a delight, 
to what he had neglected as a command ; that 
he who had once tasted the bounties of God, 
would think it a hardship not to be allowed to 
thank him for them ; that the invitation to pray 
to his Benefactor, was an additional proof of Di- 
vine goodness, that to be allowed to praise Him 
for his mercies, was itself a mercy. 

The Apostle's precept, ' Pray always,' — pray 
evermore, pray without ceasing, men ought al- 
ways to pray, — will not be criticised as a ple- 
onasm, if we call to remembrance that there is 
no state of mind, no condition of life, in which 
prayer is not a necessity as well as an obliga- 
tion. In danger, fear impels to it : in trouble, 
we have no other resource ; in sickness, we have 
no other refuge ; in dejection, no other hope ; in 
death, no other comfort. 

Saint Paul frequently shows the word prayer 
to be a term of great latitude, involving the 
whole compass of our intercouse with God. He 
represents it to include our adoration of his per- 
fections, our acknowledgment of the wisdom of 
his dispensations, our obligation for his benefits, 
providential and spiritual; the avowal of our en- 
tire dependence on Him, our absolute subjection 
to Him, the declaration of our faith in Him, 
the expression of our devotedness to Him ; the 
confession of our own unworthiness, infirmities, 
and sins ; the petition for the supply of our wants, 
and for the pardon of our offences ; for succour 
in our distress; for a blessing on our undertak- 
ings; for the direction of our conduct, and the 
success of our affairs. 

If any should be disposed to think this gene- 
ral view too comprehensive, let him point out 
which of these particulars prayer does not em- 
brace ; which of these clauses a rational, a Sen- 
tient, an enlightened, a dependent being can 
omit in his scheme of devotion. 

But as the multifarious concerns of human 
life will necessarily occasion a suspension of 
the exerciso., the Apostle, ever attentive to the 
principle of the act, and to the circumstances 



of the actor, reduces all these qualities to their 
essence when he resolves them into the spirit of 
supplication. 

To pray, incessantly, therefore appears to be, 
in his view of the subject, to keep the mind in 
an habitual disposition and propensity to devo- 
tion ; for there is a sense in which we may be 
said to do that which we are willing to do, 
though there are intervals of the thought as 
well as intermissions of the act, — ' as a traveller,' 
says Dr. Barrow, ' may be said to be still on his 
journey, though he stops to take needful rest, 
and to transact necessary business.' If he 
pause, he does not turn out of the way ; his pur- 
suit is not diverted, though occasionally inter- 
rupted. 

Constantly maintaining the disposition, then, 
and never neglecting the actual duty ; never 
slighting the occasion which presents itself, nor 
violating the habit of stated devotion, may, we 
pnesume, be called 'to pray without ceasing.' 
The expression ' watching unto prayer,' implies 
this vigilance in finding, and this zeal in laying 
hold on these occasions. 

The success of prayer, though promised to 
all, who offer it in perfect sincerity, is not sr.> 
frequently promised to the cry of distress, to the 
impulse of fear, or the emergency of the mo- 
ment, as to humble continuance in devotion ; it 
is to patient waiting, to assiduous solicitation, 
to unwearied importunity, that God has declar- 
ed that he will lend his ear, that he wiil give the 
communication of his Spirit, that he will grant 
the return of our requests. Nothing but this 
holy perseverance can keep up in our minds a 
humble sense of our dependence. It is not by 
a mere casual petition, however passionate, but 
by habitual application, that devout affections 
are excited and maintained, that our converse 
with Heaven is carried on. It is by no other 
means that we can be assured, with Saint Paul, 
that ' we are risen with Christ,' but this obvious 
one, that we thus seek the things which are 
above ; that the heart is renovated, that the mind 
is lifted above this low scene of things ; that the 
spirit breathes in a purer atmosphere ; that the 
whole man is enlightened, and strengthened, 
and purified ; and that the more frequently, so 
the more nearly, he approaches to the throne of 
God. He will find also that prayer not only ex- 
presses but elicits the Divine grace. 

Yet do we not allow every idle plea, every 
frivolous pretence to divert us from our better 
resolves? Business brings in its grave apology 
pleasure its bewitchingexcuse. — But if we would 
examine our hearts truly, and report them faith- 
fully, we should find the fact to be, that disin- 
clination to this employment, oftener than our 
engagement in any other, keeps us from this 
sacred intercourse with our Maker. 

Under circumstances of distress, indeed, pray- 
er is adopted with comparatively little reluc- 
tance ; the mind which knows not where to fly, 
flies to God. In agony, nature is no Atheist. 
The soul is drawn to God by a sort of natural 
impulse; not always, perhaps, by an emotion 
of piety, but from a feeling conviction that every 
other refuge is ' a refuge of lies.' Oh ! thou 
afflicted, tossed with tempests, and not comfort- 
ed, happy if thou art either drawn or driven 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



539 



with holy Davia, to say to thy God, ' Thou art a 
place to hide me in.' 

But if it is easy for the sorrowing heart to 
give up a world, by whom itself seems to be given 
up, there are other demands for prayer equally 
imperative. There are circumstances more dan- 
gerous, yet less suspected of danger, in which, 
though the call is louder, it is less heard ; be- 
cause the voice of conscience is drowned by the 
clamours of the world. Prosperous fortunes, 
unbroken health, flattering friends, buoyant spi- 
rits, a spring-tide of success, — these are the occa- 
sions when the very abundance of God's mer- 
cies is apt to fill the heart till it hardens it. 
Loaded with riches, crowned with dignities, 
successful in enterprise ; beset with snares in 
the shape of honours, with perils under the mask 
of pleasures ; then it is, that to the already satu- 
rated heart ' to-morrow shall be as this day, and 
more abundant,' is more in unison, than 4 what 
shall I render to the Lord ?' 

Prayer draws all the Christian graces into its 
focus. It draws charity, followed by her lovely 
train, her forbearance with faults, her forgive- 
ness of injuries, her pity for errors, her compas- 
sion for want. It draws Repentance, with her 
holy sorrows, her pious resolutions, her self-dis- 
trust. It attracts Faith, with her elevated eye, 
— Hope, with her grasped anchor, — Beneficence 
with her open hand, — Zeal, looking far and wide 
to serve, — Humility, with introverted eye, look- 
ing at home. Prayer, by quickening these 
graces in the heart, warms them into life, fits 
them for service, and dismisses each to its ap- 
propriate practice. Prayer is mental virtue ; 
virtue is spiritual action. The mould into which 
genuine prayer casts the soul is not effaced by 
the suspension of the act, but retains some touches 
of the impression till the act is repeated. 

When we consider how profusely God be- 
stows, and how little He requires : that while 
He confers like Deity, He desires only such poor 
returns as can be made by indigent, mendicant 
mortality ; that He requires no costly oblation ; 
nothing that will impoverish, but, on the con- 
trary, will inconceivably enrich the giver. Wheh 
we consider this, we are ready to wonder that 
He will accept so poor a thing as impotent gra- 
titude for immeasurable bounty. When we re- 
flect, that our very desire to pray and to praise 
Him is His gift ; — that His grace must purify 
the offering, before He condescends to receive 
it, must confer on it that spirit which renders it 
acceptable ; — that He only expects we should 
consecrate to Him what we have received from 
Him ; — that we should only confess, that of all 
we enjoy, nothing is our due; — we may well 
blush at our insensibility. 

We think, perhaps, tkat had He commanded 
us 'to do some great thing,' to raise some mo- 
nument of splendour, some memorial of notorie- 
ty and ostentation, something that would per- 
petuate our own name with His goodness, we 
should gladly have done it. — How much more 
when He oniy requires 

' Our thanks how due I' 

when He only asks the homage of the heart, the 
expression of our dependence, the recognition 
of His right ! 



But he to whom the duty of prayer is un- 
known, and by whom the privilege of prayer i9 
unfelt, or he by whom it is neglected, or he who 
uses it for form and not from feeling, may pro- 
bably say, Will this work, wearisome even if 
necessary, never know an end ? Will there be 
no period when God will dispense with its regu- 
lar exercise ? Will there never be such an at 
tainment of the end proposed, as that we may 
be allowed to discontinue the means? 

To these interrogatories there is but one an- 
swer, an answer which shall be also made, by 
an appeal to the enquirer himself. 

If there is any day in which we are quite cer- 
tain that we shall meet with no trial from Pro- 
vidence, no temptation from the world, any day 
in which we shall be sure to have no wrong 
tempers excited in ourselves, no call to bear with 
those of others, no misfortune to encounter, and 
no need of Divine assistance to endure it, on that 
morning we may safely omit prayer. 

If there is any evening in which we have re- 
ceived no protection from God, and experienced 
no mercy at his hands ; if we have not lost a 
single opportunity of doing or receiving good, if 
we are quite certain that we have not once 
spoken unadvisedly with our lips, nor entertain- 
ed one vain or idle thought in our heart, on that 
night we may safely omit to praise God, and to 
confess our own sinfulness ; on that night we 
may safely omit humiliation and thanksgiv- 
ing. To repeat the converse would be super- 
fluous. 

When we can conscientiously say, that reli- 
gion has given a tone to our conduct, a law to 
our actions, a rule to our thoughts, a bridle to our 
tongue, a restraint to every evil temper, then, 
some will say, ' We may safely be dismissed 
from the drudgery of prayer, it will then have 
answered all the ends which you so tiresomely 
recommend.' So far from it, we really figure to 
ourselves, that if we could hope to hear of a hu- 
man being brought to such perfection of dis- 
cipline, it would unquestionably be found that 
this would be the very being who would continue 
most perseveringly in the practice of that devo- 
tion, which had so materially contributed to 
bring his heart and mind into so desirable a state, 
who would most tremble to discontinue prayer, 
who would be most appalled at the thought of 
the condition into which such discontinuance 
would be likely to reduce him. Whatever others 
do, he will continue forever to ' sing praises unto 
Thee, O Thou most Highest; he will continue 
to tell of Thy loving kindness early in the 
morning, and of Thy truth in the night season.' 

It is true that while he considered religion as 
something nominal and ceremonial, rather than 
as a principle of spirit and of life, he felt nothing 
encouraging, nothing refreshing, nothing de- 
lightful in prayer. But since he began to feel 
it as the means of procuring the most substan- 
tial blessings to his heart ; since he began to 
experience something of the realization of the 
promises to his soul, in the performance of this 
exercise, he finds there is no employment so sa- 
tisfactory, none that his mind can so little do 
without; none that so effectually raises him 
above the world, none that so opens his eyes to 
its empty shadows, none which can make him 



540 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



look with so much indifference on its lying va- 
nities ; none that can so powerfully defend him 
against the assaults of temptation, and the al- 
lurements of pleasure, none that can so sustain 
him under labour, so carry him through diffi- 
culties ; none that can so quicken him in the 
practice of every virtue, and animate him in the 
discharge of every duty. 

An additional reason why we should live in 
the perpetual use of prayer, seems to be that our 
blessed Redeemer, after having given both the 
example and the command, while on earth, con- 
descends still to be our unceasing intercessor in 
Heaven. Can we ever cease petitioning for our- 
selves, when we believe that He never ceases 
interceding for us ? 

If we are so unhappy as now to find little 
pleasure in this holy exercise, that, however, is 
so far from being a reason for discontinuing it, 
that it affords the strongest argument for per- 
severance. That which was at first a form, will 
become a pleasure ; that which was a burden, 
will become a privilege ; that which we impose 
upon ourselves as a medicine, will become ne- 
cessary as an aliment, and desirable as a grati- 
fication. That which is now short and super- 
ficial, will become copious and solid. The cha- 
riot wheel is warmed by its own motion. Use 
will make that easy which was at first painful. 
That which is once become easy will soon be 
rendered pleasant. Instead of repining at the 
performance we shall be unhappy at the omis- 
sion. When a man recovering from sickness 
attempts to walk, he does not discontinue the 
exercise because he feels himself weak, nor 
even because the effort is painful. He rather 
redoubles his exertion ; it is from his persever- 
ance that he looks for strength. An additional 
turn every day diminishes his repugnance, aug- 
ments his vigour, improves his spirits. That 
effort which was submitted to because it was 
salutary, is continued because the feeling of re- 
novated strength renders it delightful. 

But if prayer be so exhilirating to the soul, 
what shall be said of praise ? Praise is the only 
employment, we had almost said, it is the only 
duty, in which self finds no part. In praise we 
go out of ourselves, and think only of Him to 
whom we offer it. It is the most purely disin- 
terested of all services. It is gratitude without 
solicitation, acknowledgment without petition. 
Prayer is the overflowing expression of our 
wants, praise, of our affections. Prayer is the 
language of the destitute, praise of the redeem- 
ed, sinner. If the angelic spirits offer their 
praises exempt from our mixture of infirmity or 
alloy, yet we have a motive for gratitude, un- 
known even to the angels. They are unfallen 
beings ; they cannot say as we can, ' Worthy 
the Lamb, for he was slain for us.' Prayer is 
the child of faith ; praise of love. Prayer is 
prospective ; praise takes in, in its wide range, 
enjoyment of present, remembrance of past, and 
anticipation of future blessings. Prayer points 
the only way to heaven, ' praise is already there.' 

CHAP. XII. 

On Intercessory Prayer. 
As it is the effect of prayer to expand the af- 



I fections as well as to sanctify them, the beneve 
I lent Christian is not satisfied to commend him- 
self alone to the Divine favour. The heart 
which is full of the love of God will overflow 
with love to his neighbour. All that are near 
to himself he wishes to bring near to God. He 
will present the whole human race as objects of 
the Divine compassion, but especially the faith- 
ful followers of Jesus Christ. Religion makes a 
man so liberal of soul, that he cannot endure to 
restrict any thing, much less divine mercies, to 
himself: he, therefore, spiritualizes the social 
affections, by adding intercessory to personal 
prayer : for he knows that petitioning for others 
is one of the best methods of exercising and en- 
larging our own love and charity, even if it were 
not to draw down those blessings which are pro- 
mised to those for whom we ask them. 

It is unnecessary to produce any of the num- 
berless instances with which Scripture abounds, 
on the efficacy of intercession : in which God 
has proved the truth of his own assurance, that 
' his ear was open to their cry.' I shall confine 
myself to a few observations on the benefits it 
brings to him who offers it. When we pray for 
the objects of our dearest regard, it purifies pas- 
sion, and exalts love into religion : when we 
pray for those with whom we have worldly in- 
tercourse, it smooths down the swellings of 
envy, and bids the tumult of anger and ambition 
subside : when we pray for our country, it 
sanctifies patriotism : when we pray for those in 
authority, it adds a Divine motive to human 
obedience : when we pray for our enemies, it 
softens the savageness of war, and mollifies 
hatred into tenderness, and resentment into sor- 
row. There is no such softener of animosity, 
no such soother of resentment, no such allayer 
of hatred, as sincere cordial prayer. And we 
can only learn the duty so difficult to human 
nature of forgiving those who have offended us, 
when we bring ourselves to pray for them to 
Him whom we ourselves daily offend. When 
those who are the faithful followers of the same 
Divine Master pray for each other, the recipro- 
cal intercession delightfully realizes that beauti- 
ful idea of ' the communion of Saints.' There 
is scarcely any thing which more enriches the 
Christian than the circulation of this holy com- 
merce ; than the comfort of believing, while he 
is praying for his Christian friends, that he is 
also repaying the benefit of their prayers for 
him. 

Some are for confining their intercessions only 
to the good, as if none but person 1 ? of merit were 
entitled to our prayer. Good ; «vho is good ? 
' There is none good but one, that is God.' 
Merit ! who has it ? Desert ! who can plead 
it? in the sight of God, I mean. Who shall 
bring his own piety, or the piety of others, in 
the way of claim, before a Being of such tran- 
scendant holiness, that ' the heavens are not 
clean in his sight ?' And if we wait for perfect 
holiness as a preliminary prayer, when shall 
such erring creatures pray at all to Him ' who 
chargeth the angels with folly ?' 

The social affections were given us not only 
for the kindliest, but the noblest purposes. The 
charities of father, son, and brother, were be- 
stowed, not only to make life pleasant, but to 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



541 



make it useful ; not only that we might contri- 
bute to the present comfort, but to the eternal 
benefit of each other. 

These heaven-implanted affections are never 
brought into exercise more properly, nor with 
more lively feelings, than in intercessory prayer. 
Our friends may have wants which we cannot 
remove, desires which we cannot gratify, afflic- 
tions which we cannot relieve, but it is always 
in our power to bring them before God ; to pray 
for them whenever we pray for ourselves. This, 
as it is a most pleasant and easy, so it is an in- 
dispensable obligation. It is a duty which 
brings the social affections into their highest 
exercise, and which may be reciprocally paid 
and received. 

The same Scriptures which expressly enjoin 
that supplication, prayers, intercession, and giv- 
ing of thanks be made for all men, furnish also 
numerous examples of the efficacy of interces- 
sory prayer. We need not dwell on the instance 
of the rain obtained by the prayers of Elijah, or 
the earlier availing intercessions of Moses, with 
other public deliverances effected in the same 
manner. 

Though the perseverance of Abraham's prayer 
did not prevent the extermination of the polluted 
city, yet doubtless the blessing he solicited for 
it returned unto his own bosom, and the suc- 
cessive promises made by the Almighty Judge to 
the successively reduced number of the righte- 
ous, for whose sake the petition for preservation 
was offered, affords a proof of the Divine appro- 
bation and a striking encouragement to per- 
sist in the duty of intercessory prayer. The 
promise of God was withdrawn. The prayer 
was conditional, and could the petitioner have 
made up his very lowest compliment, the city 
had been saved. The interceding heart in any 
event is sure to gain something for itself. 

Prayer is such an enlarger of the affections, 
such an opener of the heart, that we cannot but 
wonder how any who live in the practice of it, 
should be penurious in their alms ; or, if they 
do give, should do it ' grudgingly or of neces- 
sity.' Surely if our prayer be cordial, we shall 
be more ready to assist as well as to love those 
for whom we are in the habit of making sup- 
plication to God. It is impossible to pray sin- 
cerely for the well-being of others, without being 
desirous of contributing to it. We can hardly 
conceive a more complete species of self-decep- 
tion than that practised by an avaricious pro- 
fessor of religion, one who goes on mechanically 
to pray for the poor, whilst his prayer has neither 
opened his heart nor his purse. He may value 
himself on this, as on other instances of his in- 
genuity, in having found out so cheap a way of 
doing good, and go on contentedly, till he hears 
that tremendous sentence of exclusion, • Inas- 
much as ye did it not to one of the least of these, 
ye did it not to me.' 

O impudence of Wealth! with all thy store, 
How d.ir'st thou let one worthy man be poor ? 

O you great ones of the earth, whom riches 
ensnare and prosperity betrays — be largely 
liberal, even from self-insterest. Not, indeed, 
expecting to make the liberality you bestow a 
-emuneration for the devotions you withhold. 



Scatter your superfluities, and more than your 
superfluities, to the destitute, if not to vindicate 
Providence, yet to benefit yourselves. Not, in- 
deed, to revive the old pious fraud of depending 
for salvation on the prayers of others ; yet still 
you may hope to be repaid, with usurious interest, 
from the pious poor, by the very tender charity 
of their prayers for you. Their supplications may 
possibly be so heard, that you may at length, be 
brought to the indispensable necessity, and the 
bounden duty of praying for yourselves. 

There is a generosity in religion. The same 
principle which disposes a Christian to contri- 
bute to the temporal interests of those he loves, 
inclines him to breathe his earnest supplica- 
tion for their spiritual benefit. Not only does 
prayer for others promote natural affection, not 
only does it soften the heart of him who inter- 
cedes, but it is hoped that they for whom the 
intercession is made, may reap the benefit. 

But our intercession must neither dwell in 
generalities for the public nor in limitations 
to the wants of our particular friends. The 
Christian is the friend of every description 
of the children of mortality. In the fulness 
of our compassion for the miseries of mankind, 
we pour out our hearts in prayer for the poor 
and destitute, and we do well. But there is an- 
other and a large class who are still more the ob- 
jects of our pity, and consequently should be of 
our prayers. While we pray for those who have 
no portion in this world, do we not sometimes 
forget to pray for those who have their whole 
portion in it ? We pray for the praying servants 
of God, but perhaps we neglect to pray for those 
who never pray for themselves. These are the 
persons who stand most in need of the mercy 
of the Almighty, and of our Christian impor- 
tunity in their favour. 

Is it not affecting, that even unto our devotions 
we are disposed to carry the regaid we too 
highly indulge of the good things of this life, 
by earnestly imploring mercy upon those who 
want them ; and by forgetting to offer our sup- 
plications in favour of those who are blinded by 
the too full enjoyment of them. If the one duty 
be done, should the other be left undone ? 

If we want an example of the most sublime 
kind of Charity, observe for what it is that the 
great Apostle of the Gentiles ' bows his knees to 
God' in behalf of his friends. Is it for an increase 
of their wealth, their power, their fame, or any 
other external prosperity ? — No : it is that ' God 
would grant them according to the riches of his 
glory, to be strengthened with might in the inner 
man ;' — it is, ' that Christ may dwell in their 
hearts by faith ;' — it is that ' they may berooted 
and grounded in love,' and this to a glorious end, 
— ' that they may be able with all Saints, to com- 
prehend' the vast dimensions of the love of 
Christ; — that 'they may be filled with all the 
fulness of God.' These are the sort of petitions 
which we need never hesitate to piesent. These 
are requests which we may rest assured are al- 
ways agreeable to the Divine will ; here we are 
certain we cannot ' pray amiss.' These are in- 
tercessions of which the benefit may be felt, 
when wealth, and fame, and power, shall be 
forgotten things. 

Why does Saint Paul ' pray day and night 



543 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



that he might see the face of his Thessalonian 
converts ?' Not merely that he might have the 
gratification of once more beholding those he 
loved, — though that would sensibly delight so 
affectionate a heart, — but ' that he might perfect 
that which was lacking in their faith.' 

These are instances of a spirit so large in its 
affections, so high in its object; of a man who 
had so much of Heaven in his friendships, so 
much of soul in his attachments, that he thought 
time too brief, earth too scanty, worldly bless- 
ings too low, to enter deeply into his petitions 
for those to whom time and earth, the transitory 
blessings of life, and life itself, would so soon be 
no more. 

In exciting us to perpetual gratitude, the 
same Apostle stirs us up to the duty of keeping 
before our eyes the mercies which so peremp- 
torily demand it. These mercies succeed each 
other so rapidly, or rather, are crowded upon us 
so simultaneously, that if we do not count them 
as they are received, and record them as they 
are enjoined, their very multitude, which ought 
to penetrate the heart more deeply, will cause 
them to slip out of the memory. 

As to the commanded duty of praying for 
our enemies, the most powerful example be-, 
queathed to us in Scripture, next to that of his 
Divine master on the cross, is that of St. Stephen. 
Even after the expiring martyr had ejaculated 
1 Lord Jesus receive my spirit,' he kneeled down 
and cried with a loud voice ' Lord lay not this 
sin to their charge.' Let every instance of Ro- 
man greatness of mind, let every story of Gre- 
cian magnanimity be ransacked, and produce, 
who can, such another example. Theirs is tu- 
mour, this is grandeur ; theirs is heroism, this is 
Christianity ; they implored the gods for them- 
selves, Stephen for his murderers. 

In closing the subject of Intercessory Prayer, 
may the author be allowed to avail herself of 
the feeling it suggests to her own heart? and, 
while she earnestly implores that Being who 
can make the meanest of his creatures instru- 
mental to His glory, to bless this humble attempt 
to the reader, may she, without presumption, 
intreat that this work of Christian charity 
may be reciprocal, and that those who peruse 
these pages may put up a petition for her, that, 
in the great day, to which we are all hastening, 
and to which she is so very near, she may not 
be found to have suggested to others what she 
herself did not believe, or to have recommended 
what she did not desire to practice ? In that 
awful day of everlasting decision, may both the 
reader and the writer be pardoned and accepted, 
'not for any works of righteousness which they 
have done,' but through the merits of the Great 
Intercessor. 



CHAP. XIII. 

The Practical Results of Prayer Exhibited in 
the Life of the Christian in the World. 

As the keeping up a due sense of religion, 
both in faith and practice, so materially depends 
on the habit of fervent and heart-felt devotion, 
may we be permitted, in this place, to insist on 



the probable effects which would follow the de 
vout and conscientious exercise of prayer, rather 
than on prayer itself? 

As soon as religion is really become the 
earnest desire of our hearts, it will inevitably 
become the great business of our lives ; the one 
is the only satisfactory evidence of the other : 
consequently the religion of the heart and life 
will promote that Spirit of prayer by which 
both have been promoted. 

They, therefore, little advance the true inter- 
est of mankind, who, under the powerful plea 
of what great things God has done for us in our 
redemption by His Son, neglect to encourage 
our active services in His cause. Hear the 
words of inspiration, ' Be not slothful ;' ' run the 
race ;' ' fight the good fight ;' ' strive to enter 
in ;' 'give diligence ;' ' work out your own sal- 
vation ;' ' God is not unmindful to forget your 
labour of love ;' ' but when ye have done all, 
Ye are unprofitable servants, ye have done 
that which was your duty to do.' 

But if, after we have done all, we are unpro- 
fitable servants, what shall we be if we have 
done nothing ? Is it not obvious that the Holy 
Spirit, who dictated these exhortations, clearly 
meant that a sound faith in the word of God was 
intended to produce holy exertion for the ad- 
vancement of His Glory ? The activity in 
doing good of the Son of God was not ex- 
ceeded by his devotion, and both powerfully 
illustrated his doctrines, and confirmed his 
divinity. Until then we make our religion a 
part of our common life, until we bring Chris- 
tianity, as an illustrious genius is said to have 
brought philosophy, from its retreat to live in 
the world, and dwell among men; until we 
have brought it from the closet to the active 
scene, from the church to the world, whether 
that world be the court, the senate, the ex- 
change, the public office, the private count- 
ing-house, the courts of justice, the professional 
departments, or the domestic drawing-room, it 
will not have fully accomplished what it was 
sent on earth to do. 

We do not mean the introduction df its lan- 
guage, but of its spirit: the former is frequently 
as incompatible with public, as it is unsuitable 
to private business ; but the latter is of univer- 
sal application. We moan that the temper and 
dispositions which it is the object of prayer to 
communicate, should be kept alive in society, 
and brought into action in its affairs. That the 
integrity, the veracity, the justice, the purity, 
the liberality, the watchfulness over ourselves, 
the candour towards others, all exercised in the 
fear of the Lord, and strengthened by the word 
of God and prayer, should be brought from the 
retirement of devotion to the regulation of the 
conduct. 

There may be a form of unfelt petitions, a 
ceremonious avowal of faith, a customary pro- 
fession of repentance, a general acknowledg- 
ment of sin, uttered from the lips to God ; but 
where is his image and superscription written 
upon the heart ? Where is the transforming 
power of religion in the life ? — Where is the 
living transcript of the Divine original ? Where 
is that holiness to which the vision of the Lord 
|is specifically promised? Where is the light, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



543 



and life, and grace of the Redeemer exhibited in 
the temper and conduct? Yet we are assured, 
that if we are Christians, there must be a con- 
stant aim at this conformity. 

We should, therefore, endeavour to believe as 
we pray, to think as we pray, to feel as we pray, 
and to act as we pray. Prayer must not be a 
solitary, independent exercise ; but an exercise 
incorporated with many, and inseparably con- 
nected with that golden chain of Christian duties, 
of which, when so connected, it forms one of the 
most important links. They will not pray dif- 
ferently from the rest of the world, who do not 
live differently. 

But though we must not, in accommodation 
to the prevailing prejudices and unnecessary 
zeal against abstinence and devotion, neglect 
the imperative duties of retirement, prayer, and 
meditation ; yet, perhaps, as prayer makes so in- 
dispensable an article in the Christian life, some 
retired contemplative persons may apprehend 
that it makes the whole ; whereas prayer is only 
the operation which sets the machine going. It 
is the sharpest spur to virtuous action, but not 
the act itself The only infallible incentive to 
a useful life, but not a substitute for that useful- 
ness. Religion keeps her children in full em- 
ployment. It finds them work for every day in 
the week, as well as on Sundays. 

The praying Christian, on going into the 
world, feels that his social and religious duties 
are happily comprised in one brief sentence — 
' I will think upon thy commandments to do 
them.' What the Holy Spirit has so indissolu- 
bly joined, he does not separate. 

As the lawyer has his compendium of cases 
and precedents ; the legislator his statutes ; the 
soldier his book of tactics ; and every other pro- 
fessor his vade mecum to consult in difficulties ; 
the Christian to whichever of the professions he 
may belong, will take his morning lecture, from 
a more infallible directory, comprehending nnt 
only cases and precedents, but abounding with 
those seminal principles which contain the es- 
sence of all actual duty, from which all practical 
evidence is deducible. This spirit of laws differs 
from all other legal institutes, some of which, 
from that imperfection inseparable from the best 
human things, have been found unintelligible, 
some impracticable, and some have become ob- 
solete. The divine law is subject to no such dis- 
advantages : it is perfect in its nature, intelligible 
in its construction, and eternal in its obligation. 

This sacred institute he will consult in the 
spirit of prayer, not occasionally, but daily. 
Unreminded of general duty, unfurnished with 
some leading hint 'or the particular demand, he 
will not venture to rush into the bustle, trial, 
and temptation of the day. Of this aid he will 
possess himself with the more ease, and less loss 
of time, as he will not have to ransack a multi- 
plicity of folios for a detached case, or an indi- 
vidual intricacy ; for, though he may not find 
in the Bible specific instances, yet he will dis- 
cover in every page some governing truth, some 
rule of universal application, the spirit of which 
may be brought to bear on almost every cir- 
cumstance ; some principle suited to every pur- 
pose, and competent to the solution of every 
moral difficulty 



Scripture does not, indeed, pretend to include 
technical or professional peculiarities, but it ex- 
hibits the temper and the conduct which may be 
made applicable to the special concerns of every 
man, whatever be his occupation. He will find 
in it the right direction to the right pursuit ; the 
straight road to the proper end ; the duty of a 
pure intention ; and the prohibition of false 
measures to attain even a laudable object. No 
hurry or engagement will ever make him lose 
sight of that sacred aphorism, so pointedly ad- 
dressed to men of business, ' He that maheth 
haste to be rich shall hardly be innocent.' — The 
cautionary texts which he admired in his closet, 
he will not treasure up as classical mottos to 
amuse his fancy, or embellish his discourse ; 
but will adopt as rules of conduct, and bring 
them into every worldly transaction, whether 
commercial, forensic, medical, military, or what- 
ever else be his professed object. He will not 
adjust his scale of duty by the false standard of 
the world, nor by any measure of his own de- 
vising ; he has but one standard of judging, but 
one measure of conduct, — the infallible Word 
of God. This rule he will take as he finds it, 
he will use as he is commanded ; he will not 
bend it to his own convenience ; he will not ac- 
commodate it to his own views, his own pas- 
sions, his own emolument, his own reputation. 

He whose heart has been set in motion by 
prayer, who has had his spiritual pulse quick- 
ened by a serious perusal of the Holy Scrip- 
tures, will find his work growing upon him 
in regular proportion to his willingness to do 
it. He is diligently exact in the immediate 
duties of the passing day. Though procras- 
tination is treated by many as a light evil, 
he studiously avoids it, because he has felt its 
mischiefs ; he is active even from the love of 
ease, for he knows that the duties which would 
have cost him little, if done on the day they 
were due, may, by the accumulation of many 
neglected days, cost him much. The fear of 
this rouses him to immediate exertion. If the 
case in question be doubtful, he deliberates, he 
inquires, he prays ; if it be clear and pressing, 
what his hand finds to do, he does with all his 
might, and in the calls of distress he always 
acts on his favourite aphorism, — that giving soon 
is giving twice. 

Abroad how many duties meet him ! He has 
on his hands the poor who want bread, the 
afflicted who want comfort, the distressed who 
want counsel, the ignorant who want teaching, 
the depressed who want soothing. At home he 
has his family to watch over. He has to give 
instruction to his children, and an example to 
his servants. But his more immediate, as well 
as more difficult work is with himself, and he 
knows that this exercise, well performed, can 
alone enable him wisely to perform the rest. 
Here he finds work for every faculty of his un- 
derstanding, every conquest over his will, for 
every affection of his heart. Here his spirit 
truly labours. He prays fervently, but he has 
to watcli, as well as to pray, that his conscience 
be not darkened by prejudice ; that his bad quali- 
ties do not assume the shape of virtues, nor his 
good ones engender self-applause ; that his best 
intentions do not mislead his judgment ; that his 



544 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



candour do not degenerate into indifference ; 
nor his strictness into bigotry ; that his modera- 
tion do not freeze, nor his zeal burn. He has to 
controul his impatience at the defeat of his most 
wisely conceived plans. He will find that in 
his best services there is something that is 
wrong, much that is wanting; and he feels, that 
whatever in them is right, is not his own, but 
the gift of God. 

Is your Christian, then, perfect ? you will 
perhaps ask. Ask himself. With deep and 
sincere self-abasement he will answer in the 
negative. He will not only confess more fail- 
ings than even his accusers ascribe to him, but 
he will own what they do not always charge 
him with, — sins. He will acknowledge that 
there is no natural difference between himself 
and his censurer, but that through Divine grace, 
the one prays and struggles against those cor- 
ruptions, the very existence of which the other 
does not suspect. 

There is nothing more hnmbling to the con- 
firmed praying Christian than that whilst in his 
happier moments he is able to figure to himself 
a cheering image of the glory of the Redeemer, 
the blessedness of the redeemed, the beauty of 
Christian perfection ; to feel himself not only 
awakened, but exalted ; not merely enlightened, 
but kindled ; almost possessing, rather than an- 
ticipating Heaven ; — while he ft enabled, in a 
joyful measure, to meditate upon these things, 
to feel his mind ennobled, and his soul expanded 
by the contemplation, yet to find how soon the 
bright ideas fade, the strong impression is ef- 
faced, the heavenly vision vanished ; he mourns 
to reflect, that he does not more abidingly pos- 
sess in his heart, that he does not more power- 
fully exhibit in his conversation, more forcibly 
display in his life, that spirit of which his mind 
has been sometimos so full, his heart so en- 
amoured, when prostrate before his Maker. 

To his grief he finds that his most perfect obe- 
dience is incomplete, that his warmest affections 
are often languid, perhaps his best intentions 
not realized, his best resolves not followed up. 
In this view, though he is abased in dust and 
ashes in looking up to God as the fountain of 
perfection, he is cheered in looking up to him 
also as the fountain of mprcy in Christ Jesus. 
He prays, as well as strives, that the knowledge 
of his own faults may make him more hum- 
ble, and his sense of the divine mercies more 
grateful. 

But he will feel that his faith, even though it 
does not want sincerity, will too frequently want 
energy. He has, therefore, to watch against 
cold and heartless prayer; though, perhaps, the 
humility arising from this consciousness is a 
benefit in another way. He feels it difficult to 
bring every ' thought into captivity to the obo- 
dience of Christ,' yet he goe9 on cheerily, wil- 
ling to believe that what may be difficult is not 
impossible. He has to struggle against over 
anxiety for temporal things. He has to pre- 
serve simplicity of intention, consistency, and 
perseverance. He has, in short, to watch against 
a long list of sins, errors, and temptations, which 
he will find heavier in weight, and more in 
number, the more closely he looks into hia cata- 
logue. 



The praying Christian in the world has, above 
all, to watch against the fear of man, as he may 
find it more easy to endure the cross than to 
despise the shame. Even if he have in a good 
degree conquered this temptation, he may still 
find a more dangerous enemy in the applause 
of the world than he found in its enmity. An 
eager desire of popularity is, perhaps, the last 
lingering sin which cleaves even to those who 
have made a considerable progress in religion, 
the still unextinguished passion of a mind great 
enough to have subdued many other passions. 

The devout Christian endeavours to exemplify 
the emphatical description of the translated 
Saint in the Old Testament, ' he walks with 
God.' He does not merely bow down before his 
footstool at stated intervals : he does not cere- 
moniously address Him on great occasions only, 
and then retreat, and dwell at a distance ; but 
he walks with him ; his habitual intercourse, 
his natural motion, his daily converse, his inti- 
mate communication, is with his Redeemer. He 
is still seeking, though it may be with slow and 
faltering steps, the things which are above ; he 
is still striving, though with unequal progress, 
for the prize of his high calling, he is still look- 
ing though with a dim and feeble eye, for glory, 
honour, and immortality ; he is still waiting, 
though not with a trust so lively as to annihilate 
the distance, to see his eternal redemption draw- 
ing nigh. Though his aims will always be far 
greater than his attainments, yet he is not dis- 
couraged. His hope is above, his heart is above, 
his treasure is above : no wonder, then, that his 
prayers are directed, and a large portion of his 
wealth sent forward thither, where he himself 
hopes soon to be. It is but transmitting his 
riches of both kinds, not only to his future, but 
his everlasting home. 

The granddangerof the Christian in the world 
is from the world. He is afraid of the sleek, 
smooth, insinuating, and not discreditable vices ; 
he guards against self-complacency. If his affairs 
prosper, and his reputation stands high, he be- 
takes himself to his only sure refuge, the 
throne of God ; to his only sure remedy, humble 
prayer. He knows it is more easy to perform 
a hundred right deeds, and to keep many vir- 
tues in exercise, than ' to keep himself unspot- 
ted from the world,' than to hold the things of 
the world with a loose hand. Even his best ac- 
tions, which may bring him most credit, have 
their dangers ; they make him fear that ' while 
he has a name to live, he is dead.' 

He feels that if he had no sin but vanity, the 
consciousness of that alone, would be sufficient 
to set him on his guard, to quicken him in pray- 
er, to caution him in conduct. — He does not 
fear vanity as he fears any other individual vice; 
as a single enemy against which he is to be on 
the watch, but as that vice which, if indulged, 
would poison all his virtues. Among the sins of 
the inner man, he knows that 'this kind goeth 
not out but by prayer.' When he hears it said 
of any popular, and especially of any religious 
character, ' he is a good man, but he is vain.' 
He says within himself, he is vain, and there- 
fore, I fear he is not a good man. How many 
right qualities does vanity rob of their value, 
how many right actions of their reward J 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



545 



Every suspicion of the first stirring of vanity 
in himself, sends him with deeper prostration 
before his Maker. Lord what is man ! shall 
the praise of a fellow-creature, whose breath is 
in his nostrils, whose ashes, must soon be min- 
gled with my own, which may even before my 
own be consigned to kindred dust, shall his 
praise be of sufficient potency to endanger the 
humility of a being, who is not only looking for- 
ward to the applause of those glorious spirits 
which surround the throne of God, but to the 
approbation of God himself? 

When those with whom he occasionally mixes, 
see the praying Christian calm and cheerful in 
society, they little suspect the frequent strug- 
gles, the secret conflicts he has within. Others 
see his devout and conscientious life, but he 
alone knows the plague of his own heart. For 
this plague he seeks the only remedy; to prayer, 
that balm of hurt minds, he constantly repairs. 
The confirmed Christian will above all labour 
most assiduously after that consistency of cha- 
racter, which is a more unequivocal evidence 
of high Christian attainment, than the most 
prominent great qualities, which are frequently 
counteracted by their opposites. This consist- 
ency exhibits a more striking conformity to the 
image of his Maker ; as in the works of crea- 
tion, the wisdom of the Supreme Intelligence is 
more admirable in the agreement and harmony 
of one thing with another, than in the indivi- 
dual beauty and excellence of each. It is more 
conspicuous, in the fitness and proportion of its 
parts relatively, than in the composition of the 
parts themselves. By this uniformity, the re- 
sults of religion are the most beautifully exhi- 
bited in the Christian character. 

When we reflect on the conflicts and the trials 
of the conscientious, watchful, praying Chris, 
tian, we shall estimate aright the value of the 
consoling promises of the gospel. It is by these 
promises, applied through Divine grace to the 
heart, that the Christian is gradually brought 
to consider prayer, not merely as a duty, but to 
value it as a privilege; and the more earnestly 
he cultivates this spirit of supplication, the more 
deeply will it enable him to penetrate into the 
recesses of his own heart. The more he dis- 
covers the evils which he there finds, he will be 
so far from being deterred by the discovery from 
approaching to the fountain of mercy, that it 
will lead him to be more diligent, as well as 
more fervent in his application there. Nothing 
so faithfully reveals to us our spiritual exigen- 
cies, nothing can quicken our petitions for their 
relief so powerfully, as the conviction of their 
actual existence. In this conviction, in this 
earnest application, the Christian at length feels 
the efficacy of prayer in its consolations, its 
blessedness, its transforming power. 



CHAP. XIV. 

Tht Consolations of Prayer in Affliction, Sick- 
ness, and Death. 

The Pagan philosophers have given many 
admirable precepts, both for resigning blees- 
Vol. II 2 M 



ings, and for sustaining misfortunes ; but, want* 
ing the motives and sanctions of Christianity, 
though they excite much intellectual admira- 
tion, they produce little practical effect. The 
stars which glittered in their moral night, 
though bright, imparted no warmth. Their 
most beautiful dissertations on death had no 
charm to extract its sting. We receive no sup- 
port from their most elaborate treatises on im 
mortality, for want of Him who ' brought life 
and immortality to light.' Their consolatory 
discussions could not strip the grave of its ter 
rors; for to them it was not 'swallowed up in 
victory.' To conceive of the soul as an immor- 
tal principle, without proposing a scheme for the 
pardon of its sins, was but cold consolation. 
Their future state was but a happy guess: their 
Heaven but a fortunate conjecture. 

When we peruse their finest compositions, we 
admire the manner in which the medicine is 
administered, but we do not find it effectual for 
the cure, nor even for the mitigation of our dis- 
ease. The beauty of the sentiment we applaud, 
but our heart continues to ache. 

To this cold scepticism let us oppose the 
heart-consoling, exhilirating, triumphant cer- 
tainties of Christianity. ' I know that my Re- 
deemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the 
latter day upon the earth — In my flesh I shall 
see God, whom mine eyes shall behold and not 
another' — ' I am the resurrection and the life, 
saith the Lord ; whosoever liveth and believeth 
in me shall never die.' — Here is the true balm 
of Gilead — here is* the healing cordial for every 
human woe ! 

The hair-splitting casuist does not directly 
say that pain is not an evil, but by a sophistical 
turn professes that philosophy will never confess 
it to be an evil. , But what consolation does the 
sufferer draw from this quibbling nicety ? 

Christianity knows none of these fanciful dis- 
tinctions. She never pretends to insist that pain 
is not an evil, but she does more ; she converts 
it into a good. Christianity, therefore, teaches a 
fortitude as much more noble than philosophy, 
as meeting pain with resignation to the hand 
that inflicts it, is more heroic than denying it 
to be an evil. 

' I will be sanctified in them that draw nigh 
unto me,' says the Almighty, by his prophet. 
We must, therefore, when we approach him in 
our»devotions, frequently endeavour to warm our 
hearts, raise our views, and quicken our aspira- 
tions with a recollection of His glorious attri- 
butes, — of that omnipotence which can give to 
all without the least deduction from any, or from 
Himself; of that ubiquity which renders Him 
the constant witness of our actions : of that om 
niscience which makes Him a discerner of our 
intentions, and which penetrates the most secret 
disguises of our inmost souls ; of that perfect 
holiness which should at once be the object of 
our adoration, and the model of our practice ; 
of that truth which will never forfeit any of His 
promises ; of that faithfulness which will never 
forsake any that trust in Him ; of that love 
which our innumerable offences cannot exhaust; 
of that eternity which had place ' before the 
mountains were brought forth;' of that grandeur 
which has set His glory above the heavens ; of 



546 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



that loner-suffering of God, who is strong; and 
patient, and who is provoked every day ; of that 
justice whirh will by no means clear the guilty, 
pet of that mercy which forgiveth iniquity, 
transgression, and sin ; of that compassion which 
waits to be gracious ; of that goodness which 
kadeth to repentance; of that purity which, 
while it hates sin, invites the sinner to return. 

In seasons of distress and trial, whether from 
the loss of health, or under whatever other af- 
ilietive dispensation he may be struggling, the 
Christian will endeavour to draw consolation, 
by reviewing the mercies of his past life, and 
anticipating the glorious promises of the life to 
come. If previously accustomed to unbroken 
health, he will bless God for the long period in 
which he has enjoyed it. If continued infirmity 
has been his portion, he will feel grateful that 
he has had such a long and gradual weaning 
from the world. From either state he will ex- 
tract consolation. If pain be new, what a mercy 
to have hitherto escaped it ! If habitual, we bear 
more easily what we have borne long. 

He will review his temporal blessings and de- 
liverances ; his domestic comforts, his Christian 
friendships. Among his mercies, his now 
' purged eyes' will reckon his difficulties, his 
Sorrows, and his trials. A new and heavenly 
light will be thrown on that passage, ' It is good 
for me that I have been afflicted.' It seems to 
tiim as if hitherto he had only heard it with the 
hearing of his ear, but now • his eye seeth it ■' 
If he be a real Christian, and has had enemies, 
ne will always have prayed for them ; but now 
De will be thankful for them. He will the more 
earnestly implore mercy for them, as instru- 
ments which have helped to fit him for his pre- 
sent state. He will look up with holy gratitude 
to the Great Physician, who, by a Divine che- 
mistry, in mixing up events, has made that one 
unpalatable ingredient, at the "bitterness of 
which he once revolted, the very means by 
which all things have worked together for good; 
had they worked separately, they would not 
have worked efficaciously. 

If our souls have been truly 4 sanctified by 
the word of God and Prayer,' we shall, under 
the sharpest trials, be apt to compare our own 
sufferings with the cup which our Redeemer 
drank for our sakes ; drank to avert the Divine 
displeasure from us. Let us pursue the com- 
parative view of our condition with that of the 
Son of God. He was deserted in his most try- 
ing hour, deserted probably by those whose 
limbs, sight, life, he had restored ; whose souls 
he had come to save. We are surrounded by 
unwearied friends ; every pain is mitigated by 
sympathy ; every want not only relieved, but 
prevented: the 'asking eye' explored; the in- 
articulate sound interpreted ; the ill-expressed 
wish anticipated ; the but suspected want sup- 
plied. When our souls are ' exceeding sorrow- 
ful,' our friends participate our sorrow; when 
desired to ' watch' with us, they watch, not 'one 
hour,' but many; not 'falling asleep,' but both 
fiesh and spirit ready and willing ; not forsaking 
fls in our ' agony,' but sympathizing where they 
tannot relieve. 

The night also will be made to the praying 
Christian a season of heart-searching thought, 



and spiritual consolation. Solitude and stillne^<# 
completely shut out the world, its business, its 
cares, its impertinences. The mind is sobered, 
the passions are stilled ; it seems to the watch- 
ful Christian, as if there were in the universe 
only God and his own soul. It is an inexpres- 
sible consolation to him to feel that the one Be- 
ing in the universe who never slumbereth nor 
sleepeth, is the very Being to whom he has 
free access, eveji in the most unseasonable 
hours. The faculties of the mind may not, per- 
haps, be in their highest exercise ; but the af- 
fections of the heart, from the exclusion of dis- 
tracting objects, more readily ascend to their 
noblest object. Night and darkness are no pa 
rasites ; conscience is more easily alarmed. It 
puts on fewer disguises. We appear to ourselve* 
more what we really are. This detection is sa- 
lutary. The glare which the cheerful daylight, 
business, pleasure, and company, had shed over 
all objects, is withdrawn. Schemes, which, in 
the day, had appeared plausible, now present 
objections. What had then appeared safe, now, 
at least seems to require deliberation. This si- 
lent season of self-examination is a keen detector 
of any latent sin, which, like the fly in the box 
of perfume, may corrupt much that is pure. 

When this communion with God can be main- 
tained, it supplies deficiencies of devotion to 
those who have little leisure during the day ; 
and by thus rescuing these otherwise lost hours, 
it snatches time from oblivion, at once adds to 
the length of life, and weans from the love 
of it. 

If the v/earied and restless body be tempted 
to exclaim, ' Would to God it were morning !' 
the very term suggests the most consoling of all 
images. The quickened mind shoots forward 
beyond this vale of tears, beyond the dark valley 
and shadow of death ; it stretches onward to the 
joyful morning of the Resurrection ; it antici- 
pates that blessed state where there is no more 
weeping and no more night; no weeping, for 
God's own hand shall wipe away the tears ; no 
night, for the Lamb himself shall be the light. 

If humbling doubts of his own state depress 
the real penitent, what comfort may he not de- 
rive from the assurance, that the acceptable sa- 
crifice to the God of love, is the troubled spirit, 
and the broken and contrite heart ? 

It is a further encouragement to Prayer to the 
dejected spirit, that the Almighty was not content- 
ed to show his willingness to pardon by single de- 
clarations, howe.ver strong and full. He has heap- 
ed up words, he has crowded images, he has accu- 
mulated expressions, he has exhausted language, 
by all the variety of synonymes which express 
love, mercy, pardon, and acceptance. They are 
graciously crowded together, that the trembling 
mourner who was not sufficiently assured by 
one, might be encouraged by another. And it 
is the consummation of the Divine goodness, 
that this message is not sent by his ambassador, 
but that the King of kings, the blessed and only 
Potentate, condescends himself to pronounce 
this royal proclamation, ' The Lord, the Lord 
God, merciful and gracious, long-suffering and 
abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy 
for thousands, forgiving iniquity, transgression, 
and sin 1' Forgiving indeed, b-i* tn consonance 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



547 



with his just demand of repentance and reforma- 
tion, ' who will by no means clear the guilty.' 

Refuse not, then, to take comfort from the 
promises of God, when, perhaps, you are easily 
satisfied with the assurance of pardon from a 
frail and sinful creature like yourself whom you 
had offended. Why is God the only being who 
is not believed ? who is not trusted ? ' O Thou 
that hearest Prayer, why unto Thee will not all 
flesh come ?' 

In the extremity of pain, the Christian feels 
there is no consolation but in humble acqui- 
escence in the Divine will. It may be that he 
can pray but little, but that little will be fervent. 
He can articulate, perhaps, not at all, but his 
prayer is addressed to one who sees the heart ; 
who can interpret its language ; who requires 
not words, but affections. A pang endured with- 
out a murmur, or only such an involuntary groan 
as nature extorts, and faith regrets, is itself a 
Prayer. We have a striking instance of an an- 
swer to silent Prayer, in the case of Moses. In 
a situation of extreme distress, when he had not 
uttered a word, ' the Lord said unto him, I have 
heard thy crying.' 

If, however, in the conduct of this nightly 
watching, and this nightly Prayer, our own 
stock of thought or expression be absolutely de- 
ficient, prophets and apostles will not only afford 
us the most encouraging examples, but the most 
profitable assistance. More especially the royal 
treasury of King David lies open to us ; and 
whatever are our wants, there our resources are 
inexhaustible. The Psalms have supplied to all 
ages materials f«r Christian worship, under 
every supposable circumstance of human life. 
They have facilitated 'the means of negociation 
for the penitent, of gratitude for the pardoned. 
They have provided confession for the contrite, 
consolation for the broken hearted, invitation to 
the weary, and rest for the heavy laden. They 
have furnished petitions for the needy, praise 
for the grateful, and adoration for all. How- 
ever indigent in himself, no one can complain of 
want, who has access to such a magazine of in- 
tellectual and spiritual wealth. These variously 
gifted compositions not only kindle the devoutest 
feelings, but suggest the aptest expressions : 
they invest the sublimest meanings with the 
noblest eloquence. They have taught the tongue 
of the stammerer to speak plainly ; they have 
furnished him who was ready to perish for lack 
of knowledge, with principles as well as feel- 
ings; they have provided the illiterate with the 
form, and the devout with the spirit of prayer. 
To him who previously felt not his wants, they 
have imparted fervent desires ; they have in- 
spired the faint with energy, and the naturally 
dead with spiritual life. 

The Psalms exhibit the finest specimen of 
experimental and devotional religion in the 
world. They are attended with this singular 
advantage, and this unspeakable comfort; that 
in them God speaks to us, and we speak to Him. 
'Seek ye my face; Thy face, Lord will I seek.' 
This delightful interlocution between the king 
of saints and the penitent sinner; this inter- 
change of character ; this mixture of prayer 
and promise ; of help implored, and grace be- 
stowed; of weakness pleaded, and strength 



Imparted ; of favour shown, and gratitude re 
turned ; of prostration oi« one part, and en- 
couragement on the other ; of abounding sor- 
row, and overflowing mercy : this beautiful 
variety of affecting intercourse between sinful 
dust and infinite goodness, lifts the abased peni- 
tent into the closest and most sublime commu- 
nion with his Saviour and his God. 

The royal poet in these noble compositions 
has given us the most elevated character of 
Prayer, by showing us that supplication is the 
dialect of the poor in spirit; thanksgiving the 
idiom of the genuine Christian ; praise, his ver- 
nacular tongue. 

******* 

How cheering under every species of distress 
to reflect, that our blessed Redeemer not only 
suffered for us upon the cross, but is sympa- 
thizing with us now ! that 'in all our afflictions 
He is afflicted.' The tenderness of the sym- 
pathy seems to add a value to the sacrifice ; 
while the vastness of the sacrifice endears the 
sympathy by ennobling it. 

If the intellectual powers be mercifully pre- 
served, how many virtues may be brought into 
exercise on a sick bed, which had either lain 
dormant, or been considered of inferior worth 
in the prosperous day of activity. The Chris- 
tian temper, indeed, seems to be that part of re- 
ligion which is more peculiarly to be exercised 
under these circumstances. The passive vir- 
tues, the least brillant, but the most difficult, 
are then particularly called into action. To 
suffer the whole will of God on the tedious bed 
of languishing, is more trying than to perform 
the most shining exploit on the theatre of the 
world ; the hero in the field of battle has the love 
of fame, as well as patriotism to support him. 
He knows that the witnesses of his valour will 
be the heralds of his renown. The martyr at 
the stake is divinely strengthened. Extraor- 
dinary grace is imparted for extraordinary 
trials. His pangs are exquisite, but they are 
short. The crown is in sight ; it is almost 
in possession. By faith ' he sees the heavens 
opened. He sees the glory of God, and Jesus 
standing at the right hand of God. But to be 
strong in faith, and patient in hope, in a long 
and lingering sickness, is an example of more 
general use, and ordinary application, than even 
the sublime heroism of the martyr. The sick- 
ness is brought home to our own feelings ; we 
see it with our eyes ; we apply it to our hearts. 
Of the martyr, we read, indeed, with astonish- 
ment : our faith is strengthened, and our admi- 
ration kindled ; but we read it without that 
special appropriation, without that peculiar re- 
ference to our own circumstances which we feel 
in cases that are likely to apply to ourselves. 
With the dying friend, we have not only a feel- 
ing of pious tenderness ; but here is also a com- 
munity of interests. The certain conviction 
that his case must soon be our own, makes it 
our own now. Self mixes with the social feel- 
ing, and the Christian death we are contem- 
plating, we do not so much admire as a prodigy, 
as propose for a model. To the martyr's stake 
we feel that we are not likely to be brought. 
To the dying bed we must inevitably come. 

Accommodating his state of mind to the n*. 



548 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ture of his disease, the dying Christian will de- 
rive consolation in any case, either from think- 
ing how forcibly a sudden sickness breaks the 
chain which binds him to the world, or how 
gently a gradual decay unties it. He will feel 
and acknowledge the necessity of all he suffers 
to wean him from life. He will admire the Di- 
vine goodness which commissions the infirmi- 
ties of sickness to divest the world of its en- 
chantments, and to strip death of some of its 
most formidable terrors. He feels with how 
much less reluctance we quit a body exhausted 
by suffering, than one in the vigour of health. 

Sickness, instead of narrowing the heart, its 
worst effects on an unrenewed mind, enlarges 
his. He earnestly exhorts those around him 
to defer no act of repentance, no labour of love, 
no deed of justice, no work of mercy, to that 
state of incapacity in which he now lies. 

How many motives has the Christian to re- 
strain his murmurs ! Murmuring offends God, 
both as it is injurious to his goodness, and as it 
perverts the occasion which God has now af- 
forded for giving an example of patience. Let 
us not complain that we have nothing to do in 
sickness, when we are furnished with the oppor- 
tunity, as well as called to the duty of resigna- 
tion ; the duty, indeed, is always ours, but the 
occasion is now more eminently given. Let us 
not say, even in this depressed state, that we 
have nothing to be thankful for. If sleep be 
afforded, let us acknowledge the blessing ; if 
wearisome nights be our portion, let us remem- 
ber they are ' appointed to us.' Let us mitigate 
the grievance of watchfulness, by considering 
it as a sort of prolongation of life ; as the gift 
of more minutes granted for meditation and 
prayer. If we are not able to employ it to either 
of these purposes, there is a fresh occasion for 
exercising that resignation which will be ac- 
cepted for both. 

If reason be still continued, yet with suffer- 
ings too intense for any devotional duty, the 
sick Christian may take comfort that the busi- 
ness of life was accomplished before the sickness 
began. He will not be terrified if duties are 
superseded ; if means are at an end ; for he has 
nothing to do but to die. This is the act for 
which all other acts, all other duties, all other 
means, will have been preparing him. He who 
has long been habituated to look death in the 
face, who has often anticipated the agonies of 
dissolving nature; who has accustomed himself 
to pray for support under them, will now feel 
the blessed effect of those petitions, which have 
been long treasured in heaven. To those anti- 
cipatory prayers he may, perhaps, now owe the 
humble confidence of hope in this inevitable 
hour. Habituated to the contemplation, he will 
not, at least, have the dreadful addition of sur- 
prise and novelty to aggravate the trying scene. 
It has long been familiar to his mind, though 
hitherto it could only operate with the inferior 
force of a picture to a reality. He will not, 
however, have so much scared his imagination 
by the terrors of death, as invigorated his spirit 
by looking beyond them to the blessedness which 
follows. Faith will not so much dwell on the 
opening grave, as shoot forward to the glories to 
which it leads. The hope of Heaven will soften 



the pangs which lie in the way to it. On Heaven 
then, he will fix his eyes rather than on the 
awful intervening circumstances. He will not 
dwell on the struggle which is for a moment, 
but on the crown which is forever. He will en- 
deavour to think less of death than of its con- 
queror ; less of the grave than of its spoiler ; less 
of the body in ruins than of the spirit in gl6ry ; 
less of the darkness of his closing day than of 
the opening dawn of immortality. In some 
brighter moments, when viewing his eternal re- 
demption drawing nigh, as if the freed spirit had 
already burst its prison walls, as if the manu- 
mission had actually taken place, he is ready 
exultingly to exclaim, ' My soul is escaped, the 
snare is broken, and I am delivered.' 

Eternal things now assume their proper mag- 
nitude, for he beholds them in the true point of 
vision. He has ceased to lean on the world, for 
he has found it both a reed and a spear ; it has 
failed, and it has pierced him. He leans not on 
himself, for he has long known his own weak- 
ness. He leans not on his virtues, for his re- 
newed mind has shown him that they can do 
nothing for him. Had he no better refuge, he 
feels that his sun would set in darkness ; his 
life close in despair. 

He suffers not his thoughts to dwell on life. 
His retrospections are at an end. His prospects 
as to this world are at an end also. He com 
mits himself unreservedly to his heavenly Fa- 
ther. But though secure of the port, he mny 
still dread the passage. The Christian will re- 
joice that his rest is at hand ; the man may 
shudder at the unknown transit. If faith is 
strong, nature is weak. Nay, in this awful 
exigence, strong faith is sometimes rendered 
faint through the weakness of nature. 

At the moment when his faith is looking 
round for every additional confirmation, he nay 
rejoice in those blessed certainties, those glo- 
rious realizations which Scripture affords. He 
may take comfort that the strongest attesta'ions 
given by the apostles to the reality of the hea- 
venly state were not conjectural. They, t'i use 
the words of our Saviour, spake what they r new, 
and testified what they had seen. 'I rer kon,' 
says St. Paul, ' that the afflictions of thir pre- 
sent life are not worthy to be compared with 
the glory that shall be revealed.' He said this 
after he had been caught up into the thirt" Hea- 
ven ; after he had beheld the glories to which 
he alludes. The author of the Apocalyptic 
vision having described the ineffable glories of 
the new Jerusalem, thus puts new life and power 
into his description, ' I John, saw these things 
and heard them.' 

The power of distinguishing objects increases 
with our approach to them. The Christian feels 
that he is entering on a state where every care 
will cease, every fear vanish, every desire be 
fulfilled, every sin be done away, every grace 
perfected. Where there will be no more tempta- 
tions to resist, no more passions to subdue ; no 
more insensibility to mercies, no more deadness 
in service, no more wandering in Prayer, no 
more sorrow to be felt for himself, nor tears to 
be shed for others. He is going where his de 
votion will be without languor ; his love without 
alloy; his doubts, certainty; his expectation, en- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



549 



joyment ms hope, fruition. All will be perfect, 
for God will be all in all. 

The period at length arrives when we must 
summon all the fortitude of the rational being-, 
all the resignation of the devout Christian. The 
principles we have been learning, the prayers 
we have uttered, must now be made practical. 
The speculations we have admired, we must 
now realize. All that we have been studying 
was in order to furnish materials for this grand 
exigence. All the strength we have been col- 
lecting must now be brought into action. We 
must now draw to a point all the scattered ar- 
guments, all the several motives, all the indi- 
vidual supports, all the cheering promises of 
Christianity. We must exemplify all the rules 
we have given to others ; we must embody all 
the resolutions we have formed for ourselves ; 
we must reduce our precepts to experience ; we 
must pass from discourses on submission to its 
exercise; from dissertations on suffering to sus- 
taining it. We must heroically call up the de- 
termination of our better days. We must recol- 
lect what we have said of the supporters of faith 
and hope when our strength was in full vigour, 
when our heart was at ease, and our mind un- 
disturbed. Let us collect all that remains to us 
of mental strength. Let us implore the aid of 
holy hope and fervent faith to show that religion 
is not a beautiful theory, but a soul-sustaining 
truth. 

Let us endeavour without harassing scrutiny, 
or distressing doubt, to act on the principles 
which our sounder judgment formerly admitted. 
The strongest faith is wanted in the hardest 
trials. Under those trials, to the confirmed 
Christian, the highest degree of grace is com- 
monly imparted. Let us not impair that faith 
on which we rested when our mind was strong, 
by suspecting its validity now it is weak. That 
which had, our full assent in perfect health, 
which was then firmly rooted in our spirit, and 
grounded in our understanding, must not be 
unfixed by the doubts of an enfeebled reason, 
and the scruples of an impaired judgment. We 
may not be able to determine on the reasona- 
bleness of propositions, but we may derive 
strong consolation from conclusions which were 
once fully established in our mind. 

Even if prayer were as worthless, with respect 
to present advantages, and religion as burthen- 
some as some suppose, it would be a sufficient 
vindication of both that they lead to eternal 
bliss. Of the precise nature of that bliss, the 
Scripture account is calculated rather to quicken 
<aith than gratify curiosity. There the appro- 
priate promises to spiritaai beings are purely 



spiritual. It is enough for believers to know 
that they shall be for ever with the Lord ; and 
though it doth nut yet appear what we shall be, 
yet we know that when he shall appear, we shall 
be like Him. In the vision of the Supreme 
Good, there must be supreme felicity. Our ca- 
pacities of knowledge and happiness shall be 
commensurate with our duration. On earth, 
part of our enjoyment — a most fallacious part — 
consists in framing new objects for our wishes ' 
in heaven there shall remain in us no such dis- 
quieting desires, for all which can be found we 
shall find in God. We shall not know our Re- 
deemer by the hearing of the ear, but we shall 
see Him as he is ; our knowledge, therefore, will 
be clear, because it will be intuitive. 

It is a glorious part of the promised bliss, that 
the book of prophecy shall be realized ; the book 
of providence displayed, every mysterious dis- 
pensation unfolded, not by conjecture, but by 
vision. In the grand general view of Revela- 
tion, minute description would be below our 
ideas ; circumstantial details would be dispa- 
raging ; they would debase what they pretend 
to exalt. Those sublime negatives — ' Eye hath 
not seen, nor ear hoard, neither have entered 
into the heart of man, the things which God 
hath prepared for them that love Him ;' fill the 
soul with loftier conceptions of eternal joys than 
all the elaborate but degrading delineations 
which have been sometimes attempted. We 
cannot conceive the blessings prepared for us, 
until he who has prepared reveal them. 

If, indeed, the blessedness of the eternal world 
could be described, new faculties must be given 
us to comprehend it. If it could be conceived, 
its glories would-be lowered, and our admiring 
wonder diminished. The wealth that can fje 
counted has bounds; the blessings that can be 
calculated have limits. We now rejoice in the 
expectation of happiness inconceivable. To have 
conveyed it to our full apprehension, our con- 
ceptions of it must then be taken from some- 
thing with which we are already acquainted, 
and we should be sure to depreciate the value 
of things unseen, by a comparison with even 
the best of the things which are seen. In short, 
if the state of heaven were attempted to be let 
down to human intelligence, it would be far in- 
ferior to the glorious but indistinct glimpses 
which we now catch from the oracles of God, 
of joy unspeakable, and full of glory. What 
Christian does not exult in the grand outline 
of unknown, unimagined, yet consummate bliss 
— In Thy presence is the fulness of joy, and at 
Thy right hand are pleasures for evermore] 



( 550 ; 

ESSAYS 
ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS, 

PRINCIPALLY DESIGNED FOR YOUNG LADIES. 

" As for you, I shall advise you in a lew words : aspire only to those virtues that are peculiar 
to your sex ; follow your natural modesty, and think it, your greatest commendation not to bt> 
talked of one way or the other." — Oration of Pericles to the Athenian WomeTi. 

[First published in 1777.] 



TO MRS. MONTAGU* 

Madam, — If you were only one of the finest writers of your time, you would probably have 
escaped the trouble of this address, which is drawn on you, less by the lustre of your under 
standing, than by the amiable qualities of your heart. 

As the following pages are written with an humble but earnest wish to promote the interests 
of virtue, as far as the very limited abilities of the author allow ; there is, I flatter myself, a 
peculiar propriety in inscribing them to you, madam, who, while your works convey instruction 
and delight to the best informed of the other sex, furnish, by your conduct, an admirable 
pattern of life and manners to your own. And I can with truth remark, that those graces of 
conversation, which would be the first praise of almost any other character, constitute but an 
inferior part of yours. 

I am, madam, with the highest esteem, 

Your most obedient humble servant, 

Bristol, May 20, 1777. HANNAH MORE. 



INTRODUCTION. 



It is with the utmost diffidence that the following pages are submitted to the inspection of 
the public : yet however the limited abilities of the author may have prevented her from suc- 
ceeding to her wish in the execution of her present attempt, she humbly trusts that the upright- 
ness of her intention will procure it a candid and favourable reception. The following little Essays 
are chiefly calculated for the younger part of her own sex, who, she flatters herself, will not 
esteem them the less, because they were written immediately for their service. She by no 
means pretends to have composed a regular system of morals, or a finished plan of conduct : 
she has only endeavoured to make a few remarks on such circumstances as seemed to her sus- 
ceptible of some improvement, and on such subjects as she imagined were particularly interest- 
ing to young ladies, on their first introduction into the world. She hopes they will not be 
offended if she has occasionally pointed out certain qualities and suggested certain tempers and 
dispositions, as peculiarly feminine, and hazarded some observations which naturally arose from 
the subject on the different characters which mark the sexes. And here again she takes the 
liberty to repeat that these distinctions cannot be too nicely maintained ; for besides those 
important qualities common to both, each sex has its respective, appropriated qualifications, 
which would cease to be meritorious the instant they ceased to be appropriated. Nature, pro- 
priety, and custom, have prescribed certain bounds to each ; bounds which the prudent and the 
candid will never attempt to break down ; and indeed it would be highly impolitic to annihilate 
distinctions from which each acquires excellence, and to attempt innovations by which both 
would be losers. 

Women therefore never understand their own interests so little, as when they affect those 
qualities and accomplishments, from the want of which they derive their highest merit. 
"The porcelain clay of human kind," says an admired writer, speaking of the sex: greater 
delicacy evidently implies greater fragility ; and this weakness, natural and moral, clearly points 
out the necessity of a superior degree of caution, retirement, and reserve. 

If the author may be allowed to keep up the allusion of the poet just quoted, she would ask 
if we do not put the finest vases and the costliest images in places of the greatest security, and 
rr v*. remote from any probability of accident or destruction 1 By being so situated, they find 
t' r faction in their weakness, and their safety in their delicacy. This metaphor is far from 
being used v»th a design of placing young ladies in a trival, unimportant light ; it is only 

* This ingenious lady's maiden name was Robinson, and her brother was the eccentric Lord Rokeby. She died 
in 1800, having been a widow many years. Her correspondence exhibits abundant proof of the goodness of her 
heart, as her " Essay on Shakspeare" does of taste and accomplishments.— Ed. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 55) 

introduced to insinuate, that where there is more beauty and more weakness, there should be 
greater circumspection and superior prudence. 

Men, on the contrary, are formed for the more public exhibitions on the great theatre of human 
life. Like the stronger and more substantial wares, they derive no injury, and lose no polish, 
by being always exposed, and engaged in the constant commerce of the world. It is their 
proper element, where they respire their natural air, and exert their noblest powers, in situations 
which call them into action. They were intended by Providence for the bustling scenes of life ; 
to appear terrible in arms, useful in commerce, shining in counsels. 

The author fears it will be hazarding a very bold remark, in the opinion of many ladies, when 
she adds, that the female mind, in general, does not appear capable of attaining so high a 
degree of perfection in science as the male. Yet she hopes to be forgiven when she observes 
also, that as it does not seem to derive the chief portion of its excellence from extraordinary 
abilities of this kind, it is not at all lessened bv the imputation of not possessing them. It is 
readily allowed that the sex have lively imaginations, and those exquisite perceptions of the 
beautiful and defective, which come under the denomination of taste. But pretensions to that 
strength of intellect which is requisite to penetrate into the abstruser walks of literature, it 
is presumed they will readily relinquish. There are green pastures, and pleasant valleys, where 
they may wander with safety to themselves, and delight to others. They may cultivate the roses 
of imagination, and the valuable fruits of morals and criticism ; but the steeps of Parnassus few, 
comparatively, have attempted to scale with success. And when it is considered, that many 
languages and many sciences must contribute to the perfection of poetical composition, it will 
appear less strange. The lofty epic, the pointed satire, and the more daring and successful 
flights of the tragic muse, seem reserved for the bold adventurers of the other sex. 

Nor does this assertion, it is apprehended, at all injure the interests of the women ; they 
have other pretensions on which to value themselves, and other qualities much better calculated 
to answer their particular purposes. We are enamoured of the soft strains of the Sicilian and 
the Mantuan muse,* while to the sweet notes of the pastoral reed, they sing the contentions of 
the shepherds, the blessings of love, or the innocent delights of rural life. Has it ever been 
ascribed to them as a defect that their eclogues do not treat of active scenes, of busy cities, and 
of wasting war 1 No : their simplicity is their perfection, and they are only blamed when they 
have too little of it. 

On the other hand, the lofty bards who strung their bolder harps to higher measures and sung 
the " wrath of Peleus' son," and " man's first disobedience,"! have never been censured for 
want of sweetness and refinement. The sublime, the nervous, and the masculine, characterize 
their compositions ; as the beautiful, the soft, and the delicate, mark those of the others. Gran- 
deur, dignity, and force, distinguish the one species ; ease, simplicity, and purity, the other. 
Both shine from their native, distinct, unborrowed merits, not from those which are foreign, 
adventitious, and unnatural. Yet those excellences which make up the essential and constit- 
uent parts of poetry, they have in common. 

Women have generally quicker perceptions ; men have juster sentiments. — Women consider 
how things may be prettily said ; men, how they may be properly said. In women (young ones 
at least), speaking accompanies and sometimes precedes reflection ; in men, reflection is the 
antecedent. — Women speak to shine or to please ; men, to convince or confute. — Women ad- 
mire what is brilliant ; men, what is solid. — Women prefer an extemporaneous sally of wit, or 
a sparkling effusion of fancy, before the most accurate reasoning, or the most laborious investi- 
gation of facts. — In literary composition, women are pleased with point, turn, and antithesis ; 
men, with observation, and a just deduction of effects from their causes. — Women are fond of 
incident, men of argument. — Women admire passionately, men approve cautiously. — One sex 
will think they betray a want of feeling to be moderate in their applause, the other will be 
afraid of exposing a want of judgment by being in raptures with any thing. — Men refuse to 
give way to the emotions they actually feel, while women sometimes affect to be transported 
beyond what the occasion will justify. 

As a farther confirmation of what has been advanced on the different bent of the understand- 
ing in the sexes, it may be observed, that we have heard of many female wits, but never of one 
female logician — of many admirable writers of memoirs, but never of one chronologer. — In the 
boundless and aerial regions of romance, and in that fashionable species of composition which 
succeeded it, and which carries a nearer approximation to the manners of the world, the women 
cannot be excelled : this imaginary soil they have a peculiar talent for cultivating, because here, 

" Invention labours more, and judgment less." 

The merit of this kind of writing consists in the vraisemblance to real life as to the events 
themselves, with a certain elevation in the narrative, which places them, if not above what is 
natural, yet above what is common. It farther consists in the art of interesting the tender feel 
ings by a pathetic representation of those minute, endearing, domestic circumstances, which take 
captive the soul before it has time to shield itself with the armour of reflection. To amuse 
tather than to instruct, or to instruct indirectly by short inferences, drawn from a long concata- 

* Tnoocritus in his Idyls, and Virgil in his Bucolics t Homer in the Iliad, and Milton in Paradise Loet. 



C52 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



nation of circumstances, is at once the business of this sort of composition, and one of the 
characteristics of female genius.* 

In short, it appears that the mind in each sex has some natural kind of bias, which constitutes 
a distinction of character ; and that the happiness of both depends, in a great measure, on the 
preservation and observance of this distinction. For where would be the superior pleasure and 
satisfaction resulting from mixed conversation, if this difference were abolished 1 If the quali- 
ties of both were invariably and exactly the same, no benefit or entertainment would arise from 
the tedious and insipid uniformity of such an intercourse ; whereas considerable advantages are 
reaped from a select society of both sexes. The rough angles and asperities of male manners 
are imperceptibly filed, and gradually worn smooth, by the polishing of female conversation, and 
the refining of female taste ; while the ideas of women acquire strength and solidity, by their 
associating with sensible, intelligent, and judicious men. 

On the whole (even if fame be the object of pursuit), is it not better to succeed as women, 
than to fail as men 1 to shine by walking honourably in the road which nature, custom, and ed- 
ucation seem to have marked out, rather than to counteract them all, by moving awkwardly in a 
path diametrically opposite ! to be good originals, rather than bad imitators 1 — in a word, to be 
excellent women, rather than indifferent men 1 



somewhere, though all are inwardly persuaded 
that it is not with themselves. All desire a 
general reformation, but few will listen to pro- 
posals of particular amendment ; the body must 
be restored, but each limb begs to remain as it 
is ; and accusations which concern all, will be 
likely to affect none. They think that sin, like 
matter, is divisible, and that what is scattered 
among so many, cannot materially affect any 
one ; and thus individuals contribute separately 
to that evil which they in general lament. 

The prevailing manners of an age depend 
more than we are aware, or are willing to allow, 
on the conduct of the women ; this is one of 
the principal hinges on which the great machine 
of human, society turns. Those who allow the 
influence which female graces have, in con- 
tributing to polish the manners of men, would 
do well to reflect how great an influence female 
morals must also have on their conduct. How 
much, then, is it to be regretted, that the Brit- 
ish ladies should ever sit down contented to 
polish, when they are able to reform ; to enter- 
tain, when they might instruct ; and to dazzle 
for an hour, when they are candidates for 
eternity ! 

Under the dispensation of Mahomet's law, 
indeed, these mental excellences cannot be ex- 
pected, because the women are shut out from 
all opportunities of instruction, and excluded 
from the endearing pleasures of a delightful 
and equal society ; and, as a charminp poet 
sings, are taught to believe, that 

" For their inferior natures, 

Form'd to delight, and happy by delighting, 
Heav'n has reserv'd no future paradise, 
But bids them rove the paths of bliss, s» fe 
Of total death, and careless of hereafter." 

Dr. Johnson's Irene. 

These act consistently in studying none but 
exterior graces, in cultivating only personal at- 
tractions, and in trying to lighten the intolerable 
burden of time, by the most frivolous and vain 

* The author does not apprehend it makes against her general position, that this nation can boast a female critic, 
poet, historian, linguist, philosopher, and moralist, equal to most of the other sex. To these particular instances 
others might be adduced ; but it is presumed, that they only stand as exceptions against the rule, without tending 
to invalidate th« rule itself. 

[The ladies litre indirectly complimented, appear to be Mrs. Montagu; Miss Aikin, afterward Mrs. Barbaud : 
Mrs. Macaulef : Mrs Elizabeth Carter; Mrs. Chaponc; and perhaps Mrs Lennox.]— Ed. 

t The Emp»nr Caligula. 



ON DISSIPATION. 
Doglie certe Allegrezze incerte '. — Petrarca. 

As an argument in favour of modern manners, 
it has been pleaded, that the softer vices of 
luxury and dissipation belong rather to gentle 
and yielding tempers, than to such as are rug- 
ged and ferocious : that they are vices which 
increase civilization, and tend to promote re- 
finement, and the cultivation of humanity. 

But this is an assertion, the truth of which 
the experience of all ages contradicts. Nero 
was not less a tyrant for being a fiddler : het 
who wished the whole Roman people had but 
one neck, that he might despatch them at a 
blow, was himself the most debauched man in 
Rome ; and Sydney and Russel were con- 
demned to bleed under the most barbarous, 
though most dissipated and voluptuous reign, 
that ever disgraced the annals of Britain. 

The love of dissipation is, I believe, allowed 
to be the reigning evil of the present day. It 
is an evil which many content themselves with 
regretting, without seeking to redress. A dis- 
sipated life is censured in the very act of dissi- 
pation, and prodigality of time is as gravely 
declaimed against at the card-table as in the 
pulpit. 

The lover of dancing censures the amuse- 
ments of the theatre for their dulness, and the 
gamester blames them both for their levity. 
She whose whole soul is swallowed up in 
" opera ecstasies," is astonished that her ac- 
quaintance can spend whole nights in preying, 
like harpies, on the fortunes of their fellow- 
creatures : while the grave, sober sinner, who 
passes her pale and anxious vigils in this 
fashionable sort of pillaging, is no less surprised 
how the other can waste her precious time in 
hearing sounds for which she has no taste, in 
a language she does not understand. 

In short, every one seems convinced that the 
evil so much complained of does really exist 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



553 



amusements. They act in consequence of their 
own blind belief, and the tyranny of their de- 
spotic masters ; for they have neither the free- 
dom of a present choice, nor the prospect of a 
future being 

But in this land of civil and religious liberty, 
where there is as little despotism exercised 
over the minds as over the persons of women, 
they have every liberty of choice, and every 
opportunity of improvement ; and how greatly 
does this increase their obligation to be exem- 
plary in their general conduct, attentive to the 
government of their families, and instrumental 
to the good order of society ! 

She who is at a loss to find amusements at 
home, can no longer apologize for her dissipa- 
tion abroad, by saying she is deprived of the 
benefit and the pleasure of books ; and she who 
regrets being doomed to a state of dark and 
gloomy ignorance, by the injustice or tyranny 
of the men, complains of an evil which does 
not exist. 

It is a question frequently in the mouths of illit- 
erate and dissipated females — " What good is 
there in reading '! to what end does it conduce '!" 
It is, however, too obvious to need insisting on, 
that unless perverted, as . the best things may 
be, reading answers many excellent purposes 
besides the great leading one, and is perhaps 
the safest remedy for dissipation. She who 
dedicates a portion of her leisure to useful 
reading, feels her mind in a constant progres- 
sive state of improvement, while the mind of a 
dissipated woman is continually losing ground. 
An active spirit rejoiceth, like the sun, to run 
his daily course ; while indolence, like the dial 
of Ahaz, goes backwards. The advantages 
which the understanding receives from .polite 
literature, it is not here necessary to enu- 
merate ; its effects on the moral temper is the 
present object of consideration. The remark 
may perhaps be thought too strong, but I be- 
lieve it is true, that next to religious influences, 
a habit of study is the most probable preserv- 
ative of the virtue of young persons. Those 
who cultivate letters have rarely a strong pas- 
sion for promiscuous visiting, or dissipated so- 
ciety ; study, therefore, induces a relish for do- 
mestic life, the most desirable temper in the 
world for women. Study, as it rescues the 
mind from an inordinate fondness for gaming, 
dress, and public amusements, is an economical 
propensity ; for a lady may read at much less 
expense than she can play at cards ; as it re- 
quires some application, it gives the mind a 
nabit of industry ; as it is a relief against that 
mental disease, which the French emphatically 
call ennui, it cannot fail of being beneficial to 
the temper and spirits, I mean in the moderate 
degree in which ladies are supposed to use it ; 
as an enemy to indolence, it becomes a social 
virtue ; as it demands the full exertion of our 
talents, it grows a rational duty ; and when di- 
rected to the knowledge of the Supreme Being 
and his laws, it rises into an act of religion. 

The rage for reformation commonly shows 
itself in a violent zeal for suppressing what is 
wrong, rather than in a prudent attention to es- 

VOL. II. 



tablish what is right ; but we shall never obtain 
a fair garden merely by rooting up weeds ; we 
must also plant flowers ; for the natural rich- 
ness of the soil we have been clearing will 
not suffer it to lie barren ; but whether it shall 
be vainly or beneficially prolific, depends on the 
culture. What the present age has gained on 
one side, by a more enlarged and liberal way of 
thinking, seems to be lost on the other, by ex- 
cessive freedom and unbounded indulgence. 
Knowledge is not, as heretofore, confined to 
the dull cloister, or the gloomy college ; but 
disseminated, to a certain degree, among both 
sexes, and almost all ranks. The only misfor- 
tune is, that these opportunities do not seem to 
be so wisely improved, or turned to so good 
an account, as might be wished. Books of a 
pernicious, idle, and frivolous sort are too much 
multiplied ; and it is from the very redundancy 
of them that true knowledge is so scarce, and 
the habit of dissipation so much increased. 

It has been remarked, that the prevailing 
character of the present age is not that of 
gross immorality ; but if this is meant of those 
in the higher walks of life, it is easy to discern, 
that there can be but little merit in abstaining 
from crimes which there is but little temptation 
to commit. It is, however, to be feared, that 
a gradual defection from piety will in time draw 
after it all the bad consequences of more active 
vice ; for whether mounds and fences are sud- 
denly destroyed by a sweeping torrent, or worn 
away through gradual neglect, the effect is 
equally destructive. As a rapid fever and a 
consuming hectic are alike fatal to our natural 
health, so are flagrant immorality and torpid 
indolence to our moral wellbeing. 

The philosophical doctrine of the slow re- 
cession of bodies from the sun, is a lively im- 
age of the reluctance with which we first aban- 
don the light of virtue. The beginning of folly, 
and the first entrance on a dissipated life, cost 
some pangs to a well-disposed heart ; but it is 
surprising to see how soon the progress ceases 
to be impeded by reflection, or slackened by 
remorse. For it is in moral as in natural things, 
the motion in minds as well as bodies, is accel- 
erated by a nearer approach to the centre to 
which they are tending. If we recede slowly 
at first setting out, we advance rapidly in our 
future course ; and to have begun to be wrong, 
is already to have made a great progress. 

A constant habit of amusement relaxes the 
tone of the mind, and renders it totally inca- 
pable of application, study, or virtue. Dissipa- 
tion not only indisposes its votaries to every 
thing useful and excellent, but disqualifies them 
for the enjoyment of pleasure itself. It softens 
the soul so much that the most superficial em- 
ployment becomes a labour, and the slightest 
inconvenience an agony. The luxurious Syb- 
arite must have lost all sense of real enjoy- 
ment, and all relish for true gratification before 
he complained that he could not sleep, because 
the rose-leaves lay double under him. 

Luxury and dissipation, soft and gentle as 
their approaches are, and silently as they throw 
their silken chains above the heart, enslave it 



654 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



more than the most active and turbulent vices. 
The mightiest conquerors have been conquered 
by these unarmed foes : the flowery fetters are 
fastened before they are felt. The blandish- 
ments of Circe were more fatal- to the mariners 
of Ulysses, than the strength of Polypheme, or 
the brutality of the Laestrigons. Hercules, after 
he had cleansed the Augean stable, and per- 
formed all the other labours enjoined him by 
Eunstheus, found himself a slave to the soft- 
nesses of the heart ; and he, who wore a club 
and a lion's skin in the cause of virtue, con- 
descended to the most effeminate employments 
to gratify a criminal weakness. Hannibal, who 
vanquished mighty nations, was himself over- 
come by the love of pleasure ; and he, who 
despised cold, and want, and danger, and death, 
on the Alps, was conquered and undone by the 
dissolute indulgences of Capua. 

Before the hero of the most beautiful and vir- 
tuous romance that ever was written, I mean 
Telemachus, landed on the island of Cyprus, he 
unfortunately lost his prudent companion, Men- 
tor, in whom wisdom is so finely personified. 
At first, he beheld with horror the wanton and 
dissolute manners of the voluptuous inhabitants ; 
the ill effects of their example were not immedi- 
ate : he did not fall into the commission of 
glaring enormities ; but his virtue was secretly 
and imperceptibly undermined, his heart was 
softened by their pernicious society, and the 
nerve of resolution was slackened : he every 
day beheld, with diminished indignation, the 
worship which was offered to Venus ; the disor- 
ders of luxury and profaneness became less and 
less terrible, and the infectious air of the coun- 
try enfeebled his courage, and" relaxed his prin- 
ciples. In short, he had ceased to love virtue 
long before he thought of committing actual 
vice ; and the duties of a manly piety were 
burdensome to him, before he was so debased 
as to ofl'er perfumes and burn incense on the 
altar of the licentious goddess.* 

" Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds, be- 
fore they be withered," said Solomon's libertine. 
Alas ! he did not reflect that they withered in 
the very gathering. The roses of pleasure sel- 
dom last long enough to adorn the brow of him 
who plucks them ; for they are the only roses 
which do not retain their sweetness after they 
have lost their beauty. 

The heathen poets often pressed on their 
readers the necessity of considering the short- 
ness of life as an incentive to pleasure and 
voluptuousness ; lest the season for indulging 
in them should pass unimproved. The dark 
and uncertain notions, not to say the absolute 
disbelief, which they entertained of a future 
state, is the only apology that can be offered for 
this reasoning. But, while we censure their 

•Nothing can be more admirable than the manner in 
which this allegory is conducted ; and the whole work, 
not to mention its images, machinery, and other poetical 
beauties, is written in the very finest strain of morality. 
Tn this latter respect, it is evidently superior to the works 
of the ancients, the moral of which is frequently tainted 
Dy the grossness of their mythology. Something of the 
purity of the Christian religion may be discovered even 
in Fenelou's heathens, and they catch a tincture of piety 
in passing through the ha-V* of that amiable prelate. 



tenets, let us not adopt their errors ; errors 
which would be infinitely more inexcusable in 
us, who, from the clearer views which revela- 
tion has given us, shall not have their ignorance 
or their doubts to plead. It were well if we 
availed ourselves of that portion of their precept, 
which inculcates the improvement of every mo- 
ment of our time ; but not, like them, to dedi- 
cate the moments so redeemed to the pursuit of 
sensual and perishable pleasures, but to the 
securing of those which are spiritual in their 
nature, and eternal in their duration. 

If, indeed, like the miserable* beings ima- 
gined by Swift, with a view to cure us of the 
irrational desire after immoderate length of days, 
we were condemned to a wretched earthly 
immortality, we should have an excuse for 
spending some portion of our time in dissipa- 
tion, as we might then pretend, with some 
colour of reason, that we proposed, at a distant ' 
period, to enter on a better course of action. 
Or, if we never formed any such resolution, it 
would make no material difference to beings 
whose state was already unalterably fixed. Bui 
of the scanty portion of days assigned to our 
lot, not one should be lost in weak and irreso- 
lute procrastination. 

Those who have not yet determined on the 
side of vanity, who, like Hercules (before he 
knew the Queen of Lydia, and had learned to 
spin), have not resolved on their choice between 
virtue and pleasure, may reflect, that it is still 
in their power to imitate that hero in his noble 
choice, and in his virtuous rejection. They 
may also reflect, with grateful triumph, that 
Christianity furnishes them with a belter guide 
than the tutor of Alcides, and with a surer light 
than the doctrines of pagan philosophy. 

It is far from my design severely to condemn 
the innocent pleasures of life : I would only beg 
leave to observe, that those which are criminal 
should never be allowed ; and that even the 
most innocent will, by immoderate use, soon 
cease to be so. 

The women of this country were not sent 
into the world to shun society, but to embellish 
it ; they were not designed for wilds and soli- 
tudes, but for the amiable and endearing offices 
of social life. They have useful stations to fill, 
and important characters to sustain. They are 
of a religion which does not impose penances, 
but enjoins duties ; a religion of perfect purity, 
but of perfect benevolence also. A religion 
which does not condemn its followers to indo- 
lent seclusion from the world, but assigns them 
the more dangerous, though more honourable 
province, of living uncorrupted in it. In fine, 
a religion which does not direct them to fly 
from the multitude, that they may do nothing, 
but which positively forbids them to follow a 
multitude to do evil. 



THOUGHTS ON CONVERSATION. 

It has, been advised, and by very respectable 
authorities too, that in conversation, women 

The Struldbrugs. See Voyagu to Laoitfa 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



555 



should carefully conceal any knowledge or 
.earning they may happen to possess. I own, 
with submission, that I do not see either the 
necessity or propriety of this advice. For if a 
young lady has that discretion and modesty, 
without which all knowledge is little worth, she 
will never make an ostentatious parade of it, 
because she will rather be intent on acquiring 
more, than on displaying what she has. 

I am at a loss to know why a young female 
>s instructed to exhibit, in the most advantageous 
point of view, her skill in music, her singing, 
dancing, taste in dress, and her acquaintance 
with the most fashionable games and amuse- 
ments, while her piety is to be anxiously con- 
cealed, and her knowledge affectedly disavowed, 
lest the former should draw on her the appella- 
tion of an enthusiast, or the latter that of a 
pedant. 

T a regard to knowledge, why should she for 
ever affect to be on her guard lest she should be 
found guilty of a small portion of it 1 She need 
be the less solicitous about it, as it seldom 
proves to be so very considerable as to excite 
astonishment or admiration : for, after all the 
acquisitions which her talents and her studies 
have enabled her to make, she will, generally 
speaking, be found to have Less of what is called 
learning, than a common schoolboy. 

It would be to the last degree presumptuous 
and absurd, for a young woman to pretend to 
give the ton to the company ; to interrupt the 
pleasure of others, and her own opportunity of 
improvement, by talking when she ought to 
listen ; or to introduce subjects out of the com- 
mon road, in order to show her own wit, or 
expose the want of it in others : but were the 
sex to be totally silent when any topic of litera- 
ture happens to be discussed in their presence, 
conversation would lose much of its vivacity, 
and society would be robbed of one of its most 
interesting charms. 

How easily and effectually may a wellbred 
woman promote the most useful and elegant 
conversation, almost without speaking a word ! 
for the modes of speech are scarcely more varia- 
ble than the modes of silence. The silence of 
listless ignorance, and the silence of sparkling 
intelligence, are perhaps as separately marked, 
and as distinctly expressed, as the same feelings 
could have been by the most unequivocal lan- 
guage. A woman, in a company where she has 
the least influence, may promote any subject by 
a profound and invariable attention, which shows 
that she is pleased with it, and by an illuminated 
countenance, which proves she understands it. 
This obliging attention is the most flattering 
encouragement in the world to men of sense 
and letters, to continue any topic of instruction 
or entertainment they happen to be engaged in : 
it owed its introduction perhaps to accident, the 
best introduction in the world for a subject of 
ingenuity, which, though it could not have been 
formally proposed without pedantry, may be 
continued with ease and good-humour ; but 
which will be frequently and effectually stopped 
by the listlessness, inattention, or whispering of 
eiliy girls, whose weariness betrays their igno- 



rance, and whose impatience exposes their ill- 
breeding. A polite man, however deeply inter- 
ested in the subject on which he is conversing, 
catches at the slightest hint to have done : a 
look is a sufficient intimation ; and if a pretty 
simpleton, who sits near him, seems distraite, 
he puts an end to his remarks, to the great 
regret of the reasonable part of the company, 
who perhaps might have gained more improve- 
ment by the continuance of such a conversa- 
tion, than a week's reading would have yielded 
them ; for it is such company as this, that give 
an edge to each other's wit, " as iron sharpeneth 
iron." 

That silence is one of the great arts of con- 
versation is allowed by Cicero himself, who 
says, there is not only..an art, but even an elo- 
quence in it. And this opinion is confirmed by 
a great modern,* in the following little anecdote 
from one of the ancients. 

When many Grecian philosophers had a 
solemn meeting before the ambassador of a for- 
eign prince, each endeavoured to show his parts 
by the brilliancy of his conversation, that the 
ambassador might have something to relate of 
the Grecian wisdom. One of them, offended, 
no doubt, at the loquacity of his companions, 
observed a profound silence ; when the ambas- 
sador, turning to him, asked, " But what have 
you to say, that I may report it!" He made 
this laconic, but very pointed reply : " Tell your 
king, that you have found one among the Greeks 
who knew how to be silent." 

There is a quality infinitely more intoxicating 
to the female mind than knowledge — this is, 
wit, the most captivating, but the most dreaded 
of all talents ; the most dangerous to those 
who have it, and the most feared by those who 
have it not. Though it is against all the rules, 
yet I cannot find in my heart to abuse this 
charming quality. He who is grown rich with 
out it, in safe and sober dulness, shuns it as a 
disease, and looks upon poverty as its invariable 
concomitant. The moralist declaims against it 
as the source of irregularity, and the frugal citi- 
zen dreads it more than bankruptcy itself, for he 
considers it as the parent of extravagance and 
beggary. The cynic will ask of what use it is 1 
Of very little, perhaps : no more is, a flower- 
garden, and yet it is allowed as an object of 
innocent amusement and delightful recreation. 
A woman who possesses this quality, has re- 
ceived a most dangerous present, perhaps not 
less so than beauty itself : especially if it be not 
sheathed in a temper peculiarly inoffensive, 
chastised by a most correct judgment, and re- 
strained by more prudence than falls to the 
common lot. 

This talent is more likely to make a woman 
vain than knowledge ; for as wit is the imme- 
diate property of its possessor, and learning is 
only an acquaintance with the knowledge of 
other people, there is much more danger that 
we should be vain of what is our own,. than of 
what we borrow. 

But wit, like learning, is not near so common 

* Lord Bacon. 



556 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MOUE. 



a thing as is imagined. Let not therefore a 
voung lady be alarmed at the acuteness of her 
own wit, any more than at the abundance of her 
own knowledge. The great danger is, lest she 
should mistake pertness, flippancy, or impru- 
dence, for this brilliant quality, or imagine she 
is witty only because she is indiscreet. This 
is very frequently the case, and this makes the 
name of wit so cheap, while its r eal existence 
is so rare. 

Lest the flattery of her acquaintance, or an 
overweening opinion of her own qualifications, 
should lead some vain and petulant girl into a 
false notion that she has a great deal of wit, 
when she has only a redundancy of animal 
spirits, she may not find it useless to attend to 
the definition of this quality, by one who had as 
large a portion of it .as most individuals could 
ever boast : — 

" 'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jest, 
Admir'd with laughter at a feast, 
Nor florid talk, which can that title gain, 
The proofs of wit for ever must remain. 
" Neither can that have any place, 
At which a virgin hides her face ; 
Such dross the fire must purge away : 'tis just, 
The author blush there, where the reader must." 

Cowley. 

But those who actually possess this rare tal- 
ent, cannot be too abstinent in the use of it. It 
often makes admirers, but it never makes 
friends ; I mean, where it is the predominant 
feature ; and the unprotected and defenceless 
state of womanhood calls for friendship more 
than for admiration. She who does not desire 
friends has a sordid and insensible soul ; but 
she who is ambitious of making every man her 
admirer, has an invincible vanity and a cold 
heart. 

But to dwell only on the side of policy, a 
prudent woman, who has established the repu- 
taVci: X 3v\\e genius, will sufficiently maintain 
it, without Keeping her faculties always on the 
stretch to say good things. Nay, if reputation 
alone be her object, she will gain a more solid 
one by her forbearance, as the wiser part of her 
acquaintance will ascribe it to the right motive, 
which is, not that she has less wit, but that she 
has more judgment. 

The fatal fondness for indulging a spirit of 
ridicule, and the injurious and irreparable con- 
sequences which sometimes attend the too 
prompt reply, can never be too seriously or too 
severely condemned. Not to offend, is the first 
step towards pleasing. To give pain is as much 
an offence against humanity, as against good 
breeding ; and surely it is as well to abstain from 
an action because it is sinful, as because it is 
unpolite. In company, young ladies would do 
well, before they speak, to reflect, if what they 
are going to say may not distress some worthy 
person present, by wounding them in their per- 
sons, families, connexions, or religious opinions. 
If they find it will touch them in either of these, 
I should advise them to suspect, that what they 
were going to say is not so very good a thing as 
they at first imagined. Nay, if even it was one 
of those bright ideas, which "Venus has imbued 
with a fifth part of her nectar," so much greater 



will be their merit in suppressing it, if there waj 
a probability it might offend. Indeed, if they 
have the temper and prudence to make such a 
previous reflection, they will be more richly re- 
warded by their own inward triumph, at having 
suppressed a lively but severe remark, than they 
could have been with the dissembled applauses 
of the whole company, who, with that complai- 
sant deceit which good breeding too much au- 
thorizes, affect openly to admire what Mey 
secretly resolve never to forgive. 

I have always been delighted with the stor" 
of the little girl's eloquence, in one of the Chil- 
dren's Tales, who received from a friendly fairy 
the gift, that at every word she uttered, pinks, 
roses, diamonds, and pearls, should drop from 
her mouth. The hidden moral appears to be 
this, that it was the sweetness of her temper 
which produced this pretty fanciful effect ; for 
when her malicious sister desired the same gift 
from the good-natured tiny intelligence, th«- 
venom of her own heart converted it into poison 
ous and loathsome reptiles. 

A man of sense and breeding will sometimes 
join in the laugh, which has been raised at Vjs 
expense by an illnatured repartee ; but if it was 
very cutting, and one of those shocking sort of 
truths, which, as they can scarcely be pardoned 
even in private, ought never to be uttered in 
public, he does not laugh because he is pleased, 
but because he wishes to conceal now much he 
is hurt. As the sarcasm was "Jittered by a lady, 
so far from seeming to resent it, he will be the 
first to commend it ; hut, notwithstanding that, 
he will remember it as a trait of malice, when 
the whole company shall have forgotten it as a 
stroke of wit. Women are so far from being 
privileged by their sex to say unhandsome, or 
cruel things, that it is this very circumstance 
which renders them more intolerable. When 
the arrow is lodged in the heart, it is no relief 
to him who is wounded to reflect, that the hand 
which shot it was a fair one. 

Many women, when they have a favourite 
point to gain, or an earnest wish to bring any 
one over to their opinion, often use a very disin- 
genuous method : they will state a case ambig- 
uously, and then avail themselves of it, in what, 
ever manner shall best answer their purpose ; 
leaving your mind in a state of indecision as to 
their real meaning, while they triumph in the 
perplexity they have given you by the unfair 
conclusions they draw, from premises equivo- 
cally stated. They will also frequently argue 
from exceptions instead of rules, and are aston- 
ished when you are not willing to be contented 
with a prejudice, instead of a reason. 

In a sensible company of both sexes, where 
women are not restrained by any other reserve 
than what their natural modesty imposes ; and 
where the intimacy of all parties authorizes 
the utmost freedom of communication ; should 
any one inquire what were the general senti- 
ments on some particular subject, it will, I be- 
lieve, commonly happen, that the ladies, whose 
imaginations have kept pace with the narration, 
have anticipated its end, and are ready to deliver 
their sentiments on it as soon as it is finished. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



557 



While some of 'he male hearers, whose minds 
were busied in settling the propriety, comparing 
the circumstances, and examining the consisten- 
cies of what was said, are obliged to pause and 
discriminate, before they think of answering. 
Nothing is so embarrassing as a variety of mat- 
ter, and the conversation of women is often more 
perspicuous, because it is less laboured. 

A man of deep reflection, if he does not keep 
up an intimate commerce with the world, will be 
sometimes so entangled in the intricacies of in- 
tense thought, that he will have the appearance 
of a confused and perplexed expression ; while 
a sprightly woman will extricate herself with that 
lively and " rash dexterity," which will almost 
always please, though it is very far from being 
always right. It is easier to confound than to 
convince an opponent ; the former may be ef- 
fected by a turn that has more happiness than 
truth in it. Many an excellent reasoner, well 
skilled in the theory of the schools, has felt him- 
self discomfited by a reply, which, though as 
wide of the mark and as foreign to the question 
as can be conceived, has disconcerted him more 
than the most startling proposition, or the most 
accurate chain of reasoning, could have done ; 
and he has borne the laugh of his fair antago- 
nist, as well as of the whole company, though 
he -. >uld not but feel that his own argument was 
attended with the fullest demonstration : so 
true i& it, that it is not always necessary to be 
right, in order to be applauded. 

But let not a young lady's vanity be too much 
elated with this false applause, which is given, 
not to her merit, but to her sex : she has not 
perhaps gained a victory, though she may be v al- 
lowed a triumph ; and it should humble her to 
reflect, that the tribute is paid, not to her 
strength, but her weakness. It is worth while 
to discriminate between that applause which is 
given from the complaisance of others, and that 
which is paid to our own merit. 

Where great sprightliness is the natural bent 
of the temper, girls should endeavour to habitu- 
ate themselves to a custom of observing, think- 
ing, and reasoning. I do not mean, that they 
should devote themselves to abstruse specula- 
tion, or the study of logic ; but she who is ac- 
customed to give a due arrangement to her 
thoughts, to reason justly and pertinently on 
common affairs, and judiciously to deduce ef- 
fects from their causes, will be a better logician 
than some of those who claim the name, be- 
cause they have studied the art : this is being 
"learned without the rules;" the best defini- 
tion, perhaps, of that sort of literature which is 
properest for the sex. That species of knowl- 
edge, which appears to be the result of reflec- 
tion rather than of science, sits peculiarly well 
on women. It is not uncommon to find a lady, 
who, though she does not .know a rule of syn- 
tax, scarcely ever violates one ; and who con- 
structs every sentence she utters with more 
propriety than many a learned dunce, who has 
every rule of Aristotle by heart, and who can 
lace his own threadbare discourse with the 
golden shreds of Cicero and Virgil. 

Jt has been objected, and I fear with some 



reason, that female conversation is too fre- 
quently tinctured with a censorious spirit, and 
that ladies are seldom apt to discover much 
tenderness for the errors of a fallen sister. 

" If it be so, it is a grievous fault.'' 

No arguments can justify, no pleas can extenu- 
ate it. To insult over the miseries of an un- 
happy creature is inhuman, not to compassion- 
ate them is unchristian. The worthy part of 
the sex always express themselves tiumaneiy 
on the failings of others, in proportion to their 
own undeviating goodness. 

And here I cannot help remarking that young 
women do not always carefully distinguish be- 
tween running into the error of detraction, and 
its opposite extreme of indiscriminate applause. 
This proceeds from the false idea they enter- 
tain, that the direct contrary to what is wrong 
must be right. Thus, the dread of being only 
suspected of one fault, makes them actually 
guilty of another. The desire of avoiding the 
imputation of envy, impels them to be insin- 
cere ; and to establish a reputation for sweet- 
ness of temper and generosity, they affect some- 
times to speak of very indifferent characters 
with the most extravagant applause. With 
such, the hyperbole is a favourite figure ; and 
every degree of comparison but the superlative 
is rejected, as cold and inexpressive. But this 
habit of exaggeration greatly weakens their 
credit, and destroys the weight of their opinion 
on other occasions ; for people very soon dis- 
cover what degree of faith is to be given both 
to their judgment and veracity. And those of 
real merit will no more be flattered by that ap- 
probation, which cannot distinguish the value 
of what it praises, than the celebrated painter 
must have been at the judgment passed on hia 
works by an ignorant spectator, who, being 
asked what he thought of such and such very 
capital but very different pieces, cried out in an 
affected rapture, "All alike ! all alike !" 

It has been proposed to the young, as a 
maxim of supreme wisdom, to manage so dex- 
terously in conversation, as to appear to be well 
acquainted with subjects, of which they are to- 
tally ignorant ; and this, by affecting silence in 
regard to those on which they are known to 
excel. But why counsel this disingenuous 
fraud 1 Why add to the numberless arts of de- 
ceit, this practice of deceiving, as it were, on a 
settled principle 1 If to disavow the knowledge 
they really have be a culpable affectation, then, 
certainly, to insinuate an idea of their skill, 
where they are actually ignorant, is a most un- 
worthv artifice. 

But of all the qualifications for conversation, 
humility, if not the most brilliant, is the safest, 
the most amiable, and the most feminine. The 
affectation of introducing subjects with which 
others are unacquainted, and of displaying tal- 
ents superior to the rest of the company, is as 
dangerous as it is foolish. 

There are many, who never can fcrgive an- 
other for being more agreeable and more ac- 
complished than themselves, and who can par- 
don any offence rather than an eclipsing tr* T it 



558 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



Had the nightingale in the fable conquered his 
vanity, and resisted the temptation of showing a 
fine voice, he might have escaped the talons of 
the hawk. The melody of his singing was the 
cause of his destruction ; his merit brought him 
into danger, and his vanity cost him his life.* 



ON ENVY. 

" Envy came next, envy with squinting eyes, 

Sick of a strange disease, his neighbour's health ; 
Best then he lives when any better dies, 
Is never poor but in another's wealth ; 
On best men's harms and griefs he feeds his fill, 
ilse his own maw doth eat with spiteful will, 
111 must the temper be, where diet is so ill." 

Fletcher's Purple Island. 

" Envy (says Lord Bacon) has no holydays." 
There cannot perhaps be a more lively and 
striking description of the miserable state of 
mind those endure, who are tormented with this 
vice. A spirit of emulation has been supposed 
to be the source of the greatest improvements ; 
and there is no doubt but the warmest rivalship 
will produce the most excellent effects ; but it 
is to be feared, that a perpetual state of contest 
will injure the temper so essentially, that the 
mischief will hardly be counterbalanced by any 
other advantages. Those whose progress is the 
most rapid, will be apt to despise their less suc- 
cessful competitors, who, in return, will feel the 
bitterest resentment against their more fortunate 
rivals. Among persons of real goodness, this 
jealousy and contempt can never be equally felt, 
because every advancement in piety will be at- 
tended with a proportionable increase of humil- 
ity, which will lead them to contemplate their 
own improvements with modesty, and to view 
with charity the miscarriages of others. 

When an envious man is melancholy, one 
may ask him, in the words of Bion, what evil 
has befallen himself, or what good has happened 
to another 1 This last is the scale by which he 
principally measures his felicity, and the very 
smiles of his friends are so many deductions 
from his own happiness. The wants of others 
are the standard by which he rates his own 
wealth ; and he estimates his riches, not so 
much by his own possessions, as , by the ne- 
cessities of his neighbours. 

When the malevolent intend to strike a very 
deep and dangerous stroke of malice, they gen- 
erally begin the most remotely in the world 
from the subject nearest their hearts. They set 
out with commending the object of their envy 
for some trifling quality or advantage, which it 
is scarcely worth while to possess : they next 
proceed to make a general profession of their 
own good-will and regard for him : thus artfully 
removing any suspicion of their design, and 
clearing all obstructions for the insidious stab 
they are about to give ; for who will suspect 
them of an intention to injure the object of their 

*The poetical fable here alluded to is in Strada's Pro- 
lusions on the Style of Claudian, and has been transla- 
ted into English verse by different writeis; particularly 
Ford, the dramatist, and by Dr. Gibbons, as an example 
of the Enantiosis in his " Treatise on Rhetoric," pub- 
lished in 1767.— Ed. 



peculiar and professed esteem T The hearer's 
belief of the fact grows in proportion to the 
seeming reluctance with which it is told, and to 
the conviction he has, that the relater is not 
influenced by any private pique or personal re- 
sentment, but that the confession is extorted 
from him sorely against his inclination, and 
purely on account of his zeal for truth. 

Anger is less reasonable and more sincere 
than envy. — Anger breaks out abruptly ; envy 
is a great prefacer — anger wishes to be under- 
stood at once ; envy is fond of remote hints 
and ambiguities ; but, obscure as its oracles are, 
it never ceases to deliver them till they are per- 
fectly comprehended ; — anger repeats the same 
circumstances over again ; envy invents new 
ones at every fresh recital — anger gives a bro- 
ken, vehement, and interrupted narrative ; envy 
tells a more consistent and more probable, 
though a falser tale — anger is excessively im- 
prudent, for it is impatient to disclose every 
thing it knows ; envy is discreet, for it has a 
great deal to hide — anger never consults times 
or seasons ; envy waits for the lucky moment, 
when the wound it meditates may be made the 
most exquisitely painful, and the most incurably 
deep — anger uses more invective ; envy does 
more mischief — simple anger soon runs itself 
out of breath, and is exhausted at the end of 
its tale ; but it is for that chosen period that 
envy has treasured up the most barbed arrow 
in its whole quiver — anger puts a man out of 
himself; but the truly malicious generally pre- 
serve the appearance of self-possession, or they 
could not so effectually injure. — The angry man 
sets out by destroying his whole credit with you 
at once, for he very frankly confesses his abhor- 
rence and detestation of the object of his abuse ; 
while the envious man carefully suppresses all 
his own share in the affair. — The angry man 
defeats the end of his resentment, by keeping 
himself continually before your eyes, instead of 
his enemy ; while the envious man artfully 
brings forward the object of his malice, and 
keeps himself out of sight. — The angry man 
talks loudly of his own wrongs ; the envious 
of his adversary's injustice. — A passionate per- 
son, if his resentments are not complicated with 
malice, divides his time between sinning and 
sorrowing ; and, as the irascible passions can- 
not constantly be at work, his heart may some- 
times get a holyday. — Anger is a violent act, 
envy a constant habit — no one can be always 
angry, but he may be always envious : — an an- 
gry man's enmity (if he be generous) will sub- 
side when the object of his resentment becomes 
unfortunate ; but the envious man can extract 
food from his malice out of calamity itself, if he 
finds his adversary bears it with dignity, or is 
pitied or assisted in it. The rage of the pas- 
sionate man is totally extinguished by the death 
of his enemy ; but the hatred of the malicious 
is not buried even in the grave of his rival : he 
v/ill envy the good name he has left behind him ; 
he will envy him the tears of his widow, the 
prosperity of his children, the esteem of his 
friends, the praises of his epitaph — nay, the very 
magnificence of his funeral. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



559 



" The ear of jealousy heareth all things" 
(says the wise man), frequently, I believe, more 
than is uttered, which makes the company of 
persons infected with it still more dangerous. 

When you tell those of a malicious turn, any 
circumstance that has happened to another, 
though they perfectly know of whom you are 
speaking, they often affect to be at a loss, to 
forget his name, or to misapprehend you in some 
respect or other ; and this merely to have an 
opportunity of slyly gratifying their malice by 
mentioning some unhappy defect or personal 
infirmity he labours under ; and, not contented 
" to tack his every error to his name," they will, 
by way of farther explanation, have recourse to 
the faults of his father, or the misfortunes of his 
family ; and this with all the seeming simplicity 
and candour in the world, merely for the sake 
of preventing mistakes, and to clear up every 
doubt of his identity. — If you are speaking of a 
lady, for instance, they will perhaps embellish 
their inquiries, by asking if you mean her whose 
great-grandfather was a bankrupt, though she 
has the vanity to keep a chariot, while others 
who are much better born walk on foot ; or they 
will afterward recollect, that you may possibly 
mean her cousin, of the same name, whose 
mother was suspected of such or such an indis- 
cretion, though the daughter had the luck to 
make her fortune by marrying, while her betters 
are overlooked. 

To hint at a fault does more mischief than 
speaking out ; for whatever is left for the imagin- 
ation to finish, will not fail to be overdone ; every 
hiatus will be more than filled up, and every 
pause more than supplied. There is less malice, 
and less mischief too, in telling a man's name 
than the initials of it ; as a worthier person 
may be involved in the most disgraceful sus- 
picions by such a dangerous ambiguity. 

It is not uncommon for the envious, after 
having attempted to deface the fairest character 
so industriously, that they are afraid you will 
begin to detect their malice, to endeavour to 
remove your suspicions effectually, by assuring 
you that what they have just related is only the 
popular opinion ; they themselves can never be- 
lieve things are so bad as they are said to be ; 
for their part, it is a rule with them always to 
hope the best. It is their way never to believe 
or report ill of any one. They will, however, 
mention the story in all companies, that they 
may do their friend the service of protesting 
their disbelief of it. More reputations are thus 
hinted away by false friends, than are openly 
destroyed by public enemies. An if, or a but, 
or a mortified look, or a languid defence, or an 
ambiguous shake of the head, or a hasty word 
affectedly recalled, will demolish a character 
more effectually, than the whole artillery of mal- 
ice when openly levelled against it. 

It is not that envy never praises — No, that 
would be making a public profession of itself, 
and advertising its own malignity ; whereas the 
greatest success of its efforts depends on the 
concealment of their end. When envy intends 
to strike a stroke of Machiavelian policy, it 
sometimes affects the language of the most ex- 



aggerated applause ; though it generally takes 
care, that the subject of its panegyric shall be a 
very indifferent and common character, so that 
it is well aware none of its praises will stick. 

It is the unhappy nature of envy not to be 
contented with positive misery, but to be con- 
tinually aggravating its own torments, by com- 
paring them with the felicities of others. The 
eyes of envy are perpetually fixed on the object 
which disturbs it; nor can it avert them from it, 
though to procure' itself the relief of a tempo- 
rary forgetfulness. On seeing the innocence 
of the first pair, 

" Aside the devil tum'd, 
For envy, yet, with jealous leer malign, 
Eyed them askance." 

As this enormous sin chiefly instigated the 
revolt, and brought on the ruin of the angelic 
spirits, so it is not improbable, that it will be a 
principal instrument of misery in a future world, 
for the envious to compare their desperate con- 
dition with the happiness of the children of 
God ; and to heighten their actual wretchedness 
by reflecting on what they have lost. 

Perhaps envy, like lying and ingratitude, is 
practised with more frequency, because it is 
practised with impunity ; but there being no 
human laws against these crimes, is so far from 
an inducement to commit them, that this very 
consideration would be sufficient to deter the 
wise and good, if all others were ineffectual ; for 
of how heinous a nature must those sins be, 
which are judged above the reach of human 
punishment, and are reserved for the final jus- 
tice of God himself ! 



ON THE DANGER 

OF 

SENTIMENTAL OR ROMANTIC CON- 
NEXIONS. 

Among the many evils which prevail under 
the sun, the abuse of words is not the least 
considerable. By the influence of time, and 
the perversion of fashion, the plainest and most 
unequivocal may be so altered, as to have a 
meaning assigned them almost diametrically 
opposite to their original signification. 

The present age may be termed, by way of 
distinction, the age of sentiment, a word which, 
in the implication it now bears, was unknown to 
our plain ancestors. Sentiment is the varnish 
of virtue, to conceal the deformity of vice ; and 
it is not uncommon for the same persons to make 
a jest of religion, to break through the most 
solemn ties and engagements, to practise every 
art of latent fraud and open seduction, and yet 
to value themselves on speaking and writing 
sentimentally . 

But this refined jargon, which has infested 
letters and tainted morals, is chiefly admired 
and adopted by young ladies of a certain turn, 
who read sentimental books, write sentimental 
letters, and contract sentimental friendships. 

Error is never likely to do so much mischief 



560 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



as when it disguises its real tendency, and puts 
on an engaging and attractive appearance. 
Many a young woman, who would be shocked 
at the imputation of an intrigue, is extremely 
nattered at the idea of a sentimental connexion, 
though perhaps with a dangerous and designing 
man, who, by putting on this mask of plausibility 
and virtue, disarms her of her prudence, lays 
her apprehensions asleep, and involves her in 
misery ; misery the more inevitable, because 
unsuspected. For she who apprehends no dan- 
ger, will not think it necessary to be always 
upon her guard ; but will rather invite than 
avoid the ruin which comes under so specious 
and so fair a form. 

Such an engagement will be infinitely dearer 
to her vanity than an avowed and authorized 
attachment ; for one of these sentimental lovers 
will not scruple, very seriously, to assure a 
credulous girl that her unparalleled merit enti- 
tles her to the adoration of the whole world, 
and that the universal homage of mankind is 
nothing more than the unavoidable tribute ex- 
torted by her charms. No wonder then she 
should be easily prevailed on to believe, that an 
individual is captivated by perfections which 
might enslave a million. But she should remem- 
ber, that he who endeavours to intoxicate her 
with adulation, intends one day most effectually 
to humble her. For an artful man has always 
a secret design to pay himself in future for every 
present sacrifice. And this prodigality of praise, 
which he now appears to lavish with such 
thoughtless profusion, is, in fact, a sum economi- 
cally laid out to supply his future necessities : 
of this sum he keeps an exact estimate, and at 
some distant day promises himself the most ex- 
orbitant interest for it. If he has address and 
conduct, and the object of his pursuit much 
vanity and some sensibility, he seldom fails of 
success ; for so powerful will be his ascendency 
over her mind, that she will soon adopt his no- 
tions and opinions. Indeed, it is more than 
probable she possessed most of them before, 
having gradually acquired them in her initiation 
into the sentimental character. To maintain 
that character with dignity and propriety, it is 
necessary she should entertain the most elevated 
ideas of disproportionate alliances and disinter- 
ested love ; and consider fortune, rank, and 
reputation, as mere chimerical distinctions and 
vulgar prejudices. 

The lover, deeply versed in all the obliquities 
of fraud, and skilled to wind himself into every 
avenue of the heart which indiscretion has left 
unguarded, soon discovers on which side it is 
most accessible. He avails himself of this 
weakness by addressing her in a language ex- 
actly consonant to her own ideas. He attacks 
her with her own weapons, and opposes rhap- 
sody to sentiment. He professes so sovereign 
a contempt for the paltry concerns of money, 
that she thinks it her duty to reward him for so 
generous a renunciation. Every plea he artfully 
advances of his own unworthiness, is considered 
by her as a fresh demand which her gratitude 
must answer. And she makes it a point of 
honour to sacrifice to him that fortune which he 



is too noble to regard. These professions of 
hunulity are the common artifice of the vain, 
and these protestations of generosity the refuge 
of the rapacious. And among its many smooth 
mischiefs, it is one of the sure and successful 
frauds of sentiment, to affect the most frigid 
indifference to those external and pecuniary 
advantages, which it is its great and real object 
to obtain. 

A sentimental girl very rarely entertains any 
doubt of her personal beauty ; for she has been 
daily accustomed to contemplate it herself, and 
to hear of it from others. She will not, there- 
fore, be very solicitous for the confirmation of a 
truth so self-evident ; but she suspects that her 
pretensions to understanding are more likely to 
be disputed, and, for that reason, greedily de- 
vours every compliment offered to those perfec- 
tions which are less obvious and more refined. 
She is persuaded that men need only open their 
eyes to decide on her beauty, while it will be 
the most convincing proof of the taste, sense, 
and elegance of her admirer, that he can discern 
and flatter those qualities in her. A man of the 
character here supposed will easily insinuate 
himself into her affections, by means of this 
latent but leading foible, which may be called 
the guiding clew to a sentimental heart. He 
will affect to overlook that beauty which attracts 
common eyes and insnares common hearts, 
while he will bestow the most delicate praises 
on the beauties of her mind, and finish the climax 
of adulation by hinting that she is superior to it. 

"And when he tells her she hates flattery, 
She says she does, being then most flatter'd." 

But nothing, in general, can end less delight- 
fully than these sublime attachments, even 
where no acts of Seduction were ever practised, 
but they are suffered, like mere sublunary con- 
nexions, to terminate in the vulgar catastrophe 
of marriage. That wealth, which lately seemed 
to be looked on with ineffable contempt by the 
lover, now appears to be the principal attraction 
in the eyes of the husband ; and he, who but a 
few short weeks before, in a transport of senti- 
mental generosity, wished her to have been a 
village maid, with no portion but her crook and 
her beauty, and that they might spend their days 
in pastoral love and innocence, has now lost all 
relish for the Arcadian life, or any other life in 
which she must be his companion. 

On the other hand, she who was lately 
"An angel call'd, and angel-like ador'd," 

is shocked to find herself at once stripped of all 
her celestial attributes. This late divinity, who 
scarcely yielded to her sisters of the sky, now 
finds herself of less importance in the esteem of 
the man she has chosen, than any other mere 
mortal woman. No longer is she gratified with 
the tear of counterfeited passion, the sigh of 
dissembled rapture, or the language of premedi- 
tated adoration. No longer is the altar of her 
vanity loaded with the oblations of fictitious 
fondness, the incense of falsehood, or the sacri- 
fice of flattery. Her apotheosis is ended ! She 
feels herself degraded from the dignities and 
privileges of a goddess, to all the imperfections, 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



501 



ranities, and weaknesses of a slighted woman 
and a neglected wife. Her faults, which were 
so lately overlooked, or mistaken for virtues, 
are now, as Cassius says, set in a notebook. 
The passion which was vowed eternal, lasted 
only a few short weeks ; and the indifference, 
which was so far from being included in the 
bargain, that it was not so much as suspected, 
follows them through the whole tiresome jour- 
ney of their insipid, vacant, joyless existence. 

Thus much for the completion of the senti- 
mental history. If we trace it back to its be- 
ginning, we shall find that a damsel of this cast 
had her head originally turned by pernicious 
reading, and her insanity confirmed by imprudent 
friendships. She never fails to select a beloved 
confidante of her own turn and humour, though, 
if she can help it, not quite so handsome as her- 
self. A violent intimacy ensues, or, to speak 
the language of sentiment, an intimate union of 
souls immediately takes place, which is wrought 
to the highest pitch by a secret and voluminous 
correspondence, though they live in the same 
street, or perhaps in the same house. This is 
the fuel which principally feeds and supplies the 
dangerous flame of sentiment. In this corre- 
spondence the two friends encourage each other 
in the falsest notions imaginable. They repre- 
sent romantic love as the great important 
business of human life, and describe all the 
other concerns of it as too low and paltry to 
merit the attention of such elevated beings, and 
fit only to employ the daughters of the plodding 
vulgar. In these letters, family affairs are 
misrepresented, family secrets divulged, and 
family misfortunes aggravated. They are filled 
with vows of eternal amity, and protestations 
of never-ending love. But interjections and 
quotations are the principal embellishments of 
these very sublime epistles. Every panegyric 
contained in them is extravagant and hyperbol- 
ical, and every censure exaggerated and exces- 
sive. In a favourite every frailty is heightened 
into a perfection, and in a foe degraded into a 
crime. The dramatic poets, especially the most 
tender and romantic, are quoted in almost every 
line, and every pompous or pathetic thought is 
forced to give up its natural and obvious mean- 
ing, and, with all the violence of misapplication, 
is compelled to suit some circumstance of ima- 
ginary wo of the fair transcriber. Alicia is not 
too mad for her heroics, nor Monimia too mild 
for her soft emotions. 

Fathers have flinty hearts, is an expression 
worth an empire, and is always used with pecu- 
liar emphasis and enthusiasm. For a favourite 
topic of these epistles is the grovelling. spirit and 
sorchd temper of the parents, who will be sure 
to find no quarter at the hands of their daugh- 
ters, should they presume to be so unreasonable 
as to direct their course of reading, interfere in 
their choice of friends, or interrupt their very 
important correspondence. But as these young 
ladies are fertile in expedients, and as their 
genius is never more agreeably exercised than 
in finding resources, they are not without their 
secret exultation, in case either of the above 
interesting events should happen, as they carry 

Vol. II. 



with them a certain air of tyranny and persecu- 
tion which is very delightful. For a prohibited 
correspondence is one of the great incidents of 
a sentimental life, and a letter clandestinely 
received, the supreme felicity of a sentimental 
lady. 

Nothing can equal the astonishment of these 
soaring spirits, when their plain friends or pru- 
dent relations presume to remonstrate with 
them on any impropriety in their conduct. But 
if these worthy people happen to be somewhat 
advanced in life, their contempt is then a little 
softened by pity, at the reflection that such very 
antiquated poor creatures should pretend to 
judge what is fit or unfit for ladies of their great 
refinement, sense, and reading. They consider 
them as wretches utterly ignorant of the sub- 
lime pleasures of a delicate and exalted passion, 
as tyrants whose authority is to be contemned, 
and as spies whose vigilance is to be eluded. 
The prudence of these worthy friends, they 
term suspicion ; and their experience, dotage. 
For they are persuaded that the face of things 
has so totally changed since their parents were 
young, that though they might then judge tolera- 
bly for themselves, yet they are now (with all 
their advantages of knowledge and observation) 
by no means qualified to direct their more en- 
lightened daughters ; who, if they have made a 
great progress in the sentimental walk, will no 
more be influenced by the advice of their mother, 
than they would go abroad in her laced pinner 
or her brocade suit. 

But young people never show their folly and 
ignorance more conspicuously than by this, over- 
confidence in their own judgment, and this 
haughty disdain of the opinion of those who 
have known more days. Youth has a quick- 
ness of apprehension, which it is very apt to 
mistake for an acuteness of penetration. But 
youth, like cunning, though very conceited, is 
very shortsighted, and never more so than 
when it disregards the instructions of the wise 
and the admonitions of the aged. The same 
vices and follies influenced the human neart 
in their day which influence it now, and nearly 
in the same manner. One who well knew the 
world and its various vanities, has said, " The 
thing which hath been, it is that which shall 
be ; and that which is done, is that which shall 
be done ; and there is no new thing under the 
sun." 

It is also a part of the sentimental character, 
to imagine that none but the young and beauti- 
ful have any right to the pleasure of society, 
or even to the common benefits and blessings 
of life. Ladies of this turn also affect the 
most lofty disregard for useful qualities and do- 
mestic virtues ; and this is a natural conse- 
quence ; for as this sort of sentiment is only a 
weed of idleness, she who is constantly and 
usefully employed has neither leisure nor pro- 
pensity to cultivate it. 

A sentimental lady principally values herself 
on the enlargement of her notions, and her 
liberal way of thinking. This superiority of 
soul chiefly manifests itself in the contempt of 
those minute deiicacies and little decorums, 
2N 



r>62 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.' 



which, trifling as they may be thought, tend at 
once to dignify the character, and to restrain 
the levity, of the younger part of the sex. 

Perhaps the error here complained of origi- 
nates in mistaking sentiment and principle lor 
each other. Now, I conceive them to be ex- 
tremely different. Sentiment is the virtue of 
ideas, and principle the virtue of action. Senti- 
ment has its seat in the head, principle in the 
heart. Sentiment suggests fine harangues and 
subtle distinctions ; principle conceives just 
notions, and performs good actions in conse- 
quence of them. Sentiment refines away the 
simplicity of truth and the plainness of piety ; 
and, as a celebrated wit* has remarked of his 
no less celebrated contemporary, gives us virtue 
in words and vice in deeds. Sentiment may 
be called the Athenian, who knew what was 
right ; and principle the Lacedemonian, who 
practised it. 

But these qualities will be better exemplified 
by an attentive consideration of two admirably 
drawn characters of Milton, which are beauti- 
fully, delicately, and distinctly marked. These 
are, Belial, who may not be improperly called 
the Demon of Sentiment ; and Abdiel, who may 
be termed the Angel of Principle. 

Survey the picture of Belial, drawn by the 
sublimest hand that ever held the poetic pencil. 

" A fairer person lost not heaven ; he seem'd 
For dignity composed, and high exploit, 
But all was false and hollow, though his tongue 
Dropped manna, and could make the worse appear 
The better reason, to perplex and dash 
Maturest counsels, for his thoughts were low, 
To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds 
Tmi'rous and slothful; yet he pleased the ear." 
Paradise Lost, Book II. 

Here is a lively and exquisite representation 
of art, subtlety, wit, fine breeding, and pol- 
ished manners ; on the whole, of a very accom- 
plished and sentimental spirit. 

Now turn to the artless, upright, and unso- 
phisticated Abdiel. 

" Faithful found 

Among the faithless, faithful only he 

Among innumerable false, unmoved, 

Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified ; 

His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal. 

Nor number nor example with him wrought 

To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind, 

Though single."— Book V. 

But it is not from these descriptions, just and 
striking as they are, that their characters are 
so perfectly known, as from an examination of 
their conduct through the remainder of this di- 
vine work ; in which it is well worth while to 
remark the consonancy of their actions, and 
what the above pictures seem to promise. It 
will also be observed, that the contrast between 
them is kept up throughout, with the utmost 
exactness of delineation, and the most animated 
strength of colouring. 

On a review it will be found that Belial talked 
all, and Abdiel did all. The former, 

" With words still clothed in reason's guise, 
Counsell'd ignobie ease, and peaceful sloth 
Not peace" — Book II. 

In Abdiel you will constantly find the elo- 
quence of action. When tempted by the re- 



See Voltaire's Prophecy concerning Rousseau. 



bellious angels, with what retorted scorn, with 
what honest indignation he deserts their multi- 
tudes, and retreats from their contagious 
society ! 

"All night the dreadless angel unpursued 
Through heaven's wide champaign held his way." 

Book VI. 

No wonder he was received with such accla- 
mations of joy by the celestial powers, when 
there was — 

•' But one, 
Yes, of so many myriads fallen, but one 
Returned not lost." — Ibid. 
And afterward, in a close contest with the 
arch fiend, 

" A noble stroke he lifted high 
On the proud crest of Satan."— Ibid. 

What was the effect of this courage of the 
vigilant and active seraph 1 

" Amazement seized 
The rebel throne, but greater rage to see 
Thus foiled their mightiest." 

Abdiel had the superiority of Belial as much 
in the warlike combat, as in the peaceful coun- 
sels. 

" Nor was it aught but just, 
That he who in debate of truth had won, 
Should win in arms, in both disputes alike 
Victor." 
But notwithstanding I have spoken with some 
asperity against sentiment as opposed to prin- 
ciple, yet I am convinced, that true genuine 
sentiment (not the sort I have been descri- 
bing), may be so connected with principle as to 
bestow on it its brightest lustre, and its most 
captivating graces. And enthusiasm is so far 
from being disagreeable, that a portion of it is 
perhaps indispensably necess-ary in an engaging 
woman. But it must be the enthusiasm of the 
heart, not of the senses. It must be the en-; 
thusiasm which grows up with the feeling mind, 
and is cherished by a virtuous education ; not 
that which is compounded of irregular passions, 
and artificially refined by books of unnatural 
fiction and improbable adventure. I will even 
go so far as to assert, that a young woman 
cannot have any real greatness of soul, or true 
elevation of principle, if she has not a tincture 
of what the vulgar would call romance, but 
which persons of a certain way of thinking will 
discern to proceed from those fine feelings, and 
that charming sensibility, without which, though 
a woman may be worthy, yet she can never be 
amiable. 

But this dangerous merit cannot be too rigidly 
watched, as it is very apt to lead those who 
possess it into inconveniences from which less 
interesting characters are happily exempt. 
Young women of strong sensibility may be 
carried by the very amiableness of this temper 
into the most alarming extremes. Their tastes 
are passions. They love and hate with all their 
hearts, and scarcely suffer themselves to feel a 
reasonable preference before it strengthens into 
a violent attachment. 

When an innocent girl of this open, trusting, 
tender heart, happens to meet with one of her 
own sex and age, whose address and manners 
are engaging, she is instantly seized with an 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



56S 



ardent desire to commence a friendship with 
her. She feels the most lively impatience at 
the restraints of company, and the decorums of 
ceremony. She longs to be alone with her, 
longs to assure her of the warmth of her tender- 
ness, and generously ascribes to the fair stran- 
ger all the good qualities she feels in her own 
heart, or rather all those which she has met 
with in her reading, dispersed in a variety of 
heroines. She is persuaded that her new friend 
unites them all in herself, because she carries 
in her prepossesing countenance the promise 
of them all. How cruel and how censorious 
would this inexperienced girl think heir mother 
was, who should venture to hint that the agree- 
able unknown had defects in her temper, or ex- 
ceptions in her character. She would mistake 
these hints of discretion for the insinuations of 
an uncharitable disposition. At first she would 
perhaps listen to them with a generous impa- 
tience, and afterward with a cold and silent dis- 
dain. She would despise them as the effect 
of prejudice, misrepresentation, or ignorance. 
The more aggravated the censure, the more 
vehemently would she protest in secret, that 
her friendship for this dear injured creature (who 
is raised much higher in her esteem by such 
injurious suspicions) shall know no bounds, as 
she is assured it can know no end. 

Yet this trusting confidence, this honest in- 
discretion, is at this early period of life as 
amiable as it is natural ; and will, if wisely cul- 
tivated, produce, at its proper season, fruits in- 
finitely more valuable than all the guarded cir- 
cumspection of premature, and therefore artificial 
prudence. Men, I believe, are seldom struck 
with these sudden prepossessions in favour of 
each other. They are not so unsuspecting nor 
so easily led away by the predominance of fancy. 
They engage more warily, and pass through the 
several stages of acquaintance, intimacy, and 
confidence, by slower gradations ; but women, 
if they are sometimes deceived in the choice 
of a friend, enjoy even then a higher degree of 
satisfaction than if they never trusted. For 
to be always clad in the burdensome armour of 
suspicion is more painful and inconvenient than 
to run the hazard of suffering now and then a 
transient injury. 

But the above observations only extend to 
the young and the inexperienced ; for I am very 
certain, that women are capable of as faithful 
and as durable friendship as any of the other 
sex. They can enter not only into all the en- 
thusiastic tenderness, but into all the solid 
fidelity of attachment. And if we cannot oppose 
instances of equal weight with those of Nysus 
and Euryalus, Theseus and Pirithous, Py lades 
and Orestes, let it be remembered that it is be- 
cause the recorders of those characters were 
men, and that the very existence of them is 
merely poetical. 



TRUE AND FALSE MEEKNESS. 

A low voice and soft address are the com- 
mon indications of a wellbred woman, and 
should seem to be the natural effects of a meek 



and quiet spirit ; but they are only the outward 
and visible signs of it ; for they are no more 
meekness itself, than a red coat is courage, or a 
black one devotion. 

Yet nothing is more common than to mistake 
the sign for the thing itself; nor is any practice 
more frequent than that of endeavouring to ac- 
quire the exterior mark, without once thinking 
to labour after the interior grace. Surely this is 
beginning at the wrong end, like attacking the 
symptom and neglecting the disease. To reg- 
ulate the features while the soul is in tumults, 
or to command the voice while the passions are 
without restraint, is as idle as throwing odours 
into a stream when the source is polluted. 

The sapient king,* who knew better than any 
man the nature and the power of beauty, has as- 
sured us, that the temper of the mind has a 
strong influence upon the features : " Wisdom 
maketh the face to shine," says that exquisite 
judge ; and surely no part of wisdom is more 
likely to produce this amiable effect, than a 
placid serenity of soul. 

It will not be difficult to distinguish the true 
from the artificial meekness. The former is uni- 
versal and habitual; the latter, local and tem- 
porary. Every young female may keep this 
rule by her, to enable her to form a just judg- 
ment of her own temper : if she is not as gentle 
to her chambermaid as she is to her visiter, she 
may rest satisfied that the spirit of gentleness is 
not in her. 

Who would not be shocked and disappointed 
to behold a wellbred young lady, soft and en- 
gaging as the doves of Venus, displaying a 
thousand graces and attractions to win the 
hearts of a large company ; and, the instant 
they are gone, to see her look mad as the Pyth- 
ian maid, and all the frightened graces driven 
from her furious countenance, only because her 
gown was brought home a quarter of an hour 
later than she expected, or her riband sent half 
a shade lighter or darker than she ordered 1 

All men's characters are said to proceed from 
their servants ; and this is more particularly 
true of ladies : for as their situations are more 
domestic, they lie more open to the inspection 
of their families, to whom their real characters 
are easily and perfectly known ; for they sel- 
dom think it worth while to practise any dis- 
guise before those whose good opinion they do 
not value, and who are obliged to submit to 
their most insupportable humours, because they 
are paid for it. 

Among women of breeding, the exterior of 
gentleness is so uniformly assumed, and the 
whole manner is so perfectly level and uni, that 
it is next to impossible for a stranger to know 
any thing of their true dispositions by conver- 
sing with them, and even the very features are 
so exactly regulated, that physiognomy, which 
may sometimes be trusted among the vulgar, 
is, with the polite, a most lying science. 

A very termagant woman, if she happen also 
to be a very artful one, will be conscious she 

* Solomon is here understood ; but the term by which 
he is indicated, ill suits the dignity of one who had the 
reputation of being the wisest of men.— Ed. 



564 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



has so much to conceal, that the dread of be- 
traying her real temper will make her put on an 
over-acted softness, which, from its very excess, 
may be distinguished from the natural, by a 
penetrating eye. That gentleness is ever lia- 
ble to be suspected for the counterfeited, which 
is so excessive as to deprive people of the 
proper use of speech and motion, or which, as 
Hamlet says, makes them lisp and amble, and 
nickname God's creatures. 

The countenance and manners of some very 
fashionable persons may be compared to the 
inscriptions on their monuments, which speak 
nothing but good of what is within ; but he 
who knows any thing of the world, or of the 
human heart, will no more trust to the courtesy, 
than he will depend on the epitaph. 

Among the various artifices of factitious 
meekness, one of the most frequent and most 
plausible, is that of affecting to be always 
equally delighted with all persons and all char- 
acters. The society of these languid beings is 
without confidence, their friendship without at- 
tachment, and their love without affection, or 
even preference. This insipid mode of conduct 
may be safe, but I cannot think it has either 
taste, sense, or principle in it. 

These uniformly smiling and approving ladies, 
who have neither the noble courage to repre- 
hend vice, nor the generous warmth to bear 
their honest testimony in the cause of virtue, 
conclude every one to be illnatured who has any 
penetration, and look upon a distinguishing judg- 
ment as want of tenderness. But they should 
learn, that this discernment does not always 
proceed from an uncharitable temper, but from 
that long experience and thorough knowledge of 
the world, which lead those who have it to scru- 
tinize into the conduct and disposition of men, 
before they trust entirely to those fair appear- 
ances which sometimes veil the most insidious 
purposes. 

We are perpetually mistaking the qualities 
and dispositions of our own hearts. We ele- 
vate our failings into virtues, and qualify our 
vices into weaknesses : and hence arise so 
many false judgments respecting meekness. 
Self-ignorance is at the root of all this mischief. 
Many ladies complain that, for their part, their 
spirit is so meek they can bear nothing ; whereas 
if they spoke truth, they would say, their spirit 
is so high and unbroken, that they can bear 
nothing. Strange ! to plead their meekness as 
a reason why they cannot endure to be crossed, 
and to produce their impatience of contradiction 
as a proof of their gentleness ! 

Meekness, like most other virtues, has cer- 
tain limits, which it no sooner exceeds than it 
becomes criminal. Servility of spirit is not 
gentleness, but weakness ; and if allowed, under 
the specious appearances it sometimes puts on, 
will lead to the most dangerous compliances. 
She who hears innocence maligned without vin- 
dicating it, falsehood asserted without contra- 
dicting it, or religion profaned without resent- 
ing it, is not gentle, but wicked. 

To give up the cause of an innocent, injured 
friend, if the popular cry happens to be against 



him, is the most disgraceful weakness. This 
was the case of Madame de Maintenon. Sho 
loved the character and admired the talents of 
Racine ; she caressed him while he had no ene- 
mies, but wanted the greatness of mind, or 
rather the common justice, to protect him 
against their resentment when he had ; and her 
favourite was abandoned to the suspicious jeal- 
ousy of the king, when a prudent remonstrance 
might have preserved him. — But her tameness, 
if not absolute connivance in the great mas- 
sacre of the Protestants, in whose church she 
had been bred, is a far more guilty instance of 
her weakness ; an instance which, in spite of 
all her devotional zeal and incomparable pru- 
dence, will disqualify her from shining in the 
annals of good women, however she may be en- 
titled to figure among the great and the fortu- 
nate. Compare her conduct with that of her 
undaunted and pious countryman and contem 
porary, Bougi, who, when Louis would have 
prevailed on him to renounce his religion for a 
commission or a government, nobly replied, "If 
I could be persuaded to betray my God for a 
marshal's staff, I might betray my king for a 
bribe of much less consequence." 

Meekness is imperfect, if it be not both active 
and passive ; if it will not enable us to subdue 
our own passions and resentments, as well as 
qualify us to bear patiently the passions and re- 
sentments of others. 

Before we give way -to any violent emotion 
of anger, it would perhaps be worth while to 
consider the object which excites it, and to re- 
flect for a moment, whether the thing we so ar- 
dently desire, or so vehemently resent, be really 
of as much importance to us, as that delightful 
tranquillity of soul which we renounce in pursuit 
of it. If, qn a fair calculation, we find we are 
not likely to get as much as we are sure to lose, 
then, putting all religious considerations out of 
the question, common sense and human polic^ 
will tell us, we have made a foolish and unprof- 
itable exchange. Inward quiet is a part of one's 
self ; the object of our resentment may be only 
a matter of opinion ; and certainly, what makes 
a portion of our actual happiness, ought to be 
too dear to us to be sacrificed for a trifling, for- 
eign, perhaps imaginary good. 

The most pointed satire I remember to have 
read on a mind enslaved by anger, is an obser- 
vation of Seneca's. " Alexander," said he, 
" had two friends, Clitus and Lysimachus ; the 
one he exposed to a lion, the other to himself; 
he who was turned loose to the beast escaped, 
but Clitus was murdered, for he was turned 
loose to an angry man." 

A passionate woman's happiness is never in 
her own keeping ; it is the sport of accident, 
and the slave of events. It is in the power of 
her acquaintance, her servants, but chiefly of 
her enemies ; and all her comforts lie at the 
mercy of others. So far from being willing to 
learn of Him who was meek and lowly, she con- 
siders meekness as the want of a becoming 
spirit, and lowliness as a despicable and vulgar 
meanness. And an imperious woman will so 
little covet the ornament of a meek and quiet 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



565 



spirit, that it is almost the only ornament she 
will not be solicitous to wear. But resentment 
is a very expensive vice. How dearly has it 
cost its votaries, even from the sin of Cain, the 
f rst offender in this kind ! " It is cheaper (says 
■/. pious writer) to forgive, and save the charges." 

If it were only for mere human reasons, it 
would turn to a better account to be patient : 
nothing defeats the malice of an enemy like a 
spirit of forbearance ; the return of rage for rage 
cannot be so effectually provoking. True gen- 
tleness, like an impenetrable armour, repels the 
most pointed shafts of malice : they cannot 
pierce through this invulnerable shield, but 
either fall hurtless to the ground, or return to 
wound the hand that shot them. 

A meek spirit will not look out of itself for 
happiness, because it finds a constant banquet 
at home ; yet, by a sort of divine alchymy, it 
will convert all external events to its own profit, 
and be able to deduce some good, even from 
the most unpromising : it will extract comfort 
and satisfaction from the most barren circum- 
stances ; " it will suck honey out of the rock, 
and oil out of the flinty rock." 

But the supreme excellence of this compla- 
cent quality is, that it naturally disposes the 
mind where it resides to the practice of every 
other that is amiable. Meekness may be called 
the pioneer of all the other virtues, which levels 
every obstruction, and smooths every difficulty 
that might impede their entrance, or retard their 
progress. 

The peculiar importance and value of this 
amiable virtue may be farther seen in its per- 
manency. Honours and dignities are transient ; 
beauty and riches, frail and fugacious, to a 
proverb. Would not the truly wise, therefore, 
wish to have some one possession, which they 
might call their own in the severest exigencies 7 
But this wish can only be accomplished by ac- 
quiring and maintaining that calm and absolute 
self-possession, which, as the world had no hand 
in giving, it cannot, by the most malicious ex- 
ertion of its power, take away. 



THOUGHTS 

ON 

The Cultivation of the Heart and Temper 

IN THE 

EDUCATION OF DAUGHTERS. 

I have not the foolish presumption to imagine 
that I can offer any thing new on a subject 
which has been so successfully treated by many 
able and learned writers. I would only, with all 
possible deference, beg leave to hazard a few 
short remarks on that part of the subject of 
education, which I would call the education of 
the heart. I am well aware, that this part also 
has not been less skilfully and forcibly discussed 
than the rest, though I cannot, at the same time, 
help remarking, that it does not appear to have 
Deen so much adopted into common practice. 

It appears, then, that notwithstanding the 
great and real improvements which have been 



made in the affair of female education, and not- 
withstanding the more enlarged and generous 
views of it which prevail in the present day, 
that there is still a very material defect, which 
it is not, in general, enough the object of atten- 
tion to remove. This defect seems to consist 
in this, that too little regard is paid to the dis- 
positions of the mind, that the indications of the 
temper are not properly cherished, nor the af- 
fections of the heart sufficiently regulated. 

In the first education of girls, as far as the 
customs which fashion establishes are right, 
they should undoubtedly be followed. Let the 
exterior be made a considerable object of atten- 
tion, but let it not be the principal ; let it not be 
the only one. Let the graces be industriously 
cultivated, but let them not be cultivated at the 
expense of the virtues. Let the arms, the 
head, the whole person be carefully polished, 
but let not the heart be the only portion of the 
human anatomy which shall be totally over- 
looked. 

The neglect of this cultivation seems to pro- 
ceed as much from a bad taste as from a false 
principle. The generality of people form their 
judgment of education by slight and sudden 
appearances, which is certainly a wrong way of 
determining. Music, dancing, and languages, 
gratify those who teach them, by perceptible 
and almost immediate effects ; and, when there 
happens to be no imbecility in the pupil, nor 
deficiency in the master, every superficial ob- 
server can, in some measure, judge of the prog- 
ress. The effects of most of these accom- 
plishments address themselves to the senses ; 
and there are more who can see and hear, than 
there are who can judge and reflect. 

Personal perfection is not only more obvious, 
it is also more rapid ; and, even in very accom- 
plished characters, elegance usually precedes 
principle. 

But the heart, that natural seat of evil pro- 
pensities, that little troublesome empire of the 
passions, is led to what is right by slow motions 
and imperceptible degrees. It must be admon- 
ished by reproof, and allured by kindness. Its 
liveliest advances are frequently impeded by the 
obstinacy of prejudice, and its brightest prom- 
ises often obscured by the tempests of passion. 
It is slow in its acquisition of virtue, and re- 
luctant in its approaches to piety. 

There is another reason, which prove? this 
mental cultivation to be more important, as well 
as more difficult, than any other part of edu- 
cation. In the usual fashionable accomplish- 
ments, the business of acquiring them is almost 
always getting forward, and one difficulty is 
conquered before another is suffered to show 
itself; for a prudent teacher will level the road 
his pupil is to pass, and smooth the inequalities 
which might retard her progress. 

But in morals (which should be the great ob- 
ject constantly kept in view), the task is far 
more difficult. The unruly and turbulent de- 
sires of the heart are not so obedient ; one 
passion will start up before another is suppress- 
ed. The subduing Hercules cannot cut off the 
heads so often as the prolific hydra can produce 



566 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MOKE. 



them, nor fell the stubborn Antaeus so fast as 
he can recruit his strength, and rise in vigorous 
and repeated opposition. 

If all the accomplishments could be bought 
at the price of a single virtue, the purchase would 
be infinitely dear ! And, however startling it 
may sound, I think it is, notwithstanding, true, 
that the labours of a good and wise mother, 
who is anxious for her daughter's most important 
interests, will seem to be at variance with those 
of her instructers. She will doubtless rejoice 
at her progress in any polite art, but she will 
rejoice with trembling — humility and piety form 
the solid and durable basis, on which she wishes 
to raise the superstructure of the accomplish- 
ments, while the accomplishments themselves 
are frequently of that unsteady nature, that if 
the foundation is not secured) in proportion as 
the building is enlarged, it will be overloaded 
and destroyed by those very ornaments, which 
were intended to embellish what they have con- 
tributed to ruin. 

The more ostensible qualifications should be 
carefully regulated, or they will be in danger of 
putting to flight the modest train of retreating 
virtues, which cannot safely subsist before the 
bold eye of public observation, or bear the 
bolder tongue of- impudent and audacious flat- 
tery. A tender mother cannot but feel an hon- 
est triumph, in contemplating those excellences 
in her daughter which deserve applause, but 
she will also shudder at the vanity which that 
applause may excite, and at those hitherto un- 
known ideas which it may awaken. 

The master — it is his interest, and perhaps 
his duty — will naturally teach a girl to set her 
improvements in the most conspicuous point of 
light. Se faire valoir is the great principle in- 
dustriously inculcated into her young heart, and 
seems to be considered as a kind of fundamental 
maxim in education. It is, however, the certain 
and effectual seed, from which a thousand yet 
unborn vanities will spring. This dangerous 
doctrine (which yet is not without its uses) will 
be counteracted by the prudent mother, not in 
so many words, but by a watchful and scarcely 
perceptible dexterity. Such a one will be more 
careful to have the talents of her daughter cul- 
tivated than exhibited. 

One would be led to imagine, by the common 
mode of female education, that life consisted 
of one universal holyday, and that the only con- 
test was, who should be best enabled to excel 
in the sports and games that were to be cele- 
brated on it. Merely ornamental accomplish- 
ments will but indifferently qualify a woman to 
perform the duties of life, though it is highly 
proper she should possess them, in order to fur- 
nish the amusements of it. But is it right to 
spend so large a portion of life without some 
preparation for the business of living 1 A lady 
may speak a little French and Italian, repeat a 
few passages in a theatrical tone, play and sing, 
have her dressing-room hung with her own 
drawings, and her person covered with her own 
tambour-work, and may, notwithstanding, have 
been very badly educated. Yet I am far from I 
attempting to depreciate the value of these qua!- [ 



ifications : they are most of them not only 
highly becoming, but often indispensably neces- 
sary, and a polite education cannot be perfected 
without them. But as the world seems to be 
very well apprized of their importance, there is 
the less occasion to insist on their utility. Yet, 
though wellbred young women should learn to 
dance, sing, recite, and draw, the end of a good 
education is not that they may become dancers, 
singers, players, or painters ; its real object is 
to make them good daughters, good wives, good 
mistresses, good members of society, and good 
Christians. The above qualifications, therefore, 
are intended to adorn their leisure, not to em- 
ploy their lives ; for an amiable and wise woman 
will always have something better to value her- 
self on than these advantages, which, however 
captivating, are still but subordinate parts of a 
truly excellent character. 

But I am afraid parents themselves some- 
times contribute to the error of which I am 
complaining. Do they not often set a higher 
value on those acquisitions which are calculated 
to attract observation, and catch the eye of the 
multitude, than on those which are valuable, 
permanent, and internal 1 Are they not some- 
times more solicitous about the opinion of others 
respecting their children, than about the real 
advantage and happiness of the children them- 
selves 1 To an injudicious and superficial eye, 
the best educated girl may make the least brill- 
iant figure, as she will probably have less flip- 
pancy in her manner, and less repartee in her 
expression ; and her acquirements, to borrow 
Bishop Sprat's idea, will be rather " enamelled 
than embossed." But her merit will be known 
and acknowledged by all who come near enough 
to discern, and have taste enough to distinguish. 
It will be understood and admired by the man 
whose happiness she is one day to make, whose 
family she is to govern, and whose children she 
is to educate. He will not seek for her in the 
haunts of dissipation, for he knows he shall not 
find her there ; but he will seek for her in the 
bosom of retirement, in the practice of every 
domestic virtue, in the exertion of every amiable 
accomplishment, - , exerted in the shade, to en- 
liven retirement, to heighten the endearing pleas- 
ures of social intercourse, and to embellish the 
narrow but charming circle of family delights. 
To this amiable purpose, a truly good and well- 
educated young lady will dedicate her more ele- 
gant accomplishments, instead of exhibiting 
them to attract admiration, or depress infe- 
riority. 

Young girls, who have more vivacity than 
understanding, will often make a sprightly figure 
in conversation. But this agreeable talent for 
entertaining others is frequently dangerous to 
themselves, nor is it by any means to be desired 
or encouraged very early in life. This imma- 
turity of wit is helped on by frivolous reading, 
which will produce its effect in much less time 
than books of solid instruction ; for the imagin- 
ation is touched sooner than the understanding; 
and effects are more rapid as they are more per- 
nicious. Conversation should be the result of 
education, not the precursor of it. It is a 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



567 



golden fruit, when suffered to grow gradually on 
the tree of knowledge ; but if precipitated by 
forced and unnatural means, it will in the end 
become vapid in proportion as it is artificial. 

The best effects of a careful and religious 
education are often very remote ; they are to 
be discovered in future scenes, and exhibited in 
untried connexions. Every event of life will 
be putting the heart into fresh situations, and 
making demands on its prudence, its firmness, 
its integrity, or its piety. Those whose business 
it is to form it, can foresee none of these situa- 
tions ; yet, as far as human wisdom will allow, 
they must enable it to provide for them all, with 
an humble dependance on the Divine assistance. 
A well-disciplined soldier must learn and prac- 
tise all his evolutions, though he does not know 
on what service his leader may command him, 
by what foe he shall be attacked, nor what 
mode of combat the enemy may use. 

One great art of eduoation consists in not suf- 
fering the feelings to become too acute by un- 
necessary awakening, nor too obtuse by the 
want of exertion. The former renders them the 
source of calamity, and totally ruins the temper ; 
while the latter blunts and debases them, and 
produces a dull, cold, and selfish spirit. For 
the mind is an instrument, which, if wound too 
high, will lose its sweetness, and if not enough 
strained, will abate of its vigour. 

How cruel is it to extinguish, by neglect or 
jnkindness, the precious sensibility of an open 
temper, to chill the amiable glow of an ingenuous 
soul, and to quench the bright flame of a noble 
and generous spirit ! These are of higher 
worth than all the documents of learning, of 
dearer price than all the advantages which can 
be derived from the most refined and artificial 
mode of education. 

But sensibility and delicacy, and an ingenuous 
temper, make no part of education, exclaims 
the pedagogue — they are reducible to no class — 
they come under no article of instruction — they 
belong neither to languages nor to music. What 
an error ! They are a part of education, and 
of infinitely more value 

" Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew." 

It is true, they are ranged under no class, but 
they are superior to all ; they are of more es- 
teem than languages or music, for they are the 
language of the heart, and the music of the 
according passions. Yet this sensibility is, in 
many instances, so far from being cultivated, 
that it is not uncommon to see those who 
affect more than usual sagacity, cast a smile of 
supercilious pity, at any indication of a warm, 
generous, or enthusiastic temper in the lively 
and the young ; as much as to say, " they will 
know better, and will have more discretion when 
they are older." But every appearance of ami- 
able simplicity, or of honest shame, nature's 
hasty conscience, will be dear to sensible hearts ; 
they will carefully cherish every such indication 
in a young female ; for they will perceive that 
it is this temper, wisely cultivated, which will 
one day make her enamoured of the loveliness 
of virtue, and the beauty of holiness : from 



which she will acquire a taste for the doctrines 
of religion, and a spirit to perform the duties 
of it. And those who wish to make her asha- 
med of this charming temper, and seek to dis- 
possess her of it, will, it is to be feared, give 
her nothing better in exchange. But whoever 
reflects at all, will easily discern how carefully 
this enthusiasm is to be directed, and how judi- 
ciously its redundances are to be lopped away. 

Prudence is not natural to children ; they can, 
however, substitute art in its stead. But is it 
not much better that a girl should discover the 
faults incident to her age, than conceal them 
under this dark and impenetrable veil 1 I could 
almost venture to assert, that there is some- 
thing more becoming in the very errors of na- 
ture, where they are undisguised, than in the 
affectation of virtue itself, where the reality is 
wanting. And I am so far from being an ad- 
mirer of prodigies, that I am extremely apt to 
suspect them ; and am always infinitely better 
pleased with nature in her more common modes 
of operation. The precise and premature wis- 
dom which some girls havec unning enough to 
assume, is of a more dangerous tendency than 
any of their natural failings can be, as it effect- 
ually covers those secret bad dispositions, which, 
if they displayed themselves, might be rectified. 
The hypocrisy of assuming virtues which are 
not inherent in the heart, prevents the growth 
and disclosure of those real ones, which it is 
the great end of education to cultivate. 

But if the natural indications of the temper 
are to be suppressed and stifled, where are the 
diagnostics by which the state of the mind is 
to be known 1 The wise Author of all things, 
who did nothing in vain, doubtless intended 
them as symptoms, by which to judge of the 
diseases of the heart ; and it is impossible dis- 
eases should be cured before they are known. 
If the stream be so cut off as to prevent com- 
munication, or so choked up as to defeat dis- 
covery, how shall we ever reach the source, out 
of which are the issues of life 1 

This cunning, which, of all the different dis- 
positions girls discover, is most to be dreaded, 
is increased by nothing so much as by fear. If 
those about them express violent and unreason- 
able anger at every trivial offence, it will always 
promote this temper, and will very frequently 
create it, where there was a natural tendency 
to frankness. The indiscreet transports of rage 
which many betray on every slight occasion, and 
the little distinction they make between venial 
errors and premeditated crimes, naturally dis- 
pose a child to conceal, what she does not 
however care to suppress. Anger in one will 
not remedy the faults of another ; for how can 
an instrument of sin cure sin 1 If a girl is kept 
in a state of perpetual and slavish terror, she 
will perhaps have artifice enough to conceal 
those propensities which she knows are wrong, 
or those actions which she thinks are most ob- 
noxious to punishment. But, nevertheless, she 
will not cease to indulge those propensities, and 
to commit those actions, when she can do it 
with impunity. 

Good dispositions, of themselves, will go but 



568 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



a very little way, unless they are confirmed into 
good principles. And this cannot be effected 
but by a careful course of religious instruction, 
and a patient and laborious cultivation of the 
moral temper. 

But, notwithstanding girls should not be 
treated with unkindness, nor the first openings 
of the passions blighted by cold severity ; yet I 
am of opinion that young females should be 
accustomed very early in life to a certain degree 
of restraint. The natural cast of character, and 
the moral distinctions between the sexes, should 
not be disregarded, even in childhood. That 
bold, independent, enterprising spirit, which is 
so much admired in boys, should not, when it 
happens to discover itself in the other sex, be 
encouraged, but suppressed. Girls should be 
taught to give up their opinions betimes, and 
not pertinaciously to carry on a dispute, even 
if they should know themselves to be in the 
right. I do not mean, that they should be 
robbed of the liberty of private judgment, but 
that they should by no means be encouraged to 
contract a contentious or contradictory turn. 
Tt is of the greatest importance to their future 
happiness, that they should acquire a submissive 
temper and a forbearing spirit : for it is a lesson 
which the world will not fail to make them fre- 
quently practise, when they come abroad into it, 
and they will not practise it the worse for having 
learned it the sooner. These early restraints, in 
the limitation here meant, are so far from being 
an effect of cruelty, that they are the most indu- 
bitable marks of affection, and are the more 
meritorious, as they are severe trials of tender- 
ness. But all the beneficial effects which a 
mother can expect from this watchfulness, will 
be entirely defeated, if it is practised occasion- 
ally, and not habitually, and if it ever appears to 
be used to gratify caprice, ill-humour, or re- 
sentment. 

Those who have children to educate ought to 
be extremely patient : it is indeed a labour of 
love. They should reflect that extraordinary 
talents are neither essential to the wellbeing of 
society, nor to the happiness of individuals. If 
that had been the case, the beneficent Father 
of the universe would not have made them so 
rare. For it is as easy for an Almighty Creator 
to produce a Newton, as an ordinary man ; and 
he could have made those powers common 
which we now consider as wonderful, without 
any miraculous exertion of his omnipotence, if 
the existence of many Newtons had been neces- 
sary to the perfection of his wise and gracious 
plan. 

Surely, therefore, there is more piety, as well 
as more sense, in labouring to improve the 
talents which children actually have, than in 
lamenting that they do not possess supernatural 
endowments or angelic perfections. A passage 
of Lord Bacon's furnishes an admirable incite- 
ment for endeavouring to carry the amiable and 
Christian grace of charity to its farthest extent, 
instead of indulging an over-anxious care for 
more brilliant but less important acquisitions. 
" The desire of power in excess (says he) 
caused the angels to fall ; the desire of knowl- 



edge in excess caused man to fall ; but in 
charity is no excess, neither can men nor angels 
come into danger by it." 

A girl who has docility will seldom be found 
to want understanding enough for all the pur- 
poses of a social, a happy, and a useful life. 
And when we behold the tender hope of fond 
and anxious love blasted by disappointment, the 
defect will as often be discovered to proceed 
from the neglect or the error of cultivation, as 
from the natural temper y and those who lament 
the evil, will sometimes be found to have occa- 
sioned it. 

It is as injudicious for parents to set out with 
too sanguine a dependance on the merit of their 
children, as it is for them to be discouraged at 
every repulse. When their wishes are defeated 
in this or that particular instance, where they 
had treasured up some darling expectation, this 
is so far from being a reason for relaxing their 
attention, that it ought to be an additional mo- 
tive for redoubling it. Those who hope to do a 
great deal, must not expect to do every thing. 
If they know any thing of the malignity of sin, 
the blindness of prejudice, or the corruption of 
the human heart, they will also know, that that 
heart will always remain, after the very best 
possible education, full of infirmity and imperfec- 
tion. Extraordinary allowances, therefore, must 
be made for the weakness of nature in this its 
weakest state. After much is done, much will 
remain to do, and much, very much, will still be 
left undone : for this regulation of the passions 
and affections cannot be the work of education 
alone, without the concurrence of divine grace 
operating on the heart. Why then should 
parents repine, if their efforts are not always 
crowned with immediate success 1 They should 
consider, that they are not educating cherubims 
or seraphims, but men and women ; creatures, 
who at their best estate are altogether vanity : 
how little then can be expected from them in 
the weakness and imbecility of infancy ! I have 
dwelt on this part of the subject the longer, be- 
cause I am certain that many, who have set out 
with a warm and active zeal, have cooled on 
the very first discouragement, and have after- 
ward almost totally remitted their vigilance, 
through a criminal kind of despair. 

Great allowances must be made for a profu- 
sion of gayety, loquacity, and even indiscretion 
in children, that there may be animation enough 
left to supply an active and useful character, 
when the first fermentation of the youthful pas- 
sions is over, and the redundant spirits shall 
come to subside. 

If it be true, as a consummate judge of hu- 
man nature has observed, 

" That not a vanity is given in vain," 

it is also true, that there is scarcely a single 
passion which may not be turned to some good 
account, if prudently rectified, and skilfully 
turned into the road of some neighbouring virtue. 
It cartnot be violently bent, or unnaturally forced 
towards an object of a totally opposite nature, 
but may be gradually inclined towards a corre- 
spondent but superior affection. Anger, hatred. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



569 



resentment, and ambition, the most restless and 
turbulent passions which shake and distract the 
human soul, may be led to become the most 
active opposers of sin, after having been its 
most successful instruments. Our anger, for 
instance, which can never be totally subdued, 
may be made to turn against ourselves, for our 
weak and imperfect obedience — our hatred 
against every species of vice — our ambition, 
which will not be discarded, may be ennobled : 
it will not change its name, but its object ; it 
will despise what it lately valued, nor be con- 
tented to grasp at less than immortality. 

Thus the joys, fears, hopes, desires, all the 
passions and affections, which separate in various 
currents from the soul, will, if directed into their 
proper channels, after having fertilized wherever 
they have flowed, return again to swell and en- 
rich the parent source. 

That the very passions which appear the most 
uncontrollable and unpromising, may be in- 
tended, in the great scheme of Providence, to 
answer some important purpose, is remarkably 
evidenced in the character and history of Saint 
Paul. A remark on this subject by an ingenious 
old Spanish writer, which I will here take the 
liberty to translate, will better illustrate my 
meaning. 

" To convert the bitterest enemy into the 
most zealous advocate, is the work of God for 
the instruction of man. Plutarch has observed, 
that the medical science would be brought to 
the utmost perfection, when poison should be 
converted into physic. Thus, in the mortal dis- 
ease of Judaism and idolatry, our blessed Lord 
converted the adder's venom of Saul the perse- 
cutor, into that cement which made Paul the 
chosen vessel. That manly activity, that rest- 
less ardour, that burning zeal for the law of his 
fathers, that ardent thirst for the blood of Chris- 
tians, did the Son of God find necessary in the 
man who was one. day to become the defender 
of his suffering people."* 

To win the passions, therefore, over to the 
cause of virtue, answers a much nobler end than 
their extinction would possibly do, even if that 
could be effected. But it is their nature never 
to observe a neutrality ; they are either rebels 
or auxiliaries, and an enemy subdued is an ally 
obtained. If I may be allowed to change the 
allusion so soon, I would say that the passions 
also resemble fires, which are friendly and bene- 
ficial when under proper direction, but if suffered 
to blaze without restraint, they carry devasta- 
tion along with them, and, if totally extinguished, 
leave the benighted mind in a state of cold and 
comfortless inanity. 

But in speaking of the usefulness of the pas- 
sions as instruments of virtue, envy and lying 
must always be excepted : these, I am persuaded, 
must either go on in still progressive mischief, 
or else be radically cured, before any good can 
be expected from the heart which has been in- 

*Obras de Quevedo, vida de San Pablo Aposiol. 
[Francisco Quevedo de Villegas, born at Villeneuve d'l 
Infantado, in Spain, in 1570, and died there in 1645. His 
works, primed al Brussels (3 vols.) consist of poems, 
romances, satires, and some religious pieces, among 
which is the one here quoted— Ed.] 
Vol. II. 



fected with them. For I never will belieue that 
envy, though passed through all the moral 
strainers, can be refined into a virtuous emula- 
tion, or lying improved into an agreeable turn 
for innocent invention. Almost all the other 
passions may be made to take an amiable hue ; 
but these two must either be totally extirpated, 
or be always contented to preserve their original 
deformity, and to wear their native black. 



ON THE IMPORTANCE OF RELIGION 

TO THK 

FEMALE CHARACTER. 

Various are the reasons why the greater part 
of mankind cannot apply themselves to arts or 
letters. Particular studies are only suited to 
the capacities of particular persons. Some are 
incapable of applying to them from the delicacy 
of their sex, some from the unsteadiness of 
youth, and others from the imbecility of age. 
Many are precluded by the narrowness of their 
education, and many by the straimess of their 
fortune. The wisdom of God is wonderfully 
manifested in this happy and wel.'-ordered diver- 
sity, in the powers and properties of his crea- 
tures ; since by thus admirably suiting the agent 
to the action, the whole scheme of human af- 
fairs is carried on with the most agreeing and 
consistent economy, and no chasm is left for 
want of an object to fill it, exactly suited to its 
nature. 

But in the great and universal concern of 
religion, both sexes, and all ranks, are equally 
interested. The truly catholic spirit of Chris- 
tianity accommodates itself, with an astonishing 
condescension, to the circumstances of the 
whole human race. It rejects none on account 
of their pecuniary wants, their personal infirmi- 
ties, or their intellectual deficiencies. No su- 
periority of parts is the least recommendation, 
nor is any depression of fortune the smallest 
objection. None are too wise to be excused 
from performing the duties of religion, nor are 
any too poor to be excluded from the consola- 
tions of its promises. 

If we admire the wisdom of God in having 
furnished different degrees of intelligence, so 
exactly adapted to their different destinations, 
and in having fitted every part of his stupen- 
dous work, not only to serve its own immediate 
purpose, but also to contribute to the beauty 
and perfection of the whole ; how much more 
ought we to adore that goodness which has 
perfected the divine plan, by appointing one 
wide, comprehensive, and universal means of 
salvation : a salvation which all are invited to 
partake ; by a means which all are capable of 
using ; which nothing but voluntary blindness 
can prevent our comprehending, and nothing 
but wilful error can hinder us from embracing. 

The muses are coy, and will only be wooed 
and won by some highly-favoured suiters. The 
sciences are lofty, and will not stoop to the 
reach of ordinary capacities. But " wisdom (by 
which the royal preacher means piety) is a lov- 



670 



THE WOftKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



ing spirit ; she is easily seen of them that love 
her, and found of all such as seek her." Nay, 
she is so accessible and condescending, " that 
she preventeth them that desire her, making 
herself first known unto them." 

We are told by the same animated writer, 
" that wisdom is the breath of the power of 
God." How infinitely superior, in grandeur 
and sublimity, is this description to the origin 
of the wisdom of the heathens, as described by 
their poets and mythologists ! In the exalted 
strains of the Hebrew poetry, we read, that 
" wisdom is the brightness of the everlasting 
light, the unspotted mirror of the power of God, 
and the image of his goodness." 

The philosophical author of " The Defence 
of Learning" observes, that knowledge has 
something of venom and malignity in it, when 
taken without its proper corrective ; and what 
that is, the inspired Saint Paul teaches us, by 
placing it as the immediate antidote — " Knowl- 
edge puffeth up, but charity edifieth." Perhaps 
it is the vanity of human wisdom, unchastised 
by this correcting principle, which has made so 
many infidels. It may proceed from the arro- 
gance of a self-sufficient pride, that some phi- 
losophers disdain to acknowledge their belief in 
a Being who has judged proper to conceal from 
them the infinite wisdom of his counsels ; who 
(to borrow the lofty language of the man of 
Uz) refused to consult them when he laid the 
foundations of the earth, when he. shut up '• <> 
sea with doors, and made the clouds the gar- 
ment thereof. 

A man must be an infidel either from pride, 
prejudice, or bad education : he cannot be one 
unawares, or by surprise ; for infidelity is not 
occasioned by sudden impulse or violent tempt- 
ation. He may be hurried by some vehement 
desire into an immoral action, at which he will 
blush in his cooler moments, and which he will 
lament as the sad effect of a spirit unsubdued 
by religion ; but infidelity is a calm, considerate 
act, which cannot plead the weakness of the 
heart, or the seduction of the senses. Even 
good men frequently fail in their duty through 
the infirmities of nature and the allurements 
of the world ; but the infidel errs on a plan, on 
a settled and deliberate principle. 

But though the minds of men are sometimes 
fatally infected with this disease, either through 
unhappy prepossession, or some of the other 
causes above-mentioned, yet I am unwilling to 
believe that there is in nature so monstrously 
incongruous a being as a female infidel. The 
least reflection on the temper, the character, 
and the education of women, makes the mind 
revolt with horror from an idea so improbable 
and so unnatural. 

May I be allowed to observe that, in general, 
the minds of girls seem more aptly prepared in 
their early youth for the reception of serious 
impressions than those of the other sex, and 
that their less exposed situations in more ad- 
vanced life qualify them better for the preser- 
vation of them ? The daughters (of good parents 
I mean) are often more carefully instructed in 
»heir religious duties than the sons, and this 



from a variety of causes. They are not so soon 
sent from under the paternal eye into the bustle 
of the world, and so early exposed to the con- 
tagion of bad example : their hearts are natu- 
rally more flexible, soft, and liable to any kind 
of impression the forming hand may stamp on 
them ; and, lastly, as they do not receive the 
same classical education with boys, their feeble 
minds are not obliged at once to receive and 
separate the precepts of Christianity, and the 
documents of pagan philosophy. The neces- 
sity of doing this perhaps somewhat weakens 
the serious impressions of young men, at least 
till the understanding is formed ; and confuses 
their ideas of piety, by mixing them with so 
much heterogeneous matter. They only casu- 
ally read, or hear read, the Scriptures of truth, 
while they are obliged to learn by heart, construe, 
and repeat, the poetical fables of the less than 
human gods of the ancients. And, as the ex- 
cellent author of " The Internal Evidence of the 
Christian Religion"* observes, " Nothing has 
so much contributed to corrupt the true spirit 
of the Christian institution, as that partiality 
which we contract, in our earliest education^ 
for the manners of pagan antiquity." 

Girls, therefore, who do not contract this 
early partiality, ought to have a clearer notion of 
their religious duties : they are not obliged, at 
an age when the judgment is so weak, to dis- 
tinguish between the doctrines of Zeno, of Epi- 
curus, and of Christ ; and to embarrass their 
minds with the various morals which were 
taught in the Porch, in the Academy, and on 
the Mount. 

It is presumed that these remarks cannot pos- 
sibly be so misunderstood, as to be construed 
into the least disrespect to literature, or a want 
of the highest reverence for a learned educa- 
tion, the basis of all elegant knowledge : they 
are only intended, with all proper deference, to 
point out to young women that, however in- 
ferior their advantages of acquiring a knowledge 
of the belles-lettres are to those of the other 
sex, yet it depends on themselves not to be 
surpassed in this most important of all studies, 
for which their abilities are equal, and their op- 
portunities perhaps greater. 

But the mere exemption from infidelity is so 
small a part of the religious character, that I 
hope no one will attempt to claim any merit 
from this negative sort of goodness, or value 
herself merely for not being the very worst 
thing she possibly can be. Let no mistaken 
girl fancy she gives a proof of her wit by her 
want of piety, or that a contempt of things 
serious and sacred will exalt her understanding, 
or raise her character even in the opinion of the 
most avowed male infidels. For one may ven- 
ture to affirm, that with all their profligate ideas, 
both of women and of religion, neither Boling- 
broke, Wharton, Buckingham, nor even Lord 
Chesterfield himself, would have esteemed a 
woman the more for her being irreligious. 

With whatever ridicule a polite freethinker 
may affect to treat religion himself, he will 
think it necessary his wife should entertain dif- 
* Soame Jenyns, Esq. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



571 



ferent notions of it. He may pretend to despise it 
as a matter of opinion, depending on creeds and 
systems ; but, if he is a man of sense, he will 
know the value of it as a governing principle, 
which is to influence her conduct and direct 
her actions. If he sees her unaffectedly sincere 
in the practice of her religious duties, it will 
be a secret pledge to him that she will be 
equally exact in fulfilling the conjugal ; for he 
can have no reasonable dependance on her at- 
tachment to him, if he has no opinion of* her 
fidelity to God ; for she who neglects first 
duties, gives but an indifferent proof of her 
disposition to fill up inferior ones ; and how can 
a man of any understanding (whatever his own 
religious professions may be) trust that woman 
with the care of his family, and the education 
of his children, who wants herself the best in- 
centive to a virtuous life, the belief that she is 
an accountable creature, and the reflection that 
she has an immortal soul. 

Cicero spoke it as the highest commendation 
of Cato's character, that he embraced philoso- 
phy, not for the sake of disputing like a philoso- 
pher, but of living like one. The chief purpose 
of Christian knowledge is to promote the great 
end of a Christian life. Every rational woman 
should, no doubt, be able to give a reason of 
the hope that is in her ; but this knowledge is 
best acquired, and the duties consequent on it 
best performed, by reading books of plain piety 
and practical devotion, and not by entering into 
the endless feuds, and engaging in the unprofit- 
able contentions, of partial controversialists. 
Nothing is more unamiable than the narrow 
spirit of party zeal, nor more disgusting than to 
hear a woman deal out judgments, and denounce 
vengeance, against any one who happens to 
differ from her in some opinion, perhaps of no 
real importance, and which, it is probable, she 
may be just as wrong in rejecting, as the object 
of her censure is in embracing. A furious and 
unmerciful female bigot wanders as far beyond 
the limits prescribed to her sex, as a Thalestris 
or a Joan d'Arc. Violent debate has made as 
few converts as the sword, and both these in- 
struments are particularly unbecoming when 
wielded by a female hand. 

But, though no one will be frightened out of 
their opinions, yet they may be persuaded out 
of them ; they may be touched by the affecting 
earnestness of serious conversation, and allured 
by the attractive beauty of a consistently serious 
life. And while a young woman ought to dread 
the name of a wrangling polemic, it is her duty 
to aspire after the honourable character of a 
sincere Christian. But this dignified character 
she can by no means deserve, if she is ever 
afraid to avow her principles, or ashamed to de- 
fend them. A profligate, who makes it a point 
to ridicule every thing which comes under the 
appearance of formal instruction, will be discon- 
certed at the spirited yet modest rebuke of a 
pious young woman. But there is as much 
efficacy in the manner of reproving profaneness, 
as in the words. If she corrects it with mo- 
roseness, she defeats the effect of her remedy 
by her unskilful manner of administering it. 



If, on the other hand, she affects to defend the 
insulted cause of God in a faint tone of voice, 
and studied ambiguity of phrase, or with an air 
of levity, and a certain expression of pleasure in 
her eyes, which proves she is secretly delighted 
with what she pretends to censure, she injures 
religion much more than he did who publicly 
profaned it ; for she plainly indicates, either 
that she does not believe or respect what she 
professes. The other attacked it as an open 
foe ; she betrays it as a false friend. No one 
pays any regard to the opinion of an avowed 
enemy ; but the desertion or treachery of a 
professed friend is dangerous indeed ! 

It is a strange notion which prevails in the 
world, that religion only belongs to the old and 
the melancholy, and that it is not worth while 
to pay the least attention to it, while we are 
capable of attending to any thing else. They 
allow it to be proper enough for the clergy, 
whose business it is, and for the aged, who 
have not spirits for any business at all. But 
till they can prove that none except the clergy 
and the aged die, it must be confessed that this 
is most wretched reasoning. 

Great injury is done to the interests of reli- 
gion, by placing it in a gloomy and unamiable 
light. It is sometimes spoken of as if it would 
actually make a handsome woman ugly, or a 
young one wrinkled. But can any thing be 
more absurd than to represent the beauty of 
holiness as the source of deformity 1 

There are few, perhaps, so entirely plunged 
in business, or absorbed in pleasure, as not to 
intend, at some future time, to set about a reli- 
gious life in good earnest. But then they con- 
sider it as a kind of dernier ressort, and think it 
prudent to defer flying to this disagreeable 
refuge, till they have no relish left for any thing 
else. Do they forget, that to perform this great 
business well requires all the strength of their 
youth, and all the vigour of their unimpaired 
capacities \ To confirm this assertion, they 
may observe how much the slightest indisposi- 
tion, even in the most active season of life, 
disorders every faculty, and disqualifies them 
for attending to the most ordinary affairs ; and 
then let them reflect how little able they will 
be to transact the most important of all busi- 
ness, in the moment of excruciating pain, or in 
the day of universal debility. 

When the senses are palled with excessive 
gratification ; when the eye is tired with seeing, 
and the ear with hearing ; when the spirits are 
so sunk, that the grasshopper is become a bur- 
den, how shall the blunted apprehension be 
capable of understanding a new science, or the 
worn-out heart be able to relish a new pleasure 1 

To put off religion till we have lost all taste 
for amusement ; to refuse listening to the voice 
of the charmer, till our enfeebled organs can no 
longer listen to the voice of " singing men and 
singing women," and not to devote our days 
to heaven till we have " no pleasure in them" 
ourselves, is but an ungracious offering. And it 
is a wretched sacrifice to the God of heaven, to 
present him with the remnants of decayed appe- 
tites, and the leavings of extinguished passions. 



572 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS ON 
GENIUS, TASTE, GOOD SENSE,* &c. 

Good sense is as different from genius as 
perception is from invention ; yet, though dis- 
tinct qualities, they frequently subsist together. 
It is altogether opposite to wit, but by no means 
inconsistent with it. It is not science, for there 
is such a thing as unlettered good sense ; yet, 
though it is neither wit, learning, nor genius, 
it is a substitute for each where they do not 
exist, and the perfection of all where they do. 

Good sense is so far from deserving the ap- 
pellation of common sense, by which it is fre- 
quently called, that it is perhaps one of the 
rarest qualities of the human mind. If, indeed, 
this name is given it in respect to its peculiar 
suitableness to the purposes of common life, 
there is great propriety in it. Good sense ap- 
pears to differ from taste in this, that taste is an 
instantaneous decision of the mind, a sudden 
relish of what is beautiful, or disgust at what 
is defective in an object, without waiting for 
the slower confirmation of the judgment. Good 
sense is perhaps that confirmation which es- 
tablishes a suddenly conceived idea or feeling, 
by the powers of comparing and reflecting. 
They differ also in this, that taste seems to 
have a more immediate reference to arts, to 
literature, and to almost every object of the 
senses ; while good sense rises to moral excel- 
lence, and exerts its influence on life and man- 
ners. Taste is fitted to the perception and en- 
joyment of whatever is beautiful in art or 
nature : good sense, to the improvement of the 
conduct, and the regulation of the heart. 

Yet the term good sense is used indiscrimi- 
nately to express either a finished taste for let- 
ters, or an invariable prudence in the affairs of 
life. It is sometimes applied to the most 
moderate abilities, in which case the expres- 
sion is certainly too strong ; and at others to 
the most shining, when it is as much too weak 
and inadequate. A sensible man is the usual, 
but unappropriate phrase, for every degree in the 
scale of understanding, from the sober mortal, 
who obtains it by his decent demeanour and 
solid dulness, to him whose talents qualify him 
to rank with a Bacon, a Harris, or a Johnson. 

Genius is the power of invention and imita- 
tion. It is an incommunicable faculty : no art 
or skill of the possessor can bestow the small- 
est portion of it on another : no pains or labour 
can reach the summit of perfection, where the 
seeds of it are wanting in the mind ; yet it is 
capable of infinite improvement where it ac- 
tually exists, and is attended with the highest 
capacity of communicating instruction as well 
as delight to others. 

It is the peculiar property of genius to strike 
out great or beautiful things : it is the felicity 
of good sense not to do absurd ones. Genius 

* The author begs leave to offer an apology for intro- 
ducing this essay, which, she fears, may be thought 
foreign to her purpose. But she hopes that her earnest 
desire of exciting a laste for literature in young ladies 
(which encouraged her to hazard the following remarks), 
will not obstruct her general design, even if it does not 
actually promote it. 



breaks out in splendid sentiments and elevated 
ideas ; good sense confines its more circum- 
scribed, but perhaps more useful walk, within 
the limits of prudence and propriety. 

" The poet's eye in a fine phrensy rolling, 
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth ic 

heaven ; 
And, as imagination bodies forth 
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothng, 
A local habitation and a name."* 

This is, perhaps, the finest picture of human 
genius that ever was drawn by a human pencil. 
It presents a living image of a creative imagi- 
nation, or a power of inventing things which 
have no actual existence. 

With superficial judges, who, it must be con- 
fessed, make up the greater part of the mass 
of mankind, talents are only liked or understood 
to a certain degree. Lofty ideas are above the 
reach of ordinary apprehensions : the vulgar 
allow those who possess them to be in a some- 
what higher state of mind than themselves ; 
but of the vast gulf which separates them, they 
have not the least conception. They acknowl- 
edge a superiority, but of its extent they nei- 
ther know the value, nor can conceive the 
reality. It is true, the mind, as well as the 
eye, can take in objects larger than itself; but 
this is only true of great minds ; for a man of low 
capacity who considers a consummate genius, 
resembles one who, seeing a column for the 
first time, and standing at too great a distance 
to take in the whole of it, concludes it to be 
flat : or, like one unacquainted with the first 
principles of philosophy, who, finding the sensi- 
ble horizon appear a plain surface, can form no 
idea of the spherical form of the whole, which 
he does not see, and laughs at the account of 
antipodes, which he cannot comprehend. 

Whatever is excellent is also rare ; what is 
useful is more common. How many thousands 
are born qualified for the coarse employments 
oPlife, for one who is capable of excelling in 
the fine arts ! yet so it ought to be, because 
our natural wants are more numerous and more 
importunate than the intellectual. 

Whenever it happens that a man of distin- 
guished talents has been drawn by mistake, or 
precipitated by passion, into any dangerous in- 
discretion, it is common for those whose cold- 
ness of temper has supplied the place and 
usurped the name of prudence, to boast of their 
own steadier virtue, and triumph in their own 
superior caution — only because they have never 
been assailed by a temptation strong enough to 
surprise them into error. And with what a 
visible appropriation of the character to them- 
selves do they constantly conclude with a cor- 
dial compliment to common sense ! They point 
out the beauty and usefulness of this quality so 
forcibly and explicitly, that you cannot possibly 
mistake whose picture they are drawing with 
so flattering a pencil. The unhappy man whose 
conduct has been so feelingly arraigned, per- 
haps acted from good, though mistaken motives; 
at least, from motives of which his censurer has 

* Shakspeare's Midsummer Night's Dream, Act V 
Scene 1st. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



573 



not capacity to judge : but the event was un- 
favourable, nay, the action might be really 
wrong, and the vulgar maliciously take the 
opportunity of this single indiscretion, to lift 
themselves nearer on a level with a character 
which, except in this instance, has always 
thrown them at the most disgraceful and mor- 
tifying distance. 

The elegant biographer of Collins, in his 
affecting apology for that unfortunate genius, 
remarks, " That the gifts of imagination bring 
the heaviest task on the vigilance of reason ; 
and to bear those faculties with unerring recti- 
tude, or invariable propriety, requires a degree 
of firmness, and of cool attention, which does 
not always attend the higher gifts of the mind ; 
yet difficult as nature herself seems to have 
rendered the task of regularity to genius, it is 
the supreme consolation of dulness and of folly 
to point with Gothic triumph to those excesses 
which are the overflowing of faculties they 
never enjoyed."* 

What the greater part of the world mean by 
common sense, will be generally found, on a 
closer inquiry, to be art, fraud, or selfishness ! 
That sort of saving prudence which makes men 
extremely attentive to their own safety or 
profit ; diligent in the pursuit of their own 
pleasures or interests ; and perfectly at their 
ease as to what becomes of the rest of man- 
kind : furies, where their own property is con- 
cerned ; philosophers, when nothing but the 
good of others is at stake ; and perfectly re- 
signed under all calamities but their own. 

When we see so many accomplished wits of 
the present age, as remarkable for the decorum 
of their lives as for the brilliancy of their wri- 
tings, we may believe that, next to principle, it 
is owing to their good sense, which regulates 
and chastises their imaginations. The vast 
conceptions which enable a true genius to as- 
cend the sublimest heights, may be so con- 
nected with the stronger passions as to give it 
a natural tendency to fly off from the straight 
line of regularity ; till good sense, acting on 
the fancy, makes it gravitate powerfully towards 
that virtue which is its proper centre. 

Add to this, when it is considered with what 
imperfection the divine wisdom has thought fit 
to stamp every thing human, it will be found 
that excellence and infirmity are so inseparably 
wound up in each other, that a man derives the 
soreness of temper, and irritability of nerve, 
which make him uneasy to others, and un- 
happy in himself, from those exquisite feelings, 
and that elevated pitch of thought, by which, 
as the apostle expresses it on a more serious 
occasion, he is, as it were, out of the body. 

It is not astonishing, therefore, when the 
spirit is carried away by the magnificence of its 
own ideas, 

" Not touch'd, but rapt ; not waken'd, but inspired ;" 

that the frail body, which is the natural victim 
of pain, disease, and death, should not always 
be able to follow the mind in its aspiring flights, 

* Dr. John Langhorne's Biographical Memoir, pre- 
fixed to the Poetical Works of William Collins. 



but should be as imperfect as if it belonged 
only to an ordinary soul. 

Besides, might not Providence intend to 
humble human pride, by presenting to our eyes 
so mortifying a view of the weakness and in- 
firmity of even his best work 1 Perhaps man, 
who is already but a little lower than the angels, 
might, like the revolted spirits, totally have 
shaken off obedience and submission to his 
Creator, had not God wisely tempered human 
excellence with a certain consciousness of its 
own imperfection. But though this inevitable 
alloy of weakness may frequently be found in 
the best characters, yet how can that be the 
source of triumph and exaltation to any, which, 
if properly weighed, must be the deepest motive 
of humiliation to all ! A good-natured man 
will be so far from rejoicing, that he will be 
secretly troubled whenever he reads that the 
greatest Roman moralist was tainted with ava- 
rice, and the greatest British philosopher with 
venality.* 

It is remarked by Pope, in his Essay on 
Criticism, that 

" Ten censure wrong, for one who writes amiss." 
But I apprehend it does not therefore follow 
that to judge is more difficult than to write. 
If this were the case, the critic would be supe- 
rior to the poet, whereas it appears to be directly 
the contrary. " The critic," says the great 
champion of Shakspeare,t " but fashions the 
body of a work ; the poet must add the soul 
which gives force and direction to its actions 
and gestures." It should seem that the reason 
why so many more judge wrong than write 
ill, is because the number of readers is beyond 
all proportion greater than the number of wri- 
ters. Every man who reads is in some meas- 
ure a critic, and, with very common abilities, 
may point out real faults and material errors in 
a very well-written book ; but it by no means 
follows that he is able to write any thing com- 
parable to the work which he is capable of cen- 
suring. And unless the numbers of those who 
write and those who judge were more equal, 
the calculation seems not to be quite fair. 

A capacity for relishing works of genius is 
the indubitable sign of a good taste. But if a 
proper disposition and ability to enjoy the com- 
positions of others entitle a man to the claim 
of reputation, it is still a far inferior degree of 
merit to his who can invent and produce those 
compositions, the bare disquisition of which 
gives the critic no small share of fame. 

The president of the royal academy, J in his 
admirable discourse on Imitation, has set the 
folly of depending on unassisted genius in the 
clearest light ; and has shown the necessity of 
adding the knowledge of others to our own 
native powers, in his usual striking and masterly 
manner. " The mind," says he, " is a barren 
soil, is a soil soon exhausted, and will produce 
no crop, or only one, unless it be continually 
fertilized, and enriched with foreign matter." 

* Seneca and Bacon. 

f Mrs. Montagu, in her vindication of our immortal 
dramatist from the censorious remarks of Voltaire.— Ed. 
i Sir Joshua Reynolds. 



574 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE 



Yet it has been objected, that study is a 
great enemy to originality ; but, even if this 
were true, it would perhaps be as well that an 
author should give us the ideas of still better 
writers, mixed and assimilated with the matter 
in his own mind, as those crude and undigested 
thoughts which he values under the notion that 
they are original. The sweetest honey neither 
tastes of the rose, the honeysuckle, nor the 
carnation, yet it is compounded of the very es- 
sence of them all. 

If in the other fine arts this accumulation 
of knowledge is necessary, it is indispensably 
so in poetry. It is a fatal rashness for any one 
to trust too much to his own stock of ideas. 
He must invigorate them by exercise, polish 
them by conversation, and increase them by 
every species of elegant and virtuous knowl- 
edge, and the mind will not fail to reproduce 
with interest those seeds, which are sown in it 
by study and observation. Above all, let every 
one guard against the dangerous opinion that 
he knows enough ; an opinion that will weaken 
the energy and reduce the powers of the mind, 
which, though once perhaps vigorous and effect- 
ual, will be sunk to a state of literary imbe- 
cility, by cherishing vain and presumptuous 
ideas of its own independence. 

For instance, it may not be necessary that a 
poet should be deeply skilled in the Linncean 
system ; but it must be allowed that a general 
acquaintance with plants and flowers will fur- 
nish him with a delightful and profitable species 
of instruction. He is not obliged to trace 
nature in all her nice and varied operations, 
with the minute accuracy of a Boyle, or the 
laborious investigation of a Newton ; but his 
good sense will point out to him that no incon- 
siderable portion of philosophical knowledge is 
requisite to the completion of his literary char- 
acter. The sciences are more independent, 
and require little or no assistance from the 
graces of poetry ; but poetry, if she would 
charm and instruct, must not be so haughty ; 
she must be contented to borrow of the sciences 
many of her choicest allusions, and many of 
her most graceful embellishments ; and does it 
not magnify the character of true poesy, that 
she includes within herself all the scattered 
graces of every separate art 1 

The rules of the great masters in criticism 
may not be so necessary to the forming a good 
taste, as the examination of those original mines 
from whence they drew their treasures of knowl- 
edge. 

The three celebrated essays on the art of 
poetry do not teach so much by their laws as 
by their examples ; the dead letter of their rules 
is less instructive than the living spirit of their 
verse. Yet these rules are to a young poet, 
what the study of logarithms is to a young mathe- 
matician : they do not so much contribute to 
form his judgment, as afford him the satisfaction 
of convincing him that he is right. They do not 
preclude the difficulty of the operation ; but, at 
the conclusion of it, furnish him with a fuller 
demonstration that he has proceeded on proper 
princioles. "When he has well studied the mas- 



ters in whose schools the first critics formed 
themselves, and fancies he has caught a spark 
of their divine flame, it may be a good method 
to try his own compositions by the test of the 
critic rules, so far indeed as the mechanism of 
poetry goes. If the examination be fair and 
candid, this trial, like the touch of Ithuriel's 
spear, will detect every latent error, and bring 
to light every favourite failing. 

Good taste always suits the measure of its 
admiration to the merit of the composition it 
examines. It accommodates its praises, or its 
censure, to the excellence of a work, and ap- 
propriates it to the nature of it. General ap- 
plause, or indiscriminate abuse, is the sign of a 
vulgar understanding. There are certain blem- 
ishes which the judicious and good-natured 
reader will candidly overlook. But the false 
sublime, the tumour which is intended for great- 
ness, the distorted figure, the puerile conceit, 
and the incongruous metaphor, these are defects 
for which scarcely any other kind of merit can 
atone. And yet there may be more hope of a 
writer (especially if he be a young one), who is 
now and then guilty of some of these faults, than 
of one who avoids them all, not through judg- 
ment, but feebleness ; and who, instead of devi- 
ating into error, is continually falling short of 
excellence. The mere absence of error implies 
that moderate and inferior degree of merit with 
which a cold heart and a phlegmatic taste will 
be better satisfied than with the magnificent 
irregularities of exalted spirits. It stretches 
some minds to an uneasy extension to be obliged 
to attend to compositions superlatively excel- 
lent ; and it contracts liberal souls to a painful 
narrowness to descend to books of inferior merit. 
A work of capital genius, to a man of an ordi- 
nary mind, is the bed of Procrustes to one of a 
short stature, the man is too little to fill up the 
space assigned him, and undergoes the torture 
in attempting it : and a moderate or low produc- 
tion to a man of bright talents, is the punishment 
inflicted by Mezentius ; the living spirit has too 
much animation to endure patiently to be in 
contact with a dead body. 

Taste seems to be a sentiment of the soul 
which gives the bias to opinion, for we feel be- 
fore we reflect. Without this sentiment, all 
knowledge, learning, and opinion would be cold, 
inert materials ; whereas they become active 
principles when stirred, kindled, and inflamed 
by this animating quality. 

There is another feeling which is called en- 
thusiasm. The enthusiasm of sensible hearts 
is so strong, that it not only yields to the impulse 
with which striking objects act on it, but such 
hearts help on the effect by their own sensibil- 
ity. In a scene where Shakspeare and Garrick 
give perfection to each other, the feeling heart 
does not merely accede to the delirium they 
occasion ; it does more, it is enamoured of it, 
it solicits the delusion, it sues to be deceived, 
and grudgingly cherishes the sacred treasure of 
its feelings. The poet and performer concur 
in carrying us 

" Beyond this visible diurnal sphere ;" 
they bear us aloft in their airy course with un- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



675 



resisted rapidity, if they meet not with any 
obstruction from the coldness of our own feel- 
ings. Perhaps only a few fine spirits can enter 
into the detail of their writing and acting ; but 
the multitude do not enjoy less acutely, because 
they are not able philosophically to analyze the 
sources of their joy or sorrow. If the others 
have the advantage of judging, these have at 
least the privilege of feeling : and it is not from 
complaisance to a few leading judges, that they 
burst into peals of laughter, or melt into delight- 
ful agony ; their hearts decide, and that is a 
decision from which there lies no appeal. It 
must however be confessed, that the nicer separ- 
ations of character, and the lighter and almost 
imperceptible shades which sometimes distin- 
guish them, will not be intimately relished, 
unless there be a consonancy of taste as well 
as feeling in the spectator ; though, where the 
passions are principally concerned, the profane 
vulgar come in for a larger portion of the uni- 
versal delight, than critics and connoisseurs are 
willing to allow them. 

Yet enthusiasm, though the natural concomi- 
tant of genius, is no more genius itself, than 
drunkenness is cheerfulness ; and that enthusi- 
asm which discovers itself on occasions not 
worthy to excite it, is the mark of a wretched 
judgment and a false taste. 

Nature produces innumerable objects : to imi- 
tate them is the province of genius ; to direct 
those imitations is the property of judgment ; 
to decide on their effects is the business of taste. 
For taste, who sits as supreme judge on the 
productions of genius, is not satisfied when she 
merely imitates nature : she must also, says an 
ingenious French writer, imitate beautiful na- 
ture. It requires no less judgment to reject 
than to choose ; and genius might imitate what 
is^vulgar under pretence that it was natural, if 
taste did not carefully point out those objects 
which are most proper for imitation. It also 
requires a very nice discernment to distinguish 
verisimilitude from truth ; for there is a truth in 
taste nearly as conclusive as demonstration in 
mathematics. 

Genius, when in the full impetuosity of its 
career, often touches on the very brink of error ; 
and is, perhaps, never so near the verge of the 
precipice, as when indulging its sublimest flights. 
It is in those great, but dangerous moments, 
that the curb of vigilant judgment is most want- 
ing : while safe and sober dulness observes one 
tedious and insipid round of tiresome uniformity, 
and steers equally clear of eccentricity and of 
beauty. Dulness has few redundances to re- 
trench, few luxuriances to prune, and few irreg- 
ularities to smooth. These, though errors, are 
the errors of genius, for there is rarely redun- 
dance without plenitude, or irregularity without 
greatness. The excesses of genius may easily 
be retrenched, but the deficiencies of dulness 
can never be supplied. 

Those who copy from others will doubtless 
be less excellent than those who copy from 
nature. To imitate imitators, is the way to 
depart too far from the great original herself. 
The latter copies of an engraving retain fainter 



and fainter traces of the subject, to which the 
earlier impressions bore so strong a resemblance. 

It seems very extraordinary, that it should be 
the most difficult thing in the world to be natu- 
ral ; and that it should be harder to hit off the 
manners of real life, and to delineate such char- 
acters as we converse with every day, than to 
imagine such as do not exist. But caricature 
is much easier than an exact outline, and the col- 
ouring of fancy less difficult than that of truth 

People do not always know what taste they 
have, till it is awakened by some corresponding 
object ; nay, genius itself is a fire, which in 
many minds would never blaze, if not kindled 
by some external cause. 

Nature, the munificent mother, when she 
bestows the power of judging, accompanies it 
with a capacity for enjoying. The judgment, 
which is clear-sighted, points out such objects 
as are calculated to inspire love, and the heart 
instantaneously attaches itself to whatever is 
lovely. 

In regard to literary reputation, a great deal 
depends on the state of learning in the particu- 
lar age or nation in which an author lives. In 
a dark and ignorant period, moderate knowledge 
will entitle its possessor to a considerable share 
of fame ; whereas, to be distinguished in a po- 
lite and lettered age, requires striking parts and 
deep erudition. 

When a nation begins to emerge from a state 
of mental darkness, and to strike out the first 
rudiments of improvement, it chalks out a few 
strong but incorrect sketches, gives the rude 
outlines of general art, and leaves the filling up 
to the leisure of happier days, and the refine- 
ment of more enlightened times. Their draw- 
ing is a rude schizzo, and their poetry wild 
minstrelsey. 

Perfection of taste is a point which a nation 
no sooner reaches, than it overshoots ; and it is 
more difficult to return to it, after having passed 
it, than it was to attain when they fell short of 
it. Where the arts begin to languish after 
having flourished, they seldom indeed fall back 
to their original barbarism, but a certain feeble- 
ness of exertion takes place, and it is more difficult 
to recover them from this dying languor to their 
proper strength, than it was to polish them from 
their former rudeness ; for it is a less formida- 
ble undertaking to refine barbarity, than to stop 
decay : the first may be laboured into elegance, 
but the latter will rarely be strengthened into 
vigour. 

Taste exerts itself at first but feebly and im- 
perfectly ; it is repressed and kept back by a 
crowd of the most discouraging prejudices : like 
an infant prince, who, though born to reign, yet 
holds an idle sceptre, which he has not power 
to use, but is obliged to see with the eyes, and 
hear through the ears, of other men. 

A writer of correct taste will hardly ever go 
out of his way, even in search of embellishment : 
he will study to attain the best end by the most 
natural means ; for he knows that what is not 
natural cannot be beautiful, and that nothing 
can be beautiful out of its own place ; for an 
improper situation will convert the most striking 



576 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



beauty into a glaring defect. When by a well- 
connected chain of ideas, or a judicious suc- 
cession of events, the reader is snatched to 
"Thebes or Athens," what can be more imper- 
tinent than for the poet to obstruct the opera- 
tion of the passion he has just been kindling, by 
introducing a conceit which contradicts his 
purpose, and interrupts his business ] Indeed, 
we cannot be transported, even in idea, to those 
places, if the poet does not manage so adroitly 
as not to make us sensible of the journey : the 
instant we feel we are travelling, the writer's 
art fads, and the delirium is at an end. 

Proserpine, says Ovid, would have been re- 
stored to her mother Ceres, had not Ascalaphus 
seen her stop to gather a golden apple, when 
the terms of her restoration were, that she 
should taste nothing. A story pregnant with 
instruction for lively writers, who, by neglecting 
the main business, and going out of the way for 
false gratifications, lose sight of the end they 
should principally keep in view. It was this 
false taste that introduced the numberless con- 
cetti which disgrace the brightest of the Italian 
poets ; and this is the reason why the reader 
only feels short and interrupted snatches of de- 
light in perusing the brilliant but unequal com- 
positions of Ariosto,* instead of that unbroken 
and undiminished pleasure which he constantly 
receives from Virgil, from Milton, and generally 
from Tasso. The first-mentioned Italian is the 
Atalanta, who will interrupt the most eager 
career, to pick up the glittering mischief; while 
the Mantuan and the British bards, like Hippom- 
enes, press on warm in the pursuit, and unse- 
duced by temptation. 

A writer of real taste will take great pains 
in the perfection of his style, to make the reader 
believe that he took none at all. The writing 
which appears to be most easy, will be generally 



found to be least imitable. The most elegant 
verses are the most easily retained ; they fasten 
themselves on the memory without its making 
any effort to preserve them, and we are apt to 
imagine that what is remembered with ease 
was written without difficulty. 

To conclude : genius is a rare and precious 
gem, of which few know the worth ; it is fitter 
for the cabinet of the connoisseur, than for the 
commerce of mankind. Good sense is a bank- 
bill, convenient for change, negotiable at all 
times, and current in all places. It knows the 
value of small things, and considers that an ag- 
gregate of them makes up the sum of human 
affairs. It elevates common concerns into 
matters of importance, by performing them in 
the best manner, and at the most suitable sea- 
son. Good sense carries with it the idea of 
equality, while genius is always suspected of a 
design to impose the burden of superiority ; and 
respect is paid to it with that reluctance which 
always attends other imposts, the lower orders 
of mankind generally repining most at demands 
by which they are least liable to be affected. 

As it is the character of genius to penetrate 
with a lynx's beam into unfathomable abysses 
and uncreated worlds, and to see what is not, 
so it is the property of good sense to distinguish 
perfectly and judge accurately what really is. 
Good sense has not so piercing an eye, but it 
has as clear a sight : it does not penetrate so 
deeply, but as far as it does see, it discerns dis- 
tinctly. Good sense is a judicious mechanic, 
who can produce beauty and convenience out 
of suitable means ; but genius (I speak with 
reverence of the immeasurable distance) bears 
some remote resemblance to the Divine Archi- 
tect, who produced perfection of beauty without 
any visible materials, " who -spake and it was 
created ;" who said, " Let it be, and it was." 



M O R I A N A. 



Accomplishments. — It is superfluous to deco- 
rate woman so highly for early youth ; youth is 
itself a decoration. We mistakingly adorn 
most, that part of life which least requires it, 
and neglect to provide for that which will want 
it most. It is for that sober period, when life 
has lost its freshness, the passions their in- 
tenseness, and the spirits their hilarity, that we 
should be preparing. Our wisdom would be, to 
anticipate the wants of middle life, to lay in a 
store of notions, ideas, principles, and habits, 
which may preserve, or transfer to the mind, 
that affection which was at first partly attracted 
by the person. But to add a vacant mind to a 
form which has ceased to please, to provide no 
subsidiary aid to beauty while it lasts, and es- 
pecially no substitute when it is departed, is to 
render life comfortless, and marriage dreary. 

* Ariosto was bom at Regeio in 1474, and died of grief 
in 1535. His principal work, the poetical romance of "Or- 
lando Furioso," some of his admirers affected to set in 
opposition to tie " Jerusalem Delivered" of Tasso.— Ed. 



Let such women as are disposed to be vain 
of their comparatively petty attainments, look 
up with admiration to those two contemporary 
shining examples, the venerable Elizabeth Car- 
ter and the blooming Elizabeth Smith. I knew 
them both, and to know was to revere them. 
In them let our young ladies contemplate pro- 
found and various learning, chastised by true 
Christian humility. In them let them venerate 
acquirements which would have been distin- 
guished in a university, meekly softened and 
beautifully shaded by the gentle exertion of 
every domestic virtue, by the unaffected exer- 
cise of every feminine employment. 

Admiration. — Self-deception is so easy, that 
I am ever afraid of highly extolling any good 
quality, lest I should sit down satisfied with 
having borne my testimony in its favour, and so 
rest contented with the praise instead of the 
practice. Commending a right thing is a cheap 
substitute for doing it, and with this we are too 
apt to satisfy ourselves. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



577 



Affections. — True religion is seated in the 
heart ; that is the centre from which all the 
lines ot right practice must diverge. It is the 
great duty and chief business of a Christian to 
labour to make all his affections, with all their 
motives, tendences, and operations, subservient 
to the word and will of God. His irregular 
passions, which are still apt to start out into 
disorder, will require vigilance to the end. He 
must not think all is safe, because the more 
tractable ones are not rebellious ; but he may 
entertain a cheerful hope when those which 
were once rebellious are become tractable. 

Ambition. — Among the various objects of am- 
bition, there are few in life which bring less 
accession to its comfort than an unceasing 
struggle to rise to an elevation in society very 
much above the level of our own condition, 
without being aided by any stronger ascending 
power than mere vanity. Great talents, of 
whatever kind, have a natural tendency to rise, 
and to lift their possessor. The flame in mount- 
ing does but obey its impulse. But when there 
is no energy more powerful than the passion to 
be great, destitute of the gifts which can con- 
fer greatness, the painful effects of ambition are 
like water forced above its level by mechanical 
powers. It requires constant exertions of art, 
to keep up what art first set agoing. 

Amusements. — I have known pious persons 
who would, on no account, allow their children 
to attend places of gay resort, who were yet 
little solicitous to extinguish the spirit which 
those places are calculated to generate and 
nourish. This is rather a geographical than a 
moral distinction. It is thinking more of the 
place than of the temper. They restrain their 
persons ; but are not careful to expel from their 
hearts the dispositions which excite the appe- 
tite, and form the very essence of danger. A 
young creature cannot be happy who spends 
her time at home in amusements destined for 
exhibition, while she is forbidden to be exhib- 
ited. 

The woman who derives her principles from 
the Bible, and her amusements from intellectual 
sources, from the beauties of nature, and from 
active employment and exercise, will not pant 
for beholders. She is no clamorous beggar for 
the extorted alms of admiration. She lives on 
her own stock. Her resources are within her- 
self. She possesses the truest independence. 
She does not wait for the opinion of the world, 
to know if she is right ; nor for the applause 
of the world, to know if she is happy. 

Analogy. — The sacred writings frequently 
point out the analogy between natural and 
spiritual things. The same spirit which in the 
creation of the world moved upon the face of 
the waters, operates on the human character, 
to produce a new heart and a new life. By 
this operation, the affections and faculties of the 
man receive a new impulse — his dark under- 
standing is illuminated, his rebellious will is 
6ubdued, his irregular desires are rectified ; his 
judgment is informed, his imagination is chas- 
tised ; his hopes and fears are directed to their 
true and adequate end. Heaven becomes the I 

Vol. II. 



object of his hopes, an eternal separation from 
God the object of his fears. His love of the 
world is transmuted into the love of God. The 
lower faculties are pressed into the new ser- 
vice. The senses have a higher direction. 
The whole internal frame and constitution re- 
ceive a nobler bent ; the intents and purposes 
of the mind, a sublimer aim ; his aspirations, a 
loftier flight ; his vacillating desires find a fixed 
object ; his vagrant purposes, a settled home ; 
his disappointed heart a certain refuge. That 
heart, no longer the worshipper of the world, 
is struggling to become its conqueror. Our 
blessed Redeemer, in overcoming the world, 
bequeathed us his command to overcome it 
also ; but, as he did not give the command 
without the example, so he did not give the ex- 
ample without the offer of a power to obey the 
command. 

Anger. — We contrive to make revenge it- 
self look like religion. We call down thunder 
on many a head, under pretence that those on 
whom we invoke it are God's enemies, when, 
perhaps, we invoke it because they are ours. 

Applause. — Human applause is, by a worldly 
man, reckoned not only among the luxuries of 
life, but among articles of the first necessity. 
An undue desire to obtain it has certainly its 
foundation in vanity, and it is one of our grand 
errors to reckon vanity a trivial fault. An over- 
estimation of character, and an anxious wish to 
conciliate all suffrages, is an infirmity from 
which even worthy men are not exempt ; nay, 
it is a weakness from which, if they are not 
governed by a strict religious principle, worthy 
men are in most danger. Reputation being in 
itself so very desirable a good, those who actu- 
ally possess it, and in some sense deserve to 
possess it, are apt to make it their standard, 
and to rest in it as their supreme aim and end. 

We are as fond of the applauses even of the 
upper gallery as the dramatic poet. Like him, 
we affect to despise the mob, considered as in- 
dividual judges, yet, as a mass, we court their 
applause. Like him, we feel strengthened by 
the number of voices in our favour, and are less 
anxious about the goodness of the work than 
about the loudness of the acclamation. Success 
is merit in the eyes of both. 

Ascetic Piety. — A piety altogether spiritual, 
disconnected with all outward circumstances, a 
religion of pure meditation and abstracted devo- 
tion, was not made for so compound, so imper- 
fect a creature as man. There have, indeed, 
been a few sublime spirits, " not touch'd, but 
rapt," who, totally cut off from the world, seem 
almost to have literally soared above this ter- 
rene region ; who almost appear to have stolen 
the fire of the seraphim, and to have had no 
business on earth, but to keep alive the celestial 
flame. They would, however, have approxi- 
mated more nearly to the example of their 
divine Master, the great standard and only pei- 
fect model, had they combined a more diligent 
discharge of the active duties and beneficen/fes 
of life with their high devotional attainments. 

Atheism. — It furnishes the moat incontro- 
vertible proof that the world by wisdom knew 
20 



378 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



not God, that it was at the very time, and in 
the very country, in which knowledge and taste 
had attained their utmost perfection, when the 
Porch and the Academy had given laws to 
human intellect, that atheism first assumed a 
shape, and established itself into a school of 
philosophy. It was at the moment when the 
mental powers were carried to the highest pitch 
in Greece, that it was settled as an infallible 
truth in this philosophy, that the seiiscs were the 
highest natural light of mankind. It was in the 
most enlightened age of Rome that this athe- 
istical philosophy was transplanted thither, and 
that one of her most elegant poets adopted it, 
and rendered it popular by the bewitching graces 
of his verse. 

It seems as if the most accomplished nations 
stood in the most pressing need of the light of 
revelation ; for it was not to the dark and stu- 
pid corners of the earth that the apostles had 
their earliest missions. One of St. Paul's first 
and noblest expositions of Christian truth was 
made before the most august deliberative assem- 
bly in the world, though, by-the-way, it does 
not appear that more than one member of Are- 
opagus was converted. In Rome, some of the 
apostle's earliest converts belonged to the im- 
perial palace. It was to the metropolis of cul- 
tivated Italy, it was to the "regions of Achaia," 
to the opulent and luxurious city of Corinth, in 
preference to the barbarous countries of the un- 
civilized world, that some of his first epistles 
were addressed. 

During the late attempt to establish heathen- 
ism in a neighbouring country, does it not look 
as if the thirty theatres which were opened 
every night in its capital, in the early part of 
the revolution, had been intended, in imitation 
of the Romans, whose religion, titles, and offices 
the French affected to adopt, as a nightly ex- 
piation to the goddess of Reason, for the cruel- 
ties and carnage of the day 1 

Authors. — If we resolve never to read a work 
of instruction because the author had faults, 
Lord Bacon's inexhaustible mine of intellectual 
wealth might have still been unexplored. Lu- 
ther, the man to whom the Protestant world 
owes more than to any other uninspired being, 
might remain unread, because he is said to have 
wanted the meekness of Melancthon. Even the 
divine instructions in the book of Ecclesiastes 
would have been written in vain. 

Evil in the man wuuld not invalidate the 
i-uths he has been teaching. Balaam, though 
a bad man, prophesied truly. Erasmus, whose 
piety is almost as doubtful as his wit and learn- 
ing were unquestionable, yet, by throwing both 
into the right scale, was a valuable instrument 
in effecting the great work in which he was 
concerned. Erasmus powerfully assisted the 
Reformation, though it is not quite so clear 
that the Reformation essentially benefited 
Erasmus. 

If, then, the writer advances unanswerable 
arguments in the cause of truth, if he impres- 
sively enforces its practical importance, his char- 
acter, even if defective, should not invalidate 
his reasoning. Though we allow that even to 



the reader it is far more satisfactory when the 
life illustrates the writing, yet we must never 
bring the conduct of the man as any infallible 
test of the truth of his doctrine. Allow this, 
and the reverse of the proposition will be plead- 
ed against us. Take the opposite case. Do we 
ever produce certain moral qualities which 
Hobbes, Bayle, Hume, and other sober skeptics 
possessed, as arguments for adopting their opin- 
ions 1 Do we infer, as a necessary consequence, 
that their sentiments are sound, because their 
lives were not flagitious 1 

It would be the highest degree of unfairness 
to prefer a charge of injustice, hypocrisy, or in- 
consistency against an author, because his life, 
in some respects, falls short of the strictness 
of his writings. It is a disparity almost in- 
separable from this state of frail mortality. He 
may have fallen into errors, and yet deserve to 
have no heavier charges brought against him 
than he has brought against others. Infirmity 
of temper, inequality of mind, a heart, though 
fearing to offend God, yet not sufficiently dead 
to the world : — these are the lingering effects 
of sin imperfectly subdued, in a heart which yet 
longs, prays, and labours for a complete deliver- 
ance from all its corruptions. 

Of two evils, had not an author better be te- 
dious than superficial 1 From an overflowing 
vessel you may gather more, indeed, than you 
want, but from an empty one you can gather 
nothing. 

Avarice. — That charity begins at home, is 
not seldom pleaded as a reason why she should 
never stir out. There is one plea always ready 
as an apology for the eagerness to amass wealth ; 
and it is a plea which has a good look. " We 
must provide for our childen," is the pretence ; 
but we must indulge our avarice, is the truth. 
The fact is, a man is provident for his family, 
but he is covetous for himself. The sordid 
mind and the grasping hand are too eager to 
put off their gratification to so remote a period 
as the future aggrandizement of those for whom 
they pretend to amass. The covetous man 
hungers for instant gratification, for the pleas- 
ure of counting his hoards, for the pride of cal- 
ling his lands by his own name. 

The Bible. — The sacred volume was com- 
posed by a vast variety of writers, men of every 
different rank and condition, of every diversity 
of character and turn of mind ; the monarch and 
the plebeian, the illiterate and the learned, the 
foremost in talent and the moderately gifted in 
natural advantages, the historian and the legis- 
lator, the orator and the poet, — each had his 
immediate vocation, each his peculiar province : 
some prophets, some apostles, some evangelists, 
living in ages remote from each other, under 
different modes of civil government, under dif- 
ferent dispensations of the divine economy, 
filling a period of time which reached from the 
first dawn of heavenly light to its meridian ra- 
diance. 

The Old Testament and the New, the Law 
and the Gospel ; the prophets predicting events, 
and the evangelists recording them ; the doc- 
trinal yet didactic epistolary writers, and he 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



579 



who closed the sacred canon in the Apocalyptic 
vision ; — all these furnished their respective 
portions, and yet all tally with a dove-tailed 
correspondence : all the different materials are 
joined with a completeness the most satisfactory, 
with an agreement the most incontrovertible. 

This instance of uniformity without design, 
of agreement without contrivance ; this consist- 
ency maintained through a long series of ages, 
without a possibility of the ordinary methods 
for conducting such a plan ; these unparalleled 
congruities, these unexampled coincidences — 
form altogether a species of evidence, of which 
there is no other instance in the history of all 
the other books in the world. 

Our divine Teacher does not say read, but 
search the Scriptures. The doctrines of the 
Bible are of everlasting interest. All the great 
objects of history lose their value, as through 
the lapse of time they recede further from us ; 
but those of the book of God are commensurate 
with the immortality of our nature. All exist- 
ing circumstances, as they relate to this world 
merely, lose their importance as they lose their 
novelty ; they even melt in air, as they pass be- 
fore us. 

While we are discussing events, they cease to 
be ; while we are criticising customs, they be- 
come obsolete ; while we are adopting fashions, 
they vanish ; while we are .condemning or de- 
fending parties, they change sides. While we 
are contemplating feuds, opposing factions, or 
deploring revolutions, they are extinct. Of 
created things, mutability is their character at 
the best, brevity their duration at the longest. 
But "the word of the Lord endureth for ever." 

The Bible never warns us against imaginary 
evils, nor courts us to imaginary good. 

Young persons should read the Scriptures, 
unaltered, unmutilated, unabridged. If parents 
do not make a point of this, the peculiarities of 
eacred language will become really obsolete to 
the next generation. 

Blessings. — In adoring the providence of 
God, we are apt to be struck with what is new 
and out of course, while we too much overlook 
long, habitual, and uninterrupted mercies. But 
common mercies, if less striking, are more valu- 
able, both because we have them always, and 
because others share them. The ordinary bles- 
sings of life are overlooked, for the very reason 
that they ought to be most prized, because they 
are most uniformly bestowed. Tkey are most 
essential to our support ; and when once they 
are withdrawn, we begin to find that they are 
also most essential to our comfort. Nothing 
raises the price of a blessing like its removal, 
whereas it was its continuance which should 
have taught us its value. We require novelties 
to awaken our gratitude ; not considering that 
it is the duration of mercies which enhances 
their value. We want fresh excitements. We 
consider mercies long enjoyed as things of 
course, as things to which we have a sort of 
prescriptive claim ; as if God had no right to 
withdraw what he has once bestowed, as if he 
were obliged to continue what he has once been 
pleased to confer. 



God is the fountain from which all tie streams 
of goodness flow ; the centre from which all the 
rays of blessedness diverge. All our actions 
are therefore only good as they have a refer- 
ence to him ; the streams must revert back to 
their fountain, the rays must converge again to 
their centre. 

Books. — For those who have much business 
and little time, it is a great and necessary art 
to learn to extract the essential spirit of an au- 
thor from the body of his work ; to know how 
to seize on the vital parts ; to discern where 
his strength lies ; and to separate it from those 
portions of the work which are superfluous, col- 
lateral, or merely ornamental. 

In avoiding books which excite the passions, 
it would seem strange to include even some de- 
votional works. Yet such as merely kindle 
warm feelings are not always the safest. Let 
us rather prefer those which, while they tend to 
raise a devotional spirit, awaken the affections 
without disordering them ; which, while they 
elevate the desires, purify them ; which show 
us our own nature, and lay open its corruptions. 
Such as show us the malignity of sin, the de- 
ceitfulness of our hearts, the feebleness of our 
best resolutions ; such as teach us to pull off 
the mask from the fairest appearance, and dis- 
cover every hiding-place where some lurking 
evil would conceal itself : such as show us not 
what we appear to others, but what we really 
are ; such as, co-operating with our interior 
feelings, and showing us our natural state, point 
out our absolute need of a Redeemer, lead us 
to seek to him for pardon from a conviction that 
there is no other refuge, no other salvation. 
Let us be conversant with such writings as 
teach us that while we long to obtain the re- 
mission of our transgressions, we must not 
desire the remission of our duties. Let us seek 
for such a Saviour as will not only deliver us 
from the punishment of sin, but from the dom- 
ination also. 

The Arabian Nights and other oriental books 
of fable, though loose and faulty in many re- 
spects, yet have always a reference to the reli- 
gion of the country. Nothing is introduced 
against the law of Mahomet ; nothing subversive 
of the opinions of a Mussulman. I do not quar- 
rel with books for having no religion, but for 
having a false religion. A bcok which in noth- 
ing opposes the principles of the Bible I would 
be far from calling a bad book, though the Bi- 
ble was never named in it. 

It is not sufficient to avoid reading pernicious 
books, care should be taken to prevent their 
circulation. This duty, however, it is to be 
feared, is too little regarded even by those who 
are sincere in religious profession. 

When the French revolution had brought to 
light the fatal consequences of some of Voltaire's 
writings, some half-scrupulous persons, no longer 
willing to afford his fourscore volumes a place 
in their librarv, sold them at a low price. This 
measure, though it " stayed the plague" in their 
own houses, caused the infection to spread 
wider. The Ephesian magicians made no such 
compromise ; they burned theirs. 



§80 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



We have too many elementary books. They 
are read too much and too long. The youthful 
mind, which was formerly sick from inanition, 
is now in danger from a plethora. Much, how- 
ever, will depend on capacity and disposition. 
A child of slower parts may be indulged till 
nine years old with books which a lively genius 
will look down upon at seven. A girl of talents 
will read. To her, no excitement is wanting. 
The natural appetite is a sufficient incentive. 
The less brilliant child requires the allurement 
of lighter books. She wants encouragement as 
much as the other requires restraint. 

Calamities. — Most of the calamities of human 
life originate with ourselves. Even sickness, 
shame, pain, and death, were not originally the 
infliction of God. But out of many evils, 
whether sent us by his immediate hand, or 
brought onus by our own faults, much eventual 
good is educed by him who, by turning our suf- 
fering to our benefit, repairs by grace the evils 
produced by sin. Without being the author of 
evil, the bare suggestion of which is blasphemy, 
he converts it to his own glory, by causing the 
effects of it to promote our good. If the virtu- 
ous suffer from the crimes of the wicked, it is 
because their imperfect goodness stood in need 
of chastisement. Even the wicked, who are 
suffering by their own sins, or the sins of each 
other, are sometimes brought back to God by 
mutual injuries, the sense of which awakens 
them to compunction for their own offences. 
God makes use of the faults even of good men 
to show them their own insufficiency, to abase 
them in their own eyes, to cure them of vanity 
and self-dependance. He makes use of their 
smaller failings to set them on the watch against 
great ones ; of their imperfections, to put them 
on their guard against sins ; of their faults of 
inadvertence, to increase their dread of such as 
are wilful. This superinduced vigilance teaches 
them to fear all the resemblances, and to shun 
all the approaches to sin. It is a salutary fear, 
which keeps them from using all the liberty they 
have ; it leads them to avoid, not only whatever 
is decidedly wrong, but to stop short of what is 
doubtful, to keep clear of what is suspicious ; 
well knowing the thin partitions which separate 
danger from destruction. It teaches them to 
watch the buddings and germinations of evil, 
to anticipate the pernicious fruit in the opening 
blossom. 

i As no calamity is too great for the power of 
Christianity to mitigate, so none is too small to 
experience its beneficial results. 
! Catechism. — The catechism was written for 
children, and contains all the seeds and princi- 
ples of Christianity for men. It evidently re- 
quires much explanation, much development ; 
still it furnishes a wide and important field for 
colloquial instruction, without which young 
persons can by no means understand a compo- 
sition so admirable, but so condensed. 

Character. — We are apt to call men good, 
because they are without certain bad qualities. 
But this is not only not knowing religion, it is 
not knowing human nature. All vices are not 
affinities ; of course the very indulgence of one 



vice is not seldom an exclusion of another, as 
covetousness avoids profligacy, and ambition 
expels indolence : but though they are natural 
antipathies, they all spring from the same source ; 
the same fountain of corrupt nature feeds both. 

In describing a bad character, the Bible does 
not say that his actions are flagitious, but that 
" God is not in all his thoughts." This is the 
description of a thoroughly worldly man. Those 
who are given up completely to the world, to 
its maxims, its principles, its cares, or its pleas- 
ures, cannot entertain thoughts of God. And 
to be unmindful of his providence, to be regard- 
less of his presence, to be insensible to his 
mercies, must be nearly as offensive to him 
as to deny his existence. Excessive dissipa- 
tion, a supreme love of money, or an entire 
devotedness to ambition, drinks up that spirit, 
swallows up that affection, exhausts that vigour, 
starves that zeal, with which a Christian should 
devote himself to serve his Maker. 

Charity. — I have often heard it regretted 
that ladies have no stated employment, no pro- 
fession. It is a mistake ; charity is the calling 
of a lady ; the care of the poor is her profes- 
sion. Men have little time or taste for details. 
Women of fortune have abundant leisure, which 
can in no way be so properly or so pleasantly 
filled up as in making themselves intimately ac- 
quainted with the worth and the wants of all 
within their reach. With their wants, because 
it is their bounden duty to administer to them ; 
with their worth, because without this knowl- 
edge, they cannot administer prudently and 
appropriately. 

The reason is particularly obvious, why the 
bounty of the affluent ought to be most liberally, 
though not exclusively, extended to the spot 
whence they derive their revenues. There 
seems indeed to be a double motive for it. 
The same act involves a duty both to God and 
to man. The largest bounty to the necessitous 
on our estates is rather justice than charity. It 
is but a kind of peppercorn acknowledgment to 
the great Lord and Proprietor of all, from whom 
we hold them. And to assist their own labour- 
ing poor is a kind of natural debt, which persons 
who possess great landed property owe to those, 
from the sweat of whose brow they derive their 
comforts, and even their riches. It is a com- 
mutation, which, as the advantage is greatly on 
our side, so is our duty to diminish the differ- 
ence of paramount obligation. 

The iniquity of our holy things requires much 
Christian vigilance. Next to not giving at all, 
the greatest fault is to give from ostentation. 
The contest is only between two sins. The 
motive robs the act of the very name of virtue, 
while the good work that is paid in praise, is 
stripped of the hope of higher retribution. 

Some are ingenious in contriving, by a strange 
self-delusion, to swell the amount of their 
charity, by tacking to it extraneous items of a 
totally distinct character. The author was for- 
merly acquainted with a lady of rank, who, 
though her benevolence was suspected to bear 
no proportion to the splendour of her establish- 
ment, was yet rather too apt to make her boun- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



581 



ties a subject of conversation. After enumerating 
the various instances of her beneficence, she 
often concluded by saying, " notwithstanding 
my large family, I give all this in charity, be- 
sides paying the poor rates :" thus converting a 
compulsory act, to which all are equally subject, 
into a voluntary bounty. 

Childhood. — The mind should be formed early, 
no less than the person ; and for the same rea- 
son. Providence has plainly indicated child- 
hood to be the season of instruction, by com- 
municating at that period such flexibility to the 
organs, such attention to the memory, such 
quickness to the apprehension, such inquisitive- 
ness to the temper, such alacrity to the animal 
spirits, and such impressibility to the affections, 
as are not possessed at any subsequent period. 
We are therefore bound, by every tie of duty, 
to follow these obvious designations of Provi- 
dence, by moulding that flexibility to the most 
durable ends ; by storing that memory with the 
richest knowledge ; by pointing that apprehen- 
sion to the highest objects ; by giving to that 
alacrity its best direction ; by turning that in- 
quisitiveness to the noblest intellectual pur- 
poses : and, above all, by converting that im- 
pressibility of heart to the most exalted moral 
uses. 

Christianity. — Christianity is not merely a 
religion of authority ; the soundest reason em- 
braces most confidently what the most explicit 
revelation has taught, and the deepest inquirer 
is usually the most convinced Christian. The 
reason of philosophy is a disputing reason, that 
of Christianity an obeying reason. The glory 
of the pagan religion consisted in virtuous sen- 
timents ; the glory of the Christian in the par- 
don and the subjugation of sin. The humble 
Christian may say with one of the ancient 
fathers, " I will not glory because I am righte- 
ous, but because I am redeemed." 

Christianity has no by-laws, no particular 
exemptions, no individual immunities. That 
there is no appropriate way of attaining sal- 
vation for a prince or a philosopher, is probably 
one reason why greatness and wisdom have so 
often rejected it. But if rank cannot plead its 
privileges, genius cannot claim its distinctions. 
That Christianity did not owe its success to the 
arts of rhetoric, or the sophistry of the schools, 
but that God intended by it " to make foolish 
the wisdom of this world," actually explains 
why the " disputers of this world" have always 
been its enemies. 

Christianity was a second creation. It com- 
pleted the first order of things, and introduced 
a new one of its own, not subversive but per- 
fective of the original. It produced an entire 
revolution in the condition of men, and accom- 
plished a change in the state of the world, 
which all its confederated power, wit, and phi- 
losophy, not only could not effect, but could not 
even conceive. It threw such a preponderating 
weight into the scale of morals, by the super- 
induction of the new principle of faith in a Re- 
deemer, as rendered the hitherto insupportable 
trials of the afflicted comparatively light. It 
gave strength to ^weakness, spirit to action, 



motive to virtue, certainty to doubt, patience to 
suffering, light to darkness, life to death. 

The Commandments. — If the promises are 
our aliment, the commandments are our work ; 
and a temperate Christian ought to desire nour- 
ishment only in order to carry him through his 
business. If he so supinely rest on the one as 
to grow sensual and indolent, he might become 
not only unwilling, but incapacitated for the 
other. We must not expect to live upon cor- 
dials, which only serve to inflame, without 
strengthening. Even without these supports, 
which we are more ready to desire than to put 
ourselves in the way to obtain, there is in hum- 
ble trust in God, and in a simple reliance in 
his word — there is a repose of spirit, a freedom 
from solicitude, in a lowly confidence in him, 
for which the world has nothing to give in ex- 
change. 

Commerce. — I believe that an overflowing 
commerce and the excessive opulence it has 
introduced, though favourable to all the splen- 
dours of art and mechanic ingenuity, yet have 
lowered the standard of taste, and debilitated 
the mental energies. They are advantageous 
to luxury, but fatal to intellect. It has added 
to the brilliancy of the drawing-room, but de- 
ducted from that of the inhabitants. It has 
given perfection to our mirrors, our candlesticks, 
our gilding, our inlaying, and our sculpture, but 
it has communicated a torpor to the imagination, 
and enervated our intellectual vigour. 

Conscience. — There is a fatal way of lulling 
the conscience, by entertaining diminishing 
thoughts of sins long since committed. We 
persuade ourselves to forget them, and we 
therefore persuade ourselves that they are 
not remembered by God. But though distance 
diminishes objects to the eye of the beholder, 
it does not actually lessen them. Their real 
magnitude remains the same. Perhaps, if we 
remember them, God may forget them, especi- 
ally if our remembrance be such as to induce 
a sound repentance. If we remember them 
not, he assuredly will. 

Contentment. — As godliness cannot subsist 
without contentment, so neither can true con- 
tentment spring from any other than an inward 
principle of real piety. All contentment which 
has not its foundation in religion is merely con- 
stitutional, animal hilarity, the flow of blood 
and spirits in the more sanguine character; 
coldness and apathy, in the more indifferent. 
A spirit of contentment is stifling covetousness 
in its birth ; it is strangling the serpent in the 
cradle. 

Controversy. — As truth will be assaulted, it 
must be defended. Controversial discussions, 
therefore, are not only harmless but useful, pro- 
vided truth is the inspiring motive, and charity 
the medium of conducting them. Truth is 
frequently beaten out by conflicting blows, 
when it might have contracted rust and impurity 
by lying quiet, uninquired into and unassailed. 
We are in danger of growing negligent about 
a truth which is never attacked, or of surround- 
ing it with our own fancies, and appending to 
it our own excrescences ; while the assailant 



682 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.' 



teaches even the friendly examiners to clear the 
principle of all foreign mixtures, and, by giving 
it more purity, to give it a wider circulation. 

Conversation. — Books alone will never form 
the character. It is conversation which must 
unfold, enlarge, and apply the use of books. 
Without that familiar comment on what is read, 
mere reading might only fill the mind with fal- 
lacious models of character, and false maxims 
of life. It is conversation which must develop 
what is obscure, raise what is low, correct what 
is defective, qualify what is exaggerated, and 
gently, and almost insensibly, raise the under- 
standing, form the heart, and fix the taste ; and 
by giving just proportions to the mind, teach it 
the power of fair appreciation, draw it to adopt 
what is reasonable, to love what is good, to 
taste what is pure, and to imitate what is elegant. 

Conversion. — The primitive church carried 
their incredulity of the appearances of repent- 
ance so far, as to require not only years of sor- 
row for sin, but perseverance in piety, before 
they would admit offenders to their communion ; 
and, as a test of their sincerity, required the 
uniform practice of those virtues most opposite 
to their former vices. Were this made the 
criterion now, we should not so often hear such 
flaming accounts of converts so exultingly re- 
ported, before time has been allowed to try their 
stability. More especially, we should not hear 
of so many triumphant relations of death-bed 
converts, in whom the symptoms must frequently 
be too equivocal to admit the positive decision 
of human wisdom. 

Courage. — There are other ways of exerci- 
sing courage than in the field of battle. There 
are more exalted means of showing spirit than 
by sending or accepting a challenge. To sus- 
tain a fit of sickness, may exhibit as true hero- 
ism as to lead an army. To bear a deep afflic- 
tion well calls for as high exertion of soul, as 
to storm a town ; and to meet death with 
Christian resolution, is an act of courage in 
which many a woman has triumphed, and many a 
philosopher, and even some generals, have failed. 

Cowper. — Such an original as Cowper must 
naturally have a herd of imitators. If they 
cannot attain to his excellences, his faults are 
always attainable. The resemblance between 
the master and the scholar is found chiefly in 
his defects. The determined imitator of an 
easy writer becomes vapid ; of a sublime one, 
absurd. Cowper's ease appeared his most imi- 
table charm ; but ease aggravated is insipidity. 
His occasional negligences, his disciples adopted 
uniformly. In Cowper there might sometimes 
be carelessness in the verse, but the verse itself 
was sustained by the vigour of the sentiment. 
The imitator forgot that Cowper's strength lay 
in the thought ; that his buoyant spirit always 
supported itself; that the figure, though am- 
plified, was never incongruous, and the illustra- 
tion, though new, was never false. 

Devotion. — To maintain a devotional spirit, 
two things are especially necessary — habitually 
to cultivate the disposition, and habitually to 
avoid whatever is unfavourable to it. 

May wo venture to express a wish that some 



persons of more piety than discernment, among 
whom there are those who value themselves 
on being more particularly the disciples of St. 
Paul, would always imitate his chastened Ian 
guage. When the apostle pours out the fulne?* 
of his heart to his Redeemer, every expression 
is as full of veneration as of love. His freedom 
is a filial freedom, while their devout effusions 
are sometimes mixed with adjectives which 
betray a familiarity bordering on irreverence. 

This remark applies more particularly to cer- 
tain hymns, written in a very devout strain, but 
with a devotion rather amatory than reverential. 

Discipline. — It is not some signal act of 
mortification, but an habitual state of discipline, 
which will prepare us for great trials. A soul 
ever on the watch, fervent in prayer, diligent 
in self-inspection, frequent in meditation, forti- 
fied against the vanities of time by repeated 
views of eternity — all the avenues to such a 
heart will be in good measure shut against 
temptation, barred in a great degree against the 
tempter. 

Duty. — Business must have its period as 
well as devotion. We were sent into this world 
to act as well as to pray ; active duties must be 
performed as well as devout exercises. Even 
relaxation must have its interval : only let us be 
careful that the indulgence of the one do not 
destroy the effect of the other ; that our pleas- 
ures do not encroach on the time, or deaden 
the spirit, of our devotions ; let us be careful 
that our cares, occupations, and amusements, 
may be always such that we may not be afraid 
to implore the divine blessings on them ; this 
is the criterion of their safety, and of our duty. 
Let us endeavour that in each, in all, one con- 
tinually growing sentiment and feeling of lov- 
ing, serving, and pleasing God, maintain its 
predominant station in the heart. 

Economy. — A discreet woman adjusts her 
expenses to her revenue. Every thing knows 
its time, and every person has his place. She 
will live within her income, be it large or small : 
if large, she will not be luxurious ; if small, she 
will not be mean. Proportion and propriety are 
among the best secrets of domestic wisdom ; 
and there is no surer test of integrity and judg- 
ment than a well-proportioned expenditure. 

A sensible woman loves to imitate that order 
which is stamped on the whole creation of God. 
All the operations of nature are uniform, even 
in their changes, and regular in their infinite 
variety. Nay, the great Author of nature him- 
self disdains not to be called the God of order. 

Education. — We often hear of the necessity 
of being qualified for the world ; and this is 
the grand object in the education of our chil- 
dren, overlooking the difficult duty of qualifying 
them for retirement. But if part of the im- 
mense pains which are taken to fit them for the 
company of others, were employed n fitting 
them for their own company, in teach <ng them 
the duties of solitude as well as of society, this 
earth would be a happier place than it is ; a 
training suitable to a world of such brief dura- 
tion, would be a better preparatory study for » 
world which will have no end. 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



583 



Employment. — If the Christian cannot glorify 
God by serving others, he knows that he has 
always something to do at home ; some evil 
temper to correct, some wrong propensity to 
reform, some crooked practice to straighten. 
He will never be at a loss for employment, 
while there is a sin or a misery in the world ; 
he will never be idle, while there is a distress to 
be relieved in another, or a corruption to be cured 
in his own heart. We have employments as- 
signed to us for every circumstance in life. 
When we are alone, we have our thoughts to 
watch ; in the family, our tempers ; in company, 
our tongues. 

Epitaphs. — If we were called upon to collect 
the greatest quantity of hyperbole — falsehood 
might be too harsh a term-%n the least given 
time and space, we should do well to search for 
it in those sacred edifices expressly consecra- 
ted to truth. There we snould see the ample 
mass of canonizing kindness which fills their 
mural decorations, expressed in all those flatter- 
ing records inscribed by every variety of claim, 
in addition to what is dedicated to real merit, 
by real sorrow : we should hear of tears which 
were never shed, grief which was never felt, 
praise which was never earned : we should see 
what is raised by decent demands of connexion, 
by tender but undiscerning friendship, by poetic 
license, by eloquent gratitude for testamentary 
favours. It is an amiable though not a correct 
feeling in human nature, that, fancying we have 
not done justice to certain characters during 
their lives, we run into the error of supposed 
compensation by over-estimating them after 
their decease. 

Eternity. — Eternity is a depth which no ge- 
ometry can measure, no arithmetic calculate, 
no imagination conceive, no rhetoric describe. 
The eye of a dying Christian seems gifted to 
penetrate depths hid from the wisdom of phi- 
losophy. It looks athwart the dark valley with- 
out dismay, cheered by the bright scene beyond 
it. It looks with a kind of chastised impatience 
to that land where happiness will be only holi- 
ness perfected. There all the promises of the 
gospel will be accomplished. There afflicted 
virtue will rejoice at its past trials, and acknowl- 
edge their subservience to its present bliss. 
There the secret self-denials of the righteous 
shall be recognised and rewarded. There all 
the hopes of the Christian shall have their com- 
plete consummation. 

Experimental Religion. — It is the fashion of 
the times to try experiments in the arts, in 
agriculture, in philosophy. In every science, 
the diligent professor is always afraid there may 
be some secret which he has not yet attained, 
some occult principle which would reward the 
labour of discovery, something even which the 
assiduous and intelligent have actually found 
out, but which has hitherto eluded his pursuit. 
And shall the Christian stop short in his scru- 
tiny 1 shall he not examine and inquire till he 
lays hold on the very heart and core of religion 1 

Why should experimental philosophy be the 
prevailing study, and experimental religion be 
branded as the badge of enthusiasm, the cant 



of a hollow profession 1 Shall we never labour 
to establish the distinction between appearance 
and reality, between studying religion critically, 
and embracing it practically 1 between having 
our conduct creditable, and our heart sanctified^ 
Shall we not aspire to do the best things from 
the highest motives, and elevate our aims with 
our attainments 1 Why should we remain in 
the vestibule, when the sanctuary is open ! 
Why should we be contented to dwell in the 
outer courts, when we are invited to enter into 
the holiest by the blood of Jesus 1 

Extremes in Religion. — I have known many 
men who, from their dread of a burning zeal, 
have taken refuge in a freezing indifference ! 
As to the two extremes of heat and cold, nei- 
ther of them is the true climate of Christianity ; 
yet the fear of each drives men of opposite com- 
plexions into the other, instead of fixing them 
in the temperate zone which lies between them, 
and which is the region of genuine piety. 

Extremes. — Christianity may be said to suffer 
between two criminals, but it is difficult to de- 
termine by which she suffers most ; whether by 
that uncharitable bigotry which disguises her 
divine character, and speculatively adopts the 
fagots and the flames of inquisitorial intoler- 
ance ; or by that indiscriminate candour, that 
conceding slackness, which, by stripping her of 
her appropriate attributes, reduces her to some- 
thing scarcely worth contending for ; to some- 
thing which, instead of making her the religion 
of Christ, generalizes her into any religion 
which may choose to adopt her. The one dis- 
torts her lovely lineaments into caricature, and 
throws her graceful figure into gloomy shadow ; 
the other, by daubing her over with colours not 
her own, renders her form indistinct, and oblit- 
erates her features. In the first instance, she 
excites little affection ; in the latter, she is not 
recognised. 

Faith. — As faith is of a spiritual nature, it 
cannot be kept alive without spiritual means. 
It requires for its sustenance aliment congenial 
with itself. Meditation familiarizes it with its 
object ; prayer keeps it close to its end. If thus 
cherished by perpetual exercise, sustained by 
the habitual contemplation of the oracles of 
God, and watered with the dews of his grace, 
it becomes the pregnant seed of every Christian 
virtue. 

Fame. — The eager desire of fame is a sort 
of separation line between Paganism and Chris- 
tianity. The ancient philosophers have left us 
many shining examples of moderation in earthly 
things, and of the contempt of riches. So far 
the light of reason, and a noble self-denial, 
carried them ; and many a Christian may blush 
at these instances of their superiority : but of 
an indifference to fame, of a deadness to human 
applause, except as founded on loftiness of 
spirit, disdain of their judges, and self-sufficient 
pride, I do not recollect any instance. 

Feelings. — A person of a cold phlegmatic 
temper, who laments that he wants that fervour 
in his love of the Supreme Being which is ap- 
parent in more ardent characters, may take 
comfort, if he find the 6ame indifference re- 



584 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



spectinp his worldly attachments. But if his 
affections are intense towards the perishable 
things of earth while they are dead to such as 
are spiritual, it does not prove that he is desti- 
tute of passions, but only that they are not di- 
rected to the proper object. If, however, he 
love God with all that measure of feeling with 
which God has endowed him, he will not be 
ounished or rewarded because the stock is 
greater or smaller than that of some others of 
his fellow-creatures. 

Flattery. — Did we turn our thoughts inward, 
it would abate much of the self-complacency 
with which we swallow the flattery of others. 
Flattery hurts not him who flatters not himself. 
If we examined ourselves keenly, we should 
frequently blush at the praises our actions re- 
ceive. Let us, then, conscientiously inquire not 
only what we do, but whence and why we do 
it—from what motive, and to what end. 

Friendship. — I have often been amused with 
observing what a magic transformation the 
same event produces on two opposite classes 
of characters. The misfortunes of their ac- 
quaintance convert worldly friends into instan- 
taneous strictness of principle. The faults of 
the distressed are produced as a plea for their 
own hardhearted covetousness ; while that 
very misfortune so relaxes the strictness of 
good men, that the faults are forgotten in the 
calamity ; and they, who had been perpetually 
warning the prodigal of his impending ruin, 
when that ruin comes, are the first to relieve 
him. The worldly friend sees only the errors 
of the sufferer, the Christian sees only his dis- 
tress. 

Gibbon. — The preference of remote to ap- 
proximating opinions is by no means confined to 
the religious world. The author of the " De- 
cline and Fall of the Roman Empire," though 
so passionate an admirer of the prophet of Ara- 
bia, as to raise a suspicion of his own Islamism ; 
though so rapturous a eulogist of the apostate 
Julian, as to raise a suspicion of his own poly- 
theism ; yet with an inconsistency not uncom- 
mon to unbelief, he treats the stout orthodoxy 
of the vehement Athanasius with more respect 
than he shows to the " scanty creed" of a con- 
temporary philosopher and theologian, whose 
cold and comfortless doctrines were much less 
removed from his own. [The person here 
meant was Dr. Priestley.] 

Good, Works. — One would imagine, that some 
who so loudly insist that we should be saved by 
works, must mean works of supererogation, and 
that they depended for salvation on the trans- 
fer of the superfluity of the merits of others to 
themselves ; for it is remarkable, that they trust 
their future bliss most confidently to good works, 
who have the slenderest portion of their own 
to produce. 

The Gospel. — Had the first apostles been men 
of genius, they might have injured the purity 
of the gospel by bringing their ingenuity into 
it. Had they been men of learning, they 
might have imported from the schools of Greece 
and Rome, each from his own sect, some of 
its peculiar infusions, and thus have vitiated the 



simplicity of the gospel. Had they been critic* 
and philosophers, there might have been end- 
less debates which part of Christianity was the 
power of God, and which the result of men's 
wisdom. Thus, though corruptions soon crept 
into the church, yet no impurities could reach 
the gospel itself. Some of its teachers became 
heretical, but the pure word remained unadul- 
terated. However the philosophizing or the 
Judaizing teachers might subsequently infuse 
their own errors into their own preaching, the 
gospel preserved its own integrity. They might 
mislead their followers, but they could not de- 
teriorate the New Testament. 

Grace. — Grace being a new principle added 
to our natural powers, as it determines the de- 
sires to a highe«lbject, so it adds vigour to 
their activity. "We shall best prove its dominion 
over us by desiring to exert ourselves in the 
cause of heaven with the same energy wit 1, 
which we once exerted ourselves in the cause 
of the world. The world was too little to fill our 
whole capacity. 

Grace will not thrive abundantly in that 
heart which does not believe it to be the seed 
of glory. 

Happiness. — Happiness is a serious thing. 
While pleasure manifests itself by extravagant 
gayety, exuberant spirits, and overt acts, happi- 
ness retreats to its own proper region — the 
heart. There, concentrating its feelings, it con- 
templates its treasures, meditates on its enjoy- 
ments, and still more fondly on its hopes ; counts 
up its mercies, and feels the consummation of 
them in looking to the fountain from whence 
they flow ; feels every blessing immeasurably 
heightened by the heart-cheering reflection that 
the most exquisite human pleasures are not the 
perfection of his nature, but only a gracious 
earnest, a bounteous prelibation of that blessed- 
ness which is without measure, and shall be 
without end. 

Humility. — There is no work which more 
clearly distinguishes that humility which has 
the love of God for its principle, from its coun- 
terfeit, a false and superficial politeness, than 
this — that while the last flatters, in order to ex- 
tort in return more praise than its due, humility, 
like the divine principle from which it springs, 
seeketh not even its own. 

Ignorance. — I once lent a person of rank and 
talents an admirable sermon, written by one of 
our first divines. Though deeply pious, it was 
composed with uncommon spirit and elegance, 
and I thought it did not contain one phrase 
which could offend the most fastidious critic. 
When he returned it, he assured me that he 
liked it much, on the whole, and should have 
approved of it altogether, but for one metho- 
distical expression. To my utter astonishment, 
he pointed to the exceptionable passage, " There 
is now no condemnation to them that are in 
Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but 
after the Spirit." The chapter and verse not 
being mentioned, he never suspected it was a 
quotation from the Bible ! 

The Imagination. — It is important that wa 
should never suffer our faith, and more than our 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



58S 



love, to be depressed or elevated, by mistaking 
for its own operations, the ramblings of a busy 
imagination. The steady principle of faith 
must not look for its character to the vagaries 
of a mutable and fantastic fancy. 

Indolence. — A grave and sedate indolence, 
investing itself with the respectable attribute 
of moderation, eats out the heart's core of 
piety. These somnolent characters communi- 
cate the repose which they enjoy ; they excite 
no alarm, because they feel none. Their rule 
of observances is regularly brought in ; their 
list of forms is completely made out. Forms, 
it is true, are valuable things, when they are 
" used as a dead hedge to secure the quick :" 
but here the observances are the whole of the 
fence. The dead fence is not considered as a 
protection, but a substitute. The teacher and 
the taught, neither disturbing nor disturbed, but 
soothing and soothed, reciprocate civilities, and 
exchange commendations. If little good is 
done, it is well ; if no offence is given, it is 
better ; if no superfluity of zeal is imputed, it 
is best of all. 

Infidelity. — Among the triumphs of religion 
which we have witnessed, it is not the least 
considerable, that whereas Christianity was ori- 
ginally charged with a design to overturn stales 
and empires, we have seen the crime completely 
turned over to the accusers ; we have seen the 
avowed adversaries of Christ become the stren- 
uous subverters of law and government. 

Innocence. — Innocence can never be pleaded 
as a ground of acceptance, because the thing 
does not exist. Innocence excludes the neces- 
sity of repentance ; and where there is no sin, 
there can be no need of a Saviour. Wherever, 
therefore, we may be in comparison with others, 
innocence can afford no plea for our acceptance, 
without annulling the great plan of our redemp- 
tion. 

Justification and Sanctification. — The two 
cardinal points of our religion, justification and 
sanctification, are near relatives ; they imply a 
reciprocal relation ; nor do I call that state 
Christianity, in which either is separately and 
exclusively maintained. The union of these 
manifests the dominion of religion in the heart, 
by increasing its humility, by purifying its affec- 
tions, by setting it above the contaminations, 
the maxims, and habits of the world ; by de- 
taching it from the vanities of time, and eleva- 
ting it to a desire for the riches of eternity. 

Learning. — What has been said of those who 
affect to despise birth, has also been applied to 
those who decry learning ; neither is ever un- 
dervalued, except by men who are destitute of 
them ; and it is worthy of observation, that as 
literature and religion both sunk together in the 
dark ages, so both emerged at the same auspi- 
cious era. 

Learning has this strong recommendation, 
that it is the offspring of a most valuable virtue ; 
I mean, industry ; a quality on which I am 
ashamed to see pagans frequently set a higher 
value than we seem to do. 

Life. — We complain that life is short, and 
yet throw away the best part of it ; only ma- 

Vol. II. 2 P 



king over to religion that portion which is good 
for nothing else ; life would be long enough, if 
we assigned its best period to its best purpose. 

Love of God. — Our love to God arises out of 
want ; God's love to us, out of fulness. Our 
indigence draws us to that power which can 
relieve, and to that goodness which can bless 
us. His overflowing love delights to make us 
partakers of the bounties he graciously imparts, 
not only in the gifts of his providence, but in 
the richer communications of his grace. We 
can only be said to love God, when we endeav- 
our to glorify him, — when we desire a partici- 
pation of his nature, when we study to imitate 
his perfections. 

Marriage. — When young persons marry, even 
with the fairest prospects, they should never 
forget that infirmity is inseparably bound up 
with their very nature, and that in bearing one 
another's burdens, they fulfil one of the highest 
duties of the union. 

Milton. — Milton was an enthusiast both in 
religion and politics. Many enthusiasts with 
whom he was connected, doubtless condemned 
the exercise of his imagination in his immortal 
poem, as a crime ; but his genius was too mighty 
to be restrained by opposition, and his imagina- 
tion too vast and powerful to be kept down by 
a party. Had he confined himself to his prose 
writings, weighty and elaborate as some of them 
are, how little service would he have done the 
world, and how little would he now be read or 
quoted ! In his lifetime, politics might blind 
his enemies, and fanaticism his friends. But 
now, who, comparatively, reads the Iconoclas- 
tes 1 who does not read Comus ! 

Music. — I look upon the great predominance 
of music in female education, to be the source 
of more mischief than is suspected ; not from 
any evil in the thing itself, but from its being 
such a gulf of time as really to leave little 
room for solid acquisitions. The monstrous 
proportion, or rather disproportion, of life which 
it swallows up, has converted an innocent di- 
version into a positive sin. I question if many 
gay men devote more hours in a day to idle 
purposes, than the daughters of many pious 
parents spend in this amusement. All these 
hours the mind lies fallow, improvement is at a 
stand, if even it does not retrograde. Nor is 
it the shreds and scraps of time, stolen in the 
intervals of better things, that is so devoted ; 
but it is the morning, the prime, the profitable, 
the active hours, when the mind is vigorous, 
the spirits light, the intellect awake and fresh, 
and the whole being wound up by the refresh- 
ment of sleep, and animated by the return of 
light and life for nobler services. 

Natural Religion. — Even natural religion was 
little understood by those who professed it ; it 
was full of obscurity till viewed by the clear 
light of the gospel. Not only natural religion 
remained to be clearly comprehended, but rea 
son itself remained to be carried to its highest 
pitch in the countries where revelation is pro- 
fessed. Natural religion could not see itself by 
its own light : reason could not extricate itself 
from the labyrinth of error and ignorance in 



586 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



which false religion had involved the world. 
Grace has raised nature. Revelation has given 
a lift to reason, and taught her to despise the 
follies and corruptions which obscured her bright- 
ness. If nature is now delivered from darkness, 
it was the helping hand of revelation which 
raised her from the rubbish in which she lay- 
buried. 

Obedience. — Scripture abounds with every 
motive to obedience, both rational and spiritual. 
But it would achieve but half its work, had it 
stopped there. As peccable creatures, we re- 
quire not only inducements to obedience, but a 
heart, and a power, and a will to obey : assist- 
ance is as necessary as motives, power as indis- 
pensable as precept — all which requisites are 
not only promised by the word, but conferred by 
the Spirit of God. 

Opinions. — A religion which consists in opin- 
ions only, will not advance us in our progress to 
heaven : it is apt to inflate the mind with the 
pride of disputation ; and victory is so commonly 
the object of debate, that eternity slides out of 
sight. 

The finest theory never yet carried any man 
to heaven. A religion of notions, which occu- 
pies the mind without filling the heart, may ob- 
struct but cannot advance the salvation of men. 

Opportunities. — A Christian cannot tell in the 
morning what opportunities he may have of 
doing good during the day : but if he be a real 
Christian, he can tell that he will try to keep his 
heart open, his mind prepared, his affections 
alive to do whatever may occur in the way of 
duty. He will, as it were, stand in the way to 
receive the orders of Providence ; doing good 
is his vocation. 

Party. — Would that it could not be said, that 
religion has her parties as well as politics ! 
Those who endeavour to steer clear of all ex- 
tremes in either, are in danger of being repro- 
bated by both. It is a hardship for persons who, 
having considered it as a Christian duty to cul- 
tivate a spirit of moderation in thinking and of 
candour in judging, that when these dispositions 
are brought into action, they frequently incur a 
harsher censure than the errors which it was 
their chief aim to avoid. 

Philanthropy. — Among the peculiarities of 
Christianity, it is one of the most striking, that 
they who, in Scripture language, love not the 
world, nor the things of the world, are yet the 
persons in it who are farthest from misanthropes. 
They love the beings of whom the world is com- 
posed, better than he who courts and flatters it. 
They seek not its favours nor its honours, but 
they give a more substantial proof of affection, 
— they seek its improvement, its happiness, its 
salvation. 

Quiet. — We hear those complain most that 
they can get no quiet, whose want of it arises 
from the irruptions of their own passions. Peace 
is no local circumstance. It does not depend 
on the situation of the house, but of the heart. 
True quiet is only to be found in the extirpation 
of evil tempers, in the victory over unruly appe- 
tites ; it is found, not merely in the absence of 
temptation, but in the dominion of religion. It 



arises from the cultivation of that principle 
which alone can effectually smooth down thft 
swellings of pride, still the restlessness of envy, 
and calm the turbulence of impure desires. I» 
depends on the submission of the will, on that 
peace of God which passeth all understanding, 
on the grace of Christ, on the consolations of 
the Spirit. With these blessings, which are 
promised to all who seek them, we may find 
tranquillity in Cheapside ; without them, we 
may live a life of tumult on the Eddystone. 

Reason. — If the human reasoner despises 
Christianity, some Christians are too much dis- 
posed to vilify reason. This contempt they did 
not learn of St. Paul. He never taught that 
to neglect an exact method of such conse- 
quences can be deduced from his writings. Re- 
vealed religion, indeed, happily for the poor and 
illiterate, may be firmly believed, and vitally un- 
derstood, without a very accurate judgment, or 
any high cultivation of the moral ppwers. But 
without both, without a thorough acquaintance 
with the arguments, without a knowledge of the 
evidences, it never can be successfully defended- 
Ignorance on these points would throw such a 
weight into the scale of skepticism, as would 
weaken if it did not betray the cause of truth. 
In our days, an ignorant teacher of religion is 
" a workman that necdeth to be ashamed." Ha 
should carefully cultivate his reason, were it 
only to convince himself of its imperfections. 

Right. — Nothing seems more difficult to set- 
tle than the standard of right. Every man has 
a standard of his own, which he considers aa 
of universal application. One makes his own 
tastes, desires, and appetites his rule of right ; 
another the example of certain individuals falli- 
ble like himself; a third, and indeed the gener- 
ality, the maxims, habits, and manners of the 
fashionable part of the world. 

Shame. — Very young men, from timidity, are 
led to risk their eternal happiness through the 
dread of a laugh, though they know that they 
have not only religion but reason on their side ; 
yet it requires a hardy virtue to repel a sneer, 
and an intrepid principle to confront a sarcasm. 
Thus their own mind loses its firmness ; religion 
loses their support ; the world loses the benefit 
which their example would afford ; and they 
themselves become liable to the awful charge 
which is denounced against him who is ashamed 
of his Christian profession. 

Solitude. — In complete solitude the eye wants 
objects, the heart wants attachments, the un- 
derstanding wants reciprocation. The character 
loses its tenderness when it has nothing to love, 
its firmness when it has none to strengthen it, 
its sweetness when it has nothing to sooth it, 
its patience when it meets no contradiction, its 
humility when it is surrounded by dependants, 
and its delicacy in the conversation of the unin- 
formed. Where the intercourse is very une- 
qual, society is something worse than solitude. 

Truth. — He who possesses a sound principle, 
and strong relish of truth, in his own mind, will 
possess a touchstone by which to try this qual- 
ity in others, and which will enable him 10 
detect false notions, to see through false man- 



THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE. 



587 



ners, and to despise false attractions. This 
discerning faculty is the more important, as the 
high breeding of very polished society presents 
so plausible an imitation of goodness, as to 
impose on the superficial observer, who, satis- 
fied with the image and superscription, never 
inquires whether the coin be counterfeit or 
sterling. 

Vanity. — Vanity differs from the other vices 
in this ; they commonly are only opposite to the 
one contrary virtue, while this vice has a kind 
of ubiquity, is on the watch to intrude every- 
where, and weakens all the virtues which it 
cannot destroy. I believe vanity was the harpy 
of the ancient poets, which they tell us tainted 
whatever it touched. 

Works of Wit. — Let us rescue from the hands 
of the profane and the impure the monopoly of 
wit which they affect to possess and which 



they would possess, if no good reasoning would 
make men sounder divines. No men had writ- 
ten works of elegant literature, if all good men 
totally despised them. 

Zeal. — Zeal is not so much an individual 
virtue, as the principle which gives life and 
colouring, as the spirit which gives grace and 
benignity, as the temper which gives warmth 
and energy to every other. It is that feeling 
which exalts the relish of every duty, and sheds 
a lustre on the practice of every virtue ; which, 
embellishing every image of the mind with its 
glowing teints, animates every quality of the 
heart with its invigorating motion. It may be 
said of zeal among the virtues, as of memory 
among the faculties, that though it singly never 
made a great man, yet no man has ever made 
himself conspicuously great where it has been 
wanting. 



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